⟢ i’m obsessed with stranger things, sinners, djo, metallica, slash, guns n roses, joseph quinn, jack o’connell, maya hawke, pedro pascal, gladiator and cats i have 2!
⟢ i listen to a lot of music, my fav genres are metal, tech/electronic, rnb, and indie i know very different lol
𝜗𝜚 ུ⃨ ⁺⁎need fic recommendations? i read too many! here are all my reading lists + more to come in the future! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )
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description: you’re Hopper’s daughter, which means one thing: no dating. ever. unfortunately for Eleven, that also means she can’t date either, unless you do first. cue Mike and Dustin coming up with the worst (best) idea possible: paying Eddie to take you out. too bad you’re the last person in Hawkins who’d ever fall for it… right?
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: hoppers daughter! reader, enemies to lovers (or something like that...), punk x menace, you hate everyone but him (eventually), he falls first, persistent idiot x guarded girl, sibling dynamic with el, soft eddie munson, we love a mean girl with a soft center, slight angst
TW: deception/manipulation, mild angst
WC: 12.2k (sorry not sorry)
A/N: i just re-watched 10 Things I Hate About You for the millionth time and immediately caught inspo. it's taking everything out of me to not make this a series but i stay doing that to myself. reblogs are always appreciated :) enjoy!!!! <3
The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard.
You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.
You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.
You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.
It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.
You don’t.
You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.
By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.
You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.
El walks in about twenty minutes later.
You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.
You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.
Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.
You don’t look up.
“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.
“Yes.”
You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”
She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.
“I was with Mike.”
You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.
“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”
Her brows pull together. “You saw.”
“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”
“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”
You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world.
“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”
Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”
“I know I am.”
You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.
“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”
You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”
That’s the wrong thing to say.
You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.
“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”
You go still.
“And now you want me to be alone too.”
There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.
“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”
The front door opens before she can respond.
Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.
“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.
You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”
“Hey—”
“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”
“Dinner’s in twenty—”
“Then eat it without me.”
You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.
“I was with Mike.”
Slowly, you turn back.
Hopper frowns. “You were what?”
El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.
“We were walking together. We are… dating.”
Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”
El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”
You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.
He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.
“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”
El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.
And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”
Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.
“…Fine,” he says.
“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”
“Dad—”
“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.
And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.
“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”
“And why would that be?”
You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”
Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”
El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.
You point at her. “This is on you.”
The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.
Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.
Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps.
People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.
A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.
El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.
She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.
She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.
His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”
El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.
“Hi.”
Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”
“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.
“It is worse,” El cuts in.
Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”
“Hopper made a new rule.”
Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”
“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”
Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”
El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.
Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”
“I am not kidding.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”
“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”
Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”
Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”
El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”
“…At all?” Dustin asks.
El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”
Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”
Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.
“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”
Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”
Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”
Mike groans. “Dustin—”
“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”
Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”
Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.
“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”
Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”
Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”
Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”
“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”
“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.
“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”
El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”
Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”
“That is what you are saying.”
Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”
El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger.
“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”
Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”
Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.
“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”
There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.
Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.
They don’t move right away.
For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.
Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.
“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.
Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”
Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.
He sighs. “…Fine.”
The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.
“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away.
“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”
“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.
That gets his attention.
Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.
“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”
Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”
Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.
“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”
Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”
“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.
“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”
Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”
Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”
Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.
“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.
Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”
Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.
“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”
“Yes,” Mike says.
“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.
Mike hesitates.
Dustin doesn’t.
“Hopper’s daughter.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.
“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.
Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.
You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit.
You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.
Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.
The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.
“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”
“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.
Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.
“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”
“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”
Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”
Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”
“Why?” he asks.
Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.
“Because I want to be with him.”
All three of them turn.
El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.
“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”
Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.
Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.
“…And you’re paying me,” he says.
Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”
Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.
“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”
“Probably,” Mike admits.
Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.
He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“…Alright,” he says.
Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”
Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”
Dustin grins. “And the money.”
Eddie points at him. “And the money.”
Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.
“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”
Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”
Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”
The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.
You don’t rush, you never do.
You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.
You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.
Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.
“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”
You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.
“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”
“Tragic.”
He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting.
“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.
He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.
“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.
You keep walking.
“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”
“No.”
He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”
“I didn’t need you to.”
That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.
“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”
“You shouldn’t.”
You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.
He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.
“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”
You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”
“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”
You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.
“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”
“I don’t care about your pitch.”
“Not even a little curious?”
You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.
“…No.”
He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.
“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”
You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”
He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”
You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.
“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”
“You’re already bothering me.”
“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”
You stop again, slowly.
“…You have one sentence,” you say.
His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.
“Go out with me.”
Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.
And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.
“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.
Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.
“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”
By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.
The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.
The boys follow more cautiously.
Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.
“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.
“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”
Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”
El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”
“That’s worse.”
They find your room easily.
The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.
Dustin pushes it open anyway.
“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”
The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.
It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.
Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.
There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.
Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.
“…Huh,” he says quietly.
Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”
Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”
“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”
“You’re holding it.”
“That’s part of observing.”
El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.
Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.
Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.
“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.
Mike glances over. “What?”
Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”
Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.
There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.
He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.
On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.
“Ooh, what’s this—”
“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.
Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.
“No way.”
“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.
Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.
“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.
Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.
“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.
El tilts her head. “What is it?”
Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.
Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”
Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.
“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”
Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”
Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”
Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”
Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”
Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”
Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.
“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.
Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”
Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”
But it’s not just that anymore.
“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”
The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.
The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.
“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.
“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”
You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.
Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.
Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”
“No.”
“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“You weren’t.”
“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”
You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.
“Then leave.”
He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”
That stops you.
“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.
He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.
“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”
You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.
“Name three songs.”
He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”
“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.
He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.
“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”
You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.
“…Lucky guesses.”
“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”
You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.
But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”
You don’t turn around. “What about them?”
He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”
“I’m not.”
He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”
You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”
“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.
“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.
Eddie doesn’t answer right away.
He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.
“I pay attention,” he says simply.
You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.
“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.
He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”
You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.
“You’re not getting a discount.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”
You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”
“Good,” he says.
That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”
He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.
“Makes it easier to come back.”
You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.
“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.
Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.
Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.
You’re at your locker when he spots you.
Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.
You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.
He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.
You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”
He grins. “Debatable.”
You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”
“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”
That makes you pause, just slightly.
“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”
You blink once. “…And?”
“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”
Then you laugh.
“I’d rather die.”
He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”
You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”
“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”
That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”
You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.
“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.
He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.
“Alright,” he says.
You turn away again, done with it.
“Pick you up at eight.”
You stop.
“…I didn’t say yes.”
“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.
You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.
“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”
You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.
That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.
Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.
She makes it halfway to the door.
“Where are you going?”
She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.
“…Out,” she says.
“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”
She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”
“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.
“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”
“She is going.”
Both of them turn.
You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.
Hopper frowns. “She is not—”
“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”
You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”
El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.
That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.
“…No,” you repeat.
She doesn’t look away. “Please.”
You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.
“You don’t even know those people.”
“I know Mike.”
Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”
You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.
“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”
El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.
Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”
Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.
You close your eyes briefly.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”
Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.
“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.
When you open it, there he is.
Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.
He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.
“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”
You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.
“…What the hell is this?” he asks.
Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”
You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”
The drive is louder than it needs to be.
Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.
You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.
He doesn’t push it, not yet.
The house is already packed by the time you pull up.
Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.
El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.
“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.
Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.
“…After you.”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.
The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.
It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.
Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.
It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”
You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.
A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.
“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.
“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”
You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”
He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”
You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.
For Eddie, that’s new.
Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.
You glance up at him.
“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"
He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”
“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.
He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”
You almost smile, and he catches it.
“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”
You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.
“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”
You glance at him. “No?”
“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”
That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.
Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks.
But Eddie sticks by your side.
The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.
Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.
“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.
“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”
You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”
“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”
“That’s pathetic.”
He grins. “That’s leadership.”
You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.
“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”
You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.
“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”
“Children scare easily.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”
You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.
“…You talk a lot,” you say.
“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”
“It’s not.”
“Agree to disagree.”
There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.
It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.
Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.
“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”
You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.
“Hey—” You both turn.
Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”
You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”
Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.
“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”
You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”
Eddie snorts into his drink.
Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.”
She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”
He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”
“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”
He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”
Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.
The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.
Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.
It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.
It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…
You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.
Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.
You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.
“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”
You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.
You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.
He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.
Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.
It’s disarming. You don’t like that.
“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”
“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”
“Don’t push it.”
He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.
“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.
His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.
“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”
You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.
You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.
The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.
This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.
And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.
You hear it before you see them.
“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”
You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.
“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”
Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.
Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.
He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.
“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.
They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.
“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”
You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”
He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”
“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”
“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”
“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”
“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”
You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”
“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”
“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.
You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.
“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.
“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”
“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.
“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.
Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.
The next morning feels different.
Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.
You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.
People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.
Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.
He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”
You don’t slow.
“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”
“No.” Not even a glance.
He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.
“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”
“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.
He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.
“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”
“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”
He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”
“You lied,” you say simply.
“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”
“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”
A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.
Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.”
You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.
“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”
And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.
He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.
“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.
Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.
Dustin startles. “Jesus—”
“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.
Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”
He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”
El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”
Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”
Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”
“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”
Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”
Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”
They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.
“You apologize,” Mike says finally.
“I did.”
“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”
“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.
“You definitely did that,” Mike says.
Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”
El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.
He looks up at her. “I did.”
She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”
Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.
“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”
“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.
Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”
“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”
Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”
Eddie glances between them. “How.”
El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.
He frowns. “Like what.”
She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”
Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.
Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.
But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.
You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.
It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.
A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.
“Go away.”
A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”
You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.
“I said go away, El.”
The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.
Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.
You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.
“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”
You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.
And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.
“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”
El looks between the two of you.
“He wants to talk,” she says.
“I don’t.”
Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”
You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”
“I gave it back,” he says.
You glance at him. “…What.”
“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”
You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.
“…Why.”
He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.
“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.
You don’t react.
“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”
You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”
“No,” he says immediately.
“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”
El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.
You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.
“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.
“I know.”
“Before.”
“I know.”
“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.
He doesn’t fill the space.
“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.
You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”
“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”
You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.
“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.
“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.
Your eyes flick back up to his.
“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”
“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”
You don’t move, and you don’t respond.
Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.
Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.
You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.
“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”
He glances at El. “…Yeah.”
“And she broke into my room.”
“She did.”
You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”
It’s not a question. He shakes his head.
“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”
“…That was stupid,” you decide.
A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”
“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.
His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”
You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”
A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”
“Fair.”
“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”
He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.
Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.
“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.
You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.
“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.
You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.
You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.
Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.
It’s just a date. A real date.
You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.
After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.
You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.
“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.
The knock comes right at eight.
You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.
Hopper gets to the door first.
“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.
You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.
Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.
“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.
Hopper eyes him up and down.
“I know you,” he says.
Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”
“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.
Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”
Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”
Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.
You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.
“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.
“Yes, sir.”
Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.
“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”
Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”
“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”
“Of course.”
“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”
“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.
That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.
“…Alright,” he says finally.
He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You’re already there when he steps back inside.
Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.
His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.
Something soft crosses his face.
“…Wow,” he says quietly.
You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to.”
He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”
You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The drive is different this time.
“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”
He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I figured.”
“Then why—”
“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.
You study him for a second, then look back out the window.
“…It better be.”
The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.
You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.
“…No way.”
Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”
You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.
“…Descendents?”
He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”
“You got tickets.”
“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”
You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.
“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.
“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”
“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.
That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.
“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”
He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.
The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.
You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.
“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”
You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.
Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.
“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”
“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”
You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.
“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.
His grin widens. “Good?”
“Don’t push it.”
“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”
“I said don’t push it.”
He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.
“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”
“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.
“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.
You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.
“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.
That catches him.
“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.
You nod slightly. “Yeah.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”
You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”
“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”
You scoff. “Respectable.”
“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”
You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”
You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.
There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.
And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.
Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.
You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.
“Sorry, I didn’t—”
But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.
You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.
Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.
“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.
“So are you.”
“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”
You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”
“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”
“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.
“I’ll take that,” he says.
You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.
The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.
Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.
And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.
The ride home feels softer than the one there.
The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.
The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.
You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.
He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.
“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”
You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”
He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”
You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”
“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”
You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.
“…Seven.”
He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”
“Seven,” you repeat.
He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”
“You bought tickets,” you cut in.
“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.
You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.
“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”
He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”
“Don’t make me take it back.”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”
“At what.”
“Dating you.”
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.
You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”
“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.
It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.
“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.
By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.
He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.
“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.
“Don’t say that.”
“What, you don’t like it?”
“It’s weird.”
He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”
You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.
The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.
Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.
You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.
For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.
“…I had a good time,” he says.
You nod once. “Yeah.”
“…Eight,” you add.
His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”
You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.
But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.
It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.
You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.
He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.
“…Wow,” he breathes.
You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.
You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.
“…Goodnight, Munson.”
A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”
You disappear inside before he can say anything else.
And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.
Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.
“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.
AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3
coach!steve harrington x single mom!reader
(18+; MDNI; 13.5k words)
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
(Your five year old daughter wanted to sign up for the newly established Hawkins Little League Softball team. To your surprise, the coach is your old high school fling, Steve Harrington.)
cw: pregnancy/shitty exes/custody; mentions of family death in a vague way; masturbation; p-in-v sex; sort of unprotected sex (reader has an IUD); tit worship; body worship; creampies; pussy eating; porn with plot!!!; reader has stretch marks from pregnancy; soft!steve; big dick!steve; yearning; reader and steve graduated high school together are both 25
masterlist || divider by @/saradika-graphics || ao3 link
Your life wasn’t meant to turn out this way.
Not that you would necessarily complain, but when you were eighteen and fresh faced, ready to take on the world, you’d had a very clear plan in your mind of how life was supposed to go.
College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.
(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)
Then the car crash happened.
You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you thought hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.
You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion.
Your family did not.
You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.
You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.
Different, maybe, but stronger.
And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.
Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you recovered.
But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.
The two of you went long distance, with the onus on you to make the hour and a half drive to Lafayette to visit.
And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.
Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?
It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.
Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.
He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.
Alone.
And it was fine. It was fine.
It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.
And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”
You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.
Mark, clearly, did not care.
In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.
He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything.
So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.
The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that she snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made.
She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.
And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.
(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)
Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.
A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.
Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.
Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.
(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)
You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.
And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.
You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span.
It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.
The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated give year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.
You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”
“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.
Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.
Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?
“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”
“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”
You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.
“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”
“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”
A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.
“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”
Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”
You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”
She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.
“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”
“Long story,” you offer.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”
You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.
If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark.
“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.
But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”
“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”
“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”
Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin.
As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.
(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)
And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”
“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”
She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.
Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.
There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base.
And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit.
You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”
“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”
If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”
Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”
She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.
You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.
It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.
(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)
(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)
After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”
She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.
“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes.
Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.
Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”
“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”
“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”
“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.
You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”
The smile Steve sends you is blinding.
He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”
Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”
“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.
Steve coughs.
You freeze, face burning.
“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”
“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”
And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”
“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”
(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)
“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.
“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.
“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”
Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.
He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”
And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”
You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.
And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.
As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”
You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”
Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?
(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)
The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what.
And for a moment—
For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.
But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.
Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.
Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.
It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones.
Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.
(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)
And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”
You think that you could cry.
Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”
He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan.
It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.
But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.
(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)
“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”
Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”
“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”
Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.
“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”
You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”
“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”
You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.
“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”
“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”
“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”
Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.
“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”
“I do.”
You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”
A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”
“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”
“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”
Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.
A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.
“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”
This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school.
“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?
She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”
You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”
“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”
Something in your gut curdles.
And here’s the crux of the issue:
You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.
(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)
You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”
You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”
“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies.
“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”
“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”
“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”
“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”
That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”
And the line goes dead.
You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.
Adrift.
You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast.
Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.
Who are you when you aren’t that?
You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.
The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.
What did you do for fun before you were a mother?
You genuinely can’t remember.
Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register.
For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.
If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.
So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.
Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.
Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”
You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.
“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”
The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?
But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”
Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”
He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.
“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”
“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”
There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”
You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”
“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.
“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.”
An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right?
“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”
His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.
“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”
“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”
“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”
“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”
He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”
You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.
But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”
“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”
“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”
You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”
“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”
You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”
Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.
“Am I?” he asks.
For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.
You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”
And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.
You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.
It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.
Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed.
There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.
While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers.
You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.
It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.
You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.
It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.
You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.
If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.
The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.
(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)
Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”
“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”
“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”
“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”
“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”
You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”
It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.
Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.
Fuck.
You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.
And for once, luck is on your side.
His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”
“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”
There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”
“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”
“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”
Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”
“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”
“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.
“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”
“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”
“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”
You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”
“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”
“See you then,” you promise.
The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.
Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.
You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.
(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)
It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”
You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”
With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.
“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.
You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.
For you.
“You look handsome,” you say shyly.
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”
You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”
“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”
It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.
It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.
It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve.
Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.
You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.
“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”
“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”
Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”
You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage.
“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.
“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”
“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”
(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)
Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.
She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.
You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”
There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”
“The town was in lock down,” he argues.
You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”
“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”
The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.
You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.
(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)
Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you.
Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.
You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”
“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says.
A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”
A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”
“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”
“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”
“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”
“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”
“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”
A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body.
It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.
The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.
And dinner is…
It’s nice.
It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.
He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.
“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”
“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”
He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it.
“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”
“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”
He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”
“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”
“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”
“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”
“Not everything has to be,” he says.
And that’s all the assurance you need.
He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.
You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.
You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted.
You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”
“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”
Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.
Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”
“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.
And his lips crash into yours.
Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.
It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.
His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in.
It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.
“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”
“More than anything,” he admits.
You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.
It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”
“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.
“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”
“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”
A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”
“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”
“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”
Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.
The reaction is immediate.
It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”
He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.
That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.
You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.
He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school.
The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.
You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.
It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation.
Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.
He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”
“You’re cheesy,” you say.
“Only for you,” he replies.
A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.
“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.
He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.
It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.
“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”
He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes.
Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”
“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”
“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”
Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.
You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.
“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.
The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.
Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—
“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”
And you do.
Loudly.
A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.
You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.
“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”
“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”
You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”
He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.
It’s perfect.
You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”
“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”
His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.
His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”
“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”
His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations.
“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”
“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturouslyslow—he pushes in.
Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.
He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.
And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.
He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”
Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin.
It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust.
It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”
“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”
He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.
“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”
“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.
He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.
It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”
You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.
“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”
It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.
He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.
He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.
It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.
Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric.
The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.
“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”
“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.
He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”
Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”
His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”
“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”
“Yes?”
“Mia was born in ’87.”
“I know,” he says.
“No, no, you don’t—”
A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”
“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”
“Honey?”
“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”
“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”
There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.
And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.
Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.
It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.
“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”
You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.
He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back.
“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me. I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”
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Warnings: riding Sev’s strap, orgasm denial, praise, implications of overstimulation
Genre: smut
A/N: I’ve been feigning to write for Sevika but I’m so nervous so here we go ๑ˊૢᵕˋૢ๑ also I really wanna try this position 😙 kinda mean! Sevika and her strap is referred to as her cock.
───────┈ · ·
The lights were dim, the rain softly plopping against the window, your moans echoing against the walls.
“You’re doing so good f’me” Sevika whispers, her thumb tracing your tramp stamp. The praise causes your hips to stagger and Sevika scoffs, “you’re that easy?”
“no” you moan trying to keep a steady tempo on her cock.
“My girl can go faster than that yeah?” She emphasizes with a thrust ripping a tired moan from your throat. You nod continuously trying to focus on going faster as she watches you fuck yourself. She moans at the sight of you, her breath heavy and her clit throbbing. Your back arches more and you brace yourself as you feel your orgasm pooling in your tummy.
“Sev please” you cry
“You’ll cum stop whining” she states as she slaps your ass. Your hips slowly give out so Sevika takes matters in her own hands. She grabs your hips and bounces you up and down on her cock despite your cries. “You cry because you wanna cum, you cry as I help you cum, you just want to fucking cry.” She mocks.
She moans as she sees your arch deepening and she swears she can feel you clenching around her.
Your body shakes as waves of pleasure takes over you. “Vika!” You repeat as you cum, Sevika grinding into you as you ride out your orgasm as did she.
Sevika runs her hands up and down your waist till her hands find your hips again, “you did so good baby.”
She helps you adjust yourself in a more comfortable position, till your nuzzled into her chest and tangled in her.
───────┈ · ·
A/N: it’s like 4 am but i woke up in a cold sweat horny for my wife so I hope it’s coherent 🙏🏿
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lu. listen im kinda late. but i had a thought from your smut prompt list 3 i think, “marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)” with husky!neighbor!eddie x reader (my favorite) and reader is ovulating and literally wont get off of eddie. like she just keeps wanting more and more for like 1-2 hours straight. now, im also thinking he doesn’t really know what’s going on other than shes mega horny and just cant help herself. he just thinks she took a sex gummy (is that even a thing…?) or sum idk. then he finally asks “what’s gotten into you?” and she just tells him (he knows that it is, and he’s just oblivious.)
cherry what a sensational idea. plz enjoy this blurb <3 more husky!E content here <3
Eddie swears hoarsely as his head tips backwards into the sheets. Every one of his limbs feels wrung out to dry, but he still manages to keep a hold of your hips as they wind down in smaller and smaller swivels.
“Sorry,” you whisper. Not apologetic enough to stop moving altogether, though. Your hands are planted in the middle of Eddie’s chest, and you run your thumbs over the meat of his pecs as your hips continue to twist in tight circles. “Just needta- need you.”
“Goddammit,” Eddie groans in response. His fingertips are near to bruising as he swallows, hard, blinking up at you, feeling the sweat prickle across his skin. “Sweetheart. Don’t have to- apologize. For that.”
It’s becoming increasingly hard to think, three orgasms in. Eddie’s cock is somehow, miraculously, still stiff in the tight sleeve of your cunt.
You’ve had twice as many orgasms as him but are showing no signs of slowing down.
“Think I’m ovulating.” Your stomach ripples with movement, sliding forward and back across Eddie’s lap. Pussy squeezing like a vice with each pass.
Eddie blows out a laugh and regrets it when stars swim into his vision. How is he still fucking hard? “Yeah, y’think?”
You pout down at him, lower lip trembling just like your thighs. One of your hands leaves the round of his chest to snake between your own legs, gasping- “I can’t help it…”
There’s an obscene, wet noise as Eddie’s cock re-sheathes inside the channel of your muscle. The base of him is coated in a mixture of your combined slick and cum.
He sinks his hips further into the mattress in order to tilt them up, curling against that soft spot that makes you cry out.
“Fuck, shit- Eddie- like that-!”
Eddie grinds his teeth together to smother the whine that wants to crawl from his throat. His hands slip to the outside of your thighs, biceps engaging to take more of your weight so he can fuck up into you properly.
“That’s it,” he encourages, breathless, when you start mewling at the pace he sets. “Can’t help it, right? Just gotta let me give it to you. Take it, baby.”
✶After a lifetime of questionable decisions, you moved from the big city to the sleepy town of Hawkins with your best friend, and took the first job you saw: answering phones for the most boring auto shop in the dullest place on Earth. It wasn't exactly the adventure you wanted it to be.. but attempting to win over the jaded mechanic who insisted on ignoring your existence proved entertaining.✶
NSFW — slow burn, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, flirting, mutual pining, angst, drug/alcohol mention/use, depictions of poverty, sort of grumpy x sunshine but eddie's just tired, reader and eddie are mid-late 20's
“Yes.” A simple answer which spawned as many awkward scenarios, as it did great ones. Your name was spray painted on the side of a bridge, you spent nights learning to tango on abandoned rooftops, the amount of tales you accrued of bad dates could fill a self-help book.
Whatever the question was, the answer was “yes.” Life was more exciting that way.
Well, your policy usually lended itself to exciting adventures, anyway.
Currently, you were sat behind a desk with your boss, Mr. Moore, who slouched on his black stool with his cheek propped on his fist, pointing a pencil at a customer’s pink invoice sheet in front of you, explaining who to call in the spiral-bound catalog for the parts to be shipped.
The tall counter top partially obscured the both of you from employees and customers alike, but as you soon realized, the number of employees was slightly above two, and the customers even less; and if any of them paid you any mind, you couldn’t tell from the disorienting mix of exhaust fumes, dirty oil, and grease wafting in from the glass door on the left.
Thus began the first day of your new job at David’s Auto Repair. Boring.
————
Your second and third days were hardly different. Arriving at the butt crack of dawn and beginning the routine that definitely wasn’t in the ad in the newspaper: clean the bathrooms (hey, at least they had two), start the coffee pot after scrubbing off years of neglect caked onto the inside, and organize the paperwork Mr. Moore left for you in his office.
Oh, and most importantly, after locking up your bike outside the front door, you made your way through the echoey workshop and poked your head out the back door to the parking lot–which, by all means, was a gravel alleyway with overgrown trees blocking your view beyond the sleek black car parked next to the dumpster.
“Morning!” you greeted the one employee who arrived early and stayed late. “Eddie, right?”
The man leaning against the gray brick wall didn’t bother acknowledging you. Didn’t lift his head from its dropped back position, nor open his eyes. Definitely didn’t take the cigarette out of his mouth to bestow you the gift of his chipper attitude, nor did he uncross his arms to offer you the bare minimum wave.
And much like the other days, you sat perched behind your desk and beamed up at him as he walked past you to the break room. And as usual, he slid his gaze to you. And like normal, he didn’t say anything.
But he did hold your eye contact for a fraction of a second longer, albeit, he looked a bit frightened when he did, as if he were suspicious of your smile.
You listened to the clunk of his heavy boots fade down the hallway, then return with him holding a mug of coffee.
This time, as he walked by, he remained vigilant, and your grin went ignored by his stupid big brown eyes surrounded by envious lashes.
Lucky you, the reception area was essentially a glass cage. Behind the black pleather seats for customers was the glowing blue sky, and beside you were floor to ceiling windows showcasing the artificially bright garage where the man in grease stained coveralls twisted gaudy rings off his fingers and placed them on a tray with his coffee, before picking up a dirty rag and popping open the hood of the car he worked on past closing last night.
“You’re welcome for the coffee,” you mumbled in a mocking tone, sneering at his red name patch–Eddie. “Jerk.”
————
Friday was different. You locked up your bike, chucked your backpack into your chair behind the desk, and made your way to the back of the garage for the routine, “Good morning.”
For some reason, you decided to reveal your whole self; more than your head stuck out the door, or rising above the countertop customers leaned on when trying to schmooze deals on parts–hell if you knew how to do that, anyway. You didn’t get paid enough to bargain.
You stepped onto the uneven gravel and surveyed the scenery, looking both ways down the alley to the major roads on either side leading to the heart of downtown Hawkins. Absolutely dismally silent. Void of life. Except for the small things you never noticed, like faraway birds, the hum of a distant motor, buzzing bugs before they disappeared for the cooler months. You felt the dew settling on your forearms, and swore you could smell impending rain on the cloudless day.
“Is it always this quiet?” you asked, face pinched in confusion as you took it all in. “I swear I can hear my own thoughts.”
Eddie may not have appreciated your joke, but he did surprise you.
He kept one of his arms crossed over his stomach, and took the cigarette from between his lips to flick the ashes. “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked the dilapidated fence across from him.
Feeling cheeky, you schooled the thrill out of your voice from getting a response out of him, and said, “What gave it away?”
A drag on his cigarette was his wordless answer. Fair.
“I’m from New York.” The implied City followed without clarification. “Just moved here last week. My roommate’s from Hawkins, and she had to move back to help take care of her parents. They’re older and her dad has some health problems, and yeah, I couldn’t afford rent on my own, so you know, why not. Why not follow her to a town so small it’s impossible to find on a map.”
All your talking earned you a magnificent thing. Eddie finally opened his eyes, if only to pin you with a mild glare, and a skeptic pinch between his brows.
He said more to himself than you, “You must really like your roommate to come here.” The inflection at the end was both amusement and contempt, no doubt.
“We met in our first year of college and became best friends like that–!” You snapped. “Both theater kids going to school for acting, and we later made a comedy troupe with a few other people. When she asked if I wanted to move with her, I said ‘yes.’” Inclining your upper body towards him, you explained, “It’s sorta my thing. If anyone asks me anything, I say ‘yes.’ Obviously, I can veto shit that’s dangerous or crosses any boundaries, but it’s my policy to try everything. Life makes better stories that way.”
Your unique brand of wisdom furthered his obvious distaste for you.
Eddie inhaled his vice until the orange glow burned to the filter. Smoke fell from his mouth in a rush as if he were about to speak again, but he didn’t. He merely stared at you. And if he were having a staring contest, he won.
“Well, have a good day, then,” you said, spinning on the toe of your shoe.
You sat in your glass zoo for the day shuffling papers, making calls, and filling out forms. Most definitely not talking to the guy who appeared annoyed at your very existence.
Unfortunately for him, Hawkins was tiny and the pickings were slim.
Maybe it was his eyes, or the way the short layers of his choppy hair cut escaped his low bun to curl themselves in face-framing waves, or the fact he was twenty-years younger than the other two mechanics, but you took a liking to Eddie, much to his dismay. And due to your affinity for his annoyance, you noticed the subtle changes in his appearance sooner than you should.
————
Dark purple circles announced the lack of sleep under Eddie’s eyes before the bags could. Bloodshot and struggling to open past a sliver, he sucked down half his cigarette before the routine minutes of peace he carved into his strict schedule were interrupted by the newest knot in his muscles.
“Good morning!” you said.
“Morning,” he returned without thinking about it. Rookie mistake.
You stood closer this time, inching down the brick wall, approaching him as if he would startle like a wild animal to get a better look at the years wearing heavy on the fine lines etched into his face. Perhaps no longer ‘fine.’
“You good?”
He didn’t have the energy to put up his usual front. With his chin dipped to his chest, he kept his eyes closed, nearly drifting to sleep as he muttered, “Long night.”
“Ah.”
Your clumsy shuffling alerted him to your movement, and he reluctantly observed you standing a few feet in front of him, rocking on your heels. He filled his chest with an incredulous sigh before you even spoke.
“You seem like you could use some cheering up,” you beamed. “I could juggle for you! Should I do three or four?” Eddie’s jaw went slack, and the cigarette stuck to the wetness inside his chapped lips. You bent down to gather large rocks into your palms, opting for four when he didn’t answer.
You stood up and stepped back. Made a big show of tracing invisible arcs above your head with your gaze, readying your hands. Sucking in a breath. Building suspense while his expression slowly crept into one of tempered curiosity.
Tensing, you tossed all four rocks into the air, and made a genuine effort to catch them before they fell unceremoniously around you, bouncing off the gravel in your scramble.
Clasping your hands behind your back in feigned shyness, you announced, “I don’t know how to juggle.”
For a moment you thought he was going to continue to regard you as if you were a bug in his coffee.. Then his veneer cracked.
He snorted. The cute way, when someone’s trying to suppress it. A subtle shake in their shoulders, keeping their head down, and their smile hidden behind the heel of the palm.
Eddie hugged his arm tighter over his chest, and chastised himself, “Why’d I let that get me.”
And truly, when he flicked his gaze to you with the lopsided remnant of his grin, you were imprinted with the heat of his wonderment, and your body remembered that feeling. Sensing it later when you sat at your desk, tapping your pencil, rattling off a series of numbers and letters for engine parts, and you snuck a coy look over the phone at the exact moment Eddie turned around to ask Carl for a wrench instead of getting it himself from the tool box near the window.
And he felt your stare during lunch when you promised an irate customer their car would be ready by the end of business hours, and hung up the phone with the type of heavy-handedness one used when implying a ‘fuck you’ without stating it.
You pushed yourself from the desk and went to the fridge in front of the circular table in the break room, eyeing Eddie’s odd choice as you walked by. A bologna sandwich–fairly normal–but also a stained orange tupperware container with an array of dried out microwaved leftovers. A corner of spaghetti, pale instant mashed potatoes with three peas stuck on top, unidentifiable sludge that may have been beef stew at one point, and a handful of Kraft mac n cheese.
Pitiful amounts of food that most people would’ve thrown out.
Not that you should judge. Your lunch was the blandest rice-based meal your roommate’s mom made the night before. The woman had never heard of salt, much less other spices, but she was letting you live in their attic for free until you and Bobbie found a place to live.
Breaking your chain of thoughts, you smiled at Eddie on your way out.
He didn’t look up from his paperwork.
Wholly ignored.
————
Over the rest of the month, you learned there wasn’t a definitive pattern to which days of the week were hardest for Eddie, but it was clear when he was enduring the worst.
As the evenings grew cooler, you left the lobby door open, and in doing so, were wise to the bite in his words, the edge to his voice. The quick apologies to Carl when he let his frustration show. The fluidity of ‘fucks’ flying past his mouth, the way he wrung his nape while staring into the distance, and the lurking stress of bottled emotions causing his teeth to grind.
He approached you with concern spurned from the windows being painted black with night.
“You don’t have to stay behind, you know that, right?” Eddie got your attention in the doorway. You blinked at him, still seeing the words of the book you were reading swim past your vision. “I have a set of keys. I can lock up when I’m done.”
It was the most he’d said to you in two weeks. Three entire sentences composed of more words than he’d uttered if you added them all up since your juggling stunt.
“I don’t mind.”
A meager response which resulted in a standoff.
Eddie wasted no time bunching his shoulders at your defiance. He left streaky fingerprints on the door handle as he reached for his neck, and tucked his fingers under his collar to run his thumb along his chain necklace in a self-soothing gesture. A layer of grime coated his skin. His disheveled hair stuck to his sweaty, dirty neck. The front of his coveralls were blackened with grease, as was the white tank top he wore underneath, peeking above the unfastened top snap.
On the other hand, you overturned your palms and glanced around the barren room. “Is it really that much of a bother that I’m sitting in here being quiet?” you drawled.
“Yes.” Automatic irritation.
“It’s not like I have somewhere to be.”
“Don’t have a comedy routine to rehearse with your roommate?” he intoned in complete monotony.
“Ha-ha,” you replied, just as emotionless. You thought about correcting him in regards to you and Bobbie no longer doing stand up, but decided to grab your backpack and leave without putting up a fight. His concern about you staying late may not be genuine, but it was evident he wanted–or needed–you gone. You didn’t want to push his boundaries when he showed this level of discomfort, especially when the burden of fatigue wore beyond acceptable exhaustion, and he was ready to snap, no matter how hard he tried to quell it.
You surrendered, “Bye, Eddie.”
No reply.
In total darkness, you unchained your bike and hopped on, pedaling past the mailbox when you heard the thunderous slams of the service doors being lowered shut.
And you made it to the edge of the trees before coming to a screeching halt in the middle of the empty street, cracking your neck at the speed of which you whipped around to gawk.
Your heartbeat skipped, then timed itself with the extreme drum beat and opening wail of a guitar accompanied by high-pitched screamed lyrics.
The music may have been muffled, and the inside fluorescent lights struggled to penetrate the dense fog from the upper warehouse windows, but it was as if Eddie was subjecting the desolate parking lot to his own personal Judas Priest concert, hearing be damned.
You didn’t even know the dusty radio in the shop worked. But whatever helped him blow off steam, you supposed.
————
Today was a good day.
Eddie liked Fridays. Most people working weekdays did, but when he came inside early from his morning cigarette, and you hadn’t finished sweeping the shop, he made a point to idle around the orange car at the center, seeking your attention and offering an apology. Not a spoken apology, mind you. But it was rare he initiated eye contact, and when he did it with the purpose of showing deference in his softened features, you understood.
You forgave him with a gentle lift at the corner of your lips for an incident yesterday afternoon, wherein he grunted at you to leave him alone when you were telling him about one of the plays you and Bobbie acted in. Sometimes you required your own reminder of when you were being annoying, and gave him an apologetic smile for bothering him. He nodded. All was right with the world. All was forgiven and now he could get to work.
He wiped his hands down the sides of his coveralls, and leaned his upper half through the open car window to reach the latch for the hood.
The perfect opportunity to mess with him presented itself in all its glory. But first, you couldn’t resist taking a long.. long look at his backside, head tilted, mouth more than a little hung open.
“Huh?” He nearly banged his head on the roof, rounding on you with the sharpest glare in the Midwest.
Under the guise of perfect innocence, you kept brushing the broom over his work boots and toward the dust pan. “Sorry, sir, just doin’ my job. Gotta clean up the filth.”
“An actress and a comedian, huh?” he posed, allowing his smirk to foster as he gripped the edge of the door. “Gonna tell me you were a clown, next?”
“Actually..” You were interrupted by Carl coming in, followed by the near-retired Kevin who worked two days a week.
You greeted them loud and proud, overdoing it in the joy department at the ripe morning hour. Asking about Carl’s wife, and Kevin’s dog; really laying it on thick for the purpose of sending a message to the looming ghoul behind you: I’m annoying you on purpose now.
Still, as you entered the lobby, you caught sight of the sneaky grin on his face before he turned his back to you. A tight-lipped thing he was clearly trying to rid himself of while pulling his hair back into a low bun, and taking the time to tie up a bandana to keep everything out of his face, thus losing his security blanket from the world perceiving he wasn’t in a permanent bad mood.
And of course, Eddie kept up his act through lunch. Stomping through the lobby in that way people did when they were so very obviously trying to appear aloof, and coming across as anything but. Eyes staring straight ahead, but too wide and too aware to not be soliciting a reaction from their periphery. Chest out, muscles flexed. Posture the very opposite of casual, causing them to walk in a stilted manner like a robot.
And his charade continued when he came back from the break room, rounding the corner with softer steps. Slower. Hanging onto the precious milliseconds where your back was to him, and he could absorb your image freely without being noticed. Then, he lifted his chin and returned to his project, pretending you weren’t there.
Yep, so painfully obvious when he forgot reflections existed and you were surrounded by glass.
~~~
Fridays were the days he anticipated most. Work was grueling, and he had many things to finish before the break for the weekend, but he didn’t mind staying late. He preferred it.
Fridays meant he could rely on someone else handling the stressors at home, and he was free to earn his late hours at the garage, indulging in his loud music, and unwinding the constant state of tension lurking beneath the surface. It was the only way he knew how to cope. To stay sane.
Yeah, he loved Fridays. Until a surprise came running at him in her tiny pink shoes.
Eddie screwed his eyes shut and exhaled a long, hard breath through his nose.
“Sorry,” came Wayne’s earnest apology as his nephew wilted; shoulders sagging, head hung. Tapping the wrench he was holding on his thigh. Trying his best to keep it together. “Don’t mean to drop ‘er off on you, but work called me in, so I came here after picking her up.”
Turning away from the engine he was installing, Eddie assumed his authoritative voice, but it came out as a weary sigh. “Adrienne, you know the rules,” he warned lowly, “No running in the shop.” After a beat, he corrected himself. “I mean, no being in the shop at all!”
She giggled as she skipped away from him, sloppy pigtails bouncing with mirth, plastic glittery shoes slapping the concrete floor where a myriad of items she could trip on laid.
“Adrie!” He called out, but she was too busy opposing him to pay attention.
Lucky for her, a certain receptionist caught her by the shoulders before she crashed into a rogue tire.
“Whoa there, little Miss!”
You looked to Eddie for further instruction on what to do with the girl currently laughing up a storm at your feet, but he was frozen. A bit paler, and wringing the back of his neck. Unable to articulate any of the broken consonants on his tongue as he stared at you. You switched your gaze to the older man beside him, but he was equally confused as to why Eddie was having trouble speaking.
Addressing anyone who would like to volunteer an answer, you asked, “And who’s this?”
“This.. This i-is my daughter. She, I, Goddamnit–I’m sorry, can you take her inside? I swear she’ll be quiet. Right, Adrie?”
Seeing the pure desperation settle around his eyes, you assimilated into the role of babysitter, wanting to alleviate his anxiety despite the sudden surge of your own. You held your hand out for her to take, and she did so without a second thought, grasping onto you with her little fingers and standing up, being the one to lead you to your desk.
As the door closed behind you, you overheard the older man clear his throat under the strain of bad news. “The water heater is broken again, and I couldn’t– ..Before I had to leave.”
Their private conversation was sealed behind the glass. You didn’t care to eavesdrop. It was too heartbreaking watching Eddie frantically catch his fingers on his bandana before removing it so he could tangle his curls into his fist, tugging them over his face as he groaned in a fruitless effort to hide himself from the world.
But on the subject of his brunette waves..
His daughter had the same curl pattern. Almost the same cut, too. Clearly Eddie was the acting barber of the family. Something you’d find adorable if it wasn’t for the pang of rejection in your stomach.
Daughter. Family.
The words repeated themselves in your head as your eyes wandered to the black tray beside the tool cabinet. He wore several large rings. Lots of jewelry, in fact, but you couldn’t remember if any of them were a wedding band, and the embarrassment of developing a crush on a married man for weeks without taking two seconds to cross reference his left hand burned your cheeks hot.
“Hi,” his daughter said cutely, swaying from foot to foot while holding two of your fingers.
You crouched to her level. “Wanna draw while we wait?” She nodded, sucking on the tip of her thumb.
Steadying your spinny office chair while she climbed into it, you made sure she was comfortable before bringing out the black stool from Mr. Moore’s office, and sitting next to her. You opened your backpack, flipped to a clean sheet in your sketchpad, and presented it to her along with your colored pencils.
“Hmm, what should we draw?”
Adrie snatched the bubblegum pink color, and began her masterpiece. “Mrs. Teresa read us a book about a mouse.”
Thank God she said it was a mouse, because you didn’t want to be the one to guess what the two oblong circles on the page were.
Adorably, she filled you in on the parts of the story she remembered, and added a triangle of yellow cheese under the mouse, then waited for you to prompt another thing to draw. You followed the nocturnal theme and asked for an owl. She hesitated on what colors to choose, and you helped her pick out the shades of brown and tan.
“How old are you?” you asked while she inundated her bird with too many feathers.
“Four-and-a-half,” she said proudly. “How old are you?”
You raised your brows. “Certainly not four-and-a-half.”
At some point, your arm had wrapped itself around her. Maybe to help shift her closer to the desk. Maybe to collect her in a pseudo-hug when she completed her art. Maybe to let Eddie know everything was okay when he craned his neck to check on you while conversing with the man outside, and you put on your best face, grinning at the story his daughter reenacted about a cartoon she watched that morning at preschool.
“What next? What next?”
“Let’s see.. Can you draw me a bat?”
She was more sure of herself, grabbing the black pencil and outlining an entire colony of bats mid-flight with more attention to detail. “My daddy has bats.”
“He has bats?” you questioned, sweeping loose hair out of her face.
She pointed to her elbow.
Thinking on it for a moment, you perked up. “Oh! He has tattoos?” She recognized the word, nodding vigorously. “Interesting, interesting.”
She’d hardly begun to fill in their wings when Eddie opened the door, and held up the comically small backpack slung on his arm, signaling it was time to leave.
You helped her down from the chair, and she excused herself to the bathroom, which only contributed to the awkward silence when she disappeared down the hall and Eddie was forced to wait at your desk.
It didn’t have to be analyzed, nor stated. The reality.
He had an entire life outside of work.
Duh. Of course he did, but still. It was one he never shared with you. Not like you earned the privilege to know, or to be included in anything he didn’t want to divulge, but with how private he was, it came as a surprise.
Invoking the thousands of dollars you spent on acting classes, you moved on, and kept your tone light, “The butterfly backpack suits you. Not sure about the color, though. Bright pink clashes with your navy blue outfit.”
Tough crowd.
His sulky demeanor permeated in his dull gaze trained on his stained sleeves. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“Dumping her on you like that. Normally my uncle has the day off work and can take care of her, but he’s gotta go in because someone called out sick, so, yeah..”
If it were at all appropriate, you would reach across the countertop to soothe him from picking at his torn cuticles. But it wasn’t appropriate. So you didn’t.
You locked your hands behind your head and leaned back in your chair. “Funnily enough, I worked a brief stint as a clown for children’s birthday parties, so I’m actually quite comfortable entertaining them.”
“I’m shocked,” he said, void of shock. Finding the strength to lift his eyes from the animals she drew on your sketchpad to the encouraging curve of your lips, he tried to match your grin, but it fell flat. “At least you can go home on time today.”
You sucked in a breath for a quick retort, but Adrie interrupted you in her tiny voice, “Daddy! I can’t reach the sink!” And maybe that was for the best before you humiliated yourself more.
Because, the truth of the matter was, you always had the ability to go home on time. It was only because Eddie stayed behind that you made excuses to sit at your desk past your scheduled hours, prattling off some nonsense about memorizing the catalog.
“C’mon,” he said to his daughter, supporting her on his hip. “Let’s get going.” His tone wasn’t unkind, but it wasn’t exactly patient, either. The creeping exhaustion he kept under wraps was breaking through. Stress fractures in the mask he wore around others. The sanity he gripped for dear life for the sake of Adrie.
He caught the empathetic pinch between your brows, and used the last of his energy to turn so his daughter could see you. “Say ‘bye,’ and ‘thank you’ for playing, Adrie.”
She waved with the same enthusiasm as a golden retriever wagging their tail. “Bye! Thank you!”
“Bye, Adrie,” you laughed. “Bye, Eddie.”
Like usual, he didn’t respond. Today that was okay.
————
Eddie was on the verge. He was trembling, failing to loosen a bolt on the water heater to investigate why it broke–again–when his hair was yanked–again–and his knuckles scraped a bent piece of metal–again.
He was kneeling on his kitchen floor, craving nothing more than a shower to wash away the work week until his skin burned, but he was not afforded the simple luxury.
No relaxation. Not for him. No one to call on when Wayne was gone. This was his life to fix. On his own.
After repairing cars all day, he was exhausted. Touched out. But Adrie needed something from him, something he couldn’t understand with his tired mind. All he wanted was a break. All he needed was a break from her using his coveralls to scale his body. All he sought was the energy to deal with her pulling his hair.
But he was not spared the fortune.
“Adrie, please,” he resorted to begging. And when she didn’t stop, he withdrew his arms from the closet, and pried her hands off his hair, peeling her away and setting her on the floor.
She made to grab him again, but he used his waning strength to squeeze her arms to her sides, giving her his full attention she fought for.
“Can I get you a snack? Or put something on the TV? Do you want a nap?” He listed off anything, shaking and desperate.
“I wanna play with Daddy.”
Guilt amplified the shame.
He was a shit dad. He knew. He did his best and it was never good enough.
“I know you do,” the words fluctuated in the wake of water stinging his eyes. “I know you do, but Daddy needs to fix this. I can make you a snack and you can eat it in the living room. How ‘bout that?” Under normal circumstances, that wasn’t allowed. She had a penchant for dropping sticky food on the carpet–which was just another thing he’d have to get around to cleaning–but he was willing to bend the rules for the promise of a shower.
Adrienne thought about his offer for a long while, and settled on his deal.
And yet, it was hours.. hours until he was able to sit down.
The water heater required more service than he initially thought, and his daughter wasn’t entertained by herself for very long. She came to him in intervals of minutes, climbing up his back and hanging from his neck. He stopped caring. He didn’t have it within him. He made sure she was safe, and that was it.
He fed her a dreadful dinner, and she was so happy for her overcooked noodles in pasta sauce. He saved the leftovers. Put them in the nearly-empty fridge and took out two beers for himself, cracking the tops before sinking into the couch.
Adrienne stood between his legs while he wrapped her in her favorite blanket, and placed her in his lap. The top half of his coveralls were tied by the sleeves around his waist. No matter how dirty he was, this was how they ended the night. Him staring blankly at the TV, and her cheek on his chest, ear pressed to his white tank top, listening to his heartbeat. Curling her fists into her tattered quilt in response to him nuzzling the top of her head, and resting there in a content hum. Closing his eyes. Turning off his brain. Tipping back swigs of beer until he felt better, and giving her kisses until she giggled and squirmed.
The kisses were as much for her as they were for him, giving and receiving the only affection in his life. Apologizing for earlier when he couldn’t stand to be touched.
Her hug was small, yet powerful. Clumsy, but what he needed. Another person to gather in his arms and have their weight fall asleep on his chest.
He collected Adrie, and gave her a few more doting kisses while carrying her to bed.
“Stay, Daddy.”
Sometimes he did, just to have a real bed to sleep in, but with how long it took to fix the water heater, there was only enough hot water to bathe her. He’d have to wait until the morning.
“Not tonight, Daddy’s still dirty from work.”
It hurt to walk away. It hurt more to sleep on the lumpy couch. Hurt worse when Wayne came home to crash on the roll out bed, and the sun funneled through the windows, and the day started all over again.
Hurt the most when Eddie thought about the surprised look on your face when you learned he had a daughter.
Hurt the least when he imagined a world in which you wouldn’t care, and still flirted with him come Monday morning, because fuck, it was the only thing he looked forward to after Adrie’s meltdowns on the way to school.
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Laughing my ass off thinking about Steve wanting so many kids so badly, but it's Eddie who has a baby first. And what's more, you and he have two by the time Steve even finds the woman he wants to marry.
Later on, Steve makes a huge deal over the news: his wife finally agreed that they can start trying. Eddie's just snickering, begging you to let him say it.
"I'm not cleaning up any cuts or bruises, so it's on your neck," you shrug, avoiding Steve's questioning eyes.
"We're pregnant!" Eddie yells, already falling halfway out of his chair, laughing at his best friend's shock.
Fuming, Steve shouts, "Oh, my God! Get off of her!"
