kat

It really didn’t take much convincing for you to hop into his passenger seat — spring hadn’t exactly sprung yet, and the nights still frosted over. To be fair to Steve, his car was really nice. He clearly loved it, there weren’t wrappers or trash stuck in the seats like the rest of your classmates who could drive, he really looked after it. It was nice.

Your mouth opened to tell him your address but Steve’s right hand was already in the air, waving you off.

“I’ve dropped Dustin off a million times, I know it.”

You shut your mouth with a start, simultaneously impressed and taken aback. It hadn’t occurred to you that Steve could have any sense of direction, last semester you would have been surprised if he found his way out of a cardboard box.

Rock music played through the car’s stereo, way nicer than the one in your mom’s old shitbox. Your hands folded across the madras plaid pattern of your skirt, picking nervously at your already chipping nail polish.

“Yeah,” You said after much too long of a moment, “Yeah, why is that?”

Steve’s head turned all the way to look at you for five seconds, the long straight road ahead open for his distraction. You could practically see the cogs turning in his head, trying to decipher how much you knew.

“Saved the world together or whatever. He’s a good kid.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Were you as banged up as he was after?”

“Worse.” Steve’s voice was uncharacteristically sombre so you let it go, bringing up instead your teacher’s horrendous embroidered cat cardigan this afternoon, which successfully veered you both into safer waters.

The drive ended, and no one was more surprised than you to admit that you wouldn’t have minded a little longer. Your hand lingered on the door, reluctant to leave.

“Thanks again for the ride,” You said softly, looking back at him.

“Anytime,” He replied, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel, “Thanks for helping me study.”

“No worries. Let me know if, you know, you need more help before the final.”

Steve smiled, wide and blinding in the confined space of his car. He nodded like he didn’t quite believe you were offering.

“That would be great, actually. Keep this up and you might move up to be my favourite Henderson,” He joked, shrugging off whatever moment of vulnerability you thought he might have been showing.

“Yeah, right. I think Dustin would shed tears.”

So that’s how it started. Small, almost insignificant interactions that led you to believe Steve Harrington wasn’t who you thought he was. You didn’t tell Dustin, you didn’t think there was much point. He’d find out if it went further, but your friendship with Steve consisted of English study sessions and occasional lifts home.

The first time Dustin caught you was about a month into your study sessions, right before your week off for spring break. Music blared through Steve’s speakers but you’d chosen the song — Jessie’s Girl. You’d warmed up to him now, it didn’t take convincing to let him drop you home.

You were both singing loudly, off-key but enthusiastic nonetheless, and you had to keep telling Steve off for getting distracted.

“Hands on the wheel!” You squealed with a giggle as Steve mimed the guitar solo, head banging wildly. He obliged with a wide grin, still dancing too wildly for the fancy leather seat of the BMW.

“Relax, Henderson, I’ll get you home nice and safe — where can I find a woman like that?” He cut himself off, and you winced at his singing.

Just as he said, Steve swung a turn up into your driveway, tires screeching with the velocity. You made a show of clutching the grab handle above the door until he rolled his eyes, calling you dramatic.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” You said as the car door slammed shut, waving another time as you unlocked the door to your home. Steve returned it, holding two fingers and a thumb up lazily over the steering wheel with a small smile before pulling out of your paved driveway.

You were smiling as you slipped inside, but it quickly faded when you saw Dustin, leaning over the couch to peer through the slotted blinds, clearly spying.

“What are you doing?” You snapped. Dustin jumped back, hands on his hips like your mother.

“Was that Steve Harrington?”

“No.”

“Why is Steve dropping you home?”

“So I don’t have to walk.” That was hardly true anymore. It was well into daylight savings and was hardly dark when you quit your study sessions, you and Steve were just becoming surprisingly fond of each other. Plus, you didn’t let Steve get distracted when you were working, so if he wanted to talk to you it was in the car.

“Are you fucking Steve Harrington?”

“No! Oh my god, Dustin, what is wrong with you?”

“Because yes he’s nice but he’s a total loser but also has slept with like a hundred girls and—”

“Dustin. I’m not sleeping with Steve.”

“Oh,” He sighed in relief, “Cool.”

God, he was annoying. You huffed, shoving past him off into your bedroom, slamming the door behind you. Jesus. Was it so unbelievable that Steve Harrington might be friends with you? And could you even call him your friend if you were effectively just his English tutor? You weren’t sure.

The friendship became a friendship shortly after — sorry, Dustin. Your plans for spring break were to laze around, gorge on ice cream and finish a few novels before beginning the hard slog through finals.

That plan was thwarted when your mom poked her head around your bedroom door, making you look up from your book.

“Hon, there’s someone on the phone for you. A boy.” Her grin almost made you want it to be a suitor. You’d never had a boyfriend, and while your mom of course never minded, her hope was really quite embarrassing. Cautiously, you picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“What are you doing today?” Steve Harrington was on the other end of the phone, which was monumentally surprising.

“Uh, nothing, I guess.”

“Perfect! I’ll be at yours in half an hour,” Steve said cheerfully, like he was completely unaware of the effect he was having on you.

“Steve, what?” It was too late, the line already clicked like punctuation to your interrupted conversation. You lingered for a moment, stuck in place as you tried to figure out what was happening.

If Steve Harrington was coming to pick you up to do… something, then you really had to dress the part. Not fancy, or anything, but presentable. Worthy of his reputation, you supposed.

Half an hour later, a car horn made you jump from outside. Straightening out your light cardigan, you ran to the door, calling a quick goodbye to your mother. You didn’t miss the excitement brimming in her casual “Have fun!”

“What is this?” You asked as you slid into his passenger seat, which was more than familiar to you after a month or so of three-ish lifts a week. You brightened as you found a lip gloss you thought you’d lost in the door pocket.

“We can’t hang out?” Steve looked straight at you for a moment before putting the car in reverse, pulling out of your driveway again. You hated when he sounded like an ignored little kid.

“Of course we can,” You answered quickly, buckling your seatbelt, “I just didn’t think we were that close. I’m basically just your tutor.” What you thought might have been hurt flashed over Steve’s face, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly.

“I don’t think that,” He said quietly, “I thought we were hanging out coz, you know, I think you’re cool.” It was your turn to look at him with wide eyes, the confession coming completely unexpected.

“I think you’re cool, too, Steve. As much as it pains me to say it.”

It was like night and day, Steve’s entire disposition shifting when you validated him, going back to tapping along lightly to the music playing on the radio. You didn’t recognise the song, The Rolling Stones, maybe.

“So where are we going?” You asked after a while, trying to re-fasten the thin gold chain around your wrist.

“Thought we could go bowling.” You couldn’t contain the loud burst of laughter that escaped you, the utter randomness of the suggestion taking you completely by surprise.

You were still giggling halfway through the game, tummy sore as Steve showed off theatrically, sending the bowling ball tumbling into another party’s lane. He waved it off sheepishly, grateful it was a few sophomore girls who still believed in the myth of King Steve. Hands clutched across your stomach you were basically doubled over, a series of hideous laughs bouncing over the synth-heavy background music.

“Steve!” You yelled through a whisper, “People are staring!”

“So what? Let them watch, I’m a good view.” He tossed another ball down the lane, scoring a perfect strike. The absolute disbelief blooming on his face was almost childlike. A soft sensation hit your chest at the sight, completely different from the persona Steve displayed at school. He was just a boy, only just an adult, technically. You jumped up to celebrate with him, both of you laughing and high-fiving ecstatically.

The day wound down at a diner, relatively new since Benny passed. It was nice, though, quiet and homey with vinyl booths. Steve had ordered you both strawberry milkshakes, promising for them to be worth your while. You reluctantly agreed that they very much were, sipping with content.

“So how come you read Hamlet?” You asked through a mouthful of french-fry, forgetting momentarily it was bad manners.

“What do you mean,” Steve’s eyebrows knitted together, “It was assigned for this semester.”

“Well, yeah, but I’m pretty sure only like four people actually read it. I’m pretty sure Tammy Thompson watched the Laurence Olivier film and called it a day. Why’d you read it?” Steve was silent for a minute, thinking about his answer.

“I guess I’m tired of King Steve,” He replied finally, playing with the straw of his drink as he avoided eye contact, “I’m almost graduating and what do I have to show for it? I don’t like my friends anymore, broke up with my girlfriend, and didn’t get into a single college. I’m not unhappy with my life or anything, but if there was ever a wake-up call, I reckon I’ve had it. I thought I might as well try not to be stupid as well as everything else.”

“You didn’t get into college?” The question escaped you before you realised it was impolite, hand creeping over your mouth in shame.

“Not yet.” He was looking at you nervously, like he was scared you’d walk out on him.

“Oh,” You said simply, “What are you gonna do next year then? If you don’t end up going anywhere.”

Steve livened up the more he talked, your lack of judgement clearly fresh for him. In the back of your mind, you wondered who was making Steve feel so bad about himself. He told you about the original idea of working for his Dad, but you got the impression that they weren’t too close, and the goal had changed. You didn’t blame him; it wasn’t like you were the poster child for good paternal relationships either.

“You could always work with me.” You grinned, “I work a few nights a week at Enzo’s. We’d be good coworkers, right?” Steve smiled at you, soft and earnest under the fluoro light of the diner. Then, he said:

“Do you have to put on an Italian accent?” And the moment was shattered, easy banter back to the forefront of your conversation.

Steve dropped you home in the Beemer, cutting the engine in the quiet of dusk. You lingered in the passenger seat again, not wanting the day to end. You were about to say something, thank him for the fun outing, when your mother burst out the front door, two heavy trash bags in her hands.

Her expression lit up when she saw you both, hurrying to throw the trash out so she could approach the driver's side window. You covered your face with your hands, preparing for the worst. Steve, on the other hand, looked delighted.

“Hi, Mrs Henderson.” He grinned, putting on the oozing charm you’d seen hundreds of times at school. You could barely catch all the words spilling out of your mom’s mouth, no doubt perfectly curated to embarrass you. She was talented like that.

“I hear you’re pals with my Dusty, too. It’s so nice that you’re all friends.” She beamed, shooting you a look that was clearly impressed with Steve.

“You’ve got some special kids, Mrs Henderson,” Steve said nicely.

“You know, I was a bit worried about this one.” She gestured to you, “So clever but such a homebody. Honestly, I was just glad she was leaving the house, I didn’t care who it was with!” Steve and your mother laughed in tandem as your face burned hot — there was no reason for Steve to be privy to your loneliness. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Steve. I’ll leave the door unlocked.” She directed the last part at you with a wink, which only worsened your embarrassment.

With your front door closed again, you and Steve were bathed in quiet. Except, of course, for the laughter that bubbled out of him.

“Shut up,” You hit his arm, “I am so sorry about her. She clearly doesn’t get out enough.”

“Neither do you, by the sound of it.” You shot him a reproachful look. “I’m just saying! Sounds like it’s up to me to get you out of this house.”

The silence washed over you both, a strange tension blooming between you. For a single moment, when Steve looked at you with those eyes, you thought he might kiss you. It was the softness, maybe; Steve exuded vulnerability in a way that you’d never expected. It sent a shiver of fear up your spine and you started moving, breaking whatever spell the BMW had you under.

“Thanks for today, Steve. I actually had a lot of fun.” You climbed out of the seat, sparing him a lingering smile. He returned it freely.

“Yeah, me too, this was — what do you mean ‘actually’?” You giggled at his affronted tone, looking back from the front doorstep to send him off with a little wave, not bothering to answer.

It wasn’t until a few minutes later, once you’d mostly fended off your mom’s endless questions and made it safely to your bedroom, that you heard Steve’s car start again and take off down the street. You wondered what he’d been doing.

You saw Steve four days that week. The picture house, the arcade, a walk around one of the many lakes in Hawkins. Not Lovers Lake, as you made sure to instruct him. Plus, one study session that you instigated so that Steve might actually feel on top of his English final.

Unfortunately, you’d come to like his company much more than you’d expected. Steve was funny as hell, which wasn’t necessarily surprising from someone who had a whole lot of friends, but it was nice to finally be the audience for it. As well as that, he was really nice. Like, incredibly kind. Never made you do anything you didn’t want to, always had snacks on hand when you were hungry. Steve joked once in passing that he was a good babysitter, and whilst you really didn’t want to think of Steve as your chaperone, he wasn’t wrong. There was something peculiarly maternal about Steve Harrington.

The only downside of all this hanging out? You were starting to develop a small (big) crush on him. Like, come on, Steve Harrington? How cliché. You could have picked someone more similar to you, quiet like Leo Miller, or a D&D nerd like Eddie Munson, but somehow it was Steve. Captain of the basketball team, ex-swim team participant, top of the senior social class. Jesus.

You weren’t gonna do anything about it, obviously. Steve had finals to focus on, and then he was graduating and would move on to something new. Why would he want a girlfriend still in high school? Assuming he even liked you back. Besides, you had your own things going on… like your novels.

If Dustin wasn’t completely offended by your frequent meetups with his cool older friend, he’d be fuming if he were in the Hawkins High School library on the evening in mid-May when everything changed.

During senior finals season, the librarians took on extra hours to keep the place open late into the night, and while many Hawkins students weren’t bothered to use the resource, you and Steve had basically made the place your home.

The table you both liked the most was tucked into a small alcove, behind the shelves and almost completely private. Occasionally, it had to get banned and filled with extraneous furniture because they kept catching students fucking in it, but they’d reupholstered the corner bench seat over winter break, and there weren’t any suspicious stains yet. Well, except for where Steve spilt his Coca Cola during a study session. Regardless, you knew Steve liked it because he got self-conscious studying around the general public, and you got nervous being seen with Steve.

So you were tucked into your little study nook, surrounded by snacks and papers and a fat copy of Hamlet between you. Steve ran a hand through his hair, a dramatic sigh leaving his lips.

“C’mon,” You teased, “Not tired yet, are you? The final’s tomorrow, this is it.”

“It’s like eight o’clock,” He groaned, “Can’t we take a break?”

You looked at him, trying to decipher if he was being genuine or just trying to get out of discussing character motivations in the play.

“Fine. Ten minutes.” Steve brightened immediately, pumping his fist. He slid out of the booth to stretch his limbs while you watched with a small smile, doodling tiny images in the margins of your composition book.

He flopped back into the booth, hair brushing against your arm.

“Good?” You looked down at him, trying not to show how flustered the simple touch made you.

“A few minutes more,” He pleaded, then changed the subject before you could deny him the break, “Are you gonna keep hanging out with me after finals?” Your mouth dropped open into a small ‘o’.

“I don’t see why not. Is this your way of getting rid of me?” A smile played on your lips, and Steve popped back up to vertical, offence written all over his face.

“No way! What? Do you not think I like you?” You burst into laughter, slapping a hand over your mouth when a roaming librarian gave you stink eye.

“I’m teasing you, Steve. Who wouldn’t like the person who helped you pass English?” Steve’s frustration wasn’t quelled — he was so easy to set off. One of the things you enjoyed about him.

“That’s not true! Jesus, there’s lots of things I like about you.” You were still feeling light-hearted and so made a ‘go ahead’ motion, testing to see how far you could push him. “You’re like super smart, obviously. It’s actually kinda crazy that your mom ended up with a crazy smart science kid and a class-topper in English. And you’re stupid funny when you let people hear, like, I can’t believe I missed out on it all year. I probably would have done better on The Great Gatsby paper. On top of all that, you’re pretty in the way that you don’t even know, like you’re totally unaware of the effect you have. Plus—”

“You think I’m pretty?” You didn’t mean to interrupt, but you’d never been told that before. Teachers told you all the time that you were smart, that you were a good writer; you saw it in your grades. You maybe weren’t perceived as funny, but you made your family laugh; it wasn’t something you were particularly worried about. But pretty? That was a whole different ballgame. Only people your age could call you pretty and have it matter; it just didn’t count when older relatives cooed it at Christmas.

“This is exactly what I mean! Obviously, you’re gorgeous, it’s not even contentious, and you have no idea,” Steve seemed to realise what he was saying in real time and shrank in on himself a little, “So, um. Yeah.”

“You think I’m pretty.” You beamed.

“Don’t get a big head about it, jeez.” Steve tried to play it cool but you could see him getting flustered. Instead of making you nervous, it made you strangely confident.

“Steve Harrington thinks I’m pretty,” You sighed dreamily, twirling your finger around one of your curls, “Should I run for prom queen after all?”

“Okay, I get it, I get it. Laugh it up. Anyway, Horatio, huh?” Steve rolled his eyes, trying to move on, but you wouldn’t let him. You were going at it, speaking at the same time as you mocked Steve whilst he desperately tried to change the subject.

“You’re so annoying.”

“I’m a real Molly Ringwald, you know? Everyone says so—”

Steve leant over where your bag sat between you, pressing his lips against yours. He lingered for a few seconds whilst your brain short-circuited, unable to do anything but sit there and take it. Steve pulled away just as quick, terror etched into his features from your inaction. It took you a second to recover, but you came back with a mission.

“All it took for you to kiss me was to be annoying? I can do that, you know, I —” Steve kissed you again, surer this time as he saw through your teasing. In the quiet of the library, he kissed you sweetly, hand moving up to cup your jaw, pulling you even closer.

You dropped the pen you’d been twirling with a soft clatter, instead deepening the kiss and threading your fingers through his hair, just as you’d dreamed about the night before. Steve’s hands felt huge on your face, completely encompassing your cheeks. It was perfect, entirely engrossing and all you were sure to think about for weeks.

He tried to go further, tongue swiping over your lip to ask for permission, but you pulled away instead, breathing heavy and erratic.

“Steve,” You whispered, breaths mingling as your foreheads rested against each other, “We can’t. We’re in public.”

“Don’t care,” He murmured, eyes closed as he captured your lips again, kissing you like you were his life source. You let him easily, returning it with equal fervour. It was probably lucky that the space between the table and the booth seat was only big enough for one body, because you wanted nothing more than to climb onto Steve’s lap, your entire body flushed red hot with desire.

Steve tried again, and you let him slide his tongue into your mouth, intertwining it with your own sloppily. You would never, not in a million years, have imagined you would be sucking faces with Steve Harrington in the high school library, but you had no plans of stopping.

It was only when the telltale click of the librarian’s heels clacked down towards you did you pull away, wiping your mouth hurriedly and pretending to be deep in thought over your paper. You couldn’t see Steve in your peripherals, but you assumed he didn’t have a very good poker face. A glance at him once the librarian passed proved correct, he was staring at you unashamedly, eyes still lidded with lust.

“Steve!” You told him off with a harsh whisper, “You have a final tomorrow.”

“You cannot be serious.” Steve sidled up beside you until your hips were pressed together, one big arm wrapping around your waist.

“Steve,” You sent him a look, dodging his attempt at a kiss despite your desire encouraging you otherwise, “You’ve worked hard on this. I’m not letting you throw away your final just because you’re horny. C’mon, we’ll do another hour and then the library’s closing anyway.”

Steve sighed dramatically but turned back to his own work, reviewing corrections you’d left on a practice paper. He didn’t last long, losing focus in a matter of minutes. First, it was just his hand drifting over toward yours, interlocking your pinkies as if you weren’t going to notice. You beamed down at your paper but didn’t say anything, knowing it would only distract Steve more.

He was satisfied for a few minutes before boredom struck again. Slowly, Steve leant over to you, pressing light kisses on your shoulder, moving up to your neck when you didn’t push him away. His teeth grazed a sensitive spot above your collarbone, making you shudder, and you called an end to it.

“Steve, I’m serious. We can’t do this here!” You swatted him like a cat.

The second the clock ticked over to nine, Steve was packing up his things, eager to get out of the library. You scoffed a little laugh, collecting your books much calmer, though you couldn’t deny the tingle of excitement bubbling in your stomach.

You both rushed through the library, for once, Steve not stopping to talk to everyone he knew. You couldn’t stop grinning, staring at the ground in an effort to make it less noticeable.

The air was fresh outside, a cool change coming with the night. The second the school doors shut behind you, Steve was all over you, grabbing your hand to pull you into him before kissing the daylights out of you. One of his arms wrapped securely around your waist whilst his other held the back of your head, keeping you locked into him. You had no qualms with the position, your own arms creeping up to connect around his neck.

You somehow managed to make it to Steve’s car — with a few interludes to sneak more kisses — but he didn’t unlock it, instead caging you in against the passenger side door. You giggled, brushing a strand of hair out of his face as you looked up at him coyly.

“Feeling good about the final?” Steve scoffed, clearly preoccupied.

“Feeling good about a lot of things.” He nudged your chin up, and you followed without question, finally giving him full access away from the danger of the library. Historically, you’d laughed at couples sucking each other’s faces off in the middle of the school parking lot, but there you were, letting Steve ‘the hair’ Harrington stick his tongue down your throat and grope your ass right there on the asphalt.

An involuntary moan escaped you, spilling out into the fresh air, and you came to your senses. You pushed Steve away by his chest, despite the fact that his neck craned to chase your mouth, addicted to your taste.

“Steve,” He kissed you again, “Steve. We’re in the parking lot.”

“Who cares,” He groaned, rubbing small circles into your hip over the fabric of your skirt, “No one’s watching us.”

“We have a final tomorrow! Don’t put all my hard work to waste now.” Steve looked at you for a long moment, then, deciding you weren’t joking, sighed and opened the car door for you. You grinned, treating him to another unexpected peck on the lips before sliding into the seat, pulling the door closed before Steve could distract you any further.

The drive home was quieter than usual, both of you strangely nervous after the overwhelming lust had somewhat levelled out. The radio played quietly, a new radio hit that you didn’t know the name of. You rambled about something that didn’t matter, how shitty your shift at Enzo’s was the other night, what you thought was going to be on the final.

Halfway through a tangent about the theme of action vs inaction in Hamlet, Steve rested his hand on your thigh. It was gentle, testing, and stole all the air from your lungs. When he noticed your stalling words, Steve lifted his hand to retract it, but you caught him first, silently affirming the action and letting him rest it back on the expanse of your thigh.

“Anyway, um, talking about Laertes as a foil to Hamlet could be a really smart move, especially because it’s so direct regarding their fathers’ deaths.” Your voice was shakier than normal, trying to pretend this wasn’t a monumental first. It felt like a teen rom-com, sitting in the popular boy’s fancy car with his hand on your thigh — not something you ever envisioned for yourself.

Steve chuckled and you knew he saw through you in an instant. Hawkins was a small town; he knew you’d never had a boyfriend, didn’t have much experience in anything, really. You were faithful to your novels and the few friends you did have, only attending a handful of parties across the almost three years of high school you’d completed.

Whilst you were scared of your feelings because of your inexperience, Steve was dealing with the opposite. On paper, you were very similar to Nancy Wheeler, which clearly hadn’t ended very well. But he liked you so much. Everything he’d said in the library was completely true, he liked your sense of humour and how you teased him, how smart you were and how you weren’t ashamed of it, and it definitely didn’t hurt that he thought you were completely gorgeous.

The car fell into a pocket of complete silence when Steve killed the engine. Nobody was ever up or moving around in Hawkins's suburbs after 9pm.

“Let me take you on a date,” Steve broke the silence, hand tense where it still sat on your leg.

“What?”

“I know I got a bit ahead of myself, and I’m sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, actually, you’re a really good kisser.” You interrupted him with a bashful giggle, “But I want to do this right with you. Take you to dinner, hold your hand.”

You could feel your cheeks warming up, but you weren’t good at being romantic.

“Who knew Steve Harrington was more than library make-outs?” You teased, enjoying the way Steve opened his mouth to argue back before he clocked your tone.

“Yes or no?” He grumbled, performatively unlocking the car door for you.

“What about Friday at seven? I’ll even swap off my shift for you.” Steve gasped dramatically.

“No!”

“Hey, I’ll have you know that’s a big deal. I make the most tips by far on a Friday night.”

“I’ll have to make sure it’s worth your while, then.” You made a face that said you better, the moment of silence bringing back that heavy tension you experienced in the library, sparks zapping between you as Steve’s eyes flickered between your own and your lips.

Kissing Steve was exciting. In your limited experience with it, he poured everything he had into each and every kiss, practically devouring you. His hands were huge and warm and apparently obsessed with you, threading through your hair and wandering over your skin. He let out a million tiny, almost imperceptible little noises that communicated his pleasure, and you were quickly becoming addicted to them. It encouraged you to be brave despite your inexperience, nipping at Steve’s bottom lip. He rewarded you with a low moan, a nicer sound than any of the songs you’d ever sung along to on the radio together.

Then a light turned on inside. You wrenched yourself away despite Steve clearly not caring, straightening out your outfit.

“Okay, we’re not going any further until I at least have a girlfriend label, bucko,” You joked, pushing the car door open but making no move to leave.

“Desperate much?” Steve matched your energy, “I mean, did you really think I was gonna give it up at the first kiss?” You laughed loudly, rolling your eyes.

“My mistake, didn’t know I’d been crushing on the Virgin Mary.” Steve made the sign of the cross, smiling at you giddily. “Stop distracting me,” You finally got out of the car, “We both have a big day tomorrow.”

“Can I pick you up tomorrow morning?” Steve asked in a tone that sounded almost shy. You smiled, lips pursed together as you tried to control your lovesick gaze.

“I think that would be acceptable.”

You thought about kissing him again, just once more to fully memorise the feeling, but you caught a glimpse of Dustin peering through the slatted blinds and straightened out, taking another step away from Steve and toward the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning!” You called, unlocking the door without looking, “Dream of Hamlet!”

Dustin was waiting for you when you turned to head to bed, arms crossed.

“Dream of Hamlet!” He parroted, mocking dripping from the words.

“Shut up, Dustin.” You pushed past him toward your room, just wanting to lie in bed and replay the evening in your head until you drifted off to sleep.

“You and Steve hang out, like, all the time. Are you sure you’re not sleeping with him?”

“God, Dustin, you can’t just ask me that! I’m your sister!”

“And he was my friend first, so if you make things weird, you’re gonna totally fuck up the party!” You stared at him, eyebrows knitted together as you tried to understand him.

“The party? I thought that was you and the nerds — sorry,” You winced when Dustin shot you a look.

“Remember what I told you about magic and monsters?” You nodded slowly, unsure if you actually did, “Well, Steve killed like a shit-ton of them, and now he’s an honorary member of the party. Like Nancy and Johnathan.”

“Nancy and Jonathan?” You said incredulously, the image of your brother’s friends and them together completely unbelievable. “Am I the only sibling who didn’t get called in to fight monsters and shit?”

“Not the point,” Dustin huffed, soothing his tense brow with his fingers, “The point is, you can’t get involved with Steve because it’s dangerous and it’s weird and it’ll completely ruin my life if I have to choose between you, okay?”

God, that sounded serious.

“We’re just friends, Dustin.” Lie. Just friends who made out in the library. And the parking lot. And the car. And were going on a date on Friday. Dustin didn’t need to know that, though.

“Fine, good.” Your brother was already walking away, muttering something about the ridiculousness of the thought of you two together.

You did feel bad about lying to Dustin, you really did. All things considered, you were pretty close siblings, and if it were anyone else, you might’ve actually told him you’d scored a date, just to prove you did leave the house. Clearly, whatever happened over the winter really connected them, though, and Dustin clearly looked up to Steve. You understood that he didn’t want anything to happen to their friendship.

But who’s to say the date was going to lead to anything at all? Maybe the crush was out of convenience, of you two seeing each other almost daily. Maybe the make-out was just a consequence of finals stress and raging hormones. Maybe the date would fizzle out, and you would go back to truly just being friends with Steve Harrington.

So there was no need to tell Dustin yet, right? You would let him cool off a bit, see where things went with Steve, and then tell Dustin when everything felt surer. That sounded like a plan you could manage.

Things did not, in fact, fizzle out with Steve. Completely the opposite, really. You didn’t have a lot of experience in the dating department, but you were pretty sure it was a good sign when you and Steve didn’t run out of things to talk about for the hours you spent inside the tiny diner that was quickly becoming your spot. Or when you took a walk around town because neither of you wanted the night to end. Or when Steve asked you to be his girlfriend at the end of the night. He’d even told you then that even he’d never moved that fast with a relationship, that he wouldn’t dare use a label like ‘girlfriend’ until at least five dates in, when things were more established. Things were clearly different for you two, though; it all seemed so clear to you. When he’d asked, shy and bashful like a nervous kid, you’d launched yourself into his arms, giddy and gleeful as you nodded yes.

Things never calmed down. You didn’t think anyone would have pinned you to be the girl who got obsessed with her boyfriend, but you couldn’t get enough of Steve. You didn’t see each other every day for the rest of the semester, you both did unfortunately have other finals, but it was pretty close. You had to draw some lines in the sand, though; neither of you could be trusted to focus on a math textbook when you were lying side by side on his bed.

You still hadn’t told Dustin. In your head, you had a million reassurances for it. It was still fresh, it was just the honeymoon phase, there was no guarantee it would last. It just made more sense to keep it quiet for a little bit longer, just to be sure when you did tell him. Steve understood, but you also knew he wanted to tell his friend, so you kept a nearish deadline, something he could look forward to: the championship basketball game.

You sat on your hands on the second row of the bleachers, anxiety flowing through your body. For once, you regretted not having more school pride, you knew none of the rules of basketball. Obviously, the ball going through the net was good, but you could truly say you didn’t know very much more than that. Luckily, Dustin and his little friends liked Steve enough to show up, so Lucas was dividing you and them, whispering a running explanation.

The only downside to this was that Lucas was a smart kid. You cheered louder every time Steve scored, and covered your eyes every time he was knocked around. The first time you might have gotten away with it, but when it was every time, and only Steve, you could feel Lucas looking at you strangely. All you could do was shoot him a hopeless, floundering glance and pray he wasn’t going to spill the beans. He just smirked, and you knew he’d keep the secret at a price of many favours.

Steve tossed the ball through the net and the gym exploded, you along with them, cheering louder than you ever had. He turned to the Hawkins stands, bathing in the applause, but his eyes lingered just a moment longer on you. You beamed, eyes alight with excitement as you communicated telepathically across the gym, a moment of recuperation before he was back running up and down the court.

Hawkins lost, to absolutely nobody’s surprise. You honestly did not know if they’d ever won a championship, and wouldn’t be surprised if the answer was no. This year was remarkably close, though, and to losers that was pretty much the same thing. Hawkins High students flooded the court, you included.

It was pandemonium, students and bodies everywhere, pushing and shoving their way around, trying to get attention from the star players. Your eyes were only on one. You found him across the room, hardly paying attention to the gaggle of students fawning over him, craning his neck to search through the crowd. When you found each other, the connection was instant, navigating the crowds like fish in the sea.

Despite the people around you, you didn’t hesitate to launch into his arms, feet hovering above ground as Steve swung you around with strong arms. Your arms locked around his neck for stability, keeping them there when he gently set you down. The world could have been caving in around you, and you would not have noticed, entranced by Steve.

“Tough loss,” You said simply, playing with a rogue curl at the nape of his neck.

“There was no way we were gonna win.” Steve’s arms stayed tight around you, the student body weaving around you as he planted you safely on the court.

“Still. A valiant effort.” You smiled up at him, butterflies making their way up to your throat when he returned it. Sweat rested on Steve’s brow and he stank like a teenage boy, but you really didn’t mind as much as you should have.

You lifted yourself up onto your tiptoes to connect your mouths in a sweet kiss, appropriate for school grounds. Steve was greedy, always with you, so it was you who broke the kiss as well, teasing exasperation in your eyes.

“C’mon, you need a shower before you rub off on me. I already feel wet,” You grumbled in high spirits, loving the way that Steve laughed at you, eyes full of affection. He took one of your hands from behind his neck, using it to twirl you once then swung your hands between you, leading you to the gym doors.

Quietly, you realised the sheer publicity of your actions, head swivelling to look around the room. A few girls were staring at you, but you tried to just smile and keep moving. You knew Steve had hooked up with other girls, and being with him at all was bound to catch some eyes, but attention had never been your strong suit.

The only person who hadn’t seemed to have seen the display of affection was your little brother. It had pros and cons, you would probably rather die than have Dustin see you kiss someone, but it would have eliminated the need to actually tell him, too. Lucas saw it, giving you a knowing smile before ushering his friends out of the gym. You’d be doing him a lot of favours this summer, you thought.

Steve dropped half the kids home, which kind of foiled your plan of telling Dustin about you then. You still weren’t sure how he would react, and you weren’t risking that with fucking Mike Wheeler watching it all go down. So it was delayed again.

The next few weeks were a complete blur; the last few finals, a school dance, your boyfriend’s graduation, and Steve dragging you on more outings than you’d probably been on in the past year. And somewhere along the way, officially telling Dustin you were dating just… slipped under the radar. To be fair, you hadn’t even told your mom in fear of the embarrassing questions, so it all just lodged itself in a crevice of your mind that didn’t become relevant until you and Steve waved him off for his month-long nerd camp.

You were admittedly sombre, going to miss your little brother more than you wanted to. Consequences of having few friends, you guessed. So you squeezed him tight and sent him off in the car with a quick kiss to his temple, standing with Steve on the cement of your driveway as your mother drove off into the distance.

“Oh shit,” You said quietly, after a long moment of silence, “I don’t think he knows you’re my boyfriend.” Steve stared at the horizon, then you, then back to where you both imagined the car would be.

“No way,” He said finally, “I’ve talked about you when I hang out with him, he knows we went to prom together. Sure, he hasn’t seen us PDA, but he totally knows. He’s a smart kid.” You nodded, but you weren’t convinced.

Dustin was smart, of course, and could be mature beyond his years. He was still a pubescent boy, though, and half the time was as thick as a brick wall. You’d told him, twice, that you and Steve were just friends, that might’ve been enough for him to write off any small couple moments he might have seen. It wouldn’t be out of character, especially if he was looking for affirmation that you were just platonic.

Three nights with your notes spread across your desk, your pencil worn down to a nub, and your mother calling from downstairs that dinner was getting cold. Three nights reading through library clippings about school funding, college acceptance rates, and the way girls in Hawkins were politely encouraged toward “practical” futures while boys with half of your grades were told they had potential. You had interviewed four seniors, two teachers, one guidance counselor who had smiled at you with the concerned tenderness adults reserved for girls they planned to ignore. 

It was practically perfect.

You had written it carefully. Not angrily, though you had to admit that anger had lived under every line you wrote, warming the words from dpwn below. You had made it clean, sharp, and correctly sourced. You had imagined your byline on the front page. You had victoriously imagined holding the paper in your hands and seeing proof that all the hours you spent noticing things nobody asked you to notice had finally become something real.

The reaction to it, unfortunately, had left much to be desired.

Mr. Walsh held the pages in one hand and adjusted his glasses with the other. His voice was polite enough, but it held that familiar detachment.

“It’s very thorough,” he noted with a faint nod of his head towards the article.

You knew you were absolutely dead, or rather, any hopes of seeing a cover page was.

Across the table, Mark Ellison leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his front teeth. His article was a soft little thing about “school spirit making a comeback,” built around three quotes from basketball players and one sweeping paragraph about how Hawkins High had ‘survived difficult years by pulling together’. He had written it during study hall. You had watched him do it while eating chips from a vending machine. You had also watched him pay more attention to his stupid Walkman than his article.

Mr. Walsh then gave Mark’s pages a fond pat from beside you. You had to physically stop yourself from letting the steam errupt from your expression, and curled your fingers into your palm. You didn't, however, hide the scoff when the teacher told the boy his next words.

“I think this is what we need above the fold this week. Something upbeat. The town’s had enough heaviness, don’t you think?”

The room moved on. You couldn't even get another word in before everything decided it was time to start up again. That only served further in building up your irritation. 

Someone asked about the sports column, someone else complained that the typewriter ribbon was fading again, and most annoyingly, Mark grinned without trying to look too pleased, which made him only look worse. You sat very still with your hands folded over your notebook, your nails continuing to press little moons into your palms.

“Maybe we can run yours inside,” Mr. Walsh added, almost kindly. You hated how he made it seem like it was somehow charitable of him to do so. After all, his excuses were always relatively  the same. “It’s strong work. Just a bit… intense for the front page.”

Intense.

You looked down at your notes until the letters blurred into a block of black.

That was what they always called girls who didn't make unfairness easier to swallow for others. Intense. Difficult. Ambitious in a tone that meant unattractive. Boys were driven. Boys were promising. Boys were leaders, even when they had to borrow a pencil to write a paragraph about pep rallies. Even when half of them couldn't even write clean enough for legitimacy on papers of loose leaf.

You smiled promptly then because you knew how to make adults comfortable. You weren't so sure your face was able to hide your growing annoyance, though. It was practically humiliating in its steady routine, but you'd learned over the years Mr. Walsh was as stubborn as the donkey he was named after.

“Sure,” you gave a small exhale alongside your smile, your tone was too light to be breezy and far too sweet to be real. “Inside is fine.”

Inside was not fine.

At lunch, you stabbed your fork into a pile of cafeteria mashed potatoes until they lost their shape entirely. With a cheek resting in hand, the sight of the sullen plate reflected your own inner turmoil. Conversational chatter flattered about around you.

“He said it was intense?” One friend asked, sitting across from you with a carton of milk she had not opened. “Everything's intense to that guy. Mr. Walsh wears the same brown sweater every day and once called Pat Benatar ‘too confrontational.’”

“He didn’t say Mark’s article was intense,” you muttered with poorly disguised disgust. Your brows twitched together and your eyes flicked up in a roll. The moment replayed in your head, Mark getting far too much praise for something he spent the better half of an hour listening to Olivia John-Newton, though he'd refuse the accusation vehemently if questioned.

“That’s because Mark’s article has the emotional range of a gym sock,” your friend Stacey said from beside you. She had bright blue eyeliner, a talent for gossip, and the terrifying confidence of someone who had never once doubted she deserved to take up space. You admired her for that.  “You need something undeniable.”

“I had something undeniable.” the response came almost petulant, and if you were still holding onto the leverage that you had a shoe-in for an article, you'd have refrained from saying it.

“No,” Stacey clicked her tongue, pointing her plastic spoon at you. “You had something true. That’s different. Truth makes people sleepy unless there’s blood on it.”

Leah made a face, looking down at the strawberry jam on her cake slice, and promptly pushed it forward. “Please never go into medicine.”

You tried not to laugh and failed halfway, the sound catching in your throat before it could become anything that felt good. For a moment, there was something besides that sense of annoyed displacement. 

The cafeteria around you churned with noise. Trays clattered, and somebody at the far end started chanting for reasons that probably involved a dare and milk coming out of someone’s nose. You let the spark of clear judgement light through your expression as you looked over to  the basketball table occupied its usual territory near the windows.

They were loud enough to own the room without having to ask, a result of years of indulged arrogance,  you could only assume. Tommy H. was telling a story with both hands, his laugh sharp and performative. A few juniors watched him the way freshmen used to watch Steve Harrington.

Steve did not sit with them anymore, that was something practically everyone noticed since last year.

He sat two tables away from the old crowd, alone with a slice of pizza gone stiff at the edges. His hair was still perfect in the way that seemed less accidental the longer you looked at it, all careful lift and feathered brown shine.

His shoulders filled out his yellow polo, but they were rounded inward today, one hand pressed against his temple while he stared at a textbook he did not seem to be reading. There was a bruise near his jaw, faded yellow at the edges. His eyes kept moving toward the basketball table and then away before anyone caught him looking.

King Steve, deposed but still dressed for court.

Stacey followed your gaze. Her mouth curved before you could shove it away off of her.

“If you want the front page,” she brightened up with a revived vigor, “you have to write about the biggest tragedy in Hawkins.”

Leah, unfortunately, looked too.

“Oh Stace’, I don't think that's a good—” she was swiftly cut off by your mutual friends voice dipped in delight

“The fall of King Steve,” Stacey finished and you gasped at her.

You snorted without ceremony promptly, her words did less to entice you and more to amuse you. If there was anything you couldn't find yourself caring less to write about, it would be about anything involving Steve Harrington. “That’s not an article.”

“It is absolutely an article! It’s got everything. Popularity. Masculine fragility. Hair products.”

Leah leaned forward then, lowering her voice. She looked besides you two with a more hesitant approach, her eyes flicked to the table a few feet away from you. “Also maybe just leave him alone? He looks one spilled pudding cup away from a complete collapse.”

“That’s the point,” Stacey had taken to promptly ignoring the two of you. “What happens when a guy builds his whole identity on being wanted, and then people stop wanting him?”

The words landed before the joke did.

You looked at Steve again. He dragged a hand through his hair, then immediately seemed to regret it, patting the front back into place with a reflex so automatic it made your chest pinch in spite of yourself. If you were to compare it to anything, it would be akin to a kid being filmed for a birthday party. It held the familiar awareness of being all too stiff, even in the singular companionship of just himself.

A whole identity built on being wanted.

The cafeteria lights flashed across the windows as usual. Outside, October had pulled Hawkins into a cold, colorless stretch of afternoon. The trees beyond the parking lot shivered with half-bare branches, leaves gathered wetly along the curb. It was a domestic background that you've memorized in routine these past four years. 

You pulled your notebook from your bag suddenly. Stacy's words had flicked on a small lightbulb in your brain.

Leah's  brown eyes blinked wearily on you as the next few minutes were received in silence from your side, only the sound of pen to paper filling your ears. “Oh, God. Stacey, you broke her.”

You rolled your eyes at that.

“I inspired her.” Stacey gave a self assured correction, her fingers going up as if it would further solidify her point.

There was no real attention paid to your friends for the next whirlwind of time, and you clicked your pen every so often in an attempt to soften the strokes of ink.

At the top of a previous blank page, you had written:

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

Stacey leaned over your shoulder and let out a delighted gasp.

“That is disgusting,” Leah immediately. Her eyes widened and she threw you a look that your promptly avoided. 

“It’s not, it's anonymous… and a work in progress,” you murmured in weak retaliation, already thinking faster than you could write. “Stacy's  right, it'd be a good article. How we make gods out of boys and then act shocked when they don’t know how to be human.”

Leah’s expression softened in a way you did not want to look at too closely. Realistically, you realized this might be a bit too cruel. But you were already on your verge, and no matter how absurd the idea had seemed before – you could admit held strong potential. 

“And Harrington?”

You watched him push his tray away untouched, and your gaze was less detached than you had been before.

“Steve is the case study.”

You told yourself that made it cleaner, and you also told yourself a lot of things that week. Things that in hindsight, might’ve been necessary to proceed with caution.

—

You approached him after basketball practice on a Wednesday, when the hallway outside the gym smelled most strongly of rubber, sweat, and floor wax. Most of the team members had already spilled toward the locker room, their voices echoing against the cinderblock walls. Steve came out last, a gym bag slung over one shoulder, and damp hair falling looser than usual around his forehead.

He looked tired enough that the sight of him made your plan wobble. It was one thing to think this out carefully and assume control, and it was another to actually act it out. 

Then, finally, he glanced up and saw you waiting by his locker.

You pushed off the wall before you could think better of it. Any further delay would only serve in faltering you more. 

“Harrington,” you called out firmly, letting your voice carry the boldness you had practiced in your mirror. Though, you weren't entirely sure you properly hid the wince that came with addressing him like that. “I’ve been looking for you.”

His eyebrows lifted then, that was what you'd noticed first. His face seemed to twitch in a complicated way, his face didn't hold a smirk, not right away at least. Surprise was there first. Real surprise, open and unguarded enough to make you feel briefly cruel. Your tried not to ponder on him for too long.

“For me?” his voice held a sincere curiosity that had you irritated at repeating yourself.

“No, the other guy with gravity-defying hair and a tragic aura.”

That got him.

A breath left him, almost a laugh, you saw the movement happen in real time. He leaned his shoulder against the locker, trying to recover his balance by looking casual. His thumb hooked into his belt loop. His shining eyes flicked over your face, landed on your mouth for half a second too long, then jumped back up.

You really had to refrain from the scoff that wished to escape you. 

“Tragic aura,” he repeated, his eyes twisted in a regained stability. His voice was more awkward than you remembered it being,  strangely that'd been your first true thought of him. “Wow. That’s, uh… that’s new.”

You gave a low hum in response.  “I’m a journalist. We notice things.”

“Is that why you’re here? To notice me?”

The line should have been smooth. You could actively hear him reaching for an older version of himself, the one who would have tilted his head and let girls do the work of melting. But his voice caught on the last word. Not much, but it was just slightly enough that you felt something in you feel successful.

You smiled, the formation stretched across your face as you cleared your throat softly. “I need help.”

Now, he seemed a bit confused,  his head tilted slightly in a way that reminded you of the neighborhood poodle. You let a smile turn slightly genuine at the semblance found between the two. 

“With?”

You stepped closer finally, and you stepped close enough to see the faint line where his tan had started to fade at his throat, and certainly close enough to catch the smell of clean soap beneath sweat and cologne.

“Understanding someone.” the words came out a bit hesitant, not at all like the suaveness you had practiced by standing in front of your bathroom mirror.

His gaze sharpened a little. Instinct took over him well. “Someone?”

“A boy,” you said quickly. Whatever it was that appeared in your face seemed to have gotten to him.

You saw the ghost of King Steve ever so slightly stir in movement in him. His mouth curved, one corner first, then another. It was almost unfair how quickly he could change expressions, and even worse so, that each expression of his seemed to cause your nerves to fray.

“Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert.”

Your eyes flickered to his, though not before you let your gaze find the small details of his face that were only exposed up close. “You do?”

“Former expert,” he amended, and something dry entered his voice. “My credentials are under review.”

You laughed before you meant to. You couldn't help it at the moment. It came out too genuine and his face changed with it. Not entirely dramatic, though. He just went still, the way people did when a sound touched some starved part of them. His own pools of hazel seemed to be too flittery for someone you were sure had done this plenty of time before. Still, against your better judgment, you kept staring into his eyeline.

You should have written that down later, a faint voice echoed through your head. Not the eyes part, you quickly denied and even got upset at yourself for supplying the image. You really should have been memorizing any small part he'd exposed, even more of the behavior you were out to conquer.

Instead, you remembered the exact angle of his shoulder against the locker, the wet curl slipping toward his eyebrow, the way he looked at you with confusion and cautious interest and a kind of bruised hope that had no place in your article.

You tilted your chin, chewing on the bottom of your lip by pure instinct. By now, you were close enough to have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. You blinked, breaking whatever power he seemed to have had momentarily to have you swept up and cleared your throat.

Your voice was back to being confident again, since practice made perfect. “Pick me up Friday?”

His mouth caught in a faint sputter, you could tell you had caught him completely off guard. Faintly, as if it were a bodily response, you softened your smile into something smaller, tilting up at him for the silent moment.

“Friday,” he said after a beat. Steve’s voice seemed to have taken a breathless edge now. It did something all weird and wonky to you. “Yeah. I can do Friday.”

“Seven.”

“Seven,” he repeated, and appearing to remember he wasn't an apparition, Steve's body seemed to lean toward yours as he continued. “Where are we going?”

You hadn't thought that far. Instead of deciding on the spot, you bit the inside flesh of your cheek as an amused exhale escaped your lips.

“You’re the expert, Harrington. Impress me.”

You walked away before your nerve gave out. You could feel him watching you down the hall, could feel the whole plan beginning to take shape behind your ribs. You had even taken to looking through your sosters old magazines for inspiration. Hot and cold. Interest and withdrawal. Private sincerity, public disruption. All those where supposed to be tactics to reuse interest in relationships,  but you figured that the same could also be said for an indirect character study. 

Observe the subject under changing social conditions. Note responses. Analyze, that had been your plan split up into groups.

You were very good at making terrible ideas sound academic.

—

On Friday, his Beamer waited by the curb under a sky the color of sad, wet cement.

He got out when he saw you, which you hated because it was exactly the kind of performative gentleman routine you had expected, and also because he did it without checking if anyone was watching. That complicated your observations, causing a flutter to go through you. He wore a brown leather jacket over a striped shirt, jeans that fit him too well, and that expensive cologne that seemed built into the mythology of him.

Ralph Lauren, Stacey had said with the authority of a girl who knew these things and lived vicariously through others. It mixed with the leather and the faint sweet smell of cherry chapstick when he opened the passenger door.

"Aren't you going to get in,” Steve gave you a wounded look. His head was tilted down slightly towards you and it seemed like he was more offended you had even made an attempt to reach for the door. 

You looked at the open door in his hand, feeling less like a mastermind and more like a nervous girl.  “Do you do that for all your dates?”

Steve's hand went up to run the back of his neck as he let out a weak exhale,  the ghost of a smile on his face. “Only the intimidating ones.”

You slid into the car after that, tucking your notebook deep inside your bag where he would not see it. The seats were cold through your skirt. The dashboard glowed amber when he turned the key, washing his face in soft light as the engine rumbled awake.

He didn't take you to Enzo’s, where everyone went to be seen. He drove past the diner, past the arcade, past the bright places where Hawkins pretended it had a pulse. The town fell away into dark stretches of road bordered by skeletal trees and damp fields. Eventually he pulled into a small overlook above the park, where the swings moved gently in the wind below and the streetlamps made small gold circles on the path.

“This is your idea of impressive?” you couldn't help the baffled tone that took over as you asked, but your voice had taken a softer lift.

He shrugged, fingers resting on the steering wheel. “You said you wanted to understand someone. Hard to do that while watching someone like Tommy try to fit an entire breadstick in his mouth.”

“You’re not friends with him anymore?” you didn't really need the answer, everyone practically knew the answer by now. But still, it's different to have someone tell you something by choice than admit knowledge by association.

His thumb moved along the stitching of the wheel. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Not really.”

“Why?”

He gave you a sideways look. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I told you. Inquisitive.”

“Right.” He exhaled through his nose, not quite laughing. The smile on his face was soft in its hesitancy. “I don’t know. Stuff happened. I got tired. He got meaner. Or maybe he was like that, and I just stopped thinking it was funny.”

The words fell between the two of you in a hush.

You watched him in the dashboard light. Away from school, he seemed younger and older at once. Without the noise around him, without the audience, the space he occupied seemed to changed shape. He rubbed a hand over his face, then caught himself before he ruined his hair and dropped it to his lap. He did that a lot.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your trance. You quickly gave a few hard blinks to refocus, you seriously had to stop doing that around him.

“What?”

“You’re shivering.”

Were you? You hadn't noticed much besides him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not fine.”

Before you could answer, he shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders. The weight of it settled around you, warm from his body, lined with the smell of him so completely that your next breath came slower than the last.

“You’ll get cold,” you said, a frown finding its way on to your face. It was a cold evening in Hawkins, the chill more prominent than usual. Your worry was quickly shoved down by him.

Steve seemed to just fidget by habit now. The muscle in his forearms tensed and gained your attention as his arms crossed against his chest. He gave a slight shove and his smile was all teeth and unintentional charm.“I’m tough.”

Now, you didn’t even bother to hide your scoff. A challenging twist of your brow appeared and you pointed out the faults in his words. “You just complained about the heater not working.”

“I’m selectively tough,” his grin stayed and was backed up by a small chuckle. 

You looked at him, and he looked back, and something quiet opened in the car.

The conversation shift quickly after that. You asked questions you had meant to use later. What did he want after graduation? He did not know. Where did he want to go? Away, maybe. Or nowhere. What was he afraid of? He made a joke at first, something about being left unsupervised with fireworks, and then he went quiet long enough for the windows to begin fogging at the edges.

“I don’t think I’m good at anything,” Steve told you after that. He said it plainly, almost casually, which made it worse. It was easier to dissect him clinically when he didn't wear that expression that caused you faltering to gain back control. 

You shifted toward him, eyes dragging over him.  They seemed darker with the setting say, but somehow they had something stored away that made you want to push back on his words.  “That’s not true.”

He gave you a look that unnerved you. “You don’t know that.”

You didn't let it get to you. You pushed through because for some reason, you felt like you couldn't stay silent. “I know you noticed I was cold before I did.”

The words had you faltering from the truth it held.

Steve gave a wry exhale, his head tilted back against his seat with his eyes on you. “That’s not a skill.”

Your voice felt firmer now. “It is, actually.”

He stared out through the windshield. Below, the park sat empty and silvered by frost. You couldn't really focus on that, not when Steve sat besides you looking less like the king you knew and more like a boy you wanted to know. You couldn't even process the words before Steve continued in. “Nancy used to say I had good instincts when I got out of my own way.”

Nancy.

There it was. The bruise beneath the bruise. It wasn't  one you were exactly shocked to hear, the whole sum of Hawkins new about the romance between the Wheeler daughter and him. Still, you weren't going deny the tinge of discomfort you felt at the mention.

What? Why were you uncomfortable? You immediately shut down the thought. A hard clearing of your throat helped stabilize yourself. You had to remind yourself that you weren't here for whatever reason that your body seemed to mistake. Instead, you focused on the task at hand, or at least tried to. You should have leaned in then when his head bowed slightly. You should have gathered the quote, traced the wound back to its social function, and built your thesis brick by brick.

You settled on something else, because strangely, anything else seemed harsh. “She sounds smart.”

“She is.”

The words carried no bitterness. That threw you off. You'd have known guys to turn completely hostile after break-ups, and you couldn't even remember a time where someone from Steve’s circle stayed genuine for the moment. You'd completely expected him to talk badly about her, about the situation, and frankly just about anything and everything that came up. To place blame in everything that never warranted it. 

You'd have felt more comfortable if he reacted like that. He didn't notice your turmoil.

“She’s also right,” he added, turning back to you. His hazel eyes mesmerizing in its softness. “I get in my own way a lot.”

You wanted to ask how. You wanted to ask why. What came out was a stupid joke about how his hair probably counted as a separate obstacle. “How, by looking in the mirror and not finding your face under all that hair?”

His laugh wasn’t loud, it certainly was not the cafeteria laugh you'd have known, not the old one that announced him from across the room. It was small and startled and breathless, given to you without polish. It didn't help you when he leaned back against the seat, smiling at the roof of the car, and your pulse betrayed you completely.

What happened next made you feel less like you were playing him and more like he was playing you. When he reached over to tuck a loose piece of hair behind your ear, he did it slowly enough that you could have stopped him.

You didn't. You didn't stop him.

You told yourself it was because you were playing an act.

His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, working in breaking you out of your mind. Steve’s hand lingered there, his thumb moving once over your skin, it barely had any pressure. He watched the place he touched instead of your eyes, and the careful uncertainty of it burned through you harder than confidence would have.

For one long second, you wanted him to kiss you so badly that you forgot why you were there.

Then a car passed on the road behind you, headlights cutting through the windows, and both of you shifted apart.

Steve cleared his throat, his head turning to look out the driver's side.  He seemed to have looked aware of just how vulnerable the moment was,  and didn't know how to navigate it.  “So. Did I help?”

You looked down at his jacket wrapped around you. It made feel warm in ways you almost wished it didn't. 

“Yes,” your voice came out all wrong,  small and breathless. “You did.”

You wrote three pages that night and hated all of them. It was as frustrating as it was complicated.  The problem was not that Steve failed your test. You found that out quickly. 

The true problem was that he kept passing in the wrong direction.

—

In public, you performed coldness with the sharp dread of a person setting a match to her own sleeve. Or at least, you truly hoped it looked like that. 

Monday morning, Steve found you near your locker with a bright, almost boyish smile that made you glance away before it could hit directly.

“Hey,” he leaned besides you near the locker. “I was thinking maybe after school we could—”

You shut your locker too hard.

“Can we not do this right now?”

His hand, halfway extended toward yours, stopped in the air. He dropped it quickly, trying to make the movement look natural.

“Do what?” his voice had you wanting to falter. God, since when were you this weak?

“This.” You gestured between you, impatient and vague. “The whole thing.”

People moved around you in the hallway, a current of denim jackets and textbooks and perfume. Someone bumped your shoulder. Before you could stumble, Steve stepped closer, placing himself between you and the rush of bodies. It was an unconscious movement. Protective without announcement.

Your stomach turned. You bowed your head to ignore looking into his enrapturing eyes. A warmth came instinctive in your stomach standing in such close proximity with the boy in front of you. You tried to push it down.  

Keyword, tried.

His voice dropped, his head leaning down to yours in an attempt to meet your gaze. “Hey. What did I do?”

His voice had you feeling weak already. “Nothing.”

“Okay, well, I’m getting a pretty strong not-nothing feeling here.”

You looked past him toward Stacey at the end of the hall. She watched with wide eyes, silently mouthing something that might have been commitment or abort. Her hands moved in front of her in a weaving gesture. You weren't sure what she'd been trying to convey, so you only assume she wanted to to keep going.

You crossed your arms, forcing your tone to turn cold and far away. No words really landed cleanly in your head for inspiration, so you took the first ones that would stick. “Maybe you don’t have to be so… much.”

Steve blinked.

His jaw tensed with movement,  your eyes drew to the action by unfortunate reflex now. He glanced down, then back up, searching your face with a focus that made your skin feel too thin and your act feel too hesitant. 

“I’ll fix it,” the words came quietly. You were sure your expression was dumbfounded, sure you had been acting like this on purpose – but what did he gain from doing that? You were so rapidly expecting a textbook fit. Instead, you got patient murmurings. That was worse than any possible anger.

“I don’t need you to fix it.”

“Then tell me what you need.”

His breath warmed your forehead. His hazel eyes showed no sign of any true hostility. They were worried and confused, and there was something heartbreakingly earnest in the way he tried to solve the version of the problem you had invented. You liked that. You liked that he seemed to act like that by instinct.

And so, because of that, you almost reached for him.

You willed yourself to iron quickly. Wetting your bottom lip, you finally looked up at him. eyes. The action had you remembering just why you were so hesitant to meet his gaze, having a look that could melt anything in them. Instead, you stepped around him and walked to class with your throat tight enough to hurt.

At lunch later, you made notes that took up new space in your writing notebook.

He responded to social rejection not with aggression but accommodation. Attempts repair. Shows confusion when expected script fails. Public status seems less motivating than personal connection.

You underlined personal connection so hard the paper tore.

Even detached on paper didn't feel right.

— 

The next test, as the girls had dubbed it, was supposed to be funny. You were sure it was meant to be, but it still held an underlying issue. It was Stacey’s idea, though you were the one foolish enough to do it.

The party was at some fellow senior’s house on Maple Street, loud enough to rattle the windows from the street. Steve picked you up with his hair arranged into what could only be called architecture. He seemed nervous about the party in a way he tried to bury under commentary about the radio, the road, and the fact that you were late even though you had been ready for ten minutes and had simply stood in your room wondering when exactly you had become the villain in your own story.

It was a rough start to say the least.

When you got there, he came around to open your door.

You stood and tried not to let the deep inhale of breathe be heard. The last thing you needed was to look as nervous as you felt. And quickly after that, you took one look at his carefully styled hair, and before you could lose courage, reached up and ran both hands through it. A smile found its way on your face, practiced and teasing, mirroring the girl in the catalogue of your People magazine.

The brush through his hair wasn't gentle, although his hair certainly was. Seriously, you had to ask later on what his secret was. 

The structure of its volume collapsed instantly, and Steve froze. His head still remained in its bowed position from where he leaned down from the passenger seat door of his car. His brows twitched together as your hands ran along his temple. You froze too, fingers still threaded into his hair.

For one second, you waited for the familiar snap. For the old King Steve to step forward with wounded pride and a cruel mouth. The porch light hummed above you. Inside, someone shrieked with laughter. His friends, or former friends, or whatever they were now, could see you from the living room window.

Steve looked at his reflection in the dark glass of the car. He let out a small sigh, and the familiar heart fluttering charming grin appeared on his face. Steve's eyes shut for a moment but his expression didn't falter, even as a series of laughter escaped him. The sound felt warm to you, and your body responded in turn.

“Better?” Steve then fluttered his pretty eyes back open, his head tilting with curiosity. “It was exhausting keeping that up anyway.”

Your hands fell quickly, your finger tips missing the way his hair felt against your skin instantly. The joke died so completely that you could almost hear it hit the pavement.

He glanced at you, the ruined hair falling soft around his face only enhancing him.  “Does it look terrible?”

“No,” you denied, and it came out too quickly. You winced at that, a small noise escaped Steve. 

His mouth twitched. “That was very convincing.”

“I mean it.” you did. 

He looked younger again. Not smaller, exactly. Just less fully arranged. Another strand fell over his forehead, and you had the sudden, awful urge to smooth it back with care instead of strategy.

The party behind you roared alive, and Steve heard. His shoulders tightened, but he didn't turn toward them like you thought. He looked at you instead, waiting for your reaction, which somehow made you responsible for the whole fragile moment.

You reached up and fixed one piece of hair near his temple. Something in you liked doing that. 

“There,” your voice was stronger now, and your smile had turned real moments ago. “Better.”

The smile he gave you was crooked and private. It really was nothing in comparison to the rest of the party, but it lingered. You spent the next few hours trying to get him to smile like that again.

You didn't take notes that night, or any of the other future nights.

You just remembered things instead.

You remembered the blue flicker of a movie screen across his face two nights later, when he sat beside you in the theater and kept his arm over your shoulders for the first half hour because that was what Steve Harrington knew how to do. Smooth. Easy. Practiced. Then, sometime after the second reel started rolling, his fingers stopped drumming against your sleeve and settled there with a hesitant weight, not claiming, only asking.

You remembered the way he drove with one hand when he was showing off, then switched to both hands when he told you about the time he forgot about his gym clothes and his coach made him wear an extra one two sizes too small. You remembered that he kept cherry chapstick in his glove box beside a flashlight, two old cassette tapes, and a receipt from a gas station outside Indianapolis. You remembered him stealing fries from your plate at the nearby diner and pretending to be wounded when you kicked his shin under the booth.

And in the next important memory, you remembered rain.

It came hard one random Thursday night, turning Hawkins into a blur of headlights and slick black roads. Steve’s house was empty in the way large houses could be empty even before you stepped inside. It was too clean, and far too quiet. The kind of place where expensive furniture sat untouched, waiting for adults who came home late and left early.

You ended up in his bedroom because the living room felt too much like a showroom for you.

His room was warmer than you expected, messier in an unapologetically human way. A baseball glove rested comfortably on the nearby dresser. Records stacked crookedly near the stereo. A half-open drawer with socks spilling out. Hair products lined along the bathroom counter with an intensity that might have been funny if it did not now seem faintly sad. Still, you had gotten a few quips out in hopes of cracking a smile from him.

The storm rattled the windows deeper into that even when conversations died down. You sat on the floor with your backs against the thick wooden frame of his bed, sharing a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and his cologne. It was a familiar scent to your mind now. His knee pressed against yours beneath the fabric. 

Neither of you moved away. 

“I used to think this place was cool,” Steve had mentioned offhandedly after a moment, looking around the space of his room.

You didn't quite follow why his tone seemed far away, to you, his words were still holding up. “It is cool.”

“It’s big.”

Your head turned to face him, a hum on your lips. “That’s usually part of cool.”

He shook his head, the slight shake of his hair reminded you of how you missed touching it. You shook your head and focused once more when he spoke again. “No, I mean… it’s just big.”

You understood what he meant.

Near his large bedroom window, thunder rolled low over the town. The room flashed pale for a second, then settled back into the lamplight.

You rested your cheek against the edge of the mattress, warm eyes pouring into yours as he mimicked your actions. “Are your parents gone a lot?”

“Yeah.” Steve then picked at a loose thread in the blanket. His next words came out short and detached, so unlike the guy you've known. “Dad travels. Mom goes with him when she’s tired of pretending she likes Hawkins.”

You didn't like how his eyes dimmed.  “And you?”

“I stay.”

The word sat between you.

He laughed once, it was without humor, and rubbed at his eye with the heel of his hand. His voice held that rasped edge that sent tingles down your spine.  “God, that sounded pathetic.”

“It didn’t.” The reassurance came so quick it shocked you. You attempted to play it cool, repeating the words slower. 

“It did.” He looked down at his hands, the same ones you found yourself wanting to hold without the premise of a lie. “I just… I don’t know what happens when this is over. School. All of it. Everybody keeps acting like we’re supposed to know.” You didn't know what to say, it was the first time you've seen him so visibly wrecked.  “College, jobs, whatever. And I’m sitting there thinking—what if this was it? What if being King Steve was the only thing I was ever good at, and I wasn’t even good enough to keep it?”

Your chest tightened, it seemed like the world was laughing at you. Her he was, sitting on his bedroom floor besides talking about his insecurities all while you were actively trying to back on them. 

The article was in your bag downstairs. A draft. A title. A guillotine made of clever sentences.

“Steve,” the name came of gentle from your lips. 

He would not look at you, he kept staring at a spot on the floor. 

“Nancy figured it out before I did,” he went on, his voice lower now. His shoulders carried his tension clear as day. “That all the stuff people liked about me was just… noise. Parties, basketball, the car, the hair. The Harrington house. I thought that meant something. Then it didn’t, and it was—”

He stopped and didn't continue any further. You knew the signs before it came, and the room quieted down. 

His throat moved, a small, forcefully restrained noise finding its way out. The rain that thudded against his window filled the silence for him. And for you. 

You reached for his hand quickly.

He looked at your fingers covering his, then turned his palm upward and held on. You opened your mouth to speak, but not much came out. His grip was still foreign to you,  but it was different right now. It wasn't smooth, and it didn't feel like it held any kind of plan. His grip tightened once, almost too much to be soft, but then he quickly loosened it.

You shifted closer.

That was all it took.

He pulled you into his lap with a suddenness that stole your breath, then seemed to realize what he had done a second after doing it. His hands hovered at your waist.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

You settled there instead of moving away. Your own eyes were blown wide and mirroring his. You tried to speak but it came out all airy. “It’s okay.”

His breathing changed when yours did. Steve's eyes seemed to track your face, and the air seemed to turn into something deeper. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke up again. He lowered his forehead to your shoulder,then to the curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. The response that you gave was instantaneous, a rapid rising and falling of your chest went through the warmth of your body. His hands gripped your waist through the blanket, not possessive necessarily, you thought it felt more like clinging. Tethering.  The storm made the windows tremble. His hair brushed your jaw.

You lifted a hand and threaded your fingers into the back of his hair. The return of the welcome feeling was pleasant in your grasp.

He went still under your touch, and for a moment. Then he exhaled, deep and unsteady, and held you closer. Your faces were breaths away now, the bridge of his nose softly touched yours.

“Hey,” your voice came out weak. It was too soft to be teasing like you'd hoped. 

Steve’s eyes softened instantly. You saw it happen. You saw the moment the small, genuine grin stretched across his face. His voice came back whispered, as if scared to break the moment. “Hi there.”

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched your face with an openness that made lying feel entirely  impossible. You knew he was about to kiss you. You knew that you really should stop him. You knew the truth should come out before his mouth touches yours, before this became another thing you had stolen under false pretenses.

But you'd been stupid, and so you didn't stop him.

The kiss began softly, almost carefully. His lips were brushing yours once before returning with more certainty. He tasted faintly sweet from the chapstick he pretended not to use. The kiss felt like it was bewitching your body whole. His hand rose to your hair, fingers sinking in with a restraint that kept breaking and returning. You gave a slight laugh against his lips before calming down. You felt him trying not to rush, trying not to take more than you gave, and the effort undid you more thoroughly than any practiced confidence could have. Because it was just so him.

You kissed him back.

Not for the article. Not for the headline. Not because Stacey would demand details or because Mr. Walsh would have to admit you knew how to find a story

You wanted to, you truly wanted to..

You kissed him because his hand was warm against your back and his breath caught when you touched his face. Because the room smelled of rain and leather and laundry soap. Because his mouth moved against yours with need and care tangled together, and your whole body answered before your conscience could organize a defense.

When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. The faint flush from his skin felt nice against yours

He smiled, small and dazed. You added that of the list of expressions you liked to see on him.

“Does this mean I’m helping with your boy problem?”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and real. You pressed your face into his shoulder to hide it. With a lightness in you chest you lifted your head up as you rolled your eyes. Your hand moved on its own account now. It slid up to grasp the side of his face, your fingers sliding against the shape of his jaw.

“Shut up, Steve.”

His arms tightened around you, and his lips found yours once again. His own lightness expressed through the laughter that filled the echoing bedroom. "Ouch, you wound me."

For a few minutes, the world narrowed to the storm, his heartbeat beneath your palm, and the terrible knowledge that you had done something you could not write your way out of.

—

The article sat unfinished for two days.

You told yourself you would kill it. You also told yourself that you had time. Then you told yourself you would revise it.

So you sat in the newsroom after school, staring at the draft title until the faniliar letters turned cruel.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king.

It sounded brilliant in the cafeteria. You distinctly remember thinking that. But now? Now it sounded mean. 

No, mean was too light of a word. It felt cruel.

You pulled the pages from the typewriter, folded them once, and shoved them into your folder. You would tell Mr. Walsh you had changed direction. You would write something else. Anything else. A review of the cafeteria pizza. A profile on the marching band. A blank page with sorry written in the center.

The front page spot didn't seem so enticing anymore when the cost came so harsh.

You were reaching for your bag when Mark appeared in the doorway, looking over at you. You didn't bother to hide the deep exhale you gave, you whole body tensing on on instinct.

“Working late?”

You stiffened and corrected him. “Leaving, actually.”

His eyes dropped to the folder in your hand. You immediately shut the folder, not liking the look in his gaze. “Is that the mystery column everyone’s whispering about?”

“No.”

“So yes.”

You tucked it against your chest. You had truly no paitence for the boy. You had been feeling horrible all last night yesterday, well, even more so last night than usual. “Move, Mark.”

He held up both hands, smiling. You didn't like his smile. It was nothing like the comforting presence of Steve's. The thought only made your mood worsened. “Relax. I just wanted to see what was so important that Walsh was considering bumping my school spirit piece.”

“He wasn’t.” You wished you sounded as steady as you needed to, but the flicker in your voice betrayed you.

Mark noticed. Boys like Mark always noticed weakness when it benefited them. And Mark himself no doubt would revel in any chance of taking an empty shot at you.

“Come on,” he clicked his tongue in a way that made your blood boil from its condescension. “We’re all on the same staff.”

“No, we’re not.” You pushed past him quickly. 

You did not know, however, that then one folded carbon copy had slipped from your folder and landed beneath the table, half-hidden by the trash can. You did not know Mark found it ten minutes later. You did not know he read it standing under the buzzing lights with his mouth slowly opening into the delighted shape of opportunity.

If you knew, you certainly wouldn't have lived through the reoccurring nightmare you've been having for the past few weeks.

You found out the next morning when Hawkins High came alive with your words.

Not the final version of your words, for it surely would've had a different result. It wasn't even the whole draft.

It was the worst version, the sharpest version.

The version written before you knew the way Steve looked when he gave away his jacket and pretended not to be cold.

Copies appeared on lockers before first period. Someone had run them fast and dirty, the ink uneven, the margins crooked. The title screamed from the top in bold type.

By second period, everyone had read it. By lunch, they were reading it aloud. You pushed through the hallway with your heart hammering so hard your vision pulsed at the edges.

A boy near the trophy case laughed. “Listen to this part—”

You snatched the page from his hand and you were sure the rhythm of your heart could be heard from miles away.

There it was.

Your article.

Your voice, sharpened into a blade that you couldn't even begin to imagine dulling.

The Lifecycle of a High School God: why a crown crushes a king

Every high school builds a throne, though no one admits to carrying the wood to make it. We vote with our eyes, our invitations, and our laughter at jokes that are not funny enough to deserve it. We create a boy and call him a king because it is easier than admitting we are the kingdom that is faulty.

The high school god is rarely born exceptional. He is assembled meticulously. A good car. A good face. The right jacket. The right table. Enough people saying his name in the right tone until even he begins to believe there is something sacred in being wanted. These continue to enforce how sincerity rarely makes the cut.

But worship is not love. Anyone will tell you that, and those who disagree would be dumb enough to face the consequences. Popularity feeds on performance, and performance rots whatever is underneath the layer given. A boy taught to survive by being admired will eventually mistake attention for affection, control for confidence, and loneliness for proof that everyone else has failed him

When a crown falls, what remains is often not a villain, but something more ordinary and more frightening: a boy with no language for himself beyond what other people once applauded and now isolate.

Hawkins High should ask why we keep making kings out of boys who do not know how to be human — and why we act surprised when the weight of a crown crushes them to dust.

You had written every word. It would have been easier to say that Mark embellished over your words, and exaggerated for journalist effect. But he didn't,  you were the one to do that. It was the worst part of the draft he could have chosen, simply because of the fact that you had left out everything you saw after.

You had also left out every human thing that would have saved him.

You found Steve in the print room a few hours later. And before you could assume any sort of hope of a clean explanation, it was shot and dead in front of you. You almost wished he hadn't gone there.

But of course he would have gone there, and of course the place where your betrayal had been made public still smelled of ink and metal and hot paper. It was proof of the now posted article that you didn't even want out. Faintly, you could hear something loud with the clacking press that someone had forgotten to turn off. Steve stood near the long table, one of the copies in his hand, the page trembling slightly between his fingers.

He looked up when you entered and you almost wished he hadn't. 

His eyes were red.

Not crying, not exactly. Worse. It made your heart drop and panic spike up into you. It seemed he intended to hold back so hard that the effort had hollowed out his face.

“Steve–” you didn't recognize your voice. It was so desperate and and pleading. You opened your mouth and tried to stammer out any explanation that came into your head, but there was nothing you found coming to mind. 

“Steve, please! Just listen, I–” He interrupted you and laughed, but it shook you. It wasn't like the laughter you had come to live,  this one had no warmth in it. It was so unlike him and you hated it. You hated causing that. 

“Was any of it real?”

You stopped short, any explanation does quickly in the tip of your tongue. 

He held up the article for you to see. As if you needed to be reminded of what you'd have done, a small breath part of you mouthed off bitterly. 

“When you looked at me like that. When you stayed with me. When you—” His voice caught, and he looked away, jaw tight. You immediately took to shaking your head, the implication of his words just. Because they were true.  And because they weren't. “Was that just material for your front page?”

“No!”

“No?”

“It started—” You hated yourself before the words finished forming. “It started as an article, but—”

His face changed and your heart seemed perpetually lodged into your ribcage. There were some truths that did not deserve the dignity of a full explanation. Steve just exhaled out sharply, his head finally facing you. The reaction wasn't what you wanted, you wanted–no, needed to explain yourself.

He nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the floor. Steve didn't give the you the chance to continue. “Right.”

“Steve, I was going to stop it. I didn't even turn it in! I swear, I wasn't going to hand it over. Mark found an old draft, and he—”

“Don’t.” He looked at you then, and the quiet in his voice hurt more than shouting would have. The word held so much that you froze on instinct. Your eyes stung viciously as you opened your mouth but nothing came out. “Don’t make this about him.”

Your mouth closed then. You felt utterly helpless, which might have been deserved. You desperately wanted to tell him everything,  wanting him to understand that it was real – is real. But your eyes, wide and frantic, just froze. He stepped closer, the paper crumpling in his fist.

“Everyone else wanted to see me for my status,” Steve began with a sharp inhale. You felt the stinging turn more prominent in your eyes, you tried to take a step forward but that was rejected when he almost flinched back two steps himself.. “The car, the parties, the game. Whatever. I got that. I was stupid, but I got it.” His breath shook. Steve’s voice cracked  nearing the end, and that was the last thing you heard before your vision blurred into spots. “I thought you were the only one who didn’t care about it.”

“I did! No, I mean–I do, you have to believe me, Steve.” Your voice was surely pathetically small. Everything else seemed to turn into static silence in the empty printing room and you desperately needed to fix it. You wanted to, but you felt so utterly unsure of your next steps. You reached for him on instinct.

Steve flinched back.

The movement was small. Instinctive. As if his body no longer registered you as a comfort, and that split something open in you. You felt the first few tears fall from your lashes, each blink dropping tiny little pearls. Steve made a noise you couldn't properly translate, his eyes were on yours but they held a thousand words and emotions in a single look. His own hand twitched open and shut before being brought up to bury itself in his hair, Steve then forced his eyes shut and his head turned to the side. He couldn't decide what hurt more, being hurt by you, or seeing you hurt.

He was the one that came back sharp and strained.

“Turns out,” Steve’s voice was so rough, it could have been unrecognizable. You opened your mouth immediately to shut down whatever he would say, but he beat you to it.  “you just used me for a headline.”

The press clattered behind him. A sheet slid loose and fluttered to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice cracking and stinging from feeling utterly defeated. Because he was right, you did. You did get to know him for a chance at a headline, so that was why you could only apologize. But you wanted nothing to do with that stupid article, and regret washed over you at the thought of him thinking none of it was real. Because yes, it was messy, but it was real for you. “But–fuck, Steve... please you have to understand that–” you were cut off before you could even continue. 

He stared at you for a long moment, and you could see the part of him that wanted to believe you fighting with the part that had learned too many times what wanting cost.

Then he turned and walked out.

The room didn't become empty when he left, there was no relief that came with him leaving. And the room didn't become calmer in his disappearance; instead, it filled with him.

The absence of his cologne. The missing warmth of his jacket. The ghost of his hand at your cheek, careful and uncertain, before you had earned any of it. All of the little things that were so present just a moment ago were gone and let the physical trail of what happened.

You were left alone with the faint clacking of the room's machinery. And for a moment, you were so ready to run out to try and plead. To explain, to tell him every complete thing he was missing in hopes of him understanding. But you couldn't do that, not when you were already reason enough that he was hurting all over again.

With a loud curse, you found yourself feeling completely lost in a room that you've only ever compared with a haven. 

— 

For two days, Steve Harrington became visible to you in a way he had never been as king.

You saw him at his locker the next Friday morning, hollow-eyed and quiet, pretending not to hear the whispers. You saw him in the cafeteria, sitting with a younger boy you didn't know for exactly six minutes before the younger boy said something animated enough to make Steve almost smile. Then Steve caught sight of you across the room and the almost vanished.

That hurt like a stab to the heart. 

Then came the other little things that made you feel significantly worse.  He stopped coming to the parking lot after school until the buses had left. He stopped looking down your hallway. He stopped being available to your guilt.

You tried to corner Mark. He denied leaking it with the loose, oily confidence of someone who knew proof mattered more than truth. Mr. Walsh gave a speech to the staff about journalistic ethics while refusing to meet your eyes. Stacey apologized three times, then stopped because the apologies had nowhere to land when she held you while your sobs filled your bedroom. Leah sat beside you at lunch without talking much. That was the kindest thing anyone did.

By Friday afternoon, the newsroom felt smaller than it ever had for you. More suffocating. 

The printing press sat under the window, still and waiting. Dust turned in the late sun. Your original ambition lay around you in stacks of paper and headline sketches and discarded layouts.

You looked at the front page proof with Mark’s article on school spirit and felt nothing.

Not disappointment. Not anger.

Nothing.

That truly scared you more than pain did.

You had thought giving up the article would be enough. You had thought killing the story would count as a moral act. But the story was already alive, crawling through Hawkins High with your fingerprints around its throat. You didn't know what to do, the words were already there for everyone that listened. 

You sat at the typewriter.

For a long moment, you did not move. Shortly after a fit of tense silence, you finally rolled in a clean sheet. The keys struck hard enough to ache in your fingers.

This time, you did not write anonymously because you were clever. Or because you were trying to be witty or cruel. You wrote anonymously because the confession was not meant to redeem your name. It was meant to give him back his.

By the final bell, the flyer was everywhere, curtesy of your desperate and frantic efforts. 

It wasn't approved, it certainly also wasn't polished. Id didn't become formatted with Mr. Walsh’s careful little rules. It was just a single page copied until the machine jammed twice and your hands were black with ink that you couldn't scrub off

Students grabbed them from the tables, from the lockers, from the floor where they skidded under shoes. After all, no one loved potential hidden stories more than Hawkins High

You didn't wait to watch them read. That had been the least of your priorities. There was more important things that you cared about than who read a piece of your work now, and he had been gone from your sight long enough.

So, you ran.

The hallways exploded around you with the annual end-of-week chaos of Hawkins High School. Lockers slammed open, someone yelled about a shared ride, and a freshman dropped an entire stack of books and cursed with such feeling that a teacher shouted his name from twenty feet away. The sun poured through the front doors in a white-gold sheet, way too bright after the fluorescent dimness of the hall.

Steve was not at his locker. He was not outside the gym. He wasn't by the trophy case or the pay phones or even the side entrance near the band room. Your lungs burned by the time you shoved through the heavy double doors and stumbled into the afternoon.

The parking lot sprawled ahead of you, shining under the cold sun. Cars backed out in crooked lines. Girls shouted through open windows. The air smelled of gasoline, damp leaves, and somebody’s cigarette. It was all nothing that you cared about. The one thing you did seemed to be missing from the scene. Your eyes squinted in the light as it traveled across the parking spaces of the lot, failing to find what your heart desperately wanted to see.

At the far end, the BMW’s engine roared to life.

“No,” you breathed with pure adrenaline rushing through your veins. Steve sat behind the wheel, one hand on the gearshift, his profile hard through the windshield. 

Before you even knew it, you started running. 

It was stupid, rushed, and entirely filled with desperation. Your shoes slapped the asphalt. You heard Leah faintly calling your name, but you didn't turn back. The wind tore at your hair. Your bag bounced painfully against your hip but you paid it no mind. You cut between two parked cars and nearly slipped on loose gravel.

“Steve!”

He did not hear you, or pretended not to. You gave a groan of loud annoyance, but it still did little to deter you.

You reached the car just as the reverse lights flashed.

Without thinking, without dignity, and definitely without any plan beyond the awful certainty that if he drove away now something inside you would never forgive you, you threw yourself in front of the driver’s side door.

The car jerked to a stop and Steve froze behind the wheel.

Through the glass, his beautifully bright eyes  widened. Hurt, shock, and stubborn pride moved across his face so quickly you could barely separate them. Then his mouth tightened. You could tell he wasn't expecting your actions, and you couldn't exactly say you were the most sane person now.

The window rolled down slowly, the crank turning under his hand with mechanical, agonizing patience.

“What are you doing?” his words came loud and filled with unresolved frustration. Steve’s voice was rough. Thick in its tension. He wouldn't look straight at you. You refused to settle for that, the days spent with the familiar feeling practically left you numb and empty. 

“Go back inside,” Steve’s eyes and words seemed to contradict each other. He shifted back into looking into his dashboard instead of you. “Go celebrate your front page.”

You shoved the crumpled paper through the open window. It landed in his lap.

“I don’t care about the stupid article, ” you said, breathless enough that the words broke apart. “I don’t care about the front page. Just–read it. Please.”

His jaw flexed. For a second, you thought he would throw it back at you. Then Steve looked down at the copy of printed words.

You watched his eyes move over the page.

Correcting mistakes:

There was an article circulating this week about a king. It was clever in the cruel way people mistake for intelligence when they are too afraid to admit they have been wrong.

The girl who wrote it thought she was exposing a system. She thought it clever and brilliant. She told herself the boy at the center of it was an idea, a symbol, a lesson with good hair. She thought distance made her fair and judicial. She thought observation made her honest.

Then the boy gave her his jacket when she was cold.

Then he admitted he was afraid of being forgotten, and the girl realized she had been so busy studying the crown of his that she had ignored the weight of it on his own head.

The first article was right about one thing: Hawkins High School makes kings out of boys and then punishes them for not knowing how to be anything else. That wasn't the mistake here. But it was wrong to confuse a boy’s damage with his character. It was wrong to turn trust into evidence. And it was wrong to take the softest things he offered and sharpen them for public consumption.

This is not an apology meant to earn forgiveness. This is meant, instead to fix the record.

The boy was never a god. 

He was kinder than any story allowed him to be, and he was kinder than she deserved. 

Steve stared at the paper.

His chest rose and fell under his yellow polo. His rings glinted where his fingers gripped the page. Around you, students slowed. A few openly stared. You could feel the parking lot turning toward you with the appetite of a place that loved spectacle.

For once, you really, truly, couldn't care.  

Steve’s eyes lifted to yours,  and you could weep just from that alone. “Why should I believe you?” he asked.

The question was quiet enough that no one else could hear. You stepped closer, hands gripping the edge of the open window. Your own voice want any better, it was loud and messy, and undeniably real. A breathless bount of laughter escaped you “Because I was playing a game and I lost, Steve.”

“I lost.”

His throat moved but you hadn't seen it.

“And I lost you,” you sighed with your head hanging low in shame near the open window, voice shaking now, “and I regret it. I was supposed to push you away, but every time you held my hand, every time you looked at me like I actually mattered, I—”

Your breath caught, and you forced it down in order to continue.

“I don’t care about King Steve. I don’t care about the crown or the table or the stupid front page. I want the guy who gets cold in his own car because he gave me his jacket. I want the guy who pretends he doesn’t use cherry chapstick. I want the guy who worries too much and fixes his hair when he’s nervous and acts tough until somebody he cares about needs him to be gentle.”

The words were embarrassing in their vulnerability, and it didn't help that Steve just stared at you. But even small battle wins were tremendous to those who were cautious.  The defensive hardness in his face trembled.

You leaned closer, not touching him. Though God knew you wanted too. But you wouldn't take what he had not offered.

“I just want you,” you said and the words hung there in the bright afternoon.

For a second, nothing happened. That scared you.  Because if even though all of this, he didn't believe you, you were sure that would break you entirely. You didn't understand how looking at him now, with his beautifully enrupturing genuine gaze and constellations of freckles so faint kissing his skin with blessings, you could have been so stupid.

Your panicking monologue was cut off when Steve let out a breath that broke halfway into a laugh.

It made you falter momentarily. You wouldn't exactly describe it as fully happy or clean. Instead, it was more ragged. Disbelieving. Full of relief that came so sudden it seemed to knock the strength out of him. He looked down at the crumpled printed again, then back at you. You saw the exact moment when whatever he had been holding together for two days came apart in his hands.

“You’re insane,” Steve held his head in his hands. The heels of his palms dragged to his eyes, and that when you noticed the concealed redness there. Your panic was a quick guest arrival as your hand hesitantly went over the threshold of the open window and found its spot tangling through his hair at his temple.

Your voice came out soft. “I know.”

“You ran in front of my car.” Steve's was returned in a disbelieving laugh. The sound on instinct made you smile.

“I know.”

“I could’ve hit you.”

You weren't quite so sure you believed that. And it seemed like neither did he fully either. The both of you stared through the air between you “You're not exactly driving donuts with your Beamer in a school parking lot, Harrington. You were going four miles an hour, max.”

His mouth twitched and your heart found its comfort. There he was. That was the boy you wanted to see, the one who was sincere and silly and all of the words in between.

The moment didn't truly feel fixed all the way, and it didn't feel so easily forgiven so neatly that the hurt could be vanished beneath a kiss. But there, beneath the bruised pride and the red eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw, was the boy from the park. The boy from the rainstorm. The boy who had laughed quietly when nobody asked him to perform.

He shoved the car door open.

You barely had time to step back before he was out, hands catching your waist. Steve lifted you clean off the pavement, and a startled sound escaped you as your hands grabbed his shoulders.

“Steve—”

“Shut up,” he rasped, but his voice broke around the smile. Then kiss that came next didn't surprise you. But it certainly didn't prepare you for it either.

It was not exactly graceful, but it was completely and utterly impassioned.

Someone in the parking lot whooped. Someone else yelled something that sounded suspiciously like “Harrington!” A horn blared because a car was stuck behind his open door. The reminder of just how crazy this whole situation was roared in your ears. 

Steve didn't seem to hear any of it. You had a feeling that he did, but just pretended he didn't. That made you smile on reflex against him.

His hands held your waist with desperate certainty, then slid up your back, pulling you close enough that the cold afternoon disappeared between you. Your fingers tangled in his hair, ruining it again, and he made a sound against your mouth that was half laugh, half relief. He tasted the same sweet cherry chapstick you started buying for yourself and breathless warmth. The kiss carried every unsaid thing neither of you knew how to organize yet. Anger. Want. Hurt. Forgiveness beginning somewhere far off and walking slowly toward you.

When your feet touched the ground again, you were dizzy. It was a good dizzy, and the pounding in your side was a welcome pleasure now. 

Steve rested his forehead against yours, breathing hard. His hands stayed anchored at your hips, refusing to let you drift away. Up close, you could see the faint details scattered along his neck, the tiredness under his eyes, and the careful hope he was trying not to show too quickly.

“You really printed that?” The question broke you out of your stupor. You were still so dazed from his touch that you distantly found yourself nodding. Your hands refused to leave their spot in reaching for him now that there wasn't a lie justifying it.

“Over Mark’s stupid school spirit thing?”

Your words came mechanical,  as if offended he'd even question it. “Technically under it. Around it. On top of some of it.”

“I made a stupid amount of copies.” The confession came paired with you momentarily dropping your hands where they were wrapped around him to hold up the black ink stains on your fingers.

His smile spread, crooked and real enough to hurt. And you swore that it was the most beautiful sight in the world.

“Good.”

You laughed weakly, your hands finding their way back into sliding to the back of his nape. “That’s what you took from the public confession?”

“I’m processing.” His thumb moved along your jaw, slow and familiar. “Also, I liked the cherry chapstick line.”

“I hoped you would,” you felt like a cat relishing in caresses. The smile that mirrored his came quick and teasing on your mouth.  His eyes stayed on yours, and his smile softened at the edges.

“You’re a terrible writer.”

Your brows lifted in instinctive defensiveness of your craft. “Excuse me?”

He brushed his thumb beneath your chin, eyes bright with that old Harrington charm, gentler now, and clearly worn in rather than performed.

“You didn’t even come close to losing me.”

The ache in your chest loosened all at once.

It would not be so easy for you to say it was gone, you would still have to apologize without speeches. He would still have to decide what trust looked like after being turned into copy. 

But Steve was standing in front of you with his hair wrecked by your hands and your confession folded against his car seat. He was looking at you, really looking, not the way a king looked over a crowd, but the way a boy looked at the girl he was still willing to let close enough to hurt him.

You rose onto your toes with a soft shake of your head and grin. “Just shut up and kiss me, Harrington.”

His grin flashed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You reach over to smooth an impossibly stubborn piece of hair away from his forehead. "You know," you say, "most people get excited about their birthday."

Steve hums. "I know."

"You don't."

Another small shrug. "I've just never really been bothered."

He says it so casually that anyone else might have believed him.

But you've known him long enough to understand the difference between someone who doesn't care and someone who learned, very early on, not to expect much in the first place.

Steve never disliked birthdays. That wasn't it. He'd simply stopped allowing himself to build them into something worth looking forward to.

Growing up, they were... fine.

There'd usually be a couple of presents, carefully chosen by parents who knew roughly what an eight-year-old boy ought to like but never quite what their eight-year-old boy actually did. His mother insisted on the same dense, healthy carrot cake every year because she preferred it to chocolate, somehow never stopping to consider that perhaps the birthday boy himself might have had other opinions.

Sometimes his parents were away entirely, leaving him with grandparents or a childminder and promising they'd celebrate properly when they got back. Sometimes they were there, though never really present. A birthday dinner if everyone happened to be home. A quick "happy birthday" over breakfast before somebody rushed off to a meeting. There was never anything cruel about it.

Just... distance.

Nothing bad enough to complain about.

Nothing good enough to miss.

By the time you'd met him, birthdays had become something he accepted with the same quiet indifference he accepted rainy Tuesdays or running out of milk. Nice enough if somebody remembered. Easily forgotten if they didn't.

He catches you looking at him. "What?"

You realise you've been absent-mindedly tracing your thumb across the back of his hand. "Nothing."

"Your face tells me it isn't nothing."

You smile. "I was just thinking."

"Dangerous."

"Oh, absolutely."

He grins, the corners of his eyes creasing in that familiar way that still makes something inside your chest soften. Then, just as quickly, he stretches with another sleepy groan and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.

"So..." He pushes them onto his nose. "...What's the plan today?"

The question is completely innocent.

There's no expectation behind it. No hopeful curiosity. No excitement. Just the quiet assumption that whatever happened would be perfectly nice, and perfectly ordinary.

You hold his gaze for a moment before leaning across to steal one more kiss.

"Oh," you murmur, smiling against his cheek. "I think you're going to have a very different birthday this year."

Robin is the first to arrive.

You hear her before you see her.

The front door flies open without so much as a knock, followed almost immediately by, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS."

Steve has barely managed to look up from the mug of coffee in his hands before something rectangular bounces unceremoniously off the side of his head.

"...Ow."

"You're welcome."

He picks the envelope up from the floor, turning it over suspiciously.

Across the front, written entirely in thick black marker, are the words:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS.

Beneath them, in much smaller handwriting:

Don't let this inflate your ego.

Steve laughs quietly through his nose. "I haven't even opened it yet."

"I know." Robin folds her arms with exaggerated satisfaction. "I just wanted to establish the tone."

You disappear into the kitchen under the pretence of making more coffee, partly because somebody has to rescue breakfast before it burns, and partly because you've known Robin long enough to recognise the expression she's trying very hard to hide.

She's nervous.

Steve, blissfully unaware, slides a finger beneath the flap and unfolds the card.

Silence.

Then another page unfolds.

And another.

Steve blinks. "...Robin."

"What?"

"It's..." He flips another page over. "...Really long."

She shrugs with studied indifference. "I got carried away."

"What did you write?"

"I don't know."

"You wrote it."

"I wasn't paying attention."

He gives her a look.

She refuses to meet it.

You watch him begin reading.

The smile appears immediately, tugging at one corner of his mouth as he reaches the first insult.

Happy Birthday to Hawkins' second-biggest idiot.

Congratulations on somehow surviving another year despite making some of the dumbest decisions I've ever witnessed.

He snorts.

Robin looks insufferably pleased with herself.

Then the smile begins to change.

It softens almost imperceptibly, his eyes moving more slowly across the page now.

You can't read the words from where you're standing, but you know Robin well enough to know exactly what she'll have hidden between the jokes.

She'll have thanked him for making Family Video bearable, for never making her feel like she had to be anyone other than herself, for listening when she came out without making it weird, without asking questions she didn't want to answer, without changing the way he looked at her afterwards. She'll have written about Starcourt. About Russian secret bases and demobats and everything in between. About the fact that, somehow, Steve Harrington had quietly become the safest place she'd ever known.

By the time he reaches the final page, the kitchen has gone strangely quiet. Robin is studying a loose thread on her sleeve with almost academic concentration.

Steve clears his throat before reading the last line aloud, his voice noticeably softer than before. "'Don't get emotional.'" He smiles to himself. "'I'm only saying this once.'"

Robin points at him immediately. "Exactly."

"You literally wrote three pages."

"I know."

"You called me your favourite person."

"I was clearly concussed."

"You said you'd trust me with your life."

"I mean..." She sighs dramatically. "I would."

His smile grows impossibly soft. "You know..." He glances down at the card again. "...Thank you."

Robin groans so loudly you almost laugh. "Ugh."

"What?"

"Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're about to hug me."

Steve doesn't even pretend to think about it. He simply walks around the table and wraps his arms around her.

Robin lets out the most exaggerated sigh you've ever heard. "This is disgusting."

"You started it."

"I wrote a card."

"You wrote three pages."

"I regret everything."

"No, you don't."

"...No."

She hugs him back anyway. Only for a second. Only because nobody's looking.

Except you absolutely are.

When they finally pull apart, Robin immediately pokes him in the shoulder.

"If you tell anybody I have feelings, I'll deny the whole thing."

Steve laughs. "My lips are sealed."

"They'd better be." She narrows her eyes. "And if you cry..."

"I'm not going to cry."

"You looked dangerously close."

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I definitely wasn't."

Robin glances towards you. "He was, wasn't he?"

You smile over the rim of your coffee mug. "A little."

"I wasn't."

"You've still got watery eyes."

"It's allergies."

"In February?"

"...Shut up."

The conversation drifts naturally onto something else after that.

Dustin is apparently running late. Robin immediately starts complaining about his inability to tell the time while Steve joins in as though nothing unusual has happened, the two of them slipping back into familiar bickering before Nancy wanders in from the hallway carrying an armful of paper plates, looking between them with a knowing smile. "He's late again?"

Robin throws her hands into the air. "When isn't he?"

The room fills with laughter, and before long the conversation has moved on entirely.

Later, while everyone else is distracted in the kitchen and Robin is attempting to convince Joyce that frozen chips absolutely count as a vegetable, you catch Steve standing alone in the hallway.

The card is open again.

He's reading the third page for a second time, his thumb lingering over the final paragraph before he quietly folds it closed with surprising care. The smile on his face is small, thoughtful, the sort that only ever appears when someone has managed to tell him something he didn't realise he'd needed to hear.

He slips the card carefully back into its envelope.

Not tossed onto the side. Not left amongst the wrapping paper.

Carefully. Like something he already knows he'll keep forever.

Dustin arrives nearly forty minutes late.

He bursts through the front door carrying three different bags, a box of doughnuts, and what appears to be a screwdriver for reasons known only to himself.

"Sorry!" he announces before anybody has the chance to say hello. "The bus was late, the car wouldn't start, and then I had to help my mum move a bookshelf because apparently I'm 'the man of the house now.'"

Robin raises an eyebrow. "...You brought a screwdriver."

"I know."

"Why?"

Dustin looks down at it as though only just noticing it in his own hand. "...Huh."

Steve laughs. "There he is."

Dustin grins, dropping everything onto the kitchen table with considerably more force than necessary. "Happy birthday, old man."

"Thanks."

"You look ancient."

"I'm twenty-three."

"Exactly."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You'll understand one day."

"I'll never be twenty-three."

"You literally will."

"I refuse."

The conversation dissolves into laughter almost immediately.

Nancy is still trying to work out where everyone's coats are supposed to go. Joyce keeps disappearing back to the kitchen because she insists she's forgotten something. Holly trails after Steve, carrying a balloon almost as big as she is, asking if she can help despite clearly having no idea how. Derek is outside trying to light the barbecue with considerably less success than he'd predicted.

After everything that's happened over the last few years, days like this have become strangely precious. Nothing extraordinary. Nobody saving the world. Just everyone existing in the same place at the same time, talking over one another, stealing chips from each other's plates, and interrupting conversations with terrible jokes as though they haven't spent the better part of adolescence fighting monsters together.

More than once, you catch Steve quietly looking around the room.

Not at anything in particular.

Just... everyone.

It makes something warm settle gently inside your chest.

Eventually, as plates begin disappearing into the kitchen, Dustin freezes mid-conversation. "...Oh."

Steve glances up. "What?"

Dustin slaps a hand dramatically against his forehead. "...I forgot your present."

Robin doesn't even look up from her drink. "No, you didn't."

"I did."

"You absolutely didn't."

"I absolutely-" He stops, sighing with theatrical defeat. "...Fine."

Steve laughs. "I knew it."

"You were supposed to believe me."

"I've known you too long."

Dustin disappears into the hallway before returning a moment later, carrying something wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper. It's awkwardly shaped, too large to be a book and too flat to be anything else. Without meeting Steve's eyes, he thrusts it into his hands. "There."

Steve turns it over carefully. "...What's this?"

"I said don't ask questions."

"You literally handed it to me."

"I know."

"Can I open it?"

Dustin rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "...Yeah."

The room gradually quietens. Even Mike abandons the card game long enough to look over.

Steve peels the paper back with surprising care, trying not to tear it.

Inside is a thick scrapbook.

The cover is slightly crooked, one corner clearly glued back into place after an unfortunate accident, and across the front, in unmistakably Dustin Henderson handwriting, is written a single word.

STEVE.

Nothing else. Just... Steve.

His smile falters almost immediately.

Slowly, he opens it.

The first page is covered in old cinema tickets from Family Video movie nights.

The second is photographs.

Robin asleep against his shoulder. Lucas laughing so hard at something Steve had said that he's almost falling over. Max pulling a face behind Steve's back while he remains blissfully oblivious. A much younger Dustin wearing Steve's sunglasses, the frames so oversized they practically swallow his face.

Then come the things Steve doesn't even remember keeping.

Campaign maps from old Dungeons & Dragons sessions. Drawings Holly had made years ago that somehow ended up forgotten in his glove compartment. Polaroids. County fair wristbands. Birthday invitations. Receipts. Little scraps of paper everyone else would have thrown away.

One page is filled entirely with handwriting.

Robin's. Nancy's. Lucas's. Mike's. Will's.

Even Erica's, squeezed into one corner with the words:

"Don't let it go to your head, Harrington."

Beneath each name is a tiny memory.

"Steve bought me fries because I forgot my wallet."

"He waited outside my maths exam because he knew I'd panic afterwards."

"Drove us home in a thunderstorm even though he hates driving in the rain."

"He always says yes."

"Best babysitter ever."

Steve turns the next page much more slowly.

His fingertips linger against the edges as though he's frightened of damaging something.

"...Dude." His voice is barely above a whisper.

Dustin shrugs without looking up. "I know."

"You..." Steve lets out one quiet, disbelieving laugh. "...You made this?"

"...Shut up."

"No, seriously."

"It wasn't a big deal."

Robin snorts immediately. "He spent three weeks chasing us for photos."

"I did not."

"You literally made Joyce search her loft."

"That," Dustin points accusingly, "was research."

"And you bullied me into writing two pages."

"You wrote three because you got emotional."

"I did not."

"You absolutely-"

"Shut up, Henderson."

Laughter ripples around the room.

Steve doesn't join in.

He's still turning the pages. Slowly. As though every photograph contains a memory he'd forgotten belonged to him.

Then he stops. Halfway through the book.

You can't see the page from where you're standing.

You only notice the way his expression changes.

His shoulders soften. His eyes linger. His thumb brushes gently across whatever Dustin has glued onto the paper. "...You kept that?"

Dustin finally looks up. "...Yeah."

Steve swallows. "I didn't even know anybody still had it."

Dustin shrugs as though the answer should be obvious. "You don't throw away stuff that matters."

The words are so matter-of-fact that Dustin probably doesn't even realise what he's said.

But the room falls quiet anyway.

Because Steve is looking down at years of little moments he'd long since forgotten.

Movie tickets. Drawings. Receipts. Photographs. Inside jokes. Evidence. Proof that people had been quietly collecting pieces of him long before he'd ever thought to collect pieces of himself.

You watch him blink rapidly once. Then again.

Very carefully, he closes the scrapbook, resting one hand against its cover. "...Thank you."

Dustin clears his throat. "Yeah." A beat. "...Don't cry, dude."

Steve laughs softly, rubbing quickly beneath one eye. "I'm not crying."

Robin doesn't even glance up from her drink. "Third lie of the day."

Another ripple of laughter breaks the silence, the conversation slowly picking back up around him. But you notice something Steve doesn't seem aware he's doing.

He never lets go of the scrapbook.

Every time somebody shifts it to make room on the table, his hand finds it again almost instinctively, fingertips resting lightly against the cover as though he's quietly reassuring himself that it's still there.

The presents continue throughout the afternoon, though calling them presents hardly feels accurate anymore. Some are wrapped carefully, others arrive in supermarket carrier bags or with the price stickers hastily scratched away, and none of them are particularly expensive. None of them need to be. Somewhere between Robin's card and Dustin's scrapbook, the day has quietly stopped being about gifts at all; instead, it becomes a long series of people finding their own ways to tell Steve Harrington that they love him.

Lucas is next. He hands Steve a neatly wrapped box with a shrug that tries very hard to look casual, though he watches far too closely as Steve begins peeling back the paper. "It's not a big deal."

Steve smiles. "It didn't have to be."

Inside is a new baseball glove, the leather still stiff and untouched. Steve hadn't asked for one, but Lucas had noticed weeks ago that the stitching was beginning to unravel on the old glove he used whenever he played with the kids.

"You remembered," Steve says, turning it carefully in his hands.

Lucas looks almost confused. "Well... yeah."

"You noticed that?"

"You use it every week."

A quiet laugh escapes Steve. "I didn't think anybody was paying attention."

"Steve." Lucas shakes his head as though the answer should be obvious. "We notice everything."

Steve looks down again, his thumb moving slowly across the smooth leather before he thanks him with one of those small, genuine smiles that always reaches his eyes. Across the garden, Erica loudly informs Derek that the new glove still won't make Steve any less terrible at baseball, prompting Lucas to shout something defensive on his behalf while Steve laughs and calls them both ungrateful.

Max wanders over a few minutes later carrying nothing but a dog-eared paperback she'd spent the last month insisting he needed to read.

"You keep stealing mine," she says, pushing it into his hands. "Now you have your own."

Steve turns the book over. "I thought you liked lending them to me."

"I don't. I like getting them back eventually."

"I always return them."

"After six months."

"They're long books."

"They're four hundred pages."

"I'm a slow reader."

"I know." Her mouth twitches despite herself, but the amusement fades as she hesitates, scuffing the toe of her trainer against the grass. "...Thanks, though."

Steve blinks. "For what?"

"For always treating me like..." She pauses, searching for something precise enough. "...Just me. You never acted like I was broken."

His smile softens immediately. "You aren't."

"I know." Max shrugs one shoulder, suddenly fascinated by the book in his hands. "You just made it easier to remember."

She bumps her shoulder against his before walking away, leaving Steve watching after her for a moment before his attention drops back to the paperback. Nearby, Will quietly makes room for her beside him on the patio steps, neither of them saying anything as she steals a crisp from his plate.

Nancy catches Steve later while he's helping Joyce carry a tray of drinks into the garden. She slips a small envelope into his pocket so discreetly that nobody else notices. "Open it later."

He raises an eyebrow. "Secret?"

"I'd rather Robin didn't make fun of me."

"Fair."

When you find him reading it alone in the hallway a little while later, you discover it isn't really a birthday card at all. It's a letter, short enough to fit on half a page but written with the sort of care that makes every sentence feel deliberate. Nancy thanks him for always showing up, for never once asking whether somebody deserved saving before trying anyway, and for reminding her that kindness and courage were never mutually exclusive.

She ends simply:

The world is better because you're in it.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

Jonathan doesn't write anything. That wouldn't be him.

Instead, while everyone mills around the garden balancing paper plates and cups of lemonade, he quietly hands Steve a photograph he'd developed himself. It was taken the previous summer, though nobody had realised Jonathan was holding a camera that afternoon. Steve is sitting on the grass with Holly asleep against one shoulder while Joyce is topping up everybody's drinks without asking. Will is showing Max one of his sketches, Mike is laughing at something beyond the frame, and El is lying flat on the grass looking at clouds.

You aren't looking at the camera either.

You're looking at Steve, smiling in that completely unconscious way people only ever do when they don't know they're being watched.

On the back, Jonathan has written a single sentence.

You always make it feel like home.

Steve stares at it for a long time. "...You took this?"

Jonathan nods. "You looked happy."

"I was."

"I know."

A quiet, bewildered laugh leaves Steve as he looks around the garden. Nancy is collecting empty plates; meanwhile, Robin is stealing chips off them before they can be picked up and taken into the kitchen. Everyone is talking over everyone else. Nobody is paying Steve any particular attention anymore.

The celebration has simply become itself.

"...You all remembered," he says, his voice nearly lost beneath the noise.

Jonathan studies him for a moment before giving the smallest shake of his head. "No."

Steve frowns. "What?"

"We didn't just remember." Jonathan glances towards the garden. "We wanted to."

It's such an ordinary sentence, spoken so quietly it almost disappears beneath the laughter drifting through the open door, but you watch something shift inside Steve anyway.

All day, some part of him has been waiting for somebody to admit they felt obligated; that birthdays are merely something decent people acknowledge because convention tells them to. Instead, every person keeps offering him the same truth in a different form.

Not simply happy birthday, but:

I'm glad you're here.

You make things better.

Life would look different without you.

And, perhaps for the first time in his life, Steve doesn't quite know what to do with the possibility that every one of them genuinely means it.

By the time the sun begins dipping behind the trees, the garden has dissolved into the sort of comfortable chaos that always seems to follow this particular group of people. Dustin and Erica have started teaching Holly a card game that she keeps accidentally cheating at. Mike and Lucas are throwing around a football, while El keeps spectacularly missing the catches and laughing anyway. Hopper has claimed the garden chair furthest from the noise with the determination of a man pretending not to enjoy himself, and Jonathan wanders quietly between them with his camera, capturing moments nobody else seems to notice.

Joyce, meanwhile, has somehow produced enough food to cater for an entire wedding.

Steve stands in the kitchen doorway, staring at the dining table. "...Joyce."

She looks up from the casserole she's carrying. "Hm?"

"There's enough food here to feed about thirty people."

"I know."

"There are, like, twelve of us."

"I know."

He gestures helplessly towards the mountain of dishes covering every available surface. "How did you even make all this?"

Joyce shrugs as though she'd thrown together a sandwich rather than enough food to sustain Hawkins through the winter. "I got carried away."

Robin wanders past and steals a roast potato straight from the tray. "She always gets carried away."

"I heard that."

"I wanted you to."

Steve laughs, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."

Joyce smiles without looking up. "I know."

Nobody goes hungry when Joyce Byers is involved. Plates are filled faster than they're emptied, second helpings appear before anyone has the chance to refuse them, and every attempt to help clear away is met with a gentle but immovable, "Sit down. I've got it."

Steve tries anyway. Of course he does.

He appears beside Joyce with an armful of empty plates before she's even reached the sink. "I can help."

"I know." She takes them from him. "But today's your birthday."

"I don't mind."

"I know." She smiles at him over the top of the washing-up bowl. "So let somebody look after you for once."

The words are spoken so casually they almost disappear beneath the rush of running water, but you see Steve pause.

Only for a second.

Later, after dinner has dissolved into coffee, cake and half a dozen conversations happening at once, you wander back into the kitchen in search of more plates and find Joyce standing at the counter surrounded by plastic containers. She fills one, then another, then another: pasta, roast potatoes, slices of pie, enough leftovers to feed two people for the better part of a week.

Steve wanders in behind you just as she's clipping the lid onto the final container. "...Joyce?"

"Hm?"

"What's all this?"

She looks at him as though the answer is obvious. "Your dinners."

"My..."

"You work long shifts." She stacks another container neatly on top. "And I know you'll forget to cook for yourself if I don't send you home with something."

Steve laughs softly. "You don't have to do that."

"I know."

"You've already fed all of us."

"I know."

"This is too much."

Joyce finally stops what she's doing, placing both hands on the lid of the last container before sliding the entire stack towards him. "You'll take these."

He hesitates. "I don't need-"

"I wasn't asking."

There's no sharpness to it, no irritation, only the gentle certainty of someone who has spent years making sure the people she loves never leave her house hungry.

Steve looks down at the containers, then back at Joyce, and something shifts across his face so quickly that, had you not been watching for it all day, you might have missed it.

Recognition.

Not of the food.

Of the feeling.

Joyce has done this before: when he'd arrived after a shift looking exhausted, when he'd spent too many evenings helping the kids instead of himself, when she'd quietly wrapped slices of lasagne in foil because she'd "made too much again," despite everyone knowing perfectly well she'd cooked extra on purpose.

You realise, with a sudden ache beneath your ribs, that she has been mothering Steve for years. Neither of them has ever said it aloud. Neither of them has needed to.

Joyce notices his silence. "What?"

Steve blinks, almost startled back into the room. "...Nothing."

"You've got that look where you're thinking too hard."

A small smile finds him. "I was just..." He glances down at the containers again. "...Nobody's ever packed me leftovers before."

The kitchen falls unexpectedly quiet.

Joyce's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Oh, sweetheart." She reaches out without hesitation, smoothing an affectionate hand over his shoulder as though she's done it a hundred times before. "Well." Another gentle squeeze. "They do now."

Steve doesn't answer. He only nods once, swallowing a little too hard before carefully carrying the stack across the kitchen and opening the fridge. He rearranges half the shelves to make room, setting each container inside with absurd precision before closing the door as though he's placing something valuable somewhere safe.

They're only leftovers. A few plastic tubs that will probably become lunch before work tomorrow.

But as you watch his hand linger briefly on the fridge handle, you realise they were never really about food at all. They were proof that somebody had been thinking about tomorrow on his behalf.

For someone who'd spent most of his life quietly taking care of everyone else, that might just have been the greatest gift he'd received all day.

When he finally wanders back outside, the evening has settled into that soft golden hour where everything seems to slow down. Fairy lights strung between the fence posts have begun to glow faintly against the darkening sky, somebody has started another pot of coffee, and the birthday cake sits half-demolished in the middle of the table, one candle still stubbornly refusing to go out despite Robin's repeated attempts to blow it over with exaggerated determination.

You lean against the kitchen doorway for a moment, simply watching.

Steve barely makes it back onto the patio before Dustin catches him again, insisting he absolutely has to see the scrapbook page he'd forgotten to point out earlier. Mike throws a crisp at him. Lucas joins in without even asking what they're arguing about. Max rolls her eyes so dramatically you're surprised they don't disappear entirely.

And through it all...

Steve laughs.

Not the polite laugh he gives customers. Not the awkward one he used to force whenever his parents invited colleagues over for dinner.

This one is different.

Loose. Easy. It belongs here.

You don't think he'd even realised the difference.

Not until today.

Hopper chooses his moment carefully.

He waits until Steve wanders away from the noise with another cup of coffee, escaping towards the edge of the garden where the old oak tree throws long shadows across the grass. It's the sort of place Steve always drifts towards when everything gets a little too loud - not because he dislikes the company, but because he's always needed a minute to breathe between moments.

Hopper follows a few seconds later.

Not obviously.

You watch from the patio without saying anything.

Steve hears the footsteps and glances over his shoulder. "Oh. Hey."

Hopper grunts something that could generously be interpreted as a greeting before stopping beside him.

For a while, neither of them says anything.

They simply stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the garden while laughter drifts faintly behind them. Joyce is gathering empty mugs onto a tray. Nancy is folding paper napkins that don't really need folding. Robin has somehow persuaded Holly to help blow bubbles across the garden while Dustin insists bubbles are scientifically impossible to catch.

Steve smiles into his coffee. "...Nice day."

Hopper nods once. "Yeah."

Silence settles again.

Not uncomfortable. Just... Hopper.

Eventually, he clears his throat. "Happy birthday."

Steve looks faintly surprised. "Oh." A small smile appears. "...Thanks."

Another long pause passes, and you almost wonder whether that's going to be the entire conversation.

Then Hopper speaks again, his eyes still fixed somewhere out across the garden. "You've done good."

Steve frowns. "What?"

"The kids."

A shrug. "They're good kids."

"They are." Hopper nods slowly. "They're better because you're around."

Steve's expression changes almost imperceptibly.

Hopper keeps talking before he has the chance to interrupt. "I've seen the way they look at you." Only then does he turn his head. "They trust you."

Steve opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

"You didn't have to keep showing up." Hopper's voice is as gruff as ever. "Nobody asked you to." Another pause. "But you did."

Steve looks down at the coffee cup in his hands. "I just..." A quiet laugh escapes him. "...They needed somebody."

"They did." Hopper nods once. "They got you."

For a moment, neither of them moves.

The sounds of the party carry on behind them as though nothing extraordinary is happening. Someone starts another round of Happy Birthday purely to annoy Steve. Robin groans loudly enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.

Steve laughs automatically.

His eyes, however, have become suspiciously bright.

Hopper notices.

Naturally.

He pretends not to.

Instead, he reaches out, giving Steve's shoulder one firm, awkward squeeze before offering his hand.

Steve blinks. "...Really?"

"What?"

"The handshake."

"I'm trying."

Steve laughs through the thickness in his throat. "I know."

He takes Hopper's hand.

The handshake lasts barely two seconds.

It's probably the closest Hopper has ever come to saying I'm proud of you.

When he lets go, he clears his throat. "Don't make it weird."

"I wasn't gonna."

"You were thinkin' about it."

"...Maybe."

Hopper points back towards the house. "Go enjoy your party."

Steve smiles. "...Yeah."

He watches Hopper wander back towards the others before letting his gaze drift across the garden.

Robin has somehow ended up with Holly asleep against her shoulder despite loudly insisting children "smell weird". Joyce is packing slices of cake into foil while Nancy labels the containers before anyone can forget whose is whose. Lucas and Mike have wandered to the end of the garden with a football, Jonathan is crouched beside the flowerbed trying to photograph a butterfly Holly spotted, and Erica is shamelessly raiding the snack table one last time before anybody notices.

You catch Steve's eye from across the lawn.

He smiles at you.

Not because anything funny has happened. Not because he's trying to.

Simply because, for perhaps the first time all day, he's beginning to understand what every single person has been trying to tell him.

He hadn't just been thrown a birthday party.

He was home.

By the time the last of the washing up has been stacked beside the sink, the house has settled into a gentler kind of noise.

The loud laughter has softened into quieter conversations, and the music drifting from the old radio has become little more than background static. Through the kitchen doorway you can still see everyone scattered comfortably around the house, no longer celebrating in any organised sense of the word, simply... staying.

Robin has somehow ended up half-curled across one end of the sofa, arguing lazily with Max over what film everyone should watch before they eventually leave. El sits cross-legged on the rug with Mike, the two of them still passionately debating something that nobody else is listening to anymore, while Will quietly contributes the occasional comment that neither of them acknowledges. Joyce is wrapping the last slices of birthday cake in foil, Hopper pretending not to help while hovering close enough to hand her the tape every few minutes without ever admitting that's exactly what he's doing. Holly has fallen asleep against Nancy's side, Jonathan is carefully packing away his camera, and Erica is wandering through the living room helping herself to whatever snacks everyone else has forgotten about.

Nobody seems in any hurry to go home. Nobody seems to want the day to end.

Steve stands beside you at the sink, drying the final plate with considerably more concentration than the task really requires.

He's been quieter ever since Hopper wandered back inside. Not unhappy. Just... Thoughtful.

You hand him another plate, and he dries it automatically before speaking into the comfortable silence. "...I don't get it."

You glance sideways. "What don't you get?"

A quiet laugh escapes him, though it carries none of its usual ease. "Today." He runs the tea towel slowly around the edge of the plate. "They all..." He trails off, searching for words. "...They actually wanted to come."

The sentence settles heavily between you. Not because of what he's saying. Because of what he's accidentally revealing.

You wait.

He keeps looking down at the plate in his hands. "I know birthdays are..." He shrugs awkwardly. "People feel like they have to come, right? You buy a present. You sing. You eat cake." Another small shrug. "It's just... what people do."

You lean your hip against the counter. "Is that what you think today was?"

"I don't know." His smile is almost embarrassed. "It didn't feel like that."

"No."

"They weren't just doing birthday stuff."

"No."

He looks through the doorway towards the living room, where Robin has thrown another cushion at Dustin, Lucas catches it before it reaches him, and Joyce laughs so hard she has to steady herself against the arm of the sofa. "...They were celebrating me."

You smile. "They were."

He looks back at you, his brow creasing slightly. "I've never..." The sentence never reaches the end. Instead, he laughs quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "...I don't think I've ever had that before."

Your heart aches. Not because he's upset. Because he says it with such genuine surprise, as though the possibility had never once occurred to him.

You reach for his hand. "C'mere."

He follows without question.

You lead him slowly through the house without saying anything, simply letting him look.

Nancy is gently lifting Holly so she doesn't wake her. Hopper is quietly locking the back door, while Joyce wraps up slices of cake in individual napkins. Jonathan is wiping down camera lenses, Mike has drifted asleep in the armchair, and El gently covers him with a blanket. Robin is trying to convince Max that one more film won't kill anyone, despite half the room already falling asleep, while Erica is counting how much birthday cake she's managed to smuggle home.

Nobody's performing anymore. The party is over. This is simply what remains. People comfortable enough to exist in one another's spaces without needing a reason.

Steve watches them quietly. "They're still here."

"Mhm."

"They don't have to be."

"No."

"They've all got homes."

"They do."

He looks around again, confusion softening into something quieter. "So why..."

You squeeze his hand gently. "They are home."

He frowns. "What?"

"They're home." You smile. "And so are you."

This time he really looks.

Robin. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Mike. Will. El. Joyce. Hopper. Nancy. Jonathan. Erica. Holly. Derek.

People who had arrived separately, from entirely different corners of his life, and somehow fit together now. People who, before him, had never all belonged in the same room.

"You spent years looking after everyone because you thought that's what made you useful."

His eyes meet yours.

"You drove them everywhere. You showed up. You fixed things. You carried everyone else's worries until they stopped feeling so heavy."

He nods slowly. "I thought..."

"I know." You step closer, your thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. "But somewhere along the way... they stopped needing you because of what you did."

His brow furrows.

"They stayed because of who you are."

The words seem to settle somewhere deep inside him.

"You became loved long before you even noticed."

For a long moment he simply looks at you.

Then his eyes begin to shine again.

You smile softly. "I've still got one more present."

He blinks. "You do?"

"Mhm."

You disappear upstairs for barely a minute before returning with something wrapped carefully in plain brown paper and tied with twine.

Steve laughs quietly. "I thought we'd finished."

"We had." You place it gently into his hands. "This one's different."

He unwraps it slowly.

Inside is a dark leather-bound photo album.

No title. No ribbon.

Just his name, pressed carefully into the cover in tiny gold letters.

Steve.

He opens it.

The first page isn't a photograph.

Just a single sentence:

You spend so much of your life looking after everybody else.

He turns the page.

Steve teaching Dustin how to drive. Steve asleep on the sofa with Holly curled against his chest. Robin laughing so hard she's crying while Steve looks completely bewildered. Max stealing chips from his plate. Lucas teaching him a ridiculous handshake. Jonathan catching him mid-laugh behind the camera. Joyce handing him another plate of food. Hopper clapping him awkwardly on the shoulder.

You.

All of them.

Beneath each photograph you've written a single line.

Not describing the picture.

Describing what it meant:

The day Dustin stopped needing a babysitter and started needing a brother.

The first time Robin laughed like she wasn't afraid anymore.

The afternoon you accidentally became Holly's favourite person.

He keeps turning the pages until he reaches the last one.

There are only six words:

Home isn't always somewhere you arrive.

He turns one final page:

Sometimes it's something you build.

Nothing else.

Steve doesn't realise he's crying until a tear lands quietly on the paper.

He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, shaking his head. "...Honey."

Very gently, you close the album beneath his hands.

"So..." You smile. "Happy birthday."

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then, without saying a single word, he wraps both arms around you.

Not because he doesn't know what to say.

Because, for perhaps the first time in his life... being loved has left Steve Harrington completely speechless.

By the time the two of you finally climb into bed, the house has fallen completely silent.

The fairy lights outside the bedroom window still glow faintly against the darkness, casting soft pools of amber across the ceiling, and somewhere downstairs the dishwasher hums steadily through the last traces of the evening. Steve's birthday cards are stacked neatly on the dresser, Robin's sitting proudly on top, still slightly bent where she'd thrown it at his head that morning.

The leather photo album rests beside them.

Closed now, but not put away.

You curl instinctively beneath the duvet, expecting exhaustion to pull you under almost immediately after such a long day.

It doesn't.

Some time later, you wake to find Steve still lying beside you, exactly where he'd been when you fell asleep. Only now his eyes are open, fixed quietly on the ceiling, his hands folded loosely across his stomach as though he's trying to untangle a thought that's been sitting with him for hours.

"...Hey."

He turns his head. "Oh." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologise for existing."

A tired smile appears. "I know."

You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. "What're you thinking about?"

For a while, he doesn't answer. The silence between the two of you has never needed filling.

Eventually, he lets out a quiet breath. "...When I was little..." He laughs softly to himself. "...I always wished I'd grown up with a big family."

The confession catches you off guard. He keeps looking at the ceiling.

"I used to imagine one of those really noisy houses. People everywhere. Dinner all squashed around one table. Too many birthdays. Too many Christmas presents." He smiles faintly at the thought before it fades again. "I don't know... I just thought it'd be nice."

You reach across the mattress until your fingers find his. He threads them through yours automatically.

"I thought..." He swallows. "...I thought I'd missed my chance."

You shake your head. "No."

For the first time since he started talking, he turns to look at you. "No?"

"You didn't miss it."

His brow furrows.

"You built it."

A quiet, disbelieving laugh escapes him. "I don't..."

"You've got Robin. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Mike. Will. El. Erica." You smile gently. "Nancy. Jonathan. Joyce. Hopper. Holly." You pause. "And me."

His eyes soften.

"They're your family, Steve."

He looks away again. "They..."

"They are."

"I know they care about me, but-"

"No." You squeeze his hand before he can disappear back into old habits. "They don't love you because you drove them everywhere. They don't love you because you babysat them. They don't love you because you fixed every problem before anyone else even noticed it."

You think back over the day.

Robin's card. Dustin's scrapbook. Jonathan's photograph. Joyce quietly packing tomorrow's dinner before Steve had even thought about feeding himself. Hopper, standing beneath the oak tree, trying to say I'm proud of you without ever using the words.

"They love you because you're Steve."

The room falls quiet again.

"You spent years believing people only stayed because you made yourself useful."

His eyes glisten.

"But somewhere along the way..." You smile. "...they stayed anyway."

He lets out one small, disbelieving laugh. "...When did that happen?"

"I honestly don't think anybody knows."

You think about Dustin, twelve years old, following Steve everywhere. Robin slowly deciding she could trust him. Joyce wrapping leftovers in foil because she'd quietly started expecting him for dinner. Holly climbing into his lap without asking.

None of it had happened all at once.

There wasn't a single moment where strangers became family.

It happened on ordinary Tuesdays. On lifts home from school. Movie nights. Late-night phone calls. Shared meals. Inside jokes.

One quiet act of kindness after another until, somehow, nobody could remember a version of life that didn't include Steve Harrington standing somewhere in the middle of it.

"It just..." Your thumb brushes gently across his knuckles. "...Kept happening."

His breathing catches.

You nod gently towards the bedroom door, beyond which the cards, photographs and carefully stacked leftovers still wait downstairs.

"If every single person chose to spend today celebrating you..." Your voice is barely louder than the rain-soft silence outside. "...it's because every single one of them can't imagine their life without you in it."

For a long time, he doesn't speak.

His breathing catches once. Then again.

He laughs quietly through the tears gathering in his eyes. "...You're really laying it on thick for a birthday."

"I know."

"You trying to make me cry?"

You smile, brushing the same stubborn strand of hair away from his forehead that you'd smoothed back that morning. "No." A gentle kiss against his temple. "I'm just telling you the truth."

Something inside him finally gives way.

Not dramatically. There are no great sobs. No speeches.

Just one quiet exhale that seems to carry years of loneliness away with it.

A tear slips silently down his cheek. Then another.

Without saying a word, he turns towards you and buries his face against your neck exactly as though that's where he'd always belonged.

You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your fingers disappearing into his hair as he lets himself be held. Completely.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Steve Harrington doesn't apologise for crying.

He doesn't explain it away. He simply allows someone else to carry the weight for a little while.

You press one last kiss into his hair. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."

His reply is almost lost against your shoulder. "...Best one I've ever had."

You close your eyes, holding him a little tighter as the fairy lights continue glowing softly beyond the bedroom window.

This morning he'd asked if he could skip his birthday.

Now, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing against your chest, you realise birthdays were never really supposed to celebrate surviving another year.

Sometimes they're simply an excuse for everybody who loves you to remind you how very glad they are that you did.

dividers: saradika-graphics

Truthfully, you thought he was being a bit of a drama queen. But you weren’t going to tell him that when you were perched on his lap - curled up against him as he ranted on about how Keith was making his job at Family Video harder than it needed to be.

“He’s doing it on purpose too. The asshole wants to torture me into quitting,” Steve huffs.

“That’s so unfair,” you muse, shifting yourself closer to wrap your arms around his neck.

He continues to gripe about Keith being an asshole, Robin egging it on, and the never ending flow of customers who are rude to him.

And you’re trying to listen, really you are. But he’s looking particularly gorgeous today - clad in his light wash jeans that hug his thighs and the cute little polo shirt that peeks out from under his work vest. The first couple of buttons are popped open, exposing a small tuft of chest hair underneath that’s practically begging you to feel him up.

Your eyes wander to his lips as they move rapidly, then to his eyes that look dark brown in the moonlight and hazel in the shine of the daylight. You move on to tracking the unlimited amount of freckles and moles that dance across his skin, the same ones you swear you could count one day if he held still long enough.

God he’s a vision, and you just have to let him know.

“You’re so pretty, Stevie,” you grin, interrupting him mid rant.

Steve raises his eyebrows, “Oh you think so, honey?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pressing your lips along his jawline - giggling when you notice the kiss prints drenching his skin.

“Why’d you stop?” He frowns playfully, arms locking around your waist.

Your thumb rubs at the smudges littering along his jaw, “Lipstick’s getting on you.”

“Don’t wipe it off,” he complains, “I like being marked by you.”

The statement makes you bashful, and you can feel heat creeping up your cheeks.

“You blushing, baby?” He grins, which furthers the flush that you feel rushing to the tips of your ears.

“No,” you mutter, ducking your head.

He pouts, “Oh c’mon, sweet girl, don’t hide from me.”

Steve’s thumb and pointer finger hook under your chin, coaxing you to look at him.

But when you do, there’s something off about him. You can’t tell what it is, but it’s there - like a slight glimmer wavering around him, coating his being in something sickly that you don’t understand.

“Steve?” Your eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of the image in front of you.

“Don’t hide from me,” his voice turns sour, becoming bitter and dark as it envelops you.

You try to move, desperate for answers, but something is tethering you to him - forcing you to stay still.

“It’s only a matter of time before I find you,” he sneers, face twisting and contorting - human flesh turning into grotesque veins.

You’re no longer in Steve’s living room, cozied up next to him while he frets about his day. Instead, you're in the lap of an all too familiar figure that you’ve been relentlessly trying to run from.

“Let me go!” You scream, fighting with every fiber to break away from his hold.

When it gives, you’re thrust backwards - landing in a puddle of remains, trying not to think too hard about whose they might be.

Your body is heavy, aching with exhaustion as you stare up into the abyss of the world you can’t comprehend, the one you’ve been trapped in since that fateful night Vecna consumed you.

You know you’re a target out in the open like this, a sitting duck for him to hunt down, but you’re tired of resisting - growing weary that you may never return to the physical realm.

And so you let yourself drift, succumbing to sleep from one world of nightmares to the next.

The combination of the bright fluorescent lights, low drum of machines whirring, and strong scent of disinfectant never failed to give Steve a headache.

It throbbed menacingly, a strong stinging sensation that felt like a bruise being poked over and over again - almost like it was warning him that each time he stepped into the miserable place of Hawkins Memorial, he’d be leaving disappointed.

But he would take a headache every damn day of his life if it meant you weren’t the one resting on the hospital bed in front of him.

“C’mon, honey. Need you to pull through this,” Steve mumbles, thumb stroking along the frigid skin of your hand that’s wrapped in his.

You’re unresponsive, as you have been for the past year and a half, and Steve’s never been more anguished than watching each day tick by without a sign that you could hear him.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this without you. Things are,” he sighs heavily, shaking his head, “not great.”

He grasps onto your hand more firmly, threading his fingers through yours and brings your arm to his lips. He tenderly presses kisses to your skin - careful to avoid the needle digging into the tissue underneath your forearm that's connected to an IV drip.

“This quarantine is driving people stir crazy. The crawls keep leading nowhere. And your brother,” he trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Dustin had been a huge pain in his ass for the past few months. Steve knew the teenager was grieving - knew that he lost a piece of himself when he lost Eddie and couldn’t fathom the idea of having to live in a world without his older sister too. And he knew that Dustin also had far too much pressure thrust upon him than he should at his age.

But your brother was taking it out on Steve - constantly snapping, snarking, and throwing harsh quips his way.

Steve was nearing his boiling point over it - ready to open his mouth and release words of fire that he wouldn’t be able to take back. Each time he almost did so, he was reminded of you.

Reminded that he barely had time to say goodbye before you were ripped away from him, which ultimately always made Steve resist the urge to lob something hurtful back towards Dustin.

So instead of telling your motionless body that your little brother was being a raging prick to him, Steve simply says, “He needs you.”

Steve thinks about the night he lost you often, though it continues to rip open the wound in his heart again and again each time he replays it in his memories.

“You can’t,” Steve had protested.

“I can,” you replied firmly, thumb easing against the little wrinkle that formed over his brow bone.

Steve swallowed thickly, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you have Nancy and Robin to fight with you. Dustin has Eddie to protect him. But Max and Lucas need one of us. I’m going with them, Steve,” you answered, set in your decision to not leave them behind.

“That wasn’t the plan,” he retorted, gripping your waist tightly.

“It wasn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t let them go alone,” you countered.

Steve felt his throat tighten, felt the familiar sting of tears threatening to fill his eyes, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Steve,” you cupped his face, fingers splaying out gently along the expanse of his neck, “I need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, but I’m scared. You said it yourself, this time is different. Heavier. One of us might not make it out of this, and it cannot be you,” he implored, reaching up to grasp lovingly at your wrists.

You took a deep breath, “Steve, I love you, and-.”

He shook his head, cutting you off, “No. No, don’t do that to me. Don’t act like this is goodbye.”

“But it could be,” you whispered, “and I need you to know that you’ll be fine without me if something does happen.”

Steve scoffed at the thought, “I would never be the same without you.”

“You’d have to try. For Dustin. For me,” you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

He closed his eyes, let his hands slide down to your elbows - tried to ground himself in the moment, because if it truly was the last time he touched you, then he wanted to soak in your presence - bathe himself in these tiny pieces of yourself you were giving him before you were gone.

And when Steve heard the four chimes of that fucking clock a couple hours later, he thought Max was a goner - didn’t realize he was the one that would be brought to his knees at the sight of you, broken and bloody in her arms.

Steve still can’t shake Dustin’s cries that night - had to watch him scream his lungs out over Eddie dying before he repeated the same devastating noise at the sight of you.

He hears it in his nightmares, hears the screeching of the demobats, hears the own strangled sound of despair he let out when he saw you lying lifelessly in the aftermath of the battle.

The steady beep of your heart monitor drags Steve out of the horrific things that plague his mind, trying to focus back in on the sight of you in front of him - not moving, but at least you’re breathing.

“I need you,” he admits brokenly, forehead dropping down to rest against your thigh.

His palm lands against your knee, thumb brushing lazily over the thin material of the white cotton blanket that covers you.

“Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me,” he begs, feeling an overwhelming amount of agony from the lack of your reply.

A light knock at the door makes him look up to see Robin poking her head in, lifting her fingers in a brief wave to announce her presence.

She tentatively walks across the room towards Steve, quietly taking a seat next to him. She knows better than to ask if anything has changed at this point, and Steve finds her silence sickening, because god when Robin is silent - it meant that she thought things were bad.

“Steve,” she eventually says, placing a hand on his back.

He makes a rapt noise of recognition for her, but doesn’t take his longing eyes off of you - admiring your beauty even in the dullness that’s taken over your features from being stagnant for so long.

“When was the last time you showered?” Robin probs, no judgment in her tone - just pure concern for the well being of her friend.

“Dunno,” he mumbles desolately.

“Go home,” she presses, “take care of yourself. You know she’d be heartbroken if she saw you wallowing like this.”

Steve hates that she’s right, but still doesn’t move from his spot, “I don’t wanna leave her alone.”

“She won’t be alone. I’ll stay with her. Plus, I brought another visitor,” Robin tilts her head to the hallway, silently insinuating whoever came with her is out there.

“Dustin?” He questions.

Robin nods softly, “Yeah. The little twerp insisted he come today. Said he had a feeling she might wake up soon.”

“God, I hope so,” Steve admits.

“Me too,” she agrees quietly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before he sighs, untangling himself from you before standing up.

“Gonna go home and freshen up, then I’m coming right back,” Steve declares while heading for the door.

Dustin’s leaning against the wall when Steve exits, “No updates?”

Steve closes his eyes briefly, disappointment washing over him at the question, “No. You doing okay, man?”

Dustin shrugs noncommittedly, “Could be better.”

“Yeah, same,” Steve replies dully.

He misses his friendship with the boy, hates the strained riff that hangs over their heads.

And he misses you. Misses how you could mediate things between the two of them. He often finds himself wondering if you never come to, if things will ever return to the way they once were between himself and your brother.

He places a soothing hand on Dustin’s shoulder, “I’m stepping out for a bit. Call me if you need me.”

Dustin nods solemnly, not bothering to bid Steve goodbye before walking into your room.

You wake up to the sound of Steve begging, watching as he clings to your frail body.

Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me.

His voice rings in your ears, the statement a loud roar echoing through your brain, but the sound of it is ripped away when you see the clouds beginning to shift - covering the vision in the hazy red of the sky.

“Steve!” Your throat feels raw from screaming his name, pleading for him to return to you.

You’ve lost track of how many times reaching him has been at the tips of your fingers, only for the illusion to fade - like a carpet being yanked from under you with nowhere soft to land.

Tears stream down your face as you frantically spin around, praying that you could see him one more time.

“No, please, no,” you cry, stumbling over a gnarled root that sticks out from the ground.

You land harshly on your knees, hands cutting open from the fall - nauseated by the blood that starts to seep out.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “It’s not real. It’s not real.”

The phrase is what keeps you going - playing on repeat because you know that your physical body is intact, have seen it when that blissful image of Steve appears in the thunderous clouds above you.

You’ve watched him hopelessly for months now, maybe longer, but time has been too hard to keep track of in this prison world that Henry has locked you away in. You’ve been hiding from him - somehow finding holes in his mind, and he lets you linger in pockets of memories that he won’t enter.

It feels like he’s toying with you sometimes, willing to let you go if you can play his game and find the way out. But as each day passes, you find it harder to distinguish what’s tangible and what’s not - slowly dwindling into madness.

The only thing keeping you from spiraling completely has been the glimpses of moments with Steve that flash in brief seconds before withering away.

You can feel one starting to creep into the crevices of your brain; the time you admitted you saw a future with him.

You were at Lover's Lake, watching the sun set across the horizon - fading into faint pinks and oranges as it drifted down.

The two of you were lounging on the hood of Steve’s Beamer, basking in the warmth of the summer evening - listening to the chittering of nightlife taking over.

Steve was leaning backwards, extending his legs to let your head rest on his lap, and his hand was combing gently through your hair.

“You’ve been quiet for a while, Stevie,” you mumbled, eyes growing heavy in content from his fingers working at your scalp.

“Hmm,” he hummed softly, eyes flickering towards you.

“I wanna know what you’re thinking about,” you rolled over, allowing yourself to look up at him.

If you could burn the image of him behind your eyelids you would, because the look on his face was one of pure adoration - staring in awe of your radiance.

“When I was younger, my parents would take me here during the summer,” he moved his thumb to brush gingerly along your jaw.

“Yeah?” You prompted, curious to know where he was going with that lead.

“Yeah. They were always distracted though. They’d be giving each other the silent treatment after an argument, or they were too focused on worrying about appearances in front of other families. Forced me to get really good at being creative since I didn’t have anyone to play with,” he continued, letting his index finger skim over the delicate skin under your eyes.

“There had to have been other kids there,” you remarked.

He shrugged, “There were, but uh, if you can believe it, I was kind of shy back then.”

Your heart faltered at the thought of him being a child and feeling the weight of being left out, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, curling a hand into the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t be. It made me realize that I won’t ever let my kids have to experience that,” he mused.

Your breath hitched, “Your kids?”

“Well, our kids. They’d have each other at least and-,” Steve cut himself off after realizing what he revealed.

His eyes squeezed shut, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in embarrassment, “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

You watched him internally panic for a second, before pushing yourself up so you could relieve the tension that you saw settling over his shoulders.

“Hey,” you started, pressing a reassuring hand against his thigh.

“That was stupid, forget it,” he groaned, dragging a hand roughly down his face.

“What if I don’t want to forget it?” You refuted.

“You mean it?” He asked timidly.

You crossed your legs underneath you and wrapped a hand around his bicep.

“I’ve thought about it too,” you admitted.

His eyes grew glassy as he let out a sharp breath of disbelief through his nose, “Seriously?”

You released a quiet laugh, “Of course. I know we’re young, but I see a future with you, Steve. And I can’t see myself having any of it - kids, marriage, whatever it may be - if you’re not there with me.”

“Fuck, I think I’m falling in love with you,” he confessed.

You let your eyelids flutter closed - nose nudging his, “It’s about time, Harrington. Because I know I’m falling in love with you.”

Steve slotted his lips with yours, no longer able to hold himself back from proving to you the unadulterated affection he has for you - capturing your mouth hungrily in swift, greedy presses to emphasize his appreciation.

You pulled back just a fraction, “Plus, we’ve got practice carting Dustin around. He’s kind of like our trial run, isn’t he?”

Steve laughed against your mouth, giddily pressing his lips against yours until you were light-headed with want.

The memory jolts something within you, like numb limbs gaining strength after falling asleep, and suddenly you can see it; the picture of yourself opening up in front of you, nearly paces away.

A sudden burst of sentences reverberates throughout the inner workings of your being.

Fight for Dustin. For me.

I need you, honey. We all need you.

I can’t do this without you, baby.

Please, come back to me.

It’s the last one, spoken so rawly by your lover that it spurs you on, forces you to move your feet from a trudge to a sprint - recognizing that this moment is critical, the one that could change the tides and tip the scale towards your loved ones victory against the sinister world you’ve been bound in.

There’s only one name that echoes inside of you as you get closer to a taste of the world - the real one, the one that you’ve been separated from for far too long - and it’s Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve throws his keys on the kitchen counter, scrubbing his hands over his eyes, pressure building from yet another day without you waking up.

He leans against the cold surface, back digging into the granite as his eyes find the coffee cup that sits idle by the sink. It was your favorite to use when you spent the night at his place, and there’s a faint lipstick stain that’s wrapped around the rim - dust collecting inside the unwashed dish.

Steve can’t help but feel haunted by the ghost of you in his own home.

He lets himself pretend through the fragments of you he has left, because he’s starting to forget what your voice sounded like, what your touch felt like, what it felt like to be looked up and down by you when he wore your favorite yellow sweater of his. The same one he was wearing when you recognized that you were in love with him. Which was now gone, and yet another torturous reminder of his loss.

It’s why the coffee cup sits untouched, why he can’t sleep on your side of the bed, why he can’t bring himself to wash the last t-shirt you slept in. He swears there’s lingering traces of your perfume wafting through the air sometimes from it.

He imagines you dancing in the emptiness of his living room, twirling in his arms because if he lets himself sink into reality; he fears it means accepting that he’s lost you, that there’s no hope for you to return to him.

The first thing you notice when you come to is the darkness that reigns behind your eyelids. You can feel your muscles twitching, aching to move, but your body is not cooperating with the messages that your brain is signal firing.

You hear a sharp intake of breath, feel the warm press of someone’s hand slip into yours, the scrap of a chair indicating they’re moving closer.

The familiar rumble of your little brother’s voice infiltrates the room.

“Dusty?” You slur, tongue feeling heavy from not being used.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he squeezes your hand.

“Where, w-,?” You stutter, feeling an aggravating pain shoot through your vocal chords.

“Hey, take it slow. It’s been a while since you’ve talked,” Dustin reprimands.

“Steve,” you whisper, voice cracking - desperate to know where he is, eyes in a flurry of movement from trying to peel open.

Dustin slowly swims into your gaze, though it’s still blurry, and the intensity of the lights shining in your eyes causes streaks to glide across the room.

Another head comes into frame, and you recognize Robin’s voice before you can even see her clearly.

“Holy shit, Henderson. You’re awake,” she squeals, making your face pinch up in a wince.

“Robin,” Dustin seethes.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just so good to see you moving. Harrington’s going to be beside himself,” she says eagerly, voice lowering significantly.

At the mention of your boyfriend, you try to fight against the lethargy that’s taken over your body.

“Steve, I need Steve,” you croak, feeling like cotton’s been shoved in your mouth with how dry it is.

Robin jumps out of her seat, “I’ll call him.”

“Can you get the nurse after?” Dustin asks, and she nods her head before swiftly exiting the room.

You try to force yourself into a sitting position, wiggling around in frustration at the fact that you can’t seem to control your body.

Dustin places his hands on your shoulders, “You’ve been immobile for a long time. You need to stop before you hurt yourself.”

“Dustin, I need Steve,” you repeat, tears quickly filling your lash line.

“Wow, not even a hi for your favorite brother?” He jokes, reaching out to brush a stray tear of yours away with his knuckle.

“I’m so sorry, Dusty,” your head starts to clear, fog disappearing - realizing your only brother is the one here for you, and all you can think about is Steve.

“It’s okay. I just missed you, you know?” His throat constricts, leaning forward on his knees.

“I missed you too,” you utter, giving him a small smile.

Dustin catches you up to speed on the things you’ve missed - Eddie passing, Hawkins splitting open, El returning, searching for Vecna, and the list goes on.

“Steve brought me out of this. I don’t know how, but he did,” you murmur once he’s finished.

“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s been hovering over you nonstop. Usually isn’t gone for more than an hour at a time if he can help it,” Dustin grins.

“Really?” Your smile wobbles, heart swelling at the thought of him waiting for you.

“Yeah, he,” Dustin pauses, because it was once hard for him to believe his next words, “he really loves you.”

It’s then that the nurse comes in, paging for a doctor before hustling over towards you.

“It would be helpful if you stepped out so we could run some evaluations on her,” she instructs him politely.

“No way. I’m not leaving her,” Dustin scowls.

“It’s okay, Dusty. I’m okay. Just, get Steve for me, please?” You request weakly.

He sighs at your insistence, “If you need anything, have someone get me. Robin and I will be in the hallway.”

Robin frowns when she sees him step out of your room, “He’s not picking up.”

“He’s probably on his way back,” Dustin guesses.

The two of them sink into the chairs that line the hallway, feeling antsy at the span of time without being able to check in with you.

Finally the doctor leaves, sharing some brief updates about the stability of your condition - leaving to contact Claudia Henderson, who no doubt will be making her way to the hospital in record time when she hears the news.

Dustin stands, stretching out his arms, and Robin immediately seizes his hand - lugging him to crouch behind a medical cart that just happens to be big enough to hide them.

“Robin, what the hell?” Dustin yelps, and she swiftly covers his mouth with her hand.

She points down the hall towards Steve, who’s rounding the corner.

“Why are we hiding from Steve? We want him to know,” Dustin slaps her hand away.

“Because if we run into him, I’m gonna blabber about it and don’t you think it’ll be better for him to find out on his own?” She quips back, gesturing at the melancholy look on her best friend's face.

Dustin gives a hesitant pause, but ultimately concedes, “Yeah, guess you’re right. But I call spying on them from the doorway.”

Robin rolls her eyes, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Steve’s perfected the route to your room where he’ll avoid running into nurses that like to give him looks of pity each time he shows up.

He first stops by the vending machines to grab himself a shitty coffee and a snack for you. It’s a habit he can’t put down, buying something for you despite the fact that you can’t eat it right now.

There’s a whole box full of items that sits untouched in your hospital room - overflowing with expired food at this point, but Steve doesn’t have the heart to throw them out.

He trods up the back staircase, avoiding eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop him and ask where he was headed. Finally, he stops by your door which is now closed - probably Dustin’s doing he assumes, who likes to claim it keeps the noise level to a minimum. The walls are paper thin not matter what, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to debate him on it.

He swings the door open, and starts to chatter, which is his typical routine when he’s visiting you.

“Well, honey, I got you the regular M&M’s today. They were out of the peanut ones. Can you believe that shit? What kind of establishment runs out of the best type of-,” Steve’s rambling is cut off when he walks into your room and sees you, sitting up - on your own.

The coffee in Steve’s hands crashes to the floor, black liquid seeping across the vinyl flooring - soaking into the bottom of his jeans and coating his Nike shoes with the maroon swoops, arguably having just ruined his favorite pair, but it’s the least of his concerns.

His jaw drops in disbelief, blinking rapidly to decide if you were a figment of his imagination, wondering if his brain is making you up due to sleep deprivation.

“Hi Stevie,” you rasp, wishing you could throw yourself at him.

Steve’s frozen, planted on the spot he’s standing in, because hearing your voice - the same one that he swore he might’ve been forgetting - has just bloomed out of you, flooding his brain as it ricochets around the room.

“Steve,” you whimper, can’t help but let out a breathy sob at seeing him just a handful of feet in front of you.

The whine that escapes you knocks him back into motion, practically skidding through the spilled coffee and kneeling down by the edge of your bed - legs digging into the hard floor.

“Am I dreaming?” He asks, hands reaching out to you - stopping himself from touching you because he’ll surely be wrecked to find that none of this is real.

You smile faintly, “I don’t think so.”

Steve carefully lets his fingers glide across your palm, and when your fingers twitch - feebly curling around his own for the first time in ages, he can’t help but let the tears track down his face which sets off your own.

“God, I can’t believe you’re real. And here. How are you here?” His lips part, uncertainty still keeping him at bay.

You’re not ready to disclose the torture you’ve been through, so you simply lock your fingers through his and plead, “Hold me?”

Steve’s mouth flounders, letting himself finally believe he hasn’t somehow conjured up a replica of you, “Course I can, honey. C’mere.”

He scooches himself onto the bed, maneuvering your body to rest against him - back pressed to his chest, head tucked under his chin while his arms wrap tightly around you.

“I’m so sorry,” he groans, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up, honey.”

“It’s okay, Steve,” you try to reassure him.

“No, I knew not to leave you today. Dustin had a feeling you'd come back to us soon. Little shit is always right,” he grumbles, hating himself for not being there.

Fragile laughter bubbles up within you, “He always is, isn’t he?”

“I’m so sorry,” he cries, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Steve,” you tilt your head back just a fraction, the best you can do for now, “you have nothing to be sorry for, baby. I know you’ve been here every day.”

“Because I knew you’d come back to me,” he tenderly dots kisses to the back of your neck.

“And I knew you wouldn’t give up on me,” you murmur, sniffling as you feel the pressure behind your eyelids build again.

“Never,” his voice is warm, laid bare with honesty.

Steve continues to grace you with his devotion, mapping your body with his hands, and it’s intimate in a way you’ve never experienced with him before.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he repeats himself, letting the phrase hang between you two as he continues to lavish you - nose grazing your jawline, lips attaching sweetly under your ear before catching the corner of your mouth.

You suddenly feel the wet droplets that roll down his pretty face and land on the slope of your collarbone, making you itch to wipe his tears away. You try your best to shift, but no matter how much effort you put into it, you can’t get your body to move, which makes you grunt in irritation.

“What’s wrong? Does something hurt, honey?” He implores.

You bite your lip in annoyance at not being able to comfort him, “No. It’s just, I can’t move yet, and you're crying.”

Understanding ripples across his expression - knowing you're aching to provide him solace. He brings your hand up to his cheek, guiding your fingers to wipe swiftly under his eyes, along the highs of his cheekbones, before trailing down to catch the tears that puddle under his jaw.

It’s messy, but a reminder that you’re miraculously here in his arms.

“I love you,” he rasps, inhaling sharply - still in astonishment that you haven’t slipped away yet, that you haven't dissolved like ice melting under the ray of the burning sun.

And when Dustin and Robin sneakily slide in the room later, pretending like they weren’t on the verge of crying themselves, giving you the space to open up about what you’ve experienced, Steve continues to keep you grounded - unwilling to let you go, declining the notion of letting you go for even a moment, because he’ll be damned if he has to dance with the ghost of you again.

well, this started as a part two to they don’t know about us because i had some requests for that, but it just didn’t feel the same. hence why there’s hints of similarities if you’ve read that imagine!

Divider credits to @lobster-graphics

Main Masterlist If interested

JKC Taglist: @pepsipoet @pr33tygirlavenue @miahslt91 @sparklydelusionearthquake @cuddlyeren @beth-mirrorball @ann-aatn @oliviaharrington

Dustin—who had stumbled into Family Video over half an hour ago alongside Max to try and convince Steve into letting them rent an R rated horror for the party’s weekly movie night—laughs loudly, causing Steve to groan into his hands before resting his head against the cool countertop in defeat.

“I’ll just go alone,” Steve grumbles against his arm. “I’ll just look like a sad, sad loser going to alone to a wedding and—”

“What about Max’s sister?”

Steve can’t help it. He lets out a snort of disbelief before standing up straight.

He doesn’t miss the look of annoyance Max shoots his way.

“What’s wrong with my sister, Harrington?” She asks pointedly and Steve’s ears turn red.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with you per se. In fact, Steve had very briefly considered asking you the moment that he had gotten off the phone with Juliet. But there was just one small problem—

“Nothing!” Steve says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Absolutely nothing! She just—”

“Hates his guts?” Dustin offers.

Max rolls her eyes in exasperation, folding her arms across her chest as she looks from Dustin to Steve.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Max insists. “She just—she just thinks you’re an asshole and would prefer not to be in the same room as you.”

Steve swallows. Something that felt like shame swirls in his gut. Of course, you had every reason to dislike him and Steve would be the first to put his hands up and say he probably deserved it. You two had very much gotten off on the wrong foot after you had overheard him call Billy’s family—and by extension your family—’trash’. It had been in the heat of the moment and he had only said it because Billy had been pushing his buttons all day. The moment he had realised that you were within earshoot, he had regretted saying it. But because he was stubborn and, at that point in time, cared more about what others thought of him than doing the right thing, and so he didn’t take them back. He didn’t apologise.

He later tried, after the first dance with the Upside Down together, after you had stopped Billy from almost killing him in Byers’ home with a syringe but you had scoffed and walked away like you didn’t buy it. You had made it very clear that you didn’t want to accept his apology, that you had made your mind up about him despite the fact your sister could not care less about the comment. He understood why—you were her big sister and you were protecting your family. Especially after Starcourt, especially after Billy died.

And so, Steve wasn’t exactly convinced by Max’s insistence that you didn’t hate him.

“There is no way she’ll go with me,” Steve says with a shake of his head, arms folded across his chest. “She hates—”

“—she will,” Max says with a knowing smile. “She owes me a favour.”

Steve blinks, looking from Max to Dustin and back again, as if waiting for one of them to shout ‘April Fools!’.

When neither of them does, Steve raises a brow at Max.

“What for?”

“She broke my skateboard,” Max explains. “I was gonna make her buy me a new one but making her go to a wedding with you sounds more interesting.”

Dustin laughs and the corner of Max’s mouth twitches but Steve looks thoroughly unconvinced.

“Gee, thanks Max,” Steve mutters, eyes shifting down to the pile of tapes stacked in front of him that he was meant to be rewinding. “But I really don’t think she’ll agree.”

And so, Steve spends the rest of his shift rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to his aunt when he called her to tell him he would be attending the wedding tomorrow, minus his plus one. 

Five minutes before his shift was due to end, Steve was carefully rearranging the candy selection just as the bell above the door sounded. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Of course—it was just his luck that a customer had decided to waltz in five minutes before his shift ended. He would put money on the fact it was a group of teenagers who would refuse to leave, teenagers who would mess up the horror display he had spent forty five minutes rearranging, teenagers who pick up the tape for Body Heat to try and convince Steve that they weren’t fourteen.

“We’re closing in—”

“—in five minutes. I know. I can read a clock, Harrington.”

Steve’s stomach turns at the sound of your voice. His head whips around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t hurt himself. He certainly dropped all of the bars of candy that he had been holding. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Steve asks, blinking as he watches you approach the counter with a schooled expression. “Robin has the flu if that’s what you—”

“—I’m here to see you,” you interrupt, eyes flicking down to the peanut butter bopper still clutched in Steve’s hand before you look back up at his face. “Max told me about your—your plus one situation.”

“Oh,” Steve says, the tips of his ears reddening as he looks down at all the candy bars he had dropped, the ones he had been lovingly arranging for the past ten minutes. “Yeah um, that Juliet cancelled on me. She’s cat sitting or something so can’t um, make it.”

You quirk a brow and Steve can tell by the look on your face that you want nothing more than to make a comment, to crack a joke, perhaps even tell him that he had very clearly been stood up, that there was no way Juliet had actually cancelled on him to cat sit. But you don’t, instead you seem to take a deep breath before you say. “I’ll do it.”

The bopper in Steve’s hand falls to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up before looking back ar you.

“Seriously?” He asks, his eyes wide as he tries his best not to look too hopeful. “You—you’re not—this isn’t a prank, right?”

You frown slightly. “Why would I do that?”

Steve blinks before he shakes his head because really, he knew you would never do anything like that to him. 

“I—I dunno—I just—you know this is a wedding, right?” Steve asks you. “Like I’ll be in a suit and you’d wear—”

“—a dress,” you finish. “I know, Max told me. I have a dress if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Steve swallows, the bopper that was back in his grip starting to melt in his sweaty grasp. “I’m not worried about that, it's just—are you sure? Like, are you sure about coming to this wedding—with me?”

You exhale, looking away from Steve momentarily to look around the store, almost as though you were bracing yourself for something big.

“Yes, Harrington,” you say finally. “As a favour to Max, I’ll go to this wedding with you.”

Steve looks back at you for a long, long moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or that you weren’t going to tell him you were joking. When he realises that this wasn’t a dream and you say nothing, he starts to smile.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much. This means a lot. My family are—yeah—this is just, it’s really great of you to—”

“—but I’m not dancing with you,” you cut in quickly, fiddling with your hands as you look away from him. “Or doing anything remotely touchy feely. I’m just your plus one. That’s it. That’s all I’ll be.”

“That’s fine!” Steve says quickly, wiping his clammy hands over his jeans before setting down the bopper onto the countertop beside him, the wrapper crumpled and the chocolate inside a little gooey. “Makes sense. Yeah. Um, totally. No dancing. Limited touching. Ju—just my plus one.”

You look at him for a beat before finally, you nod. “Good. Glad we got that covered,” you say before you lean down to pick up one of the candy bars he had dropped and tear open the wrapper.

“You know you need to pay for th—”

“See you tomorrow, Harrington,” you say, smiling before taking a large bite from the chocolate bar and walking straight out of Family Video.

“Could you sit still? Just for two minutes?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Max looked back at you blankly in the mirror before shaking her head, returning her attention to your hair, ignoring you.

You huff but you don’t question her further.

You didn’t want to admit it to yourself but as it drew nearer to ten in the morning—the time that you agreed to be ready by with Steve late last night when he had called you in a slight panic, having forgotten to tell that the wedding was over an hour away—you found that you were starting to feel nervous. 

The pale green satin dress you were wearing—the one you had been saving for Max’s graduation—hugged your body in a way that you weren’t used to. Max and your mom insisted that you looked beautiful but you didn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Especially knowing you’d be spending the day and most of the evening on the arm of Steve Harrington.

“Is it too late to back out now?” You ask Max hopefully, setting down the blusher you had been applying while she was focused on your hair. “I mean—I could say I got the flu from Robin or—”

“—absolutely not,” Max snaps at you. “Just give him a chance? Alright? He’s not the asshole he was in high school.”

You hum in acknowledgement at her words but you don’t respond. You had heard that sentiment plenty of times before, you just couldn’t allow yourself to believe it.

By some miracle, you were ready just before ten o’clock. After slipping on some silver kitten heels, you stand up straight and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror next to your bed. It was hard not to smile at how pretty you felt.

“Still wanna back out?” You hear Max ask from the door of your shared bedroom, one of your mom’s nice silver purses she only used for special occasions clutched in her hands.

You look over your shoulder at Max before your eyes flicker back to your reflection, at the hair Max had lovingly styled and the makeup you had delicately applied but mostly at the dress that gave you a fluttery feeling in your stomach. 

“No,” you say with a small shake of your head before you turn to look at your sister. “I made a promise so I should stick to it.”

Max looks at you before she smiles. “You look really pretty, by the way.”

Your face warms a little at the compliment but you try to hide it, walking over to Max to take your mom’s purse from her hands. “Not bad for a last minute wedding.”

The corner of Max’s mouth twitches before she walks over to you to carefully adjust one of your hair clips. “You promise to be nice to Steve? Give him a chance to prove himself?”

“Max—”

Max cuts you off with your name and you look back at her carefully. “I’m serious. I want you two to get along. You’re important to me, he’s important to me.”

You feel yourself soften, just a little. Because if something mattered to your little sister, it mattered to you too.

“Just don’t—don’t tell him I said that,” Max adds.

You fight back a smile. “I won’t.”

It was five minutes later when there was a knock at the front door. Your stomach turned nervously as Max ran to answer it.

“You look great,” your mom smiles reassuringly. You smile back—not entirely knowing why you felt so nervous. This was just Steve. Just Steve—the guy who just last week you had yelled at for breathing too loud. Just Steve—the guy you were now going to a damn wedding with.

You take a deep breath before bidding your mom goodbye and following the voices of Max and Steve out of your room.

“—is the tie the right colour?” You hear Steve ask Max, a nervous edge to his voice. “‘Pale green’ was right of vague, I had to—”

“—you don’t need to match with her dress, it’s not prom, Steve—”

“—but I thought—”

You walk into the open plan living room and suddenly, Steve stops talking.

In fact, Steve Harrington seems to stop breathing as he looks at you.

He was looking at you in a way that took your breath away for a few short seconds before you remember just how infuriating you thought he was. But for a brief moment, you allow yourself to look at Steve—really look at him—and admire just how nice he looked. He had always been good looking, even you could admit that, but right now with his wide hazel eyes, parted lips and the suit he was wearing—the tie of which almost perfectly matched your dress—he looked stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that made your stomach tighten.

The moment the thought enters your mind, heat spreads throughout your body. You determinedly ignore it.

“You’re late,” you say by way of a hello, hoping your voice doesn’t give any indication that you felt nothing but apathy for the man in front of you. “You know it’s rude to show up after the bride?”

Steve blinks, seeming to snap out of whatever momentary trance you had sent him in so that he could frown at your words.

“It was the tie! And there was some construction near the—”

“—still. You’re late.”

Steve seems to bite his tongue with whatever retort he had ready to go, his eyes flickering over to match who Max watches the exchange, thoroughly entertained. 

“Ready to go?” Steve asks you, choosing to ignore your remark as he steps towards the door.

You nod, opening your mom’s purse to check you had your lip gloss and some extra hair clips before looking back at Steve. “Yeah. Ready to—”

“—wait!” Max exclaims and you know what was coming before she even opens her mouth. “Let me just go grab the camera. I want this moment framed.”

Neither of you stop yourself from groaning loudly at that.

The drive to the wedding venue took a little over an hour and the car ride with Steve was almost completely silent, save for the radio that seemed to be the saving grace of the journey. 

It dawned on you that you hadn’t ever really spent one on one time with Steve before. Sure, you two had been through a lot together when it came to the upside down, but you had never hung out, not really. But now—you face the prospect of spending the entire day together. At a wedding, no less.

One thing you quickly learned about Steve was that he hummed while listening to music. A lot. Like it was beginning to grate on you kind of a lot.

“Do you have to hum while listening to music?” You ask him in a terse voice after almost thirty minutes of biting your tongue.

You watch Steve stiffen slightly out of the corner of your eye, watch the way his knuckles tighten around his steering wheel and you register the instant ceasing of his humming.

“It’s my car,” Steve points out. “I can hum in my car if I want.”

You open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him that his humming was incredibly annoying and to tell him to stop. But then you thought of Max, you thought of your promise to her that you’d try to be nice to Steve, that you would give him a chance. You find yourself pursing your lips, carefully considering your options before you decide to let this minor annoyance slip. 

Baby steps.

But when Steve pulls his Beamer into a church car park that was swarming with pastel coloured dresses, fascinators and expensive suits, it felt more like diving headfirst into cold water than tentative baby steps.

“Are you ready for this?” Steve asks you gently, sensing your apprehension as you make no move to leave the safety of his car.

You swallow nervously, soothing down your dress as you nod because suddenly, you were acutely aware of the fact that your dress cost less than thirty dollars and that your heels were scuffed, owing to the fact you had bought them secondhand from a thrift store.

“Yeah,” you lie because Hawkins was over an hour away and both you and Max had put too much effort in your appearance to turn back now. But as Steve’s hand moves to open the door, you add, “it’s just—I’m not—I’m not great with family.”

Steve’s hand stops mid-air, inches away from the door handle as he looks over at you carefully before the corners of his mouth lift into something akin to a smile. “That makes two of us,” Steve tells you. “So don’t worry. My parents hate everyone. Just don’t take it personally and you’ll be fine.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

To his credit, the moment that you finally stepped out of his car, Steve was right by your side. His hand, though tentative, rests on the small of your back as you walk towards the church, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You were already regretting the heels.

As you walk by throngs of Steve’s relatives, he gives you a very quick run down of who’s who while you try to keep up.”

“That’s my uncle Simon,” Steve tells you, nodding to a man in a suit that looked so expensive that you briefly wondered if you were even allowed to look at it. “Been married like three times. Doesn’t seem to understand what monogamy is.”

You bit back a laugh.

“That’s my great aunt Sara—”

“—great aunt?” You repeat, looking at the women Steve had subtly pointed to who did not look old enough to even be considered a great aunt. “Are you sure she’s—”

“—she had a face lift,” Steve explains and you nod slowly. “Well, we all suspect she’s had a face lift. She’s never actually said. She just keeps saying it’s because slathers herself in honey or egg whites every morning.”

Another laugh you had to fight back.

Steve was just telling you about some falling out between his grandmother and cousin as someone calls his name. Steve stops talking mid-sentence to look over at who had called out his name and smiles.

“And this,” he murmurs to you as a woman with a kind, heart shaped face and bright smile approaches. “Is my aunt Edith. She’s a bit much but—”

“Stevie! Oh, look at you!”

You watch in fascination as Steve Harrington—the guy who had been known as King Steve, the guy who had once held a keg stand record for almost three years—turns bright red.

“Edith—”

“—what?” Edith beams at the sight of Steve, carefully adjusting his blazer and fusing over his tie. “Is it a crime now to say hello to my favourite nephew?”

Steve doesn’t respond as even the tips of his ears turn red but his aunt doesn’t tease him any further, instead her soft eyes shift over to you.

“And who is this beautiful young lady?” Edith asks, her gaze so warm and friendly that you couldn’t help but smile at her. “Steve, is this your—”

“—friend,” Steve says quickly and with a quick glance over at you. “Just a friend.”

In any other circumstances, you would have corrected Steve if he referred to you as a friend but you let it slide. Baby steps.

“And a friendship is a beautiful foundation for a relationship,” Edith says to a blushing Steve before she looks back at you. “I’m only teasing him, honey. Don’t look so worried.”

You let out a breathy laugh before shaking your head. “No, go ahead. Tease away. I didn’t know he could turn that shade of red.”

Edith laughs and despite Steve rolling his eyes, he lets out a reluctant chuckle. 

“Oh, I like her already.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches before he tells Edith your name and you can’t help but notice the flash of recognition in her eyes when she hears Steve reel off your last name. You can’t blame her. The surname Mayfield and the names of your family had been splashed all over the newspapers after Starcourt, Billy's death.

But Edith doesn’t say anything, which you appreciate.

“You two should probably head inside,” Edith tells you with a nod towards the church. “Or you might be in danger of being run over by the bride.”

You let Steve guide you inside, his hand still on your back as you enter the church.

“Sorry about Edith,” Steve says as you walk towards the church pews. “She’s really—”

“—she was lovely,” you tell Steve. “Really. She wasn’t too much at all.”

Steve nods but you can see the look of quiet gratitude in his eyes.

You sit down in the pews beside Steve, becoming acutely aware of his thigh pressing against yours, of the way he was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh as his eyes darted around the church. You knew without asking that he was looking for his parents.

“By the way,” Steve murmurs after a moment, his eyes shifting back to you. “I forgot to say earlier but you look—”

But Steve was cut off by a sudden swell of music that signalled the arrival of the bride and whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue.

As Daisy met her soon to be husband at the altar and the ceremony began, you tried your very best to remain present. But as your eyes flickered around the church, something swirled in your gut. The realisation that the last time you had been in a church—albiet, nowhere near as extravagant as this—had been at Billy’s funeral.  

Despite the fact you hadn’t been very close with Billy nor had you even remotely liked your step-brother, Billy’s death had affected you more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just because of what had happened to your family in the immediate aftermath of Billy’s death, when your step-dad had left Hawkins and took every bit of stability you had left with him. It was also the immense guilt and complicated things that you found yourself feeling that had made Billy’s death difficult to navigate, guilt that you felt for surviving Starcourt when Billy didn’t, guilt for also feeling so much resentment towards Billy when he had been alive for making your and Max’s life miserable but deep down, desperately things had been different for him.

But most of all, the thing that had been the most difficult about Billy’s death? It was seeing how it had affected Max and the crushing realisation that came the moment you had heard her scream out Billy’s name—was that, try as you might, you couldn’t protect Max from everything.

And so, as you sat beside Steve Harrington in the pews you were barely listening to Daisy and her soon to be husband Dale exchange their vows. And you even miss Steve sniffling quietly beside you.

After the ceremony—of which, you remember very little—you and Steve make the short journey to the reception which would be held at a magnificent farmhouse outside of which there was a beautiful rose garden. You would have thought it a truly breathtaking sight if you still weren’t so in your own head, still thinking about Billy, of the funeral and Max.

Though he wasn’t saying anything, Steve could tell something was wrong. The small rapport you had built before the ceremony had vanished, you didn’t even complain when he had ordered you the wrong drink by accident.

“Okay,” Steve sighs, looking at your expression carefully after pulling you to the side of the bar. “You gonna tell me what’s up? Did I do something or—”

You blink, looking at Steve as though only just seeing him properly for the first time. 

“I haven’t—I haven’t been in a church since—” you stop yourself, averting your eyes in favour of watching a few of Steve’s smaller cousins running around to distract yourself from the slight burn you were feeling behind your eyes.

You miss how Steve’s eyes soften, how his expression shifts and how he half raises his hand as though he had to stop himself from reaching for you.

“Oh,” he says softly, so softly that you barely recognise his voice and you have to look at him just to be sure it was really Steve. “I didn’t—I didn’t even think. I’m sorry. I—”

“—it’s okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face as you look back at Steve. “I’m okay. It was a really beautiful ceremony.”

Steve looks at you and there was a brief moment where you thought that he was just going to drop it. That he wasn’t going to push you to talk but he said your name in that new, soft voice and you knew you weren’t going to get away that easily.

“—I know I’m not your favourite person in the world but you know you can talk to me about—”

“—Steven! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

You watch as Steve’s face almost completely drains of colour.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters to you as your peer over his shoulder to see a couple—who were undoubtedly his parents—striding towards to two of you. “Okay. It’s just my parent’s. It’s just my—”

“—oh, you must be Steven’s girlfriend!” Steve’s mother exclaims happily as both she and his father approach. You were so taken aback by the hug she pulled you into that you don’t even try to correct her on the fact you were not Steve’s girlfriend and Steve makes no attempt to correct her. Instead, his face reddens and he shoots you an apologetic smile.

That son of a—

“He had told us you were pretty but I don’t think you’d be—”

“—mom,” Steve mutters, his face now burning as he avoids direct eye contact with you, clearly not wanting to give away the fact that you definitely were not his girlfriend. But you didn’t care about it that much anymore, not when you had just learned that Steve Harrington had told his parents that you were pretty.

Steve introduces you to both his parents and, like Edith, you see the flash of recognition across their faces at your surname but unlike Edith, Steve’s parents didn’t let your name pass without acknowledgement.

“Oh dear,” his moms says kindly, placing a gentle hand on your arm that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. “I thought I recognised your face. Billy Hagrove was your step-brother, right?”

You don’t trust yourself to talk and nor do you look at Steve as you nod.

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” his father says to you solemnly, though his expression does not change in the slightest. “Awful accident.”

You smile in acknowledgement but you aren’t quite sure what to say. Thank you? Everything you knew you should say when someone offered their condolences would sound insincere. Unnatural, even. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for you, Steve’s father continues talking.

“And for his father to leave the way he did, leaving your family, a single mother to struggle and live in a trailer park of all places—it must really be awful for your family. Being amongst drug dealers and god knows what else in that park!”

You swallow. It had been awful but you didn’t think much of Danny Harrington’s tone—of the fact he sounded more sorry that your family were living in a trailer park than grieving. You still had Max and your mom—even if she had started drinking to cope—and a roof over your heads. It was all you needed.

But before you could tell Steve’s father any of this, before you could even consider politely standing up for yourself, Steve Harrington got there first.

“Dad, let’s not—let’s not go there, okay?” Steve says, placing a hand on your back as if ready to steer you away from the conversation.

Danny Harrington, for a very brief moment, looks taken aback by his son’s words but had enough sense to understand the topic of Billy Hagrove and the Mayfield family was off limits.

“Very well,” he says with a small nod and a tight lipped smile. “Enjoy the evening, both of you.”

The moment his parents leave you and Steve standing at the side of the bar, you feel immense relief.

You breathe a sigh of relief, not even noticing how tense you had felt for the past two minutes as you turn towards Steve. “That was—”

“—I’m really sorry,” Steve cuts in, his hand leaving your back in order to scrub over his face. Before you could even ask what he was sorry for, he continues. “For making them think that you’re my girlfriend. I panicked a little and didn’t know what to say—”

“—Steve, it’s—”

“—and I’m sorry for butting in like that. I know you can stand up for yourself and you didn’t need me to—you know. I just—my dad he just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t just let him talk to you like that. Like he—”

“—Harrington.”

Steve swallows, looking back at you as though he was bracing himself, ready for you to yell at him for doing something for you that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself. But to his utter surprise, you start to smile at him.

“It’s okay,” you tell him gently. “I—I appreciate it. Really. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Steve looks at you as if to make sure that you weren’t lying, his eyes on you making your stomach turn in a way that you weren’t used to around him. 

“Okay,” Steve says with a grateful smile. “Okay. That—that’s good. I thought you were going to lose your shit at me for a second.”

“No,” you say, stopping yourself from smiling back at him. “But the girlfriend thing though, still undecided about that.”

Steve can’t help it, his face flushes a warm pink and before he knows it, he was laughing and you find yourself joining in.

Baby steps.

He says your name then and you look at him, the expression on his face as he looks at you makes the world around you feel a little fussy, makes your stomach flip and your cheeks grow hot.

“Yeah?” you reply in a voice that you hope doesn’t give away just how slightly flustered you were feeling.

“I wanted to—I forgot to say this earlier,” he begins, scratching the back of his neck as though he was nervous, despite the fact you didn’t think it at all possible for Steve Harrington to be nervous. “I think—you just—you look beautiful, Mayfield.”

You weren’t entirely sure why those words had such a monumental effect on you, but they did. Your breath hitches, your face feels ten times hotter and you were almost positive that Steve could hear your heart beating out of your chest because of those words.

“You look pretty good yourself, Steve,” you say with a small, barely there smile.

Steve blinks and then—

“You just called me Steve,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting.

You shrug, you pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

Baby steps.

It was hard not to smile watching Steve twirl not one but two of his little cousins around, especially when their laughter was full of unbridled joy as they begged him for just one more spin around the dancefloor.

You sat at the table you and Steve had been convening at for the past few hours. The table where you had sat for the reception dinner with a handful of his cousins, where you had struggled to hold back tears at the speech by the father of the bride and Steve had placed a warm, comforting hand on your arm. Your skin was still tingling from his touch.

“Please Steve!” the youngest of his cousins, maybe five or six, pouted up at him. “Just one more!”

“Later,” Steve promises with a quick glance over at you. “Later, I promise!”

You were fighting back yet another smile at their whines of protest, at Steve ruffling their hair to make them squeal before walking back over to your table.

“What are you smiling at?” He asks, sitting down in the chair beside yours before taking a long swig of his beer.

“Nothing,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth of your cheeks. “Just—you’re really good with kids.”

Even the colourful disco lights couldn’t conceal the impressive shade of red that Steve had turned at your words.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” Steve murmurs. “Kids are much easier when there’s no Upside Down involved.”

You laugh, which over a few courses of dinner had become something of a common occurrence with Steve. He had made you laugh a lot, more than you wanted to admit. You were beginning to think that Max was right, that perhaps you had been a little too harsh on Steve over the past few years and you even started to feel bad for not giving him a chance sooner. Not that you would ever admit that.

It’s quiet between the two of you then. You watch Steve’s fingers gently drum against the beer bottle in his hands and as he glances over at the dancefloor. You can’t help but look over too, remembering that you had told him no dancing. You found yourself suddenly regretting that part of the deal.

“You want another drink?” Steve asks you, setting down his now empty bottle of beer. “I can get you another—”

“—do you want to dance?”

The words slip out before you could second guess them and you feel your stomach tighten in apprehension. If Steve said no then you would surely have to move far, far away and—

“Yes,” Steve says quietly and with a nod. “I’d love to.”

You look at him to see he was smiling at you and you hate the fact his smile makes your stomach feel a little fussy inside.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you tell him with a faint smile as you stand up from your chair, Steve mirroring your action only a few seconds later.

“I’ll be a gentleman,” Steve tells you with a smile that makes you wonder why you had ever disliked him in the first place. “Promise.”

The moment you and Steve were finally on the dancefloor together, the rest of the wedding faded into nothing. From Cyndi Lauper, to a-ha to Elton John, you and Steve Harrington danced until your feet began to hurt. He spun you around, he laughed when you stumbled over your heels and you laughed when a drunken uncle of his had spilled whiskey all over his blazer. Your laughter quickly died when Steve had thrown his blazer aside, leaving him in his white shirt that he had unbuttoned while loosening his tie, giving you a peak at the hair that adorned his chest. Your throat felt a little try at the sight. 

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Steve begins, smiling at you as Heaven Is A Place On Earth fades into Come On Eileen, “or are you checking me out, Miss Mayfield?”

You laugh like it was funny despite the fact you definitely had been checking him out.

“No,” you deny it with a laugh that causes the corners of Steve’s mouth to twitch. “Course not, Harrington.”

“Oh? Are we back to Harrington, now?” Steve asks in a teasing voice that makes you feel so hot it feels as though your stomach was suddenly made from molten lava. “What did I do? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman to you, Mayfield.”

It took you a moment to realise that he was flirting with you and as soon as you did the heat in your gut began to burn. 

“Just keeping you on your toes,” you tell him, your eyes seeming to sparkle in the light as you look back at him. 

Steve hums, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face as he looks at you. “Misson accomplished.”

There was something in his eyes that seemed to hold you captive, you couldn’t move, could barely breathe and in that second, his eyes dip down to your lips.

“Mayfield, I—”

“—Steve!”

It was the voice of his younger cousins’, the ones he had promised another dance with. You watch as he has to force himself to look away from you, his eyes flickering back for a brief moment to apologise.

“It’s okay,” you tell him with a smile, ignoring the pang of disappointment that had taken refuge in your gut. “I’ll um, I’ll go get another drink while you—”

You gesture towards his younger cousins’ who were both tugging on his arms impatiently, demanding Steve’s attention. He shoots you one last apologetic look before he bends down to pick both squealing girls up with one only arm. You couldn’t deny the way your heart doubled in size at the sight. 

You make your way over to the bar, passing by his parents who you avoid eye contact with while you order yourself another glass of wine and Steve another beer. You tap your nails against the wooden top of the bar, your eyes finding Steve dancing with his younger cousins’ easily. 

“He’s always been great like that with kids.”

The sound of Steve’s Aunt Edith’s voice makes you jump, very nearly spilling Steve’s beer.

“Sorry honey,” she chortles, steading the bottle as you look away from Steve and over at her. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a genuine smile because unlike Steve’s parents, Aunt Edith didn’t make you feel even remotely nervous. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Becuase you were too busy staring at my nephew?” She offers with a wry smile.

Your face warms but you don’t even try to deny it.

“You know, I’ve seen my nephew with a fair few women over the years but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any who could make him blush like you have over the course of the evening,” she tells you.

You couldn’t stop the look of shock from passing over your face, your body buzzing with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I’m just saying,” she continues when you say nothing, your fingers still tapping nervously against the table, “that I think, as his favourite auntie, that you’d be pretty grear together.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say and perhaps Edith knew that because she smiled at you kindly before walking away.

Edith’s words play on your mind as you continue to watch Steve and his cousins. You couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny that the evening had made you see Steve in an entirely different light. It had also made you rethink the Steve you had been so rude to over the past few years; the Steve that always dropped Max back home without a second thought, the Steve that never drove off without ensuring she was safely back inside the trailer, the Steve that had some sort of stupid handshake with Dustin Henderson, the Steve that had brought you tea and made Max lumpy tomato soup after Billy’s funeral. Something inside you twisted as you remembered that fact you had never said thank you to him for doing that.

“You’re looking awfully pensive over here, Mayfield.”

The sound of Steve’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts but his presence does nothing to the swirl of emotions you were feeling.

“Just thinking,” you say finally, turning to face him with a small smile. “Here’s another beer, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Steve grins, taking the bottle from you. Your fingers brush against his and your body feels alive with something you had never had thought you would feel around Steve. “Need it after running around with those kids, I’m too old for this shit.”

You laugh and shake your head in amused disbelief. “You’re twenty one, Steve.”

“Twenty one going on seventy.”

You can barely contain your laughter at that and soon both you and Steve were laughing. You miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips as you laugh, the way his cheeks flush a shade or so darker when you look over at him as the beginning notes of Heaven by Bryan Adams starts to play.

“I know you just got us some drinks,” Steve begins, setting his bottle down onto the bar and gently prying your own glass of wine from your hands. “But I really want to dance with my date.”

The way he said it, the look in his eyes, it was almost too much.

“Plus one,” you correct him, biting back a smile.

“Synmatics,” he says softly, smiling at you before he holds out a hand, palm up, for you to take. “Dance with me, Mayfield.”

There was no other answer but yes.

You let Steve pull you towards the dancefloor, the fluttering in your stomach making you feel almost dizzy as he wraps his arms around your waist while your arms loop around his neck. It was the closest you had ever been to Steve and all you could think about was how incredible he smelled, how you wanted to trace each and every mole that kissed his skin, how truly gorgeous he looked and how alive you suddenly felt in his presence.

“Ever thought that you’d be slow dancing with me?” He asks with a smile that very nearly takes your breath away. 

“Not even in my wildest dreams,” you tell him, trying to cover up the fact your heart was beating so loud you were beginning to suspect it was trying to escape from its home in your chest. “But—I think today may have helped me change my mind about you.”

“Yeah?” He asks with a hopeful smile. “Or maybe you just finally realised how irresistible I am?”

You laugh and Steve smiles so hard that you were surprised that it didn’t hurt. 

“Something like that.”

You and Steve didn’t leave the dancefloor for a long time after that. Even when the song changed to something more upbeat, you didn’t leave Steve’s arms. You slow danced to Madonna, Bruce Springsteen and Prince as guests left the wedding in their droves—the bride and groom sneaking away hours ago.

“You wanna head back?” Steve murmurs against your hair as you sway to Fleetwood Mac, the dancefloor around you significantly less busy as you pull back to look at him.

“Not really,” you admit quietly, trying to ignore how one of his large hands was resting on your lower back, how his touch had set your skin aflame. “But I think we’re about five minutes away from being kicked off the dancefloor.”

Steve chuckles, looking away from you for a moment to glance at the last few stranglers remaining with you two on the dancefloor. They were all incredibly drunk and you can see the amusement in Steve’s eyes as he looks back at you.

“C’mon,” he murmurs before he pulls himself away from you, though his hand remains on your back. “Let’s go for a walk.”

You follow him without hesitation, walking out of the farmhouse with Steve’s hand still on your back and your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I really thought you weren’t going to say yes, by the way,” Steve tells you as you walk over the path, between the red and yellow roses that were illuminated by the glittering lights strung up ahead. “To be my plus one, I mean.”

“I owed Max a favour,” you tell him. “Broke her skateboard. By accident.”

“She mentioned that,” Steve smiles fondly. “I think she thought going to a wedding with me was more tortuous for you.”

You shake your head as you stop in front of the soft pink roses to face him. “Twenty four hours ago, I might have agreed with her but, tonight—I have to admit, it’s been pretty good.”

“Just good?” Steve asks, head tilting to the side as he looks back at you with a smile. 

“No, much better than pretty good,” you say. “Maybe something closer to…pretty incredible.”

“What? Me or the wedding?” Steve asks with a hopeful look back at you.

“Undecided,” you tell with a whisper of a smile.

Silence falls as you continue through the rose garden, the colourful flowers catching your eye as you pass by. But Steve’s eyes remain on you, thought you don’t see it—on the dress that he was sure to dream about, of just how fucking beautiful you looked and how glad he was that you had broken Max’s skateboard.

“For the record, I’m really glad you said yes,” Steve tells you, the hand on your back dipping lower for just a moment and making your insides turn to goo.

“Me too,” you admit. “I um—it made me realise how silly I was—for um, not giving you a chance before. And for you know, not being all that friendly with you.”

Steve says your name and you know by the look on his face that he wanted to tell you that it was okay, that it didn’t matter but you continued talking before he could do so.

“I think I’ve realised that Max may have been right when she said you really were a good guy. I just—I’m her big sister, you know? And—I get my back up a little when people talk bad about my family and I just—I struggled to let go of what you said.”

“Because it was cruel what I said,” Steve begins, slowing down until he stops walking completely, his hand on your back making you do that same. “It was cruel and stupid and I’m sorry. Like, really fucking sorry.”

“I know and—”

“—and if after this you want us to go back to normal then I totally understand and—”

“—Steve!”

“Yeah?”

You smile, shake your head and say, “I don’t want to go back to ‘normal’ after this.”

“Then what do you want?” He asks, hazel eyes twinkling beneath the lights.

You tilt your head to the side, considering him before you say, “another dance?”

Despite the fact there was no music, despite the fact you were in the middle of a rose garden and it was fast approaching midnight, Steve does not deny your request. Instead, he pulls you into his arms like he had on the dancefloor, his body so close to yours that there was barely an inch of space between you and you were very aware of his hand resting on your lower back.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Steve asks in a voice so soft and gentle that you had to lean in to hear him.

“You did,” you whisper back with a barely contained smile.

“Well, I wanna tell you again. You look fucking beautiful, Mayfield. The moment I saw you I thought—fuck, this wedding is gonna be torture.”

Your face warms and you laugh, leaning into Steve so you could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest. 

“Because I’m annoying?” You offer with a teasing smile.

“No,” Steve says quietly, one of his hands reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear carefully. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day, Mayfield. That’s why.”

Everything seems to slow around you. Time, the roses gently dancing in the wind beside you. You can barely believe the words coming out of Steve’s mouth but the way he was looking at you told you that this wasn’t a dream—that Steve Harrington had really admitted to wanting to kiss you.

And it was crazy because twenty four hours ago, you were tossing and turning in your sleep over the idea of today, of the prospect of spending an entire day with Steve at a wedding. And now, you were desperate to feel his lips against yours.

“Then kiss me, before I change my mind.”

Steve blinks, as if to make sure that he had heard you correctly before he pulls you even closer with one arm around your waist. The proximity to Steve makes you feel almost lightheaded, his woodsy, vanillary scent filling your lungs and the hand now cupping your cheek making your body thrum with need.

“As you wish,” he murmurs before he leans in and presses his lips against yours. That first brush of his lips against yours was so inviting, so intoxicating that you felt almost every nerve in your body come alive from the feeling. His mouth was warm, his lips soft and he was kissing like there was nowhere else he would rather be than right here in the rose garden with you.

You kiss him back with no hesitation, warmth seeping through your veins as he gently tilts your head back, coaxing your lips apart with his tongue and making you forget how to breathe. You could have kissed him all night, until the early hours of the morning if you could. Especially when his tongue brushed against yours, making you whine against his lips and tug him even closer.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips, your mouths moving together in an almost desperate sort of way as your fingers curl into his shirt. “You’re gonna ruin me, Mayfield.”

You don’t know how long you stayed there, making out with Steve Harrington in the rose garden but all you knew as you finally pulled away from each other was that your lips were bee stung and his were wet and covered in your lip gloss. He had never looked so good.

“So much for keeping my hands to myself,” Steve grins as he reaches up to swipe his thumb across your swollen bottom lip. You roll your eyes and can’t help yourself—you pull him into another kiss that makes him groan against your mouth. The sound makes you feel incredibly glad that you had broken your sister’s skateboard.

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But was that your mind, or the door to the bedroom that needs its hinges replaced? An intruder or the stream of water hitting your drum at the perfect angle?

Do you turn the faucet off (and do what?) or do you let this play out like you’re some blonde Hitchcockian starlet, stabbed to death in a ceramic grave, embalmed in PVC and soapy loofah net. 

You’d really hate to die all naked and wet like this. And unmoisturized. You make a mental note to include a full-body rub-down with petroleum jelly in your funeral plans. 

You glance over your shoulder, seeing only em empty bathroom through the fog-stained glass. No Norman Bates waiting on the other side of the shower door with a sharp blade in his hand and a cheshire grin on his face. Apparently, it’s not your time.

Swallowing down your paranoia, you turn around to face the cascade of steam and blue-hot pellets that cleans your body of all its sins. Leon calls you ‘Lucifer’, the way you bathe in hellfire. ‘Hotter than a bullet’, he says. Whatever that means. You never ask those types of questions. 

What did you see out there? 

Where did that scar come from? 

How the hell do you know bullets are hot?

You rinse the soap from your front, the suds from your hair, your eyes screwing shut as the shampoo runs down your forehead. And when you open them, now facing the shower door again, you see a heart drawn in the condensation. 

Then, you blink and it’s gone, the heat erasing the dripping strokes you saw only seconds ago. 

Your ancestors outran Malaria so you could be killed in the shower. 

Or.

It’s midnight and you watched a slasher movie while being home, all alone. What did you think was going to happen? And it’s not your fault, really. It was just on the television, one of the few channels that wasn’t flooded with commercials about weight-loss meal plans and insurance claims. 

Turning back toward the stream, you let the water prick your skin. And then, a pair of hands wrap around your waist. 

You’re not imagining things this time around.

“Boo.” 

You spin on your heel, grout and tile scratching the skin on your way around. Blonde, devilishly handsome, and just dim-witted enough to pull something as dumb as sneaking up on someone in the shower. He said he wouldn’t be home for another week. Now he’s here, naked as the day he was born, standing behind you in the shower, with his hands roaming your sides.

I love you, you’re back! 

I hate you, you’re a beast!

A dilemma, indeed.

“Holy shit, Leon,” you gripe, heart beating so fast, it might break free from your chest and run a marathon down the street. “Not fucking funny.” As he laughs, you throw anything you can get your hands on at the clown: a loofah, a bar of soap, almost a shampoo bottle. He grabs your wrists, snatching the bottle from your grasp, returning it to the niche in the wall as he presses pause on his laughing fit to apologize. 

An apology doesn’t carry the same weight if it’s followed up by ‘I had to’ and ‘I just couldn’t help myself’.

“You scared me, Leon. I thought I was about to be a headline on the news or show up on the side of a milk carton.” 

He arches a suspicious brow, the mist from the showerhead catching on the dark, coarse hairs. “Bit old for the milk carton, aren’t you?” 

You land a punch on his chest, knuckle digging straight into sinew. It hurts you more than it hurts him. He only winces so you don’t feel bad about being so weak. “Not. Helping. Asshole!”

“Come on,” he coos, wrapping you in his arms. It’s been nearly a month without seeing him in the flesh, and you’re not going to put up a fight if he wants to hold you, so you let him, sinking into his touch. His skin is warm, smelling like government-issued soap, skin-eating and putrid. It’ll be his second shower of the evening, and the only enjoyable one. “That’s more like it. Happy to see me now?” With his arms still wrapped around you, and yours around him, he smooths the damp hair at the back of your head.

“I would have been happier if you had a collar with a bell,” you say, retreating, letting your eyes fall to his form, drinking it up from the callouses on his toes to the tiny scrape on his forehead.

Another question you never ask: how do you know how to do that? 

To sneak up on people without making a sound? Without so much as a strand of your hair being seen? 

Dipping his chin, letting the water run down his head, drenching the blonde curtains, gluing them to his temples, he chuckles. It’s a dark, vibrational sound that echoes throughout the glass chamber, nearly knocking you off your feet. 

He glances up at you, droplets coating his eyelashes, making his blue eyes all the more piercing. “For you, I’d wear anything around my neck.” 

You pause for a moment, letting those words in their lewdness settle in your stomach. Then, you cackle. Like a witch on a broom, soaring through an inky, Halloween sky, across a big, butterball full moon. “You’re so cheesy, Leon.” His face falls and he rolls his eyes. You never let him off easy when he attempts to play these little games–one-liners and corny jokes to try and set the stage for what he really wants to say…

“Just let me fuck you, okay?” 

There it is.

“That’s all you had to say.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He’s already pumping his half-stiff cock in his hand, it sitting heavy in his palm as it slides back and forth in his fist. “Turn around, princess.” His other hand is positioning you, molding you like a ball of clay, moving your body so that your tits are pressed up against the glass wall, your cheek turned and flat above them. 

He presses his tip through your lips, shoving his length between them, gathering the slick of your arousal before thrusting himself into you, every punishing inch at once, leaving you no moment of reprieve before you’re forced to take it all. The stretch has you purring like a cat, your back arching to find the angle that guarantees almost instant pleasure–the euphoria that comes from feeling full, stuffed to the brim with his cock. 

He pistons in and out of you, muttering a few sweet nothings about the way you feel around him, how much he missed you, how he thought about you and your angelic face every day he was out in the field. You’ve missed the feeling of him inside you so much that you become as drunk as a white-trash divorcée in a bar, singing bad karaoke, pissed off long island iced teas and revenge.

“So tell me, baby, did you miss me?” He asks, nose nuzzling into your cheek as he speaks in your ear. You fail to respond, far too focused on the slow build of your pleasure, hammering the nails into the roller coaster you’ll soon ride up, then down. Unable to shut his mouth for more than five seconds, he returns to your ear, nibbling the lobe before his voice reappears. “Happy I’m home?” 

It’s distracting, sometimes. The way he incessantly pokes and prods while literally poking and prodding. The difference is, one feels good–really, sinfully, it’s-own-circle-of-hell good–and the other one makes that good go poof! 

“Can you just stop asking me questions?” You ask against the glass, backing your hips up just an inch to meet his thrusts half-way. 

He chuckles, the vibrations tickling your cheek, and his hands continue to roam your body, sliding down the sides of your torso, one settling on your throat, the other at the slope of your waist. His fingers just hold your neck, tethering you to him as he presses your front back to the glass, your spine now flush with the line of his abdomen. You can feel his quickening heartbeat against your shoulder blade, paying attention to the rhythm as it grows. 

Leon adjusts the shower head so that the stream of water can cascade down both your bodies, now melded together as one. The sound of his hips slapping your ass as he plummets into you harmonizes with the sound of the wet sheets. 

It takes a while for you to find your high, but once it’s within arm’s reach, you relax your hips and your abdomen, and let your body do the rest of the work. You scream out, crying Leon’s name as his grunts eclipse your whimpers, your walls clamping down on his cock, so tight he can hardly remove himself, and he doesn’t. He finishes violently inside you, growls hot on your neck as he spits out gratitudes to you, to the stars in the sky above, the deities that live among them, for returning him home to you once more. 

“Fuck,” he curses as he finally slides out of your pussy, taking with him the evidence of your mutual ecstasy. “That was so good.”

Planting kisses on your droplet-mottled shoulder, he exchanges the chaste pecks for bites, then kisses again, working his way up the crook of your neck, the curve of your ear. You’ve yet to remove yourself from the glass wall, too jittery to trust yourself not to fall if you do. Plus, you don’t pass up the chance to stay pressed against a hard surface by Leon’s vast chest, savoring the feeling of your skins’ union. 

His hands trail up and down the flesh of your arms, teasing you with the gentle scrape of his nails, the tickling pads of his fingers. Then, as if anything at all needed to be said to punctuate such a beautiful expression of your love, Leon speaks. 

“So, let’s talk more about that collar.”

you watch him, see that distant look in blues. you see it often nowadays, you think, and that's okay. he finds his way back home, even if it takes a moment or two. or three. you'll wait as long as he needs.

"...i'm right here." you murmur, offering a smile. it's a little genuine, a little teasing. but maybe it's a little forced, too. bittersweet. "the real thing is right in front of you, baby."

his gaze flickers, eyes a little bit wider before he relaxes. a huff of amusement, the softening of tired features. his fingers touch the wedding band-- gentle, sacred.

"took this off for a bit." he admits.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

you don't ask for an explanation ; you don't feel one is warranted, given the nature of his job. you sit next to him on the couch, basking in the peace and quiet of your home. he doesn't say anything, yet his mind speaks so loudly, but you are always there to listen. you don't push. you don't rush. you just rest your head on his shoulder, waiting. however long it takes, you'll wait.

a minute, maybe two. you don't know. you don't mind.

"...didn't want to lose it." a softer tone, almost nostalgic. remorseful, yet fond all the same. "first thing i did once everything was settled was put it back on."

"yeah?"

he rests his head against yours, lets out another small chuckle.

"yeah."

"...wouldn't have cared if you lost it." you tell him, hand finding his, fingers lacing together. "as long as you came back home."

"i know." a hint of finality in the still air, then quiet relief as he turns just the slightest bit to kiss the crown of your head. "there's nobody else i'd rather come home to."

"...yeah?"

"yeah."

And with you being away on a week trip with your friends, Leon thought he would have everything under control and he had confidently assured you that he could handle it all; more-over he did: or atleast he tried to.

"I'll handle it, baby. Don't worry. Just enjoy your trip," Leon had told you over the phone the night before; when you called him to ask if and Luna, your daughter and he had dinner, after letting you know they did and that he put Luna to sleep just a bit ago and also he read her favourite bed-time story, that makes you sigh in relief.

Though what Leon didn't tell you was that Luna had been an absolute menace without you, constantly getting into one shenanigans after another, because honestly he wanted you to have fun, and he knew you worked way toohard for this family for him, for everyone around — and you deserved every little or grand happiness in your life — and a little break every now and then.

But something in your gut told you there was going to be chaos. A lot of it at that, so you asked him again while confusion and doubts fills your thoughts and voice, "Leon... if you want, I can come back right away—."

But he only scoffed softly on the other end of the line, as if it was the most absurd idea he had heard, "Trust me, baby."

"I do," you replied immediately, without a second thought, your voice softening slightly, as longing slips in it.

A smile made its way into his tone and even without seeing his face you could hear it in his voice. "Then enjoy yourself. I'll handle everything, I'll take care of our daughter and I'll call you tomorrow."

You couldn't help but hum happily. "God, I love you so much."

"I love you too," he answered just as quickly, his voice dripping with honey as he said it.

Then, after one last quiet goodbye, and one last teasing conversation, he ended the call.

But what he didn't know was — he just had jinxed his entire day.

.

.

Don't get him wrong though, he absolutely adores his daughter. But what he conveniently forgets at times like this, is that she, takes after you completely and is an absolute menace who exhausts him daily: probably more than you ever had.

Yet, Leon loves every second of it, because he knows his daughter, his sweet little heart, isn't going to stay this little forever.

After all, one day she'll grow up, and these chaotic little moments will become memories that he'll spend the rest of his life missing.

So, next morning, after finally getting his daughter to eat breakfast in his bed, and convincing her that ice cream was, in fact, not a breakfast food.

Leon escaped to the shower, hoping for ten uninterrupted minutes of peace while his daughter happily ate her favorite white sauce pasta that he had prepared in quite a hurry. It had gotten slightly burnt, sure, but it was still edible — and, more importantly, it had been made with love. After all, he had taken a bite himself just to make sure it didn't taste terrible. Luckily for him, it actually turned out pretty good — but it was nothing like what you cooked. But hey atleast he tried.

Then he turned and strided towards the bathroom and after slipping inside it, he turned on the shower tap that sprinkled warm water all over his body and he lazily scrubbed away the exhaustion from his torso, while letting it all disappear down the drain.

Though after five minutes, or maybe it was ten, he honestly didn't know— there was absolute silence throughout the apartment.

That alone made him suspicious, because it usually meant his baby was up to something.

Thinking that a quiet chuckle of disbelief slipped past his lips, and without wasting another second, Leon wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out of the bathroom.

The warm steam still clung to his body after the shower, before it slowly dissolved into the cool air of the room, and his damp blond hair fell messily across his handsome face, while droplets of water slid down his forehead and traced the curve of his cheeks, making the entire moment look as though it had been lifted straight out of a movie.

Then he gave his head a small shake, sending a few more droplets scattering as he tried to dry the stubborn strands off his face, then as soon as he was done and suddenly lifted his gaze, the scene unfolding before him made him freeze entirely.

Because perched; precariously on top of the bathroom sink was his five-year-old daughter, with a can of shaving cream that sat open beside her, and half the can... was now covering her whole face, and Leon watched the entire scene through the mirror, then he blinked once, because maybe he imagined it? then he blinked twice but as rapidly, but the scene before him remained the same and seeing her daughter covered in shaving foam, genuine confusion settled across his features.

"Doll..." he began cautiously then he quickly crossed the room, catching her by the waist before she could lose her balance, while holding her steady against him, he looked down at her with equal parts suspicion and a bit of amusement, "What are you up to?"

Luna turned toward him immediately while his hands remained around her safely grounding her beside the sink, and her entire face lighting up the moment she felt her father's presence enveloping her, "Dadda!" she squealed proudly, throwing her tiny arms around his waist before looking up at him with bright, excited eyes. "Look at me!"

For a moment, Leon was absolutely speechless at the sight of his daughter. Then, at last, a low chuckle rumbled from his chest. Because god, she looked so tiny, with foam covering her entirely, then Luna frowned almost immediately seeing Leon laugh. "Do... do I look funny, Dadda?" she asked innocently, jutting out her lower lip as if she were seconds away from crying. Leon quickly shook his head, trying to hold back another laugh, because somehow she had managed to cover her cheeks, chin, nose, eyebrows, and even little strands of her hair in white foam.

"Why did you do it baby?", he asks, furrowing his brows at her, trying to look strict though he fails miserably at that.

She tilted her head like the answer was obvious then with a long dramatic sigh, she drawled out her words. "I wanted to look like you!" she chirped happily. Before Leon could say anything, she leaned forward and rubbed her foam-covered face against his bare chest in a proud little nuzzle.

Leon let out another laugh as he looked down at her, already knowing he'd have to bathe her all over again... and then clean himself up for the second time.

"Why did you wanted to look like me, doll?"

She let out another long, exaggerated sigh, already sounding tired of Leon's questions, but answered anyway. "'Cause you're handsome."

Leon's entire expression melted, as Luna said it, hearing his daughter say he looked handsome really did a number on him, because 'wow' you think your dad looks cool? He is... but you think so too?

"...Am I?" Leon finally said, pulling himself out of his thoughts.

She looked up and nodded enthusiastically at Leon , and his expression and posture softens completely, while his heart —which didnt just melt, it set itself on fire and turned itself into a puddle of nerves in his body. "Thats why I wanted to look handsome too."

Leon let out a small breath, because after all she was still a kid, he thought then he effortlessly lifts her off the sink and settles her in his arms, despite the shaving cream immediately smearing across his bare chest all over again.

Though he didnt care for it anymore — not really, because his little daughter's word were ringing in his ears that he looked 'handsome.' Was enough to send him to world of daydreams.

"You know," he murmured, pressing a kiss against the top of her messy head, "you're already the prettiest little girl I've ever seen. You don't have to do anything to look prettier."

She gasped dramatically, before bursting into fits of giggle into his arms, "am I even prettier than Mama?"

Leon smiled at her, his pupils softening at the mention of you from his little daughter's mouth. God, he loved those quiet moments when it truly sank in that you were his and he was yours— that together, you had created this tiny little girl who filled your home with so much love. "Hmm..." he hummed, smiling to himself, "Mama's beautiful."

"And me?" She asks.

Leon pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head before smiling softly. "And you're the best thing your mama ever gave me," he whispered to her. "And you're an exact copy of your mama beautiful, kind... and everything good in this world."

His daughter seemed to love that answer, because she laughed delightedly, 'teehee' before scooping up another handful of shaving cream from her own face, and with all the confidence in the world, she reached up, to his face, and smeared it across Leon's cheek with her little hands, "There." She nodded proudly, admiring her work with a crinkle in her eyes. "Now we match."

Leon sighed softly at that and looked at her with so much affection that his heart almost ached.

Then an idea suddenly crossed his mind, that maybe he should take a picture of the two of them like this and send it to you.

"Yes, we do," he murmured with a fond smile, already walking toward the living room with Luna in his arms. "Now come on, let's take a picture and show your mother the kind of shenanigans we've been getting up to."

When he proposed the idea, everyone quickly agreed. No officer would have to fill the position, they wouldn’t have to wait for an applicant, and they could trust you would get the job done correctly. Now what they didn’t imagine happening is the Chief of police suddenly not knowing how to behave.

The first few weeks, Leon checked up on you to make sure everything was going smoothly while you were being trained. You adjusted rather quickly. He’d stay by the desk, flirt with you for a couple minutes, and return to his office.

Then the following months, the visits became more frequent. He’d start dropping by multiple times throughout the day, and stayed longer than he was supposed to. He loved having you working at the station. He could see you and talk to you any time he wanted.

And although it was sweet, it threw off the function of the second floor where the officers really needed him to be. They took matters into their own hands and limited him to one daily visit.

That ended up backfiring as soon as the rule was implemented. They saw him heading downstairs, and made a note he was taking his daily visit. So, they minded their business and went back to working.

Hours passed, someone was on the phone to speak with him. The officer tried to ring him, but he wasn’t picking up. Unusual for him. She stood up from her desk and quickly rushed to his office, just to not see Leon there at all.

The man had the entire floor looking for him because the call was important. The bathroom, the library, the archive room, the weapons room. They were practically seething when they found him sitting behind the receptionist desk with you.

All he said was, “You said one visit, not that I had to come back.”

They didn’t blame you since you were actually getting your work done.

They were honestly debating whether or not they should enforce the whole no dating in the workplace rule again. But it didn’t make sense considering you two were married and so were Captains Chris and Jill Redfield of S.T.A.R.S.

So they found the only other solution.

The following work week, Leon got banned from the first floor.

He took it to the heart. He watched you from the second floor like some Victorian yearner until he got sent back to his office by one of his lieutenants.

He tried to sneak past them on several occasions. Sometimes it worked. Other times?

“Chief! Don’t you go down those stairs!”

Leon huffed. He was so close this time. He’d made it halfway down. He glared at the officer standing at the top of stairs. You were at the reception desk, going through mail the station received. He wanted to use the excuse that he was going to pick something up, but they’d just say they would bring it to him. He reluctantly turned around and went right back up.

He passed the sign holder by the stairs made for him that said, “Lunch is at 1PM. Shift ends at 6PM.”

It got bad enough that they assigned someone to keep an eye on him.

The new rookie that joined was so confused why they told him not to allow Chief Kennedy on the first floor under any circumstances besides lunchtime and when it was time to go. Plus, they didn’t even go into detail as to why the Chief was banned from the first floor. They said it so ominously, as if the world would end if he made it down there.

Technically, it was an easy task. His office door was always shut, no matter what. If it ever opened, the loud creaking would alert the rookie and he’d tell his superior the first floor was off limits.

Today, Leon opened his office door cautiously. His officers were overwhelmed at their desks, especially the rookie who was stuck babysitting him. Paperwork was due at the end of the week. Everyone was trying to get it done so they wouldn’t have to stay late on a Friday night.

Perfect. He slipped out unnoticed. He left the door at a crack. If he closed it now, it might catch their attention and he refused to lose this golden opportunity. He kept his body against the wall, heading in the direction of the stairs.

You were making copies of forms. While the printer did the task for you, you swiveled your chair to the computer again to check on an email. Just as you were doing that, there came your husband rushing down the stairs. Leon made it to the bottom step and walked across the lobby towards the reception desk.

Oh great. What was he planning now? Your hand hovered over the phone, ready to call one of the lieutenants. But you didn’t since your husband wasn’t staring directly at you, rather the staircase on your right. He dug his hand in the pocket of his pants and pulled out a slip of paper.

Leon carefully slid it across the counter, and continued walking without looking at you.

The paper was folded in half. You raised a brow. He was probably asking you to meet him in the filing room again. You grabbed the paper and opened it.

“What the…” You muttered.

Do you like me?

Two options. One box said yes, and the other box said yes. You furrowed your brows.

You looked to your right. Leon was leaning against the stair railing. He drew a heart in the air with his pointer fingers and then winked at you. Your eyes followed as he went up to the second floor.

Reminder: File a complaint.

You clicked your pen. Underneath the two boxes, you drew a third one. Right beside it you wrote, “No”, and checked it.

“Is he here?” You glanced up. The rookie was out of air after running down a flight of stairs. Poor boy was carrying the fate of the world on his shoulders and he refused to let it end. That or he thought he might get fired for not keeping Chief Kennedy in check.

Even you didn't have it quite as bad, despite your own status as a capable senior agent who could easily give him a run for his money. Needless to say, he was as excited as a ten year old on Christmas Eve when he finally received his well deserved full week of leave, and who were you to decline a spontaneous getaway with your overly enthusiastic husband? Extreme heat and tourist traps weren't really your ideal idea of relaxation, but if you got to see him smiling and having fun with no care in the world for once, you were ready to handle some sweating and crowding.

Though, judging by the irritated huff you heard from him as he checked his phone for all the ambitious plans he's laid out for you two for the week ahead, it seemed like something didn't go quite right after all. He tsked.

"-Story of my life. Finally out on a vacation with my beautiful spouse and the weather forecast shows nothing but rain for three whole days? Ever had a romantic getaway through a thunderstorm before, sweetheart?" Leon nudged your foot under the cool water, putting his phone right back onto the beach blanket, screen down, notifications turned off for the first time in a long, long while. You could hear his disappointment, frustration even. For as long as you knew him, he was never really fond of rainy weather, and he has been very eagerly anticipating his week of pure relaxation on the beach, complete with sunny skies, your warm touches, and a glass of iced, expensive alcohol to boot.

Not exactly possible with a thunderstorm on the horizon. You and he were sitting comfortably on a wooden dock just a few feet away from the main beach area. It was more your idea than his own. Crowded beaches could get a bit too overwhelmingly loud and stifling for your liking, but here, with nobody but him pressed snugly to your side with one arm draped lazily over your shoulders and a peaceful view of the ocean ahead of you, you could fully indulge in this little vacation of yours. You hadn't gone swimming with him just yet, satisfied to simply let your toes dip into the glistening, cool water below. However, on two occasions Leon did nearly drag you under with a sinister grin that could kill and a deceptively tight grip on your ankle.

You loved seeing him be his mischievous self with you, loved watching him enjoy the water and relax under the sun - only after you studiously applied a generous layer of sunscreen, of course. It wouldn't be long before you joined him properly, but for the time being, all you wanted was to simply take in these tranquil moments.

Although it looked like your plans would have to be shifted around a little.

"Can't say that I have. But hey, I never had any romantic getaways before, so I don't think a rainstorm or two will ruin your chances to impress me," you said, returning the nudge of his foot with your own, watching you two playing footsies in the water for a bit, a carefree smile pulling at your lips. You didn't need perfect weather or fancy plans to forget your problems. All you needed was him by your side. "-Besides, isn't my company enough to brighten up even the rainiest of days?"

After all, he wasn't the only one who could be cheeky. You weren't about to let him fuss and grumble his long awaited vacation away because of a few not-so perfect days ahead. And he was easy to please. A flirty comment or two and a kiss on the cheek were far more effective than one may think.

And just like clockwork, the subtle crease in his brows vanished immediately upon the contact of your lips with his freshly shaven jaw. He was always a sucker for your touch, you'd tease him about it if it wasn't so sweet to see the grumpiness all but melting out of him with just a little bit of affection. He moved his head towards you to chase after you before you could pull back completely, catching your mouth for a lingering, warm kiss that you had no qualms with reciprocating, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips into the soft exchange.

"Well... I did book this trip for dips in the ocean and drinking beers on a floatie, but if I can't have either? I'd say spending it tangled up in bed with you is pretty good compromise," he murmured quietly against your lips, your smile reflecting in his own. The ocean extended ahead endlessly in serene golden ripples beneath the overcast sunset, but the only view you needed was each other, regardless of how corny that may have sounded. Your lives were chaotic enough to justify indulging in the corniest of things as far as you were concerned. Leon leaned back and sighed, but not before giving you a peck on the nose for good measure. "...Still not my idea of a romantic getaway though."

With a lighthearted roll of your eyes, you pulled your feet up from the water, shifting to drape them over his lap in a relaxed, casual fashion you'd usually do back at home on your couch. You could feel his disappointment - and you couldn't say you blamed him for it - but you also didn't want him to spend all week moping about when he was supposed to be relaxing. And if you needed to come up with creative ways to pull him out of that? Well, you were prepared to utilize every weapon in your armory. Metaphorically speaking, of course. You wriggled your toes: "Well hey, I heard even storms can be romantic when you're near the ocean. ...Mostly."

"You're a bad motivational speaker, honey," Leon exhaled with a soft, fond laugh, his hands immediately going to caress and massage at your feet the way he always did whenever you put them there. Even as he entered his late thirties, he remained a massive lover boy. You've learned to appreciate that about him over the years and to reciprocate it in kind. For now, though, you just let him work his magic on your feet while you sighed contentedly with the sun setting and the ocean air caressing over your cheeks, dispelling any extra heat the sun may have brought.

You didn't have to look over to know that Leon wasn't exactly enjoying the view of the ocean the same way you did. But that's okay. After all, you ogled him more than enough for today while he was enjoying his time the water, wet hair slicked back and shimmering droplets of sea water clinging to his chiseled physique and all. You were even.

"...But I know you're smiling."

The first distant rumble of thunder far over the horizon was accompanied by shared laughter instead of groans of disappointment, and that's all the accomplishment you needed for today.

The first raindrops fell as you two were having an overpriced meal at a beachside restaurant. Some highly acclaimed Michelin star establishment with a name you two had way too much fun trying to pronounce in increasingly ridiculous ways on your way there. Even if you had all the money to compete, you most definitely didn't look like a high-end couple on an expensive outing amid all the well-dressed guests. Granted, you never really needed anything pricy to feel fulfilled, but Leon sure loved putting his hefty paycheck to good use, and that included going all out on his vacation. You couldn't call him an outright snob, though, unless it was about his precious motorcycles or firearms. Not when half the fun of picking out your meal options for the night consisted of you two snickering like children over stupid food puns.

But that's why you adored this silly, wonderful man. No one could make you feel as at ease as he did, and nobody could make you smile and laugh as easily as he did. He made life appear so simple just by being himself.

The dark, heavy stormclouds came on so quickly, it felt like a second ago they weren't even there, the large french windows stretching from floor to ceiling giving you the perfect view of the upcoming dark shape cloaking the last remaining rays of the setting sun that were still there, reminding you of the peace just from a mere hour ago. The wind had also intensified significantly, causing the row of palm trees that provided refreshing shade under the summer sun for the main path to sway beneath its might. For now, you were lucky to be inside, with fancy food and no rain. But you'd eventually have to leave. And something told you that you weren't coming back to your rented out cottage dry.

However, for the time being, you dismissed that forthcoming thought and instead concentrated on the pleasant and tranquil ambiance that was cultivated by the gentle pitter-patter of the first heavy raindrops against the windows. This atmosphere has only really added to your intimate dinner date. Leon swirled his glass of expensive whiskey - actual alcohol - not the cheap beach-bar swill from earlier. It felt cozy. In a weirdly luxurious way that you honestly never thought you’d enjoy. And seeing Leon genuinely having fun for a change was a relief in and of itself. You knew that his personal dislike for rainy weather went far beyond a simple preference for warmth and sunshine. You couldn't really blame him for connecting rainstorms with chaos: hurried evacuations, emergency calls back to the DSO whenever another crisis strikes, groans and explosions in Raccoon City's flooded streets, and so on.

But this? This was just… peaceful. And it was your pleasure to give him this peace.

He took a slow sip and glanced at you across the candlelit table. Soft amber light reflected in his gray-blues, his hair looking more mussed and puffed up than usual from his ocean dip an hour earlier. That, and his casually unbuttoned shirt, which gave you a brief view of his collarbones, made him a sight to behold. Though, you willfully reminded yourself to behave, at least until you got back to your cottage. Leon didn't need much to fly off the handle when it came to you, and you knew your resolve to act like a responsible citizen would fray the moment he caught on to you getting excited.

"I still can’t believe we're actually eating at this place without getting kicked out for being 'too casual.' I mean… look at me." He gestured vaguely to himself - his signature pair of dark jeans and a simple blue button-down with rolled up sleeves that also gave you a nice view of his corded forearms. No tie. Not even close to formal wear by five-star standards. Neither of you had the opportunity to put on formal attire.

You snorted fondly, reaching over the table to tap him on the nose. Although you would have preferred to kiss him properly, you still wanted to maintain at least a somewhat respectful demeanor toward the other guests enjoying their dinner. For now.

"That's because you're gorgeous enough to charm even the snobbiest of staff with just one signature Kennedy smile. Lucky me."

It was clear that you were just flirting, but you did also mean it with all your heart. Leon was one stunning man, in looks and heart alike. You must have been a saint in a previous life, because you had no idea what you did to deserve his company by your side for the rest of your days.

Leon chuckled softly, his gaze ducking a little the way it always did whenever you flattered him in one way or another. It was adorable how shy he could become after just a bit of sweet talk from you, just to turn into an absolute menace the next minute. He gently grabbed at your wrist before you could pull your hand back, bringing it up to his lips to press a soft kiss to your knuckles, his breath scattering over the simple silver band adorning your ring finger.

"Well... My Kennedy charm is a powerful weapon of mass seduction I only ever use on my very hot spouse," he said all too proudly, making you chuckle in return before returning to your menu. You didn't want to keep the poor waiter waiting on you any longer for no better reason than your husband making you swoon and lose your concentration. Again. Nevertheless, Leon cleared his throat to catch your attention once more: "I say, if we're wining and dining in the rain, at least I get to do it with an iced glass of Ardbeg Traigh Bhan."

You raised your brows as you looked up at him, catching him grinning at you with a raised toast. He's cut back on his drinking significantly in recent months, which was a very good sign, but it was also lovely to see him enjoying a glass of whiskey for leisure rather than to block out the pain for once.

"...I have no idea what the hell you just said, and I can't even tell if you butchered that name or not," you deadpanned, trying not to make your amusement too obvious. Watching him pretend to be some whiskey connoisseur was sort of comical because you knew full well that he would prefer a greasy burger and a can of beer to dry aged steak and a glass of wine on any given day of the week.

Leon huffed.

"Oh c'mon now, I know a damn good whiskey when I see it," he protested playfully, swirling the rich, amber liquid in his iced glass before tilting his head at you. "Try and rate it out of ten. If I get a score higher than a seven, I'm putting whiskey specialist on my resume."

"A vital qualification indeed," you hummed, playing along with this charade of his. Acting like idiots was half the fun of being with him, after all. Granted, whiskey was never quite your choice of beverage, but a sip or two wouldn't kill you. Besides, even though you teased him, he was undoubtedly more knowledgeable about fine liquor than you were. "-But y'know I'll be biased, I'll always trust your judgement when it comes to drinks."

You took a measured sip out of his glass tasting the rich, smoky flavor that, while certainly not fitting for your own palate, was definitely far more intricate and complex than your average cocktail or a can of beer. At the very least, it didn't taste like cat piss, so you accepted that as proof of its quality alone. Somewhere in the distance, a rumble of thunder rattled through your chest, making you glance back out the window, licking your lips. It appeared that your hopes for a lighter downpour were not fulfilled after all.

"...Really is a shame about the weather," you murmured, more to yourself than to him, really, returning his glass. "Okay, I'll rate it... Eight point five out of ten. Just for that resume update."

"Cheers to my promotion then. Productive even on my vacation. Hunnigan will love it." He raised his glass again in a lighthearted toast, the ice cubes clinking as another rumbling of thunder shook the window. The sky has now gone completely dark from the looks of it, the ocean that has looked so clear to you back on the dock now seeming more like an endless black void. However, Leon was still grinning and concentrating on you rather than the raging downpour outside. You couldn't help but feel proud of him for that, especially considering how hard things have been for him just in the past few years.

It was always reassuring to know that he could still find joy in the smallest of things, even if he did occasionally need your assistance in reminding him how to do that.

You felt his foot lightly nudging yours underneath the table, pulling you away from your little sentimental reminiscing. However, the dim lighting in the restaurant made it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying because the sparkle in his eyes was so much more noticeable than usual.

"-Hey, for the record, I really don't give a damn if it rains for the whole week for all I care. I would still rather be here with you than anywhere else."

Your heart swelled in your chest.

Now who is a sweet talker?

As expected, the food and accompanied conversation about this and that were delightful, so much so that you could easily forget about the storm outside, the muffled sounds of it lost between the exchanged laughs and the soft live jazz music flowing through the restaurant. You both enjoyed a few more plates than you had intended, especially for dessert, and may have had one or two too many glasses to drink. For someone who proudly declared himself not a sweet tooth, Leon sure was eager to steal half of the fancy cheesecake you ordered for yourself. And given the small servings, that only meant one thing. More cheesecake.

It's not like you could stay here all night, protected from the rain, though. Eventually, you had to pay the bill and actually get ready to leave, pouring rain or not. Still, Leon's grin remained unwavering as he signed the bill, leaving a substantial tip in the small black folder to boot. And as he spoke with one of the waiters to hopefully negotiate an umbrella, you were left staring out at the dark clouds overhead. You were appreciative that he used his charisma to get you two an umbrella at the very least, and his proud smile was far too cute for such a little thing, but you weren't sure if it would be of any use to you at all or if it would even withstand the fierce sea wind. Granted, neither of you were strangers to getting drenched. Simple rainwater was far superior to pure sewage water or B.O.W. blood and guts; you'd be alright even if you returned home soaked to the bone. But that didn't mean you had to like it, either.

"...You think we might get lucky enough for the rain to magically stop once we go out?" You asked, a rhetorical question at best.

"Don't you worry, sweetheart, I'll hold you real close so you won't get cold. Your own personal heater. Handy, no?" He teased, all too eagerly offering you his arm in a way that was impossible not to chuckle at. When he was tipsy, he did always become a little more doting.

You gently shook your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek: "You're only saying that as an excuse to get all nice and cozy with me."

"You got me," Leon grinned, readying his umbrella in one hand and slinging his other arm over your shoulders, pulling you in close. He smelled strongly of his citrusy cologne and smokey whiskey, which made you smile subtly against his neck. It was a fresh change of pace for him to not smell of gunpowder and copper. You sensed him place a quick kiss on the top of your head, urging you forward with a small nudge: "C'mon."

Well, here goes nothing.

You stepped outside in unison, the cool sea air hitting you like a wall almost instantly. The rain was indeed still coming down in thick sheets, instantly pitter-pattering against the poor umbrella that did its best to keep up its defense against the relentless assault. A genuine trooper. Still, no magic love spells to save you tonight, you supposed. Leon moved the umbrella further over you, letting the rain hit his now exposed shoulder. You wished you could say you were surprised by the selfless gesture, but it merely made you let out a fond, knowing sigh and shake your head. This stubborn man has always prioritized you first, for better and for worse. By now, you knew better than to argue with him about this, unless you wanted to stand here for twenty whole minutes until his resolve would finally give way a little.

Besides, the cab that he called in would arrive in a matter of minutes.

As the car steadily approached the cottage, you pursed your lips into a thin line, the little coastal house steadily coming into view through the gray haze: cozy, white and blue shutters tucked between palm trees swaying violently in the wind.

"...We're gonna have to make a run for it."

Leon raised an eyebrow at you. You felt his hand that was faithfully resting on your thigh for the entirety of the ride give you a little squeeze. "You forgot about our little umbrella friend or are you just in it for the thrill of it?"

You huffed a little when you met his gaze: "It's barely a two minute run, what's the point of bothering with an umbrella arrangement?"

"-Yeah, two minutes of getting soaked. And that white shirt of yours is gonna be transparent by the time we get there. Unless that's your goal, in which case, hey, I'm not complaining."

You playfully slapped at his bicep, trying in vain to shush him, if not for decency sake - he certainly didn't have that when it came to you - then for the poor driver up in the front who had to patiently deal with you two being sickeningly flirty for a couple that was supposed to be mature enough to know better. But you knew you couldn't hide the smile on your lips, which was like adding more fuel to the fire when it came to him. He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender: "Look, I'm just saying, you mean we grabbed that fancy umbrella for nothing?"

You tilted your chin up: "Of course not, it'll be useful for any future client who might be just like us. Good karma never hurts."

Now it was Leon's turn to affectionately roll his eyes at you, but you could see that he was not going to argue any further on this. "Such a martyr you are."

Once the vehicle has stopped at the front of the cottage and the driver was paid off for all your troubles, he leaned over to plant a totally unnecessarily dramatic kiss to your cheek, quite clearly exaggerating the prolonged 'mwah!' sound for no other reason than to annoy you. But before you could get back at him, he was already throwing open the car door, the wall of rain instantly lashing in, cold and sharp, but still smelling of that sea freshness that served as a reminder that you were here for leisure, not life-or-death.

He had to raise his voice to be heard over the sound of the rainfall, shooting you a grin over his shoulder.

"-Alright fellow agent Kennedy! Operation: Dry Shirt is a go!" If there were still any chances remaining of you two maintaining a respectable image in front of the poor driver, they were officially shattered into pieces by your tipsy goofball of a husband. You didn't mind, though. His grin reflected your own as he tugged you out of your seat and quickly nudged you ahead with a completely unnecessary pat on the butt. "Go, go! I'll cover your six!"

You could've briskly made your way along the pebbled path without any needless fanfare. Perhaps even make it all sweet and romantic: hands clasped together, maybe even a jacket draped over you both to try and stay dry. Instead, you started running at full speed while laughing like nobody was watching, and in a way, it was accurate. It was hard to stop when you could hear his own laughter join you in the roaring downpour of rain coming down around you. Water splashed unceremoniously up your feet with each heavy step, and some of the cold water came from his feet pounding on the puddles beside you, too.

You've run alongside him many times over the years, in the rain or even heavy snowstorm included. However, it was never like this. Never feeling this free and careless in such a pure and childlike way.

Needless to say, you were both, indeed, soaked by the time you arrived at the front door, grinning like fools and breathing heavily despite the fact that this was one of the shortest sprints you had ever done. It was nice for your lungs to struggle for air because of laughter for once, not genuine physical exertion or pain. He unlocked the door and was ready to open it when you placed a hand on his arm. Lightning flashed somewhere overhead. Perhaps it was the alcohol, just enough to get you feeling free and tipsy, bolder than you'd otherwise be. Perhaps it was the warm sensation of delight that grew within you after witnessing so many smiles by his side today with no worries in the world. Or perhaps it was the realization that, for once, the rain did nothing to squander his good mood, that he could appreciate it for what it is, instead of what it was to him on many much darker nights before this one.

In any case, the next words that came out of your mouth were completely spontaneous and didn't require any thought on your part.

"-Hey, dance with me."

Leon paused, his hand still on the doorknob and a carefree grin still on his lips, his brows raising at you from under a mess of his windblown hair that completely decimated his usually perfectly styled bangs. You reached up to brush some of the long strands away, partly just as an excuse to touch him. His shirt was now clinging to his sculpted form, giving you a perfect excuse to appreciate some of the lines and dips you've known by heart for years now. However, you would never grow tired of appreciating him, whether he was disheveled and soaked or impeccably dressed up. And you knew the sentiment was mutual, his own gaze flickering over your drenched form with the same appreciative glint.

"...Dance with you," he reiterated, almost bemused. You couldn't blame him. That was rather cliche and sappy of you. However, he was never modest when it came to being shamelessly sappy with you before. His hand left the keys dangling in the door, finding its perchance on your hip instead and pulling you in close, wet clothes pressed together. "What, here?"

A low rumble of thunder could be heard again in the distance. It was the kind of sound that keeps on going and echoing for a while. Then there was a flash over the palm trees, and another booming sound followed. Leon didn't seem interested, though, his eyes solely fixed on you with that awaiting smile that made you feel young again. You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heartbeat under one palm through the thin, wet cloth and grinning to yourself.

"Yup," you said simply, one single word that was still purely affectionate in a way that even the most ferocious of storms couldn't dare to interrupt.

Leon caressed your cheek with his other hand, and as he leaned towards you in a stupidly handsome manner that only he could pull off so effortlessly, some of the rainfall dripped from the ends of his bangs.

"I know I'm the last person who should be saying this to you, but... It would be kinda reckless, no? I don't want you catching a cold on our vacation," he murmured, voice warm and teasing despite the responsible words.

You raised a brow: "We're already soaking wet."

To further drive your point home, you flicked some of the wet bangs off of his forehead, stifling a snicker when the strand stuck right back to his face. He let out a loud sigh, obviously giving in without making much of an effort to put up a fight. Not that his heart was ever even in it, evidently.

"Sometimes you give me a run for my money when it comes to being a smartass, hun. Alright, fine. One dance, you hear?" He grinned and leaned forward to nuzzle your neck, causing you to shiver against his chest. In a typical Leon fashion, he was absolutely shameless in the way his nose dragged down the curve of your neck, soon replaced by his lips as he pressed a warm kiss to your collarbone that contrasted wildly with the coldness of the rain. That was one way to maintain your warmth, you supposed. He glanced up at you, mischief in his eyes. "...But I get a reward, too."

You felt his hand that was grasping your hip slip upwards, his fingers sliding beneath your damp shirt and leisurely tracing up and down your spine. You didn't mind the attention, grinning to yourself as you nudged his head back up, not wanting him to get too distracted. At least not yet. "Deal."

And so, you took a step back, but only to chuckle and pull him along as you abandoned the safe threshold you ran so carelessly to get to, stepping back under the pouring rain with him in tow. You squealed and laughed again when the cold water hit you, and this time you resisted the urge to hide yourself from it, instead welcoming it with open arms. You weren't sure if you could call it a dance per se. To be fair, dancing was never really your thing, and even during your wedding ceremony, you likely looked pretty awkward despite all your preparation in advance. But it's not like anyone was insane enough to be outside in this downpour to see you two laughing and twirling around like preschoolers. However, Leon made it clear that he was intent to always have at least one hand on you, and if he had his way, you would most likely be pressed up flush against him. But for now, he was content with simply having his hand on the small of your back, doing his best goofy impression of a waltzing gentleman.

The initial burst of energy was brief, but it was still more than enough. And as you two slowed down for a more intimate and tender moment, you couldn't help but feel your heart skip a beat at the way the soft orange light from the night lamps on your front porch danced across his features. Sometimes you could swear he was a living marble sculpture or something. Carefully crafted and molded for many tiring hours to achieve that impossible level of perfection for many generations to admire. But he was no timeless statue; he was alive and warm, there for you to touch, and he chose you as his sole admirer on his own accord. So you touched him, swiping yet another stubborn wet strand of hair away from his eye, your thumb brushing over the apple of his cheek in a way that was utterly unnecessary. Despite being a drenched mess, he was still cheerful and grinning. You felt yourself grin, too, draping your arms over his broad shoulders and pulling him in close. You couldn't help but laugh when you watched his nose scrunch up from a droplet of rainwater slowly rolling down the slope, most likely tickling him. You solved his plight by leaning forward to nuzzle your noses together.

It was a fairly awkward approach, but you appeared to favor awkward decisions today.

"God you're cute," he murmured with a soft laugh, his own arms tightening their hold around your middle in that affectionate way he always did whenever he just couldn't get enough of you. "I must say, your idea of a 'romantic getaway' is pretty chaotic. I should up my game"

You shrugged.

"Maybe. But I made you smile, didn't I?"

Another lightning flashed somewhere behind the stormclouds as he gently nudged you back one careful step at a time until you found yourself leaning back against one of the pillars with a cold shiver. Despite the frigid, wet stone pressing to your back, his swift positioning in front of you, with one thigh pressing between your knees and his chest all but pushed up against you, elicited a shiver for a different reason altogether. The cold was quickly replaced by warmth, even as his cold lips pressed to the underside of your jawline. You exhaled a gentle laugh, one hand moving up his back to bury itself into the damp mess of hair on the back of his head.

"Yeah... You make me smile like the biggest, happiest fool alive," he murmured, softer now, lacking the usual playfulness his words were laced with on the regular. He meant it, you could tell. You sighed as you felt him travel down again, lingering at your shoulder with a trail of warm kisses. He hummed, low: "...Thank you. For always making me smile. Even in a literal shitstorm."

It made your heart melt a little. You knew his gratitude ran deeper than a simple ruined vacation day fixed with a couple of laughs and kisses. The rain had once flipped his life upside down in the worst way. He was thanking you for making him smile despite it. With you, he didn't have to think about the past, or even the approaching future. He had the ability to concentrate on the here and now, regardless of the time or the weather.

"You make me smile every day that you're with me," you returned, your fingers clumsily combing through his wet hair. It was your best attempt at affection at your current soaked state of things. His low hum on your shoulder said he appreciated it nonetheless. Cheesy or not, sometimes it was worth saying what was on your heart regardless. And he was the one person in the entire universe you could be your cheesiest self with with no second thoughts. "It's only fair I return the favor."

You felt him chuckle against your neck, his breath tickling you in the best of ways. When it came to being corny, as long as you could see that warm, almost boyish smile light up his entire face as he pulled back to look you in the eyes, you knew you'd never try to hide it away from him.

"I don't know about fair, sweetheart," he said, one hand traveling upwards to cup your cheek, making pleasant warmth from his palm seep into your chilled, wet skin. You placed a kiss on his wrist, sensing his thumb graze the skin beneath your eye. "...You give me everything and more."

At that, you couldn't help but huff, giving him a look. This again? You swore, you could be old and wrinkly sitting on your back porch in your rocking chairs, watching your grandkids playing in the pool, and he'd still find ways to bring himself down. Then again... you supposed, you also tended to put him up on a pedestal. Guess you were two peas in a pod when it came to that. Either way, you weren't going to let it slide. Not now, not ever.

"-And you don't? Cooking up my favorite meals on my bad days when I don't even say a peep to you, bringing me coffee just the way I like it even when I'm being a morning grouch, sharing your precious hair products when I forget to order mine again?" All of these things were so small in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential even, and you were being playful with him in big part. Nonetheless, they conveyed just how much he cared. Still cared, just as strongly as he did in your first crazy weeks together. It was just not as loud or flashy. Instead, it was a quiet routine built on respect and comfort between you two that has helped you both grow strong and steady together, like a sturdy foundation keeping the rest of the house standing strong through the seasons. You lifted your finger: "-And that's me purposefully ignoring the obvious 'gonna lay down my life for you' shtick we both agree on."

Thunder rumbled again and the echo followed suit. Leon didn't say anything in response, but when he eventually moved in to give you a proper heated kiss on the lips, you met him halfway and laughed against him as you tasted the cheesecake he had stolen from your plate on him. When he pulled back, he didn't try to hide his clear desire for more than just that, a way to show you the same kind of unconditional love and warmth you've shown him today. You'd let him, of course. You'd welcome it, even.

His tender touch contrasted sharply with the desire blossoming in his eyes as he rubbed your arms, adding warmth to your soaking body.

"Well, if we're even, then I better get my reward now, yeah? First order of business... Get you inside and out of these clothes," he placed a peck to your cheek, smirking warmly. "How's that sound?"

fumbling with the keys of your shared house, leon heavily sighs before finding the right one. he blinks, twisting the knob open, and stumbles into the living room. it's late, yet after his conversation on the phone with you, where he pleaded with you to go to sleep before he gets home, there's a part of him that knows you didn't listen, as disobedient as you always were.

shoving off all his equipment and whatnot onto the carpet of the living room (with not a care for your scolds next morning), he goes into your shared bedroom, a bit expectant to see you up and awake just for him— but he was... wrong?

his expression drops slightly at the sight of you spread out like a starfish on the bed, taking up even his side. he huffs in amusement, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking in your look. eyes shut tightly, eyebrows slightly furrowed, and your mouth slightly ajar. you looked... amusing, to say the least. looks like leon didn't have to worry about you lacking sleep for tonight.

so, he prompts for a shower.

the warm water eases his body almost immediately, and the old man couldn't help but groan softly. his injuries still stung, but he knows you'd tend to restitch and sanitize them when the time comes. leon's definitely looking forward to that. secretly delusional, as he is, he smiles when he imagines the look on your face when he moves even the tiniest bit while you're stitching. your face would be scrunched up in exasperation, voice pouty as you chide him.

"why are you smiling, mister?" your voice cuts him off, and he feels his heart drop stronger than the first time he saw a zombie.

leaning against the now-open glass shower door, you raise an eyebrow at him. "i waited up for you all night," you mutter, crossing your arms.

"yeah, sure you did, honey." he retorts, turning off the shower water. he reaches out for the towel, but you're quicker, handing it to him yourself.

"are you doubting my love for you?" you narrow your eyes, and he huffs as he covers his lower part. "not at all," leon waltzes out of the shower now, heading for the sink. you hum, following after him. you gaze at him through the mirror, "so? where'd your mission bring you this time?"

leon looks back at you, eyes evidently tired, before he lets out a low scoff, leaning down to wash his razor. "you'd never believe it," he murmurs. "well, i'm intrigued," you answer, standing beside him now.

"raccoon city,"

it takes a few moments for you to process before a slow smile of sympathy reaches your lips. "really?" you softly say now, watching as he puts shaving cream on his face. you tilt your head, catching his eyes. "how was it?" you ask, and he glances at you for a moment before going back in the mirror. "it was... interesting," he answers.

"i'm going to need more than that, leon," you sigh in contempt, grabbing the razor and deciding to take matters into your own hands. leon clicks his tongue, but with feigned annoyance. he lifts you onto the counter, and you bite back a smile as he stands in between your legs. "you're quite energetic. can't you wait until the morning?" he grumbles, but you don't listen, shutting him up by slowly shaving his jaw.

"i can't live on a cliffhanger," you murmur, now focused on your work. "you tell me you go back to raccoon city, then stop there. it's unfair,"

leon sighs, but you hold his face in place— so he looks directly at you, thinking about what to say.

but he's distracted, to say the least. a part of him yearns to forget all about that investigation with all the deaths, zombies, viruses, and scary stuff, and enjoy some time with you. plus, you looked breathtaking. if he said it out loud, you'd beg to differ— but when did leon ever care about the way you looked?

"stop dozing off. is this a sign of age?" you put the razor down, an annoyed expression now etched on your beauty, but it makes leon laugh. before he knew it, you were already done with shaving. "really? you're going non-verbal now?" you complain as he washes his face. but you pat it with a towel as soon as he finishes.

"i'm just thinking, gorgeous." he says, muffled through the towel as he leans his hands against the counter, effectively trapping you. the towel is long gone now, and it was just you and leon.

just the two of you, as always.

he leans down, a soft sigh leaving his lips before he looks back into your eyes. no more playful banter, or whines and complaints. you set your hands on his shoulders, "talk to me, honey. what went through your head?" you softly speak, rubbing his skin comfortingly.

leon ponders for a moment, before he speaks up. "i met this girl, she was kidnapped by an ex-t-virus researcher from umbrella." he gruffly speaks, and you listen intently, "and she reminded me of well... me. from all those years ago."

your expression turns solemn, "rookie leon, huh?" you try to keep it lighthearted, caressing his cheeks now. he huffs, "yeah, definitely him."

leon continues, "and she was so desperate to help, to undo the wrongs she blames herself for." he takes a deep breath, and you sigh, feeling all his pent-up emotions. "and it all went down in raccoon city, of all the places."

"oh leon," you shake your head, empathizing with him. "come here honey," opening your arms, you invite him for a warm hug. something you know he needed.

as leon always was, he leans right into your arms, inhaling your scent after days of being away from you. his chin's placed on your shoulder, arms around your waist.

this was the silence leon s. kennedy yearned for— the sweetness of an embrace that he knows is waiting for him, no matter what. an embrace that could easily leave this veteran d.s.o. agent's heart defenseless. 30 years of fighting b.o.w.s, to this was more than a reward. knowing there's a place to go home to felt just right in leon's soul.

"tell me more about it in bed, baby," you whisper, rubbing his back with a smile as you pull away slightly to look at his face. "i wanna hear everything about it." you add, pushing his damp hair back gently.

leon grins, giving you a chaste kiss on the lips. simple yet effective, it gets both your hearts to flutter even after all the years of being together. the agent then hauls you up, bringing you back to your shared bedroom.

safe to say— you were the one who totally captured leon kennedy's heart.

𐙚────ᝰ.ᐟ₊ ⊹

a/n: heyyy! if you've reached all the way to the end, thank you so so much for reading <3

i thought i'd make a little au where reader is leon's wife and he comes home to them after the events of re9! no ship wars— his fandom is canonically his wife :P

also, mid-writing i remembered that elpis literally healed leon as a whole (if i'm not mistaken) so him having injuries might not be canon(?) idk i didn't bother changing it cause i thought the scene in the shower was cute.

His keys disappeared into his pocket. The fatigue of a fourteen-hour workday evaporated. Years of training slid into place. There was no television, no music, no voices, no movement.

His heart began to pound.

"Sweetheart?" he called.

He waited, only for silence to greet him.

His jaw tightened.

The living room was empty. Kitchen empty. No sign of you

No sign of his daughter. The little shoes by the front door were gone.

Leon moved silently through the house, checking corners, checking sightlines, following the familiar ritual of a man who had spent most of his life preparing for terrible things.

The hallway.

Empty.

Dining room.

Empty.

Upstairs.

Still nothing.

The knot in his chest tightened. His mind was already constructing possibilities: an emergency, an accident, a break-in. Every terrible scenario his career had trained him to anticipate.

He reached the top of the stairs and paused, listening.

There was absolutely no sound.

And then, muffled, behind a door down the hallway, he heard a giggle. In the guest room.

Leon froze.

He heard another tiny sound. A whisper. Then frantic shushing.

Leon's eyes closed briefly as his shoulders sank and his head fell back.

Jesus Christ.

The guest room door burst open.

"SURPRISE!"

A tiny blur launched itself at his legs. Leon barely had time to react before his daughter collided with him at full speed. Construction paper exploded everywhere. Glitter rained across the hallway. A handmade crown landed near his shoe as a small body was wrapped around his waist.

"Daddy!"

For a moment Leon simply stood there, motionless and staring.

His daughter looked up at him expectantly, smiling with that smile that was missing two front teeth. Her hair was slightly crooked. Her face was covered in marker. She was holding what appeared to be a Father's Day card assembled entirely from glue and determination.

"Daddy?"

Leon swallowed. Hard. He crouched, scooped her up, and held on. The card crumpled slightly between them.

His daughter immediately began talking. Words poured out in a stream. About crafts, about surprises, about how Mommy helped but not too much because she did most of it herself, about breakfast, about decorations, about everything.

Leon didn't say a word. He just held her, one hand spread across her back, the other cradling the back of her head.

You appeared in the hallway doorway a moment later, leaning against the frame, your face softening because you knew that look. You'd seen it before on the rare occasions Leon was caught off guard by happiness. The moments that slipped through his defenses. The moments when the weight of everything he'd survived collided with everything he'd gained.

His daughter was still talking, still chattering happily, oblivious.

Leon lowered his face into her hair. His shoulders were still rising with a careful breath when you saw it.

A tear.

Sliding silently down his cheek.

Your chest ached. God. After all these years, seeing him cry still felt sacred.

His daughter finally noticed.

"Daddy?"

Leon laughed softly, a broken little sound, then kissed the top of her head.

"I'm okay, kiddo." His voice was rough. "So okay."

His crushing hug kept her from saying anything else, and then she forgot the words beneath the weight of her giggles.

You smiled, wiped discreetly at your own eyes, and decided the moment had become too emotional. Somebody had to save everyone.

So you stepped forward and cleared your throat.

You said quietly, "Mommy got you something too."

Leon looked up, still holding your daughter, still visibly wrecked.

You held out a card.

Simple. Blue. He liked blue. Slightly bent at one corner.

His eyes immediately softened.

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

"Yeah. Happy Father’s day."

He took it carefully, like it might break.

Your daughter twisted excitedly in his arms.

"Open it!"

Leon smiled and he opened the card. Inside, in your handwriting, were only a few words.

Coupon for one free blowjob.

Leon almost choked on a stifled laugh. His eyes moved lower.

Thank you for being the safest place either of us have ever known.

The hallway went quiet. Leon stared at the words. His thumb brushed across the ink.

His eyes closed.

A fresh tear escaped despite his best efforts.

Your daughter gasped dramatically.

"Daddy's crying again."

You laughed.

Leon laughed too, a helpless, embarrassed sound.

Your daughter wrapped both arms around his neck. You stepped closer and pressed yourself against his side.

And there, in the middle of a hallway littered with glitter and construction paper, Leon Kennedy stood surrounded by the two people he loved most in the world, holding his daughter, holding your card, believing finally that he had succeeded in making the world safe enough to make a difference.

At least for you.

leon sat in his car, hands squeezing the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. he hasn’t even left the parking lot of the private airport. he’d watched government officials remove the remains of the BOWs he had managed to bring back. he was trying to make sure they were contained properly, but that just turned into him staring off at the blinking lights on the landing strip. little beacons in the night.

if he’d had a normal life he would’ve probably been in bed asleep with a wife curled up against him. maybe kids asleep down the hall from them. a modest home in a quaint neighborhood. that was the goal, right?

but nobody stayed very long, or leon just didn’t give them a chance to — except for you, but that ended months ago at this point.

the key to your house still attached to his key ring was a painful reminder of everything he couldn’t have. everything he lost. it mocked him when he’d return from missions.

leon never knew why you hadn’t asked for it back, maybe you’d forgotten that he’d had it, or maybe you let him keep it on purpose. like giving him an excuse to come back. or maybe you’d changed the locks and it didn’t matter if he had the key at all.

that thought stung the most. he knew you didn’t want him to come back, your words made it evident the day he was called in the middle of the night five months ago for an assignment.

he’d slipped out of your bed and packed his bag with his gear— he’d kept it all at your house because he was there more often than he was at his apartment at that time. leon had known for a while that you weren’t happy with his job, but that time was your breaking point. it was all so fresh in his mind. the things you said, how you’d begged him to stay, but his feet carried him to the door anyway. how your voice sounded when you told him not to come back after he was done with the assignment. leon had barely looked over his shoulder at you before grunting like it was a response then left without a word. he hadn’t even really given it much thought until he had returned from that assignment to find his stuff in a couple boxes on your porch. that was real.

the breakup didn’t stop leon from checking in on you. he’s gotten into a habit of parking in the street across from your house when he returns from assignments.

he tried to tell himself he wouldn’t do it anymore but he’s breaking. feels like he’s deteriorating, like his fight has been depleted. and he’s leon…he’s supposed to be strong, be the one who never quits because that’s how he was trained…

leon couldn’t explain why this mission had sent him over the edge. why this time he’d come back completely and utterly shattered. he didn’t think it was one thing in particular, but a culmination of everything he’s seen and been through over the years. that maybe after almost dying for the nth time he just couldn’t help it.

your porch light is on, the single bulb illuminating the front door. you’d gotten into a habit of leaving that light on whenever he was away, guess that hasn’t changed.

he knows it’s a mistake, knows he shouldn’t go to the porch, shouldn’t try to use the key.

but steps out of his car and across the street before he can stop himself.

everything feels like it’s too much, too heavy and dark. so fucking dark in his head.

leon just needs the one person that had been his only safe haven.

he stops at the door, unblinking as he stares at the light, watches how a couple months fly around it. he understands how they feel. trapped, stuck in this loop because they don’t know any better. does he know better?

his jaw clenches as tears collect in his eyes. he didn’t have the energy to stop them. he was strong, but he’s still human. and he’s seen so much bad.

when he works up the courage to slide the key into the lock he’s surprised the lock clicks and he’s able to open the door.

a brief worry about scaring you considering it’s the middle of the night and he’s not sure if he’s really welcome crosses his mind, but when he steps inside and lets the door close behind him, he’s enveloped in the familiar smell of you, your home— and it wrecks him.

his back hits the door with a thud, hands shaking and legs giving out as he slides down until he’s seated on the hardwood floor.

you had always been a light sleeper, so when you heard noise coming from downstairs you grabbed the metal bat you kept next to your nightstand and crept out of your bedroom. calling the cops would’ve probably been the logical reaction to thinking there was an intruder in your home.

you tried to rationalize the sound. it was just an animal or the wind. when you step off the stairs and poke your head around the wall you see the figure slumped against the door. even in the dim lighting you know it’s leon. you’d know it’s him regardless if you could see or not.

“leon! you scared the hell out of me.”

your voice cuts through the silence. sighing, you set the bat down and step into the hallway. it’s only when you get closer that you see how he’s shaking. his legs are pulled up to his chest and he just looks so small, so unlike himself.

“leon?” any irritation you were feeling about him just showing up after no contact for months was gone instantly.

you knelt in front of him. unsure of what to do or say. you’ve seen how his work effects him before, how he would get sometimes between missions. it’s why you asked him to stop, why you broke it off with him when he continued to leave. but you couldn’t recall a time that he was like this. never like this.

“baby,” the term of endearment slipped off his tongue broken, tinged with a sadness that never was there before.

“hey, talk to me,” you reach forward, gently placing your hand on his cheek, lifting his head.

the pain in his eyes is so clear. you know something happened, something must’ve happened for him to be like this.

“i should’ve listened to you,” the words came out with a sob, empty eyes meeting yours. he knew that you had been looking out for him and his well being when you asked him to quit, asked him to stop risking his life every single time the DSO calls him, and yet, he kept going back.

you watched tears slip down his face, he was clearly dealing with something you couldn’t begin to comprehend.

leon had shared some details regarding his job with you. he had to after he showed up bloodied, bruised and in a sling from dislocating his shoulder. that was all mild, thankfully, but he did end up having to tell you more than he wanted because of that incident.

“i’m so sorry,” his words were barely audible. he just couldn’t hold himself together anymore. he leaned into you, needing you’re warmth. he just needed tonight, that’s it, he’d leave in the morning.

you blink a few times, finding that you’re growing emotional over seeing him this way. tentatively, you wrap your arms around him, letting him lean against you fully.

leon pressed his face into the crook of your neck trying desperately to calm his breathing, quiet his torturous mind.

“please don’t apologize.”

“i should’ve listened—“

“no, it’s not your fault,” you press a kiss to the top of his head. trying to find the right words. “i should’ve handled things better.”

the love you have for leon runs deep. you’re unsure whether he knows it, but the breakup didn’t dull your feelings for him, nor his for you.

“just let me stay tonight,” it felt more like a plea than anything else. his hands weakly grab at your sides, he’s hanging on by thread. “please don’t kick me out again.”

your heart sinks at the pure desperation in his voice. the brokenness of his voice. how hollow he sounds.

you hold him tighter, threading your fingers into his hair. tears cling to your lashes as they begin to fall from your eyes as well. throat burning from the raw emotion.

you press your cheek against the top of leon’s head, cradling him against you, trying to comfort him as best you can. there’s no way you could ever push him out again, not after this, not now.

“you don’t have to go, this is your home too,” you whisper, it’s all you can manage now. if this is hard for you, you can’t begin to imagine how hard this is for him. you’re not the one who’s witnessed horrific things and been on the verge of death countless times.

you feel him relax then fall apart more, holding nothing back. the sobs that wrack his body are so powerful that you have to bite your lip to keep yourself composed. now isn’t the time for you to fall apart too. it isn’t until the shaking stops and his tears have run dry that you’re able to find your voice.

“we can talk in the morning. let’s…just get some rest for now,” you’re uncertain of what the conversation will bring, but you know now is not the time for it, it can wait until tomorrow or the next day. leon can’t, he comes first.

leon nods, lifting his head to see your face wet with tears like his. his lips brush against yours, a ghost of a kiss. he pulls back before either of you have a chance to do something emotion fueled. it’s evident neither of you are in your right mind.

you meet his eyes once more, and they are damning. they say more than he can put into words right now.

‘i can’t do this alone anymore, i need you, i need your strength’.

he leans on you as you both stand. silence passes between you two, there’s a million things you both could say right now, but none of them come. this is enough for now.

you flick off the porch light before wrapping an arm around leon, walking you both to your bedroom.

you’ll figure this out when day breaks because leon’s home, and he’s not leaving again.

⊹₊⟡⋆ thanks for reading. ⊹₊⟡⋆