NERD

Robin doesn't smoke cigarettes. She'll drink until she's sick, will smoke weed until her eyes are red and glassy, but she's always drawn a hard line at cigarettes. "They're disgusting," she'd say whenever someone offered her one at a party. "I don't understand how anyone can stand them."

You close the door gently behind you, catching sight of yourself in the mirror mounted on the wall. Your face is splotchy and swollen, eyes puffy from crying, mascara smudged beneath your lashes like bruises. Your jaw sets, muscles tensing, because you know the night isn't ending yet. Know there's one more confrontation to survive before you can collapse.

You walk closer to the balcony, and Robin hears you over the sound of waves crashing below. She looks over her shoulder at you, her long straight chestnut hair whipping in the wind, catching the light from the room behind you and the moon above. Robin's face hardens when she sees you, jaw clenching, and she watches as you step out onto the balcony but keep your distance—standing close enough to talk but far enough that you won't accidentally touch.

Robin snaps her focus back to the ocean, and you see her grimacing at the cigarette in her hand like it betrayed her somehow, like she can't believe she's actually smoking it.

There's a beat of silence. Just the waves and the distant sound of music from a party somewhere down the beach and the wind rustling through the palm trees below.

And in the emptiness, you realize how long you've been angry at Robin. How long you've pushed it aside, buried it deep, ignored it for the sake of your friendship because losing her felt unthinkable. But it's been there all along, festering beneath the surface.

Robin takes another drag, exhaling smoke that gets caught by the wind and dispersed immediately. "Nancy broke up with me." Her voice is flat, dead. "Jonathan is taking her to the airport right now."

Your heart drops, stomach plummeting like you've just fallen off a cliff. You look out at the ocean again, listening to people laughing somewhere in the distance. Probably drunk college students having the time of their lives while yours falls apart.

But you don't say anything. You wish you could've seen Nancy before she left. Wish you could've hugged her, told her you understood, told her you were sorry.

Robin continues, shaking her head, and you realize she must have been crying before she came back to the room. Her eyes are red-rimmed, puffy, nose running slightly. "We went looking for you, you know? After you left the restaurant. And I asked her if you were telling the truth. If she was actually miserable." Robin's voice breaks, cracking down the middle. "She told me she loves me. But she can't lie anymore."

Robin finally looks at you, tears streaming down her face, catching the moonlight. "Are you happy now?"

You scoff, the sound harsh and bitter. You take a moment to close your eyes and breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth, trying to steady yourself. "Why would that make me happy, Robin?"

"Because isn't this what you wanted?" Robin's voice rises, sharp with accusation. "Since you can't be with Steve, you have to break me and Nancy up?"

You twist your body to face her fully, nose flaring with anger. "Cut that shit out, Robin." Your voice is hard, uncompromising. "I have been there for you and Nancy from the beginning, and you know it. I have always been there for you two."

You take a breath, trying to contain the fury building in your chest. "Seeing you be your full self around her when you can—god, Robin, you have no idea how much it kills me that it's not enough. That neither of you can be happy hiding like this." Your voice softens slightly, but the anger is still there underneath. "Of course I didn't want you to break up. But what else is there to do when you won't admit the arrangement isn't working?"

You pause, gathering courage for the question you've wanted to ask for months. "Does Nancy really want it to be you, her, and Steve for the rest of your lives? Do you?"

Robin's face transforms immediately at the last part—sadness replacing anger, lips twisting as she tries not to sob. Tears run faster down her cheeks, dripping off her jaw. She doesn't answer the question. Instead, she deflects.

"Nancy told me I was pretending not to see that you and Steve like each other." Robin pauses, swallowing hard. "I wasn't pretending. I knew Steve liked you. He told me."

Your face drops. Your heart skips a beat, then starts racing, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

Robin swallows thickly, her throat working. "But I shut it down."

Your eyes flare wide, heat flooding through you—part anger, part devastation. "How?"

Robin's jaw ticks, muscle jumping under skin. She rubs her free hand over her face, takes another drag of the cigarette that's now barely more than a filter. "I told him what you told me. That you didn't like him like that and never would."

Your eyes dance over Robin's face. You’re searching, trying to understand, trying to process. Your mouth falls open, eyes going wider. "This happened on Friday, didn't it?" The pieces are clicking into place now, sharp and painful. "That's why you were so angry? That's why he—"

You trail off, unable to finish the sentence. You grip the balcony railing, knuckles going white from the pressure, trying to steady yourself as the world tilts sideways. Your breathing comes fast and shallow.

"What?" Robin's voice is defensive, aggressive. "I was telling him the truth that I knew. It's not my fault you kept lying to me about how you felt."

"And how the fuck was I supposed to, Robin?" Your voice raises, loud enough that someone in a nearby room might hear. You don't care. "When you told me not to? When you said he doesn't do relationships? Maybe he doesn't do relationships because of you. Because he thinks you're all he has."

Robin is taken aback, face crumbling like you've struck her. She looks young suddenly, vulnerable, scared and small.

But you can't stop now. The words are pouring out, months of frustration and hurt and swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "This isn't about me and him. This is about you." Your voice drops, going quieter but no less intense. "I have been nothing but understanding. But I don't understand why you still feel like you have to hide behind him. I'm not saying you need to come out to the world, but... maybe you should come out to yourself."

Robin lets out a choked sob, her whole body shaking with it. "I think you should leave."

You curl your lips inward, biting down hard enough to taste copper. You sniffle, wiping at your face. "Yeah. I was planning on it."

Robin stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray the hotel has set out on the balcony, grinding it down with more force than necessary. She gives you one more look—angry and hurt and betrayed all at once—before storming past you into the hotel room. The door slams behind her with enough force to rattle the frame.

You stand on the balcony alone, the ocean stretching out before you dark and endless. You let out a shaky breath and cry into your hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

You finally collect yourself enough to go back inside. You pack your things, though you realize you hadn't really unpacked much from the first night anyway—like some part of you always knew this would happen, was always prepared to run.

You don't see anyone else you know as you slip through the hotel halls. They're all hiding in their respective rooms probably, licking their wounds, trying to figure out what happens next.

You wonder if Steve is safe. Wonder if he made it back to his room okay, if Jonathan or Eddie are with him, if he's still crying on that empty beach.

You almost—almost—go to the room you suspect he's sharing with Jonathan. Room 408, you think, or was it 412? You could knock, could make sure he's okay, could tell him you lied when you said you don't love him.

But no. You can't. You can't see him again, can't risk changing your mind, can't let yourself hope for something that will never work.

You hail a cab to the airport instead, throwing your duffel bag in the trunk and climbing into the backseat. The driver asks where you're going and you tell him Miami International, and then you sit in silence for the forty-minute drive, watching the city lights blur past the window.

At the airport, your eyes scan the departure board, tracking over different destinations. New York. Los Angeles. Chicago. Atlanta. Dallas. Boston.

You have no idea where to go. You don't want to go back to college, back to that dorm room, back to staring at Robin's empty bed and being reminded of everything you've lost.

You sigh and walk up to the ticket counter, telling the worker where you want to go. Home. Back to your parents' house, back to your childhood bedroom, back to a place where things made sense before Steve Harrington and breaking your own heart.

Later, standing at a payphone with coins clutched in your sweaty palm, you dial your parents' number. It rings three times before your mom picks up.

"Hello?"

"Mom?" Your voice cracks on the word, and you bite back another sob.

"Honey? Are you okay? I thought you were in Miami—"

"I'm coming home." The tears are falling again, and you can't stop them. "Can you pick me up from the airport? Tomorrow morning?"

There's a pause, and you can hear the concern in your mother's voice when she speaks. "Of course. Of course, sweetheart. What happened?"

"I'll tell you when I get there," you lie, knowing you won't, knowing you'll smile and say spring break was fine and your friends were busy and you just missed home.

But your mom doesn't push. She never does. She asks what time your flight lands, tells you she'll be there, tells you she loves you.

You hang up the phone and stand there in the fluorescent lighting of the airport terminal, surrounded by strangers going to places you'll never see, and you feel more alone than you've ever felt in your life.

.-.-.-.

Sunday of spring break week, your parents drop you back off at school.

Your mom didn't ask questions during the week, thankfully. You'd spent most of it in your childhood bedroom, sleeping too much, eating too little, pretending everything was fine when you came down for meals. But you think maybe this time, if she had asked, you would've told her. Would've broken down and explained everything—Steve, Robin, the lies, the love, the loss of it all.

But she didn't ask, and you didn't tell, and now here you are.

Your parents smother you in hugs and kisses before you get out of the car. Your dad points at you, his usual joke ready. "Don't get pregnant." His way of saying I love you, I'll miss you.

Normally you laugh and roll your eyes and say, "I love you, Dad. I'll see you soon."

But this time your stomach twists violently, and you feel like you could vomit at the thought. At the memory of Steve in the tent saying he'd imagined having kids for the first time, of him looking at that family at the campsite with longing in his eyes. And even though it took forever for you to see you like him, you knew with aching clarity that’s when your heart unzipped itself, letting him in. 

You manage a weak smile and a wave instead, then grab your bag and head inside.

Your dorm room is cold when you walk in, the heating apparently turned down over break. You throw your duffel bag on your bed, and the smell hits you immediately—yours and Robin's detergents mixed together, her perfume and your body spray, everything that used to mean home and safety and best friends.

Everything that reminds you that you used to be friends. Best friends.

You break down again, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, sobbing into your hands.

Dinner is lonely. The dining hall is mostly empty—most students haven't returned yet, won't be back until late Sunday night or early Monday morning. You sit by yourself at a table near the window, pushing food around your plate without eating much.

The library is lonely. You try to study, to get ahead on reading for your classes, but the words blur together and you can't focus.

Everything is lonely.

That night, when you eventually crawl into bed, you toss and turn. The smell of Miami still clings to your clothes—salt and sunscreen and heartbreak burning in your nostrils. You know it's late, maybe midnight, and you can't stop thinking about two weeks ago when Steve Harrington was standing outside your window, grinning up at you like an idiot, asking you to come downstairs.

You shut your eyes tighter, trying to burn the memory away, to erase it completely.

Then you hear it. The door opening, closing softly. The lock clicking into place.

You don't look over. You keep your eyes closed, your breathing even, pretending to sleep.

You hear slight shuffling. Movement across the room. The sound of Robin changing—fabric rustling, the soft thud of shoes being kicked off, a zipper being pulled.

Then she's getting into her own bed, springs creaking under her weight.

But not before you hear her pause. A sharp intake of breath, like she's been punched.

You'd left Robin's lamp on for her. The small desk lamp she always uses to read before bed, the one with the green glass shade that casts everything in a soft glow.

You swear you hear Robin sniffle—once, then again, trying to muffle the sound.

Then the light clicks off, plunging the room into darkness.

And you both lie there in your separate beds, in the dark, pretending you don't hear each other crying.

.-.-.-.

It's Wednesday morning, and you've managed to shut everyone out completely.

Monday, Robin didn't go to class—still asleep when you left for your morning lecture because she's always had a problem sleeping through her alarm. The shrill beeping goes off at seven, and she slaps at it without opening her eyes, rolls over, and falls back into unconsciousness within seconds.

Normally, you'd shake her awake. Poke her shoulder until she groaned and swatted at you, mumbling something about five more minutes. You'd turn on her desk lamp, pull her blanket off, do whatever it took to get her vertical and moving.

But you don't wake her up this time. You grab your books and leave while she's still snoring softly, one arm thrown over her face to block out the morning light filtering through the blinds.

Tuesday, you saw Sammy in the hallway outside the lecture hall. He was standing by the door with his satchel slung across his chest, clearly waiting for you, and when your eyes met, his face lit up with cautious hope.

But you bolted. Turned on your heel and pushed through the crowd in the opposite direction, even when you heard him call your name softly—tentative, questioning, hurt.

The weeks of school are thinning, winding down toward finals and summer break. A reminder of that comes in the form of a knock on your door Wednesday morning, just as you're pulling on jeans and trying to decide if you have enough clean shirts to make it through the week without doing laundry.

Robin answers it, still in her pajamas—an oversized Blondie t-shirt and shorts that are barely visible beneath the hem. Tessa stands in the hallway, holding out a piece of paper with an apologetic smile.

"Hey, guys. Housing forms for next year. Need them back by next Friday."

Robin takes the paper without looking at it, barely mumbling a thanks before closing the door. She immediately sets it down on her desk like it's contaminated, like touching it too long might burn her. She doesn't even glance at it before turning back to rummaging through her closet for clean clothes.

But you look at it.

You walk over to your desk and pick up the paper, scanning the options printed in neat administrative font:

REQUEST TO MOVE OFF CAMPUS

REQUEST TO MOVE TO A DIFFERENT DORM

REQUEST TO STAY IN CURRENT DORM

And underneath, the section that makes your stomach drop:

REQUEST TO KEEP SAME ROOMMATE — BOTH PARTIES' SIGNATURES REQUIRED

REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE

You set the paper on your desk carefully, like it might shatter. Your mouth is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.

Another knock comes at the door, sharper this time. Robin groans from somewhere inside her closet, still searching for her other shoe. "Can you get that?"

You open the door. Tessa is still there, looking sheepish. "Hey, sorry again! Hot Shot, you have a call."

You furrow your brows, looking at your watch. It's barely eight in the morning. Who would be calling this early?

Robin emerges from the closet, one shoe on, and gives you an equally curious look as you slip past her into the hallway.

You make your way to the pay phone on your floor, the receiver hanging off the hook where Tessa must have left it to hold the call. You pick it up, the plastic warm against your ear.

"Hello?"

"Oh, thank god." The voice on the other end is frantic, breathless.

"Max?"

"Look, I'm going to cut to the chase." Max doesn't wait for you to respond, words tumbling out rapid-fire. "Last night I called Steve for our weekly call, and he didn't answer. I mean, I wasn't too worried at first because I know he's studying and he's busy with that big test coming up, but yeah... okay..." She takes a breath, and you hear rustling like she's pacing, the phone cord probably stretched to its limit. "Last night I get a call from Dustin. Steve's here. In Hawkins."

You try to process this, to catch every word, but Max is talking fast and your brain feels sluggish, still not fully awake.

"I don't know what you want me to do," you say slowly, carefully.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache building behind your eyes. Out of the corner of your vision, you see Robin walking down the hall—looking anywhere but at you, studying the bulletin board with fake intensity—until you wave at her frantically.

Robin's confused, brows furrowed, but she walks over anyway.

You cover the mouthpiece of the receiver with your palm. "Steve is in Hawkins. Right now."

Robin's eyes widen, going almost comically large. "What?"

You pull the phone between you, both of your heads tilted in, temples touching, the receiver pressed between your ears. You can smell Robin's shampoo and it's so familiar it makes your chest ache.

"He won't say anything," Max continues, and you can hear the worry bleeding through her usually steady voice. "He's pretending to be fine, but god, he looks miserable. Dustin and I played hooky today to hang out with him. I asked what about his big test Thursday—you know? And he says there's no point. That he's going to fail it anyway."

Max sighs heavily, and you hear what sounds like her sitting down, springs creaking.

Robin's eyes are frantic now, darting around like she's searching for answers in the peeling paint of the hallway walls.

"Did you tell him it's probably nerves?" you suggest, grasping for something helpful to say. "That he's been studying so hard he's psyching himself out?"

Max hesitates. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, broken. "Hot Shot... he says he's going to drop out."

The words hang in the air, heavy and terrible.

Robin snatches the phone from you, nearly yanking it out of your hand. "Max, this is Robin. I'm on my way." She pauses, listening. "Mhm. Mhm. Okay. Yeah, I'll be there as soon as I can."

She hangs up without saying goodbye, then immediately starts rushing down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

"Robin," you call after her, following.

But she doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down. Her bare feet slap against the linoleum as she moves.

Robin rushes through the lobby, weaving between students checking their mailboxes and the RA manning the desk. You hurdle past people, mumbling apologies, trying to keep up with her longer stride.

When Robin bursts through the front doors into the cool morning air, she's still walking fast, arms pumping with purpose.

"Robin, please," you jog up beside her and catch her wrist.

Robin stops, huffing with exertion, and turns to look at you. Her expression is almost annoyed—eyebrows raised, mouth tight—like she's asking what? without saying it out loud.

You're both breathing hard now, catching your breath. "Where are you going?"

"Hawkins," Robin answers simply, like it's obvious.

"Okay, but how?"

"Eddie will take me." Robin says it with complete certainty, no doubt in her voice. "It's not a far drive—only a few hours. If we leave now, I can get Steve and we'd be back by dinner. Plenty of time for him to study and get some rest before the test tomorrow." She's talking faster now, planning out loud. "He needs to take that test. He has to. His dad will kill him if—"

"Let me come with you," you interrupt.

Robin's face turns solemn, all the frantic energy draining out of her in an instant. "Do you think that's a good idea?" Her voice is quiet, careful. "You don't think it would make it worse?"

The question stings, sharp and sudden.

"I don't know," you shoot back, anger flaring hot in your chest. "I could ask the same for you."

Whatever moment of unity you'd shared. Your heads pressed together listening to Max, both worried about Steve, snaps clean in half. You're reminded with brutal clarity that you're not best friends anymore. You're two people who used to be close, standing in front of each other like strangers.

Robin shuts her jaw with an audible click, teeth grinding together. "This is my fault," she says, and her voice cracks slightly. "I need to fix it." She says your name, eyes pleading, desperate. "He can't drop out because of me. Because of—" She cuts herself off, looking up at the sky like the clouds might have answers. When she speaks again, her voice is raspy, raw. "He's my best friend, and I screwed up."

God. After everything that's happened, Robin is still acting possessive over Steve. Still claiming him as hers and hers alone. Nothing is going to change that.

"Right," you snap, unable to keep the bitterness out of your voice. "Because my friendship with him never counted. Or yours with me, I guess."

Robin's face breaks for a second. Her eyes softening, mouth parting like she wants to argue, wants to tell you that's not what she meant. But she doesn't say anything. Can't, maybe.

You dig into your pocket and pull out your keys. You unhook the dorm key from the ring and hold out the car keys, looking Robin directly in the eyes with determination you don't entirely feel.

"It's quicker if you leave now. Take my car."

Robin doesn't take them. She's staring at the keys like they're a snake that might bite her. "I don't have my license."

"Wait, what about that night you drove Eddie and Steve— you know never mind. Just don't get pulled over. " You motion for her to take them again, shaking the keys slightly so they jingle. "I'll let Eddie know what's going on. And I'll take notes for you in class."

For a brief second, Robin smiles. It's small and sad and achingly familiar. It’s the smile of a friend, the smile of someone who wants to pull you into a hug and say thank you and I'm sorry and I miss you all at once. The smile that used to mean everything is going to be okay because you have each other.

But it falls away as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something more guarded.

She gives you a curt nod, takes the keys from your outstretched hand—careful not to let your fingers touch—and runs toward the parking lot where your car is parked.

You watch her go, standing alone on the front steps of your dorm, and you wonder if this is what it feels like to lose someone piece by piece instead of all at once.

Later that night, you're at your desk pretending to do homework.

You've been avoiding all public spaces—the dining hall, the library, the student center—eating granola bars from the stash under your bed and telling yourself you'll go get real food tomorrow. Your American Lit textbook is open in front of you, reading the same paragraph four times without retaining a single word.

Your eyes wander to the housing form sitting to the side of your desk, partially buried under a notebook but still visible. The deadline looms: next Friday. One week to decide where you'll live next year, who you'll live with, whether you'll stay or go.

You turn in your chair to look at Robin's side of the room.

It's a mess. Clothes strewn everywhere—jeans hanging off her desk chair, a sweater crumpled on the floor, her denim jacket draped over her closet door. Books stacked haphazardly on every available surface. Empty coffee mugs forming a small collection on her nightstand.

You've never cared about the mess. You're pretty messy yourself—your own clothes tend to migrate from the hamper to the floor and back again, and you're not above wearing the same jeans three days in a row if they pass the smell test.

But looking at Robin's side of the room now, you're hit with a wave of memory so strong it almost knocks the air from your lungs.

You had a horrible first roommate freshman year. Melissa, who passive-aggressively left notes about your "excessive" overnight guests (you'd had exactly two) and complained to the RA whenever you stayed up past ten studying. Who listened to terrible pop music at full volume when you were trying to study. Who made you feel like an intruder in your own room.

Robin came up to you after class second semester, Intro to Literary Analysis, a pre-req you both suffered through, and asked if you wanted to room together next year. You barely knew her. You'd seen her at a few parties, and one other class. You knew she was funny and hyper and incredibly intelligent. 

"I can't stand my roommate," Robin had said bluntly. “We should room together. And you always look like you know how to have fun."

And somehow, it had worked. You'd never found someone you could coexist with so easily—someone who understood that sometimes you needed silence and sometimes you needed to blast music and dance badly at two in the morning. Someone who would let you borrow her clothes and would steal your shampoo and would wake you up when you'd overslept but also knew when to leave you alone.

You don't know if you'll ever find someone like Robin again.

The thought makes your hand shake as you reach for a pen, pulling the housing form closer. You start to circle REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the pen hovering over the paper.

But you're stopped by the sound of the door unlocking.

Robin walks in, and she looks exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, shoulders slumped, hair tangled like she's been running her hands through it. She freezes when she sees you sitting at your desk, clearly not expecting you to be there.

You quickly shove the housing form away, burying it under your textbook, and look up at her. You search her face for any telling details—did she get him back? Is he okay? Did it work?

Robin clears her throat, breaking the silence first. "I'm coming to grab my stuff. Me and Eddie are going to help him study." Her voice is rough, tired. "I think I might stay the night at Pike. I..." She holds up your car keys, and there's an awkward smile on her face that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I only ran through one stop sign. But she's in perfect condition, and I filled up the tank."

You swallow hard, nodding. "You can put them on my bed. Thanks."

Robin does as you asked, setting the keys down gently on your comforter. The room fills with tense silence, the kind that's heavy with all the things you're not saying to each other.

You can feel her looking at you when you turn back to your textbook. And when you glance up from the corner of your eye, you catch her quickly looking away, pretending to search for something in her closet.

This happens three more times—both of you stealing glances when the other isn't looking, like teenagers with crushes instead of ex-best friends who can barely speak to each other.

Robin finally gathers her things—textbooks, notebooks, a change of clothes shoved into her backpack. She goes to open the door, then stops. "Hey."

She clears her throat when you don't respond immediately.

You look up at her. "Yeah?"

Robin takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling visibly. "Uh... thank you. For lending me your car."

"No problem," you say, and your voice comes out more casual than you feel.

Robin stands there awkwardly, door half-open, letting the hallway noise filter in. Someone's TV playing too loud, a group of girls laughing as they pass. "Right. Okay."

She goes to leave, and then you hear yourself say, "Oh! Hey, Rob…in."

You catch yourself before you can finish the nickname, the syllables sticking in your throat. It comes out wrong, forced, like you're trying too hard or not trying hard enough.

"Yeah?" Robin turns back, and there's something hopeful in her expression that makes your chest hurt.

"I left your notes from class on your desk." You motion toward her side of the room, where the papers are stacked neatly. "From today."

Robin's whole face shifts. It’s something like relief, or gratitude, or maybe just surprise that you thought of her. She perks up and walks over to her desk, picking up the papers and awkwardly waving them. "Cool. Uh... thanks. This is—thanks."

"Yep."

"Right." Robin adjusts her backpack on her shoulder, the papers clutched in her other hand. "Bye."

"Bye."

The door closes with a soft click, and you're alone again.

You sit there for a long moment, staring at the space where Robin was standing, then pull out the housing form from under your textbook. Your pen hovers over REQUEST FOR A DIFFERENT ROOMMATE, the circle you started to draw still incomplete.

But you don't finish it. Instead, you set the pen down and push the form aside again, telling yourself you'll deal with it tomorrow.

.-.-.-.

The loneliness is creeping in again, settling over you like fog rolling in from the ocean—thick and suffocating and impossible to see through.

You're on your bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. There are seven that you can see from this angle, spiderwebbing out from the corner where the water damage bloomed last semester. It's Friday evening, the sun already setting, the room growing darker by the minute.

You only saw Robin briefly in class today. She didn't sit next to you—took a seat three rows ahead instead, on the opposite side of the lecture hall. But you could see her from where you were sitting. Could see her leg bouncing incessantly, the rapid tap-tap-tap of her pencil against her notebook, the frantic scraping as she took notes even though the professor wasn't saying anything worth writing down. She left quickly when class ended, gathering her things and disappearing through the door before you'd even closed your notebook.

Yesterday, Art History was cancelled. A note on the door said the Professor was out sick, class would resume Monday. You were grateful, relief flooding through you so intensely your knees went weak. You don't know if you could handle sitting in a room with Sammy, still with no answer for him about being his girlfriend, still not knowing what you really want for yourself.

You do know you want to stop being so lonely.

You let out a big huff, the sound loud in the quiet room, and swing your legs off the bed. You need to move, need to get out of this room that smells like Robin's perfume and your own sadness. You grab a jacket and head out, not really knowing where your legs might take you, just needing to walk.

There's a lot on your mind as you wander campus. Your anger at Robin, at Steve, at yourself. The sadness that sits heavy in your chest like a stone you swallowed and can't cough up. You wonder how Robin is really doing, not knowing how she's dealing with the breakup with Nancy beyond the bouncing leg and frantic note-taking. If Eddie and Polly are going strong, if anything changed when they came back to school after Miami, if they're actually together now or still dancing around it.

What the rest of the trip was like for everyone after you left. If Steve's test went well yesterday. If he actually wanted to drop out or if that was the alcohol and despair talking.

And of course—pathetically, predictably—you find yourself outside the Pike house.

You're still far enough away that no one would see you. Standing across the street, partially hidden behind a tree, feeling like a stalker or a ghost haunting the places you used to belong. You're looking at the window to Steve's room. It's dark, the curtains closed, no light bleeding through the edges.

And you know then that it doesn't matter what you're thinking or feeling or wanting. Now that Steve knows you don't love him—that you lied and told him you don't feel that way—he's probably moved on already. Out with Robin and Eddie somewhere, maybe with another girl, some new conquest to ruin with his lies and rules and that fake relationship he's trapped in.

Forcing her to play along too.

And that's when you realize it.

You're done being the secret. Done being the exception that isn't really an exception. Done waiting for something that will never happen.

It doesn't take long to walk to Alpha Tau. The house is quieter than Pike usually is—no party tonight, just the regular sounds of college guys living together. Video games from somewhere upstairs, someone's stereo playing too loud, the smell of microwaved popcorn and cheap cologne.

Sammy answers when you knock, and his face goes through several emotions in rapid succession—surprise, hope, caution, guardedness.

"Hey," he says carefully.

"Can we talk?"

He lets you in, leading you upstairs to his room. It's neater than you remember, like he's been cleaning to cope with stress. His bed is made with crisp corners, textbooks stacked in precise piles on his desk.

You both sit on his bed, and you smile at him shyly, gathering courage. "I've, uh... thought a lot about what we talked about. Before break."

"Yeah?" His smile is cautious, hopeful but trying not to be.

You nod, looking at the ground because you can't look at his face while you say this. You take a breath to steady yourself, pulling air deep into your lungs. "I don't think casual stuff works for me either. I never really thought I wouldn't want it, you know? And I..." You pause, choosing your words carefully. "I always blamed others for not wanting anything serious. But maybe it was me who didn't. Like maybe, I was too scared." You take his hand in yours, feeling his palm, the lines etched there by genetics and time. "I'd like to give it a shot. Us. For real."

His hands just feel like skin. Warm and dry and completely unremarkable.

Sammy grins, looking away and chuckling like he can't quite believe what he's hearing. "I thought about you a lot over break, you know?"

"Really?" you ask, looking into his green eyes.

For a split second, you manage to take that green and imagine it like the green that swims around in hazel pools—Steve's eyes in certain light, when the sun hits them just right. Your heart thrums painfully.

Sammy nods, reaching up to brush a strand of hair back from your face. But it falls immediately back into place, so he tries again. Finally you laugh—forced, brittle—and help him, tucking it behind your ear yourself and looking up at him.

And in the second before he leans in, you close your eyes and pray that it will be him you see. That this will be enough.

"Can I kiss you?" He says your name softly, tenderly.

You smile through the pain blooming in your chest. Nod.

Sammy's lips meet yours—soft but chapped, tentative at first then firmer. You kiss back, closing your eyes, letting your lashes flutter against your cheeks. And suddenly you're hearing waves, smelling salt on skin that isn't his.

He's laying you down on the bed gently, his knee slotting between your legs, and your eyes are still shut tight. The waves are getting louder in your head, crashing and receding and crashing again.

You feel him creep his hand up your shirt. Feel him touch your bare skin—stomach, ribs, the underside of your breast. And you're still back on that beach in Miami, hating that you never got a chance to go in the water. You can still feel sand under your clothes except that's Sammy's hands, not sand. His rough calluses, not the ocean floor.

Sammy is kissing your neck now, and you're letting him because you want this to work, need it to work. You can't open your eyes because if you do, you'll see it's not Steve and the illusion will shatter.

You feel his mouth trail up—jaw, ear—and his breath is hot when he speaks, voice rough with want. "Say you're mine."

You're breathing heavy, chest heaving, and you're being swallowed by the waves, pulled under, water filling your lungs. "I'm yours," you whisper.

Your face is wet. You're crying, tears streaming down your temples into your hair. Your breath is shaky, your voice cracked and broken when you say it again: "I'm yours, Steve."

Sammy stills immediately. His lips slowly leave your collarbone, pulling back like you've burned him.

When did your shirt come off? You slowly open your eyes, and Sammy is sliding off you, sitting up, putting distance between your bodies. His jaw is set tight, muscle jumping, and you're crying harder now, hands coming up to cover your face.

"I'm sorry," you sob, voice muffled by your palms. "I'm so sorry."

You're shaking, and in your head you're submerging back under the water, lungs screaming for air that won't come. "I'm so, so sorry."

Sammy doesn't say anything. He sits next to you on the bed as you cry, not touching you, not comforting you, waiting.

When you finally collect yourself enough to breathe without sobbing, you sit up. You see your shirt on the floor and pick it up, pulling it back on with trembling hands. You wipe your face with the back of your hand, leaving mascara streaks.

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. "Can you please drive me home?"

Sammy laughs, it’s loud and sharp and bitter. "You think I'm going to take you home now? After you embarrassed me like that?"

You twist around to look at him, anger sparking through the shame. "You're embarrassed?"

"You know what? You're right." Sammy's voice is cold now, cutting. "I’d be embarrassed wasting my time on a guy who won't give you the time of day— but I guess I have been wasting my time, huh? Steve Harrington is a complete douchebag who cheats on his girlfriend and has nothing else going for him. He's pathetic. And if you can't see that, then you're right there with him."

You stare at Sammy for a long moment, really seeing him for the first time. The bitterness twisting his features, the cruelty in his eyes, the way he's lashing out because his pride is hurt. Everything twisting ugly. 

"You don't know him," you say quietly, firmly. "And you don't know me."

You scoff in disbelief, pushing yourself off the bed and jerking his door open. But you stop in the doorway, turning back to look at him one more time.

"And you know what else?" Your voice is steady now, powered by anger. "You suck at kissing."

Not your best moment, but you're pissed off again, and it feels good to say. You slam the door shut behind you hard enough that it rattles in the frame.

When you get back to your dorm, you think you'll finally be able to relax, to collapse and process everything that just happened.

But Robin is there.

She's sitting at her desk, music playing from her radio—Madonna, you think. You’re unsure, it’s too loud for the small space. The window is open despite the cool spring air, letting in the sounds of campus at night and the smell of someone's cigarette smoke from outside.

Robin looks so normal. Acting like she hasn't ruined your life. Like she didn't tell Steve you don't have feelings for him, didn't sabotage any chance you had at happiness.

She should have never told you Steve wanted to sleep with you. Should have never mentioned that he begged for it. Then maybe you can erase any memory of when he looked at you like you were it for him. 

You should have never become her roommate in the first place, never let yourself get close enough to be destroyed like this.

You walk into the room, toeing off your shoes and lining them up by the door. You feel the overwhelmingness engulf you again—emotion rising like a tide, threatening to pull you under. Your head is pounding, temples throbbing with each beat of your heart.

You say politely, voice tight, "Can you turn the music down?"

Robin doesn't hear you. She's focused on whatever she's writing, head bent over her notebook, pencil scratching across paper.

You count to ten in your head, trying to maintain composure, then turn around to look at her. "Hey. Can you turn the music down?"

Robin still doesn't respond. Doesn't even look up. She's not listening, not being considerate, and something inside you snaps.

You storm over to the radio, pick it up. The plastic warm under your fingers, vibrating slightly with the bass. Before you can think about it, you walk to the open window and throw it out.

You watch it fall, tumbling through the air, before it crashes against the sidewalk below with a satisfying crunch of breaking plastic and shattering components.

"What the hell, dude?" Robin yells, jumping up from her chair. "What—"

You turn slowly from the window, gripping the sill so hard your knuckles go white. You lick your lips, steadying yourself. "I went to see Sammy tonight."

Robin's face softens immediately, anger draining away and replaced with something like concern. "Okay?"

You put your hand to your head, fingers pressing against your temple where the headache is worst. "I tried to make it work. I really tried." Your voice cracks. "And then I realized I was only doing it so maybe you would stop being mad at me. So we could forget about everything and go back to normal."

You drop your hand, looking at Robin directly now. "Then I thought... I don't care if you're mad at me anymore. Because I'm mad at you."

Robin looks at the ground, jaw working like she's trying to swallow something bitter.

Your face contorts with anger and hurt and months of swallowed feelings finally breaking free. "But I don't want to forget what happened. You and Steve fucking hurt me, Robin. And I hate that I still care about you despite everything." 

You look away from her, tears streaming down your face again, voice breaking completely. "I'm in love with him,” your voice shakes. You saying it out loud still didn’t feel real. “I love Steve, and I had to lie to him because of you."

You're crying harder now, face buried in your hands, and you've never felt more embarrassed—breaking down like this in front of Robin, exposing yourself completely.

And then you feel arms wrap around you.

Robin is crying too, holding you tight, and you're both sinking to the ground. She guides you down gently, and then you're sitting on the floor together, Robin's back against your bed, you tucked into her side. She's petting your hair the way she used to when you were sad about exams or life in general.

"It's okay," Robin whispers, voice thick with tears. "It's okay. I'm so sorry." She says your name like it hurts. "I'm so sorry I hurt you."

She takes a shaky breath, still holding you. "You're right. I've been selfish. And fuck, I'm so sorry. I never wanted it to become like this."

You lean back to look at her, both of your faces wet with tears, lips quivering. Robin wipes her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a streak.

"You were also right about..." Robin's breath catches, shaky and uneven. "About me being scared." She looks away, unable to meet your eyes. "I told you Steve was the first person I came out to, yeah? And I've told a few others since then. And I know—" She taps her temple. "—in my head, I know I like girls. When I look at Nancy, I definitely know."

She pauses, gathering courage, and when she speaks again her voice is barely above a whisper. "But sometimes I look at Steve and I hate myself. Because I think, why can't things be easy? Why can't I just like him that way and have it all be simple?"

Robin's hands are shaking now, and she clasps them together to still them. "I don't think I've been able to look in the mirror and say it out loud to myself. That this is who I am." She laughs bitterly, tears still falling. "So I clutch onto any bit of what could make me normal. Because I don't want people to look at me and say 'oh, there's Robin Buckley the lesbian.' I just want to be Robin, you know? Just... me."

She looks at you now, really looks at you, eyes red and pleading. "And I know I take it too far. Like telling Steve you didn't feel the same way about him." Her voice breaks. "I should have never told him that. When part of me did know the truth."

Robin wipes her face with her sleeve. "I saw you two kiss. At the lake during the camping trip. I was coming to see if you two were ready to go… and yeah. Then I saw how you looked at each other afterward… but I never brought it up because I didn’t want it to be a big deal. And then I saw Sammy in the library… and I pushed for you to consider him because then maybe you’d forget about Steve." She closes her eyes, fresh tears squeezing out. "I knew. I knew exactly how you both felt, and I still—"

She puts a hand on her chest, over her heart. "I'm so sorry for what I said at dinner in Miami. For all of it." Her voice drops to barely audible. "I love you. You're my best friend, and friends don't treat each other like that. Ever."

You pull Robin in for another hug, and this time you're not sobbing. You're holding each other the way you used to. Before everything got complicated, before secrets and lies carved canyons between you.

"I love you too," you whisper into her hair, breathing in the familiar scent of her coconut shampoo. "I missed you so much."

Robin holds you tighter, arms squeezing around your ribs. "I missed you too. So fucking much. I haven't been able to look at the housing form because it makes me feel sick."

You laugh. It’s wet and a little broken but genuine. "I tried to circle 'different roommate,' but it felt so wrong."

You sit there together as the room grows darker, the only light coming from Robin's desk lamp casting long shadows across the walls and the moon filtering through the open window, silver and cool. Outside, you can hear crickets starting their nightly chorus, someone's car door slamming, the distant thump of music from a party several blocks away.

Robin is the first to speak, breaking the comfortable silence. "I don't know what to do."

"About what?" you ask, pulling back slightly to look at her face.

"About it all." Robin admits, gesturing vaguely at the universe. "Steve and our whole thing." She puts her face in her hands and groans, the sound muffled. Then she flops backward dramatically onto the floor, arms spread wide like she's making a snow angel. "And Nancy. God, I really fucked things up."

She stares up at the ceiling, and you watch her throat work as she swallows. "Why is my life all… kaplooey." She grabs her thumb and makes a raspberry sound with her tongue, twisting her hand to demonstrate something being bent or broken. "All because I can't just say I like..." She pauses, gathering courage. "Boobies."

She laughs at herself, high and slightly hysterical, and you can't help but laugh too.

Robin shoots up suddenly, her limbs moving awkwardly like a newborn giraffe learning to walk. You watch as she scrambles to her closet, nearly tripping over her own feet.

There's rustling and curses muttered under her breath, the sound of plastic hangers clinking together like wind chimes. Suddenly clothes start flying behind her—left and right, an explosion of fabric. All her dresses and blouses, the ones she's worn to family dinners and church and formal events. The ones that made her look like the perfect daughter, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect girl.

She even goes to her dresser, yanking open drawers with enough force that they nearly come completely out. She pulls out a bra and holds it up like evidence at a trial.

"I've always hated this bra!" she announces to the room, laughing chaotically. "It literally makes my boobs itch and feel weird."

After thirty minutes, there's a mountain of clothes on the floor. It’s pretty much Robin's entire closet reduced to a heap of fabric and false identities. She's breathing hard like she's been running a marathon, chest heaving, face flushed with exertion and exhilaration.

Then she scoops them up in her arms—as much as she can carry, which is most of it—and walks over to the still-open window. She tosses them out without hesitation.

You watch the clothes tumble through the air, catching moonlight, before landing in a pile on the grass below.

Robin looks almost pleased with herself, hands on her hips, when suddenly her eyes widen like she's remembered something crucial. She runs back to her closet and grabs an armful of high heels—the ones that pinch her toes, the ones she can barely walk in, the ones her mother bought her for special occasions.

She does the same thing, hurling them out the window one by one. They land with satisfying thuds.

When she's done, she stands at the window with her hands on her hips, grinning ear to ear, breathing hard and looking more alive than you've seen her in months.

"Hey," she says, turning to you with that wild grin still plastered across her face. "How about we go get our hair done tomorrow?"

.-.-.-.

You don't know why you agreed to this.

You're standing in the cramped entryway of Bellini's—the Italian restaurant in your college town, the one Sammy had brought you to a couple of times. 

It wouldn’t be so daunting, but you knew inside was Eddie, Robin and her parents and… Steve and his own parents. 

It's been two weeks since you and Robin made up, but that doesn't mean everything is fixed. It's still fragile, still distrust, like walking on ice that might crack at any moment. 

Robin hasn't been hanging out with Steve as much. She’s claimings it's because of end-of-semester stress, all the final papers and exams piling up. But really, you know it's to be mindful of you. To give you space from him. Or maybe Robin knows she needs distance from him too, needs to figure out who she is without Steve Harrington as her defining characteristic.

You've started hanging out with Eddie again. Smoking joints with him and Polly in the back of his van, Eddie's arm draped lazily over Polly's shoulders, her fingers playing with the rings on his hand. He never talks about Steve around you, except for that first time when he'd said, "Am I allowed to say I knew you two had been smooching all along?"

Polly had smacked him hard on the arm, leaving a red mark. "Edward!"

Later that night, when you'd climbed out of the van to head back to your dorm, Eddie had stopped you. He'd had remorse written all over his face, brows drawn together, mouth turned down.

"Hey, look, I feel awful, man." He'd run his hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. "Steve told me you thought it was him and Polly in the next room. In Miami. And I really wasn't thinking about what it could've looked like." He'd spoken fast, words tumbling over each other. "Steve was nearly passed out drunk that first night on the beach, so everyone took him back to the hotel. But then he started begging—said he couldn't trust himself being in his room alone. We didn't know what that meant, so we left him with Jonathan. And then Polly and I started talking, and she didn't want to wake you up because you weren't feeling well, and she needed to shower..." Eddie had looked genuinely distressed. "I'm sorry, Hot Shot. I should've thought about how it would sound."

Maybe you were really high and feeling generous. Maybe you were tired of being angry all the time. But you'd forgiven him.

And maybe a little bit of that forgiveness was for Steve too.

There was one night though—about a week ago—when Robin was getting ready for bed and someone knocked on your door to say she had a call. She’d come back to the dorm already tired and stressed, grabbed her shoes. 

"Steve passed out at Murphy's," she'd said quietly, not meeting your eyes. "Have to go help get him home."

You'd almost offered to go with her. Almost. But you were afraid of what you'd feel if you saw him, afraid you'd break whatever fragile progress you'd made in trying to move on.

And you were correct to assume you would feel... sick is the easiest way to put it.

When you open the restaurant doors and walk to the table where everyone is gathered, Steve is the first pair of eyes you catch. You realize you haven't seen him in weeks. All that distance you'd put between you hasn't helped at all. None of it, because seeing him now makes you miss him more, not less.

It's reconfirmed by the way your heart swells painfully in your chest, beating too fast, reminding you that you still feel it. Love. A love he has no idea you carry, that you told him doesn't exist.

Robin had invited you a few days ago. Pike was having a family weekend event, and it had turned into Robin's parents coming to visit, which somehow evolved into a planned dinner. Robin had asked if you'd come because her parents specifically requested it, but she'd understood if you couldn't.

"Now or never, I guess," you'd said with a shrug, not looking up from the book you were reading on your bed.

And now you regret it. You thought you could be strong. Thought seeing him would feel like closure, like proof you were moving on.

You were wrong.

There isn't any closure yet between you two. Mostly because of you, because you're still hurt by what he said, but also because you know you hurt him too. Lied to him in the worst possible way.

His hair has grown out again. It’s longer at the nape of his neck, pushed back and fully chestnut. If it weren't for the dark circles under his eyes, he'd look completely fine and normal. He's wearing a navy polo tucked into Levi's, hands folded in his lap, sitting next to Robin.

On his other side is his mom, and next to her is clearly his father. You'd only heard Mr. Harrington's voice on the phone that one time, but seeing him now, you realize the Harrington genes are strong in Steve. Besides the graying hair on Mr. Harrington's temples, they have almost exactly the same features—the same jawline, the same straight nose, the same way of holding themselves with careful control.

His mom is on the plumper side with a kind face that's beyond beautiful. You can see where Steve gets his hazel eyes—the same mixture of green and gold and brown that shifts in different light.

"Sorry I'm so late," you say breathlessly, clutching your purse. "Lost track of time."

It's not entirely a lie. You had been in the parking lot for thirty minutes, sitting in your car trying to convince yourself to go inside even though you'd arrived early.

Robin's mom stands up immediately and engulfs you in a hug. She smells like floral perfume and hairspray, and her embrace is warm and maternal in a way that makes your throat tight.

"It's okay! I'm so glad you could make it. It’s so good to see you." She pulls back but keeps her hands on your shoulders, smiling warmly. Then she leans in and whispers conspiratorially, "We haven't even ordered yet. They're kind of slow here."

And of course, the only open seat is directly across from Steve. Robin shoots you an apologetic look. Her eyes wide, mouth twisted in a grimace that says I'm sorry, I didn't think about the seating arrangement.

You force yourself to look at Steve fully. He's already looking at you, and when your eyes meet, something passes between you. It’s recognition, longing, hurt, love, all of it compressed into a single moment. His lips part slightly like he wants to say something, and you can see his hand twitch on the table like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

Your heart clenches so hard it physically hurts.

You sit down, and immediately Steve's mom leans across the table, saying your name with warmth and familiarity. "Right? I'm remembering correctly?"

"Oh, yes." You stand awkwardly, half-bent over the table, and shake her hand. It's soft with perfectly manicured nails painted a subtle pink. You shake it firmly but carefully. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Harrington."

You glance at Steve, and he's staring at the table like watching this exchange physically pains him. But then his eyes go wide when you turn to his father, plastering on your most polite smile.

Mr. Harrington holds out his hand with a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes, only nodding in greeting. His handshake is brief and perfunctory.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Harrington," you say, and then because you can't help yourself, you add, "Steve talks about you a lot."

Mr. Harrington's smile shifts slightly. It becomes more arrogant, more satisfied. It looks exactly like the upturned lips on Steve that you fell in love with, except colder, more calculated. "All good things, I hope?" He glances at his son, who quickly averts his eyes elsewhere, suddenly very interested in the breadsticks.

You hum, pretending to think about it, smile playing at your lips. "Still up for interpretation."

You think maybe he'll get upset at that, maybe call you rude or disrespectful. But he blinks at you, surprised, and then cracks a smile that actually looks genuine—amused, even. 

Steve's mom chuckles, her laugh bright and musical. "We've heard a lot about you from Steve," she says, eyes twinkling. "He said you're funny." She gives you a dazzling straight-toothed smile that lights up her whole face. "You're so pretty." 

She says it like she's cooing at a baby or a puppy, and you feel your cheeks flush hot.

Your brain supplies unhelpfully that his parents only know you as Steve's friend. If you're even that anymore—you're not sure what you are to each other now. But there's a moment where you pretend this is meeting his parents for the first time as his girlfriend, and you could walk away happy that you left a good impression.

You look up to catch Steve's eyes softening as he looks at you, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. Maybe he's pretending too.

But then Robin's mother speaks, sighing heavily. "I still don't know why you decided to do that to your hair."

She's speaking to Robin, and there's clear disapproval in her tone.

For as long as you've known Robin, she's had long chestnut hair. Always silky smooth, brushed until it shone, falling past her shoulders in perfect waves. Always with neat makeup carefully applied—eyeliner precise, lipstick never smudged. Perfectly manicured nails. Everything about her appearance carefully controlled and maintained.

But when you went to the hair salon last week—after the great closet purge—Robin had told the stylist to cut it off. All of it. Her hair now sits above her shoulders in a choppy, almost boyish cut that somehow makes her look more herself than she ever has.

Her eyeliner is smudged purposefully under her eyes now, giving her an edgy look. Her fingers are painted different colors on each nail, already chipped from a week of wear. And after feeling guilty about throwing her clothes out the window—both of you bringing everything back up to pack away for donations instead—she'd gone shopping for a whole new wardrobe.

She's wearing a striped green sweater tucked into her jeans tonight. But it's not the clothes that are different. It's like she cut off the strings of whatever puppeteer was controlling her. She slouches now, lets her limbs drape over furniture not in the careful, practiced way she used to, but naturally, comfortably. She's not pretending anymore.

She's finally relaxed. Finally herself.

Robin looks nervous at her mother's comment, but she still rolls her eyes. "Mom—"

"I like it," Steve offers quietly.

Mrs. Buckley waves her hand dismissively. "Oh, Steve, you're always such a sweetheart. But you don't have to like it because you're her boyfriend."

"I'm not."

Everyone's heads snap toward Steve. Eyebrows furrow. Even your eyes go wide, and you can feel your face betray you—hopeful, desperately hopeful that this means what you think it means. You look at Robin, wondering if they finally ended their fake relationship.

Steve clears his throat, seeming to realize how that sounded. He straightens in his chair. "I meant that I'm not saying that because I'm her boyfriend." He reaches over and squeezes Robin's hand on the table, the gesture practiced and familiar. "I like it because it's her."

Robin and Steve share a look, something passing between them that speaks of years of friendship, of secrets shared, of unconditional support. Robin smiles at him, and it's genuine and grateful.

Both of their mothers look at each other with matching expressions—bottom lips puckered, hands coming up to rest over their hearts in some universal salute of mothers who think they're witnessing true love. Their fathers maintain neutral, stony faces, both distantly clinking their whiskey glasses together in masculine solidarity.

You know you're looking at them with a mixture of sadness and fondness, unable to hide it from your face. They're so good at this—at playing the perfect couple, at making everyone believe it's real.

Eddie, who is normally loud and constantly talking, squeezes your hand under the table. His palm is rough from guitar strings and calluses, familiar and grounding. You look up at him and see his eyes are glassy and red-rimmed.

You want to laugh. He's mentioned before that parents make him nervous, that authority figures in general stress him out. No wonder he's been silent this entire time, he’s high off his ass from weed and anxiety.

Finally, the food arrives—steaming plates of pasta and chicken parmesan and breadsticks that smell like garlic and butter. The waiter sets everything down with practiced efficiency.

It's mostly the adults talking after that. Mr. Harrington discussing work, Mrs. Buckley sharing updates about people from Hawkins you don't know. Eddie hums beside you, a tuneless sound that you recognize as his anxious tic. Robin eats her food in a hurry like it might disappear if she doesn't consume it fast enough.

You catch Steve slipping his hand under the table, probably settling it on Robin's restless leg. You know she's bouncing her knee because occasionally the table shakes slightly when her knee comes up too high, jostling the water glasses.

Steve is picking at his food, barely eating. You try your best not to watch him, but you fail repeatedly. And he's doing the same thing, both of you stealing glances, eyes meeting briefly before darting back to your plates.

Robin's dad speaks, breaking the cycle. "Steve, Robin tells me you passed your College of Education entrance exam."

You can't stop the words before they burst out. "Wait, really?" You're smiling, genuine and wide and pleased for him.

Steve looks at you, and his cheeks dust pink. He's smiling too, eyes twinkling in a way you haven't seen in weeks. He nods, ducking his head slightly. "Uh, yeah." It comes out shy, and he glances back at Robin's dad. "I'll be officially majoring in kinesiology with education studies."

You notice Mr. Harrington taking another long drink of his whiskey, jaw tight.

But Mrs. Harrington beams, her whole face lighting up with maternal pride. "We're so proud of him." She leans over and smacks a big kiss on Steve's cheek, leaving a lipstick mark.

Steve laughs awkwardly, squirming away. "Ma," he complains, but there's a huge smile on his face. He takes his napkin and wipes the lipstick off his cheek, but his eyes catch yours again across the table.

You share another smile, and it feels like something precious and fragile, a moment of connection in the midst of all this pretending.

Mr. Harrington grumbles into his glass, "Well, Harold, I guess you'll need to start supporting those bills on giving teachers higher pay."

It's meant to be a joke, but the tone is bitter, cutting. The table becomes tense, conversation dying mid-word.

"Daniel," Mrs. Harrington warns, voice sharp. "Stop it."

Steve looks deflated, shoulders slouching inward, jaw ticking with tension. All the joy from a moment ago drains from his face.

Mr. Buckley chuckles, oblivious to or ignoring the tension. "I guess I can catch up with the times—women making more money than their husbands and all that." He points his fork at Mr. Harrington. "But don't go telling the men at the club I've gone soft and switched over to the Democrats."

They laugh loudly, too loud, the sound forced and uncomfortable.

Robin, Steve, you, and Eddie all cringe simultaneously, sharing a look of mutual mortification.

Eddie speaks up, and Steve already looks like he's regretting every decision that led to this moment. "You know," Eddie says, eyes glassy and red, words coming out slower than usual, "teachers are like... the foundation of society, man. They're like..." He pauses, trying to find the words. "They're like the roots of a tree. And we're all the branches. Or maybe they're the branches and we're the leaves? I forget how trees work." He takes a bite of his pasta. "But they're important. Very important. Essential, even."

There's a moment of silence.

"Thank you, Eddie," Steve says flatly, rubbing his face with both hands.

The waiter comes by with a water pitcher, moving around the table to fill glasses. Mrs. Buckley clears her throat. "So, have you two discussed the timeline of when you're going to propose? Since Robin is considering law school?"

"Uh..." Robin and Steve say in unison.

"Are you thinking about eventually moving back to Hawkins?" Mrs. Buckley continues, not noticing their discomfort.

"Yes," Steve says surely, at the exact same moment Robin says, "No."

They look at each other, and the tension ratchets up another notch.

"We're still talking things through," Steve says slowly, carefully, like he's defusing a bomb.

Robin looks at her plate, sliding her fork through the remnants of spaghetti sauce, creating patterns in the red.

Mr. Harrington blows air through his nose in obvious disapproval. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, nodding at the waiter after his glass is filled. "This is why I told you decisions like that needed to be discussed thoroughly before making them." His voice is hard, disappointed. "It'd be different if you'd just met the girl. But you two have been together for years and have always planned on getting married. Is this really the first time you're talking about it?"

You make awkward eye contact with the waiter, who looks like he wishes he could disappear. You mouth sorry at him.

Eddie takes a huge bite of his food and announces to himself, but loudly enough that everyone hears. "I never thought I'd like zucchini."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow! Hot Shot," he whines, rubbing his side.

Everyone ignores it. Mrs. Buckley speaks, her voice soothing and placating. "Oh, they're still young, Danny. They'll figure it out. Harold and I didn't have it all planned out when we got married either." She smiles at Robin and Steve. "Besides, Robin loves Steve and knows that at the end of the day, he'll know what's best for them."

Suddenly, Eddie, still parading his fork with a piece of zucchini speared on it, accidentally knocks into the waiter's hand as he's filling Eddie's glass. The glass tips, falls, hits your glass, and water pours all over your lap.

You make an "oomph" sound as cold water soaks through your jeans, but you can't concentrate on the discomfort because you see Steve immediately scoot his chair back, eyes full of concern like you've been seriously hurt and he's about to climb over the table to get to you.

"You okay?" he asks, voice urgent.

You look at him, and the concern on his face makes your chest tight. Then you glance at Robin, who looks defeated and guilty, staring at her plate like she wishes she could disappear into it. Then you see the adults all looking at you, and the waiter is next to you apologizing profusely, his face red with embarrassment as he rushes off to get napkins.

"Yeah, I'm fine." You manage a smile, trying to be reassuring. "It's water."

He doesn't move at first, still half-standing, scanning you like he's checking for injuries. Only when you nod again does he sit back down, but his hands remain on the edge of the table, ready to jump up again if needed.

You and Steve can't stop looking at each other now. Your eyes feel like they're about to burn with tears, from embarrassment, from longing for the boy across from you who you can't have, from the sheer weight of everything unsaid between you.

You sniffle, thanking the waiter when he returns with a stack of napkins, dabbing at your lap even though it's mostly futile. Your face is heated with embarrassment and something deeper.

You notice Robin looking between the two of you, her jaw twitching like she's grinding her teeth. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, they're glassy and serious. Determined.

She says in a hushed whisper, but loud enough that you can hear across the table: "Now or never."

"What, dear?" Mrs. Buckley asks, leaning toward her daughter.

You look at Robin, searching her face, trying to understand what she means. Tilting your head, Robin catches your eyes and holds them. You can see it there—resolution, fear, courage, love. She's telling you without words that she's about to do something big, something that can't be taken back.

And somehow, through that look, she's also telling you that it's going to be okay.

"Mom," Robin says, turning to face her parents. "Steve and I are not like you and Dad."

Mrs. Buckley laughs lightly. "Yes, I know you two are more modern and—"

"No." Robin cuts her off, voice firm. "I love Steve differently than you two love each other."

Steve's eyes go wide, lips parting. "Robin," he whispers, voice tight with warning or fear or both.

Robin looks at him, and tears are already forming in her eyes. But she smiles. It’s soft and grateful and apologetic all at once. She squeezes his hand on the table, turning it over so their fingers can intertwine properly.

"Steve was the best boyfriend a girl could ask for," she says, and her voice only wavers slightly. "He did everything I asked him to. Even when it cost him everything." Her eyes glance at you, holding your gaze for a moment before returning to Steve.

Steve turns to look at you too, something desperate and hopeful in his expression, before looking back at Robin.

"Was?" Mrs. Harrington asks, confusion clear in her voice. "Did you two break up?"

Robin sighs, and you can see her leg bouncing frantically under the table. She bites her bottom lip, takes a breath, and then says the words that change everything:

"We were never together."

"What?" You're not sure which adult asks—maybe all of them in unison, a chorus of shock.

Eddie leans over to you, whispering, "Is she really...?"

Your eyes cut to him sharply, silencing him immediately. He looks completely sober now, his usual grin gone, focused entirely on Robin.

Robin turns to her parents, and there's a sad but determined expression on her face. "Mom, Dad, I don't love Steve the way you two love each other."

"You said that already, dear," her mom says, voice tight with confusion and growing concern.

Robin tilts her head back, looking up at the ceiling like she's asking for divine intervention. Then she looks back at her parents, and you can see her searching their faces—hopeful, terrified, needing that approval, needing them to understand that she's still their daughter, still the same Robin they've always loved.

"Mom," Robin's voice cracks slightly, "I will never love Steve the way you love Dad. I will never..." She takes another breath, and you can see her hands shaking where they're clasped with Steve's. "I will never love a boy like that."

Robin is crying now, tears streaming down her face, sniffling. But she's also smiling. It’s small and fragile but real.

Her parents furrow their brows, confused. Then slowly, you watch understanding dawn on their faces. The creases in their foreheads smooth out, eyes widening with realization.

"Oh," is all Mrs. Buckley says. Just "oh," but the word carries the weight of revelation.

Mr. Harrington speaks, and his voice is sharp, cutting. "Are you saying my son has been your..." He can't even finish the sentence, disgust coloring his features. "What? Are you going to tell me he doesn't like girls either?" His eyes cut to Eddie accusingly. "Are you his boyfriend?"

Eddie chokes on nothing, nearly knocking over another glass. "No, sir! No! Absolutely not! Not that he isn’t my type—" He catches himself. “I meant that as—”

“Eddie, shut up.” Steve cuts in, running his hands down his face. 

“Yep.” Eddie agrees, shoving a mouthful of zucchini, chewing, with wide deer caught in headlight eyes. 

Mrs. Harrington isn't looking at Robin anymore. She's looking at Steve, who's staring at the table with his shoulders caved in, hunched over like he's trying to make himself smaller. She can see him rubbing his knees nervously under the table.

His eyes dart to yours across the table, and his expression softens when he sees you looking back. There's something there—apology, hope, love, all of it written plainly across his face for anyone to see.

Mrs. Harrington watches this exchange, and her face transforms. The confusion melts away, replaced by understanding and something that looks like sympathy. She smiles gently, reaching over to squeeze her son's shoulder.

Then she turns to her husband, voice calm and measured. "Daniel, I think you should pay the bill. And I think we all need to go back to the hotel and have a conversation. A real one."

Mr. Harrington looks more appalled at the idea of having to pay the bill than he did at the revelation that his son has been lying to him for over a year. He sputters, "Now? We haven't even had dessert—"

"Now, Daniel," Mrs. Harrington says, and there's steel in her voice that brooks no argument.

Mr. Harrington signals for the check with a tight expression, pulling out his wallet with sharp, angry movements.

Everyone leaves quickly, practically fleeing the restaurant while Mr. Harrington handles the bill. Eddie looks genuinely sad about abandoning his half-finished plate of pasta, reaching for it one last time before you grab his arm and pull him away.

Outside, the night air is cool and crisp, smelling like car exhaust and the Italian restaurant's kitchen vents pumping out garlic and tomato sauce. The parking lot is lit by yellow streetlamps that cast everything in a sickly glow.

Robin comes up to you and Eddie, and she looks completely frazzled. Her eyes wide, breathing fast, one hand clutching at her chest like she's checking to make sure her heart is still beating.

"Did I—did I do that?" She's looking between you and Eddie like she needs confirmation that what just happened was real. "Holy shit. I think I did that. I think I just came out to my parents at an Italian restaurant." She laughs, high and slightly hysterical. "In front of Steve's parents. And you guys. Oh god."

"I was honored to witness it," Eddie says solemnly, putting a hand over his heart.

You smile at Robin, chuckling softly at her spiral, then pull her into a tight hug. You never knew you liked hugs until you met Robin. It was a good discovery, finding out that physical affection didn't have to be uncomfortable or performative, that it could be warm and grounding and exactly what you needed without having to ask for it.

Your body feels warm and relaxed as you tighten your grip, holding her up while she processes what she's done, what can't be undone.

Eddie must feel left out because suddenly he's crushing you both with his arms, trying to pick you both up off the ground. You and Robin squeal in unison, half-laughing, half-protesting.

"Group hug!" Eddie announces, lifting you both an inch off the pavement before setting you back down.

"Eddie!" Robin shrieks. "You're going to break us!"

You're all laughing—breathless and giddy and riding the adrenaline of what just happened—when you see past Robin's shoulder to where Steve is standing with his mom.

They're by her car—a champagne-colored Cadillac that looks expensive and well-maintained. Steve opens the passenger door for her, but she's not getting in yet. She's looking at Steve with such gentleness it makes your chest ache. Her hand comes up to cup his face, thumb stroking his cheek, and you can see her saying something. Then her hand moves to his shoulder, squeezing.

Steve is nodding, listening intently. His shoulders are still hunched, defensive, but his face is open and vulnerable in a way you rarely see.

He hasn't caught you watching yet, and you don't try to hide the fondness in your eyes. Don't try to school your expression into something neutral and safe.

Robin catches on to where you're looking. She follows your gaze and sees Steve with his mother, and she smiles, small and knowing. She shrugs, leaning into you conspiratorially. "You know, I think our relationship is kind of kaput now." She tries for lightness, joking. "He's fresh on the market."

You look at Robin, but you don't laugh. Can't find it in yourself to match her tone. You pinch your lips together, look down at the pavement where oil stains create rainbow patterns, and shake your head.

"Robin!" Steve's voice carries across the parking lot, breaking the moment.

Robin looks at you with that knowing expression again—the one that says she sees right through you, knows exactly what you're feeling even when you won't say it out loud.

"Go," you tell her, forcing your voice to sound normal. "I'll take Eddie home. I'll wait up for you, okay?"

Robin still doesn't look happy. That guilt-ridden expression is back on her face—the one that says something that was meant to be simple and easy turned everything sideways, turned it into chaos and hurt and complications none of you were prepared for.

But she nods anyway, then jogs over to Steve.

You watch as Steve gives you and Eddie distance, respecting the fresh wounds that are still raw and bleeding in all your lives. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, and he looks at you one more time, just a glance, brief but loaded with meaning, before wrapping his arm around Robin's shoulder and walking her to his car.

She leans her head against him, and they look like what everyone always thought they were. They are two people who love each other completely, who understand each other in ways no one else can.

The fact that it's not romantic doesn't make it any less real.

In the car, Eddie immediately reaches for the radio dial, turning it until he finds a station playing metal. The guitar riffs fill the small space, too loud, but you don't ask him to turn it down. He sits there pretending to play an air guitar, strumming along. 

You can't help but think about what just happened. Does it change anything for you? Does it change things for Steve? Robin and Steve are broken up—except they were never really together. So what does that mean?

Your mind spins in circles, chasing thoughts that lead nowhere.

You chew on your bottom lip, worrying the skin until it stings.

"Sooo," Eddie drawls out, turning down the music slightly. "That was pretty intense back there." He pauses, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"I'm not sure." And it's the honest-to-god truth. Your thoughts are too jumbled, too complicated to articulate. "What about you?"

Eddie shrugs, looking out the window at the passing streetlights. "Finally," is all he says.

You nod, understanding what he means. 

Finally. Though, you’re not entirely sure how it ties into the future. 

A beat goes by in comfortable silence, just the music and the sound of your tires on asphalt.

"Have you forgiven him yet?" Eddie asks suddenly, voice careful. "I'd understand if not. Was wondering with all your staring tonight."

"I was not staring," you say defensively, heat rising to your cheeks.

"You were absolutely staring."

"Was not."

"Hot Shot.”

You huff, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "I don't know, okay? I don't know if I've forgiven him."

And that really is the truth. You think to yourself… is there such a thing as loving someone but not forgiving them? Can those two things exist simultaneously, or does one cancel out the other?

When you pull up outside the Pike house, Eddie gets out but then immediately turns around, motioning for you to roll down the window. You do, cranking the handle, and Eddie bends down, arms crossed on the window frame, smiling cheekily at you.

"What?" you ask, already exasperated.

He hangs his arms inside the car, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "What'd I tell you, Hot Shot?"

"Tell me what?"

"That you had Harrington all twisted up inside." He taps his forehead with one finger, grinning. Then he leans his cheek on his hand, sighing wistfully like a lovesick teenager. "I saw it coming from a mile away. Both of you. Just didn't think you'd fall this soon."

Your face burns hot, and you look away, trying not to smile. "Shut up."

"What did it for you, Hot Shot? What made you fall?" Eddie's eyes are twinkling with mischief. "Was it the glasses? I told him to be careful with those. Chicks can't resist a guy in glasses."

"Eddie, please go. Now. Before I drive over your foot." You're trying not to laugh, fighting to keep your expression stern.

"Or was it the hair? The tragic backstory? His encyclopedic knowledge of star facts courtesy of Dustin Henderson? He told me about your little date, by the way," Eddie starts laughing as you begin winding the lever to roll the window back up. He steps back just in time, head thrown back with laughter that echoes across the parking lot.

You flip him off before driving away, but you're smiling despite yourself.

And you think… maybe it was the glasses. Or maybe it was everything. 

Maybe it was just him. 

Steve Harrington, in all his complicated, messy, beautiful totality.

.-.-.-.

It's ten p.m. when Robin storms through the dorm room.

She doesn't say anything at first. Just rushes to her closet and pulls out her duffel bag. She starts shoving clothes inside with no apparent organization, just grabbing things and cramming them in. She's frantic, moving back and forth across the room, stopping randomly like she's forgotten what she was doing, then snapping back to attention and continuing her packing.

"Robin?" You sit up in bed, book falling closed in your lap. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Robin keeps shoving clothes in the bag. After a few minutes, it's like she's heard you. She perks her head up, face flushed, eyes wild and bright. "I'm going to Boston. To win back Nancy."

Your mouth falls open in disbelief. "What? What are you talking about?"

Robin runs her fingers through her short hair and starts pacing back and forth as she talks. The words come out rapid-fire, barely pausing for breath.

"Steve is driving me to Boston right now—well, not right now, he's waiting in his car downstairs—so I can go see Nancy. I never even got to tell her I love her, you know? I was such a mess back in Miami," She's gesturing wildly with her hands. "And tonight I told my parents about her. Everything. Including how much I love her. And they want to meet her. They asked when they could meet her."

"Wait." You hold up a hand, trying to slow her down. "So the conversation with your parents went okay?"

Robin stops pacing abruptly, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. She smiles—soft and disbelieving, like she still can't quite process it. "Yeah. It went... really well. Like, too good to be true well." She laughs, the sound slightly manic. "They were mad at first, but only because I lied to them about Steve all this time. But then they said..." Her voice breaks slightly. "They said nothing is different. I'm still their daughter and they love me."

She swipes at her eyes, and you realize she's crying. They’re happy tears mixed with overwhelmed tears, all of it spilling over at once.

"My dad said he'll be okay. That he'll be there to support me and will deal with whatever the public says." Robin laughs again, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "And during all of this, all I could think about was running to call Nancy. But then I remembered—wait, Nancy broke up with me, you dingus." She smacks herself lightly on the forehead. "So I'm going to her instead. I'm going to show up and tell her I love her and that I want to be with her for real. No more hiding."

She zips up the duffel bag with a decisive motion. "I'm not sure when I'll be back. Maybe Monday morning if things go well. Or maybe never if they go really badly and I die of embarrassment."

"Robin, wait." You stop her, catching her arm as she reaches for the door. You smile at her. It’s genuine and warm and so proud you could burst. "I’m happy for you."

Robin stops, hand on the doorknob. She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, then turns to look at you. "You should come, you know."

The invitation hangs in the air between you.

You would say yes. You really would. Part of you wants nothing more than to pile into Steve's car and road trip to Boston, to be there when Robin tells Nancy she loves her, to witness what comes next.

But a larger part of you doesn’t want to. You can’t stomach facing Steve in the confined space of a car for hours, to sit in that tension with nothing left to say except what happens now? Where do we go from here? How do we move forward?

You shake your head, and for the first time in weeks, you don't lie. Don't make up an excuse about homework or projects or needing to study. You say simply, honestly, "I'm not ready."

Robin nods, understanding flooding her features. She doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. She walks over and kisses you on the cheek. It’s soft and quick and full of affection—then grabs her bag and heads for the door.

"Wish me luck," she says one more time.

"You don't need it," you tell her. "But good luck anyway."

And then she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click, and you're alone again.

You walk to the window and look down at the parking lot. You can see Steve's BMW, the engine running, exhaust visible in the cool night air. Robin appears a moment later, tossing her bag in the backseat and climbing in the passenger side.

Steve looks up at your window, and even from this distance, you can feel his gaze. You step back into the shadows before he can see you watching.

The car pulls away, taillights disappearing into the night, carrying Robin toward her future and Steve toward... what? You don't know. Can't know until you're ready to find out.

.-.-.-.

News of Steve and Robin's breakup spreads like wildfire across campus.

It starts Monday morning. The whispers in the dining hall over scrambled eggs and burnt toast, hushed conversations in the library stacks, pointed looks and not-so-subtle stares whenever you're with Robin. Walking to class together, you can feel eyes on you both, hear the buzz of speculation following in your wake like a swarm of insects.

When you're in the dining hall, conversations pause as you pass tables. In the library, people crane their necks to get a better look at Robin, like she's suddenly become a celebrity or a curiosity. Even in your own dorm, girls stop by on flimsy pretenses—borrowing a pen, asking about summer plans— but really just trying to get a glimpse of Robin post-breakup, searching for signs of devastation.

Robin tells you that Steve didn't explain much to his fraternity brothers. Apparently, they all sat around the common room one night, and Steve had simply said, "Robin and I aren't dating anymore."

All the Pike brothers asked if he was okay, concern written across their faces because Steve and Robin had been together forever. 

And Steve had shrugged, said, "Never better."

His brothers took that as his asshole frat boy answer—that finally he wasn't tied down anymore, that he could do whatever and whoever he wanted now that he was single. You can imagine them clapping him on the back, making jokes about all the girls who'd been waiting for their chance, planning to take him out to celebrate his newfound freedom.

But you know what he really meant by those words.

Because yes, he can do whatever and whoever he wants now. But more importantly, he's free. Liberated from chains that had been binding him for over a year. It's like Robin and Steve had been handcuffed together this whole time, unable to find the key to unlock themselves. Maybe they never wanted to find it, never thought they could, never believed freedom was actually possible.

Until it was.

Most people are relatively normal about the breakup. There are the usual rumors circulating through Greek life. The whispers that Robin finally had enough of Steve's cheating, that she caught him with someone else, that the relationship had been dead for months. That he had enough of her not putting out. You hear fragments of these stories in bathroom stalls, in line at the dining hall, passed between sorority girls like currency.

When you see Sammy in Art History he gives you a soured look. His jaw is tight, eyes cold, and he deliberately chooses to avoid you at all costs. He probably thinks the breakup is your fault, that you're the reason Steve's relationship imploded.

Maybe, in a way, it is.

And that's something you struggle with. The guilt sits heavy in your stomach, a constant weight you can't shake. Did you ruin Robin's life by falling for Steve? Did your feelings set all of this in motion?

Robin must sense it because one day while you're both studying in your dorm—you at your desk, her sprawled on her bed with a textbook—she randomly says, "You know I came out to my family because I was really ready, right? It had nothing to do with anyone else. Not you, not Steve, not Nancy. Just me."

You look up at her, startled by the unprompted statement. But there's a small smile on your lips, and you nod in acknowledgment. "I know."

"Do you?" Robin asks, sitting up slightly to look at you properly. "Because sometimes I see you looking guilty, and I need you to know that this—" she gestures around the room, at herself, at everything that's changed "—this is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You nod again, throat tight. "I know."

After a week of Robin and Steve being officially single, the vultures start circling.

Girls approach Robin everywhere— in the library, out on the quad, sometimes even in class. They always start the same way, with false concern and sweet smiles.

"Hi, Robin. How are you holding up?"

And then, inevitably: "So, I was wondering if it would be okay if I made a pass at Steve?"

The first few times, Robin just scoffs, collects her things, and leaves without dignifying the question with a response.

But now she has a new favorite tactic.

Like now, in the library. Amanda—the same girl who'd flirted with Steve at that party in the fall, who'd touched his chest and batted her eyelashes—is standing at the edge of your study table. She's smiling sweetly at Robin, completely ignoring your existence.

"Hey, I wanted to ask if you didn't care if I reached out to Steve—"

Robin's face immediately scrunches up, features contorting like she's in physical pain. She covers her face with her hands and starts shaking her head, fake sobs croaking out of her mouth. Her shoulders shake convincingly.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek hard to fight back your laugh, forcing your eyes elsewhere to maintain the illusion.

"It's still all so new," Robin chokes out, voice breaking. "I'm sorry, I can't—I can't talk about this yet."

Amanda's eyes go wide, guilt flooding her features. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Robin. I didn't mean to—I shouldn't have asked. If you need anything, I'm here for you, okay?"

Before she leaves, she glances at you. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, jaw ticking with what might be suspicion or jealousy or both. Then she hurries away, probably feeling terrible about herself.

Robin watches through her fingers until Amanda is completely out of sight. Then she drops her hands and laughs, eyes flicking to you.

But you only manage a half-hearted smile that doesn't reach your eyes, the humor not quite landing.

Robin's face falters immediately. "You okay?"

You furrow your brows, breaking from your thoughts. "Yeah. I know he's probably happy to have all this shameless attention now. I'm sure he's been having fun these past couple weeks." You brush it off, returning your gaze to your textbook even though the words blur together.

Robin sighs heavily. "Hot Shot, you know he isn't."

And you know Robin well enough now to recognize that wasn't a question. It was a statement. She's telling you something—something you already know deep down but are pretending not to know.

You're pretending Steve doesn't want to see you, doesn't want to talk to you. Pretending he doesn't love you.

When really, he's waiting.

The Saturday before finals, the fraternities come together to host one last end-of-semester bonfire at the dive spot.

Robin eventually convinces you to go, promising it'll be just the two of you and you can leave anytime you want. You don't hesitate to say yes. You need a break from studying, from the walls of your dorm room closing in, from the constant tension of avoiding Steve on campus.

So once Robin gets off the phone with Nancy—her girlfriend again, officially and happier than ever. 

The bonfire is already raging when you arrive, flames reaching ten feet high and casting dancing shadows across the cliff face. The air smells like burning wood and spilled beer and the lake water below, that particular scent of algae and fish and summer approaching. Music blares from someone's boom box—Journey or REO Speedwagon, something with a big chorus that people are singing along to badly.

You can hear the roar of conversation, the crack and pop of the fire consuming wood, glass bottles clinking together, someone's laughter cutting sharp and bright through the general noise. There must be fifty people here at least, maybe more, spreading out across the clearing and down toward the water's edge.

The last time you were here, everything changed. Nancy had kissed Robin. You saw Steve in a new light under the stars. You'd felt something shift that night, tectonic plates moving beneath your feet, and you hadn't even realized it was the beginning of everything.

Once Robin gets her drink, some mixture of vodka and fruit punch that looks radioactive, and you get your water since you're driving, you both start dancing.

It's free and uninhibited, jumping around to the music without caring how you look. Robin throws her head back laughing, short hair flying, and grabs your hands to spin you around. You're both breathless and grinning, moving without thought, without the weight of everything that's happened pressing down on you.

For the first time in a while, it feels like it used to. And you realize it's because there are no secrets anymore. No manipulation, no hidden agendas. Just you and Robin, best friends again.

The other night, you'd admitted to Robin that you miss Steve. You were lying on your bed, staring at the ceiling, and the words had slipped out before you could stop them. Robin had climbed into bed next to you without a word, let you lay your head on her shoulder, and hadn't tried to pry or push you into being ready to see him.

She'd just held you while you cried.

You know you'll see Steve eventually tonight. You didn't expect it to happen so soon.

He spots you first, like he's been searching for you in the crowd. You feel his gaze before you see him, that prickle of awareness that makes you turn your head.

For the first time since their breakup, Robin doesn't leave to go hug him. He doesn't come over to kiss her cheek or wrap an arm around her shoulders. They only give each other a small wave of acknowledgment, friendly but distant, establishing new boundaries.

But then his eyes flick to you.

The firelight catches his jaw, illuminating the sharp line of it, the way his throat works when he swallows. He's wearing a backwards brown baseball cap, an old Hawkins High one you've seen before, and a plain white t-shirt that fits him perfectly, jeans that hang low on his hips. He looks so handsome it makes your chest ache. It’s that same feeling you get when you see something beautiful you can't have.

Your heart thrums in your chest, beating so hard you can feel it in your throat. You know by the look on his face, eyes soft and yearning and full of everything he's not saying, that he's thinking the same thing about you.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, a nervous gesture, and looks at the ground. Then he turns and walks over to where Eddie is standing.

You and Robin watch as Steve points his thumb behind him toward the parking area. Eddie, who's standing a few feet away from Polly, who's talking animatedly to a tall dark-haired boy, immediately searches the crowd until he finds you and Robin. He looks back at Steve and gives him a small nod, squeezing Steve's shoulder in comfort.

Steve turns around, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, ducking his head, and starts walking toward the parking lot.

He's leaving.

You watch him go, taking a deep breath, your stomach twisting painfully. He's leaving because you're here, because being in the same space as you is too hard when you're not ready to talk to him yet.

Robin looks between you and Steve's retreating figure, chewing on her bottom lip. Without a word, she laces her fingers through yours and starts dragging you across the dirt.

"Robin, what are you—"

But she's not listening. She pulls you past the fire, and you feel the overwhelming sweltering heat hit you like a physical wall, making sweat immediately prick your forehead. Robin has long strides, moving so fast her short bob sways with each quick step. You have no time to ask what she's doing because she's already caught up to Steve, reaching out to grab his wrist.

He turns around, startled, and you catch the way his eyes are red-rimmed. Has he been crying?

His pink lips part in shock. "What—"

Robin brings both of you over to an area that's darker, away from the main crowd but not completely private. There are still people around—couples making out against trees, groups passing joints, someone throwing up behind a bush—but it's quieter here, more removed from the chaos.

She lets go of both your wrists, stepping back to look at you both with her arms crossed.

Then she looks at Steve and says firmly, "Ask her to dance, Harrington."

She turns to you. "And you're going to say yes."

You and Steve look at each other, then back at Robin. She crosses her arms, widens her eyes, and motions impatiently for you to get on with it.

Steve lets out a shaky breath, looking away like he can't quite believe this is happening.

You feel yourself starting to roll your eyes, ready to walk away because this is too much, too fast, too—

Steve grabs your hand.

It feels like your whole body sparks with electricity—head to toe, every nerve ending coming alive, tingling. He tugs you toward him gently, and that's his way of asking. Your way of saying yes is not hesitating to look in his eyes and place your free hand on his shoulder.

You search each other's eyes, not even moving yet. Robin is saying something—you can see her mouth moving, probably making some joke to cut the tension—but you can't hear it. Your ears are buzzing and your heart feels like it's been shocked back to life after weeks of barely beating. Blood rushes everywhere as you drown in his hazel eyes, those pools of green and gold and brown that shift like seasons.

Steve moves your hand from his, lifting it to place it on his other shoulder so both your arms are around his neck. Then his hands settle on your sides, just above your waist, like he's too scared to go lower, too afraid you'll pull away if he gets too familiar too fast.

And then you start to sway.

Unlike the couples next to you—grinding against each other, making out aggressively, hands wandering—and unlike the music, which is definitely not a slow song, you move together slowly. Carefully. Like you're both made of glass and one wrong move will shatter everything.

No words pass between you.

Robin is gone now, and you're not sure when she left. Probably slipped away as soon as you started dancing, giving you this moment.

Steve still makes no move to speak. His fingers flex against your sides when you step closer, closing the remaining distance until you're properly pressed against him. You feel the warmth of his soft stomach against your. You can see his chest rising and falling rapidly, breathing faster than the gentle swaying warrants. If you were really brave, you'd press your palm to his chest to feel how fast his heart is beating.

Steve lifts one hand from your waist, fingers gentle as they brush your hair from your face so he can see you better. He tucks the strand behind your ear, and his thumb traces your jaw—barely touching, ghosting across your skin in a way that makes you shiver despite the warmth of the night.

Then he tilts your chin up with his finger so you have to look at him, can't hide behind lowered lashes or averted eyes.

His eyes are soft, vulnerable, laid completely bare. You see his throat working as he swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

He says your name softly, reverently. "I'm so sorry."

You breathe in and then out, hating how easy it is for you to relax under his gaze, how quickly your body responds to his touch like it's been waiting for this. "I know," you say quietly.

He's still staring at you, and you wonder if all he can think about is the beach in Miami. The way you told him you don't love him, the way you walked away and left him there alone in the dark. Probably.

You know he's sorry. You can see it in every line of his face, feel it in the tremor of his hands on your waist. You know things can be different now—Robin and Steve are free, the chains are broken, the future is no longer predetermined.

You step even closer, hesitating only a moment before laying your head on his chest, looping your arms fully around his neck.

Steve goes completely still.

Then slowly, carefully, like he's afraid you'll change your mind, he slides his hands to your hips. His grip is firm but gentle, holding you like you're precious. You feel his nose press into your hair, breathing you in, and his fingers tighten on your hips in response to whatever he smells there—your shampoo, your perfume, you.

The music continues around you—louder now, something with a driving beat—but you're moving to a rhythm only the two of you can hear. Swaying slowly, barely moving, just holding each other.

You can feel it when his heart rate picks up, the thump-thump-thump against your cheek getting faster. It happens when you tilt your head to look up at him, and you find him already looking down at you.

His expression is so full of hope it breaks your heart. His eyes are searching yours like he's looking for answers, for permission, for any sign that this means what he thinks it means.

Your eyes sting with tears that threaten to spill over. You sigh—long and shaky—and even though you don't want to, even though you could stay like this forever, you slowly break away.

His hands drop from your hips immediately, respecting the boundary, giving you space.

"Can we talk?" you ask, voice barely audible over the music and the fire and the noise of the party.

Steve nods, not trusting his voice. He gestures toward the path that leads away from the bonfire, away from prying eyes and listening ears.

And you follow him into the darkness, heart pounding, finally ready for whatever comes next.

You end up at the swings.

The playground is abandoned this late at night, equipment casting strange shadows in the moonlight. The swings creak slightly as you both sit down, chains groaning with your weight. You plant your feet apart and sway gently, the motion familiar and soothing from childhood.

You can see smoke rising above the trees from the bonfire, hear the distant laughter and music and chaos you left behind. Out here, it's quieter—just the sound of the wind in the leaves, the rhythmic squeak of the swing chains, your own breathing.

Steve is staring at you. You can feel his gaze like a physical weight, but you keep your eyes trained on the sky, trying to figure out what to say, where to start, how to explain everything tangled up inside you.

You want to be honest with him about everything. You don't know where to start, so you start with the simplest truth.

"I've missed you, Steve."

Steve's eyes gleam in the darkness, catching what little light filters through the trees. "I..." His voice comes out rough, and he clears his throat. "I've missed you too."

You look over at him, smiling softly. He's just out of reach, so you lean over and put your hand on his cheek. He immediately melts into the touch, eyes closing briefly, like he's been starving for this and finally getting to eat.

"Steve," you say quietly, firmly. "I love you."

You nearly hear his entire being freeze and restart—his breath catching, his eyes flying open, the smile on his lips growing wider and more genuine than anything you've seen in weeks. He chuckles, and it sounds like relief, like joy, like he's been waiting for this since Miami. Or maybe his whole life. For someone to love him back the way he loves them.

He twists in his swing, chains tangling slightly, then reaches out to grab the chains on both sides of your swing. He pulls you closer, turning you to face him so you're looking at each other directly.

He looks nervous. So nervous his hands are trembling slightly where they grip the chains. He opens his mouth, then looks away, a blush dusting his cheeks that you can see even in the dim light. He takes a breath, looks at you again.

"Would you go on a date with me?" The words come out in a rush. "Like a proper one? Maybe before you leave for break? I could take you out to dinner or the movies. I don't know, I haven't—I've never actually—"

His face falls when you look down, pressing your lips together. Your breath comes out shaky.

"Steve." You force yourself to look at him, to not be a coward about this. "I love you, and I needed you to know that. But I'm having a hard time forgiving you right now." Your voice cracks. "And I don't know when I'll be ready."

Steve bites his bottom lip hard enough you worry he'll draw blood, but he makes no effort to move away or let go of your swing. His knuckles go white on the chains, tendons standing out on the backs of his hands. He takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly.

"I'll do anything," he says, and his voice is steady despite the pain written across his face. "I know I can't make you forgive me, but maybe—" He trails off, looking at you with hopeful eyes, searching for any opening, any possibility. Then he sees your expression and understands. He nods, swallowing hard. "Okay."

That's all he says. Just "okay." But it's not the angry, bitter okay from before. It's disappointment and acceptance and resignation all wrapped up in two syllables.

You put your hand on his knee, feeling the muscle tense under your palm. "We can start by being friends again," you suggest. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it's a contradiction, but even though you don't know if you can be with him the way you want to, you don't want a life without him in it. Even if it means he's only a friend.

Steve thinks for a moment, jaw working, before offering a sad smile. His eyebrows twitch with the effort of holding his expression together. "I can do..." He pauses, and you can see him forcing the word out. "That."

The hesitation tells you it probably tastes wrong on his tongue, that part of him doesn't mean it. But just like you, if this is how you can be in each other's lives, he'll take it.

"Okay then." You hold out your hand formally, like you're sealing a business deal. "Friends."

Steve lets go of one side of your swing, making you sway slightly, then grabs your hand. He shakes it slowly, deliberately, and his thumb brushes across your knuckles in a way that feels anything but friendly.

Neither of you pulls away immediately.

"Yeah," Steve says quietly. "Friends."

After a moment, Steve lets go of your swing entirely and you both turn to face forward, staring out at the darkness. The silence stretches between you—not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with everything you're not saying.

Another beat goes by, and you start to move, ready to stand. "I think I'm going to go find Robin now."

"Wait," Steve says quickly.

You stop, turning to look at him.

His eyes widen when he realizes he actually needs to say something now, needs a reason for stopping you. He awkwardly clears his throat. "I, uh..." He sighs, adjusting the cap on his head, running a hand through his hair, putting it back in place. His curls shoot back out. "Do you mind if we sit here for a bit longer?"

You look at him—really look at him. At the vulnerability in his expression, the way he's asking for just a few more minutes of your time like it's a precious gift he doesn't deserve.

You settle back into your swing. "Yeah. Okay."

So you sit there together in the darkness, not speaking. Just the creak of the swings and the distant sounds of the party and your own breathing. The moon filters through the leaves above, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across both of you.

It's not everything. It's not what either of you wants. But for now, sitting on swings in the dark with someone you love who loves you back, it's enough.

.-.-.-.

Robin and you are hugging in your dorm room, arms wrapped tight around each other.

It's move-out day. Finals are done—finished yesterday with your Art History exam that you're pretty sure you aced despite everything. Summer break officially starts tomorrow, and you're driving back home as soon as you take the last box down and hand in your key.

There's not much sentiment or tears about the departure. You've already made plans to see each other over the summer—in a few weeks, you're going to Boston together to visit Nancy, and Robin might come see you at home after that. Or maybe you'll go to Hawkins, though that particular plan is still uncertain, still carries too much weight.

And then there's the promise of phone calls at least once a week. And the promise—made official when you both signed the housing form—of being roommates again next semester.

You break apart, and you grab your last cardboard box of things. The rest of your belongings are already loaded in your car, packed with the careful efficiency of someone who's done this before.

"Call me when you get home?" Robin asks, adjusting the box in your arms so it won't slip.

"Obviously." You smile. 

You leave the dorm, Robin waiting for Steve and Eddie to come help her load her things into Eddie's van. You're planning to leave as soon as possible, wanting to get on the road before traffic gets bad.

And definitely wanting to leave before running into Steve, even though part of you regrets telling him you want to be friends. But you know it's right. You know you need time.

Of course, as always, your luck runs thin.

You're going down the stairwell carefully, tongue sticking out in concentration as you navigate the narrow stairs with the box blocking your view, when you hear the door below clatter open. Quick footsteps pad up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

And immediately, his hazel eyes meet yours over the top of your box.

You have no time to protest before he's grabbing the box from your arms. "Here, let me help."

Then he's turning around and heading back down the stairs, leaving you standing there watching him go.

You take in his appearance as you follow—blue polo tucked into jeans with a white undershirt visible at the collar, his hair freshly washed and pushed back, and your eyes betray you by dropping lower to appreciate the fit of his jeans.

You follow him down the stairs, and you think he'll stop at the bottom, hand the box back, say goodbye. But he keeps walking. He only pauses for you to catch up, and then you're walking side by side through the lobby, outside into the bright morning sun, across the parking lot to where your car is waiting.

Steve opens your trunk and slides the box in with the others, having to lean on the trunk lid with his full weight to get it to click shut because it's packed so full. He chuckles to himself when it finally latches, grinning, biting his bottom lip, hands going to his hips like he's won a prize.

Then he looks at you, and you're smiling too because you can't help yourself when he's like this—boyish and pleased with such a small accomplishment.

You share a laugh, the sound bright and easy in the morning air.

"Thanks," you say.

"Yeah, no problem, Hot—uh—" He catches himself, stops.

You smile, tilting your head. "You can still call me that. I mean, it doesn't feel right when you don't."

What you don't say is that the nickname never really belonged to you in the first place. It was always his, and you want it to stay that way—only his nickname for you, something that belongs just to the two of you.

He grins, a little shy, ducking his head. "Right. Uh, well..." He clears his throat. "You excited for break? I mean, I know it's kind of already break, but you know. I guess, are you ready to go home? I bet you probably are."

You almost want to kiss the nervousness off his lips, smooth away the rambling with your mouth. But then your mind filters in the events of this year—all the hurt, all the lies, all the reasons you can't.

"Yeah," you say instead. "You?"

Steve shrugs, hands going back in his pockets. "Yeah, I guess. Probably working most of it. Not sure if Robin and I still have our jobs at Family Video. The manager there, Keith—total jackass, kind of hates me."

"I wonder why," you giggle.

He laughs, and the sound is genuine and warm.

Then there's another beat of silence as you look at each other, neither quite ready to say goodbye.

"Uh, Robin mentioned you're going to Boston together in a couple weeks," Steve says.

"Yeah." You nod. "I'm excited. Never been. And Nancy says she might introduce me to some people in publishing for an internship next year."

His face lights up. "Yeah? That's so cool." Then he pauses, and when he speaks again his voice is softer, more careful. "Robin also said you might visit Hawkins too. If things work out."

"Yeah," you say, biting your lip nervously. You don't elaborate.

Steve seems to catch on to your hesitation, what you're not saying—that visiting Hawkins means potentially seeing him, and you're not sure you're ready for that yet.

"Right. Yeah." He nods, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Well, I guess I'll see you then? Unless you have anything else upstairs you need help with?"

"Nope, this is it. I have to turn in my key, and then I'm all set."

God, now you wish you hadn't been so efficient loading your car if it meant you could talk to him like this a bit longer.

He nods. "Right. Okay." He repeats it like he's trying to convince himself. His face drops slightly, like he's thinking something over. Then, "Hey, I, uh... was thinking. Could I possibly get your number? Maybe I could call sometime over break?"

Your breath hitches, your brain scrambling, trying to remember which box has your notebooks and pens so you could write it down. But then you stop. You frown, looking at the ground sadly.

"I don't think..." You force yourself to look at him when you say it. "I don't want either of us to get the wrong idea."

You see Steve's face drop—another rejection, another door closing. But he doesn't push, doesn't try to convince you. He nods, swallowing hard. "Yeah. That's cool. No problem." He takes a breath. "Well, I better go start helping Robin so we can get on the road soon."

"Yeah. Okay." You're gripping your car keys so hard they're digging into your palm. "I'll see you."

Steve's mouth twitches into something that's trying to be a smile. "Yeah. See you later, Hot Shot."

You watch him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched, and you have to physically stop yourself from calling him back.

.-.-.-.

It's been two weeks of summer break, and you could not be more ready for Boston next week.

You've been out all day at your summer job—working retail at a clothing store in the mall, standing on your feet for eight hours, dealing with difficult customers and your manager who loves to micromanage. Your feet are killing you, and all you want to do is crash on the couch and turn on the TV.

Probably shamelessly turn on ALF, because Steve was right. It is a funny show, and it makes you laugh. And sometimes you pretend you're back in his room, holding his hand while you watch it together.

When you pass through the kitchen, you call out a greeting to your mom, who's making dinner.

She looks up from the pot she's stirring. "Oh, honey, you have mail. On the table."

You walk over, internally panicking when you see the official seal of your school on one envelope—probably final grades. You get ready to rip it open, prepping yourself for whatever's inside.

But then you see another envelope underneath. Green, not white. Your name sprawled across the front in handwriting you recognize, and your address beneath it.

You didn't think you were expecting any mail, but then your heart skips a beat when you look at the sender information in the corner.

Steve Harrington

You grab the letter quickly, nearly knocking over a glass in your haste, and run to your room. You shut the door like opening it in front of your mom would somehow make it more real, more dangerous.

You sit on your bed, holding the envelope carefully, running your finger over the ink. His ink. His handwriting—the same slightly messy scrawl you've seen on notes passed in class, on study guides, on the birthday card he gave Robin.

You open it slowly, carefully, not wanting to tear anything.

Inside are several pieces of notebook paper, folded neatly, and a photograph.

You look at the photo first, and immediately your heart beams, glowing warm in your chest.

It's the photo Jonathan took at the camping trip. Everyone standing together—Robin and Nancy with their cheeks smushed together, wrapped in each other's arms and grinning. Jonathan and Eddie with arms slung around each other, both making goofy faces. And you on Steve's back, both of you smiling so wide it looks like it hurt.

You hadn't realized in the moment, but in the photo you can see Steve trying to look back at you, his face turned slightly, and you can still see his smile. It’s bright and genuine and full of joy. Your eyes are closed from how big your own smile was.

You set the photo carefully on your bed, touching it gently like it might disappear, then unfold the letter.

Dear Hot Shot,

I was thinking about it. You never said I couldn't write to you. So here I am. If you don't want me to, you can write back and tell me to beat it. If you want to write back, then hey, I won't complain. However, if you don't mind, and I don't receive anything telling me to stop, I'm going to take that as the OK.

Jonathan came into town a few days ago and gave me this photo. He made copies for all of us but didn't have your address. Robin said she'd give it to you when she saw you in Boston, but I took the jurisdiction to do it myself. I hope that's okay. I can’t stop looking at it. I remember feeling nothing but happiness.

Not a lot has happened here. I'm ever so lucky and back at Family Video with Robin. Keith still hates me—today he made me reorganize the entire Horror section because he said I put "Friday the 13th Part III" in the wrong spot. I hadn't. He's just a dick. He also thinks it’s punishment putting me on shifts with my “ex-girlfriend.” So who has the last laugh now?

Max is good. She told me you called her the other day, which was cool of you. Then she made fun of me for asking if you'd asked about me. So I guess now you know I asked about you. Smooth, right?

I hope you're doing well. I hope work isn't terrible and that you're getting some rest. I hope you know that even though I'm disappointed about how we left things, I understand why. I get it. And I'll wait as long as you need.

You should know—I think you might be my favorite friend.

Yours truly,Steve