Random Stuff

You sit on the bed, a dingy mattress and rotten frame covered by your bedroll and blankets. Your flashlight is in your mouth as you try to wrap a bandage around your new bite. The bite she put there with her carelessness. You don’t look up, but your hands shake more. 

She tuts, slowly inching toward you. “Let me.”

Around the flashlight, you grumble something like, “I’n go’it.”

She pries the bandages away anyway, sitting to gently cradle your arm in her lap. You drop the flashlight, shining it begrudgingly on the bite. She tries not to think of it, tries not to see those sunken teeth marks, as she patches you up once more, but her nostrils flare at the sight of that smooth skin now bearing the same marks as your other arm. How long before this becomes a sleeve of scars, too? 

She looks at you beneath her lashes, thinking that, by the time this is over, she’ll be able to do this blindfolded. You’re still pale, eyes glassy, front teeth sinking into your lower lip like you’re trapping something. She’s scared to know what: a sob, or more yelling? 

“Will you talk to me about it?” she asks. 

“Thought you’d be sick of me talking by now,” you quip, but it’s flat. Your heart’s not in it. She rips the tape with her teeth to secure the bandage, but neither of you move when she’s done. She’s so tempted to let her fingertips dance across the delicate skin of your inner forearm, tempted to kiss and kiss until all of this goes away.

But it won’t. It’ll only make things worse. So why can’t she just let this — you — go?

“Please,” she whispers, like there’s anybody else to hear her but you. After the mayhem upstairs, it’s too quiet, enough that she feels underwater, yet she doesn’t dare break it. You and her, you’re wrapped in something unbearably fragile, and she’s just trying to keep it whole in her heavy hands. “I want to know what you feel when you’re near them.”

“So that you can tell Roe?” 

She deserves the bitterness in your voice, but it still nudges her back.

“I don’t want to talk about Roe again tonight.”

You pull away, turning to untie your shoelaces. “I don’t want to talk about anything. We only end up fighting when we talk. Or we end up kissing, which isn’t much better.”

She swallows thickly, eyes never leaving your curved spine. She clasps her hands tightly. So tightly, her nails bite into flesh. You don’t notice, too busy trying to dislodge your bloodied feet from your boots. You weren’t exaggerating about the blisters, socks stained red along most of your heel. Abby sighs and moves to her knees in front of you, gently peeling away the fabric to see how bad it is. 

“Abby, please. I can look after myself—”

“I know that you can,” she says. “You just don’t have to. I’m here, okay?”

“They’re blisters.”

She moves to the other foot, examining the bite on your ankle. All the walking is preventing it from healing, blood seeping through the bandage you haven’t changed since she last dressed the wound, despite your insistence you would. 

Since you’re out of water, and not even she can stomach the idea of leaving in the search of some now, soaking isn’t an option, so the best she can do is clean the blood and lather your skin in antiseptic cream until tomorrow. You watch her like you don’t understand why. Like you’re not sure you deserve it. Like nobody has ever, ever taken care of you before. Maybe Abby has been fending for herself these past years, but she’s lucky she at least still remembers the way her dad would tend to even the smallest of grazes with his patterned band aids. Kiss it better, even when she was far too old to believe in such magic. 

Her brows knit together, hands curling around your calf as she looks up at you. What have you done to me? she thinks when her sinuses begin to prickle with the promise of tears. Why you?

“What did you mean,” she begins instead, “when you said I was dangerous? Is it… Is it what you saw me do to Cal?”

You shake your head, something like resignation on your face. 

“Then what?”

“The way you make me feel, Abby.” You reach out, giving her ample time to prepare for your touch. Your palm lands featherlight on her cheek, cautious, expectant, like you’re waiting for her to pull back. Instead, she leans in, desperate to take anything you’ll give her. “I keep waiting for you to treat me the way everyone else does, but you don’t. You act like I’m not immune at all. Like these bites aren’t here. And when they are, you don’t run from them. You… You soothe them. To everyone else, I’m just a lab rat or contagious. You look at me like you see a person.”

“Because I do. I see you,” she says. “I see what you’ve been through. How you’ve suffered. And I want to take it away.”

“Why?”

She frowns, and you’re quick to add, “You could just take me to Avalon, hand me over to Roe, then go back to your life with Lev. No complications. You’d never have to think of me again. You’d never have to… to want to keep me alive. Instead, we’re dooming ourselves. We’re getting attached. Or, at least, I am. And it’s just going to make it hurt more later. The more you kiss me, the more I…”

“The more you what?” she pleads. And then, because she thinks maybe she knows exactly what it is you want to say, and needs to hear it: “Please, tell me. The more you what?”

You blink the tears from your eyes, bottom lip quivering again. “The more I wish things could be different.”

There it is. Finally, something that isn’t sheer indifference to your own death. She’s been desperate for some kind of sign, any kind of sign, that you want to stay. That you want to live. Nobody should want to throw away their own life. Even in her darkest moments, when a longing for the end had closed in on her, Abby had swiped those thoughts away quickly. Found a reason to keep going. 

If you haven’t found one, she wants to give you one, because no matter how many people you’re saving, it isn’t right to give up on yourself like this. Not when you’re so good, funny, beautiful, gentle. Not when you’re the best person she’s ever met, second only to Lev.

She rises on her knees, sliding her hands over your thighs as she leans close. You’ve only given her more incentive, more desperation. If kissing you means keeping you, she’ll do it everywhere. There won’t be an inch of skin she leaves untouched. 

“I can’t stop,” she admits shakily. “I can’t stop wanting you. Needing you. That’s your answer. That’s why. Because you deserved better than this.”

You shake your head. “Look at the world. We all deserved better.”

She cups your jaw, firm, now. Willing you to understand. “I don’t care about anybody else. That’s the fucking problem. Before I agreed to get you, Roe… She said I'm too comfortable in the darkness, and she was right. I changed after Seattle. I came here to get you because I thought I’d feel close to my father. Instead, I only feel close to you. I looked for the light, and I found you.”

Your lips part like there’s something waiting to break free, tears dribbling down your cheeks as you look at her with a softened gaze. You place your hands on her chest, fingers curling into her T-shirt. “This can’t change how it ends for me. I’m so glad I met you, Abby, but I still have to do this. It’s the only way all this pain will be worth it, if I can give the world a chance at a vaccine.”

She wants to argue. Wants to say pain will never be worth it, and a cure won’t change that. But she knows better than to try. She’s seen how badly you want this. She’s seen you try to scratch at the demons under your skin. She can’t take it away. She can’t hope you’ll change your mind. 

All she can do is feel what she feels, and for you, that’s everything. 

So she nods. Lies. “I know. I know that.”

“But until we get to Avalon…” you whisper, eyes darting down to her lips. Her throat goes dry, blood runs hot. “I can be yours if you want me to.”

And then you kiss her, and it feels like the first and last time, like the cool night air after a lifetime under the sun and like breath being pumped back into her lungs right when she thought it was over. She holds you tightly, afraid you might go again otherwise, gasping into your mouth as she nips at your bottom lip. 

“Abby,” you whimper, and it only fuels her more. She tugs you down onto her lap on the floor, fingers knotting in your hair as your lips begin to pepper her nose, chasing every one of her freckles.

She is yours, too, she thinks. She will be long after this is over. 

You can’t help but begin grinding against her thighs, bolts of pleasure shooting through you with every movement until, soon, you’re panting with want. 

And then you remember all the times she’s recoiled from your touch, and you freeze. “Is this okay?” 

She grips your hips bruisingly tight to keep you there, keep you locked against her on the floor. “Don’t fucking go anywhere.”

“Abby, I… I need you to tell me that you’re okay—”

“I’m good. Don't stop.” She licks up your throat, and your back arches involuntarily, breath hitching under her mouth. 

“Fuck,” you whisper. “I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Her eyes are near-black with a lust you surely haven’t done anything to earn. 

“That not everything has to hurt.” Because all you’re used to is needles under your skin, and knives, and teeth, and whatever poison runs through you as a result. You can’t remember the last time you experienced pleasure that wasn’t a quick release by your own hand. Can’t remember the last time anybody savoured you, taunted those nerve endings for something other than pain. 

She pulls away just far enough to meet your eye, her jaw setting with a sympathy you don’t want, because it means you’re likely more broken than you thought. 

She traces your waistband, and you shiver each time her fingers find your soft stomach. “You want me to make you feel good?”

You nod. “And I want to make you feel good.”

Her chin quivers, a suffocating silence falling over you both as she… stares. Analyses. No, not that. It’s far too adoring to be that. 

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” she admits.

“Me either.” You draw circles over the nape of her neck, wondering if she’ll ever tell you what happened to make her fear touch. Wondering why she lets you in anyway.

She closes her eyes, inhaling as she dips her nose into your neck. Her breath scuttles over your skin like laughter from a throat, palms squeezing your tits gently. “We can take it slow.”

“Abby,” you say. “We’re exhausted. We don’t have the energy or the patience for slow.”

A chuckle, soaked up by your goosebumps, like they’d risen just to hear it. “No. Maybe not.”

“Just tell me where you want me.”

“Can I take this off?” she asks, pinching the hem of your sweatshirt. You nod, helping her peel it off, and then your vest top. She kisses over the top of your tits, then sucks at your collarbone, your jaw, the top of your cleavage. She doesn’t stop when she gets to the bites over your ruined shoulder, only turning gentler. 

“Be careful. Please—”

“I’m not fucking scared of them.” Her knuckle brushes over your ribs. “But I want all of you. Lie on the bed for me.”

You do, dragging her with you as your spine presses into the bedroll. The frame creaks under your shared weight, foam mattress sinking at either side where Abby’s knees bracket your hips. She treats your bare stomach with the same attentive care she gave the rest of you, and soon you’re biting down on a beg, embarrassed by the way your underwear is already soaked for all the arousal she’s eliciting. You can’t wait. You wrestle your bra away, watching her reaction carefully. She licks her lips, toying with your nipple before lapping at it. 

You claw her hair, lids growing heavy as you stare up at the ceiling. It feels like you’re floating. Like this body is finally surrendering, showing mercy, in the way it allows you this warmth, this lightning. 

“Can I see you, too?” you question. 

She pauses, throat bobbing, before rising to remove her T-shirt. Fuck, she’s beautiful, all hard lines of strength, right down to the hinge of her hips. 

You don’t have to ask this time: she takes your hand and places it on the left side of her ribcage, right beneath the elastic of her bra. Her heart is pounding like drums. “This is what you do to me.”

You take her hand, slip it beneath your waistband so she can feel how wet you are. “This is what you do to me.”

Something fierce wakes in Abby. She bares her teeth, unbuttoning your jeans in one swift movement and tearing them off. You bend your knees, and her splayed hands force your thighs open, kisses beginning at your knee and ending at your groin. 

Your cunt pulses with anticipation, and you’re worried you’re so far gone you might come before she even touches you properly. Every kiss, brush, feels like it’s pressing right against your centre, even the caresses of your hips, the kneading of your asscheeks. She yanks you closer, hooking her arms under your thighs so your legs rest on her shoulders. 

When she slips your panties to the side to gather your slick, your head rolls back against the pillow, and you’re quick to move your hands to either side of you, afraid you might tug her hair too hard otherwise. You don’t know what she’s been through, don’t know what might pull her out of this moment and into a terrible one, and you refuse to take the risk.

Only, she looks up like she feels your absence, carefully guiding you back. “You can touch me however you want, baby. I’m okay. I promise.”

“Tell me if I do something you don’t like. Please.”

She nods, kissing the hollow between your ribcage. “I will. But you won’t. I like everything you do.”

The pad of her thumb presses against your clit, then, and you jerk involuntarily. Her lips curl, like it’s pleasure enough just to watch your reactions to her. “I’m going to make you come like this first, with my fingers. And then you’re gonna fuck my mouth. Does that sound okay?”

She says it so bluntly, as though she’s hashing out your next route with a map splayed out in front of her. Your brows knit together as pleasure begins to build against her fingers alone, hole clenching around nothing. “What about you?”

“After.” 

“Not fair.” You sound intoxicated, words slurred as you turn your face into the pillow. She’s parting your folds to get better access, fingers slippery and gentle and perfect, like you have all the time in the world. “Didn’t I tell you not to go slow?”

She laughs again, nothing but a shadow carved by moonlight, placing a kiss on the side of your knee before she returns her attention back to your cunt. “God, you’re perfect. D’you know that?”

“Abby.”

“What, baby?” she coos. “‘S this better?” Her finger dips into your entrance, and your walls clench, trying to keep her there, hips bucking to meet her. 

“Oh god. Please. More. Just… Forget the fucking fingers.”

Her teeth flash in the dark, and then she disappears between your legs, a kiss stamped against your clit that has you twitching, desperate. She’s warm, steady, fingers digging just this side of too firm on your hip, and you relish the idea of finding bruises that aren’t grotesque like your scars come tomorrow. Relish being marked by her, for once, instead of the infected. 

You bravely tug her hair, and she growls against you like she likes it. “That’s it. You’re in control. Always have been.”

Her tongue stokes more fire in you, stomach tightening like a knot as your head begins to spin. You must be making sounds, because she keeps saying, “I know, baby. I got you,” but you don’t hear anything but her voice, don't feel anything but her lips and this building, excruciating bliss that feels powerful enough to cancel out all the bad in your body.

And then she plunges two fingers into you, just enough to fill your entrance, as her tongue flattens and ripples against your clit, and you think maybe you’re sobbing, or screaming, or both, as you convulse in a desperate effort to seek more, more, more. The room fills with lewd sounds of her licking through your wetness, and your nails drag over her shoulders. “Still… okay?” you just about gasp.

She rises, teeth gritted, and pins your arms on either side of your head before kissing you. You taste yourself on her, musk and salt and sweetness. Your leg slips off her shoulder, and she’s grinding against it suddenly, every movement brushing her knee against your core as she uses your thigh for purchase. “Gonna go back. I just… fuck—”

“Take these off,” you beg, sitting up to help her unbuckle her cargoes. You begin to finger her immediately, and she sighs like she’s finally found the relief she’s offering to you. The column of her neck gleams in the night, hair curling where it meets her shoulders, and you think maybe you’re already in love with her, which is ridiculous, but she slots against you so perfectly that you can imagine, almost, that the world made her as compensation for the rest. 

You end up back on her lap, playing with her swollen clit while she stretches you out with her fingers. The sounds she makes are breathy and guttural, not too dissimilar to the ones you’d heard when she was fighting earlier — you suspect she never really lets that part of her go, though you can see the tension slowly dissolving from the veins in her neck, her forearms, as you explore her warmth. 

A tear rolls down your cheek.

“Fuck, stop, before I come,” she begs, but she doesn’t let you, thighs squeezing around your hand as her own thrusts speed up. Her coarse pubic hair tickles your palms, fingers wet and slippery and unskilled when you’re this tired and emotional and hers, but she doesn’t seem to mind, not as she splays you back onto your back to devour you like a wild beast. 

“Abby!” you scream, mouth agape as you look down at her lapping at your cunt. You can’t control your jutting hips now, your whole body moving to fall into her rhythm because if it stops, just for a second, you might implode. “Please. Please, please, please—”

She nips at your folds, and the sharp sting pushes you over the edge. Abby stuffs her fingers into your writhing walls, drawing out the orgasm until you’re a boneless mess, fingernails clawing her thick shoulders and thighs quivering around her. 

It lasts longer than any you’ve had before, aftershocks zapping through you as she continues to drive more pleasure into you with both her fingers and tongue. You slump back, unsure if you want to push her away or pull her closer so that you never know what it feels like to stop again. 

“So fucking pretty for me like this,” she’s murmuring around your pussy. “God, you’re soaked.” And she’s drinking you like she wants every drop for herself. 

You whine her name, twitching when the tendrils of her hair brush against your inner thighs. “It’s… It’s your turn now.”

“One more. Wanna make sure you forget about everything else.” Her fingers curl without warning, hitting your G-spot, and your overstimulated clit throbs against her. 

“Abby.” A wave of exhaustion washes over you. “I don’t know if I can last much longer. Please. C’mere.”

She stops with one final kiss to your clit, rising to meet you with your arousal coated all over her lips and chin. She uses that on her fingers like a balm over your nipples, then cleans it with her tongue like she could never tire of playing with your body. Of worshipping it. 

But it’s her turn, and you refuse to leave her without release tonight. You tug her down, unfastening her bra and drawing the straps down. Her chest is as toned as the rest of her, and you wish you could take your time with her, sink your teeth into all that thick flesh. Instead, you go back to her pussy, and she moans through closed lips. 

“Fuck, I can still taste you,” she’s murmuring. “I don’t… I don’t need much more. Just like that. I’m already so close.” 

Her head drops into the crook of your shoulder, stomachs pressed together, soft versus hard, hot meeting cool. Her legs tangle with yours as she falls on her side and opens herself up.

“You deserve for someone to take care of you for a change,” you mumble. “You’re so good, Abby.”

Her toes curl against your calves, and she tugs you closer, like she needs to feel you everywhere. It’s an awkward position, offering not nearly the pleasure she deserves, but her eyes squeeze shut as she ruts against you all the same. 

“God, I…” She finds you again, stroking your clit softly this time, like she’s doing it just to touch you, to memorise you. Still, your sensitive core coils for her from the sheer pleasure of watching her fall apart. You find a rhythm together, your thighs locked in hers so she finds extra friction against you, and you her. It’s a raw, uncoordinated thing, rocking for the sake of pleasure, not caring what or how it’s gotten, only that you’re melding into one, so close you don't know where you end and she begins. 

She comes with a sharp rasp of your name, and the increased pace of her thrusts has a second, gentler orgasm rolling through you. 

You grip her through it, feeling like you might be falling.

“This… This was perfect,” you whisper as her movements finally ebb. “I’m so glad I got to have this before it’s all over.”

She tenses, suddenly, in your arms, hiding her face in your neck like maybe she can’t bear to look at you. 

Still, she places a final kiss on your collarbone. Still, she stays tangled in you. 

You feel her sigh as her breaths slow and wonder if, by some miracle, she’s actually sleeping. Running your fingers through her hair, you pull back to check and find her lids closed, breaths leaving your skin tacky. 

In the darkness, you smile. Soon, you’ll have to get up to barricade the door and keep watch by the window, knowing she’d never forgive herself if you both fell victim to unconsciousness. 

For just a few more moments, though, you get to be hers, and there’s a peace in that. A peace that, until now, you’d been searching for in all the wrong places.

⊹₊

⤷ CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It's 2:47 AM, and you're ready to wreak havoc. You have been tossing and turning since you and Abby settled into your shared bed around 9. She had created a set schedule, not only for getting up early for work in the morning, but you struggled with insomnia, so Abby gave you a big enough window for you to wind down comfortably. Except here you are, staring into the dimly lit room, your book long forgotten on your lap, fiddling with the pages. You and Abby have tried everything under the sun, melatonin gummies and lavender essential oil behind your ear that stunk. Abby even bought you a sound machine, but it was long forgotten in a drawer.

And you want to cry because Abby is knocked out next to you, her squished cheeks against the pillow facing you. “Abby..” you whisper into the intimidating silence, brushing back the golden baby hairs that lay against her forehead. You watch Abby’s eyebrows furrow, shifting around by the ticklish feeling. You feel so bad but all you want is her to envelope you in her warmth, lulling you into sleep. “Abby,” you try again, gently nudging her, seeing that it does the trick since Abby starts stirring. She blinks a few times, your cloudy figure coming into focus as she rubs one of her eyes.

“Can’t sleep?” she murmurs, and you feel your stomach flipping from anxiety. How dare you disturb your peaceful girlfriend from her slumber? You nod, sinking further into the bed. Abby’s side is so warm as you start itching yourself towards her. She gets the memo and reaches her arm around you to press her closer to her chest. Facing her, she maneuvers your legs so it lay comfortably against her, cupping your butt in a comforting way.

“Close your eyes, baby,” she whispers against your forehead as she plants a kiss there, letting her lips linger as she starts patting your butt, the same way a mother would rock their baby to sleep. You two fall into the comfortable silence of your soft breaths, feeling Abby's inhale follow yours. The gently patting falling you into a rhythm that ends up knocking you out, gently snoring in Abby's face that has her placing a tender kiss on your sweet lips before she joins you.

You couldn't understand why you were depressed. From the outside everything was going right—you had a healthy relationship, good grades, a small but cozy apartment with your girlfriend… but you were still sad. And that sadness led to hurting yourself at times. You had been clean for a while, about a month. Nothing to scoff at when you're always in a dark place but you mind dismissed it as you grabbed a small box and left for the bathroom with a tired expression.

  When Abby came home you were a sobbing mess covered in blood and shame. Your arms and thighs burned as much as your eyes did from hot tears pouring down your cheeks. She knew you struggled, but seeing it first hand was awful every time. She stepped into the bathroom with a somber expression.

  “C’mere baby…” She held out her hand—calloused from years of gym workouts and working odd jobs to help you stay with her in a safe environment away from people that hurt you. She knelt down on the floor and pulled you into her lap. Just hugging you for a time. You cried into her chest, tears staining her tank top with dark splotches. You felt her start rubbing your back, trying to soothe you as strong arms wrapped around your shaking form. She kissed your forehead several times before moving down to your cheeks, kissing the tears away as fast as she could. 

  You stayed like that for a while, until your sobs turned to soft sniffles in your lover’s arms. You were too tired to speak; stuck in the fetal position on Abby's lap for God knows how long. Maybe until the bleeding stopped on its own given the crust forming over your skin now. 

  “How bad?” Abby asked, breaking the calm silence.

  “B-bad—” You respond quietly, barely even above a whisper.

  “Let me see, I'm patching you up.” A command, not a question. 

  You nervously roll up your sleeves then wiggle out of your pants. Wincing as the fabric, previously fused with blood and fluid to your skin, was ripped off carelessly. Abby pursed her lips as she began to examine your wounds carefully. She caressed the uninjured side of your arm and pulled your wrist to her lips, pressing a kiss as soft as silk over the red lines. She then picked you up easily and sat you on the counter—opening up the medicine cabinet to grab supplies.

  “I'm not mad. You know that, right?”

  “You're not?”

  “No, never.”

  “I figured you'd at least be disappointed…” You let out a bitter chuckle, to which Abby responds by flicking your forehead with her finger.

  “You're holding on for dear life to stay with me here, I can't get mad at your attempts to keep the thoughts at bay. I do wish you didn't hurt yourself, but I'm not mad or disappointed or upset or whatever your brain is telling you.”

  Her words were filled with finality as she grabbed a washcloth full of warm soapy water and started lightly scrubbing your arms and thighs clean. Paying special attention to any wounds that seemed deep enough to need a butterfly closure. The whole process was filled with loving words, kisses, and gentle squeezes of affection. She didn't talk down to you, she made you feel safe and cared for. 

  Each gauze pad was applied tenderly to skin covered in antiseptic ointment, then  wrapped over with bandages—or taped down for your thighs. Of course she kissed the bandaged injuries a million times, making you laugh softly at how sappy she was being. She scooped you up in her arms again and started to carry you to your shared bedroom. Looking up lovingly at you as the moonlight from a passing window perfectly caught in your eyes. Illuminating their beautiful colour and the small beads of tears still within your waterline, shining temporarily in the dark. A melancholic beauty that was a bittersweet vice on Abby's heart. She loved you in all forms, even your most broken. Shown by the way she paused to kiss you and press your foreheads together for just a moment after seeing you like that.

  “I'm not losin’ you, alright baby?” 

  You nod as the tears started back up again. She wiped them with her thumb as she laid you down in bed and tucked you in all your favorite blankets. Putting a plushie in your arms while she fumbled with the TV remote to put on a show. Something random on Netflix that she could cuddle you while watching. Afterwards she slid in bed next to you and wrapped you in her arms, resting your head on her chest with your ear right above the steady beat of her heart.

  “Rest darlin, you've had a long day…” Were the last words you remember as you nuzzled up to her and started to drift off to sleep.

That was the first sentence Eddie Munson had ever uttered to your humble person. You were eating your lunch in peace, staring into space as per usual when he suddenly spoke to you. You blinked. You looked around to make sure he was indeed talking to you. He snorted.

“Yeah. You. I’ve been watching you for the past five minutes and you haven’t stopped staring at me all this damn time. What ? Got a problem with my face, Gazer ?”

Gazer ? You blinked again and chuckled awkwardly before you tried to defend yourself. “I…No. Not at all. I just…I wasn’t staring at you I swear. I was just—”

“Yeah ?” He interrupted you. “Well from where I’m standing. It kinda looked like you were. And I don’t like people staring at me. It ain’t cool.”

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole when everyone at your table was suddenly staring at you. You pulled your cap down over your face in shame and begged for a reprieve of this moment of sheer embarrassment. And as if you had been heard, a voice raised behind you.

“Munson. Cut it out.” One of the school monitors spoke up and Eddie huffed—but still complied. He sat back down with an angry thud and his arms crossed over his chest. Once the monitor was gone though, he glared at you.

“Don’t think this is over. I’m onto you, Poker Face. One more weird look from you and I’m breakin’ out the tinfoil helmet, got it ?”

You were speechless. You hadn’t meant to be staring at him. It was just that sometimes you had episodes of complete absence and you just started staring into space. It wasn’t your fault. You swear you hadn’t meant it. But before you could apologise, he was gone…You stood up as well and walked towards the exit. You REALLY didn’t want to run into him again.

…

The next time you saw Eddie, it was two days later—during a fire drill. You were standing on the grass near the edge of the baseball field, biting your nails and trying not to look like a lost idiot in a sea of yelling classmates. Your class was grouped loosely together, but you’d instinctively drifted off to the side, head down, eyes fixed on the trees past the fence. Until someone bumped your shoulder—deliberately. You blinked and turned. There he was. Eddie Munson. Same wild hair, same jean jacket, same permanent scowl. He stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, tilting his head like he was trying to figure you out.

“You doing it again.” He finally told you.

Your throat went dry. “Doing what ?”

He gestured to your eyes. “Staring. Spacing. Whatever the hell it is. Just…do it somewhere else, alright ?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Where else were you supposed to do that ? It’s not like the fire drill had been your idea. “I wasn’t looking at you.”

He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Sure you weren’t, Poker Face.”

You frowned. Why wouldn’t he just leave you alone ? You had apologised. Multiple times. “Why do you keep calling me that ?”

Eddie tilted his head again, then shrugged before taking a step forward. “Because you’ve got this…blank look. Like you’re just…trying to win at an invisible game of poker in your head.”

You took a small step back. “I just…sometimes I space out. It’s not personal. I swear. I wouldn’t be staring at you if I could help it. I really just space out and you happen to be in my line of vision often when that happens for some reason.”

He blinked. The hardness in his eyes flickered for a moment. “…You for real ?”

You nodded, pressing your lips together, embarrassed again. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. It just happens.”

“Huh.” He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “Well. You should tell people that.”

“I tried to tell you,” you muttered and looked away.

He didn’t respond for a second, then replied with a slight wince, “…Yeah. Right. Sorry. Guess I kinda jumped the gun on that one.”

You looked—really looked—and for a split second, he looked…sheepish ? Before you could say anything else, the principal blew a whistle, yelling for everyone to get back inside.

Eddie gave you one last look and finally smiled. Then he playfully ruffled your hair and told you: “Still think Poker Face fits though. But I ain’t upset anymore and I accept your apology. We cool, Gazer.”

And then he walked off. You were stunned by the unexpected exchange and it took you a second to get back inside…only to have one of the monitors tell you something that you really didn’t expect…

That night:

You were already sitting when Eddie strolled in the detention room. He froze. He really didn’t expect you to be there. But he then dramatically dropped into the seat beside you with a groan that was louder than necessary. The teacher at the front—Mr. Keller, who clearly didn’t want to be there either—glared briefly, then returned to his newspaper.

Eddie leaned over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “So…” he whispered conspiratorially. “Was it you ?”

You blinked at him. “Was what me ?”

“The fire,” he insisted, like it was obvious. “You started it ? I’ve heard of love burning bright, but damn, Gazer.”

Your face dropped. “What ?”

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m just saying, if this was all some Bonnie-and-Clyde way to get my attention, it worked. You even got us detention together. Real smooth.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Eddie. It was a toaster short-circuiting in the teacher’s lounge.”

“Oh, sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “But was it a metaphorical toaster ? That’s the question.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto the desk. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Flattered.” He shot back with a smirk.

You turned your head just enough to glare at him sideways. “You do know why I’m actually here, right ?”

Eddie blinked at you. It was his time to be surprised. But it quickly turned into amusement. “…Because you’re a criminal mastermind ? No ? Enlighten me.”

You sat up, arms crossed. “Parker. In biology. Said I was ‘ogling’ you during class. Then he told the teacher I was your stalker.”

Eddie stared at you—dumbfounded. “Wait—what ?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Apparently, I’ve been ‘following your every move’ and ‘writing your name over and over in my diary.’ Which is funny, because I don’t even own a diary.”

He leaned back slowly in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Wow. So you’re my stalker and a pyromaniac. What a résumé.”

You let out a heavy sigh. “Eddie.”

He put his hands up. “Kidding. Jeez.” Then, after a beat, “Parker’s such a dick.”

You blinked. He actually agreed with you. That was unexpected. He almost seemed to be feeling sorry for you…

Eddie then sighed and tilted his head towards you. “Alright, Gazer. Poker Face. Whatever. For real—I didn’t think you were, y’know, actually stalking me. I just thought you were…weird.”

“Thanks,” you replied dryly.

“But not in a bad way,” he added quickly and looked down—playing with his rings. “Like…you’re weird the way I’m weird. Which is probably why I reacted like a cornered cat.”

You eyed him skeptically and Eddie drummed his fingers on the desk, suddenly fidgety. “Look, I’m not great at the whole…being nice thing. But maybe I shouldn’t have called you out like that in the cafeteria.”

You stared at him. “Is that an apology ?”

He winced. “It’s the Eddie Munson Special™ version of one.”

You cracked the tiniest smile despite yourself and he grinned—proud of himself for making you slip. 

“You’re smiling. See ? We’re bonding.”

You rolled your eyes and looked away. “I still don’t like you.”

He smirked and nodded. “Even better. All the best friendships start with mild hatred.”

You rolled your eyes again…Right. As if…

The next morning:

You’d barely stepped into the building when you heard the whispers.

“That’s her.”

“No way. Eddie Munson ?”

“I heard they did it in the chemistry closet.”

Your stomach dropped before you even made it to your locker. You could already feel it—the way people’s eyes clung to you, half disgust, half fascination. The cliques didn’t even try to lower their voices. You saw Parker leaning against a locker with his smug little smirk, whispering animatedly to a few wide-eyed girls.

And then you reached your locker.

Spray paint. Sloppy, red, and dripping.

Devil’s Whore.

You froze. Your mouth went dry. Someone behind you giggled. You didn’t even turn to look. For a second, it was like everything slowed down. Your ears rang. Your fingers curled into fists.

I didn’t even do anything.

I didn’t even touch him.

You wanted to scream. Instead, you just stood there—glued to the floor.

“Hey.”

You turned—Eddie. He’d just rounded the corner, binder under his arm, chewing the end of a pencil. His eyes landed on the locker and he immediately stopped chewing and straightened up.

“What the—” He stepped closer, his voice sharper. “Who the hell did this ?”

You said nothing. Couldn’t. You were still frozen in place. Eddie looked at you. Really looked. And his usual teasing, cocky expression faded fast. You shook your head just a little, lips pressed together. He turned towards the hallway, eyes scanning the nearby faces like a wolf catching scent.

“Who the fuck wrote this ?” he barked and slammed his hand against the tagged locker. “Huh ? Parker ? Was it you, you little rat-faced shit ?”

Parker laughed. “Man, don’t look at me. I just heard what everyone else did. Gazer over here’s been—”

Eddie was already moving. He was about to deliver a punch that would hopefully rearrange the idiot’s brain right. But you quickly grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t. Please.”

He looked back at you, jaw clenched so tight it ticked. “They don’t get to do this to you.”

“They already did.” Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. The hallway was starting to go quiet. Too many people watching. Too many grins. But you didn’t want Eddie to get into trouble. He already had more than enough on his plate.

He finally glared at the students watching and raised his middle finger at them. “Anyone else wanna say something ? Huh ? Step right up. Come on. I’ve been dying to use my evil powers on all of you assholes.”

Silence. Everybody eventually looked away.

The bell rang.

Later, in the hallway outside the front office, Eddie leaned against the wall as you sat beside him on the floor. A janitor had painted over your locker in rushed, messy brushstrokes.

“You know,” he spoke up, “if we had slept together, I guarantee you’d remember it.”

You shot him a look.

He smirked. “Too soon ?”

You huffed. “Way too soon.”

Silence…Then—

“…You’re strong,” he complimented you suddenly, the teasing gone. “Most people would be crying in a bathroom stall right about now.”

“I wanted to,” you admitted. “Still might.”

He nodded once, slow. “I guess I’ll wait outside the stall today, just in case.”

You smiled and he smiled back at you. He then nudged his foot against yours.

“Come on. Let’s go. I suddenly got the urge to go to class.”

You were surprised, but smiled nonetheless and nodded before standing up and he smiled back at you before following you.

A few days later…

You were halfway through stabbing a sad excuse for a salad when she approached.

Marcie Winters.

Cheerleader. Always smelled like strawberries and money. She sat down across from you like you were already friends.

“Hey,” she said, all faux-sweetness and sugar-coated venom. “You don’t mind if I sit here, right ?”

You blinked. “Uh…”

You were pretty sure she had never talked to you before…She didn’t even wait. Just plopped down with her friends and leaned across the table like she was about to share a secret.

“So,” she started, voice dropping to a whisper. “How big is he ?”

You stared at her with a confused expression. “W-What ?”

She smiled innocently. “Munson. You know. Big.”

Your stomach turned.

“I mean,” she continued, totally unbothered, “people say he’s crazy in bed, like wild. I just figured you’d know.” Her smile widened. “Unless the rumor was just fake and you didn’t actually—”

“Are you serious right now ?”

She blinked at your defensive tone, as if you were the one being unreasonable.

“I didn’t sleep with him,” you told her truthfully. “That was a lie. Someone made it up. And even if I did, why would I ever share such an intimate information with you ?”

Marcie pouted. “That’s a shame. I kinda liked the idea of him being as much a freak in the bed than in his everyday life.”

You stood up so fast your chair scraped loudly against the floor. But before you could say something that would land you in another detention, a familiar voice rang out behind you.

“Wow. Really classy, Marcie.”

You froze.

Eddie.

He’d shown up with a half-eaten bag of chips in one hand and a “do not test me” expression that was usually reserved for people who tried to touch his guitar without asking.

Marcie scoffed. “What ? I was just curious. Jeez.”

Eddie stepped between you and her, putting himself squarely in her line of sight. “You wanna know how big I am ? Why don’t you ask your boyfriend ? I hear he’s got a measuring tape and plenty of insecurities he’s trying to hide. Sooo…instead of asking the poor girl embarrassing questions, how about you take care of your own backyard for once, hmm ?”

The lunchroom snorted. Someone two tables over even clapped.

Marcie’s jaw dropped in shock before she scoffed. “You’re disgusting.”

“No,” he quickly answered, popping a chip into his mouth. “I’m selective. And you didn’t make the cut.”

She was silenced and stormed off with a huff. You were still standing there, wide-eyed.

Eddie turned to you and his gaze grew concerned. “You alright there, Gazer ?”

You blinked before sighing and huffing a bitter laugh. “Why are you always showing up right when things get really humiliating ?”

He grinned. “Maybe I’ve got a sixth sense for it. Or maybe,” he said, lowering his voice as he leaned just a little closer, “I don’t like when people talk shit about someone I like.”

Your heart skipped and your eyes widened significantly. “You like me ?”

He raised an eyebrow and smirked at the shock on your face. “I was kidding. Don’t flatter yourself, Poker Face. I just hate Marcie.”

He walked away, tossing the empty chip bag into the trash, but not before glancing back—just once—to make sure you were smiling.

You were.

A few days later…

You were nose-deep in a history book, fully zoned out when—

Tap.

You jolted so hard you knocked your pen across the table.

“Jesus—!”

Eddie was crouched behind your chair, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“Hi,” he said sweetly.

You slapped a hand to your chest. “Eddie. You can’t just do that—”

He didn’t move. Still crouched. Still smirking.

“I’ve been here for five minutes,” he informed you. “You didn’t even notice me creeping up. I could’ve been a serial killer.”

You snorted. “I wish you were. Then maybe I’d have peace.”

He gasped—mock hurt. “Gazer. Wounding me.”

You glared at him and turned back to your book, trying not to acknowledge the fact that your pulse was still hammering. But then—

Poke.

Your eyes went wide. His fingers had poked your ribs. Right under your arm. You stiffened.

“Oh ?” Eddie exclaimed, leaning closer, mischief radiating off him like heat. “Was that a reaction ?”

You gave him a warning glance. “Don’t.”

He wiggled his fingers again. “I’m looking for it. The tickle spot. I know it’s there.”

You tried to use the back of your chair as a shield against the assault. “I will kick you in the shin.”

“Promises, promises,” he sing-songed.

You glared at him and tried to focus back on your page, ignoring how close he was now, chin resting on the back of your chair. But he poked your side again and you yelped—actually yelped.

“There it is,” he grinned, triumphant. “Bullseye.”

You shoved your book closed and gave him a half-hearted glare, cheeks warm. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be ?”

“Probably,” he admitted with a grin. “But I like bothering you more.”

You huffed and stood up to walk out. You then sat cross-legged under the old tree near the edge of the field, unmoving. Your eyes were fixed somewhere off in the distance—nowhere, really—and then you just went into one of your weird spacing out episodes.

From the path, Eddie spotted you.

At first, he thought you were ignoring him. Then he realized that you weren’t.

He slowed as he approached.

“Hey…” he said softly, crouching in front of you. No reaction.

He waved a hand near your face. “Earth to Poker Face.”

Nothing.

He paused. This wasn’t the first time. He’d seen it happen before, but never quite this…deep. Instead of pushing, Eddie exhaled through his nose and lowered himself into the grass beside you. He sat close—but not touching—watching you out of the corner of his eye. You were still breathing slow. Calm. Peaceful, even. His gaze wandered. And then he saw it—your hand, resting lightly against your thigh, fingers relaxed. Something stirred in his chest. He looked around for any potential witnesses but no one seemed to be around at this hour.

Left. Right. No one watching.

His tongue poked out briefly as he wet his lips. He looked at your face again, searching for any flicker of awareness.

Still nothing.

So slowly—ever so slowly—he reached out. His hand hovered for a moment over yours like he was afraid you’d burn him. Then, inch by inch, he slipped his fingers between yours. His palm pressed against yours with the lightest pressure.

You didn’t pull away. He wasn’t sure that you were even aware that he had decided to hold your hand. So he stayed like that. Sitting beside you, hand in yours, heartbeat skipping like a stone across water.

A soft breeze rustled the leaves above.

He looked at you again—studying the curve of your eyelashes, the calm in your brow, the stillness that always made people whisper, what’s wrong with them ? But not him. He didn’t think anything was wrong with you. He thought you looked like someone who just…lived in a different kind of quiet. And maybe, for once, he wanted to know what that quiet felt like. So he stayed. Just sat there. No jokes. No jabs. Just some guy with his hand in yours, hoping maybe when you came back to the world, you wouldn’t let go.

A few moments later…

You blinked slowly and the haze lifted. Your fingers twitched and tightened slightly around a warmth you hadn’t expected. Turning your head just a little, you saw him—Eddie, eyes closed, head tilted back against the tree trunk, breathing steady and calm. He was asleep. His hand still held yours, fingers loosely intertwined. You hesitated for a moment, the instinct to pull away warring with something deeper. Then, instead of moving away, you shifted closer, letting your shoulder rest against his. The grass was cool beneath you, the sky above muted and gray, but in that instant, the quiet felt safe.

You closed your eyes.

The soft rise and fall of his breath was soothing to you. Minutes stretched and slipped by. And somewhere between the crunch of leaves and the distant chatter of classmates, you both drifted into a peaceful nap—side by side, hands still touching, shoulders leaning in.

…

The moon hung low and silver, casting long shadows across the empty field when you woke up. You stirred first, eyes fluttering open to the chill night air. Your heart jumped when you realized you were still pressed up against Eddie’s shoulder—and your hand was still in his. You jerked awake, coughing softly to cover your sudden fluster. Quickly, carefully, you slipped your hand out of his grasp, trying not to disturb him.

“Sorry,” you whispered, voice barely audible in the quiet.

Eddie stirred too, blinking slowly as he registered where he was and who was beside him. He smirked, eyes half-lidded in that trademark devil-may-care way.

“’S fine,” he mumbled, stretching one arm above his head like it was the most natural thing in the world. The two of you then stood up and started walking towards the school ground exit. The street was empty, quiet but for the wind rustling through the trees and your slow footsteps on the pavement. Eddie shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and glanced at you out of the corner of his eye.

“…You wear that cap a lot,” he noted casually and gestured to the one you were wearing. “Like, a lot a lot.”

You looked down quickly, fingers twitching with the urge to adjust the brim again.

“Yeah,” you acknowledged. “I know.”

He let the silence stretch, giving you the chance to fill it if you wanted to. You did.

“It’s not just because I like it. It’s sort of…a shield.”

Eddie raised a quizzical eyebrow at you. “A shield ?”

You nodded. “From people. From their eyes. I have a…habit. Sometimes I space out and stare. It makes people uncomfortable. Makes them think I’m doing it on purpose.”

Eddie tilted his head, quiet now.

You kicked a rock on the sidewalk. “So I wear the cap low. It gives me something to look at. Lets me hide a little. I know it’s weird.”

Eddie was quiet for a second longer, then replied with a shrug, “That’s not weird.”

You glanced at him and he looked away.

“I mean,” he shrugged again, “people stare at me all the time. But I guess it’s only cool when they do it.”

You smiled, surprised by his reassuring words.

He looked ahead again, a breeze lifting his curls. “So what, the cap’s like—your armor or something ?”

You nodded. “…Kind of, yeah.”

He smiled. “Well, I dig it. It’s got that mysterious ‘who is she under that brim ?’ vibe. Very mysterious and dramatic.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Thanks, Munson.”

He was quick to retort. “You’re welcome, Poker Face.”

And with that, the silence returned. You both kept walking, your cap tugged low and your secret out in the open. Eddie glanced down at his hand—still swinging loosely by his side—and suddenly stopped walking. You paused too, watching as he wiggled his fingers, the silver of his many rings catching in the streetlight.

“You know…” he began, quieter now, “these aren’t just for show.”

You tilted your head. “They’re not ?”

He held up his hand, turning it side to side, letting each ring glint like a tiny spotlight.

“Most people think it’s just part of the whole… metalhead, freak-show image. And I mean, yeah, sure—some of it is. Gotta look cool when you’re scaring preps and failing math.”

You let out a small chuckle. He smiled faintly, but didn’t drop his gaze from his fingers.

“But I started wearing them when I was like… twelve. Found one in a pawn shop. Cheap as hell. Felt heavy. Solid. Like I had control over something.” He glanced at you now, his face more serious as he continued. “It was stupid, but I used to think if I had rings on my fingers, no one would notice they were shaking.”

Your breath caught and your eyes widened slightly. He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Still do it. If my hands are bare, I feel…I don’t know. Off. It’s stupid really.”

You were quiet for a beat, then replied softly, “That’s not stupid.”

He looked at you again. You hesitated, then tugged your cap a little higher—just enough for your eyes to meet his. Eddie held your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. You didn’t look away this time. His lips quirked up into something real.

“Well then,” he said softly. “Guess we’ve both got our special armor.”

You hesitated just a moment—then, without a word, your fingers reached out and intertwined with his. The weight of his rings pressed softly against your skin. Eddie’s eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up to your face, surprised but not pulling away.

“If…you ever feel like your hand is shaking…you can just…hold my hand.” You suggested and for a long moment, neither of you said anything. Then, Eddie’s usual smirk softened into a small, genuine smile.

“Thanks, Poker Face. I think I’ll take you up on that generous offer.”

You chuckled. “Actually, the name’s Y/N.”

He gave you a dumbfounded look. “Yeah, I know. But I prefer Poker Face or the Gazer.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “…Wow. Thanks a lot, Munson.”

But you then both burst out laughing as you kept walking hand in hand.

The next morning:

You were walking towards the front steps of Hawkins High with a bounce in your step. The memory of yesterday still lingered—your hand in Eddie’s, the quiet promise you’d made. For once, school didn’t feel so unbearable.

Then you saw them.

Eddie leaning against the side of the school, talking to Marcie Winters—her laugh shrill and fake, her manicured fingers grazing his sleeve. He handed her something small—probably another drug deal—and for a moment, it was normal.

Until she looked up and spotted you.

Smirk.

Without hesitation, she grabbed him by the collar and kissed him. You froze. You knew she had probably done that to make you jealous. However, your stomach didn’t twist with jealousy. It twisted with rage. You stormed forward, every step harder than the last. Eddie pulled back, clearly startled, but before anyone could speak, you ripped your cap off and slapped Marcie across the face with it.

Whack.

Gasps echoed from nearby students.

“YOU NEVER KISS ANYONE WITHOUT PERMISSION, BITCH !” you shouted, fury lighting up your face.

Marcie stumbled back, stunned, hand flying to her cheek.

“AND YOU GOT A FUCKING BOYFRIEND !” you continued, voice cracking from the emotion bubbling out of you after years of staying quiet. “LEAVE EDDIE ALONE !”

Silence. Eddie stood frozen, eyes wide, half in shock and half in awe.

Marcie sputtered, “Wha—are you crazy ?!”

You didn’t even give her the dignity of a reply. You turned your back on her, shoved your cap back on, and looked to Eddie. Eddie blinked. Then grinned.

“…Holy shit.”

He then looked down at Marcie on the ground, then back at you, then at the students around with this look of ‘have you seen that shit ?’.

You barely registered Eddie grabbing your hand. One second you were standing your ground in front of a gasping crowd, and the next, you were running away from the scene. He tugged you through the hallway, laughing breathlessly as you ran past lockers and students to finally slip into a dark, musty janitor’s closet. The door shut with a quiet click. You stood in the darkness, the scent of mop water and dust in the air, your chest heaving from the sprint—and from what you’d just done.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” you whispered, pulling your cap low again. “I didn’t mean to—I just saw her, and then she kissed you, and she has a boyfriend, and I just—shit, Eddie, I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice was rising, a full-blown panic ramble—Until he grabbed your face and kissed you.

Full stop. No warning. No build-up.

Your breath caught in your chest and your pupils started dancing around in their eye sockets as you tried to make sense of what was happening. Your heart exploded in your chest and your hands flailed up and down in the air like a headless chicken.

When he finally pulled back, he was grinning like you’d just lit the world on fire.

“That,” he breathed, eyes gleaming, “was the sexiest, most badass thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You blinked, stunned into silence.

Eddie leaned in again, forehead resting against yours, breath warm. “You really just smacked Marcie Winters with your damn cap, Poker Face ?”

You stammered and tried to justify yourself. “…It-It was the only weapon I had.”

He barked a laugh, squeezing your hand tightly. “You’re fucking insane. And I mean that in the best way possible.”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. Not this time. “…You’re not mad ?”

He scoffed. “Mad ? I’m in love.”

Your lips were still tingling from the kiss. His words—I’m in love—echoed in your head like a dropped match in a room full of fireworks. You blinked. And then—

Gone.

The janitor’s closet faded. His voice, the heat of the moment, the nearness of him—it all softened into static as your mind slipped.

Eyes open, but not seeing.

Still. Silent.

You were staring into nothingness again.

Eddie tilted his head. “Hey…?”

No response.

“…Shit,” he murmured under his breath, the playful spark in his eyes softening instantly. “You’re doing the thing again.”

He didn’t try to shake you. Instead, he sighed and crouched a little lower, gently resting one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hand—the one still warm from his grip.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, “I got you.”

He glanced at your face. You looked calm. Peaceful, even. Like you were off somewhere far away where none of this mess existed. After a beat, he slowly moved to sit on the floor beside you, shoulder brushing yours again—just like that day in the grass.

“I’ll wait,” he whispered. And he did.

Suddenly, your lashes fluttered. The mop bucket and dim fluorescent light above came back into focus. The weight of the air shifted. You blinked, head turning slowly, and saw Eddie sitting next to you on the floor—elbow resting on his bent knee, eyes watching you carefully.

“…How long was I out ?” you asked, your voice still distant, like you’d just woken from a dream.

“Just a couple minutes,” he replied with a smile. “Not too bad.”

You looked down at your lap. Embarrassment started creeping in again. “Sorry.”

“Don’t,” he cut in, his voice firmer this time.

You looked up at him with wide eyes when he cut you off and he smiled. He shrugged, fiddling with one of his rings absentmindedly. “I mean…I get it now. You weren’t ignoring me. Or zoning out ‘cause I’m boring.” He smirked a little, but it faded quickly. “You’re just built different, huh ?”

A pause.

Then he asked. “Is it scary ? When it happens ?”

You hesitated. Then nodded. “Sometimes.”

Eddie leaned his head back against the wall, looking up at the ceiling like he was thinking hard about something.

Then, “Well…for what it’s worth ? You don’t look weird when it happens. You just look like you’re somewhere important. Like your brain’s off doing spy shit and forgot to bring the rest of you.”

You laughed, startled and warm. “Spy shit ?”

He nodded. “Yeah. You probably know all the secrets of the universe and just can’t tell me ‘cause I’d freak out.”

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Anyway, I’ve decided I’m gonna be your handler now. Like, your official lookout. You space out, I keep you safe. No questions asked.”

You tilted your head. “And what do I do for you ?”

Eddie grinned. “You hold my hand when it shakes. We’ve already got a deal, remember ?”

You smiled—small, shy, and utterly real. “…Okay.” Then you let out a small chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck nervously. “We should…probably get back to class though.”

Eddie groaned dramatically, tilting his head back against the wall like you’d just told him finals were moved to today. “Ugh, why ? We just committed a public slap. Shouldn’t we be fugitives by now ?”

You stood slowly, brushing dust off your pants. “You can go full fugitive if you want. I still have homework due.”

“God,” he sighed, getting to his feet and stretching his arms overhead, “you’re such a nerd.”

You shot him a dry look beneath your cap. “And you kiss nerds. So what does that make you ?”

He paused. Then grinned, stepping a little closer, his nose brushing yours. “A nerd lover, apparently.”

You blinked—then smacked him lightly in the chest with the back of your hand. “Let’s go, Romeo.”

As you reached for the doorknob, Eddie gently caught your wrist. “Hey…seriously.”

You turned back before he continued.

“Thanks for what you did. With Marcie. No one’s…ever done something like that for me before.”

You felt your throat tighten—but managed a quiet, honest: “Anytime.”

And with that, you slipped out into the hallway. Whispers were already crackling through it like static—students leaning in close to each other, nudging shoulders, darting glances. You didn’t need to hear the words to know what they were about.

You were walking beside Eddie Munson. And he was holding your hand.

You felt it then—that rising heat under your skin, the old instinct to shrink, to disappear, to pull the cap lower and pretend none of it was real. So you looked down. Your hand in his. His fingers tangled with yours.

Slowly, gently, you opened your hand—leaving it there for him, but giving him the choice.

If he wanted to let go, he could.

For a second, nothing happened.

And then—

His fingers tightened.

He didn’t let go. Instead, he laced your fingers together more firmly and lifted your joined hands a little—almost like a dare to the hallway around you. You looked up at him. He was already looking at you.

“Poker Face,” he whispered under his breath, leaning in just enough so only you could hear, “I’d rather be holding your hand than pretending I’m not.”

The whispers got louder.

But suddenly, they didn’t matter.

Not when his thumb brushed the back of your hand like it was second nature. Not when you realized he hadn’t even looked at them. Not once.

Just you.

Always just you…

You smiled and dared to stare into his eyes.

He smiled as his eyes met yours. “Welcome back to Earth, Y/N.”

and yeah, you’re a little drunk, but it’s not even midnight yet and steve, who is typically your knight in shining armor (nine times out of ten, anyway), is… well, he’s sucking up all the fun! so you stomp your feet in the kitchen and cross your arms over your chest and you think you just heard robin snort over her shoddily mixed drink, but right now, you don’t care.

“did you just… are you throwing a tantrum?” steve asks through slightly squinted eyes, “is that what this is? this thing you’re doing right now?”

“no," your face is warm now, and you can't tell if it's from the bubbly alcohol pulsing through your system or the slight embarrassment you're feeling, "you can't just— you know, you don't have to babysit me all the time!"

the confession spills out of you like you've knocked over a glass, liquid pouring across the tiled floor of nancy and jonathan's kitchen. you watch as steve's throat bobs before he quickly hooks his arm into yours, pulling you in the direction of the bathroom. you're light and stumbly on your feet as you allow him to manhandle you, and your brain is too foggy to question why.

"i don't babysit you," steve nearly spits out once the he shuts the bathroom door closed, locking it to make sure no one can drunkenly barge in. "why would you say that? i'm just trying to look out for you— you're... you're my girl, why wouldn't i be concerned about your wellbeing?"

you swallow, and it's only then that you notice that your boyfriend's eyes are wide and watery. he leans back against the sink and folds his arms, then stuffs his hands in the pocket of his jacket.

"sometimes i just feel like... i don't know. like maybe you treat me like i'm one of the kids instead of your girlfriend."

the words sound small coming out of your mouth and your heart squeezes, watching as discomfort crawls across steve's face. he blinks once, then twice, and brings one of his hands up to scrub his face.

"first of all, i'm very aware that you're my girlfriend, not one of those shitheads i drive around because none of them have their licenses yet," he says, looking at you. "secondly, i... i've spent a lot of time being in survival mode and watching people die. i'm always scared shitless that the people i love most are gonna be the next ones to go."

you swallow thickly.

"i'm sorry if i'm a little too much sometimes, but i know when i have a good thing, and i care about keeping you safe. does that make sense?"

you nod, bringing your hands in front of your body, wringing them together. steve's confession has sufficiently sobered you up, drying any excess champagne out of your bloodstream. now, it all makes sense.

when you meet his eyes, you can instantly see the sadness in them, and you want nothing more than to cross the small distance and throw your arms around him.

and so you do.

he doesn't question it, not as he returns your tight, all-encompassing hug and buries his nose in your hair. because suddenly, you understand steve just a little bit more. it was never about being controlling or overprotective. yes, everyone teases him about being the dad of the group and yes, maybe he's the emergency contact for dustin, mike, max, lucas, robin, and you, but it's because he cares. he loves deeply, and he cares, and he wants — no, he needs — to keep you safe.

"i'm sorry," you mumble into the soft skin of his throat. you ghost a kiss over one of the moles that decorate his skin, feeling as he swallows beneath your touch. "i was being a baby. and you're right, i was throwing a tantrum. it was really stupid of me."

steve shakes his head, his cheek still nuzzled against the top of your head.

"i understand where you're coming from and i promise to try to tone it down a little," he says softly, "i never want you to feel bad about anything i do."

And to top it all off, you were his best friend's older sister. A feisty full-blown Henderson, a bad-tempered smartass, someone capable of pushing his buttons and turning his world upside down. Sometimes he thought you were even more annoying than Dustin, and that was an understatement.

But he loved you, to the core. You were so fearless, the best sister and friend, always humble, kind-hearted, and selfless.

He told himself it was stupid. He was stupid.

You barely tolerated him.

The first few days of your unlikely and emerging friendship you hardly glanced at him, only greeting him out of politeness.

Then, the first few months had been quite rough, more for him than for you. Because there were days, moments when he would try his heart out to catch your attention, to make you laugh, to at least have you smile at him, just for him.

Because Steve Harrington had always been the kind of boy who was used to being liked. Effortlessly. Girls smiled at him in the hallways, teachers forgave him things they never should have, and life had a funny way of opening doors for him without him even knocking. All his life, everything had been laid out for him on a silver platter; he didn't even have to put in much effort in order to get what he wanted.

But you?

You were a locked door.

You didn't like Steve Harrington.

And yet, you always felt that icy, crushing sense of jealousy creep over you whenever you saw Steve draw closer to Nancy, choose her above others, and compete with Jonathan for her attention and appreciation.

“You know Nancy has a boyfriend, right?” you asked him once, your expression too grim to match the humor in your voice. He had spent most of the afternoon competing with Jonathan over who had killed more monsters from the Upside Down—something completely ridiculous. “And that's Jon?”

Steve huffs at the way you pronounce that nickname, closing the passenger door of your Jeep and settling into the seat. “I was just saying facts. I did kill more shit down there last year. Jonathan wasn't even there.”

“He was in California. What the hell did you want him to do from California, Steve?” you retort in an overly defensive tone, determined to defend the honor of your childhood best friend.

Because of course you would leap to Jonathan's defense. That aggravated Steve even more.

He raises his eyebrows, smirking with triumphant mockery, “Exactly.”

“Can you two stop arguing like an old married couple?” Dustin chimes in, popping up between the two front seats from the back and glaring at you both with a sour look on his face. “And maybe drive? I'm going to be late.”

Steve leans back in his seat, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jonathan Byers.

It was always Jonathan Byers.

Steve had never said it out loud—because admitting it would make him sound small, petty, exactly the kind of guy he was trying not to be anymore—but the jealousy had been there from the very beginning. From the way Jonathan knew you before he ever did. From the way you laughed more freely around him, softer, unguarded, safe. From the way you touched Jonathan's arm when you talked, a casual familiarity Steve would have killed for.

He hated that Jonathan didn't even have to try.

That he got your trust without earning it.

“So,” Steve mutters, staring out the window, “you and Byers hang out a lot now.”

You had already dropped Dustin off at Mike's house, so the two of you were all alone now, which was a rare occurrence lately. 

You glance at him for a fraction of a second, catching the stiffness in his shoulders and jaw, and the way he averts eye contact entirely. He looks like a grumpy little boy, it's kind of funny and cute. “We've been friends since we were kids. We've always hung out.”

“Yeah. I know,” he says quickly, as if the words were venom on his tongue. “Just saying.”

There it is. He's such a passive-aggressive jerk when it comes to Jonathan.

“You're always just saying things about him,” you shoot back. "What's your problem, Harrington?”

That finally makes him look at you.

“Problem? My problem?” he laughs, sharp and humorless. He looks awkward now, a little self-conscious. “Nothing. Why would I have a problem?”

Probably because Jonathan is your best friend.

Because when you're scared, you reach for him first.

Because he knows things about you Steve doesn't—and maybe never will.

You sigh, exhausted, shaking your head disapprovingly. “You act like he's done some evil thing to you.”

Steve swallows. “He hasn't.”

That's the worst part.

Because Jonathan Byers had never been really cruel to him. Sure, he disliked him as much as Steve disliked him, and he kind of stole Nancy from him when they were still together, but he had never been intentionally rude. 

Jonathan was just... there. Steady. Familiar. Important. Close.

Everything Steve wanted to be.

He also knew that you weren't exactly his type.

Because the truth was, you never had been.

You were better.

You were someone who saw meaning in shadows, who believed stories could save people, who challenged him without trying to change him. You saw him as he really was. You see him.

Jonathan was your person. Your best friend.

But, no matter what, Steve had always been special enough.

It made no sense, and you hated that the feeling existed at all.

Because you didn't want Steve Harrington.

You didn't like his stupid hair, or the way he pretended not to care when things hurt him, or how he filled silence with silly jokes. You definitely didn't like how easily people forgave him, how quickly Nancy Wheeler smiled at him, how natural it seemed for her to fit at his side.

So why did your stomach twist every time you caught him looking at her?

You told yourself it was protectiveness. That you were just being a good sister. A good friend. Dustin adored Steve, and maybe—maybe—you were just afraid he'd get hurt again.

But that lie got harder to swallow the longer it went on.

Because Steve had a bad habit of showing up when things fell apart. When your mom was working late and you kept having nightmares, Steve was right there, answering your three-in-the-morning phone call without hesitation. When the world went to hell—literally—Steve never ran. He stayed. Bloody, shaking, terrified, but still standing between danger and the people he loved.

Between danger and you.

And you hated how safe he made you feel.

There were nights when you sat across from him on the floor of your room, knees almost touching, sharing a blanket and a silence that felt too heavy to be accidental, a long-forgotten movie was playing on your television screen. You might not have paid attention to it, nor did you appreciate its corny jokes, but his laughter was all it took to make your day and night. His laughter was softer around you, more careful.

Falling for Steve Harrington felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was ground below.

It had started innocently enough, in one of those impromptu gatherings that somehow always ended up at Steve's big house because his parents were never home and because, for some reason, he never said no when someone needed a place.

You remember that night very clearly.

Robin had shown up first, already halfway through a stolen bottle of something that tasted like regret and cough syrup. And Nancy and Jon showed up together a few minutes later, swearing they wouldn't get all lovey-dovey with booze in their system.

And then there was you.

Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the couch, laughing harder than you meant to as Robin—dramatically as ever— was telling you about the times at Scoops Ahoy, and how Steve kept blowing his flirting attempts with pretty girls.

At some point, with the sun already setting on the horizon of an uncharacteristically quiet Hawkins, the alcohol softened the edges of the room.

So, someone suggested the pool like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Robin was the first one in, cannonballing without warning and shrieking at the cold water. Nancy followed shortly after, already in their swimsuits, laughter bright and careless, Jonathan close behind her. 

You stayed seated on the edge, feet dangling just above the water, denim already warm from the sunset, watching them with an amused smile.

“Come on, Henderson,” Robin calls, eyes glinting with trouble. “Live a little.”

“I didn't bring a swimsuit,” you protest, pointing down at yourself. “Unlike you degenerates.”

“And? That's never stopped anyone before,” she chirps too cheerfully, creeping dangerously close to you.

You don't even have time to register her next movement.

One second Robin is grinning at you, the next her hands are on you, and then—

You scream.

Cold water swallows you whole, clothes and all, the shock ripping the air from your lungs. When you resurface, sputtering and furious, the sound of laughter echoes around the backyard of Steve's big mansion.

“Buckley!” you whine out, hair plastered to your face, shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I regret nothing!” she shouts back, already retreating as Nancy splashed her in retaliation, laughing heartily.

Steve hadn't laughed.

He was already at the edge of the pool, crouched down, concern etched into his face as he reached out instinctively, his absurdly overpriced beer bottle abandoned on the ground, and his sunglasses — totally unnecessary since it was late afternoon — propped up in his hair. 

“Hey—hey, you okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath, suddenly very aware of how soaked you were. How cold. How exposed.

“Yeah,” you respond, sulking. “I'm gonna fucking kill her in her sleep.”

Steve snorts softly, relief washing over him. “Yeah, That's the bare minimum we expect from you.”

He hesitates just for half a second before standing up and helps you out of the pool, hands tightly holding yours, one of them sliding down to your waist, with an awkward, hesitant touch.

His chocolate-brown eyes are glowing every time they shift from your chest to your face and back again, taking in how see-through the damp fabric of your shirt is now. “Uh... you can borrow something of mine— I mean, if you want. So you don't freeze.”

You blink at him, hugging yourself and feeling a little self-conscious. “You sure?”

It's strange to say the least. You'd had a few tough weeks, you had grown a little distant from each other since that thing on your car. Out of some silly jealousy, that's why.

And still, Steve is treating you with the same decency and care as in your glory days as friends. Just like always.

He shrugs, pretending it was no big deal. “Yeah. I've got like... a million hoodies.”

That is an understatement.

You follow him back inside his house, dripping quietly through the empty halls, covering yourself with a towel that he had handed you, the noise from outside muffling behind you. Steve leads you upstairs, steps careful, like he is afraid to scare you off.

“My room's—uh—here,” he says, pushing the door open.

Even though you had been to his house several times, for whatever reason, you had never been in his room before. So this was a new experience for you. One that, even though you didn't want to admit it, you found particularly intriguing.

And it is... nothing like you expected.

Not messy. Not careless. But warm. Thoughtful.

Your eyes wander before you could stop them.

A stack of vinyl records sat neatly by his turntable—records you recognize immediately. Your favorites. The ones you'd mentioned once, offhandedly, during a late-night conversation you hadn't thought he remembered.

There are movies too. VHS tapes lined carefully along a shelf—old horror, indie films, that one foreign movie you loved and had insisted was misunderstood. A couple of well-worn books lay stacked on his nightstand, spines cracked, margins dog-eared.

You pick one up slowly.

“This is... mine,” you say softly. “I mean—this is my favorite.”

Steve is frozen in place, turning to face you from within his open closet doors, previously very involved in a search for a pair of shorts that are preferably smaller than the ones he usually wears and a hoodie, for you.

“Oh. Yeah. You said you liked it,” he replies, too casually, spectacularly downplaying the significance of the situation.

You turn to him, eyes landing on the broad expanse of his back as he went back into digging through his clothes. “Steve... you don't— you don't even read.”

He laughs nervously, still not looking at you. “I do, sugar. N-now.”

The nickname slips out casually, he says it so sweetly. It's the first time you've heard him call you that in days. And it brings a cute little smile to your face.

There are photos pinned crookedly to a corkboard near his desk. Not trophies. Not popularity. Not reminders of who he used to be. Just moments.

Dustin missing a teeth. Robin mid-laugh. One of you, sitting on the floor back at your house, unaware, smiling at something just out of frame. Probably Steve.

You stare at that picture longer than you mean to.

It's candid. Soft. You're younger there, unguarded in a way you rarely allow yourself to be. It makes something tight coil low in your chest.

“Why do you have that?” you ask quietly.

Steve doesn't answer right away, he flicks a glance at you and then his eyes move down to the photo you're holding in your hands.

And when he does, his voice is low, stripped of bravado. “Because you look happy.”

And cute. And pretty. Like, the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen.

He digs a little more through his closet and finally, hands you a pair of Nike shorts and a hoodie—one of his favorites, judging by how worn the cuffs are. 

The hoodie swallows you whole, warm and smelling like him. Soap. Shampoo. His perfume that is so masculine and yet, soft. So Steve.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on you as he enters back into is room, once you let him know that you had already changed.

“Okay,” you start, crossing your arms, suddenly very aware of the way your heart is misbehaving. “So. You collect my favorite records. You read my books. You keep pictures of me like some sort of—”

“Please don't say serial killer,” he interrupts weakly and extremely embarrassed.

You snort, sitting down on the edge of his bed, slightly dizzy from the alcohol. “—like some sort of sentimental idiot.”

That gets a smile out of him. Real. Soft. A little sad. Like, drunk sad.

“Look,” he says, gesturing dramatically with his hands and walking towards you wearing an embarrassed little smile, “you don't have to make it weird—”

You're smart and quick enough to cut him off, of course. “You already did that, Harrington.”

“Fair.” He exhales, blushing so much both out of embarrassment and out of the quantity of beer consumed in the evening, “I just... I like knowing what matters to you. I'm trying to keep up,” his voice keep lowering gently as he continues, “I just— I just like you a lot—,” suddenly he is just a babbling mess of rushed words, “I like being with you, like, your company,” he shrugs, making an effort to appear casual, “so, you know, I-I care.”

I like you.

Not loved. Not needed. Just—there. Honest. Low. Patient.

You smile softly, shaking your head as you look up at him with eyes gleaming with longing and drunkenness. “You're drunk, Harrington.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, smiling too, “and so are you, sugar.”

“Yeah but, I get you, I like you too, Stevie.”

The way you pronounce his nickname rings like sweet music to Steve's ears. You almost never say it. And he absolutely hates that nickname, but coming from you, it's different. He loves it. He'd listen to you say it all day if he could.

You smile back at him. God, you smile at him so easily when you let yourself. Or like now, when you're not sober.

You're smiling a lot.

Steve takes a seat on his bed next to you very cautiously, making sure he is holding your gaze. He sits so close that your shoulders brush against each other. But you don't pull away. And neither does he.

“And—” he says suddenly holds back for a moment, unsure whether to continue speaking or not, but then decides to go ahead anyway, “Jonathan.”

“Jonathan...” you repeat, slurring out the name.

Steve swallows. “Is it—” he stops, shakes his head once. “Is there something I'm not seeing?”

You frown slightly, not quite understanding exactly what he's getting at. “Meaning...?”

He forces himself to look at you now, brown eyes searching your face, not accusatory—just honest, curious and vulnerable all over.

Sober, you're the smartest person Steve knows. However, as soon as a drop of alcohol hits your system, your brain seems to go into stand-by mode, as if it were on vacation. Or maybe you're just playing dumb.

“Are you in love with him?”

The question lands softly.

That's what makes it hurt.

You blink, caught off guard by how gentle he sounds, regardless of the heavy topic he is bringing up. And in spite of that, he doesn't look or sound as defensive as he always is when it comes to Jonathan Byers.

“I—” You hesitate, then sigh, leaning back on your hands, sighing heavily and frowning, blinking really slow. “Jonathan's my best friend. He always has been.”

“I know,” Steve says quickly, looking down at you. “I'm not— I'm not saying it like it's a bad thing.”

“Well, you sound like it,” you smile a little, a kind of silly, carefree smile that you hardly ever show.

Steve opens and closes his mouth, stammering words out, “So... you've never—?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head and wincing in disgust, “Ew, dude. That's sick to even think about. He's like a brother to me.”

Relief flickers across his face before he can stop it.

You notice.

“Good, that's good,” he breathes out the air he had been holding in his lungs, casting his gaze away from you toward the floor, blushing.

You tilt your head, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You care an awful lot for someone who claims he doesn't have a problem with Byers.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, suddenly on the defensive again. His lips twist into a grimace before he speaks. “Well, you've been spending a lot of time with him lately. It does seem a little suspicious.” He shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Nancy and I thought for a moment that you two were onto something.”

“There it is,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “This is what you do. You get weird and defensive and then act like I'm the problem.”

“I'm not saying you are,” he snaps back, sharper than before. The alcohol makes his edges rougher, his honesty more reckless. “I just don't get why you're always going out with him lately, always choosing him.”

That makes you sit up straighter, now you're a tiny bit more on the defensive. “I don't choose him.”

“You do,” Steve insists, finally looking at you again, eyes dark and earnest. “Every time. When something's wrong. When you need someone. When you—” he cuts off his own words as he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “You don't even notice you do it.”

You swallow, anger softening into something more complicated. “You don't get to be jealous, Steve. You don't get to act like this when you're still—” you hesitate, the bitterness of jealousy stinging your tongue. “When you're still half in love with Nancy”

He stands abruptly, raising his hands in offense. He looks very offended. “I am not—"

“You so are!” you fire back, standing too. “Everyone can see it. You look at her like she hung the damn stars, and then you turn around and accuse me of being in love with my best friend?”

Your eyes are brimming with tears of anger, frustration, and disappointment, but your words speak a completely different story. They are full of resentment: “And then you get angry out of nowhere and drift away from me and accuse me of something I haven’t even done, and suddenly I feel like I’m the problem!” Steve keeps quiet, gazing at you with the same anguish reflected in your eyes. “Why are you keep doing this? Why are you pushing me away?”

“Because I love you!”

The room goes quiet, awfully quiet.

The ringing in your ears from the rage suddenly vanishes, replaced by that deafening, heavy silence. 

Steve is breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he's just run a marathon, his hands still raised in that defensive gesture that now looks more like he's trying to catch the words he just threw into the air.

“W-what?” you manage, the word barely catching on your vocal cords.

Steve looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole, but he doesn't look away. Not this time. 

“You heard me,” he says, his voice losing its edge, turning raw and shaky. “I'm not in love with Nancy, okay? I haven't been for a long time. It's always been about trying to find... I don't know— maybe, a way to make you look at me the way you look at Jonathan. To be that important to you.”

He takes a step closer, pressing into this kind of invisible void that always kept you two apart, a protective barrier you had built around yourself, now trembling on the verge of collapse.

“It's you. It's always been you.” Steve continues, very much at odds with the dismissive expression on your face, lost for words. “Since that night at Tina's. You were so mean to me, and all I could think was, 'God, I hope she never stops talking to me.'”

He laughs, a low, self-deprecating sound that makes your heart ache in your chest.

“I read those stupid books because I wanted to understand why you liked them. I bought those records because I wanted my house to sound like a place you'd actually want to stay,” he brushes his fingers through his hair, voicing every thought that crosses his mind, his eyes filling with tearful emotion that overwhelms his heart, capitalizing on your uncharacteristic quietness. “I'm an idiot— I know. I'm a sentimental, clueless idiot because you— you are all I see. I see you when I try to imagine my future. With me. In a big house, with a dog and a cat and a couple of little kids who look just like you, with your beautiful smile and your big eyes and your brilliance. You are my future, my dream.”

You shake your head, blinking away a few tears. “I should go.”

You barely take two steps before his hand closes around your wrist.

“Don't— I'm sorry, honey,” he whispers barely, voice really low. “Please.”

You stop, turning around to look at him. “Steve—”

And he just leans in.

It's not rushed. Not desperate.

It's careful—like he's giving you time to pull away.

You don't.

Your lips find his, warm and hesitant at first, then deeper, fuller, as everything you've both been holding back spills into that single moment. His hand loosens around your wrist, sliding up to cup your cheek instead, thumb brushing softly through your skin.

His other hand swings up and closes the door behind you, leaning against it, pressing you between the wooden surface and his body.

You break away from him just enough to catch your breath before kissing him again, more passionately, more feverishly.

Steve's kiss is everything you hadn't allowed yourself to imagine: desperate, yet incredibly tender, as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your lips.

His hands, usually so confident, tremble slightly as they move from your face to your waist, bunching the fabric of his own oversized hoodie that you are wearing.

“So smart, yet such a brat sometimes,” he mumbles hot against your mouth, his voice a jagged wreck of its usual charm. “Always got something to snarl back. Always slipping away from me.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Harrington,” you breathe out, your hands winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. “You knew what you were getting into.”

Steve groans, a low vibration you feel in your own throat, and shifts his weight. He pressed his hips firmly against yours, pinning you to the door. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, turning your knees into jelly.

He begins to trail kisses down the column of your neck, his warm tongue grazing your sensitive skin. You tilt your head back, a shaky gasp escaping you as his teeth caught on the spot where your shoulder met your neck. 

“You have no idea,” he whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, “how many times I've sat in this room, listening to those records, just wishing you were here. Having you just like this...”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and heavy with a possessiveness that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of the hoodie, slowly sliding the soft fabric upward.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, in contrast to the wild, dark desire that burned in his eyes.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you reach for the hem of his own shirt, tugging it upward in a silent invitation.

Steve don't need to be told twice. He pulls his shirt over his head and toss it blindly into the shadows of his room. When he presses back against you, the contact is electric. 

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few short steps toward the bed, the party downstairs sounding like it belongs to a completely different world now.

The springs of the mattress squeaks under the weight of both of you as Steve lowers you down, his body a heavy, welcome heat following you closely. He doesn't break the connection for a second, his mouth finding yours again with a frantic hunger that tastes like expensive beer and desperate longing.

The soft fabric of his own hoodie is bunched around your ribs, and Steve's large hands are everywhere—mapping the skin he'd only ever dream of touching like this. 

When his palms slid up your sides, grazing the undersides of your breasts, you let out a sharp, needy sound that was lost in his mouth.

“Steve,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed as he finds a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. 

Your hands are busy, too, wandering over the firm muscles of his broad back, feeling the way he tenses and shudders under your touch. 

“You're so fucking pretty,” he coos, breaking away to trail a line of biting kisses down to your jaw. “You drive me crazy”

He seats up slightly, straddling your hips, his chest heaving as he gazes in awe down at you. The moonlight from the window catch the sweat glistening on his skin and the sheer, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. Without a word, he reaches down and pulls the hoodie over your head finally, tossing it to the floor to join his shirt.

You feel a momentary flash of shyness, but it vanishes the second Steve's eyes darkens, his breath hitching. 

“God, you're beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire and adoration. “It's not even close to what I had imagined.”

“Did you imagine it?” you manage to ask, sheepishly battling your lashes at him, biting your lower lip.

Steve lets out a huff, running his hand along the curve of your waist and leaning back down toward you, his eyes sparking with nothing but pure adoration, teasing your lips for a kiss, “Every goddamn day.”

As he speaks, you reach up to unhook your bra, and Steve licks his lips as he takes in the sight of your pretty tits laid bare for him.

His hands comes down your body, cupping a breast with a reverence that made your blood boil. He leans down, his tongue swirling around one nipple before taking the tit into his mouth, his suction firm and demanding. 

You moan out, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips instinctively bucking against his.

Steve groans against your skin, his hand sliding down, past the waistband of his own shorts on you, his fingers seeking the heat he knew was waiting so patiently for him. When he finds it, already slick and aching for him, your eyes roll back in your head.

“You want this?” he asks, his voice a low growl of a challenge, his thumb rhythmically grazing your wet folds. “You want me? I need words, baby”

“I want you, Steve,” you whine, your voice breaking with emotion. “Please—”

That is the breaking point. The patience he'd spent months cultivating snaps. He moves with a new, feral urgency, shedding the rest of your clothes until there is nothing left to obstruct his way onto you.

And then, he eats your pussy like it is his very last meal, lapping and drinking in everything you have to offer, every bit of wetness from you.

His tongue feels so familiar against you, as if it had known you all its life, as if its sole purpose is to consume you. It traces its way between your folds, all the way up to your clit and back down again, sliding in just deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Steve, Steve, Steve...

You moan out his name like a prayer.

“You taste so good,” he marvels in awe, “so sweet, sweetheart”

Steve pulls back for just a second, his face flush and his hair a wild, beautiful mess, but he doesn't go far. He looks up at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark with a mix of hunger and a raw, vulnerable worship that makes your heart ache even more than your body. 

He watches your face as his thumb continues the job to swirl against your clit, circling with a agonizingly perfect pressure that has you gripping the sheets until your knuckles turns white.

“I've spent every night for months wondering what you'd sound like,” he coaxes, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. “Thinking about you cumming for me...”

He doesn't give you a chance to retort with some smartass comment. 

He dives back into your cunt, his tongue moving with a relentles, purposefully pace that push you right to the edge. 

You are crying out his name now, your head tossing back against the pillow as the first waves of a massive climax begin to roll through you. 

Steve doesn't slow down; he drinks you, his hands holding your thighs firmly so you can't escape the pleasure, grounding you as the world shatters into a thousand bright sparks.

“Cum for me, baby.” he coos, already too pussy drunk to even form a rational thought more than to please you, “Cum on my tongue, yeah, just like that”

“Holy shit, Stevie—” you hiccup, feeling tears blur your vision, a wave of pleasure unleashing from deep in your belly. “I'm cumming—hmph!”

Steve gulps down all you give him like it is some kind of holy water.

You open your eyes, blurred with tears and lust, and see him. His chin and mouth are dripping with your essence, his dark, piercing eyes in awe of how your pussy is clenching around his fingers.

He doesn't pull away. He hovers there, hands trembling as they gripped your thighs, watching the way your chest heaved and your eyes struggle to focus on him.

“You okay?” he whispers, his voice cracking. He reaches up, using the back of his hand to gently wipe a stray tear from your cheek, his touch surprisingly light for someone so clearly on the edge. “I didn't... I wasn't too rough? You're good?”

You can't even find an answer. Your body is still humming, the aftershocks of the orgasm making your muscles twitch. 

So you just nod, “I'm perfect, Steve. P-please keep going, I need more.”

He moves right up, crawling over your pretty body, ready for him, his skin feels hot and slick against yours.

He moves closer to you and kiss your mouth, making you savor your own taste through him, his hands appreciatively caressing your thighs, palming the fat of your ass.

“Tell me if it's too much, yeah?" Steve breathes out, his forehead dropping low to rest against yours. “I've wanted this for so long, I don't want to mess it up. I don't want to hurt you, sugar.”

“Just fuck me already, Harrington,” you hiss right back, looking up at him with eyes half-closed in ecstasy, squeezing his forearm eagerly.

Steve sucks in a breath, leaning in close to kiss you once more, “Such a little brat.”

Then, he stands up, swiftly stripping off his pants and boxers under your attentive gaze. He is a handsome boy, always has been. His physique is strong, his shoulders are broad, his biceps are muscular, his six-pack is slightly marked, and beads of sweat roll down his tanned skin. You are drooling at the mouth from the urge of wanting to sweep your tongue along it, scooping up the salty sweat.

And he's so big that it has you in a chokehold. You really can't resist letting your eyes drift down. His cock is so hard that it looks painful, with a plump head dripping with pre-cum, twitching for you.

He kicks his clothes aside without a glance and moves back over you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in between your spread thighs.

He doesn't just dive in. Instead, he takes a second to look at you—really look at you—lying there, flushed and open, so ready and eager for him, your hair forming a wild halo against his pillows.

He knows he can cum right there just by seeing you like that.

Steve reaches blindly toward the nightstand, his fingers fumbling with the drawer until he pulls out a small, square foil packet.

His breathing is ragged, his eyes never leaving yours even as he starts to tear the edge with his teeth. He looks so fucking hot.

As he starts to pull the condom out, you reach up towards him, your palm flat against his heaving chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart.

“Steve,” you whisper, your voice thick with demanding.

“I know, baby, I know, just—one second,” he mumbles absentmindedly, his fingers shaking slightly as he tries to roll it on.

“No,” you tell him, firmer this time. You hook your fingers into his, pulling the half-open condom away. “Don't. I want to feel you. All of you. Please”

Steve freezes. He looks down at you, his pupils so blown they've nearly swallowed the chocolate-brown of his irises. “Honey... I don't— are you sure? I don't want to—”

“I'm sure,” you interrupt, your legs winding around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. You can feel exactly how much he wants this, how hard his cock is, rubbing against your inner thigh. “Go raw, Stevie. Please, baby.”

The condom is abandoned, fluttering to the carpeted floor, forgotten.

“Holy shit, you're going to be the death of me,” Steve breathes out tremulously, his voice dropping into a register so low it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

He lets out a low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—and finally guide himself to your entrance. He pushes his bulbous head in between your wet folds very slowly, a steady, relentless inching that makes your eyes roll back. 

Steve is so big and hot, filling every empty space you don't even know you have, even when his cock is just halfway inside your pussy. You felt your breath hitch as your body stretching to your fucking limit to accommodate around his size, the sensation so intense it was almost overwhelming.

“Oh, baby, there you go. You're doing so good, mhm. Breath for me, sugar, yeah?”

One inch, a trembling hot praise whispered against your ear, another inch, another soft praise...

And he goes like that until he is buried all the way to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his forehead resting against yours, both of you frozen in that perfect, overwhelming moment of connection. You are breathing the same air, your nails clawing up his back, his are gripping the bedsheets on either side of your shoulders.

Steve groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering at the sheer sensation of finally being home.

“Jesus Christ, you're so tight,” he whimpers, beginning to move. “You feel perfect, you're perfect”

Each thrust is slow, deliberate, and deep—a physical manifestation of every word he'd been too scared to say. 

You lock your legs around his slim waist, pulling him even deeper, meeting every one of his thrusts with a desperate hunger of your own. The rhythmic "slap, slap, slap!" of skin against skin and the sound of your shared, ragged breathing fill the room, drowning out the distant music still sounding from the pool little party.

“Steve... please,” you whimper his name again and again, the knot growing tighter in the lower part of your belly, more intense than before.

“I got you, baby. I'm right here, hm?” he responds to your cries, leaning down to kiss each of your flushed cheeks, gently licking away a couple of stray tears that keep slipping from your pretty eyes. “I'm right here...”

He shows you. One of his hands lands on your lower belly, where the outline of his cock is clearly visible every time he fucks in and out of your messy pussy and then, Steve presses down just a little to get both of you to sigh, both feeling the pressure of his hand's weight.

And when Steve pulls out of you, he doesn't just shove back in again; he is agonizingly slow now, savoring the way your body stretched out and yielded to him, inch by excruciating inch.

Steve quickens the pace, his jaw tight, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. He is relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you find that sensation of that familiar coil tightening in your gut once more. 

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss just as you break, your body pulsing around him. He could feel you were close, he could feel it every time he slid back inside you, bullying your cervix like he’s determined to mold your pussy to the shape of his cock. Your warm, plush walls contracting all around him, taking in his entire length right down to his base.

He's buried balls deep now, his hips slamming against yours with a raw, primal rhythm. And then, Steve suddenly slow down just a fraction, his muscles trembling with a fucking Herculean effort of holding back and not bust a nut right there.

“Steve, I'm—”

He pulls back a few inches, his face flushed a deep, beautiful red, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest as he rests weakly on your tits.

“I know, I know,” he knows, his lips grazing one of your nipples as he speaks, drooling all over your skin. “Right there with you, baby. I'm—I'm so close. I can't... I can't hold it much longer. Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you manage to choke out, your fingers digging into his hips to pull him back down and back inside you. “Fill me up, Steve. Don't you dare pull out.”

A low, feral growl rips from his throat at your words, a sound you had never heard come from him.

Steve is a good boy and he obeys you, as always, so, he surges forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and gives three more devastatingly deep, fast thrusts that have you seeing stars on the ceiling of his room.

“I love you,” he cries into your neck, his voice muffled by your skin as he finally lets go, pumping hot spurts of his cum right into your welcoming womb. 

Soon, you have him reduced to nothing more than a wobbly, crying mess all over you, laying there on your chest all worn out.

You too are a fucking mess, cumming, earth-shatteringly, for the second time under the weight of his body, the suffocating sensation of his love and worship lavishing all over you and in you. 

You can swear you see the entire universe flashing right over the expanse of his shoulders, and you can feel the heat radiating from its flames burning through your fingertips. Stars twinkling on his skin, lighting up each of his freckles and moles spread across his body like a constellation.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The world slowly crawls back around you—the distant music downstairs, the hum of the house settling, the soft night light slipping in through the window.

Steve is still inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressing against your shoulder like he needs the contact to stay grounded. 

He presses a gentle kiss on your shoulder before leaning back just enough to look at you.

“I'm— I'm sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, panic threading his voice as he pulls back a little more. “Not sorry like I regret it, just— are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” you reply, flashing a sheepish, lazy smile.

After double-checking that you are indeed okay, with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls out of you, carefully, delicately.

He then spends a good ten minutes cleaning you up, running a clean cloth between your legs, thighs, belly, with such care that it sometimes tickles you due to the overstimulation.

And after that, Steve collapses beside you on the bed, careful to tug a blanket over both of you, pulling you against his side. His arm wraps around you instinctively, protective, familiar—like he'd been doing this with you in another life.

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down beneath your ear.

“I meant it. What I said earlier,” he says after a little while, voice quiet now, stripped bare, gruff from all the moans and whimpers you got out of him. “I love you.”

You don't answer right away.

Not because you don't feel it—but because saying it out loud suddenly feels huge.

Steve's fingers still for half a second on your waist.

“You don't have to say it back,” he adds quickly. “I just needed you to know.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes in the dim light and you lean in and kiss him—slow this time, soft, nothing desperate about it.

Steve's lips are warm, familiar already, like something you don't realize you'd been missing until it is finally there, all for you. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathing each other in. 

“I love you too”

You carefully lie down on top of him now, on your stomach, pressing against his chest. One of his hands lingers on your lower back, affectionately caressing the curve of your ass, and the other is gently stroking strands of your hair behind your ear.

He exhales shakily, a sound that's half a laugh, half disbelief. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay. Wow.”

You huff out a soft laugh against his chest. “Is that all you've got, Harrington?”

“Hey,” he protests weakly, palming your ass now, more playfully. “I just confessed my undying love and then had my entire soul rearranged. I need a minute.”

You sigh and nestle closer to him, your legs tangling with his under the blanket. “You're gonna be so annoying about this.”

“Oh, unbearably so,” he chirps. “I'm thinking lots of 'remember when you hated me' jokes.”

“You know,” you say casually, like you're commenting on the weather, your fingers toy lightly with the hairs on his chest, “it's actually really pathetic.”

Steve squints at you, but he is so happy he could fly. “Why do I feel like I'm about to be bullied?”

“You listened to all my favorite records,” you explain, pressing into his skin every time you name something else. “The sad ones. The pretentious ones. You watched my movies. You read my books.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “...okay?”

You tilt your head, holding back a teasing smile. “Like, that's loser behavior.”

Steve shrugs, completely unbothered. “I listened to your records. I read your books. I watched your sad little movies.” He pauses, then tilts his head, grin widening. He is triumphant. “But you still fucked me. So, technically? I won.”

You groan. “I take it back. I don't love you.”

It’s small, cozy, nothing fancy. A soft blue exterior, a creaky porch, a backyard Steve swore he’d “fix someday” and never quite does. Wind chimes hang crookedly by the door. There are plants you keep alive against all odds. A framed photo of the kids — not kids anymore — on the hallway wall.

You’re sitting on the couch, legs tucked under you, flipping through a book you’ve read a dozen times already.

Your eyes keep checking the clock near the fireplace every ten minutes, and your fingers tap impatiently at the open page in your book. Just five more minutes and Steve should be here.

Everything feels peaceful.

Real.

And then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound doesn’t belong.

It’s sharp. Insistent. Out of place. Disturbing the tranquility of the atmosphere.

You know it's not Steve, because you know his mannerisms, his movements, his gestures. You know him. So you're sure it's not him standing behind the door.

You open it anyway.

And there he is.

Your ex.

Patrick.

Older. Rougher. Thinner somehow. His hair is unkempt, his eyes glassy, his breath heavy with alcohol, you can smell it from where you're standing.

He’s leaning just slightly to one side, like gravity doesn’t quite work right for him anymore.

“Hey,” he slurs, blinking like he’s surprised you’re real. “Hey… wow. You— you look good.”

You don’t smile, you don’t flinch either. And most definitely, you don't greet him back.

“What are you doing here, Patrick?” instead, you ask calmly.

Patrick’s gaze flicks past you and he can get a glimpse of how lovely your house looks from the inside, as much as from the outside, warm and cozy.

He swallows.

“I just… I needed to see you,” he mumbles, words tumbling. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I know I said I wouldn’t come back. I just— I messed up. I keep messing up.”

“Yes,” You answer him, nice and patient. “You did.”

He nods too quickly, like a desperate dog.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I’ve said it before, I know— I-I know, like a hundred times— but I mean it. I was scared. I was jealous. I was stupid. I ruined everything.”

“Patrick—”

“I can change,” he interrupt you, voice cracking and trembling with remorse. “I did change. I swear. I stopped drinking— well— I mean, mostly—” He laughs bitterly. “I know I don’t deserve another chance. I just— I loved you.”

You inhale slowly through your nose, steadying yourself.

“Patrick,” you say again, firmer now. “It's been years. You have to move on from the past and get on with your life.”

He looks at you like you’ve struck him, literally like you had just punched him in the chest.

“I was young,” Patrick insists. “I didn’t know how to— how to handle it. You were… intense. Everyone wanted you. And then there was Harrington, always hovering—”

And speaking of the devil, that’s exactly when you hear it.

The unmistakable sound of tires crunching against gravel.

A familiar engine.

You don’t turn around right away — you don’t need to. Your body recognizes it before your mind does. The tension in your shoulders eases, just a fraction.

Patrick hears it too and that's why he rushes to say the bullshit he has planned.

“I know you’re with him now,” he just keeps going, oblivious to his likely doom if Steve sees him there. “I know. I just needed you to know that if you ever— if things ever—” his voice drops to a whisper. “I’d still be here.”

“You need to leave,” you raise your eyebrows, suggesting rather than threatening.

Because you know how overprotective Steve has been lately. Seeing Patrick at the front door of your house, with you standing in front of him, wrapped in that silk robe... you don’t even know how he could react.

The truck door slams shut behind Patrick's back.

Footsteps on the porch, confident, tired, unhurried.

Steve appears right at your side, still wearing his blue baseball cap, white t-shirt clinging to his body with the buttons open on his chest, a whistle hanging loosely around his neck.

There’s a faint smear of dirt on his jeans, sun-kissed skin, the quiet exhaustion of a man who’s spent hours yelling encouragement at teenagers who barely listen. 

He's looking as hot and sexy as always, but there's something about him that afternoon that's got you feeling all tingly down in the pit of your belly.

Steve takes in the scene in half a second.

Patrick. Too close.

Your posture —calm, but guarded.

“Hey,” Steve says, tone neutral but unmistakably firm. He steps fully beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours. “Is there a problem here?”

You nod immediately, looking up at him with softening eyes. 

Your hand rests on his lower back as he casually wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him intuitively and with a purpose of protection. His fingers gently grasp your shoulder, reassuringly caressing the fabric of your cute light blue robe.

“Yeah,” you answer. “He was just leaving.”

Patrick stiffens.

“I wasn’t—” he starts, then stops right there when Steve finally looks directly at him.

“You didn't hear that, man?” he asks, with his voice dropping to a rasp when he addresses the light-haired man directly. “She asked you to leave.”

His voice is calm. Steady. Unshakeable. And primitively territorial. That makes you even hotter.

Patrick seems to grumble something—possibly profanities—but then he looks at you one last time before turning around, and stumbles down the steps of the porch, disappearing into the street without another word.

Steve waits until Patrick is out of sight before turning to you. Both of his hands reach out to you now, one caressing your face and the other your hip, his eyes as soft as his hands as they lock with yours.

“You okay?” he asks, very softly.

You nod, leaning into his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, strong and familiar, his chin resting on the top of your head.

“I am,” you whisper. 

He exhales, relief softening his features and presses a kiss to your hair.

“What the hell is his problem? Seriously, can't he just move on from the past?” Steve admits quietly. “I’m proud of you.”

You look up at him, leaning your chin on his chest, your big eyes lighting up upon hearing his praise.

“For what?”

“For not letting him take up space he doesn’t deserve anymore.”

You smile teasingly, “Coach Harrington getting all wise on me?”

He chuckles, trying to hide the fact that you say his job title and you already have him rock hard in his boxers.

“Occupational hazard,” Steve replies with his voice lowering tenderly, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “Teenage boys make you philosophical.”

You laugh softly, and Steve leans down to kiss you, slow, gentle, yet possessive.

The kiss lingers, but the sweetness of it begins to shift. When Steve pulls back just an inch, his eyes aren't soft anymore. They’re dark, dilated, and fixated on the way your silk robe has slipped slightly off one shoulde, and reveal the strap of one of your lingerie sets, his favorite.

Hurriedly but carefully, Steve brings you inside the house, drawing a giggle from you as he picks you up with urgency in his motions.

“You opened the door of our house to your ex wearing this?” Your man gasps in disbelief, emphasizing the words with a high-pitched voice. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly as he looks down at you, holding you close to his chest as he walks you to your shared bedroom.

He kicks the door open with his foot and sets you down on the bed. His hands stay on you though — firm, warm, grounding — one braced on the mattress beside your thigh, the other sliding under the hem of your robe to find the bare skin of your thigh, dangerously teasing you into tearing off the delicate robe, which obstructs the view of your beautiful body from his eyes.

The sunset light filters through the curtains, bathing his body in golden tones as he tosses his cap aside. His messy hair falls over his forehead, and you reach out to run your fingers through it, pulling him in for a cute little kiss.

“I was waiting for you,” you jump on your own defense between soft giggles.

“Yeah?” he coaxes, voice low, textured with something dangerous and tender all at once. “You were waiting for me, baby? Not another man?”

“Nuh-uh, only you, Coach,” you hum contentedly, flashing a playful smile.

Because you know what you do to him every time you say that. It's like letting the monster out, unleashing chaos.

His touch lingers on the bare skin of your plump thigh, warm and gentle, sending little shivers down your spine and ripples of pleasure rush to your core, you're already pulsating for him, pussy wet and ready, greedy. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you... it makes your heart do crazy things in your chest. 

You tilt your head up, brushing your lips against his jaw in a soft, teasing kiss.

“Steve...” you call out to him with a disapproving and whiny pitch in your voice, your fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. The silk robe slips off your shoulder, and you feel the cool air kiss your skin, but his warmth chases it away quick as he kiss the skin.

“So what’s that look for, huh?” he teases as he kiss down from your neck to your collarbone, gradually removing the silky clothing from his path. His voice is all husky now, like he knows exactly what you're thinking and what you want.

In a moment, he is kissing your hand with appreciation, specifically your ring finger, where the small diamond sparkles under the afternoon sun.

You bite your lip, feeling that familiar heat pooling low in your belly. “Just... missed you today, baby” 

Your words come out all soft and needy, with a little pout that always gets him. 

To tell the truth, you've been horny all day. You blame the havoc of hormonal swings that have been going through your body since you moved into the house. You've been horny every day since then. Seeing Steve blossom into the shared life you have is truly a privilege, and you feel so lucky to have him as your boyfriend—your fiancée.

Of course, the fact that he's the coach of the school fills you with pride. However, witnessing his body develop into a more domesticated, husband-like form, has you truly reduced to a beast in heat. His hair is still just as glorious, with its iconic tousle, his eyes just as warm, his shoulders just as broad, but the muscles of his teenage self have smoothed out, his pecs are bigger than before, his abs mellowed into a small belly.

He looks so… big, so husband, so daddy.

Naturally, Steve with a dad bod has you drooling at the mouth.

And he knows the power he has over you, how he practically has you crawling behind him.

He cups your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. “Aw, yeah? Missed me a lot?”

Before you can even formulate an answer, he's kissing you—deep and slow, like he's pouring all his love into it. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting you, claiming you, and you melt against him with a tiny whimper. Because his kisses always make your knees go all wobbly!

You tug at his shirt, wanting skin on skin, and he helps right away, yanking it over his head in one smooth motion and the whistle goes away too. His chest is right there, all beefy and warm from the sun, and all for you to touch and kiss and bite, so you press your palms flat against it, feeling his heartbeat race under your touch. 

“God, you're so beautiful,” he groans, his mouth moving back down to your neck, sucking lightly on that spot that makes you gasp. 

“You are,” you correct him, biting your lower lip and arching your back for him.

Steve huffs out a quiet laugh against your skin, warm breath raising goosebumps along your neck. You're always saying that. That he's beautiful, that he's sexy, that he's everything you could ever want.

And he keeps giggling and blushing like a teenager in love every time you say it.

The robe falls open a little more, and his hand dips right inside, cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it's hard and aching. 

“Mmm, Steve... please,” you whine, arching into him. Your fingers fumble with his belt, desperate to feel him, all of him.

He chuckles low against your skin, nipping gently. “So greedy, sweetheart. Patience, we have all night.” 

But he's just as eager and horny, helping you undo his jeans, shoving them down with his boxers. His cock springs free, already painfully hard and thick, leaking at the tip. You wrap your hand around it, stroking slowly once, and twice.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he hisses, hips bucking into your touch.

One hand he needs to pull the robe off your shoulders completely, letting it pool onto the bed under you. Now you're in nothing but that tiny piece of lingerie, and his eyes rake over you like you're the only thing in the world. 

Steve takes a moment to gaze down at you in awe. That piece of lingerie is gorgeous because you are wearing it, because it is clinging to your body so perfectly, and that color works deliciously with your skin.

“Thinking about getting home. About you,” he confesses against your skin. “All day”

You smile, breathless. “You’re home now.”

He looks at you, all warmth and possession, and leans down until his lips brush your ear. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, and the word vibrates through you.

His mouth leaving a trail of fire down your neck, over your collarbone, to the swell of your breasts. He pushes the lace cup down with his chin, and his hot, wet mouth closes over your nipple.

You cry out, back arching off the bed. The sensation is electric, sharp and sweet, pulling a direct line of heat to your core. He sucks, hard, then soothes with his tongue, his teeth grazing lightly. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same devastating attention, while his hand palms the first, squeezing gently.

Steve spends a long time worshiping your skin, his mouth finding the sensitive dip of your hip bone, the soft curve of your belly, adorned with delicate lacy details, whispering sweet praises into your skin, like he has a whole special language just for your body.

You do understand some of them.

“So pretty for me. My girl, my pretty girl.”

His hips grind against yours, the thick, hard head of his cock rubbing against the damp fabric of your panties.

“Stevie, please,” you beg, voice ragged and trembling with arousal.

“I know, baby,” he coos, understanding you perfectly. His hand slips between your bodies, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. He finds your pussy, slick and hot, already dripping wet for him. A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest. “God, you’re so wet. All for me, mhm?”

He strokes you, once, twice, his thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure. You whimper, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing after his touch. But he pulls his hand away, leaving you empty and fucking throbbing.

“Baby” you whine out, pouting.

He smiles, a dark, tender thing. He hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down your legs, tossing them aside. He shifts back, kneeling between your thighs, and just looks. His gaze is worshipful, hungry.

He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, higher. And another, a little bit higher. His breath ghosts over your folds, and you tremble under him.

“Gotta taste you,” he says, voice thick with eagerness. “I have to prep you first, pretty girl, you know that”

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, fingers flying to his hair and pulling hit. His tongue is broad and flat, licking a slow, thorough stripe from your entrance all over to your clit. 

Steve moans against you, the vibration making you jerk and arch so prettily for him. He settles in, feasting on you like you’re his last meal. His tongue flicks and swirls and rolls, his lips suck, his stubble of days scratches deliciously against your tender flesh.

The pleasure builds fast, coiling tight in your belly. You’re babbling, words that make no sense, just his name and yes and more. He slides two fingers inside you alongside his expert tongue, curling them, finding that perfect spot on the spongy walls inside you as his mouth works your clit.

It’s too much. He's too much! 

You cum with a sharp cry, hips lifting off the bed, your body clenching and splashing around his fingers as waves of pure, blinding pleasure crash through you. He gentles his mouth, licking you through it, drinking every drop you give him, until you’re a trembling, boneless heap on the sheets.

He crawls back up your body like a pirate does with a treasure map, recognizing, admiring, appreciating, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your lips. You can taste yourself on him, salty and sweet, and it’s the most yummy thing.

“Ready for me?” he whispers, his cock nudging against your soaked entrance, leaking and throbbing urgently for your attention.

You nod, breathless. “Always.”

He pushes in.

Slow. So impossibly slow. You feel every inch, the thick stretch, the perfect fullness as he sinks deep, deep, until his hips are flush with yours. His tummy presses down on you, his big, beefy biceps bulging on either side of your head. 

He is so big—every part of him. It's overwhelming. He's everywhere. In every breath you take, in every beat of your heart, in every inch of his heavy build molding itself deep into your gut, in every blink of your eyes, there he is. Glorious, heavenly, out of this world.

Steve stills, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. His breath comes in ragged puffs and when you squeeze around his length, you get a hoarse whimper out of the depths of his throat.

“Fuck,” he breathes out shakily. “You feel… perfect. You take me so good, honey. S-so good”

He begins to move. Long, deep, measured strokes that make you see stars every time he bottoms out. 

It’s definitely not frantic. It’s making love. 

Every thrust is a promise, a reclamation, a craving for life. His eyes never leave yours, dark brown pools of adoration and longing.

Steve soon shifts his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hits a spot that makes you sob and whine under him. Pleasure, sharp and bright, sparks through your veins.

“Right there,” you moan. “Oh, Steve, right there!”

You feel another orgasm building, deeper this time, starting in your toes and climbing up your spine. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, taking him so profoundly that you feel you must be meant to take him. 

“There you go, baby,” he coaxes, voice strained with emotion. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his temple. 

His voice lowers filthily and you love it when he gets like that. Pussy drunk, filthy, wild.

“All day thinking about this— filling you up. Gonna give you all my babies, huh—” Steve is babbling out words, the first ones that cross his mind blurred by pleasure and by you, drooling on your skin as he speaks. “You're gonna take my babies, right, sweetheart? That way everyone will know once and for all who you belong to, right? Mhm! You'll look so beautiful pregnant, fuck—” One of his hands moves up to your face, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Oh—oh, you'll be the prettiest momma”

His words push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits, a rolling, endless wave that brings a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clamp around him, milking him dry, and with a broken shout, he soon follows you.

His thrusts become short, desperate jerks as he pours himself into you, hot and so fucking deep. You feel every pulse, every shudder of his release, your pussy swallows every spurt of semen that comes out of his cock, so much of it that it soon overflows, spilling a few globs of the hot milky liquid out.

Steve collapses on top of you, his full weight a welcome anchor, his face buried in your neck.

Afterwards, he doesn’t pull away. His cock stays plugged balls deep inside you as he lays on top of you, pressing a lazy kiss into your neck. 

“Do you think it worked?” he asks after a brief moment of silence, snuggled up against your body, his lips pressing gentle kisses to your chest and one of his hands caressing your stomach affectionately.

“I’d be surprised if it didn’t work, honey,” you reply with a lazy smile on your lips, your eyes still closed as you focus on stroking his hair.

Steve lets out a breathy, contented hum, the sound vibrating through your chest. He shifts just enough to prop himself up on his elbows, looking down at you with a gaze so thick with affection it’s almost overwhelming.

His face is flushed, his hair a catastrophic mess of brown waves, and his eyes are shining with a quiet, domestic sort of triumph.

“Patrick fucking Miller,” he spits out the name as if it were deadly poison, humorless and rolling his eyes. “I’d like to see his face when he realizes I’m the one who knocked you up."

Needless to say, Steve absolutely loathes him with every fiber of his being. He doesn't understand how someone like Patrick could be with someone like you. Who is, basically, an angel sent to Earth. 

And Steve is so patient with you, so selfless, so gentle, so caring, so full of love everytime he looks at you. That's because he's been in love with you ever since you helped him out at that stupid Halloween party at Tina's house.

How could Steve not be in love with you? That's the real question.

“He's completely, disgustingly in love with you, by the way,” Dustin would say once, after Steve practically sprinted over to you, taking off his jacket to put it on your shoulders as night fell and you were all outside fixing some stuff on the WSQK van.

You would just roll your eyes, ruffling your little brother's curly hair. “Just because he's a gentleman doesn't mean he likes me, Dus.”

“It totally does,” he would argue, noticing the way Steve would turn around every now and then to look at you, clearly more interested in you than in whatever Murray was babbling about the van's ridiculously large signal antenna. “He's pathetic.”

You see Steve giving you a big smile, and that made you smile too.

And Steve doesn't just smile at you.

He beams, he glows, his whole face lights up.

Like you're the only thing in the entire universe worth looking at. Like the Upside Down, the goddamn end of the world—none of it matters as long as you're standing there, wrapped in his jacket, cheeks softly pink from the cold. Looking back at him with those eyes.

When you open the door of your house, there he is. Steve. Stepping out of his pretty vehicle with that expression on his face that's meant just for you to see, his honeyed eyes softening at the edges, one of his hands twitching as he runs it through his hair. 

Lately, he's been doing that a lot more than usual, you notice. Twitching.

“You're twenty-four minutes late,” you say, pointing out something he obviously already knows, closing the door behind you and walking toward him across the front yard of your house.

Even when you bring up that disapproving tone and oblivious to everything going on around you, still he smiles so softly, genuinely happy to see you. He rests his elbow on the open driver's door as if he's the most handsome guy around. He is, probably.

“Take it easy, sugar, were you really that desperate to see me?” he snorts, taking advantage of the fact that he's pretending to look for your little brother, who is usually by your side, so he can look you up and down. He definitely doesn't find Dustin, but he does find your beautiful legs dressed in that pretty skirt he absolutely loves.

You roll your eyes, pulling up right next to his car as Steve rushes to open the passenger door for you. 

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Steve raises his hands in surrender, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Hey, I'm only commenting on what I see. Desperation to see me.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but there's no real heat behind it. He knows it. He always knows it. And that's what makes him smirk — that stupid, charming Harrington smirk that makes your stomach do another one of those flips you pretend you don't get around him.

You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing your skirt as you sit. He— of course he notices. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the way he wets his lips before quickly looking away.

He's been doing that a lot too.

Steve closes the door gently — always gently — then walks around the car. When he gets in on his side, the scent of his cologne fills the small space, warm and familiar, and you hate how much you missed that.

He doesn't start the engine right away.

Instead, he rests his hands on the steering wheel, thumbs tapping in that nervous little rhythm again. Twitch, twitch. 

The muscle in his jaw works once, very subtly. Something is definitely off with him today, though you can't quite tell what. 

“Okay,” he says, exhaling softly, “so Dustin's not with you? You checked his room?”

“Obviously,” you mutter, buckling your seatbelt. “He left an hour ago after slamming the door so hard I thought the hinges would fall off.”

Steve winces. “Ah. Classic teenage meltdown. Love that.”

You shoot him another look. “He's been doing more than melting down. He's... different. Distant. I don't even know what's going on with him anymore. I'd like to be there for him—I am there for him. But he...” You nervously bite your lower lip. “He just doesn't see me.”

For a moment, all Steve does is look at you, with that gentle, knowing gaze, looking deeper into your eyes, as if he literally had your soul in his hands and was examining it delicately.

“Hey,” he says softly, fingers twitching on the wheel again. “The guy adores you. He talks about you all the time. He's just going through a rough patch, we all are, considering the current state of the world. He just needs time to clear that thick head of his.”

His words should reassure you, but they don't. Not entirely. You've been anxious lately, everyone has. Acting very out of it, on edge, tense, obsessed with Vecna and the Upside Down. 

“I know,” you say quietly. “But it feels like he's shutting me out. Like he doesn't need me anymore.” Your throat tightens with every word you speak, hindering your efforts to speak. “Like I'm losing him.”

Steve watches you for a heartbeat, his expression softening even further— impossibly so. He shifts in his seat, the leather creaking as he turns toward you, knee purposefully brushing yours.

As he opens his rosy lips to say something, you gently cut him off, shaking your head.

“Let's just not talk about it anymore,” you clear your throat, struggling to force a little sweet smile. With the appearance of that smile, he falls silent, gazing at you in stillness. “Let's just focus on what's important, okay? You said you needed help with the sound effects?”

Steve clears his throat now, forcing himself to shift his soft brown eyes away from your pretty face and onto the street in front of him, checking to see if any vehicles are approaching so that he can drive off the sidewalk. “Uh—yeah, the sound effects, I wanted to get your opinion on that.”

“My opinion?” you ask, curious, lifting an eyebrow. Truthfully, you assumed that Steve needed you for something more important when he called you the night before, requesting your presence by 5 p.m. the following day, urgently.

Steve grins, responding, “Yeah, you've been helping me all this time with it, so I figured it would make sense to have your approval on a few adjustments.”

“Okay...” you reply, still somewhat skeptical that this was really the point of the whole gathering.

Steve finally starts the engine, though he doesn't drive yet. His fingers drum anxiously against the wheel—tap-tap-tap—before he pulls the car smoothly onto the road. You watch the familiar streets pass by through the window, enormously more at ease now that you are in the company of Steve, who has been your best friend since, well, since all the Upside Down mess started—and ever since he finally decided to stop being a brainless dumbass.

“Okay, so,” Steve says after a moment of comfortable, clearing his throat again. “Don't laugh at me, but I stayed up until, like, three in the morning trying to fix the stupid 'creature roar' effect. And now it just sounds like... I don't know. A dying vacuum cleaner.”

“Well, I'll be the judge of that, Harrington,” you snort, settling back in the seat. 

That makes him smile again, a real one this time. But it fades a little too quickly as he focuses back on the road, jaw tightening again. 

The drive to WSQK radio station is quiet, a comforting, familiar silence, a silence that feels heavy and light at the same time, like an unspoken promise.

When you arrive ten minutes later, Steve rushes to open the door of the car for you, and that makes you smile once again. You smile a lot when you're with him. Dustin points it out every damn chance he gets.

You don't notice it because it's so natural, so uncontrollable. When you're with Steve, your whole world feels lighter, calmer, quieter. All you can hear is the sound of his voice and your heart beating in your chest.

The ride becomes quiet, a comfortable, warm, cozy silence. A silence that is familiar to you, that you enjoy. Because it's Steve, after all, your best friend. There's no place you feel safer than right there, sitting next to him in his car.

He swallows, like he's trying to work up to something, as you walk together inside the radio station building.

He's thinking about something. Or hiding something. You can practically feel it pulsing off him.

After a very long moment, he speaks.

“How's everything going with Patrick?”

Patrick. Right.

He pronounces the name as if it contains some deadly poison, his tongue twisting in disgust, his whole face contorting in revulsion as he says it. Steve is physically repulsed by saying it.

You sigh, waiting for him to open the radio booth.

“Same as usual lately, I guess,” you click your tongue, frustrated with the topic. “He hasn't come to see me, nor has he called. He's... distant. Upset, shut down.”

Steve clicks his tongue too and he turn his head to look at you with sympathy, anger perhaps too. “He's such an idiot. You should totally dump his ass, like, right now.”

“He thinks I'm cheating on him,” you blurt out, lowering your gaze for a moment. “With you.”

Steve's reaction is instant.

He almost swerves.

Steve freezes.

One hand still on the booth door, the other hovering mid-air like he forgot how to move. His mouth parts just slightly — not enough to speak, only enough to show how completely that sentence knocked the wind out of him.

“...with me?” he repeats, and his voice sounds different. Rough. Quiet. Almost strangled.

“Yeah,” you nod, hugging your arms to your chest. “He's been acting weird about it for weeks. Says we're 'too close.' That I look at you differently. That you look at me differently.”

Steve blinks once. Slowly. As if giving his brain time to reboot.

“Well,” he finally says, breath catching, “that's... that's rich. Because I'd never— I mean, I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

Runs a hand through his hair again, fingers trembling.

The room feels suddenly too small, too warm, too loud with the sound of his breathing. He opens the door with some brusqueness, holding it open for you to pass through.

“He's jealous for no reason,” you try to add, but your voice comes out thin. “I'd never— we're just—”

You walk slowly through the door, stopping right in front of him, at the threshold, holding his gaze. His eyes scan your face with that intense, searching softness he reserves only for you — warm honey turning to fire around the edges. 

“Friends,” Steve finishes quietly, eyes flicking up to yours.

“Right,” you're an echo of his words. You bite your lip, exhaling a little nervous giggle, “Friends.”

Steve clears his throat and fumbles for the light switch, turning it on with a loud click. The booth fills with the warm hum of equipment, mixing boards blinking with tiny green and red lights.

He doesn't look at you for a moment. He sets down his keys on the desk, straightens a stack of cassettes that didn't need straightening, taps his finger nervously on the mixer — twitch, twitch.

You wander past boxes and shelves filled with vinyl records, recognizing many that you yourself had donated to the radio station.  

You're smiling as you find your all-time favorite one, and it's got a little pink note with words written on it, that you can read once you take the record out to take a look at it.

‘Handle with care.’

You recognize the handwriting right away.

Your eyes lift from Cindy Lauper's iconic pose on the cover of She's So Unusual to look at Steve, who is still rummaging through the cassettes.

Your fingers linger on the sticky note longer than necessary as your chest warms, tightens, twists, all at once.

“Stevie.”

“Mhm?” he hums, looking up to pay attention to you, as if you hadn't already caught his undivided attention the moment you stepped into his company.

“Why did you put a note on my record?” you ask softly.

“Because...” He laughs under his breath, but it's not really a laugh, it's a huff of obviousness. “Because it's your favorite.”

You lift a brow. “And that requires a warning label?”

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed. “Not a warning. Just— you know.” He shrugs helplessly. “I didn't want Robin or someone else to scratch it. I know it means a lot to you.”

“Right,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the overwhelming flood of emotions that is suddenly trying to drown you.

You put the record back in its spot, very slowly.

“So,” you smile lightly, taking a seat at Robin's desk, the radio host, “are you gonna show me the vacuum-cleaner monster roar or what?”

Steve snaps upright like you just gave him instructions to defuse a bomb.

“Right — yeah — yes.” He fumbles with a cassette, jammed between two others. “Okay, so, this one... wait— no, not this— crap— okay— this one!”

He pops it into the player and presses play.

A horrific, warbling screech bursts out of the speakers — something between a demon gargling nails and an actual dying Hoover.

You burst out laughing, clapping a hand over your mouth.

Steve groans, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh my God, I knew it— it's awful, it's— don't laugh— actually no, okay, you can laugh.”

You push your feet to pull the chair closer to his desk, “No, no, it's... impressive. Deeply cursed. But impressive.”

He looks down at you with that stupid boyish grin that scrunches his eyes at the corners, with his hands still hiding his face, looking at you through the gaps between his fingers. That way you can clearly see the brown-honey color of his eyes.

As he leans his elbows on his desk, you move close enough to pull his hands away from his blushing face, very gently.

You're smiling so hard your cheeks are quivering slightly, “I think it's really cool.”

Steve holds his breath, his eyes flickering for a split second to the sight of your hands cupping his, guiding them away from his face so you can get a better look at him. You catch him, though. You always catch him.

“You really think so?” His eyebrows furrow upward and he looks like a pouting child.

“I mean, you're going to scare the shit out of the radio listeners,” you giggle quietly. 

And Steve starts laughing too, uncontrollably. He feels so happy that he could float away. The only thing keeping him grounded are your hands in his, your gaze, your smile, your voice, your body.

Ten minutes later, after some more banter and approving comments about Steve's new sound effects, he's putting a record on one of the turntables in the booth. You're not paying attention to him because you're too focused on sorting through the boxes full of cassettes, organized by words, letters, and emotions. You put the new one with the creepy scream in the horror section.

A broad smile curves your lips as the first chords of Money Changes Everything begin to echo through the interior of the cabin.

“Well, he's been ignoring me a lot lately,” you continue telling him about everything that's been going on with your lame boyfriend.

Steve is listening attentively, he's now sitting in the office chair, his fingers drumming on the armrests along with the beat of the song. He knows it by heart, of course, you've listened to that album together countless times in your room.

“How long is 'a lot'?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“...over a month,” you admit finally.

Steve's brows knit now. “Over a month since what?”

You settle more comfortably over his desk, “Since he actually talked to me. Since he touched me. Since we...” you gesture vaguely, your voice lowering sheepishly, “y'know...”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, voice low, controlled — but barely.

“No...”

He blinks slowly, very slowly. And sits up straight in his seat, as if he were rising from the dead, “He hasn't even— even tried anything?”

“Nope,” you shook your head, straightening the fabric of your skirt over your thighs.

He just... stares. Like you've just told him something so unbelievable, so painful, so wrong, that he can't fully process it. His eyes drag over your face, your lips, the way your fingers nervously smooth your skirt, and something darkens inside him — anger, disbelief, heartbreak, something protective and dangerous all at once.

“You deserve better than that,” he says softly, voice trembling with sincerity. “So much better. Fuck, that's crazy”

You try to laugh it off — small, brittle, dismissive.

“It's not that big of a deal, Steve—”

“Yes, it is,” he cuts in, more firm than you've ever heard him with you. Not harsh — never with you — but there's an edge, a rare sharpness slicing through his voice. “It is a big deal.”

Your brows lift, surprised.

He pushes himself up from the chair so suddenly it rolls back a few inches. He stands in front of you now, the record spinning behind him, Cindy Lauper's voice floating through the booth like some ironic soundtrack to the crackling tension.

When You Were Mine.

How fitting.

“Over a month?” he repeats, like he's still trying to convince himself you're not joking. “He hasn't touched you in over a month?”

Your cheeks warm, in embarrassment, frustration, a little sadness, a little humiliation.

You make a dismissive gesture with your hand, “I guess he's just... done with me.”

“No.” His voice cracks. Actually cracks. “Don't say that. Honey, he should be begging for your attention,” Steve whispers, every word slow, deliberate. “He should be feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. Because he—” He shakes his head, eyes burning. “God, he has no idea what he has.”

You swallow hard.

“Steve...”

He inhales — deep, steadying — and steps back just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to sever the electricity sparking between you.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer. And somehow, that makes it worse.

“Why are you still with him?”

It's a simple question. But it doesn't feel simple.

Why are you still with Patrick? 

You've asked yourself this question more times than you'd like to admit. And you tell yourself it must be because of the attention he gives you (very occasionally now) or the way he's there for you (hardly ever anymore). No, seriously, why are you still with him?

Why do you keep clinging to something that is clearly beyond repair? 

It's not afloat, so what's the point in sinking with it?

You fidget with the edge of the desk, sighing in hopelessness. “I don't know. Maybe because I keep hoping he'll come back to me. That things will go back to normal.”

“Well,” Steve speaks in a tone as gentle as his gaze, “if he can walk away from someone like you... he's even more of an idiot than I thought.”

Your lips part — a soft sound escaping before you can stop it.

And Steve notices.

Oh, he notices.

He notices everything about you. He knows you better than he knows himself, every gesture, every movement, every glance, every tone of voice. Every single habit of yours is a kind of religion to him, a form of fanaticism, a way of worship. Every part of you is divine, heavenly.

And nothing about you is normal. In the best sense of the word.

Steve's eyes flick to your mouth for half a second before he forces himself to look away, rubbing his hands on his jeans like he needs to physically wipe the moment off his palms.

“You're just saying that to make me feel better,” you huff, smiling faintly, holding his gaze.

“No,” Steve says immediately.

Too immediately.

He stands up like a robot, quick and precise. He walks toward you with slow, deliberate steps, brushing one of his hands through his hair. 

“You really don't see it, do you?” His question sounds incredulous. “You don't see what everyone else sees. What he should see.”

You blink up at him once he is standing right in front of you. “See what?”

“That you're...” He stops, jaw clenching. Starts again. “That you're impossible not to notice. You come into a room,” he continues, eyes burning into yours, “and it's like everything else gets quieter. You talk, and I—” He swallows, the sound thick. “I listen to every word like it matters. Because it does.”

Your pulse is pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips, twitching over the desk.

“You smile, and I...” He exhales. “I feel it. Everywhere.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Steve...”

“If you were mine, I wouldn't leave you for a second. I mean, look at you,” he smiles, glancing down at your lips. His hands rest on either side of you on the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly and holding on to it as if that would stop him from doing something he wouldn't want to do, something he might regret. “I'm supposed to be your friend,” he breathes out, defeated, leaning closer to you and pressing his forehead against your shoulder. “I'm supposed to be a gentleman.”

You feel his breath quicken against your skin, a shuddering sigh that ripples down your spine. The revelation lingers in the air, palpable and electric, poised to burst the bubble of that long-standing "friendship" that has kept you both afloat for so many years.

“Steve,” you whisper, because it's all you can manage to say. His name. Your voice fractures under its own weight.

You raise a hand, pausing for a second, before gently placing it on Steve's brown hair at the nape of his neck. Your thumb brushes against his warm skin, and a small sigh slides from his lips, a low, hoarse sound that makes you tremble.

He lifts his head slowly.

And the moment his eyes meet yours...

It's like the whole room tilts.

His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry, and you swear you can feel the heat rolling off him, rising off his skin in waves. His gaze drops to your lips again — not subtle, not accidental, not friendly.

He's not pretending anymore.

Not hiding it.

Not even trying.

“I'm supposed to be good,” he chokes out, his voice nothing more than a hushed whisper, a confession. “But sweetheart,” he gasps, his voice cracking with restraint, “you make it really, really hard to be good.”

Steve notices that you want to say something, and shushes you, laying a finger on your mouth, tracing your lips with extreme delicacy.

“Shh... look at me, just look at me,” he demands in a deep whisper, his hands are cradling your face now, shaky, almost hesitant. “I can't stand the thought of that jerk neglecting you. Not when I... if I could, I would make you feel like the only woman in the world, every day.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as his finger traces the curve of your bottom lip, as delicately as if he were touching a porcelain doll. His hands, usually so confident and restless, are trembling slightly against your cheeks, framing your face with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting.

The way he's looking at you—it's devastating. It's the way you always secretly wanted to be looked at, a look of utter reverence and raw, agonizing need. It doesn't look like friendship. It looks like... everything else but it.

You lean into his touch almost imperceptibly, just enough to communicate the sudden, powerful shift inside you. The realization that he is the reason Patrick is jealous, and the terrifying, wonderful possibility that Patrick might be right. He must be right.

With a low, ragged sound that is half-gasp, half-groan, Steve closes the remaining distance.

“Kiss me,” you manage to utter, demand, or beg, your voice caught in your throat, like a tiny vibration in the air. It's the most coherent thing you can express, the most you need at that moment. Him and nothing but him.

With a low, ragged sound that is half-gasp, half-groan, Steve closes the remaining distance in between you. 

He shatters it as if it were his greatest enemy, the one thing he has loathed since he can remember. Distance. 

His lips find yours, hesitant for only a fraction of a second, then urgent, demanding, and utterly possessive. It's not the gentle, polite touch of your 'best friend'; it's the fierce, hungry pressure of a man who has been holding this back, hoarding this feeling, for too long. 

From a man who laid his heart in your hands the moment you met. Who took one look at you and knew he would be yours.

Your man.

Your Steve.

Yours.

His hands slide from your cheeks, moving to cup the back of your head, threading into your hair, tilting your face up just slightly, deepening the kiss with a desperation that steals your breath away. His nose, the one you love so much, bumps against yours roughly, and they fit together just right.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. It's a dizzying, all-consuming kiss that feels like coming home and falling off a cliff all at the same time. 

Every question you had about Patrick, about your relationship, about why you were staying, dissolves into the white-hot certainty that this—this shocking, overwhelming connection—is what you've been missing. 

Why haven't you seen it before? Perhaps you had merely chosen not to see it. That you belong to him. The devastating truth. That you belong to him.

You lift your own hands through his body, gripping the front of his shirt, clinging to him as if he's the only stable thing in a violently spinning world. The fabric is soft, warm from his body, and your knuckles white as you pull him closer.

You spread your thighs, bringing him even closer to you, impossibly close.

When he finally, reluctantly, pulls back —only enough for a breath— his forehead is still resting against yours. His eyes are closed, chest heaving, his breathing a frantic counterpoint to the steady beat of the music filtering through the air. 

You can't help but kiss him one more time, just a little peck. Because he looks so pretty, so hot, so celestially beautiful, pressing against you, ready to worship everything you give him.

“God,” Steve prays, but it sounds more like a curse, the single syllable a prayer, a curse, and a confession all at once. His thumbs brush against your cheeks, pulling you back to look at him, his eyes opening slowly, dark and dazed. “I've wanted to do that for— God, I don't even know how long. Why did we take so long to do that?”

“Because you didn't have the guts to do it,” you whisper back, holding back a smile, which he kisses, gently tracing your curved lips with his tongue. 

He smiles too, and then leans in and kisses you again, softer this time, a tender sealing of the promise, a claiming that makes every other kiss you've ever had feel like a bad dream. When he pulls back, he's glowing, his hand never leaving your face.

“Don't,” he breathes out, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze locked on your mouth. “Don't go back to him. Please...”

“I won't,” you promise him. 

Because, how could you even want to see another male when you have him right there in your arms? Staring at you like that, so yearningly.

Steve's lips curl into a slow, relieved, and utterly triumphant smile—the genuine, dazzling smile that makes your world lighter.

You feel him exhale against your cheek, shaky, uneven, like every breath he takes is still trying to catch up to what just happened.

Like he's trying to catch up to you.

His hand slides down from your cheek to your jaw, then to your shoulder and finally to your waist — not squeezing, not claiming you the way he clearly wants to. Just resting there. Feeling you, with the softest, most enamored touch you've ever known.

“You're shaking, pretty,” he points out.

“So are you,” you whisper back.

And he is — his fingers tremble where they rest against your skin, his breath stutters each time he looks at your lips, and his chest brush yours with an unsteady pressure, as if he's terrified you'll vanish if he doesn't stay close enough.

And still, Steve pulls away just a little, only enough to take off his jacket and carefully drape it around your shoulders, his hands caressing your arms as he does so, making sure you are wrapped up and cozy. 

Your cheeks flush, and Steve smiles when he sees it.

The scent of his cologne fills your nostrils, so masculine, so him, so yours.

“There you go,” he coos contentedly once you're snuggled up under the warmth of his jacket.

“Thanks, Stevie,” you flash a sheepish smile, so happy you feel like you might burst.

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, slow, testing. And then, you lift your hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb across the faint stubble there.

Steve leans into your touch like it's instinct.

Like it's home.

“Everything for you,” he assures you, “Everything.”

He looks at you like you've just handed him the entire world.

And Steve Harrington — your Steve — lifts your hand to his lips, pressing the softest kiss to your knuckles, reverent, desperate, worshipful.

As if you were the beginning and end of his universe.

And for him?

The first time Steve Harrington smiled at me, my brain short-circuited. Like, actually sparked, fizzled, and died.

One second, I was standing in Family Video, trying to decide between renting Ferris Bueller for the sixth time or branching out into some film I’d probably fall asleep to halfway through. The next second, Steve leaned against the counter with his hair doing that perfect swoopy thing and said, “Need help choosing, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

I wish I could tell you I answered like a normal, functioning human being. But no. My mouth decided to betray me and say: “I like… shelves.”

Shelves. Not “films.” Not “yes, please.” Shelves.

Steve just raised his eyebrows in amused disbelief, lips twitching like he was fighting not to laugh.

And that was it. That was the beginning of my very public, very humiliating descent into what I like to call “Harrington-induced nonsense.”

It only got worse the more I saw him.

Which, unfortunately for me, was a lot.

Robin, my so-called best friend, started dragging me to Family Video on purpose, insisting she needed new tapes, when really, she just wanted to watch me combust like a faulty toaster every time Steve appeared.

“You’re ridiculous,” she told me one afternoon as I clutched a VHS to my chest like it was a life raft. Steve was restocking tapes a few aisles down, completely unaware that his mere existence was reducing me to word salad.

“I’m not ridiculous,” I whispered, peeking at him through the horror section. “I’m just… verbalising differently.”

“Differently?” Robin snorted. “You called him ‘Hair Boy Wonder’ to his face yesterday.”

“I panicked!” I hissed.

But she was right. I was hopeless. Steve Harrington had somehow rewired my brain so that whenever he was within ten feet, my inner monologue turned into a string of nonsense. Giddy, bubbly, sometimes raunchy nonsense. The kind that would absolutely get me arrested if spoken aloud.

It came to a head the day I found myself working at Family Video.

Not by choice, mind you. Keith needed an extra pair of hands, and Robin thought it would be “hilarious” if I covered a few shifts.

It was not hilarious. It was cruel and unusual punishment.

Because now, instead of embarrassing myself as a customer, I got to embarrass myself as a co-worker.

Steve was behind the counter when I walked in, flashing me that grin that should be classified as a deadly weapon.

“Look who’s joining the team,” he said, leaning on the counter like he belonged in a magazine advert for denim jackets. “Think you can handle the pressure?”

“I...uh...yes. I like...pressure’s good. Love pressure. Big fan of… pressing things.”

Steve tilted his head, clearly entertained. “Pressing things?”

“Yep,” I said brightly, dying inside. “Buttons. Shirts. Flowers. You name it, I press it.”

He chuckled, and my knees nearly gave way. How dare he be both devastatingly handsome and devastatingly amused by me?

Working with him was torture.

Not the bad kind. The fluttery, delicious kind that makes your stomach feel like it’s hosting a circus.

Every time he walked past me, brushing my arm by accident or worse, on purpose I could feel my thoughts spiral into chaos.

He’d lean down to grab a tape, and I’d think: Do not stare at his backside. Do not stare. Oh God, I’m staring. He’d lick his thumb to peel a sticker, and my brain would scream: That should be illegal. I need holy water. Where’s a priest?

It was a miracle I didn’t spontaneously combust behind the counter.

The pinnacle of my nonsense happened on a Thursday evening.

We’d just finished the late shift, Robin had left early, and it was just me and Steve, closing up the store.

He tossed me the keys, his grin cheeky. “Think you can lock up, or will you start complimenting the door?”

“I’ll have you know,” I shot back, “I’m excellent with doors. We’re on very good terms.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “You kill me.”

My heart tripped over itself. Oh, cool, yeah, just casually end my life with affection, that’s fine.

As I fumbled with the lock, I blurted, “You have a nice… face.”

Smooth. Real smooth.

Steve blinked, then smirked. “Thanks. You have a nice… way with words.”

I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Why am I like this?”

“Like what?” he asked, stepping closer, voice warm and teasing.

“Like...” I flailed. “Like I’ve got scrambled eggs for brains whenever you’re around.”

His smirk softened into something gentler. “Scrambled eggs, huh?”

“Yes,” I mumbled. “Completely fried. No toast.”

Steve chuckled and leaned in, close enough that my pulse went haywire. “For the record, I think it’s cute.”

I froze. My brain short-circuited again, but this time it wasn’t nonsense spilling out it was nothing. Just static.

“You what?” I croaked.

“I think it’s cute,” he repeated, eyes locked on mine. “The way you get all flustered. Makes me feel like maybe I’m not the only one losing my head here.”

My jaw dropped. “You...wait you...what?”

He grinned. “See? Scrambled.”

I wanted to reply. Something clever, something witty. But all that came out was: “Do you want to… press buttons together sometime?”

Steve blinked. Then laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall for support.

But when he straightened, his smile was soft, and his hand found mine.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that.”

Dating Steve Harrington was like living in a constant state of nonsense.

The giddiness didn’t stop it multiplied. Every date, every kiss, every time he laced his fingers through mine, my brain spiralled into playful chaos.

Once, we were sitting in his car, sharing a milkshake, and I blurted, “Your eyelashes are illegal.”

He choked on his straw, grinning. “Illegal?”

“Yes. Too pretty. Should be against the law.”

He leaned closer, eyes twinkling. “What’s my punishment then?”

And before I could stop myself, I whispered, “Kiss me or go to jail.”

Needless to say, he chose the kiss.

Sometimes I still catch myself saying ridiculous things around him. Like the time he wore that stupidly tight polo shirt, and I mumbled, “If you bend over, I’m suing.” Or when he called me “babe” for the first time, and I accidentally responded, “Yes, captain, sir, boss, sir.”

But the best part? He loves it. Every nonsense word, every flustered ramble, every ridiculous outburst.

Because when you’re smitten properly, completely, can’t-think-straight smitten sense doesn’t matter. Nonsense does.