It's not about the hair

First of all, Hopper was swallowed by the Upside Down. One moment, his flashlight cut a narrow path through the dead street ahead, its beam catching on warped street signs and hollowed-out cars frozen in place. The next, it was gone. The light blinked out, replaced by a dull, wet impact and a sharp sound over the radio that made your chest lock tight.

You stood there, frozen, the receiver pressed to your ear as static flooded the line. His voice never came back. Only the hiss remained, stretching on long enough for you to understand that whatever had taken him had already pulled him out of reach.

Second, Will got what Steve insists on calling the ‘goosies’, which is basically code for something-really-fucking-awful-is-going-to-happen-soon, and enough to guarantee Joyce is probably losing her mind somewhere right now. 

The final blow came when Steve swerved, following a track he thought Hopper might have taken. He turned the wheel too sharply. For one weightless second, the car skidded, tires screaming as the road slipped out from under you.

At the last second, the headlights revealed a fallen telephone pole sprawled across the dark street.

You didn’t even have time to scream before the car slammed into it.

Metal screeched loudly as the car slammed into the pole, your body was  thrown violently as glass shattered around you and the seatbelt crushed the air from your lungs. Your head struck the window and the world flipped, sky and ground trading places until you could no longer tell which way was up.

You hung upside down for a moment, breath coming in ragged gasps, the ringing in your ears so loud it felt like the world had swallowed you whole. 

Warmth spread along your arms before you understood what it was, blood darkening your sleeves as panic rose too fast to control. 

You couldn’t tell if it was yours, only that your hands were shaking as you fumbled for the seatbelt, fingers slipping until the buckle finally gave way and sent you tumbling onto the crushed roof of the overturned car.

Your eyes found him immediately.

Steve.

Your chest tightened, each heartbeat like a fist squeezing your ribs from the inside. You haven’t told him yet. You haven’t told him that you’re in love with—

No, stop it.

You turned toward him, heart hammering, stomach twisting. He was slumped in the seat, shoulder slick with blood, head tipped at an angle that made your stomach drop into your feet. 

“Steve,” you whispered, voice cracking, trembling as it caught in your throat. “Please, please. Wake up.”

Your fingers brushed against him, shaking violently as you traced his jaw, his hair, the curve of his shoulder where the blood pooled. 

You pressed your forehead to his, willing him to open his eyes, willing him to look at you, to see you. Your heart ached with every second that passed in silence. 

You wanted to scream, to beg, to pour all the words you had never said into the space between you. I love you. I have always loved you. Please. Please wake up.

Your hands hovered over his face, trembling, before you pressed them gently against his cheeks, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with shaking fingers.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking, voice trembling in a way you had never known. “Just… wake up. I need you. Don’t do this.”

His lashes twitched. His eyelids fluttered, and a groan, low and rough, slipped past his lips. 

Relief hit you like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. You pressed your forehead to his, your hands clutching at him as if holding him could somehow guarantee he would stay.

“Oh my god. You’re awake—you’re alive,” you breathed, a shaking laugh caught in the middle of your words. “Thank god, you’re alive.”

Steve’s eyes opened fully, a ragged exhale escaping him as he blinked up at you, still half-lost in shock and pain. 

“Yeah… yeah, I’m alive,” he said, voice hoarse, and before he could stop himself, you lunged, wrapping your arms around him. Relief crashed through you, and he caught you instinctively, pressing you close and burying his face against your hair.

He breathed you in, taking in your scent, your warmth, your presence, and murmured against your hair, “It’s okay… I’m okay. Don’t gotta panic. I’ve got you.”

You clung to him tighter, heart hammering, letting the fear spill into the hug, letting him feel it as much as you needed to feel him. 

Then he groaned softly, shifting awkwardly. “Oww… my shoulder.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, eyes wide with the mix of pain and faint humor. “Oh my god, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—”

Steve shook his head, grimacing. “No, no, don’t freak out. It’s just… yeah, it hurts, but I’m fine. I’m more worried about you.” His eyes found yours, gazing at you with a look you weren’t able to read.

In that moment, Steve’s mind raced, tumbling through a thousand thoughts at once. 

How stupid he had been, crashing his car and risking your life. How lucky he was that you weren’t hurt. 

And then, in the quiet space left between panic and relief, a single truth pressed against his chest with all the weight of everything he felt: he needed to tell you.

He needed to tell you that he loved you—your laugh, the way your eyes lit up when you were happy, the scent of you that he could never forget, the ache in his body when you weren’t near, the way his lips longed for yours. 

That you occupied every inch of his mind, every part of him that mattered, and that his hands, his eyes, his heart—every piece of him—were yours alone.

The thought hit him harder than the fear ever could: he could lose you in a heartbeat, and if he did, he would regret every second he waited to say the words. 

He needed you to know, needed you to feel it, and the panic and relief tangled together into one fierce, aching certainty—he was utterly, hopelessly, completely in love with you.

You pressed your forehead back to his gently, voice trembling. “I can’t lose you.”

Steve’s breath hitched at your confession.

I can’t lose you either.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Yeah… well, don’t worry. You’re not. Not on my watch.” 

His fingers tightened slightly, holding you in place. “Seriously. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you.”

And there it was—the way he always made it about you, even when he was hurt, even when his shoulder was screaming. 

Steve lifted his head, eyes scanning the darkness. The forest pressed in on every side, the road empty and silent except for the faint whisper of leaves in the wind. His gaze fell on the crumpled, upside-down car, and his jaw tightened.

“We need to call for help,” he muttered, voice rough. “The walkie… it’s in there.”

Without thinking, he leaned forward, shoulder stabbing with pain, reaching toward the wreck.

“Steve, no.” you snapped, grabbing his arm before he could move. “Sit. You’re hurt and your shoulder is bleeding—you can’t move like that.”

“I—wait, I have to get it,” he gasped, still reaching, eyes wide with panic. “We need—”

“No,” you interrupted, heart hammering. “I’ll get it. You stay here. You’re not moving, and I’m not letting you make it worse.”

His hand hovered, trembling in the air, then brushed against yours as if to argue, but all he could manage was a tight, worried sound. “Be careful… there’s glass… the car—don’t—don’t get hurt.”

“I won’t,” you said, pressing your hand to his for a brief second before scrambling toward the wreck. 

Steve’s eyes followed every step, every movement, his body taut with fear that anything could happen while he was helpless to stop it.

You slid back into the half-crushed shell of the car, sleeve pressed against sharp edges as you pushed shards aside. 

The dashboard was split open, the seats torn and mangled, every movement sending tiny jolts of panic through you.

You searched through pockets, glove compartments, under the twisted frame until your hand closed around the walkie. The plastic was cracked and the antenna bent. 

You pressed the button attempting to get it to work despite the damage. Static crackled back at you, thin and hollow, followed by a loud snap that faded almost immediately.

“…great,” you muttered under your breath.

You climbed back out the wrecked car and dropped onto the dirt beside him, placing the walkie down carefully.

Steve’s head snapped up the second he noticed you again. Even dazed and bleeding, his eyes went straight to your face. “Does it work?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Not really. It’s busted. There’s no way it reaches anyone from here.”

He blew out a sharp breath and leaned his head back against the wreck, staring up at the dark sky. “Awesome,” he said flatly. “That is just awesome. Of course it’s broken. Why would anything work tonight.”

Before the frustration could turn into something heavier, you shifted closer and reached for him. “Hey,” you said, gentler now. “Let me see.”

He waved you off without looking at you. “I’m fine.”

You frowned. “Steve.”

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, stubborn as ever.

“You’re literally bleeding,” you said, pressing your hand lightly to his shoulder before he could pull away. Your fingers came back red. “That’s not fine.”

“Hey,” he said softly when you pressed the cloth to his shoulder, his voice cracking just a little. “You don’t gotta do that. It’s not that bad.”

“You’re bleeding through your jacket,” you replied, trying to keep your tone steady even as your hands shook. “That’s my definition of bad.”

He let out a weak huff that almost sounded like a laugh. “Guess we’ve got different standards.”

You leaned closer without thinking, bracing one knee against the dirt so you could wrap the makeshift bandage properly. 

His muscles tensed beneath your touch, burning through all the layers of his clothing and leaving him yearning for your presence. 

“Sorry,” you murmured again, tightening the knot.

“For what,” he asked quietly.

“For hurting you.”

Steve blinked, then shook his head, his mouth tipping into that familiar crooked line. “You could never hurt me.” 

You don’t hurt me. You just remind me of everything I can’t have.

You finished tying the fabric and pulled your hands back slowly, like you were afraid the moment would shatter if you moved too fast.

Steve shifted beside you, wincing, and stayed silent for a long moment, as if gathering every ounce of courage he had. Then, finally, his voice broke the quiet. “I’m sorry.”

You froze. “For what?”

He didn’t look at you right away, eyes flicking from the dirt to the twisted car and back to you. “For all of this,” he said, voice low and rough. “For dragging you into it. For thinking I had to do everything myself.”

“Steve—”

“No, listen,” he interrupted, firm but soft, as if stopping now would undo the words he’d risked saying. “If I hadn’t been an idiot, none of this would’ve happened. If I’d just let Dustin come instead of pulling you away… we wouldn’t be out here. Hopper wouldn’t be alone. Will wouldn’t be—” 

His jaw tightened. “You… you wouldn’t be sitting in the dirt, covered in my blood, because I couldn’t slow down.”

His voice wavered, raw, stripped of all bravado. You had never heard him like this—so exposed, so painfully honest.

Without thinking, you reached for his arm, fingers curling into his sleeve. “Hey… stop.”

He shook his head, still breathing hard, finally lifting his eyes to yours. And when he looked at you, the world narrowed, and all the noise, all the danger, everything else fell away. 

There was only him, and the vulnerability he had never shown anyone. “I mean it,” he whispered. “I mess things up. That’s kinda my thing.”

“That’s not true,” you said firmly, heart tightening as you held his gaze. “And you don’t get to decide that on your own.”

Steve’s lips twitched into a small, crooked line, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, dark and raw with feeling. “It’s true,” he said, quiet enough that you had to lean in to hear him. 

“I push. I rush. I try to handle everything on my own, and then… everything blows up. Literally, apparently.”

 He gestured at the wreck, then back at you, voice softening, almost pleading. “But… you’re here. And I can’t—can’t stop thinking that… I could lose you. And I don’t think I could survive that.”

“And now look at us. No car. No working walkie. Hopper’s god knows where. Everything’s just… messed up.”

You squeezed his hand gently, voice soft but certain. “Steve, you didn’t lose me. And none of this is your fault — absolutely none of it. We’ll figure out a way to make this work. Just… breathe, okay?”

He nodded once, eyes locked on yours, chest heaving, and you took that moment to crawl toward the wreck, brushing yourself against the dirt and shards of glass as you reached for the walkie. 

Its antenna was bent, wires frayed, and you worked quickly, twisting and straightening, testing what you could.

Steve watched, jaw tight, every instinct screaming that you shouldn’t be risking yourself. You called out, voice rising over the hum of the night, “Joyce? Robin? Can anyone hear me? Over.” But only static answered, hissing back at you.

And in that moment, something selfish, impossibly selfish, stirred in Steve as he watched you call for help.

He wanted the walkie to fail. He wanted you here. Just you and him, alone in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but the wrecked car, the cold air, and the faint rustle of the forest. He wanted you needing him. Wanted the world to disappear so all he had to focus on was you.

He hated himself instantly for the thought, for the pull in his chest, because he knew it was ridiculous, dangerous, even cruel. 

He should be getting help, manning up, fixing the situation, not sitting there like a fool, watching you work with your hair falling across your face, and feeling his heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with you.

“Don’t fix it,” he blurted suddenly, voice cracking, too desperate to be reasoned with.

You froze, hands on the walkie, and slowly turned toward him. His eyes were wide, pleading and strange, raw in a way that made your stomach twist. “What? Steve… are you okay?” you asked, scooting closer. “Does your shoulder hurt?”

No. It doesn’t hurt.

You reached out, hand brushing the fabric where you’d bandaged him, fingers pressing gently against the dried blood. 

The bleeding had stopped, and relief flickered across your chest, but when your hand touched him, electricity shot through him, shocking and impossible.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, body rigid with a feeling he didn’t want to admit, a heat creeping up his spine that made him hate himself for being weak—so weak, so utterly in love, so selfish.

“I… I’m just—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, breath uneven. “I don’t know,” he says again, quieter this time. “I’m a mess. I should be doing something useful right now. Calling someone. Fixing something. Instead I’m just… thinking.”

He huffs out a short, humorless laugh. “Thinking about all the stuff I shouldn’t be thinking about. And this—” he gestures vaguely between you, the wreck, the night around you, “—this whole thing just made me realise how fast everything can go wrong. And I don’t think I can keep doing this anymore.”

“Doing what?” you ask, even though your chest already tightens.

The question brings it back. That thing. 

The unspoken weight that’s been sitting between you for weeks now, showing up every time your hands brush, every look that lingers too long, every moment you almost say something and then don’t. 

The elephant in the room you’ve both been carefully walking around.

Steve exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on the road instead of you. “That thing we do,” he says. 

“Where one of us almost dies. Then we save each other. Then we fight about it. And then we just… pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

“Oh,” you swallow. “That thing.”

“And I know— I know this is bad timing. Believe me, I get that. But timing’s kinda bullshit lately, and I just— I don’t want something to happen before you can… before you can feel what I—”

“I do feel it,” you say.

His eyes widen, just a fraction. “You— you do?”

You nod. “But I want you to say it.”

Steve inhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself for something that might shatter him. 

His shoulder shifts as he moves and he winces, but instead of pulling away, he reaches for you. 

His hands slide around your waist, tentative at first, then firmer, drawing you closer until there’s barely any space left between you, until your breaths start to tangle.

“I can’t,” he exhales, forehead nearly touching yours. “I can’t say it the way I’m supposed to.”

You don’t move. You let him keep going.

“It’s this thing,” he continues, voice low, almost shaken. “Where my chest tightens every time you’re near, like it doesn’t know how to hold all of it. My heart just starts going crazy and I—” He swallows. 

“I’ve tried to starve it out of me. Pretend it wasn’t there. Tell myself it’d fade if I ignored it long enough. But it didn’t.”

His grip tightens, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens it.

“This hunger,” he admits. “This need I have for you. I can’t get rid of it.”

You step closer, close enough that his breath stutters. His heartbeat is loud against your chest, frantic and unguarded, and when you look up at him, it feels like he sees straight through you. Like there’s nowhere left to hide. Like every thought, every want, every quiet ache you’ve been carrying is suddenly laid bare between you.

It feels invasive in the most devastating way.

Because it’s true.

This thing between you isn’t gentle. It’s sharp. It pierces straight through, leaves you aching, hollowed out, like being apart is something you’ve both been surviving rather than living through.

You lean in until your lips hover just shy of his, close enough that your upper lip barely brushes his lower one. The contact is feather-light, almost nothing, and it freezes him completely.

You pull back just a breath and whisper, “Do you feel it now, Steve?”

His eyes are dark, unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

“This thing,” you murmur. “This hunger.”

Steve swallows hard, his voice barely there. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I feel it.”

A soft smile curves your mouth, tender and sure. Your lips graze his again, just a whisper of touch, and you pull back only enough to meet his eyes.

“Then stop starving it out of your body,” you say quietly. 

“What?” he asks, almost helplessly.

“Stop denying it. Take what you want.”

Steve surges forward, crashing his lips into yours with a force that steals the air from your lungs. 

You stumble for a heartbeat before kissing him back just as deeply, just as desperately, like you’ve both been waiting for this moment longer than you can remember.

His hands come up to your face, cradling your cheeks like he needs the proof of you, thumbs brushing your skin like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t keep touching you. 

His mouth moves against yours with all the want he’s been holding back, all the words he never learned how to say pouring into the kiss instead.

You consume him with the inevitability of a famine ended. Every ounce of him, every exhalation, every pulse of warmth pressed into your chest, is a feast your soul has been starving for without knowing it. 

His scent threads through you, heady and immediate, a hunger you didn’t realize had been gnawing at your bones.

Your hands trace him like cartographers mapping territory you’ve longed to know, memorizing the landscape of his body as though memorizing it could stave off absence itself. His presence presses into you, heavy and urgent, and suddenly you understand the hollow places you had carried—your ribs, your heart, your soul—were waiting for him all along.

Love is hunger, and you take it like air, like blood, like the first water after years of drought. You let yourself be devoured by him, let him be devoured by you, and you take it without restraint until every ache is soothed and every longing finally sated.

And even then, even as fullness blooms, you know you would starve again tomorrow, just to find him, just to take him, just to be this consumed by him.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, forehead pressing against yours, voice wrecked and shaking.

“I fucking love you.”

Before you can answer, his lips are back on yours, like he can’t afford another second without you, like now that he’s tasted it, he’ll never let himself go hungry again.

You pull back first, breathless, and then you’re laughing, soft and disbelieving, like your body doesn’t know what else to do with all of it. The night, the wreck, the kiss, him. It spills out of you in quiet bursts.

Steve smiles like he’s seeing you for the first time all over again. 

He reaches up, thumb brushing a loose strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a care that makes your chest ache. Then he leans in and presses a quick, lingering peck to your lips.

“As much as I’d really love to just sit here with you,” he says, forehead resting against yours, voice warm and amused, “we probably should, uh, find a way to not die on the side of the road.”

You snort. “Very romantic.”

“I contain multitudes,” he grins.

He reaches down beside you and picks up the walkie, turning it over in his hands, squinting at it and inspecting the damage caused to the device. He twists the antenna, taps the side once, then pauses.

“…oh,” he says while squinting at the walkie.

“What?” you ask.

“This thing works,” he says slowly. “I think the speaker’s busted. Like, it’s transmitting fine. You just can’t hear anything.”

He fiddles with the walkie, twisting the antenna once more. Suddenly, a very clear voice bursts through.

“—Hello? Hello? Can you guys hear us? Over.”

You and Steve both freeze, eyes snapping to the device.

“Harrington, what the hell?” Robin continues, her voice sharp but teasing. “We could hear you guys. All of it.”

Steve’s face drains. “Oh… oh no.”

“Uhm…yeah guys,” Will adds from the background. “We heard everything.”

“I—I didn’t mean—” Steve starts, but he’s cut off by you glaring at him and giving him a look that means you’re so dead.

Robin’s voice perks up, a teasing lilt creeping in. “Sooo… how was the kiss? I could hear you guys smooching while Steve took what he want—“

“Hey—no. Stop that, Robin!” he hisses, cutting her off. “We need a ride, please. Seriously, can we just… get off the line?”

“Fine, fine,” Robin says, unfazed. “Me and Will are coming over with Joyce’s car.”

You finally relax a little, shoulders dropping as you take the walkie from Steve and bring it to your lips. “Yeah, okay. Just—just hurry up, please,” you say. 

“I’m worried about Steve. His shoulder’s injured pretty badly.”

Steve opens his mouth, probably to argue, but Robin snorts on the other end.

“Well,” she says lightly, “have you tried kissing it better?”