Blue Writes

The apartment is loud with the usual end-of-day chaos. Never quite explosive, but never peaceful either.

You’re crouched awkwardly on the floor beside the coffee table, a small pile of clean laundry still warm beside you and Julie’s teensy pants stretched over your knee, the torn seam stubbornly refusing to cooperate. The needle is dull, the thread keeps tangling, and your back aches from hunching over various chores all day. 

Julie, the ever-lovely baby that she is, has decided that the floor isn’t interesting enough and is currently doing her best to climb up your back like a jungle gym, sticky hands grabbing at your shoulders.

“Sweetheart, please,” you mumble, gently nudging her off with your elbow. “Just two more minutes. Let me fix your pants and then you can tackle me, okay?”

Julie responds with a shriek and thuds down on her butt, immediately reaching for one of the brightly colored wooden blocks she isn’t supposed to throw— and, of course, throws it.

You sigh, teeth clenched around a muttered, “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” just as the front door opens with a click and a familiar set of heavy boots step inside. “Oh, thank you, Jesus,” you whisper, grateful for the extra set of hands. And, you suppose, grateful for your adoring husband in general.

“Where are my girls?” Eddie calls out, traipsing into the living room, and finding Julie making another attempt to scale you. She lights up when she sees him, like she always does, and it makes your heart soar. “Oh, come here,” he coos, scooping her up into his arms. “You givin’ your mama hell?”

“Can you please just—” you cut yourself off with a sharp squeak in pain, as you accidentally prick the needle into the tip of your finger. “ God damnit ,” you mutter.

“You good?”

“I’m fine!” you answer, voice tight. You just need to finish one thing today. You shake your hand out and continue pulling the thread through the cotton, your stitches nowhere near perfect but definitely functional. “It would mean the world to me if you could occupy the menace for two minutes, please .”

“ The menace ,” he repeats, amused. “What’s got you all fired up tonight, huh?” he asks Julie, soothing his hand up and down her back.

She babbles in response to him, and he, as always, reacts like she’s holding a deeply intelligent conversation with him. 

“Ah,” he ponders. “Understandable. I’d be a wreck in your situation too.”

“What is she telling you?” you laugh, shaking your head, eyes never leaving the fabric in front of you.

“Don’t you worry about it,” he brushes you off, ultra-seriously. “Secrets to Dad. Nothing that concerns you.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Great. It’s already starting.”

Eddie grins as Julie grabs a fistful of his shirt and launches into another string of nonsense syllables, her tone somewhere between excited and scandalized.

“She says,” Eddie leans in conspiratorially, voice low and serious, “that she requested the blue sippy cup and you gave her the green one .”

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh, well. My mistake. Shall I resign now, or later?”

“Up to you, but you’ve clearly lost her trust,” he says, bouncing her gently in his arms. “We’ll be holding interviews for your replacement first thing tomorrow.”

Julie lets out a squawk, flinging one arm dramatically toward you. Eddie gasps. “Oh, you still love her ?” He presses a kiss to her temple. “That’s big of you, kid. Real mature.”

“I’m so honored,” you mutter, knotting the thread and biting off the end with your teeth. “Love from the same baby who tried to eat lint off the carpet an hour ago.”

“She’s an adventurous soul,” Eddie says, lifting her higher and nuzzling her cheek, which earns him a giggle and a satisfied kick to the stomach. “Hey, okay, chill. I'm not a trampoline.”

Julie squeals again, wriggling.

“Alright, alright, you got needs. I get it,” he coos. “But you gotta work with me, sweetheart. Is it food? Diaper? Existential dread?”

“She just ate,” you call over, squinting at the hem of the pants. “And I changed her right before I sat down. So if it’s dread, she inherited that from you.”

“Ha,” he says, smirking. “Nah, she definitely got your death glare. She hit me with it yesterday; I swear it was like… spitting image.”

You fight the grin breaking out on your face.

Julie grunts and leans aggressively to one side in his arms, reaching for something unseen. He spins in a slow circle. “You seeing ghosts again, kid? What’re we aiming for?”

“I swear, she’s got the attention span of a—”

“Of a mini me?” he supplies. “She’s just like me, huh?”

You bark out a laugh. “Nope. Not gonna say it. She’s perfect.”

“Mmhm. That’s what I thought.” Eddie walks over and crouches beside you, Julie now clinging to his shoulder like a baby koala. “How’s it coming?”

You sigh, letting your shoulders sag. “Almost done. I just… God, I don’t know why today was so hard. She didn’t even scream that much.”

“She doesn’t have to scream,” he says, gently nudging your shoulder with his. “She just has to exist. And you, my love, exist so hard all day long. So now you’re wiped. Which is allowed.”

You blink down at the thread in your hands. “That sounded like an insult.”

“It was a compliment. In tired-parent dialect.”

You huff a laugh and nudge him back. “Well, thank you. I think.”

“Anytime.” He kisses the top of your head, then lifts Julie slightly. “And you, young lady, are going to bed the second your mother finishes those pants. You hear me?”

Julie blows a raspberry in response.

Eddie looks at you, deadpan. “She said no.”

You sigh. “Great. Fired and overruled. What a day.”

Julie starts wriggling with renewed determination, tiny legs kicking against Eddie’s ribs as she thrusts one arm outward and chirps, “Ba! Ba ba ba!”

Eddie glances in the direction she’s pointing, roughly toward the bookshelf, or maybe the plant stand, or maybe nothing at all. “What the hell does ba ba ba mean?” he mutters. “That’s gotta be super secret baby code for something. Babe, help me out here.”

You don’t look up from the final stitch you’re tugging into place. “You’re the one she trusts with all her secrets, remember?”

“Right,” he mutters, shifting Julie to his other arm. “Okay. Ba ba ba. Is that bottle? Are you thirsty?” He mimics drinking from an imaginary cup, which earns him a blank stare and then another emphatic, “Ba!”

“Nope. Not bottle,” he confirms. “Book? You want a book?” He gestures toward the bookshelf.

Julie puffs up like she might explode with the sheer injustice of being misunderstood. “BA. BA. BA!!”

“Jesus, alright, okay, don’t yell at me, I’m trying!” Eddie protests, bouncing her lightly. “You’re being really unclear for someone so bossy.”

You tie off the last knot and finally lift your head, watching your little tyrant direct Eddie’s every movement from his arms. And then, suddenly, you freeze, a small laugh catching in your throat.

“Wait… ba ba ba ?” you say, sitting up straighter. 

Eddie’s eyes flick to you. “Yeah. She’s chanting it like a little cult member. You got a theory?”

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “I know what she wants.”

Eddie whips his head around to look at you. “Please tell me, because she’s about to flip this whole operation.”

“She wants you,” you say, smirking, “to play guitar.”

He frowns. “She wants me to—”

“And sing Barbara Ann,” you finish, pointing at her with your needle like you’ve just cracked a case wide open. “That’s what she’s saying. Ba ba ba, Barbara Ann .”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, then turns to her. “Are you serious right now? You want a concert? You’ve been here fifteen months and you already run this house?”

Julie gurgles something that sounds suspiciously like victory.

“I did play it the other night,” he says slowly, glancing over at his beat-up acoustic in the corner. “She did kind of go nuts for it.”

“I thought you’d be flattered.”

“I would be, if she wasn’t so goddamn demanding about it.”

Julie claps once, then shouts, “BA!!!”

He chuckles and drops a kiss to the top of her head. “Alright, alright. Don’t hurt yourself.” He sighs theatrically, crossing the room to grab the guitar. “Who am I to deny our little queen her Beach Boys fix?”

He carefully sets Julie down in the center of the rug, where she immediately plops onto her diapered butt, eyes wide and waiting like an audience in a sold-out stadium.

“Okay, but if you spit up on my fretboard again, we’re done,” he warns her as he tunes quickly. Then he grins at you. “You’re in luck, too. This’ll buy us like three minutes of peace.”

“Oh, you’re spoiling me,” you say, finally setting the patched pants aside with a satisfied sigh.

Eddie strums a chord, then leans into the imaginary mic in front of him. “Ladies and gentlemen… introducing the hit single of the century…”

Julie wiggles in place, her chubby little hands already up.

He launches into it, voice warm and playful: “ Ba ba ba, ba Barbara Ann …”

Julie lets out a wild shriek of delight, immediately launching into a full-bodied bounce, flapping her arms and swaying like a tipsy wedding guest. You can’t help but laugh, watching her little face light up like a disco ball.

“Look at her go,” you murmur, leaning your head against the arm of the couch.

“She’s got moves,” Eddie says between lines, keeping the rhythm easy and loose as he watches her with pure adoration.

Julie claps, offbeat and enthusiastic, singing her own version of the chorus—mostly just “ba ba BA!”—and falling over onto her side in a heap of giggles. Eddie keeps playing, barely missing a beat as he watches her roll back onto her hands and knees, haul herself upright again, and resume her chaotic dance.  

Eddie continues into the second verse, “Tried Peggy Sue, tried Peggy Lou, tried Mary Lou, but I knew she wouldn’t do…”

“And now who are these women you’re talking about trying, my love?” you tease him, in mock accusation.

He laughs, stumbling over the next chorus, but it doesn’t matter.

Julie spins in a lopsided circle, arms flailing like she’s performing for thousands. She almost topples over, then steadies herself and shouts, “BAAA!”

“She’s calling for her backup dancer,” Eddie teases, throwing you a pointed look over the top of his guitar. “I believe that’s your cue.”

You groan, flopping back against the cushions. “No, no, I’m dead. D-E-A-D. Let the record show that I patched the pants. I’ve fulfilled my maternal duties for the day.”

“C’mon, just a little boogie,” he coaxes, singing another line with extra flair. “ Ba ba ba, ba Barbara Ann… ”

Julie shrieks in approval, clearly believing he’s talking to her.

“See? She’s asking so nicely.”

You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “You’re relentless.”

“But this you knew already. Part of my charm,” he says, winking.

You stay still a second longer, then finally sigh, dragging yourself upright. “Fine. But only because if she wears herself out, I might get to sleep before midnight.”

“That’s the spirit,” Eddie beams.

You push away from the coffee table with an exaggerated groan and shuffle to the middle of the rug beside Julie. She immediately reaches for your hands, squealing with glee when you scoop her up into your arms and give her a lazy little bounce-bounce that sends her into a giggle fit.

Eddie watches the two of you, soft and glowing, still playing as he slows the tempo a little, just enough to keep the rhythm going while letting the moment stretch. “Now that’s stage presence,” he murmurs.

“She takes after her dad,” you say quietly, looking up at him over Julie’s wild curls.

“Hell yeah she does,” he grins, then leans into the last chorus, drawing it out like it’s some sweet lullaby: “You got me rockin’ and a rollin’, rockin’ and a reelin’ Barbara Ann …”

Julie’s movements slow gradually, her babbling starting to soften into happy hums. Her eyes flutter half-closed even as she bounces, forehead eventually tipping forward onto your chest.

You meet Eddie’s eyes again, both of you frozen in place for a second, as if afraid to breathe and ruin the spell.

“She’s fading,” you whisper.

“Victory is ours,” he whispers back, setting the guitar down soundlessly and rising to his feet.

Together, you carry her through the warm hush of the hallway, the practiced choreography of bedtime moving in gentle, quiet steps. Diaper, jammies, the soft light of her nightlight casting animal shapes on the wall.

Eddie smooths her hair back while you settle her into the crib, and she lets out one last, sleep-drunk “ ba… ” before sighing into her blanket.

You both stand there a minute longer, shoulder to shoulder, just watching her.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your waist, “that’s our best work.”

You lean your head on his shoulder and smile. “Even if she yells at you in Beach Boys lyrics?”

“Especially because of that.”

You laugh, quietly, and together you tiptoe back down the hallway toward the couch, the echo of music and baby laughter still warm in the walls.

Eddie flicks off the overhead light, leaving only the dim lamp near the couch glowing gold against the walls, and when he sits down, you immediately collapse beside him, stretching out and laying your head in his lap with a sigh that comes from somewhere deep in your bones.

His hand finds your hair instantly, fingers combing through it with no real rhythm, just that easy, grounding affection that he never has to think about anymore.

“Tell me something boring,” you murmur, your voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt.

“Boring?” he chuckles, still twirling a loose strand. “Oh, you want the full report on carburetors and coolant leaks, huh?”

“Hit me with it,” you say. “Give me that sweet, sweet mechanic talk.”

He laughs again, low and warm. “Alright, well, today was a festival of disasters. Mikey stripped a bolt on an alternator and blamed the tools, and then one of the regulars came in swearing her brakes were haunted. I told her I’d perform an exorcism for an extra forty bucks.”

You snort, eyes closed. “You would.”

“I was kidding,” he says, mock-offended. “She laughed. And then said she’d think about it.”

You hum, already half-drifting. “Did you fix it?”

“Yeah. Turns out the ghost was just a rock stuck behind the pad.” His hand moves gently along the curve of your temple. “What about you two?” he asks, voice gentler now. “I know you said it was rough.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, “she was fine. I think she just needed more attention than I had the energy for.”

“She always wants you,” he says softly.

“She wants both of us,” you correct, then panic flares through you. “I don’t mean— sorry, that wasn’t to make you feel bad,” you tell him, clunky and tired. “She’s… I just want to make sure that you know how much she loves you.”

Eddie’s fingers still for just a second, and then he cups the side of your head, thumb brushing gently behind your ear. “Hey,” he says softly, leaning over a little so you’ll look up at him. “I know that. I know.”

You blink, suddenly a little overwhelmed, even in the soft hush of the room. “I just— sometimes I say stuff and I hear it after, and I worry it sounds like I’m... I don’t know. Blaming you for not being here.”

His face softens even more. “You don’t need to explain. I get it.”

You reach up and curl your fingers in the fabric of his shirt, holding on like you’re worried you’ve messed everything up with one sleepy, clumsy sentence. “It’s just hard,” you admit quietly. “Some days, it feels like all I do is count the hours ‘til you’re home. And then you walk in, and she lights up like the Fourth of July, and I— God , I’m so glad, but I also feel like I’m about to fall over.”

Eddie nods, his other hand now smoothing down your arm, grounding you. “I think about you two all damn day,” he says. “Every time I have to crawl under a car, I’m thinking about how I’m gonna wrench my back and you’ll be stuck with me limping around like I’m eighty. Or I’m checking the time, wondering if she’s napping or trying to climb the kitchen cabinets.”

“She did try that today,” you mutter.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “See? I knew it.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you with that particular kind of tenderness he reserves for just his two girls. “It’s hard being away. I hate it. I miss all the little stuff. I miss you.”

Your throat goes tight. You sit up slowly, shifting into his arms, and he wraps you in them without hesitation, tucking your head beneath his chin. You press your face into the crook of his neck and stay there for a beat, breathing in the grease and soap and home that is Eddie.

“She did this thing today,” you say softly, a smile curling into your voice. “She was chewing on that little wooden ring toy, and I looked at her and said, ‘Julie, what are you doing?’ And she just looked me dead in the eye, took it out of her mouth, and offered it to me. Like, ‘ here, Mom. You try .’”

He laughs quietly against your hair. “Kind of her to include you.”

“Right,” you mumble, smiling. “But I took it. Bit the damn thing and everything.”

“You did not,” he says, pulling back to look at you, eyes crinkling. “Ewwwwwwwww.”

“I did! What was I supposed to do? She was so proud.”

Eddie shakes his head, his smile soft and crooked. “You’re such a sucker.”

“For her? Yeah. And so are you.”

“No argument there,” he murmurs, brushing his lips to your temple. “You know who’s the biggest sucker, though?” You hum. “Wayne. Dinner with him tomorrow night, remember.”

“He’s gonna lose it when he sees her,” you say eventually, your voice warm again. “She’s got that little tutu he gave her last time. I was gonna put her in it.”

Eddie groans dramatically. “He’s gonna cry. You know he’s gonna cry.”

You smile, eyes already heavy again. “She really loves him.”

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs. “She’s got good taste.”

He rocks you slightly, just enough to keep you from falling asleep right there on the couch. “Maybe we’ll get him to hold her long enough that we can finish a hot meal for once.”

“Oh my God,” you whisper dramatically. “A full dinner. Without interruption. Do you think it’s possible?”

He kisses your cheek. “With enough mashed potatoes? Anything’s possible.”

Author's note: Hi! Sorry I've been gone for a month! I'm working on how dare you want more, as well as several other works (or course).

This is probably the fluffiest thing I've ever written. Loved writing this one, and I've already started on some other entries in this universe. As always, let me know what you think! <3

What an ugly fucking shirt , you think. 

And not only because the person wearing it has just rammed into you at top speed, knocking the cardboard box out of your hands and onto the cement. Not just because he keeps moving, seemingly being dragged along by a four-foot-tall mop top in a vest, with no regard for the person he just mowed down. And not even because you’re in a terrible mood, operating on a criminally low amount of caffeine for the ungodly hour you had woken up at in order to drive your sister to her new college dorm. 

No, even if you put aside all of these external factors, this guy is wearing a truly hideous shirt. Objectively speaking.

“Jesus Christ!” you cry, crouching down to collect the pink and orange washcloths that had tumbled out of the box marked “ Bathroom ”. “Watch where you’re going, asshole!”

Like you said, a dangerously low amount of caffeine. 

You huff out a frustrated sigh and repack the few items back into the box. You decide not to tell your sister that her new washcloths landed on the grimy sidewalk, not wanting to stress her out any more than she currently is. You had already snapped at each other enough on the car ride to campus, and you certainly didn’t want to split on rocky terms. It was hard enough to let her go; you still saw her as the little toddler with pigtails begging to play Barbies with you.

“Wh—” Ugly Shirt Guy reappears, standing in front of you, stuttering. “Woah, I’m so sorry, I—”

“Steve!” the curly-haired kid screeches. “Let’s go! I need to get the top bunk!”

“Just a second, you dweeb!” he waves the kid off, crouching down and holding out his hand. “I did not mean to do that. Are you okay?”

You eye him up skeptically, but ultimately accept his help up and stand, balancing the box on your hip. “I’m fine,” you mumble.

You glare at him, your irritation not abating in the slightest. The shirt is even worse up close: loud and migraine-inducingly plastered with overlapping blue and purple swirling patterns. It offends you more the longer you look at it.

“Did anything break?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” you half-heartedly assure him. “Soft goods only.”

Steve, as the kid had called him, scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Really, I’m sorry,” he says, and he seems genuine. His brown eyes are earnest, even sheepish. It’s almost enough to soften you. Almost.

You adjust the box on your hip and sigh. “Next time, try looking where you’re going instead of sprinting like an ass—” you cut yourself off, as it is starkly clear how short of a fuse you have right now. And that’s not his fault. “You’re not an asshole. Sorry.” You squint against the unrelenting sun. His raybans are perched on top of his perfectly styled hair.

“Woah, I ran you over, and you're apologizing to me?” He chuckles nervously, and you note that while his shirt is horrendous, his smile is oddly charming. Annoyingly charming, even. “I was being an asshole. I’m sorry, again,” he admits. “But, in my defense,” he adds, jerking a thumb behind him at the kid now glaring daggers at both of you, “I’m dealing with a full-blown… Uh— what are those little things called? In that movie. You can’t feed them after midnight?”

“Gremlins,” the kid scoffs. “And I resent that! If you make me lose that bunk, I swear—”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll make my life miserable. I got it, Henderson,” Steve interrupts, rolling his eyes. Then he turns back to you. “He’s moving into the dorms. I’m just the free labor, apparently.”

You soften, just a fraction. Moving day chaos— you know it well. It explains the lack of awareness, if not the hideous fashion choices.

“You’re forgiven, Steve ,” you say. And his eyes light up.

“How do you— did we…?” he asks, leaving the last bit unsaid, and leaving you guessing. 

“No,” you say, decently confused. “Your kid called you that. And Steve would be a pretty weird nickname, so I assumed that’s… your actual name.”

“Dustin’s not my kid ,” he nearly shouts, waving his hands in front of him. “He’s like a… like a little brother. It’s complicated,” he decides, shaking his head.

“Right…” you say, squinting in his direction. “I didn’t think he was your actual kid.”

“Oh,” he says. “Yeah, no, I just…” He scratches the back of his neck again, fingers brushing through his long hair. “Sorry. This day has got me all out of sorts.”

You nod, your grip tightening on the box. “I’m moving my sister in right now. It’s… chaos.”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Yeah? She boss you around like this one? Because I swear, Henderson’s been treating me like a pack mule all morning.”

“Hey!” the kid protests, arms crossed. “You volunteered.”

“I said I’d help,” Steve shoots back, “not carry everything while you ‘ supervise ’,” adding air quotes.

That earns him a snort of amusement from you, despite yourself. There’s something endearingly absurd about their dynamic, like a mismatched sitcom duo. You glance between them— the younger boy’s unrelenting scowl and Steve’s exaggerated exasperation— and feel some of the tension drain from your shoulders.

“Well,” you say, adjusting the box again, “At least he didn’t conveniently ‘forget’ about three boxes in the car and make you go get them and haul them up five flights of stairs,” you tell him, matching his air quotes. Your sister had sent you out while she hung up posters on her walls. Really hard work.

Steve chuckles, tilting his head at your box. “Well I can tell you right now, this kid over here has made me carry, like, three boxes of computer stuff for a shoebox of a room.”

The boy bristles. “I’m a computers major , Steve.”

“You just don’t understand, Steve,” you deadpan, giving the boy an approving nod.

Steve lets out a groan of mock betrayal, throwing his hands in the air. “Oh great. Now you’re taking his side? Fantastic.” His mockery makes it hard not to grin, and he narrows his eyes playfully. “Careful, or he’ll have you hauling boxes in next.”

You roll your eyes, but the easy banter between you two is a surprise. You’d expected to still be fuming, but Steve’s energy is disarming, even with that horrendous shirt. You glance down at your watch, realizing you’ve lingered too long.

“Well, thanks for the laugh,” you say, starting to move around him. “But I’ve got an emotional 18 year old to say goodbye to, and it seems like you’ve got a top bunk to claim.”

“Well—” Steve starts, but is interrupted.

Dustin, who’s been impatiently hopping from foot to foot, clearly reaches the end of his rope. “Forget it, Steve. I’m going in. If I don’t get it, it’s on you! I’ll remember this!”

He storms off toward the dorm building, his small frame somehow still exuding maximum indignation. You and Steve watch him go, both trying (and failing) to suppress laughs.

“Dramatic kid” you observe, shaking your head. “I think he and Laura would be fast friends.”

Steve sighs and gestures toward your box. “You sure you don’t want help with that before I go rescue him from starting a full-blown war in there?”

“I think I’ll manage,” you reply, shifting it more securely on your hip. “But good luck moderating the great Top Bunk Debate. Sounds intense.”

He huffs a laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets as his weight shifts between his feet. Instead of leaving, though, he lingers, as if deciding something. Finally, he says, “Are you a student here?”

You blink, thrown by the question. Your immediate reaction is to laugh— like, really laugh— but you stifle it, reminded of the fact that he’s clearly in his 20s too. Which, you have to admit, is sort of endearing.

“Uh… no,” you say, the grin sneaking onto your face anyway. “That’s flattering.”

Steve looks surprised, but quickly catches himself. “Oh. Uh, cool. So, you’re the older sister then?”

“You know, you should never ask a woman’s age,” you playfully chastise him.

A tinge of pink dusts his cheeks. “I didn’t mean to— I, uh… I’m 23. Ancient, I know.” He tosses a faux-serious glance back at the dorm. “These kids think I’m a dinosaur.”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. “23’s ancient, huh? Hate to break it to you, but I’m 24. So if you’re ancient, I must be prehistoric,” you tell him, eyes mockingly wide.

Steve winces playfully. “Shit. I just can’t help myself, huh? I’m… addicted to embarrassing myself in front of pretty girls.”

You shake your head at his exaggerated expression, warmth blooming in your chest despite yourself. He’s funny. And charming. “Pretty girls, huh? You pick up a lot of pretty girls on college campuses, Mr. Dinosaur?”

“No, I’m not—” he stammers, hands up again.

“I’m giving you a hard time,” you let him know, as you giggle.

“Right.” He rubs his palm across his jaw. “Uh, do you live around here?”

“In the city,” you say.

“Get out. Me too!” 

“Yeah?” the previously gentle grin on your face breaks out into a full smile.

“Yeah.” Steve's face lights up, and for a moment, he just kind of stands there, hands shoved in his pockets and an earnest, boyish grin spreading across his face. “Small world, huh?”

“Guess so,” you reply, adjusting the box on your hip. His gaze flicks to it, and you can tell he’s still itching to offer help, but somehow you doubt this guy backs off from something once he gets a little momentum. Like talking to you, apparently.

“So,” he says, clearing his throat, “I know we’ve both got plenty of sibling drama to get back to, but—" He hesitates, glancing toward the dorm building where Dustin has disappeared. When he looks back at you, his expression has softened, more sincere. “What if I made it up to you? For running you over, I mean. Let me take you out. Coffee, maybe? Or something stronger, if you prefer.”

You blink, startled but not unpleasantly so. It takes you a moment to recover, caught off guard by the shift in his tone, the confident charm layered beneath the awkwardness. “You free tonight?”

He nods, stepping closer and gesturing to your box again. “With that kid out, I have never been more free in my life.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile any harder. “Right.”

“I don’t mean for that to sound like— I don’t… I’m gonna miss him. Probably too much,” he continues. “I’m definitely gonna cry.” Your eyes widen again at his rambling. “I’m gonna stop talking now.”

You consider him. Really consider him. Between the shirt, the overly dramatic little sidekick, and the whole sprinting-into-strangers habit, it would be so easy to write him off. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, equal parts sheepish and bold, like he’s daring himself to try.

Finally, you sigh, setting your box on the ground just long enough to fish a pen and a college pamphlet out of your bag. “All right, Steve. You can take me out.”

His face breaks into the most dazzling grin, the kind that could power small towns. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you reply, scrawling your number onto the back of the pamphlet. “But you’re buying. It’s only fair.”

Steve takes the pamphlet from you like it’s a golden ticket, grinning so hard you’re surprised his face doesn’t hurt. “I completely agree.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” you say, shouldering your box again.

“I would never.” He shifts on his feet, glancing toward the dorm. “Well, I should probably go make sure Dustin hasn’t staged a coup in there.”

“Sounds like a smart kid,” you reply, adjusting your grip on the box. “Good luck wrangling him.”

“And good luck with your sister,” Steve adds. “I hope she has a good year, stays out of trouble, all that… good stuff.”

“Call me when you get back into the city,” you tell him.

“Yes ma’am,” he salutes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to call you ma’am. That’s not— you’re not—”

“Go!” you dismiss him, laughing.

He nods before turning and jogging toward the dorm, tossing a look back over his shoulder. You catch his gaze, and for a split second, his grin turns softer. Then he vanishes into the building, leaving you standing there with a surprising flutter of excitement in your chest.

You just hope he doesn’t wear that goddamn shirt when he takes you out.

Author's note: for those unfamiliar, I've been writing for years on ao3 and am now in the process of crossposting everything on here. And when these pictures of Joe and Gaten filming the epilogue leaked over a year ago (woah), my brain started firing and I vomitted this little fluffy thing out. As the ever-talented greatunironic once said: "i started writing this... before [season 5] dropped; i've elected to stick my fingers in my ears + ignore most of it". Don't expect me to take any else of season 5 as canon. *eye roll emoji*

A reminder that you can read this and all of my other works (including a lot of multi-chaptered works over on ao3!

He sneaks into your bedroom almost every night. And sure, he kisses feverishly beneath your earlobe, and whispers praises into your mouth, and touches you right where you need him to. 

But he also talks a lot about Nancy Wheeler. About how annoying she is. About how she constantly needs to shove how smart she is in everyone’s face. About her long, pleated skirts, and dainty jewelry, and her shiny hair.

And you’re so desperate for those kisses, for those praises, for his touch, that you let him. You resign yourself to being the girl that he gets into the sheets with when the one he really wants is too big of a priss to let him.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you’re in on the joke. That you don’t have feelings either. That it’s just fun.

But then there are nights where he shows up soaked from the rain, shivering and quiet, and collapses into your bed like a storm finally spent. When he curls his body around yours without trying to take anything from you, without even a kiss, and mumbles into your shoulder about how much he hates school. How this town is hell and Hawkins High is a prison. How his dad keeps getting drunk and calling him a coward. How he doesn’t think he’s good at anything anymore.

And you hold him. You brush his hair back from his forehead and kiss the curve of his cheekbone, and for a few hours, it almost feels like you’re something real.

There are times he looks at you with something warm and open behind his eyes— something much too soft to be lust— and your heart catches in your throat. 

You think, maybe. Maybe . Maybe this time he’ll stay.

But by the next afternoon, he’s leaning against your locker and sighing about how Nancy wore that stupid sweater again. He says it like a complaint, but his eyes sharpen in a way that suggest otherwise. You laugh and play along. You say something snide about Nancy’s taste in shoes. You act like it’s all beneath you.

And that night, when he pushes into your room through the window again, you let him crawl into your bed like nothing’s changed. Like your ribcage isn’t cracking under the weight of all the things he doesn’t say to you.

You let him kiss you. You let him take what he wants. And you tell yourself that if you keep giving enough of yourself away, maybe he’ll realize you were what he needed all along.

He doesn’t stop coming right away. That’s the worst part.

Even when he starts seeing Nancy for real— like, real real, holding hands in the hallway and giving her his jacket when it’s cold and leaving band-aids in her locker after she scrapes her knee in gym— he still slips into your room sometimes, like he forgot how to sleep without you.

It starts off like it always has. Late night. Quiet knock against your window. You let him in. You always do.

But now he smells like her. Like her floral shampoo and the vanilla lotion she probably dabs behind her ears. There’s a light scratch on his neck that you didn’t leave. And when he kisses you, it feels off. Like he’s somewhere else. Like he’s pretending you’re someone else.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re not his girlfriend. You never were. Not even close.

But you start turning away after. You let him hold you, but you don’t melt into him like you used to. You keep your eyes open and stare at the ceiling while he drifts off. And when he’s asleep, when his breathing gets heavy and steady, you press your knuckles to your mouth and try not to cry.

Because he doesn’t talk anymore. Not the way he used to.

He doesn’t come over to rant about his dad’s latest blow-up, or how the basketball coach is breathing down his neck. He doesn’t complain about chemistry homework or ask you if the scrape on his knuckles is healing correctly. He doesn’t let you run your fingers through his hair or touch the hollow place behind his knee that only you know makes him twitch.

Now he just comes over, undresses you in the dark, and leaves before sunrise. Sometimes he kisses your forehead before he goes. You wish he wouldn’t.

But then he stops coming altogether.

At first you think maybe he’s just busy. Nancy’s studying more now, so maybe she’s dragging him to the library. Maybe his dad’s cracked down on his curfew. Maybe it’s just a bad week. A bad month. A bad semester.

But then you see them. At the diner. In a booth. She’s laughing, full-bodied and open, and he’s smiling at her like she’s the whole goddamn world.

He never looked at you like that. He never even really saw you.

You go home that night and sit on your bed with your knees pulled up to your chest. Your window stays shut. He doesn’t come. He won’t.

And maybe he never needed you. Not the real you, the messy and scared and tender girl who memorized the way his voice cracked when he talked about his mom. He just needed a body. A place to hide. A release.

You were his escape. She’s his choice.

Nancy’s friend Barb goes missing, and your stupid, immature brain has no idea what to make of it. That’s what she deserves for being such an ungrateful goody-two-shoes, right?

You should tell her you’re sorry. For a myriad of things. You don’t.

Steve shows up again after weeks of nothing. No calls. No knocks on your window. No stolen glances in the hallway. Just silence.

And then suddenly, he’s there.

It's late. You’re in bed, the glow of your desk lamp still on, notebook open in your lap though you haven’t written anything in over an hour. You hear the tap against the glass and your heart jumps into your throat before you can stop it.

You shouldn’t open the window. You really shouldn’t. But you do.

He looks wrecked. Eyes rimmed red. Lips tight. Hands shaking just a little. And before you can say anything, he’s climbing in and kissing you, hard and rough and needy, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing in the world that could possibly satisfy the hunger clawing at his insides.

You kiss him back. You shouldn’t. But you do.

It’s frantic. Messy. His hands don’t linger with the gentleness they used to. They grab, pull, press. He kisses like he wants to erase something, and when he groans your name into your neck, you almost believe it means something.

And you let yourself hope.

For one stupid, fragile second, you think: Maybe this is it. Maybe he finally sees me. Maybe I’m the one he came back for.

Afterward, you’re lying next to him in the dark. Sweat cooling on your skin. Your chest rising and falling too fast, your heart pounding for a reason that has nothing to do with the sex.

You turn to him. You almost ask. Almost say it. " Why now? "

But he beats you to it. He laughs. Bitter. Hallow.

“She can go off and sleep with Jonathan Byers, then I can sure as hell sleep with someone too.”

You blink. You don’t understand at first. You think maybe you misheard. Maybe he meant something else.

But then he rolls onto his back and says, “She wants the freak? Fine. Two can play that game.”

And that’s when it hits you. This wasn’t about you. It was never about you. You were just a reaction. A revenge plot. A body again.

The ache spreads slow through your chest, sticky and unbearable. You pull the blanket tighter around yourself even though it’s not cold, and you roll to face the wall so he won’t see your eyes go glassy.

He doesn’t notice. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He falls asleep beside you like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just tear you open again with a few careless words. You stay awake until dawn, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to stitch yourself back together with silence.

He goes back to Nancy the next day. And years down the line, when reflecting on that moment, maybe you’d spin it as your own maturity, your own self-respect, letting him go. Letting him be the bigger man and make things right.

Even though you know it’s not right. Even though you’re left feeling used, dirty, and ashamed.

You only catch pieces of it. Shattered little glimpses from the outside, like trying to piece together a story through a cracked window.

First, you hear about the fight. Someone says Steve Harrington got his ass kicked. Jonathan Byers, of all people. You overhear it at school— the way everything important seems to happen when you aren’t looking, when you’re just trying to keep your head down and survive the day.

You don’t know why. You don't ask. You just hear the whispers and pretend you don't care. But Tommy H. is laughing about it in the hallway. Carol’s telling everyone it was about a girl, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly tips over. No one says Nancy’s name out loud, but they don’t have to.

You picture it without meaning to: Steve, bloody and furious, fists flying because of her. You wonder if he’d bleed for you like that. You already know the answer. You wish you didn’t.

And then something happens at the Byers house. Something big.

The whole town feels off the next day. Like the air’s changed somehow. There's a weird, buzzing tension that no one can quite name, and nobody will tell you what the hell happened. The cops are everywhere. People are whispering in the parking lot, cutting class, standing in tight circles and trading theories like candy.

There’s talk of government agents, of missing kids, of something unnatural. But none of it makes sense. And none of it really touches you; not in a way that matters.

Except for Steve. Because whatever happened, it pulled him and Nancy even closer. You see them at school the next week, with her hand tucked into his, both of them moving through the halls like they’re sharing some secret world you’ll never be allowed into. He’s got a fading black eye and a busted lip, and she hovers near him like a shadow, gentle and careful and completely his.

You can see it in the way he smiles now, crooked and small and open in a way it never was when he was with you. You see it in how he listens when she talks, how he carries her books without making a joke about it, how he looks at her like she's gravity itself.

You never got that. You never even got close.

You’re just the ghost at the edge of the story now. A side character in a narrative that was never about you. And maybe that’s all you ever were to him. Someone he could hold when he needed to forget. Someone he could use when he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. Someone easy .

And while you don’t know exactly what went down at the Byers’ house, you do know that she was the one he fought for. The one he chose .

You stop leaving the window unlocked after that. He doesn’t notice. He doesn't need to.

The rest of the school year passes in a dull, gray blur. You stop counting the days. You stop waiting for knocks at your window. You bury yourself in books, in half-hearted assignments and quiet lunches spent tucked behind the bleachers. You don’t smile much anymore— not unless someone’s looking, and even then, it’s only with your mouth.

Steve and Nancy are everywhere.

They’re the couple people talk about. The “unexpected but perfect” pair that makes teachers smile and girls sigh and guys roll their eyes in private. They walk hand in hand to class, sharing headphones between periods, whispering into each other’s ears like the world is just background noise.

Steve doesn’t look at you. Not once. He passes you in the halls like you never happened. Like you’re just another kid in the crowd, someone he doesn’t even remember the name of.

You hate him. You miss him. You hate yourself more for missing him.

By the time Halloween rolls around, you’ve almost managed to make peace with the ache. Not cure it, not erase it, but numb it enough to function. You dress up for a party you don’t want to go to, let your friend smear glitter across your cheeks and lend you a too-tight skirt that keeps riding up.

You drink too much. You dance too little. You sit on the stairs and listen to the muffled pulse of music shaking the floorboards and wonder what it’s like to feel whole again.

And that’s when you see him. Steve. You blink. You think you’re seeing things. But then he’s there, climbing the stairs two at a time, hair wild, face hard, breath sharp like he’s been running or fighting or breaking. Wearing all black and those stupid ray-bans. You vaguely recognize the effort of the costume, from that Tom Cruise movie, you think.

And he sees you. And his entire demeanor changes.

“Come on,” he says, voice rough. Too rough. Not asking. Just expecting.

You should say no. You almost do. But your legs move before your mouth does, and suddenly you’re outside, being shoved into the passenger seat of his car, heart pounding too fast, mind spinning too slow.

He doesn’t talk. He doesn’t explain. Just drives. Fast. Angry. Focused on something you can’t name. When you get to your house, he follows you inside without asking.

And then he kisses you. It’s not like before. Not even close. It’s desperate, clumsy, possessive. He’s pulling at your clothes, biting at your mouth, your neck, groaning something low and hot into your skin.

“Bullshit,” he says. Again. And again. Like a curse. Like a prayer. “Bullshit. Bullshit.”

You don’t know what it means. You don’t ask. You just let him. Because it’s Steve. Because it’s been so long. Because you’re lonely and stupid and missed him so fucking much. And maybe, just maybe, he came back for you this time. Maybe this is the moment things shift. Maybe you weren’t just a body.

But when it’s over— when you’re lying in your bed with his hands still pressed into your skin like bruises waiting to bloom— he doesn’t say anything. Just stares up at your ceiling, breathing heavy, jaw tight.

You reach for him. He doesn’t reach back.

He just mutters, “She said I’m bullshit,” like he’s trying to spit the words out of his system. Like you’re the antidote.

And then you know. Nancy. Again. Always her.

You roll away, choking down the nausea rising in your throat. Your chest burns with shame, with rage, with the unbearable fact that you let him do it again. That you let him back in just to tear you open. Again .

And the worst part? You still want him to stay. So you do. You let him stay the night, and you let him keep crawling into your bed and into your life for days. 

He comes to you wrecked, every time. Sometimes drunk. Sometimes quiet. Sometimes so hollow-looking you wonder if there's anything left inside him at all. But always there. Always at your window. Nancy’s name still fresh on his breath, even when his mouth is pressed against yours.

He talks about her constantly. About how things used to feel easy. How she doesn’t look at him the same. How she’s different now, distant, colder somehow, like she’s already halfway out the door. And you nod. You hum. You thread your fingers through his hair, and let him whisper into your collarbone like you’re a pillow he can fuck and cry into at the same time.

Because when he’s touching you, when he’s pulling your hips flush against his, when he’s panting your name like it might mean something this time… You can pretend. Pretend he sees you. Pretend you’re the one he misses. Pretend he stays because he wants to, not because he has nowhere else to go.

You build a whole quiet world around those nights. A sad, secret little place where you are enough. But it only ever lasts until morning. Because in the light, he’s different. Careful. Closed off. He pulls his shirt back on like he’s ashamed of what happened. Makes some excuse about needing to meet the kids, or help Dustin with whatever new obsession he’s gotten into.

For less than a week, you sleep with him in your bed and then walk past him in the halls at school like strangers. You hear the whispers: how Nancy dumped him, how he’s “not even that hot anymore,” how he’s a loser, hanging out with middle schoolers. You don’t tell them he cries in his sleep sometimes. That he clenches his fists in the sheets like he’s fighting ghosts.

You don’t tell anyone that he still sleeps in your bed. Not even your friends. You keep that part tucked deep in your chest, like a secret wish you’re ashamed to say out loud.

And then the night of the fight happens. You don’t see it. You just hear about it.

It’s Tommy again who mentions it, of all people. Drunk at some shitty party, trying to impress a group of freshmen with a story about Steve getting his ass kicked behind the school.

“Yeah, Billy kicked his ass last night,” Tommy says, laughing into his beer. “Dude beat the shit outta Steve. Put him in the hospital.”

Your chest goes ice cold. You don’t think. You just run.

By the time you get to Hawkins General, your heart is beating so loud it drowns out everything else. You ask for him at the front desk. The nurse gives you a once-over and asks if you're family. You lie. Say yes. You don't even hesitate.

They let you through. And there he is. Hooked up to an IV, lip split, eye purpled, face swollen.

You stand there for a minute, frozen. He looks so small in the bed, like the weight of everything has finally cracked through his bravado and left nothing but bones and blood and bruises.

He blinks up at you when you walk in.

"Hey," you whisper, not trusting your voice to hold steady.

His lips barely move. "What are you doing here?"

Your breath catches. "You’re in the hospital."

He tries to sit up and winces, groaning softly, and you rush to his side. Your hand grazes his arm. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reach for you either.

You ask what happened. He mutters something about Billy. “Redneck asshole.” That’s all he says. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t go into detail. His voice is slurry. His eyes keep drifting.

“I thought—” you start. “I didn’t know if—”

You don’t finish. You want to tell him how scared you were. That you thought he might’ve died. That you sprinted across town just to see for yourself that he was still breathing.

But he just lets his head lull toward the side of the bed, staring past you. And then, almost too quiet to hear, he says:

“You should go.”

You freeze. “What?”

He closes his eyes. Breathes slow. “Nancy might come.”

Your stomach drops. Again. Of course. Of course . You’re not the one who gets to stay. You never are.

You nod before you can cry. Force yourself to smile, even though it shakes on your lips.

“Right,” you whisper. “Okay.”

You turn and walk away before he can see your face. Before he can hear the sound your heart makes when it splits down the center, clean and quiet and final.

You cry yourself to sleep. He gets discharged from the hospital at some point; you hear about it second or third hand. Much like the news of his official split from Nancy. You both finish out your high school education without so much as a glance in each other’s direction.

You graduate. He does too. Barely, you think.

Summer arrives like a punch to the gut, humid and bright and inescapably loud. You get a job at the new mall, Starcourt, pretending you’re not watching your life go nowhere in the reflection of the stockroom mirror. It’s boring. It’s mind-numbing.

It’s June when it happens. One of those humid Hawkins afternoons where the air inside Starcourt feels just a few degrees cooler than outside, but not by much. You’re behind the register at the sad little shoe store wedged between Claire’s and that new pretzel place, fiddling with the sizing gun and trying not to let your sweat stick to the seat of the stool.

You’ve been working there since the mall opened. It’s not glamorous, but it pays, and you don’t have to think too hard. You clock in, hawk ugly sneakers to soccer moms and bored dads, and clock out. That’s it. That’s all you’re good for lately, anyway. You’re headed to Indiana University in the fall. But until then, you’re stuck in hell.

Your coworker, Mallory, perches on the counter across from you. She’s a few months younger, pretty in a sharp, shiny way: flippy hair, pink acrylics, a constant mouthful of gum.

“You know who’s picking me up tonight?” she asks, practically vibrating.

You raise a brow without looking up. “Is it another guy who calls himself a DJ but only plays Van Halen?”

She snorts. “No, bitch, listen. He went to Hawkins. Graduated last year. You probably knew him— Steve Harrington?”

You still. Blink once. Twice.

But you keep your face smooth, keep your eyes on the returns you’re scanning. “Harrington?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, dreamy and oblivious. “He works at Scoops Ahoy now, which is hilarious, but I don’t even care. He’s so hot. I mean, I heard he used to be kind of a dick— like, total jock a-hole— but he’s actually really sweet now? Like he walked me to my car last week when it was late.”

You hum something noncommittal, lips pressed too tight. Your fingers are cold suddenly, even though it’s sweltering in the store. And in the back of your head, a quiet voice whispers: It’s him. It’s him. It’s always him.

Mallory spends the next half hour reapplying lip gloss and fidgeting with her tube top, talking a mile a minute. You stop hearing the words after a while.

Until the bell above the shop door jingles. You don’t look up right away. You’re praying it’s not him. Hoping it’s not him.

But then you hear his voice.

“Hey, is— uh— is Mallory here?”

You go still. You stare down at the counter. And then you turn. And there he is. Steve.

Standing in the doorway in some trendy vest, hair a little longer now, hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. He doesn’t see you at first, just scans the store like you’re some background blur.

And then his eyes land on you. And everything stops. He blinks once. Like maybe he’s seeing things. Like maybe you’re not really real. You don’t say anything. You can’t.

Mallory calls from the back, “Coming!” oblivious to the way the air has been sucked out of the room.

And Steve just stares. His mouth opens slightly. Closes. You look at him. He looks at you. You can feel the pulse of your heartbeat in your throat. In your fingertips.

You wonder if he’s thinking about your bedroom. About that night you sat beside his hospital bed. About the way you touched him like he was something fragile, something yours. You wonder if he even remembers.

“Hey,” he says finally, and it’s so soft you barely hear it.

You swallow hard. “Hey.”

He shifts on his feet. “I… didn’t know you worked here.”

You shrug, arms crossed tight over your chest. “I do.”

Another beat of silence.

He nods. Clears his throat. “Right. Cool.”

Mallory skips out from the back with a big grin, sliding her arm through his. “Ready?” she asks, eyes wide with excitement.

And Steve doesn’t look at her. He’s still looking at you.

You force a smile. Not for him. For yourself. “Have fun,” you say, and your voice is flat and so far from genuine it echoes.

Steve swallows. Nods once. Doesn’t say goodbye. Just lets Mallory drag him out the door. The bell jingles again. And then they’re gone.

You stand there for a long time after, hands shaking, heart splintering all over again. You thought you’d built armor. Thought the year had been enough to cauterize the wound.

But all it took was one look. One hey . And you’re sixteen again. Desperate again. Invisible again.

You go to the breakroom and lock the door behind you before you cry.

The next few weeks pass by, and you do your best to tune Mallory out when she spills the details of her latest date with Steve. It all starts to feel like cosmic punishment. For what, you’re not sure. Maybe being an stupid homewrecker.

It’s late one Thursday when your shift ends, nearly nine. The mall is thinning out, closing down one neon storefront at a time. You’re dead on your feet, sore from restocking a wall of size nines and dealing with three returns from customers who swear they never wore the shoes outside. Your uniform polo clings to your back. Your name tag is crooked.

You want to go home. You want to forget this day like you’ve been trying to forget him— a little more every week.

You’re halfway across the parking lot when you hear footsteps behind you. Loud ones. Familiar ones. Ones that used to sneak in through your bedroom window. You don’t turn around. Not right away.

“Hey,” he calls.

And your stomach sinks. You stop. You wish you didn’t. When you turn, he’s jogging to catch up, a little out of breath. His Scoops Ahoy uniform is wrinkled, his hair sticking up in soft, messy tufts. He looks the same and not the same. Older. Tired.

“Didn’t mean to freak you out,” he says when he reaches you. “Just… saw you walking out and figured I’d say hi.”

You nod. Not rude. Not warm either.

“Long shift?” he asks, rocking back on his heels.

You shrug. “They usually are.”

He smiles like it’s meant to be easy. “Right. Yeah. Retail.”

Silence blooms. Thick and sticky. You cross your arms, shifting your weight.

He scratches the back of his neck. “Look, I— I didn’t know you and Mallory worked together, or that—”

“It’s fine.”

He falters. “I just didn’t want you to think—”

“You don’t owe me anything, Steve.”

That shuts him up. His mouth opens. Shuts. He nods once, staring down at the pavement like it holds an answer. The lot lights buzz faintly overhead. A breeze rustles through the trees at the edge of the asphalt, but the air between you stays still.

“I didn’t mean for it to be weird,” he says finally, voice quiet.

“It’s not weird.”

He looks up. “It feels weird.”

You meet his eyes. “Then maybe it is.”

You start walking again. He walks beside you.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says.

You don’t answer. Don’t ask why now. Don’t tell him you waited months for that sentence— years, even— and now that it’s here, it tastes like nothing.

“I’ve been thinking about, like… all of it,” he says. “Last year. The hospital. Us. I just…”

He trails off. You keep walking.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he says, more desperate now. “I didn’t know what I was doing. With Nancy. With you. With anything.”

You stop at your car and turn to him. And for the first time since that awful night, you really look at him.

And you say, “Yeah, Steve, you didn’t know. But I did. Every time.”

He doesn’t say anything. You unlock the car and get in. You don’t look back when you drive away. And for the first time in a long, long time, you don’t cry.

Mallory tells you two weeks later, filing her nails behind the register while the store hums with soft fluorescent exhaustion.

“Steve and I aren’t seeing each other anymore,” she says casually, like it’s the weather. Like it’s nothing.

You barely glance up. “Oh.”

She blows on her fingers. “He’s kind of a loser now, honestly. You know he hangs out with middle schoolers, like all the time?” You hum. Noncommittal. “He peaked in high school,” she adds, like it’s a death sentence. You fight the urge to defend him.

Your next run-in happens on a Thursday night.

Your shift runs long— inventory, again— and by the time you lock up, the mall is half-dark, its skeleton glowing with leftover neon and cleaning crews. You’re alone in the parking lot when your car won’t start. Just a click. And then nothing. You try again. Same thing. One more time, because maybe hope is louder than sense. Still dead.

You curse under your breath, slam your palms against the steering wheel, and lean your head back. You don’t want to go back inside, but you need to call someone for help. And the only other option is sleeping in the car, and you're not that proud.

So you head back in.

You roll your eyes when you remember that your parents are away visiting your aunt and uncle, and the endless ringing when you try your home phone suggests that your brother is staying at his girlfriend’s. There’s no one else. The payphone crackles as you hang up.

You could walk home, but it’s almost an hour by foot, and there’s something about the silence of Hawkins after dark that leaves your skin prickling.

You wander down past the food court, shoes squeaking on the freshly mopped tile, until a strip of dim light from the Scoops Ahoy counter catches your eye.

He's there. Of course he is.

Wiping down the machines, music humming faintly from a boombox in the back. He’s in uniform: sailor hat askew, shirt untucked, and blue nylon shorts humiliatingly short.

You don’t mean to say anything. You mean to turn around and find literally anyone else. But your voice comes out before your brain catches up.

“Steve?”

He freezes. Slowly turns. And when he sees you, his mouth parts like he’s not sure you’re real. You shift in the doorway, arms crossed.

“My car won’t start,” you say, voice flat. “Everyone’s gone. Phones didn’t work.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

You nod, already regretting this. “You know what, never mind. I’ll figure it out. Just… thought I’d try here.”

He tosses the rag aside. “No— no, it’s okay. I mean, I can help.”

You hesitate.

“I don’t want to make it weird,” he says, softer now.

Too late. But you nod. Because you’re exhausted, and your car’s dead, and you’re tired of pretending he’s a stranger when your body still remembers every inch of his weight in your bed.

He grabs his keys and a jacket. It’s quiet as he locks up. No jokes. No small talk. Just silence. You walk back together, side by side again for the first time in what feels like years.

He tries once.

“So, uh… shoe store’s still treating you okay?”

You give a single nod.

“Cool,” he says, too fast. “Cool.”

You reach the car. He pops the hood, leans in, mutters something about corrosion. You watch from the side, arms folded, the heat of June clinging to your skin like memory.

He hooks up the cables. Sparks fly once. You flinch. He notices.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to—”

“I’m fine.”

Another beat.

“Try it,” he says, stepping back.

You do. The engine sputters, then turns over. Alive again. Like it never even died. You don’t know whether to be grateful or furious.

You climb out. “Thanks.”

He nods. “No problem.”

He lingers. You should leave. You know that. But something in his eyes makes it impossible. Not longing. Not exactly. Just this open wound of a look, like he’s waiting for something he doesn’t know how to ask for. And then he says it.

“Would you ever wanna… I don’t know. Hang out sometime?” It’s quiet. Hesitant. Like he’s trying not to scare you off. Like this is some fragile, tender thing he's never said before.

You freeze. Because it’s everything you wanted to hear for so long. Back when it would’ve cracked you open in the best way. Back when it would've been enough. But that was before. Before the hospital. Before Nancy. Before he used you and looked right through you like you didn’t matter.

Now it just feels cruel.

You inhale slowly. Try to keep your face neutral, your voice steady.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Silence.

“Oh,” he says. Like the wind’s been knocked out of him. “Right. Yeah. Sure.”

He smiles, but it’s hollow, crooked. Not even close to the real thing. His hands fidget at his sides like he doesn't know where to put them. You hate how he looks at you. Like you’ve broken something. Like you owe him softness, forgiveness, something warm to ease the sting. But you don’t. Not anymore.

You should tell him to fuck off. You should slap him. For this, his piss poor attempt at an apology. But you can’t be cruel. Not to him. Not when he’s trying, even if it’s too late.

“I should go,” you say gently.

He nods. Doesn’t move. You get in the car. Close the door. The sound echoes.

For a second, he just stands there, eyes wide and sad, like maybe this is the moment he realizes he’s really lost you.

You drive off without looking back. This time, the ache isn’t sharp. It’s just… tired. A dull weight behind your ribs. The sound of a door closing, a window locking, softly, finally, in your chest.

You get used to it, eventually— the ghost of Steve Harrington drifting in and out of your peripheral vision.

Sometimes you see him in the food court, slouched over a tray of half-eaten fries, trying too hard to be charming across the table from some girl who clearly isn’t buying it. Other times, you pass him in the corridor between Scoops and the arcade, where he’s loitering with a mop and that strange girl from band— Robin, you think her name is— the one who never stops talking and always seems like she’s one second away from laughing in his face.

They’re a weird pair. But not in a bad way. He looks more like himself when he’s with her. Still tired. Still slouched. Still kind of a mess. But also… lighter. In moments.

And yet. You see it, even when she doesn’t. The way he scans the crowd like he’s looking for someone who’s never coming. The way his smile flickers and fails the second he thinks no one’s watching. The slump in his shoulders that wasn’t there last summer. Something about him looks permanently deflated now, like all the air got punched out of him and never came back.

And then, one afternoon during the first week of July, you take a shortcut through the staff corridors behind the stores, carrying a box of clearance sandals, and there he is.

You almost run straight into him. He jumps like he’s been electrocuted, hand darting to his pocket, eyes wide.

You freeze. “Jesus, Steve.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow, frantic. “Shit— sorry. Didn’t know anyone was back here.”

You narrow your eyes. He’s sweating. Breathing too fast. Glancing toward the stairwell like he’s waiting for something, or someone.

You tilt your head. “You okay?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just… long shift.”

His voice is higher than usual. And you notice the nail-riddled bat tucked behind the door, half-hidden by a mop bucket. Your stomach knots.

“What’s going on?”

He stiffens. “Nothing.” You just stare. He fidgets. “Just, uh. Stupid stuff. Kid stuff. You know how it is.”

You don’t. And he knows that you don’t.

But it doesn’t matter.

The mall burns down two nights later. 

Thankfully, you’re nowhere near it. You’d gotten lucky, if that’s what you want to call it. You’d had a girls night and weren’t even working that evening. Cheap pizza and bad movies and too much laughing. 

And then the universe, in its endless cruelty, writes the final punchline:

Steve dies in the fire. 

You hear it first from the TV. Something in your mom’s voice when she calls you into the room. Something strained. That tone people use when they think you’re fragile. When they’re preparing to crack you like a teacup. You don’t understand at first. You stare at the screen, at the smoke, at the red lights flashing behind the news anchor’s head. You hear his name before you even register the rest of the sentence. Some story about how he saved a bunch of middle school kids. About how he’s some hero. 

You don’t cry at first.

You sit on your bedroom floor, the news anchor’s voice still ringing in your ears, and you just… sit. Knees curled up. Fingers curled tighter. You read the article in the Hawkins Post three times. Again and again. Like maybe if you blink hard enough, squint your way through the blurriness, it’ll be someone else’s name.

But it’s always him. Every time.

Among the casualties in the tragic fire at Starcourt Mall was Steve Harrington, a 19-year-old recent graduate of Hawkins High School. Harrington reportedly saved several children before succumbing to smoke inhalation. Witnesses say he was the last one out of the crumbling structure. Paramedics attempted CPR, but were unsuccessful in their efforts. Harrington was pronounced dead on the scene.

You sit there for hours. You don’t move.

And then you break.

Not like a teacup. Not like a crack down the center of something ceramic and clean. No. You shatter. You break the way buildings fall—sudden, loud, irreversible. You curl up on the floor and scream into your fists until your voice cracks, until the edges of your vision pulse black. You cry like it’s violent. Like it’s dragging something out of you piece by piece. And maybe it is. Maybe grief is the part that stays when everything else is gone.

Because he’s gone.

He’s gone .

After all the years. After all the near-misses. The nights whispering plans for the future into each other's collarbones, and the ugly emotions he made you feel, and the summer of agonizing awkwardness.

You scream into your fists. You curl into the carpet and sob until you can’t breathe. Until your vision goes black around the edges. Until your throat burns. It doesn’t feel real. None of it feels real. Because how could he be gone?

After all that history. After everything. The hallway. The car. The bat behind the mop bucket. When he tried to fix things— or at least start to fix things— in the parking lot. The look on his face when you said no . When you didn’t look back.

You'd spent so long building walls just to protect yourself from the version of him that never came back for you. And now you’ll never know if he might have. If he meant to. If he could have.

It’s cruel. Unforgivable. The world taking him away before he could finish being sorry. Before he could fix it.

And that’s what kills you. Not the fire. Not the heroism. Not the headlines.

The almost of it all. The unfinished sentence.

The knock at your door comes the next afternoon. You almost don’t answer. You’re still in yesterday’s clothes, blanket draped around your shoulders, eyes sore and throat sandpaper-dry. You’ve barely stood up.

But you open the door anyway.

And there she is: Robin, that weird girl from Scoops. She looks just as wrecked as you feel. Hoodie too big, rings under her eyes, red-stained fingers pulling at a loose thread on her sleeve.

She stares at you for a second. Then says, “I know you don’t know me.”

You blink.

She swallows hard. “I’m Robin. I worked with Steve. At Scoops.”

You don’t answer. You don’t move.

“I’m not here to— like, I don’t want anything,” she rushes, stumbling over her words. “I just— shit. I just thought— I don’t know, maybe you should know. About him. About what he said.”

Something twists in your chest.

Robin shifts her weight. Her voice softens. “He was an idiot. Okay? I’m not saying he wasn’t. He messed up. A lot. And I told him that. Repeatedly. But he… he really was sorry. For how he treated you. For how he never said what he meant to say. I think he was more sorry about you than anything else.”

You bite down hard. Your throat locks up.

“I think he loved you,” she says quietly. “In the weird, stupid, incomplete way boys like him do. But it was real. I swear to God, it was real.”

Your lips tremble. You press them into a thin, shaking line.

Robin nods, like she gets it. Like maybe she lost him, too, in her own way. “He talked about you. A lot. Not in a creepy way or anything. Just… like he’d blown it. Like he’d been handed something important and dropped it and… and couldn’t figure out how to fix it.”

You sit down on the steps. Hard. Robin sinks beside you. Neither of you say anything for a while. You just sit in it. The grief. The silence. The weight of someone who used to fill rooms and now never will again.

Then, in the quiet, you finally whisper, “I hated him. For a while.”

Robin nods again. “Me too.”

Your hands start to shake. You hide them in your sleeves. “I didn’t want to. But he kept making it hard. Kept not being what I needed him to be.”

Robin nods slowly. “And then just when he was getting there… the world pulled the rug.”

You huff out a laugh that breaks pathetically somewhere in your chest. You cover your face with your hands.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know,” Robin says, barely above a whisper. “Life is consistently one thing, and it’s not fair.”

And that’s how it happens— your second collapse. But this time, there’s someone there. Someone who saw another version of him. The one you never got close to. The one you couldn’t reach.

You don’t say thank you. Not yet. You don’t have it in you.

But when Robin reaches out and squeezes your hand, you squeeze back.

Because maybe that’s all you get. A chance to hold onto someone else who saw his mess. Who saw his heart. Who saw him try.

The whole thing was stupid. Trying to keep your relationship a secret was dumb. And telling Gareth to light off those fireworks in his backyard was monumentally idiotic.

But if he hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t have been accompanying Gareth in the hospital.

On a quest to find Gareth something to eat in this godforsaken place, while the doctors work out if they’d be able to save Gareth’s thumb (he’s joking, mostly), Eddie passes dozens of other rooms. He’s moving so quickly down the hallway, he convinces himself he’s imagining it. A flash of yellow in the doorway, just before the nurse closes the door on her way in. The sharp squeak of his sneakers catching on the linoleum rings out as he stops short. He’s frozen; glued to the floor. Surely, he saw it wrong. Surely it’s a coincidentally similar sweatshirt. Surely… It’s not you. 

But then he hears it. He hears an unmistakable sound that, luckily, he’s only heard a handful of times. He heard it when you got distracted in the kitchen and sliced your hand with a knife, when you took a concussion-level softball to the skull in gym class, and when you scraped your knee on the curb when you fell off your bike. He hears you cry out in pain.

He tears through the room immediately, bursting through the door. He’s met with his worst fear: your tear-stricken, fear-filled face, as a nurse dabs antiseptic on your split-open cheek and another hooks a large bag of liquid up to your IV. A doctor in a white coat looks over a clipboard at the foot of your bed. Eddie calls your name, alerting the team of medical professionals, as well as you, to his presence.

“Excuse me, sir, you need to leave,” one of the nurses says.

“Please, sir, step outside.”

“Eddie!” you cry, reaching your pitiful, trembling hands out.

He tries again to rush to your side, but he’s outnumbered by the staff. The two nurses form a wall; he’s unable to get any further. 

“Young man, I’m not going to ask you again. If you don’t leave this room right now, you will be removed by security.”

“That’s my girlfriend,” he argues, “I need to see her. What the hell happened to her?”

“I understand,” the nurse says decisively, “But we need space to work. You can wait in the waiting room and we will call you in when she’s ready for visitors.”

"Debbie, she needs the sedative," the doctor orders one of the nurses. She nods and finishes hooking up your IV, starting a steady drip.

“Please just tell me what happened to her,” he begs.

The other nurse sighs, and you groan in pain again behind her. Eddie flinches, once again making a move to rush to your side, but she catches his shoulder. “I’m not at liberty to divulge any of the details of a patient’s accident unless you’re family. And if you don’t leave this room right now, you’re going to cause a lot of problems for yourself, and for her.”

His wild eyes dart up to you one last time, as you seem to be miraculously calming down, your eyes fluttering shut. Eddie stands there, heart pounding in his chest, feeling utterly helpless. He knows the nurses are just doing their job, but it feels like a personal slight against him. 

“Okay,” he says finally, stumbling backward, nearly colliding with the doorframe as he backs out of the room. The hallway feels like it’s closing in on him, the fluorescent lights harsh and unforgiving. Every step he takes away from you feels like a betrayal, but he has no choice. People rush past him, clipping his jacket and nearly knocking him off-balance, and he makes his way down the hall to the waiting room. He sinks into a chair in the corner, mind racing as he tries to piece together what could have possibly happened to you.

You’d been distant lately, that’s for sure. Your parents were on a week-long trip to visit your extended family on the east coast, and you had managed to convince them to let you stay behind. Set to leave for college across the country in September, you’d been picking up extra babysitting jobs around the neighborhood to save up for your textbooks. He attributed both his dwindling time with you as well as your frazzled state of mind the past few days to the stress of the new chapter of your life beginning. But, Jesus, was there something else going on? Something he missed?

He had told you to join him and the boys tonight to celebrate the Fourth of July. Jeff, Gareth, and Doug were among the very few people who knew about your relationship. And sure, they teased you, but it was all in good fun. You felt at ease with them, willing to let your guard down. And while Eddie had never considered himself a patriotic person (that much he made abundantly clear), he made promises of cold beer, stupid movies, free weed, and maybe even some fireworks Jeff had scored across state lines. You had already canceled on him the night before, and he knew his time with you was running out before the end of summer. You had called him and said the family you babysit for— the Hendersons, he thinks?— needed you to watch their kid that had just gotten back from summer camp. You apologized profusely— of course you did— and he did his best not to sound disappointed. He understood, or at least he wanted to.

He did a worse job of cloaking his disappointment when you turned him down for the festivities tonight too.

“Are you sure? You can’t get away for even an hour?”

“I’m sorry, Eds. I’m really sorry. I would if I could. I just— This kid needs my help. He’s…” you sigh. He hears a guy’s voice on your end, in the distance. And not the Henderson kid; he hears some dude that seems to be your age. And he tries to fight that ugly jealousy boiling up in him, but it’s hard. “I’ll explain it all later, okay?”

“Did I—” he starts, taking a moment to decide if he really wants to open this can of worms over the phone, “Did I do something wrong? Are you mad at me?”

“No!” you urge, immediately, “No, baby, you didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I’m sorry,” you repeat for the ninetieth time, in such a genuine tone that it makes his stomach hurt, “There’s just a lot going on right now. And I promise, I swear on my life, I will take you up on all of that tomorrow.”

“Okay,” he agrees, “Okay. Don’t let that kid drive you too crazy. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say softly.

And in the moment, Eddie convinced himself he was hearing things, but now it seems more likely that he did in fact hear the Henderson kid say “You’re not going to see anyone tomorrow, we’re—”

Before you hang up the phone.

What weren’t you telling him? He tries to steady his breathing, gripping the armrests of the wooden chair so hard his knuckles turn white. A thousand scenarios play out in his head, each one more terrifying than the last. The thought makes his stomach churn. He hates the idea that you might have been dealing with something alone, without him there to help you. That’s not how it’s supposed to be. He’s supposed to be your rock, the one you can lean on when things get tough. But now, sitting here in this damn waiting room, he feels more like a failure than anything else.

He nearly jumps out of his seat when a doctor in a lab coat stands right in front of him, the same doctor that had been looking at your vitals. “You’re here for—”

“Yes, yeah. I’m here for my girlfriend. She’s in room 14.”

“She’s stable,” the doctor tells him, holding up his hand like a man who is much too important to be dealing with all of this hand-holding, and Eddie feels a slight release of the tension coiled tightly in his chest. But the look on the doctor’s face tells him that there’s more. “But she’s been through quite an ordeal. She’s still unconscious, but she’s breathing on her own.”

Eddie swallows hard, “What happened to her? Why won’t anyone tell me what happened to her?”

“Listen, kid. She’s in a lot of pain right now, so we’ve given her a strong dose of a sedative and we’re cycling pain medication as well. No major operations necessary; we’ve just applied a few minor stitches to close up the larger wounds and treated some burns that we don’t want getting infected. She’s going to be okay, as long as she doesn’t have any unnecessary panic and stress.” He emphasizes the last words, clearly doctor-talk for “We can’t have boyfriends storming into sterile hospital rooms and making things worse” .

Eddie nods, trying to process the doctor’s words, but it feels like they’re coming from a million miles away. The relief of hearing that you’re stable is quickly overshadowed by the weight of everything else— the burns, the wounds, the stitches. He tries to picture what could have happened, but the rational side of his mind keeps coming up blank, cycling through the same unsettling images.

“Okay,” he says finally, his voice shaky. “Okay, I get it. But… Come on, man,” he says, doing his best to level with the professional in front of him, “Can I see her? Please, just for a minute?”

The doctor sighs, sympathy in his eyes, but a weariness that lets Eddie know that people try this all the time. “I understand you’re worried, but right now, she needs to rest. The best thing you can do for her is to wait until she’s fully awake and able to have visitors. We need to monitor her closely for the next few hours. You should go home and get some rest. You can leave your phone number with the nurses and I promise, as soon as she’s ready, we’ll let you know.”

Fat chance of that , Eddie thinks. But he thanks the doctor for his time anyway, and agrees to not storm into your room. 

Slumping back into the chair, he watches the minutes tick by, and picks at his shoelaces, trying to keep his mind idle. About another half-hour passes before he hears a semi-familiar voice.

“Munson? What the hell are you doing here?” He looks up and finds Robin Buckley, someone his brain has no idea how to react to in this moment. He flaps his mouth open several times, not able to respond. “Are you okay?” she asks, plopping down in the seat next to him. 

And if she would’ve caught him thirty minutes ago, hell, he might’ve broke down crying in front of her. But after his heart-to-heart with your doctor, he’s marginally more sane. Enough to not become a blubbering mess in front of a girl he hardly knows. “Yeah,” he says finally, “I’m fine.”

“Why are you here?” she asks, brows scrunched.

He scrambles to think of a lie that will keep your relationship under wraps the way you both wanted, when he realizes he doesn’t need to. “Gareth,” he says. Fuck. Gareth sent him out to find food ages ago. He curses under his breath, before elaborating “Gareth, the fuckin’ idiot, lit a firework and forgot to let it go. Asshole nearly blew his thumb off.”

“Shit,” she says, but her eyes are strangely empty, like her mind is somewhere else entirely. 

“Why are you here?” he asks.

“Oh…” she says, biting at the dry skin around her lips, “Um… There was an accident at the mall. I work there— or I used to work there I guess,” she explains, though the explanation seems to be getting more confusing for the both of them as she continues, clearly exhausted. Eddie notes how utterly dog-tired she looks, dark bags under her eyes, matted hair, and in the poorly-lit room, he thinks she might even have specks of blood on her neck.  “There was a…” she pauses, almost as though she’s trying to remember, “There was an animal attack… Or a fire.” She snaps her eyes back to his, anxious. “There was an animal attack. And a fire.” If Eddie’s mind wasn’t solely focused on you (and sure, a little bit still on Gareth), he would’ve not only reacted appropriately to a classmate telling him they were in a serious accident, but he also would’ve clocked the obvious cover-up story clear as day. But he can’t stop the panic-prone part of his brain from spiraling still. “ I’m fine, but my friends are getting treated for bites… And burns,” she finishes unceremoniously. 

“Right…” he says, staring at her, trying to make sense of what she just said, but it’s like his brain can’t process anything beyond the basics. Her words swirl around in his mind— mall, attack, fire, bites, burns— but none of it really sticks. He’s too wrapped up in his own world of worry, too focused on you lying in that hospital bed, to give her story the attention it probably deserves. “Right,” he echoes, his voice flat, distracted. His eyes drift back to the hallway that leads to your room, his foot tapping restlessly against the floor. 

Robin watches him, noticing the faraway look in his eyes. She sighs, her shoulders slumping as she leans forward in the chair. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He glances at her, trying to figure out how much to say. Part of him wants to unload everything, to tell her about the panic that ripped through him when he saw you in that room, the helplessness that still gnaws at his insides. But he’s not close with Robin like that, and she clearly has enough going on right now. 

“It’s… Nah, I’m good” he lies, forcing a small, strained smile. “Just a rough night. Gareth’s an idiot. You know how it is.”

She nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t buy it. “Yeah,” she says, but there’s a heaviness in her voice that wasn’t there before. She looks like she’s about to say something else, but then she stops, shaking her head as if deciding against it. Instead, she stands up and glances toward the hallway. “Look, I should probably go check on my friend,” she says, sounding almost apologetic. “But I hope Gareth recovers quick. Battle of the Bands is in a month, right?” Eddie nods, though the band is the last thing on his mind right now. “Well if you think a trumpet could sub in for drums, you know where to find me.”

Eddie smiles, grateful for the offer but knowing he won’t take her up on it— not tonight, at least. “Thanks, Buckley,” he says, his voice a bit more genuine this time. “I’m gonna go check on Gareth. You take care, alright?”

She gives him a small, tired smile. “You too, Munson,” she salutes him casually and walks back down the hallway.

Eddie takes a deep breath and walks back down the direction he originally came from when they first checked in in a panic, Gareth’s hand wrapped haphazardly in a rag. In this wing, the staff aren’t as concerned with visitors coming and going, the rooms reserved for less traumatic injuries than what had happened to you. He follows the winding hallways until he finds Gareth’s room again. He walks in without knocking, finding Gareth, still in the temporary surgical wrapping, watching the news on the tiny TV mounted in the corner of the room.

“Man, where the hell have you been? I’m starving!” Eddie, wordlessly, exits the room, and only makes it two steps back in the direction of your room, and where he thought the cafeteria was, before Gareth shouts, “Cafeteria’s the other way, dumbass!” Eddie pivots and finally accomplishes his friend’s one request.

After piling whatever remotely edible slop he could find in the cafeteria onto a tray and bringing it back to Gareth, he sits with him in the chair by his bed, as they watch the late night news. Sure enough, the details of the fire at Starcourt Mall flash across the screen. The anchor reports on the chaos, mentioning something about a reported explosion and possible casualties. It’s surreal, like something out of a nightmare. He stares at the images of the mall in flames, the plumes of smoke rising into the night sky.

Gareth munches on the cafeteria food and moans about how terrible it is, oblivious to Eddie’s distress. He gestures toward the television, “Man, can you believe this? Starcourt’s toast. I heard they’re gonna shut it down for good. And it just fuckin’ opened. That’s crazy.”

Eddie nods absently, his mind miles away. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story than what’s being reported, something darker and more dangerous. Robin’s cryptic explanation comes back to him, causing him to wonder if you were somehow involved. It doesn’t make sense, but he can’t dismiss it either. Not when you’re lying in a hospital bed, bruised and battered, after what was supposed to be just another babysitting job.

It can’t be. Were you in the fucking mall fire?

“Listen, Gare,” Eddie starts, his voice tight, “I need to check on something.”

“Oh this is total bullshit, man. It was your idea to light off those stupid fireworks, and now I’m the one stuck in this hospital with a missing finger. They’re supposed to tell me the results of the x-ray soon!”

Eddie rolls his eyes at his friend’s theatrics, “You’re not missing a finger. I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”

“Can you at least bring me back a Snickers?”

Eddie agrees noncommittally, his knees cracking as he gets up. He doesn’t really have a plan, but he knows he can’t stay here. 

He walks down the dimly lit hospital corridor, his footsteps echoing softly against the sterile walls. The farther he gets from Gareth's room, the more the weight of everything presses down on him. The fire, the strange things Robin said, and most of all, the image of you lying in that hospital bed. His mind races, piecing together bits of information that don’t quite fit, but the picture they paint is terrifying.

He rounds the corner to your room, pausing when he sees the door still closed. He huffs out a sigh, leaning against the wall. He slides down to sit on the floor, his back pressed against the cold, hard surface. His head drops into his hands. The minutes tick by, but Eddie doesn’t move. He doesn’t even notice the passing nurses or the distant sounds of the hospital running at night. 

Eventually, he hears footsteps approaching again, and this time he looks up. It’s a different nurse, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes. She glances down at him, her expression softening when she sees the exhaustion and worry ingrained into his face.

“Are you here for the girl in room 14?” she asks gently, nodding her head in the direction of you. Eddie nods. The nurse kneels down beside him, her tone sympathetic. “She’s stable. We’re keeping a close eye on her, but she’s doing okay for now. I know it’s hard to understand, but she’s in good hands.”

“Can I—” Eddie starts, his voice cracking slightly, betraying his carefully crafted exterior. He clears his throat and tries again, “Can I see her? Please?”

She hesitates for a moment, sizing him up, then gives him a small, understanding smile. “Just for a minute, okay? She’s still out cold, and she needs her rest. But I think being with her might do you both some good.”

Eddie nods feverishly, feeling an intense rush of gratitude. He gets to his feet, his heart pounding as the nurse quietly opens the door for him. He steps inside, the soft beeping of the monitors the only sound in the room.

And there you are, in your favorite yellow sweatshirt. The gashes on your arms, the bandages covering the worst of the damage, and the stitches that stand out starkly against your bruised skin. It’s worse than he imagined, and for a moment, he feels like he might collapse under the weight of it all.

But he can’t. Not now. He takes a shaky breath and walks over to your bedside, careful not to disturb any of the wires and dressings. He reaches out, his hand hovering over yours for a moment before he finally takes it in his own. Your hand is cool and clammy, and he squeezes it gently.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “It’s me. I’m here.” There’s no response, obviously, but he keeps talking anyway, the words tumbling out in a quiet, desperate rush. “What the fuck happened to you, baby? I don’t— I don’t even… ” 

He notices your backpack on the floor— nearly torn to bits. He sits down into the chair by your side and holds tight to your hand, whispering loving nonsense to you.

The nurse re-enters the room and he starts to stand, knowing he’s going to be asked to leave for now. But she simply holds up her hand, silently brings her finger up to her lips, and whispers, “Just don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to.”

Eddie gives the nurse a grateful nod, his eyes still glistening with unshed tears. He refuses to cry. Not right now. He slumps back into the chair, his hand never leaving yours. The nurse quietly checks your vitals, her movements gentle and efficient, then slips back out of the room, leaving the two of you alone.

The sterile scent of the hospital hangs in the air, and the soft beeping of the machines monitoring your condition float through the room. Eddie focuses on the rhythm of your breathing, each rise and fall of your chest a small reassurance that you’re still here.

He swallows hard, trying to steady his voice. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his thumb gently brushing over the back of your hand. “I don’t know what’s been going on with you. I should’ve been there. I should’ve… I don’t know… done something,” his voice cracks, “Shit. Get a grip, Munson,” he mutters to himself before talking to you again, “But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving. Not until you wake up and tell me to get lost.”

Eddie leans forward, resting his forehead against your hand, his eyes closing as he struggles to keep his emotions in check. He feels so stupid for being upset that you had canceled your plans with him, and on a larger scale, that he had ever worried about people knowing about your relationship. It was all to protect you, but look at what happened. If you hadn’t been sneaking around, he could’ve actually protected you when it mattered.

Time seems to blur as he sits there, lost in his thoughts, his heart aching with every passing second. He barely notices when the night outside the hospital window gives way to the soft light of dawn, the first rays of sunlight filtering into the room.

Gareth’s gonna kill him.

Eddie’s breathing evens out as he slips into an uneasy sleep, his grip on your hand never loosening. Hours pass, the hospital slowly coming to life around you. Nurses make their rounds, doctors confer in hushed tones, and the day continues as it always does, indifferent to the small, silent vigil Eddie keeps at your bedside.

He groans and opens his eyes some time around 8 in the morning, as visiting hours start. Glancing at you, his heart skips a beat as he takes in the sight of your face in the soft morning light. You still look fragile, but there’s a peacefulness in your expression that wasn’t there before. The steady rhythm of your breathing is a small comfort, a sign that you’re still with him.

As he watches you, Eddie’s thoughts drift back to Gareth, still stuck in his hospital bed with only the terrible cafeteria food and morning cartoons for company. He knows he should probably go check on him, make sure his friend hasn’t completely lost his mind overnight, but the thought of leaving you, even for a moment, fills him with a deep, gnawing anxiety. Whatever. Gareth loves the morning cartoons.

Eventually, a gentle knock on the door pulls Eddie from his restless sleep. He stirs, blinking groggily as he lifts his head. The nurse from earlier peeks in, her expression softening when she sees him still there, still holding your hand.

“Good morning,” she says, “I hope you were able to get some rest.” She approaches the bed, her movements careful and precise as she checks your vitals. She doesn’t say much, just offers Eddie a reassuring smile before making a few notes on your chart. “She’s stable,” she says softly. “You must not have heard us changing her bandages. No regressions or major events overnight, which is good.”

Eddie nods, though the reassurance doesn’t do much to ease the tight knot of worry in his chest. “Thanks,” he mutters.

The nurse gives him a sympathetic look. “You should take a break,” she suggests gently, “Get some coffee, stretch your legs. I promise I’ll come find you if there’s any change.”

But Eddie just shakes his head. “I’m not leaving her,” he says firmly, “I can’t.”

The nurse hesitates, then nods, understanding. “Alright,” she says, not pushing him any further, “Just… take care of yourself too, okay? She’s going to need you when she wakes up.”

Eddie knows she’s right, but doesn’t respond, his focus already back on you. The nurse leaves quietly, closing the door behind her, and once again, it’s just the two of you in the room.

The minutes tick by, and Eddie sits in silence, his mind a whirl of thoughts he can’t seem to organize. He thinks about the fire, the chaos, the terrifying possibility that he could have lost you forever. He thinks about the strange things Robin said, the inexplicable, nightmarish fragments that don’t make sense no matter how hard he tries to piece them together.

But mostly, he thinks about you. Your smile, your laugh, the way you always know how to make him feel like he’s worth something. And now, seeing you like this, so vulnerable, so hurt… it tears him apart.

He thinks about all the times you’ve been there for him— the times you’ve listened to his rants about every stupid thing, comforted him when things got too heavy, and somehow made him believe that he wasn’t as worthless as this town made him feel. He remembers the way you’d look at him, with those eyes that seemed to see right through his bullshit bravado and practiced tough facade, straight into the heart of who he was. It’s terrifying to think that he might never see that look again, that you might never wake up and give him that smile that made everything feel like it was going to be okay.

A tear slips down his cheek, and he wipes it away angrily, frustrated with himself for being so weak. He’s supposed to be strong, for you, for both of you. But all he can do is sit here and wait, praying that you’ll come back to him.

Then, in the stillness of the room, something shifts. It’s so subtle that at first, he thinks he’s imagining it. But when he looks down at your hand, he sees it: a faint twitch, so small that he almost misses it. His heart leaps in his chest, and he sits up straighter, his eyes fixed on your face.

“Babe?” he whispers, his voice trembling with hope. “Can you hear me?”

There’s a long pause, and for a moment, he thinks it was just a fluke, a trick of his exhausted mind. But then, your fingers move again, curling slightly around his.

“Oh my god,” he says, a bit louder, “Holy shit. Holy shit, you’re awake! Baby I’m right here.”

Your eyes start to open with what is clearly an enormous amount of effort. Your eyelids flutter, struggling against the weight of your sedatives, and Eddie leans in closer, his breath catching in his throat.

When your eyes finally crack open, even just a sliver, it feels like the sun parting the clouds. Eddie’s heart pounds in his chest. He wants to shout, to laugh, to cry all at once, but he keeps it together for your sake.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “Hey, pretty lady. There you are.”

Your gaze is unfocused at first, your eyes drifting over the room like you’re trying to piece together where you are and what happened. The confusion in your eyes tugs at Eddie’s heart, but he forces himself to smile, to project calm even though he feels anything but.

“Eddie…?” Your voice is barely more than a rasp, weak and scratchy, but hearing it feels like a miracle to him.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “I’m here, baby. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital, but you’re gonna be okay.”

“Oh my god…” you croak, “Where’s Dustin? Is Dustin okay?” As your eyes begin to focus, panic fills your face.

“What? Who’s Dustin?”

“The kid, Eddie, Dustin Henderson. Is he okay?”

“I don’t— I don’t know,” he says, head shaking, trying to wrap his head around your urgency and trying not to panic along with you, “I don’t know where—”

“Eddie,” you whine, as tears begin to well up in your eyes, “You need to— Where’s my bag?” you ask, frantically turning your head to look around the room, pulling at your stitches and wincing.

“Hey!” he cries, “Hey, take it easy, baby. I’ll get your bag. It’s right here.” He leans down next to his chair and picks your backpack off the floor. “What do you need?” he asks, unzipping it.

“Is my walkie in there?”

“Your—” he digs through the contents, finding your walkie-talkie. “Yeah, it’s right here.” You move your arm quickly to grab it from him, but you pull on your IV and recoil at the pain. “Baby! Stop! Hey!” He holds your arm, demanding your attention. “You have to tell me what’s going on.”

“Please just try calling Dustin or Steve or Robin.”

“Steve?” he asks. “Steve who?”

“It should still be set to the right channel. Just hold down the button and let me talk.”

He takes a deep breath, then presses down the button on the side of the walkie-talkie and holds it up to your face. “Okay, okay. Here, it’s all yours.”

You take a shaky breath. “Dustin? Steve?” Your voice is weak, but there’s a raw edge to it, a frantic need for answers. “Do you read me? Are you okay?”

There’s a crackle of static, and for a moment, nothing happens. Eddie’s heart is in his throat. But then, a voice comes through, distorted but unmistakably young and urgent.

“Holy shit, you’re awake!” Dustin says, a freakily similar mirror of what Eddie said just a few moments ago. “Are you still at the hospital? Over.”

Eddie's grip tightens around the walkie-talkie as Dustin's voice crackles through. The sense of urgency in the kid’s tone only adds to the growing anxiety gnawing at him. What the hell has been going on? He watches you closely, your face swirling with relief and lingering fear.

“Yeah,” you rasp, your voice barely holding steady. “I’m still here. What’s happening, Dustin? Are you safe?”

“Yeah I’m fine. And Erica’s safe. We’re good.” Dustin replies quickly, his voice edged with tension. “But there’s a lot we need to talk about. Just stay put, okay? We’ll figure it out. Over.”

You nod, a gesture meant more for your own reassurance than anything else. “Okay, just… just be careful. I’ll come see you when I can.”

“Don’t worry about us. I’m home safe, and my mom’s totally clueless. Over.” Dustin says, and Eddie’s brow quirks.

“Okay,” you say.

“Just hang in there,” Dustin orders. “Over and out.”

The walkie goes silent, and Eddie lowers it, setting it on the bed beside you. The room is quiet again, the weight of unspoken questions pressing down on him. He looks at you, his eyes searching your face for answers.

“Babe,” he says softly, “What the hell is going on? Who are these people? Why do you sound like you’re in some kind of… I don’t even know, like a war zone or something?”

You meet his gaze, your eyes filled with exhaustion and something else; something guarded. “Eddie, it’s… It’s complicated. I don’t know how to explain it right now.” You pause, wincing as you shift slightly in the bed. “It’s just… It’s dangerous, okay? And I need you to trust me.”

“Trust you?” he echoes, frustration lacing his voice. “Jesus. Of course trust you, but you’re scaring the hell out of me, and I have no idea what’s going on. You mentioned Robin, right? Robin Buckley? She said… I don’t… You were in that mall fire, weren’t you? I mean… You’ve gotta give me something, babe. Anything.”

You close your eyes, taking a deep breath as if gathering the strength to speak. “There’s… stuff happening in this town. Weird stuff. Stuff that doesn’t make sense. And these people, Dustin and Steve and Robin… they’re involved. And we’re just trying to keep everyone safe.”

“Weird stuff?” Eddie repeats, his confusion deepening. “Like what? Weird how?”

“Please, Eddie,” you plead, your voice cracking, “I can’t explain it all right now. I’m too tired, and it’s just… it’s too much. I promise I’ll tell you more when I can, but right now, I just need you to be here with me. Can you just be here with me, please?”

Eddie watches you for a moment, his heart torn between wanting to push for answers and the overwhelming need to protect you. Finally, he lets out a shaky breath, nodding. “Yeah,” he breathes out, “Yeah, I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

“How did you even know to come here?” 

Fuck, he thinks again, Gareth. “Don’t worry about it.” Your eyes start to turn glassy again, as the adrenaline seems to start wearing off, and the IV drip of strong painkillers and long-lasting sedative kicking back in, so you don’t question him at all.

“Can you… can you stay with me? Here, in the bed? I don’t want to be alone."

The request catches him off guard, but the vulnerability in your voice melts away any hesitation. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his heart aching for you. “Yeah, of course. Whatever you want.”

Carefully, Eddie moves around to the other side of the bed, mindful of the wires and tubes connected to you. He climbs in beside you, the bed’s narrow space forcing him to hold you close, your front pressed to his. He wraps his arms around you, his body curling protectively around yours.

You settle against him, the tension in your body easing as you melt into his embrace. Your breathing slows, your head resting on his chest as exhaustion finally takes over. Eddie presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his hand gently stroking your back.

“Just sleep, okay?” he whispers into your hair, his voice a soothing murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Eddie feels you relax completely against him, your breathing deepening as you drift into a much-needed rest. The room is dim and quiet, the hum of the hospital machinery the only background noise. Eddie stays awake, his eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling as he holds you close, and softly hums your favorite song— one that he’d never admit he actually likes, some bubblegum pop track that plays incessantly on the radio. But he’d sing the whole thing beginning to end at the top of his lungs if it meant you’d stay right there with him out of harm’s way.

He can’t stop thinking about what you said— about the strange and dangerous things happening in this town. And you mentioned Robin, who couldn’t seem to keep her story straight earlier. He didn’t press her then, mostly because he was too focused on getting to you. But now, with you asleep in his arms, the unanswered questions are louder than ever. Who are these people really, and what have you all gotten yourselves into? He tightens his grip on you, pulling you closer as if that could keep the outside world at bay. 

His eyes grow heavy, and he finds himself drifting off, the comfort of your presence lulling him into a light, restless sleep. 

It’s not until a few hours later that there’s any commotion worth you or Eddie rousing from sleep about. The door to your room swings open, revealing three teenage figures, stays open for approximately five seconds, then swings back closed, before you hear a symphony of hushed voices seep through the door as you slowly come back to life.

“Who the hell is that?” Steve’s voice filters in.

“That’s Eddie,” Robin informs him.

“Munson?” Steve asks incredulously.

“Who’s Eddie Munson?” Dustin questions. 

“Is she dating Eddie Munson? What the hell?”

“Will someone tell me who the hell Eddie Munson is?”

“Would you two dinguses pipe down?” Robin chastises, and there’s a soft slapping sound.

“Ow, Robin my arm is still sore,” Steve says.

“Sorry.”

Steve’s disbelief is evident as he whispers, “She’s dating Eddie Munson? Since when? That’s insane.”

Robin sighs. “Steve, not everyone’s romantic life revolves around you.”

Dustin, still out of the loop, pipes up again, “Can someone please explain who Eddie Munson is?”

Steve sighs, rubbing his temples. “Eddie Munson, Dustin. He’s the guy who runs that stupid club at the high school. They play that game you nerds play in Mike’s basement. 

“D&D?” Dustin supplies.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. He’s a total metalhead, total stoner, but… Apparently, he’s also her boyfriend. Who knew?”

Dustin’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, mind only on one piece of information that was just conveyed, “Wait, she’s dating a guy who plays D&D? Why didn’t I know about this?”

Robin interrupts the chaos, “Enough with the twenty questions, okay? They’re asleep. We'll come back later.”

“We’re not asleep anymore,” you announce, loudly enough for them to hear you through the door.

Slowly, the door opens again, and you’re met with two grimacing faces, and a still shocked Dustin. Eddie still lays in the tiny bed with you, arm wrapped around your waist.

“S… Sorry about that,” Steve offers, scratching behind his head. Eddie makes note of the bulging bruise surrounding Steve’s eye, and the other scattered cuts and scrapes all over him. He’s in rough shape, but you clearly got the worst end of whatever this was. 

Dustin, on the other hand, looks completely unharmed, and you’re intensely relieved. You call his name, and he runs over to your side, as you wrap him in as protective of a hug as you’re able to, with all your wires and injuries. The kid practically melts into the hug, his own relief palpable. Eddie’s eyes flicker between the two of you, trying to piece together the puzzle that is your relationship with these people. You had never mentioned being friends with Robin, and what the hell was Golden Boy Steve Harrington doing here?

Dustin pulls back slightly, still holding onto your hand as he takes in the sight of you, his eyes filled with concern. “You scared the hell out of us,” he says quietly. “We thought we lost you.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, squeezing his hand, “But I’m okay now,” you tell him, before looking at Steve. “Oh man, I was really hoping you’d still be in the sailor uniform.”

He levels you with a glare and Robin giggles beside him. “I’m burning that monstrosity. Did the suits come shake you down yet?” he asks.

“I don’t think so,” you shake your head, unsure of what exactly has transpired in the last few hours, “Hoping for some good hush money this time.”

Eddie shifts beside you, his presence grounding you as he finally speaks up. “So is anyone gonna tell me what the hell is going on? Are you guys fighting monsters or something?”

Steve and Robin exchange a glance, and Robin steps forward, taking on the role of the spokesperson. “It’s… complicated,” she starts, echoing your earlier words.

“Complicated,” Eddie repeats, his tone dry. “Yeah, I’m getting that a lot today. And thanks a lot, Buckley, for not telling me anything earlier. You didn’t wanna inform me that my girlfriend was the friend you were visiting?”

“I didn’t know you were together!”

“Well we are! And how did you even get in here? They said they would only let family in!”

“And you decided then would be the first time you wouldn’t lie to someone in a position of power? I said I was her sister, you idiot. Work smarter, not harder, Munson.”

“Please! No more yelling,” you whine, a headache slowly being added to your list of maladies. 

“Sorry, baby,” Eddie says softly, earning a giggle from Dustin.

“You didn’t tell me you had a boooooooyyyyyyyfriend,” he teases.

“Dustin, I swear to god I will tell your mother everything you’ve been up to in the past week if you don’t drop it.”

“What have you been up to in the past week?” Eddie begs for any crumb of information one more time.

Steve jumps in, “There’s some weird shit going on, but don’t worry, we had a plan, and—”

“A plan,” Eddie echoes, his skepticism and contempt seeping through, “You had a plan. And that plan somehow involved my girl ending up in the hospital.”

“Eddie,” you say softly, squeezing his hand to get his attention. “Stop. It’s okay. It’s not their fault. I chose to get involved.”

“I’ll tell you everything if you give me any embarrassing stories about her,” Dustin offers, grinning wide, and damned if Eddie doesn’t think about taking him up on it.

“Alright, Henderson, enough with the interrogation,” Robin orders, steering Dustin and Steve toward the door, “We've had enough of that for one night. Let's let them rest.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Dustin says, raising his hands in mock surrender. He darts back to give you one last squeeze before heading out.

“We’re gonna go get Dingus’ ribs checked, ‘cause I’m pretty sure they’re bruised,” Robin says.

“I’m fine,” Steve assures you.

“We’ll check in later,” Robin promises, giving you a reassuring nod. Steve gives Eddie one last appraising look, as if trying to figure him out, before he turns and follows the others out of the room.

The door closes softly behind them, leaving you and Eddie alone once more. The room feels quieter now, the tension that had been hanging in the air dissipating. You lean back against the pillows, letting out a long breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“You’re friends with Steve Harrington?”

“Oh my god,” you groan, “Is that seriously what you’re hung up on?”

“No, it’s just interesting,” he says, elated that you’re feeling well enough to entertain his theatrics, “I had no idea you two were besties.”

“I don’t even know if I’d call him a friend ,” you explain, “We just got thrown into this whole mess together, me, him, and Robin. It’s all Dustin’s fault, really.”

“Right, mm-hm,” he says sarcastically, looking off into the distance and pretending to be oh-so-hurt by this epic betrayal.

“Hey," you say, snapping his attention back to you, “I’m really glad you’re here. It was sweet of you to stay overnight.”

“Of course I’m here, baby. Can you please, please never scare me like that again? Seriously, I was, like, inches away from a heart attack, and Wayne would just lose it if that happened. And I know you don’t want to upset Wayne.”

You gasp. “Oh my god, you can’t threaten me with Wayne! That’s so unfair!” you say, giggling. 

Eddie grins, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You think I won’t? I’ll have him come in here and give you the whole guilt trip speech. You know the one; he gave it to you when you were trying to do that stupid trick on your bike and scraped up your knee.”

“The trick that you did right before me!”

“And if I jumped off a bridge, would you do that too?”

“Yeah I would,” you say, sincerely.

He sizes you up, before holding your jaw and bringing you in for a tender kiss, avoiding the still angry cut on your cheek. “Well then you gotta let me jump off this bridge with you. Please don’t make me ask again,” he begs, “I hate that I couldn’t protect you. I wish I could’ve been there.”

"I know," you say, feeling ashamed of a hundred different things. "I'm sorry."

He watches you with an intensity that makes your heart flutter. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just takes in the sight of you with a soft, almost reverent smile. "You're beautiful," he tells you.

"No I'm not," you disagree immediately, "Not like this."

"You are," he says, ignoring your protests. "You're so beautiful."

You shake your head, letting out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Eddie, I’m a disaster. I’ve got cuts and bruises all over. I’m hardly anything presentable right now.”

He frowns slightly, his gaze never wavering from yours. “You don’t get it, do you?” he murmurs, his tone both tender and deadly serious, “It doesn't matter. You're always beautiful. Not just when you’re dressed up or when everything’s perfect. You’re beautiful when you’re tired, when you’re mad at me for doing something stupid, when you’re hurt. You’re beautiful every single moment, even now, especially now," he stresses.

His words take your breath away, and you find yourself blinking back tears. You take a deep breath, and study his gaze for a minute, before telling him “I don’t wanna hide us anymore. And I don’t care if you think people are gonna come after me because of you. I don’t care,” you continue, your voice still scratchy, “I’m tired of pretending, of keeping us a secret like we’re something to be ashamed of. I’m not ashamed of you; you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t wanna waste any more time not being with you.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes reflecting a whirlwind of emotions— relief, love, a trace of fear, and most of all, gratitude. Slowly, a smile spreads across his face, one so genuine and full of joy that it makes your heart swell. “Yeah,” he says, “I don’t wanna hide either. I love you.”

“I love you so much,” you tell him, pulling him in for another kiss, and sighing into it. He holds you as tight as he can without hurting you. 

You finally pull away, before launching into the entire story, from the beginning. How you were roped into a battle with monsters from another dimension last fall, and how this week you helped crack a secret Russian code, got bitten and scraped up by a fleshy horrifying being, and lobbed fireworks at it in order to save the world. All because that little twerp Dustin needed a babysitter. And the best part is that you know Eddie believes every single word of it. He believes you.

Your mention of fireworks kickstarts the memory of why he came to the hospital in the first place. And in the back of his mind, he promises to take Gareth out for the nicest apology dinner in town. Just as soon as he can detach himself from you. And who knows when that will be.

The chilled gust of stale air spilling unceremoniously out of the flimsy car vent stings your split lip, but you desperately need the cool reprieve on your skin. You thank whatever karmic forces are at work that you had the foresight to finally get your air conditioning fixed earlier this week. Otherwise, you might pass out at the wheel. At this point, you’re running on fumes, and you continue to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself awake at least until you pull into Steve’s driveway. You hadn’t even discussed it; you knew you’d be sleeping at his house tonight. At least you were still on the same page about one thing.

For the tenth time since you pulled away from the hospital parking lot, you’re greeted with the sole noise accompanying the drive: the boy to your right sighing.

Normally a dreamy sort of sound, one that you adore, usually paired with that endearing pinch of his brows together, it only turns your blood colder now. You’re mad at him, furious even. Enraged. And he has made it very clear that the feeling is mutual.

“You don’t have to keep sighing like the Queen of England,” you tell him. “If you wanna say something, just say it.”

He doesn’t respond right away, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. His jaw clenches, a muscle jumping in his cheek. “I don’t have anything else to say to you right now, Y/n,” he says, finally. His voice is tired, strained, like a rope pulled taut.

And you believe him. He had certainly said enough in the boat at Lover’s Lake, and past the gate, and in the Upside Down, and at the hospital. And you had said your fair share too. A chill runs up your spine at the memory.

Mere minutes ago, you had jumped into the lake after Steve and Robin, not able to bear the thought of them being down there alone. Nancy and Eddie had followed quickly after, and you all miraculously were able to fend off the hoard of demobats with minimal damage. 

You didn’t even have the words or the wherewithal to describe how scared you were when you dove through that water and passed through the gate. Seeing Steve, being torn apart, screaming in pain, you swear your feet moved faster than a train. Equipped with the oar that you had grabbed from the boat, you made fast work of saving Steve alongside your friends.

Attempting to run to the Wheeler’s house— or the nightmare dimension version of it— you had stopped under rock cover to help Steve stop the bleeding from the gaping wound those bats had so kindly given him. 

“Is this fun for you?” you asked. “Is that what this is? It’s just a delightful little hobby of yours, nearly getting yourself killed?”

He hissed in pain, eyes scrunching shut. “Yeah, if I make one thing clear, I hope it’s that this is really fun for me,” he said, words dripping with contempt and exhaustion. “You shouldn’t be here.”

And in your adrenaline-fueled emotional whirlwind, you misread the situation. You did what you tend to do in moments of intense panic. Still processing the very recent sight of your boyfriend being strangled by monsters, you joked when you probably shouldn’t have. 

“You want Eddie to do this part?” you had quipped, whisking wet strands of hair out of your eyes, and continued to tighten the fabric around his abdomen as a makeshift bandage. 

“I’m not joking, Y/n,” he said, wincing as you faltered slightly in your movements. “I told you not to come.”

“Okay,” you scoffed, “Well somebody’s got to be here.” You finished tying the fabric around him, tight enough to keep him from bleeding out. “I don’t like that any of us are here. It’s kind of a shitty situation, but I figured we needed all hands on deck.”

“You’re gonna get yourself hurt, or worse, and this is exactly what I wanted to avoid.” He pushed himself off of the stone with a great amount of effort and started walking ahead again. 

“Hey!” You scrambled to catch up with him, your own body aching from the strain of everything you’ve been through, but your frustration fueled your movement. “If anyone should be mad here, it’s me!” you snapped, finally matching his pace. The rest of your group followed, Robin rambling about bacteria and particles and whatnot.

He shot you a glance, eyes shadowed with pain and fatigue, but the hard set of his jaw told you he wasn’t letting up. "You don’t get it," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

"I don’t get it?" Your voice rose, incredulous. "You’re the one that dove in unannounced, Steve! What part of that don’t I get?" You scoffed, pushing your hair out of your face with shaking fingers, the adrenaline buzzing under your skin. "I mean… No warning, no backup— nothing. Just you, playing the hero again!"

His eyes snapped to yours, blazing. "Don’t turn this around on me. We’ve been over this, Y/n. You weren’t supposed to follow me! I told you not to!" 

“Do you not remember the part where I saved your life?”

Steve stopped abruptly, turning to face you, his face flushed with anger and something else, something raw and vulnerable underneath all that exhaustion. "I didn’t ask you to!" he practically shouted, his chest heaving. 

A large crackle of thunder and the deafening sound of a new swarm of demobats reminded you of the urgency at hand, and you all hurried along, running toward the Wheeler house. You and Steve bickered incessantly throughout the night.

Once you arrive at his house, no more words— or even glances— are exchanged. You both keep your heads down, wordlessly going through the motions, still shellshocked. Steve makes a quick stop at the phone downstairs to make sure Robin made it home safe, and that she’ll be okay for the night.

Upstairs, you peel your clothes off and hop into the shower quickly, taming your rat’s nest of hair as best you can manage. Steve starts cleaning himself off in the shower adjacent to his room, while you take his parents’ shower in the master bedroom. His parents aren’t home. They haven’t been in weeks.

As you scrub the debris and grime off of your skin, your mind flashes back to last summer. Steve had told you not to get involved. Demanded, actually. When you had stumbled upon the whiteboard full of russian translations in the Scoops breakroom while visiting him, you quickly unraveled all the details of the latest attempt to save the world. Steve had made it very clear that he didn’t want you attached to this. You were mildly offended, but your relationship with him was new at the time, so you honored his pleas and stayed far away from Starcourt that night. And when you heard whispers of the mall fire, and the tragedies that took place that night, and bit your nails down to the bone, and cried yourself sick until you found out he was okay… you vowed never again to let Steve talk you out of getting involved.

After Officer Callahan had realized he wasn’t getting any witness statements out of either of you tonight on account of your inability to stop bickering for five seconds, he finally left you both alone in Steve’s hospital room. Not completely out of the woods; you still had to wait for his rabies test to come back. Expecting the nurse to reenter the room at any moment, you both wasted no time reigniting your unending argument.

“You need to get that scrape checked out,” he told you. A nasty red gash striped itself across your arm; you had acquired it from the tentacles— or vines, whatever you were all calling them these days— when they had pinned you up against the wall of the Creel house.

“I’m fine,” you disagreed.

“Y/n…” he chastised you, eyes shut, fighting another headache.

“Steve, I said I’m fine,” you told him, teeth gritted. “Owens said to come back in the morning, so I’ll come back in the morning.”

“Yeah, but if there’s some… I don’t know, some upside-down gunk in there—”

“What are they gonna do about it tonight? The doctors here are gonna be able to figure out the cure to inter-dimensional bacteria overnight?”

He brought his hand up and emphasized his point, “I’d rather be safe and—”

“Oh, yeah. You’re very concerned with safety tonight. That much I can tell.”

Neither of you had slept in well over a day, and the bags under his eyes from both lack of sleep and worry seemed permanently baked into his face at this point. But the ring around his neck, still angry red, stole your attention away from his eyes. And you’re reminded just how differently this night could have panned out if you had listened to him.

The hospital bed creaked as he sat up straighter, his face flushed. "Could you just listen to me, for once, Y/n?” he pleaded, hands wild, “I mean do you ever listen? What is it gonna take for you to stop following me into dangerous situations? I tell you not to follow me to find Eddie, I tell you not to follow me into the lake, I tell you to go home, but you never listen! ”

His words went in one ear and out the other. He had already said something to this exact tune back past the gate. You were fighting in circles at this point. But that didn’t stop you.

"Well that’s not really an option." You laughed bitterly and shook your head.

“I think that’s a little dramatic.”

“I’m not— Steve, staying out of it is not an option for me any more than it is for you.”

Steve groaned in frustration, running a hand through his tangled hair. He desperately needed a shower. "God, you don’t get it, do you?" His voice was low, almost pleading, but the edge of anger was still there. "This is what I’m supposed to do. But you— you’re not supposed to be in the middle of this shit."

"What you’re supposed to— Why am I not supposed to be involved?" You leaned in closer, not caring how sharp your words sounded. "You’re not the only one who cares about keeping people safe. If you think I’m just going to stand by and watch you risk your life without doing something about it, then you might be an idiot." With that last word, you saw his heart shatter more than it already had today. You wished you could take it back, but he kept charging forward.

“Wow.” He shook his head, clearly at a loss. "I’m not asking you to stand by. I’m asking you to stay safe. There’s a difference."

“And I’m telling you I can’t. Not when it’s you out there, Steve. Not when you’re the one putting your neck on the line.” You locked eyes, once again both aware of your particular choice of words in this moment. Steve instinctively brought his fingers up to delicately rub at the tender skin where the demobat had nearly strangled him. “You think I’m going to sit here and wait for someone to tell me you didn’t make it back? Huh? Steve, I saved your life tonight. Don’t act like I had a choice."

"Well, maybe you shouldn’t have!" His voice cracked with the strain, and for a second, you saw something raw flicker across his face. 

“Why do you keep saying that?” you asked him, desperately.

"Maybe I’d be better off if you didn’t keep throwing yourself into every dangerous situation just because you think you have to fix things." He wouldn’t meet your eyes, except for one split second. His eyes darted to yours, and he immediately looked away, focus trained back to the ground.

His words hit like a punch to the gut, and you knew you were both spiraling. You should’ve turned the other cheek and unpacked this all tomorrow when you both have clearer heads. But you were too tired, too drained to keep your emotions in check. "You really think that?"

“I don’t know,” he said, sighing, bringing his fingers up to rub at his forehead. “I don’t know anymore, Y/n.”

“You think I’m here because I have some… some complex?”

“Y/n, you’re not—”

“Need I remind you that I went back through that gate with you, and everyone else, to kill that motherfucker. And that was the plan. That wasn’t some impulse I followed, and it wasn’t some selfish idea I had. I was there, just like you were, as a part of the plan that we all came up with together.”

“You insisted on coming back through the gate,” he said, matter-of-factly. And before you could argue, he stood firm, shaking his head, “You did. I wanted you to stay in the house with the kids. But you had to argue with me, because of course, you always know best.”

You raked your hands through your hair. Both of your voices were raised far more than was appropriate for a hospital. “Oh my god—”

“The kids wouldn’t have been alone in that house if you had stayed there, like I wanted you to,” he told you, and you knew exactly what was coming next. 

He was a speeding train off its tracks, and the naive part of your brain wanted to believe he would never say this to you, but he was following his thought to its conclusion, for better or worse. 

“And Max would’ve been safe.” His voice had never sounded so cold.

It felt like he had slapped you. It felt like you wanted to slap him. Like all of the aggression of the past few days had all-encompassed you both.

“And you would have been, what, exactly?” you asked him, gravely serious.

He would have been dead.

You both stared at each other, unflinchingly, and neither of you had a chance to say anything else before the nurse came back into the room, eyes darting between you like she could tell, just from the energy in the room, that she had interrupted something intense.

The rest of the hospital visit had been a blur, with the rabies test coming back negative, but neither of you cared. The exhaustion clings to your skin like sweat, and every second that passes seems to tighten the knot in your chest.

Once you’re out of the shower, you traipse back into Steve’s room, to find he’s still in the shower. Needing to be extra careful of all of the dressings and stitches, he takes his time. 

You instinctively dig through his dresser drawer, finding your favorite pair of his pajama pants, and a worn t-shirt. But what catches your attention is the sheet of notebook paper, folded up in the corner. You recognize it instantly. Back from when things were easier. For you, at least. When your biggest fear was being rejected by the cute sailor scooping you ice cream. The folded paper had been a mix of scribbled, awkward confessions and dumb jokes— his first attempt at asking you out, written in frustration because he couldn’t find the nerve to say it aloud.

You unfold it now, the edges worn and tattered from the number of times you’ve read it. Despite everything that’s happened since, the note still carries that same charm, a reminder of who he was before everything got so complicated. Before the fights, the bruises, and the weight of trying to save the world again and again.

A soft smile tugs at your lips, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The warmth of that summer feels so far away now, buried under the stress and danger you’ve both faced since then.

The sound of the shower turning off pulls you from your thoughts. You quickly fold the note back up and tuck it away, slipping into his pajama pants. The exhaustion settles in your bones as you hear Steve moving in the bathroom, the familiar rustle of a towel and the soft thud of his feet on the tile.

You sit on the edge of the bed, knees nearly buckling under the weight of the day, unsure of what to say when he comes back into the room, how to break the silence that has been hanging between you since you left the hospital.

Suddenly he appears, wrapped in a towel from the waist down, in his bedroom doorway.

“This is the one thing I’m good for.”

You stare at him. For a moment, you think you’re not hearing him right. The exhaustion has finally caught up to you and you’re making things up. But as he stands in front of you, damp hair drooping into his woeful, wearied eyes, your brain tries to process. He’s clearly gathered his thoughts more succinctly in the shower.

“What?” you ask, leaning forward, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, emblazoned Hawkins High Varsity Basketball .

“This is the one thing I’m good for,” he repeats. “I can’t do the investigating like Nancy, or crack a code like Robin. Or… Or do any of the stuff that everyone else with more than half a brain can do. I mean, Christ, every one of those kids is smarter than—”

“Steve—”

“Let me finish, okay?” His words are serious, urgent, but not as cutting as before. Like if he doesn’t get them out right now, he might lose them.

“Okay,” you breathe out. You pull his sweatshirt over your head, your movements slow and heavy. 

“This is the only way that I know how to help. It’s the only way I can help. By protecting these kids. And by protecting you . And I would never be able to live with myself if…” The crack in his voice that has been hovering in his throat for the better part of the night finally claws its way out.

"Steve…" you start again, but he shakes his head, his hair flinging droplets of water across the carpet.

"No, you don’t get it," he says, his voice thick with frustration. "You don’t know what it’s like to feel like this much of an idiot.” Your jaw clenches as you mentally beat yourself up for that. Why did you call him an idiot? “Every time, it’s the same. You and everyone else— you’re all so much smarter, so much better at everything. I can’t do any of that. All I’m good for is... is this. Running headfirst into danger, trying to keep you all alive."

“Steve,” you say softly, standing up and taking a hesitant step toward him. “You’re not an idiot. I shouldn’t have said that.”

He shakes his head, not meeting your eyes, his damp hair sticking to his forehead. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not. I’m saying it because it’s true.” Your voice is firmer now, though there’s a softness underneath, a plea for him to believe you. “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve saved us? Every year? Every time shit hits the fan? You’re the one who keeps everyone together. You’re the one who gets us through this mess— every single time.”

He doesn’t answer, his jaw tight. He looks away, staring at the floor.

“And not just because you run headfirst into battle, Steve,” you continue, your voice softer now. “Because you’ve got a good heart. Do you know how many times I would fall to pieces if I didn’t have you?”

“Well, you’re—”

“No, listen to me,” you tell him. “You’re so much smarter than you give yourself credit for, honey. I mean, I know I’ve only been a part of this world for a little while now, but from the stories Robin tells, this world would’ve been toast if they didn’t have your cool head and your quick thinking.”

“It doesn’t matter, though,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes still downcast. “If I would’ve been able to come up with a better plan, or be faster, Max wouldn’t be—”

“Hey. No,” you tell him. You all had to practically pry him away from the hospital tonight; he only relented when the staff told him she wouldn’t be ready for visitors until tomorrow at the earliest. And they had called her mother, who would be waiting for her to wake up. They were optimistic. You take a step closer, standing right in front of him now. “That was not your fault, Steve.”

His breath shudders, and he finally looks up at you, his expression twisted with guilt and self-doubt. “Even if that’s not my fault, I could’ve screwed everything up even more,” he mutters. “I almost did. If you hadn’t been there…”

“But I was there. And I’m still here.” You reach out and take his hand, squeezing it gently. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, his hand limp in yours. “I’m supposed to be the one keeping you safe, not the other way around.”

“God, is it 1950?” you joke, and he chuckles softly. “We keep each other safe, Steve. That’s how it works. It’s always been like that. You’re not a one-man army. I don’t want you to be.”

His arms tighten around you, and for a moment, the world falls away. It’s just the two of you, clinging to each other in the quiet of his bedroom, both broken and bruised from the night but still standing. Still here.

“I just can’t stop thinking about how… If something did go wrong— If I did, you know—”

“Steve—”

“I just… If something happened, my parents wouldn’t know. You know how they are; they haven’t been home in weeks. They’d never even know if I never came back.”

“But I would,” you tell him.

He finally pulls back and his eyes search yours, weary and glassy. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the emotion of the night still heavy in his voice. “For what I said earlier. Past the gate, and at the hospital. I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper, stepping closer, your forehead resting against his. “I didn’t mean everything I said either.”

He closes his eyes, and for a moment, you both stand there, wrapped in the quiet of the room, the storm finally settling into something calmer. You can feel the exhaustion pulling at you, the weight of the day pressing down on your shoulders, but for the first time in hours, there’s a sense of peace.

“I’m so tired,” Steve admits, his voice barely audible, the vulnerability in his words breaking your heart.

“I know,” you whisper back, your hand slipping from his chest to his arm, gently pulling him toward the bed. “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

He nods, his breath still uneven, and you guide him to the bed. The mattress dips beneath his sturdy weight, and he finally rests.

You lay down next to him, and without hesitation, he wraps his arm around you, pulling you close. The warmth of his body is comforting, and as you close your eyes, the buzzing in your head finally starts to lift, replaced by the steady rhythm of his breathing next to you.

“I found the note,” you say, your voice soft, almost hesitant, not sure if he’s already asleep.

Steve inhales. “The… one from last summer?”

You nod, knowing he can feel your head moving against his chest rather than see it. “Yeah. It’s still in your drawer.”

He’s silent for a moment. “God, I was so chickenshit back then.”

"You weren’t chickenshit," you murmur, your voice soft in the dim light of his bedroom. You didn’t feel like turning his desk light off. Not tonight. "You were just... figuring things out."

Steve shifts slightly beside you, his arm still wrapped around you protectively, as though even now he can’t help but try to keep you safe. He lets out a breath, his voice still rough as he responds. "Yeah, well, I could’ve been a little braver. Told you how I felt instead of acting like an idiot.”

“Well I was disarmingly beautiful back then,” you joke.

He huffs a soft, tired laugh. “You still are, baby.” You're delighted that his pet name for you has returned after hearing only your name all night.

You sit up, peering at him down the slope of your nose. “And you’re not an idiot,” you tell him. His eyes are softer now, the hard edges from earlier finally smoothed out by the quiet of the moment. "Steve, you’ve always been brave. You’ve saved me and everyone else more times than I can count. But you’re more than just brave, and I wish you knew that. I hope you know that now."

For a while, Steve doesn’t say anything. He finally sits up to match you, and holds you tight, his forehead resting against yours again, as though grounding himself in your presence. When he does speak, his voice is soft, almost hesitant. "I’m scared," he admits, the words barely more than a whisper. "Every time something like this happens, I’m scared I’m gonna lose you. And I don’t know what I’d do if I did."

Your heart tightens at his admission, and you reach up, cupping his face gently in your hands. "You’re not gonna lose me," you promise, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "We’ve made it through everything so far, haven’t we?"

He nods, his eyes searching yours, but there’s still a lingering fear in them that you can’t quite soothe. "Yeah," he breathes out, "we have."

"And we’ll make it through this, too. Together." You lean in close, feeling his breath mix with yours. 

But he hesitates. “Baby, your lip,” he says, mindful of the split.

You brush your thumb gently across his jaw. "Please just kiss me, Steve," you whisper, a small, reassuring smile playing on your lips.

Steve’s eyes soften, his gaze flickering over your face as if to make sure. His fingers brush your cheek with that gentle touch he has, the one he reserves only for you, and in the quiet of his room, he finally closes the space between you. His lips meet yours, careful and soft, almost tentative, like he’s trying to capture the feeling and hold onto it forever. You’re reminded of all the reasons you fell in love with this boy, even when he was an ice-cream-scooping schmuck, and even when he throws himself headfirst into danger.

You’ll both go right back to the hospital in the morning, to try to visit Max, and try to fix this as best you can. Together.

You feel like a complete idiot. That’s the only explanation here, really. You must be the dumbest girl in Hawkins if you thought that Steve Harrington was actually going to take you out on a date.

Your dress starts to stick uncomfortably to your legs in the humid Indiana air. This summer was off to a rough start, and shame on you for thinking a boy was going to change that. But having spent every day of your first summer out of high school slinging popcorn and appeasing grubby kids trying to see the newest blockbusters inside the brand new mall was driving you crazy.

Maybe that’s what you are. Crazy. 

You sit on your porch swing, one leg crossed over the other, heel bouncing against the wooden slats as you stare out at the empty street. It’s been nearly an hour. The fireflies are out now, glowing soft and golden in the dusk, and the cicadas have started their nightly chorus. The ice in your lemonade melted ages ago, leaving behind nothing but a sickly-sweet puddle at the bottom of the glass.

People talk. That’s what they do in a town like Hawkins, where nothing ever happens except when it happens to someone you know. And lately, all the talk had been about how Steve wasn’t an asshole anymore. That King Steve had been dethroned, that he’d gotten knocked off his high horse after graduation and had really changed.

You wanted to believe it. You did believe it. At least, enough to flirt back when he leaned against the movie theater counter with that easy grin, sneaking you free strawberry ice cream, throwing popcorn at you when your managers weren't looking. You liked the way he made you laugh, the way his hair flopped in his face when he got too caught up in a story. How he seemed dedicated enough to show up to work every day in that stupid sailor suit. He wasn’t the same guy who used to ignore you in the hallways at school, the same guy who sneered at your friends when they weren’t cool enough to be in his orbit.

Or so you thought. Because now, sitting here alone, your pretty dress damp with sweat and your stomach twisted in knots, it’s clear you were wrong.

A car turns onto your street, headlights cutting through the night, and your breath catches for one humiliating second before you realize it’s not him. Just your neighbor getting home from work. You exhale sharply, blinking hard against the sting of tears behind your eyes.

You’d told people about this. Your friend Stacy had given you a smug little I told you so smile when you mentioned that Steve asked you out. You’d seen the glances your other friends shared when you gushed about how sweet he’d been, how he’d hung around long after his break was over just to talk to you. And now? Now they were all going to know.

He didn’t even have the decency to call.

Your chest aches, the realization settling in your bones. Steve Harrington might have changed for some people, but not for you . You stand up abruptly, smoothing your hands over your dress, wiping the sweat from your palms. Fine. Lesson learned. Maybe next time, you’ll be smarter.

The movie theater is already stuffy the next morning when you walk in, the scent of buttered popcorn and artificial cherry slush wafting through the air. The neon glow from the concession stand flickers as you clock in, pinning your name tag on your polo as you head toward the register.

Stacy sidles up next to you almost immediately, her ponytail swinging as she leans against the counter. “Okay, spill,” she says, grinning. “How was the date?”

Your stomach clenches. You force a casual shrug, focusing very hard on organizing the candy display. “Didn’t happen,” you say, keeping your voice light, as if it doesn’t matter. “Something must’ve come up.”

Stacy’s brows knit together. “Wait, what do you mean? He canceled?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before shaking your head. “No. He just... never showed.”

Stacy’s eyes widen. “No way. God, what a dick,” she says, crossing her arms. “I’m sorry, honey. Ugh.”

You shrug again, still avoiding her gaze. “It’s whatever.” It’s not whatever. But you’re not about to break down in the middle of a shift over some guy who clearly didn’t think twice about standing you up.

Stacy watches you carefully, like she’s trying to decide whether to press the issue. Then, after a beat, she changes course. “Well, forget him,” she says, nudging your arm. “You coming to the fun fair tonight? Pretty sure everyone in town is gonna be there.”

You shake your head. “Can’t. Picked up a double.”

Stacy groans. “Why? We could’ve eaten funnel cake and watched the fireworks together! You’re seriously gonna spend the Fourth of July here?”

“Benji needed someone to cover,” you say simply. “And I don’t really feel like going anyway.”

It’s the truth, even if it stings to admit. You don’t want to go to the fair and risk seeing Steve with someone else. You don’t want to run into people who might ask about the date and force you to admit, over and over again, that it never happened. Besides, being here, working, gives you something to do. Something to focus on.

Stacy sighs dramatically. “Fine. But if I win a giant stuffed animal at the ring toss, it’s all yours.”

You smirk, grateful for the distraction. “Go ahead. You’re not gonna win anyway.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know my aim has significantly improved since last summer.”

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest eases just a little.

The rest of your shift passes in a blur of soda spills and endless refills of the popcorn machine. Customers come and go, chattering excitedly about the fair, about the fireworks, about the holiday. And through it all, you fight the urge to walk across the mall and see if Steve is at Scoops. To ask him what the hell his problem is, or maybe just force him to look you in the eyes and tell you he didn’t want anything to do with you. But you keep your head down and scoop popcorn.

When the clock strikes nine, and the distant sound of explosions fills the night sky outside, you do your best to ignore every ugly feeling bubbling up inside you. You don’t look toward Scoops. You don’t think about what you’re missing. And you definitely don’t think about Steve Harrington.

It’s a shame that you come face to face with him later that night.

Your fingertips are dusted with popcorn salt when you see them stumble in. Steve Harrington and his fellow Scoops Ahoy sailor, who you vaguely remembered from school, both looking like they just got hit by a bus. You blink. Then blink again, because surely you’re imagining this. But no, they’re actually here, wandering unsteadily out of theater three. Steve with a nasty black eye, split lip, and dazed expression, and her looking just as worse for wear, her Scoops Ahoy uniform wrinkled and stained. Steve nearly trips over his own feet, and she giggles, catching his arm before they both crash into the counter.

“What the hell?” you murmur, brows furrowed.

“Movie girl?” Steve slurs, blinking at you like he’s trying to process why you of all people are standing in front of him.

“This is the famous ‘Movie Girl’ !” the girl says, in awe. “I’m Robin.”

Your stomach clenches. Is this his date? Is that why he never showed? Because he was out with Robin this whole time? And if that’s the case, then why does he look like he got into a bar fight on the way here?

You fold your arms. “What the hell happened to you?”

Robin bursts into laughter. “ What happened , Movie Girl says. What happened .” She turns to Steve, slapping his chest. He winces. “What did happen, Steve? Lemme think— oh yeah! We got our asses kicked!”

Your eyes widen, flicking between the two of them. “What?”

Steve makes a face like he’s struggling to form words, then just waves his hand. “It’s fine. We’re fine. You— you work here? Wait. I knew that. You’re Movie Girl.” 

“I have a name,” you murmur, feeling humiliated all over again. 

He frowns, rubbing his temple. “You’re mad at me.”

The whiplash of this entire situation has your brain short-circuiting. You should be furious. You are furious, but the fact that he’s standing in front of you, barely upright, with a bruised face and dilated pupils, makes it hard to focus on that.

“Yeah, no shit I’m mad at you,” you snap. “You didn’t show up.”

Steve blinks, his mouth opening slightly. “Oh.”

“Oh?” You scoff. “That’s all you have to say?”

“I— I was gonna go,” he insists, pointing a little too aggressively at you before losing his balance. Robin snorts as she yanks him back up.

“Dingus,” she mutters.

“I told you in the elevator, I was gonna miss—” Steve turns back to you, eyes unfocused. “How long were we down there?”

Robin brings her hand up and smacks him on the shoulder, to which he gives a soft groan in pain. “Hey! They’re still looking for us!”

You stare at them, mouth agape, heart pounding, because none of this is making sense. Steve is a mess. Robin is a mess. And they’re acting weird. Really weird.

“Are you guys high?” you ask suddenly.

Robin cracks up, doubling over. “Ohhh, she is sharp.”

Steve winces. “Not— not on purpose.”

You stare at them, utterly bewildered. “What the hell does that even mean?”

Steve winces again like just thinking is physically painful. “It means— it means...” He trails off, glancing at Robin for help.

Robin throws up her hands. “It means there were some very bad people who wanted to get classified information out of us, so they resorted to medieval torture methods to extract it from us.”

Now it’s Steve’s turn to smack her shoulder. “Robin,” he says through his teeth. “Don’t tell people that.”

“You’re making fun of me?” you ask, hating how hot your face feels. “It wasn’t enough to completely ditch me last night, and then not apologize? You have to make fun of me now too?”

Steve looks genuinely distraught. “No! No, that’s not—” He shakes his head, wobbling slightly. “Listen, I wanted to go. I planned to go. I—” He pauses, looking slightly green for a second before swallowing hard. “Something came up.”

You bark out a laugh. “Oh, something came up ? You don’t say?” You gesture wildly at his face. “Was it whatever fight you got into? Or the drugs? Or the fact that you’re clearly still the same asshole you were in high school?”

Steve flinches. And for a split second, you almost feel bad. Almost. Because yeah, he looks awful. His face is a mess, his clothes are stained, and his pupils are so blown out he looks half-dazed. But that doesn't change the fact that he stood you up, let you sit there and wait for him, let you humiliate yourself.

You fold your arms, shifting your weight. “So, what? You just got busy? Had something better to do? With someone else?” You flick your gaze toward Robin, who is currently swaying on her feet, grinning at the popcorn machine.

Steve follows your gaze, frowning. “No, it wasn’t like that.”

“I really don’t care,” you lie, arms tightening over your chest. “It’s not like I expected much, anyway. Everyone kept saying you’d changed, but I should’ve known better.”

Steve rubs a hand over his face, wincing again when he brushes his bruised eye. “Okay. First of all, ow. Second of all, you—” He points at you, then drops his hand and sways again. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t know what I’m talking about?” You let out a bitter laugh. “You ditched me, Steve. Left me standing outside my house like a goddamn idiot. I waited for you. And now you’re here, and you can’t even—”

But your rant is interrupted by a noise. A gurgling, choked noise. You frown as Steve clutches his stomach and stumbles forward, grabbing onto Robin for support. “Oh, no. Oh no no no—”

And then he makes a truly horrific noise, half choke, half retch.

“Oh, shit,” Robin mutters. She tries to catch him, but her own knees are wobbling, and suddenly, she bends over too, gagging like she’s going to be sick.

Your stomach turns in dread. “Oh my God—”

Robin lets out another laugh, but it’s breathless, weaker. “You should’ve seen his face when—”

And then he throws up. Steve Harrington throws up. Right there, splattering on the popcorn-covered floor and your shoes.

You stumble back, horrified. “Jesus Christ!”

Steve groans, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “That was so gross.”

Robin looks at you, then at Steve, then back at you. She starts nodding, slow at first, then faster, like it takes her a few seconds to reach a decision. “Yeah, okay. We should go.”

He tries to walk, but his legs don’t quite seem to be working, and it’s suddenly very clear to you that whatever’s going on is beyond him just standing you up for a date with Robin.

You exhale sharply. “Steve. What happened to you?”

Steve blinks down at you, and for a moment, there’s something in his eyes. Something almost... vulnerable.

Before he can respond, Robin gags.

Steve groans. “Oh, shit—”

And then they both lurch toward the bathroom. Robin stumbles first, but Steve isn’t any steadier, and you barely have time to react before they practically crash into the stall door, shoving it open and disappearing inside.

You stare after them, frozen.

A customer steps up to the counter, looking at you expectantly. You don’t even process their order at first. You just hear the distant crack of fireworks, smell the popcorn in the air, and stand there, reeling. You call your coworker over to help with the customers as you go fetch the mop to clean up Steve Harrington’s puke. Perfect.

The rest of your shift flies by in a haze. Seemingly endless showing of that time travel movie that everyone just can't get enough of. Customers come and go, but you’re barely present, the encounter looping in your mind over and over. You should be angry. You are angry. But more than that, you’re confused. By the time you finally clock out, exhaustion has settled deep into your bones. The mall is quieter now, most of the crowds having migrated to the fair hours ago. You step outside into the thick Indiana night, your arms wrapped around yourself despite the heat, and start the drive home.

Your brain refuses to shut off. The rational part of you says to let it go. Whatever mess Steve got himself into, it’s not your problem. But there’s this feeling sitting in your stomach, heavy and uneasy. Something isn’t right. You get home, and the house is dark and silent. Your parents are probably asleep— or more likely, not home at all. You don’t even bother turning on the lights as you trudge up to your room, kick off your shoes, and collapse onto the bed.

You wake up to the sound of the radio playing in the kitchen. Your father must have left it on when he went to work. It takes you a second to register the words, but when you do, a cold shock runs down your spine.

“—the fire started late last night at the newly built Starcourt Mall, quickly spreading throughout the complex. Firefighters arrived on the scene, but the building was completely consumed within hours. Authorities are investigating the cause, though at this time, details remain unclear. Witnesses report—”

You don’t hear the rest. Your stomach twists violently. You worked there last night. You were there, just hours before it all went up in flames. And Steve was there too. Steve, who had shown up acting strange, bruised and unsteady, and sick to his stomach. Something cold settles in your chest. You spend the rest of the day feeling like you’re walking through a dream, or maybe a nightmare. People are talking about Starcourt everywhere. The neighbors whisper about how they heard the sirens in the middle of the night. The news keeps flashing images of the charred remains of the mall, looping the same statements over and over. Officials are investigating, the cause is unknown, and they're reporting that the Hawkins Chief of Police died in the fire.

You tell yourself you’re not going to worry about it. Not going to think about it. That lasts until the doorbell rings. When you pull the door open, Steve Harrington is standing on your front porch, looking like absolute hell.

His lip is still busted, his eye is a deep shade of purple, and he moves stiffly, like every part of him aches. But it’s his expression that gets you— uncertain, maybe even nervous, like he half expects you to slam the door in his face. You consider it.

Instead, you fold your arms and lean against the doorframe, arching a brow. “So. You’re alive.”

Steve exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Barely.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you settle on, “I heard the mall burned down.”

He huffs a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah. That, uh…” He trails off, almost as if he’s not certain what he can say.

You narrow your eyes. “Were you there?”

There’s the briefest hesitation before he says, “Yeah.” That cold feeling in your stomach deepens. He’s hiding something. You don’t know what, but it’s big enough that he’s choosing his words carefully, and Steve isn’t careful about anything . But before you can press further, he sighs, shifting on his feet. “Look, I— I came to say I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet, almost hesitant. “For standing you up.” 

You blink. Of all the things he could’ve said, you weren’t expecting that.

He shakes his head. “I meant to be there, okay? I wanted to be there. But… things got complicated.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “Complicated? Right. That’s one way to put it.” You study his face, the way he looks genuinely regretful. “So what, you decided to go get yourself beaten to hell with Robin instead?" You sigh, feeling childish, but asking anyway, "Can you just be honest with me; are you dating Robin?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “No, we’re not… We’re just friends. It’s…”

“Complicated?” you guess.

Steve shifts uncomfortably. This is the first time in a while you’ve seen him in anything other than his sailor costume. He stands before you in Levi’s and a blue henley. He stills wears his blue Adidas, though, and you spot flecks of blood across the tops of them. “Yeah.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know,” he groans, glancing away. “I know it’s not. And I know I screwed up.” He looks at you again, earnest and so unlike the guy who used to strut around Hawkins High like he owned the place. “I wish I could tell you everything. I do. But I can’t.”

Your stomach clenches. “Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t,” he says without hesitation. “Because it’s— it’s dangerous, okay? Not just for me. For you, too.” He rubs the back of his neck, fidgeting, looking anywhere but at you. “I know how that sounds, and I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to go to hell, but Robin wanted to apologize too, and—” 

He suddenly stills. His face twists in something close to horror. “Wait,” he says, voice hoarse. “Oh, shit. Did I—?” He gestures vaguely, then winces. “Wait. Did I puke on you?”

You press your lips together, debating if you should lie just to mess with him. But you settle on the truth. “A little.”

Steve groans and drags a hand down his face. “Oh my God.” He looks genuinely nauseous all over again. “I’m— I’m so sorry. That’s… Oh my god..”

You shrug, unimpressed. “Yeah, not your best moment.”

“I don’t even remember— God, that’s even worse.” He leans against the porch railing, shaking his head. “Jesus, I would’ve rather taken another punch to the face.”

You tilt your head. “That could be arranged.”

His mouth twitches like he almost smiles, but then he exhales and looks back at you. “I know I messed up. I should’ve been there. And I know I probably seem like a lost cause to you, but I swear I’m not— I just… I need you to believe me when I say I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

You study him, the way he looks wrecked but still him, and you hate that your resolve softens, even just a little.

Then he swallows hard and says, “I really like you, and I’m asking you to trust me.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

Trust him.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. Because trust means letting him off the hook for standing you up, for making you feel like an idiot waiting for someone who wasn’t coming. Trust means accepting that he’s keeping secrets. And you hate secrets.

But he looks at you like it’s killing him not to explain. Like he wants to tell you, and the only thing stopping him is something bigger than both of you.

For a long moment, it’s just silence between you two. Then, finally, you shake your head. “I don’t get you, Steve Harrington.”

A wry smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. I’m starting to think I don’t get me either.”

You exhale, glancing away. You should tell him to leave. You should tell him that an apology doesn’t magically fix everything. But instead, you just sigh. “You look like shit.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, well. You should see the other guy.”

And despite everything, despite the confusion, the frustration, the absolute insanity of this whole situation, you feel your lips twitch. Just a little.

“Do you want lemonade?”

And his busted lip manages to morph into the most blinding grin.

It’s one of those October nights that feels like it’s trying to make up for all the bad days before it. Crisp air, leaves underfoot that crunch in the most satisfying way, a sky the color of velvet stretched wide above your lovely little New England town. It’s delightfully and surprisingly warm for this time of year; your kids were elated they didn’t need to wear their winter coats tonight. Streetlights flicker on one by one, haloing the sidewalks in warm amber as kids spill out of houses in adorable costumes.

You’re halfway down Maple Street when Sammie takes off again, fluffy pink tulle skirt bouncing, tiny fairy wings flashing in the light. “Sammie, wait for us!” Steve calls after her, but she’s already halfway to the next house, plastic pumpkin clutched tight in her tiny hand. Her costume is proudly, unmistakably homemade: her skirt uneven in places where she insisted on “helping,” her wings stitched by you over three late nights, the glitter on them already beginning to migrate to everyone’s clothes.

“She’s like a sugar-seeking missile,” you say.

“Wonder where she gets that from,” Steve mutters, glancing sidelong at you with a grin that still makes your stomach flip. “I’ll make sure to confiscate all of her Milky Ways for inspection later.”

You roll your eyes, shifting Joey higher on your hip. He’s dressed as a little bumblebee (equally DIY: black and yellow felt stripes hand-sewn onto a cozy hoodie, wings made from old wire hangers and scrap fabric) and his head is resting against your shoulder, eyes wide as he watches Sammie dart ahead. He’s been like this all evening: half curious, half terrified, completely content to be carried.

“You wanna walk for a bit, honey?” you ask. He shakes his head so fast it makes his tiny antennae wobble. “Okay,” you whisper, kissing his hair. “You just let me know..”

You and Steve are dressed in what can only be described as minimal, bone-tired parent costumes: characters from the twins’ latest obsession: If You Give A Mouse A Cookie. You’re in— quite frankly, very dumpy— overalls, splattered with paint from when you redid the kids’ bathroom. You’ve got homemade mouse ears on a headband, and whiskers drawn on in eyeliner. You’re a mouse in the gentlest, most half-committed way possible. And Steve, in a tan shirt with dark brown felt circles taped all over, is a cookie by way of “we did this for the kids, and also we ran out of time”. The kids shrieked with happiness when you put them on. So you counted it as a smashing success all around.

Up ahead, Sammie’s already ringing the next doorbell, bouncing on her toes. A nice older woman opens the door, smiling as Sammie launches into her greeting at full volume: “Trick or treat! I’m a fairy princess and I have a brother and he’s a bee but he’s scared of everything so he’s with my mom back there!”

You and Steve both groan in unison.

The woman laughs kindly and drops a handful of candy into Sammie’s pumpkin. “Tell your brother I have extra chocolate for brave bees,” she says, smiling at Joey.

Sammie spins around, beaming. “Joey! She said chocolate!”

That gets his attention. He lifts his head, eyes flicking toward the porch. “Chocolate?” he whispers. As if he just remembered the reward for this entire holiday.

You glance at Steve, who stands beside you, holding out his hands. “Come on, bud. Let’s go say trick or treat. I’ll go with you.”

Joey hesitates, gripping your sleeve for a second before slowly planting his tiny sneakers on the ground. His little fingers curl around his dad’s hand, and Steve takes it gladly. “All right, my brave bee, let’s go.”

They approach the porch together, Steve holding Joey’s hand, Sammie dancing in circles beside them. You hear it, soft and careful, when Joey finally whispers, “Trick or treat.”

The woman’s smile is pure delight. “Well done, little bee,” she says, slipping a few chocolates into his pumpkin.

When they come back down the steps, Joey’s grinning shyly, eyes sparkling with pride. “I did it,” he tells you.

“You sure did,” you say, bending down to kiss his cheek. “And you were so polite.”

Sammie immediately pipes up, “I was polite too!”

“You were very polite,” Steve assures her, trying not to laugh as he adjusts the little plastic crown that keeps slipping in your daughter’s curls. “Except for the part where you told that lady your brother’s scared of everything.”

She frowns thoughtfully. “But he is.”

Steve snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, but maybe don’t lead with that next time.”

You walk like that for a while, Sammie darting from house to house like a comet, Steve jogging after her, Joey alternating between being carried and toddling along beside you, holding your hand tight. After you’ve exhausted the block, Sammie turns around and yells, “Come on, we’re missing the good candy!”

“You better be bringing all the best candy to your aunt and uncle’s house!” a voice calls from behind you.

Sammie turns around so quickly she nearly topples over, and squeals at the sight of Eddie and Robin walking toward you on the sidewalk. 

Eddie’s carrying a coffee cup that’s definitely not coffee, raising it like a toast when he spots you. “Brought provisions for the grown-ups!” he calls out, baring his fake vampire fangs, cape swirling. Robin walks in tandem with him, decked out in layers of black clothing and chunky jewelry, which you vaguely recognize from that movie about the witches that she was obsessed with. The Neve Campbell character, you think.

“Pinot noir, my good man,” Eddie says, offering a second coffee cup to Steve.

You grin, accepting your own cup from Robin. “God bless you.”

Sammie, already glued to Eddie’s side, gasps at his fake blood and points accusingly. “You’re bleeding!”

He gasps right back, clutching his chest. “What?!” he shrieks, but Sammie just giggles wildly.

Meanwhile, Joey’s pressed a little tighter against your leg, eyes big and uncertain as he takes in Eddie’s blood-streaked grin. “Is Uncle Eddie okay?” he whispers.

Eddie instantly softens, crouching down to Joey’s level. “Hey, little dude. It’s just pretend, see?” He swipes a bit of the fake blood with his finger, licks it (then makes a ridiculous gagging face). “Blegh. Cherry. My least favorite flavor.”

That earns him a small smile from Joey. “It’s fake?”

“Completely fake,” Eddie says, wiping at his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Joey studies him for another moment, then relaxes, reaching out a cautious hand toward Eddie’s plastic fangs. “The teeth are real?”

“Nope,” Eddie says, popping them free and handing them over like a magician revealing his trick. “You can try ‘em if you promise not to bite your sister.”

Joey giggles. “Okay.”

Steve walks a few steps ahead with Sammie and Eddie, watching as Eddie points dramatically at the next house. “All right, fairy princess,” he declares, “we go in strong, we go in fast, and we say the magic words.”

Sammie nods seriously. “Trick or treat!”

“Atta girl.” Eddie leans down conspiratorially. “And remember, if they have mini Snickers, those are for me.”

Robin shakes her head but she’s smiling, eyes warm when she looks back at Joey, still hovering behind you. “Hey, little bee,” she says softly, crouching down so they’re at eye level. “You flying solo tonight?"

Joey shakes his head, shy as ever, thumb pressed against his candy bucket handle.

Robin holds out her hand. “You wanna walk with me for a bit? I’ll be your wingman. Promise I won’t make you talk to any scary skeletons or anything.”

He hesitates for a moment, looking up at you for confirmation, then nods and takes her hand.

And just like that, the four of you fall into step: the tiny fairy and her loud uncle darting from porch to porch, the quiet bee and his patient aunt making their way at a slower pace, with you and Steve trailing behind, cups of disguised wine warming you up from the inside.

Up ahead, Robin kneels beside Joey at a porch, whispering something that makes him laugh, small and nervous but real. He looks up at her, then turns to the open door and says, just a little louder than before, “Trick or treat!”

The woman at the door beams, dropping a candy bar into his bucket. Robin throws both fists into the air. “Yes! Nailed it!”

Joey beams, bouncing on his toes.

You charge forward like this for a while longer, but after a couple more blocks, you can see it in both kids— the way Sammie’s wings are drooping, the way Joey is dragging his feet. The twins are fading fast.

Steve notices it at the same time you do. He lifts his cup toward Eddie and Robin. “We calling it?”

Eddie checks on Sammie, who is now leaning against his leg and blinking slowly, the telltale signs of a child who will soon insist she is not tired moments before collapsing. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Our fearless leader is losing steam.”

Robin nods, brushing Joey’s hair out of his eyes; he sways a little in her direction, thumb creeping toward his mouth. “I think our bee’s batteries are dying.”

“That’s our cue,” Steve says.

The five-minute walk to Eddie and Robin’s house is somehow both quiet and chaotic. Your little troupe drifts down the sidewalk, Sammie insisting she wants to walk but holding Eddie’s hand with both of hers, Joey half-asleep in Robin’s arms, and you and Steve trading glances over their heads. The good, warm kind. The kind that makes your chest tighten.

When the ramshackle, twinkly-light-warmed Munson-Buckley house comes into view, Sammie perks up. “Movie?” she asks sleepily.

Eddie scoops her up without hesitation, cradling her like she weighs nothing. “You better believe it, princess. I’ve got the perfect spooky-but-not-too-spooky tape lined up.”

“You picked the tape?” Robin asks, locking the front door behind you all.

“Yeah, it’s some Mickey Mouse bullshit, I dunno,” he murmurs, earning himself a swat from Steve.

“Come on, man,” he chastises.

“Is there kissing?” Sammie asks. She’s only just discovered the concept, and isn’t quite sure how to feel about it in movies.

“Hm…” Eddie ponders. “Y’know I can’t say for sure. But very minimal, if any.”

The living room is warm and cluttered and familiar; bowls of popcorn materialize, candy buckets are dumped out onto the coffee table, and Robin uncorks another bottle of wine as Eddie pops a tape in the VCR.

Robin plops onto the couch beside you and Steve, handing you both fresh glasses of wine poured into mismatched mugs. “For the grown-ups who survived Halloween with two tiny chaos gremlins.”

Steve takes a long sip. “Have I mentioned I love ya, Buckley?”

On the floor, Sammie has positioned herself directly next to Eddie, mimicking the way he sits: legs stretched out, ankles crossed, arms thrown over the back of a beanbag like she owns the room. She digs through her candy bucket with the same dramatic flair he does, huffing a little each time she finds something she considers sub-par.

Meanwhile Joey has taken a spot beside Robin, carefully sorting his candy into neat piles: chocolates, gummies, lollipops. Robin watches him with exaggerated seriousness.

“Do you like this one, Aunt Robin?” he asks, picking a Twizzler out of his pile of twenty of them.

“Are you kidding?” Robin asks, unwrapping it and popping it into her mouth. “It’s my favorite!”

Joey imitates her immediately, taking a piece from his bucket and nibbling it slowly, eyes flicking up to see if she approves.

She grins at him. “Good taste.”

Across the room, Sammie is now holding up a Milky Way. “Is this good?”

Eddie gasps. “Only the best,” he says, then lowers his voice to a whisper. “Between you and me, those are your mom’s favorites. I would hold onto those for bribing purposes next time you’re in trouble.”

“Eddie!” you call out. 

Steve laughs beside you, that low, warm sound that never fails to find the softest place in your chest. He leans in, elbow nudging yours. “Well,” he says lightly, “he’s not wrong.”

You turn your head, narrowing your eyes. “Excuse me?”

Steve shrugs, totally unrepentant. “I mean… I do keep Milky Ways stocked at all times so you’re never mad at me.”

Your mouth drops open. “You do what?”

“It’s fiiiiiiiiiine,” Steve says. “It’s strategy, or diplomacy, right?” He raises his eyebrows toward Robin, who holds her hands up as if to say there’s no way in hell I’m getting involved in this.

You glare at him. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is exactly how that works,” he says, leaning in until your noses nearly brush. “I know my wife.”

“I am deeply, profoundly offended,” you tell him, lying through your teeth.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

He kisses you before you can argue again, quick, sweet, smug.

From the floor, Eddie makes a strangled gagging sound. “Oh, GROSS!” he groans, throwing himself backward onto the carpet with his arms flung wide. “I told Sammie there would be no kissing!"

Sammie, already overtired and giggly, shrieks with laughter and rolls dramatically across the rug. “NO KISSING!” she echoes, her tiny voice full of delighted outrage.

Joey, predictably, bursts into a fit of soft, hiccuping giggles. “Daddy kissed Mommy,” he whispers to Robin like he’s tattling in church.

Robin nudges Joey’s shoulder. “Classic your dad move,” she loudly whispers back. “Zero self-control. Complete and total loverboy.”

A giggle escapes you too; she’s definitely right about that.

“Sammie, honey, I know you hate it. But you have to wear sunscreen if you want to go in the water,” you beg your daughter, your hands making a soothing attempt on her restless arms. You’d managed to lather up her arms and legs, but her face was a different story.

She lets out a noise halfway between “ Mommmmm ” and a whine. 

“I know,” you repeat, cooing. “I know. Look at Daddy, huh?” you point your finger over her shoulder to Steve, already splashing in the shallow waves with her twin brother, making sure to keep his hand clasped around his tiny one. “See how much fun he’s having with Joey?”

She whines again, stamping her little flip-flop bundled feet in the sand. 

“I don’t make the rules,” you tell her. “The sun makes the rules, so if you wanna be mad at anyone, you can take it up with her,” you decide, pointing upward. 

“The sun is a girl?” Sammie asks, nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Everyone important is,” you say, matter-of-factly.

“Amen!” Robin hollers out, appearing behind you, arms filled with folded beach chairs, blankets, and tote bags likely filled with the ingredients to make some new gin drink she’s obsessed with. She wears a loose striped button up over her swimsuit, and years-old Birkenstocks. “Sam, take it from me: you do not wanna spend the rest of the weekend with burnt skin, peeling off whenever you—”

“What??” Sammie cries out. “My skin peeling off?”

“Yeah, not how I would’ve gone about that; thanks very much Robbie,” you wince, giving her a light shove and sending one of the chairs tumbling into the sand. “Nothing’s gonna happen to your— What Aunt Robin meant to say was—”

“What your Aunt Robin meant to say,” Eddie chimes in, appearing over your other shoulder, curls pulled back into a ponytail, and tattoos poking out underneath his tattered tank top. “Was that you’re gonna feel like a total lameass if you—”

“Did you two geniuses bonk your heads together and forget how to talk around a child?” you ask, exasperated at the way they’ve both come in, guns-a-blazing.

“Sorry,” he offers to you, smirking, not sorry at all. He turns back to Sammie, and plucks the tube of sunscreen from your hands. “You’re gonna feel like a total lame- butt ,” he emphasizes, “if you’re not matching with your Uncle Eddie.”

And in under a minute, he’s somehow managed to prove again that he is, in fact, your children’s Cool Uncle Eddie , and that he is content to only use that title for good. Sammie looks aghast for a moment, not ever wanting to be left out, much less left out from something Eddie’s doing. 

“You put on sun’creen?” she asks him, lovely little toddler lisp in full effect.

“Hell yeah, I did,” he tells her, expertly dodging your swat at him, like he expects it. “And I’ll put on more right now if you want. ‘Cause I’m just so crazy about the stuff!” 

That gets a giggle fit out of her, as she offers her chubby little cheeks up to him, smiling. Eddie accepts the silent offer like it’s the highest of honors, squatting down in the sand with the tube of sunscreen and a theatrical seriousness that makes Sammie giggle even harder.

“Alright, Miss Samantha,” he says, squeezing a glob into his palm. “Brace yourself. This is the deluxe Uncle Eddie application method. Very elite. Very exclusive.”

Sammie’s little body wiggles with anticipation, caught between delight and suspicion, as Eddie starts dabbing the sunscreen gently onto her cheeks, then her nose, then rubbing it on the tops of her ears with exaggerated care.

“You missed a spot,” Robin chimes in, flopping into one of the chairs she just dragged down, already opening a seltzer with a pshhht, pouring it into a travel mug, and shielding her eyes from the sun. “She’s got this whole adorable chunk of neck that’s gonna fry like bacon if you don’t get it.”

“Thanks, Coach,” Eddie says, squinting over his shoulder. “Wanna tag in?”

“No thanks,” Robin says cheerfully. “I don’t get paid enough to wrestle toddlers.”

“You don’t get paid at all,” you remind her, settling into the umbrella’s shade beside her, already digging in the bag for Sammie’s hat.

“Exactly,” she says, smug. She adds a generous shot of gin to her cup. “So where’s my union rep?”

With Sammie’s nose now officially greased up, Eddie lifts her hat and plops it gently over her curls.

“All done,” he announces. “Certified sun-proof. You’re good to go, short stuff.”

Sammie immediately turns to you for permission, bouncing from foot to foot like she might combust if she doesn't get to run into the water in the next five seconds.

“Alright, alright,” you laugh. “Go find Daddy and Joey. Tell them to share that bucket this time.”

“’Kay!” she chirps, already halfway running before you even finish the sentence. You watch her tiny legs kick up puffs of sand as she joins Steve and Joey at the edge of the surf, Steve crouched down to show them how to build a wall that won’t get wiped out by the next wave.

You sigh a little as you sit back under the umbrella’s shade. “Okay. Now I’m officially on vacation.”

“You mean you weren’t already relaxed wrangling sunscreen onto your kid while we heckled you?” Robin deadpans.

“Oh yeah, nothing says paradise like bribing a four-year-old not to cry about SPF,” you say. “Really hit peak serenity around the peeling skin part, thanks again.”

Robin shrugs and clinks her drink against your water bottle. “What can I say? I’m a giver.”

Eddie collapses into the chair on your other side, dramatically stretching his legs out in front of him. “I don’t wanna hear either of you complaining. I’m the one who had to do all the heavy lifting while being the fun uncle and the eye candy.”

“Oh my god,” Robin groans. “No one is looking at you.”

“That lifeguard definitely checked me out.”

“He was checking to make sure you put your joint out, you delinquent.”

Robin mixes you a matching drink and you laugh into it, loving how easily it all clicks into place. Like no time has passed, like you’ve all been doing this forever— teasing each other, talking nonsense under beach umbrellas, taking turns being the adult while the others screw around.

You grin, toes in the sand, sun warm across your knees, kids shrieking with delight a few feet away, and your favorite clowns on either side of you. The cabin is just behind you up the hill, full of bags still half-packed and probably a cooler sitting in the trunk that someone forgot to unload— but for now, none of it matters. For now, this is perfect.

You flash back for a beat, to years ago, the four of you in the city, full of caffeine and half-baked plans, convinced you were going to change the world. Back then, your lives were a series of questionable ideas and late-night takeout. Now, the plans involve two kids, full-time jobs, and the heavy, weirdly comforting reality of growing older together.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

“Best bad idea we’ve had in a while,” you murmur, watching Sammie shriek with laughter as a wave rushes up over her ankles.

Robin raises her can again. “To bad ideas.”

Eddie lifts his sunglasses with a grin. “To the beach.”

You clink all three together. “To the weekend.”

Half an hour later, the umbrella shade has shifted just enough to stretch over your legs, and your half-empty drink has warmed to that weird, sun-drenched temperature that makes you question if it’s still good.

Sammie is a full-on tornado in the shallows— laughing maniacally as she hurls wet sand at the sea, only to squeal and scramble back whenever the water retaliates. Joey, by contrast, is crouched with impressive concentration a few feet away, methodically digging a trench with a plastic shovel, occasionally looking up to offer quiet commentary about what he's building. There’s something about a turtle moat and a secret treasure room, if you heard him right.

Robin and Eddie have long since joined the chaos, Robin hip-deep in the water, yelling something about incoming pirate ships, and Eddie pretending to be a sea monster trying to pull her under. Joey's barely acknowledged them, but Sammie has taken to shrieking “Save me, Aunt Robin!” like she’s in a summer blockbuster.

You’re watching the whole circus unfold when a shadow stretches across the sand beside you. Steve peels away from the chaos and wanders up the beach, dripping wet and flushed from the sun. He shakes out his curls with one hand as he approaches.

“They’ve got enough adult supervision out there, right?” he asks, slumping into the chair beside you.

“Define ‘adult,’” you say, offering him your bottle of water. He takes it gratefully.

You hum, tipping your head back against the chair. The sun’s mellowed a little, hazy behind passing clouds, but the air is still thick with salt and sunscreen and the sound of waves. You’re quiet for a beat, listening to the crashing waves and the distant shriek of Sammie declaring war on Eddie’s sandcastle. Then, more gently:

“I was surprised when your mom called earlier,” you say. She’d called the landline at the cabin, and Steve had stepped outside to take it while you got the kids situated. “Everything okay?”

He freezes just slightly, a pause so small you almost miss it. His face stays relaxed, but you can feel the little shift beside you. Then he nods, quick, brushing a hand through his damp hair.

“Yeah,” he says. “She just... wanted to check in. Asked if we got here safe. You know how she is.”

You tilt your head. “I mean, not really. She doesn’t usually call unless it’s something.”

He shrugs, managing a casual smile that’s just convincing enough. “Guess she’s trying a new thing. Being all... maternal. Weird, right?”

You laugh, letting it go. You let the moment settle, comforted by the familiar rhythm between you. His presence beside you is warm and grounding, a small oasis of calm amid the chaos.

You both lapse into a contented silence, the kind that only comes after years of knowing each other, after shared dinners and emergencies and birthday parties and long nights when the kids wouldn’t sleep and someone had to make coffee at 3 a.m. The kind of quiet where not talking is the conversation.

The scene before you is a little chaotic, a little surreal: sun-glossed water, bright beach toys, your friends playing like children, your actual children playing like wild things. But it’s also so good , you think. So full.

Robin has Sammie perched on her shoulders now, stomping through the shallows like a warhorse, and Eddie’s dramatically flopping around nearby, howling, “No! Not the Sea Queen! My mortal enemy!”

That’s about when Robin cups her hands around her mouth and shouts, “Hey! Land-dweller! You comin’ in or what?”

“Me?” You shake your head, lazy and smug. “Too comfy.”

Eddie echoes her, pointing a dripping hand toward you. “Yeah, come on! You’re missing the world’s best game of Water Tag.”

“I don’t know, you look like you’re losing,” you shout back, sipping from your drink.

Robin places Sammie back down and turns her toward you. “Tell her you need her help, Sam.”

Sammie immediately throws her hands in the air. “Mommmmmmy! Come plaaaay!”

Joey pops up beside her, face half-covered in sand and the most serious expression you’ve ever seen. “We need you to be the Kraken.”

Steve coughs a laugh beside you. “Damn. Hard to say no to that.”

You squint at the water, and the four pleading faces in it. Robin grinning, Eddie already preparing a monologue, Sammie bouncing like she’s physically incapable of stillness, and Joey with Steve’s big brown eyes and that earnest little voice.

You sigh theatrically, set your drink aside, and spring to your feet. “Alright, fine. But you better run.”

Sammie shrieks. “SHE’S COMING!!!”

The water’s cold when it hits your ankles, but you don’t care. They scatter ahead of you, Sammie squealing, and Joey giggling.

You dive in without grace, arms stretched wide, chasing Sammie first because you know she loves it best, and she lets herself be caught with a dramatic scream. Joey tags your arm and darts away, fast as a minnow. You shriek back at him, laughing, and splash after them, flailing limbs and sparkling water everywhere.

The beach rings with noise. Laughter, splashes, shouted rules no one is following. It’s pure chaos. It’s perfect.

Eventually, the sun starts to dip lower, and Robin calls it— towel time. You all stumble out of the water in various states of soggy and sandy, kids chattering nonstop, adults blinking the salt from their eyes. Steve hands out towels like medals. Eddie finds the cooler and groans dramatically about needing an adult beverage. Robin’s already trying to wrangle the gear back into bags that somehow multiplied while you were playing.

Joey leans against your leg while you wrap him in a towel burrito. “I made a sea turtle house, Mom.”

You grin, pressing a kiss to his damp hair. “You’ll have to show me where it is in the morning.”

Sammie’s shivering in Steve’s arms, head resting on his shoulder, still babbling about the mermaid she swears she saw on the horizon.

The six of you start the slow climb back up the beach, trailing sandy towels and mismatched flip-flops, the porchlights glowing like a promise up ahead.

The cabin is warm with leftover golden light and the smell of grilled corn and watermelon still lingering from dinner. Robin’s put on an old tape (Melissa Etheridge, you think) and the windows are cracked to let in the evening air. You’ve all eaten too much, laughed too loud, and now you’re sunk deep into the comedown of a perfect beach day.

Sammie is completely out, curled like a kitten in Eddie’s lap on the couch, her curls damp and sticky with saltwater, her cheek smushed into his leg. He hasn’t dared move, just strokes her back absentmindedly with one hand while sipping a beer with the other.

Joey, still blinking slow and sleepy but clearly determined to make it just a little longer, is sitting cross-legged on the rug beside Robin, showing her the notebook he insisted on bringing. She’s bent close, cooing in exaggerated awe as he explains the blue crayon squiggles and little stick figures with wild hair. You catch the word “Kraken lair” and have to bite back a smile.

Steve’s slouched in the matching armchair next to you, long legs stretched out, drink sweating in his hand. He glances around at the chaos fondly.

The conversation winds lazily from there, looping through familiar territory: college stories, road trips, weird jobs. At one point, Eddie starts recounting the time he tried to impress a guy who worked at the comic shop by learning sleight-of-hand magic.

“Oh my god,” Robin gasps. “That wasn’t ironic?”

“It was a little ironic,” Eddie defends in a hushed tone. “But also very real. I had a deck of cards in every pair of pants.”

“Did it work?” Steve asks, grinning over his drink.

“Absolutely not. Turns out sleight-of-hand only works when you’re not also nervous-sweating all over the cards. God, that guy was a stone-cold stunner,” Eddie mutters, and Sammie stirs slightly in his lap, just enough for him to freeze and whisper, “Sorry, sorry, go back to sleep, small beast.”

Robin’s cackling when Joey quietly tugs her sleeve to show her another drawing. “This one’s you and Uncle Eddie fighting a sea monster.”

“I look jacked,” she says seriously. “Please never learn anatomy. It’s perfect.”

“You are so delusional, Robbie,” Eddie teases, while she flips him off as gently as possible with a child next to her.

Laughter bubbles up again, bright and stupid and easy. The music hums in the background, and Sammie sighs in her sleep, pressing her nose into Eddie’s knee. Joey is blinking harder now, his words slurring together as he tries to explain his final masterpiece: a two-headed mermaid fighting a volcano.

Eventually, you glance at the time and nudge Steve. “Bedtime?”

He nods, already reaching for Sammie carefully. “I’ll take her.”

Eddie hands her over with the gentleness of someone used to this. “If she wakes up, just tell her the Kraken’s sleeping too.”

“I’m using that,” Steve murmurs, adjusting her weight in his arms.

You gather Joey, who’s half-asleep against Robin now, his drawings clutched to his chest. He leans into you with a sleepy murmur and lets you carry him without protest.

The kids disappear down the hall in your arms, breathing heavy and warm and safe. You don’t bother with baths tonight. You brush their teeth and tuck them in, smoothing blankets and brushing away sand and whispering promises of pancakes and sea turtle houses in the morning.

When you finally return to the living room, Steve’s already behind the kitchen counter, sleeves pushed up and brow furrowed in what can only be described as Serious Bartender Mode. You watch as he moves confidently, pulling out bottles and muddling something with the back of a spoon.

“Alright,” he announces. “We’ve got one gin basil smash for Rob, one whiskey sour for me, one ‘please just make it strong’ for the delinquent, and…” He pauses, looking to you.

“Surprise me,” you say, dropping into the corner of the couch where Eddie’s just started to stretch out.

“Oh no,” Robin murmurs, now next to Eddie on the couch. “That’s how you ended up drinking Fernet and crying.”

“If you don’t want me crying, then turn off the Melissa Etheridge,” you defend mildly, earning a snort from Eddie.

A few minutes later, Steve delivers the drinks with the flourish of a practiced showman, plopping down in the chair beside you with his own in hand. You clink glasses all around, the ice clattering pleasantly in the dim light.

You take a sip, then glance at Robin over the rim of your glass. “So... how’s it going with that girl you’ve been seeing? The one with the motorcycle and the intimidating jawline?”

Robin raises a brow. “Which one?”

“Oh my God,” Eddie groans. “We get it, you’re cool.”

Steve leans forward like he’s at a poker table. “Wait, the mechanic? Or the dentist?”

“She’s a dental hygienist,” Robin corrects, then shrugs. “It’s good, I think. We’ve gone out a few times. She made me dinner last week and asked me what my top three albums of all time are. I totally freaked out, and couldn’t answer her.”

“What?” Steve laughs. “Why?”

“It’s too much pressure!”

“But your favorite album is--” Eddie starts, only to have the sentence completed by all of you:

“Dream of Life, Patti Smith.”

She blinks at you all, impressed and maybe a little alarmed. “Okay, wow. That was terrifyingly in sync.”

“I totally get what you’re saying though, Robbie,” you say, swirling the last bit of ice around in your glass. “It’s one thing to have a favorite album. One that you love so much it feels like home. But trying to come up with three albums that perfectly sum up who you are as a person? That’s like… an identity crisis waiting to happen.”

Eddie snorts. “Okay, Socrates.”

“I’m just saying!” You gesture vaguely with your glass. “I agree; there’s too much pressure. Like, do I pick the one that shaped my taste in music? Or the one that reminds me of high school? Or the one that makes me cry in a good way?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Can’t it be all three?”

“But then I’ll forget one that I deeply identify with and spiral at 3 a.m. about whether I’m fundamentally misrepresenting myself!”

Robin points dramatically. “Exactly!”

“Oh my God,” Eddie groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You people are exhausting. Just say Rumors and be done with it.” He tosses a pillow in your direction.

You catch it with a smirk. “Alright, fine. What are your top three, then?”

Eddie sits up straighter, clearly ready. “Okay. Master of Puppets, obviously. Holy Diver, Dio. And,” he pauses, dramatically, like he’s about to reveal his deepest secret, “Tapestry by Carole King.”

Robin nearly chokes on her drink. “No way.”

Steve’s eyes go wide. “Tapestry?!”

Eddie shrugs, completely unapologetic. “It’s a masterpiece. Don’t look at me like that. ‘So Far Away’ hurts, man.”

You’re already laughing. “Honestly, I should’ve expected that from you. You big sentimental jerk, Munson.”

Robin giggles. “Okay, I’m still on board with Patti Smith. Then probably The Queen is Dead, and… ugh, Heaven or Las Vegas.”

Steve nods like it’s exactly what he expected. “That tracks.”

Eddie turns to him. “Alright, Harrington. Lay it on us.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, then goes, “Born to Run, Purple Rain, and…” A pause. A glance at you, then a sheepish little grin. “That Cranberries album. The one you played all the time when the twins were born.”

Your heart does something a little unwise.

Robin clutches her chest. “You softie .”

Steve smirks. “Yeah, well. I had a baby in each arm and the love of my life dancing in the kitchen to ‘Dreams.’ Kinda burned into my brain.”

Your drink is suddenly very interesting. “Kinda the best album ever made,” you amend.

Eddie groans dramatically. “I’m gonna vomit.”

You barely get a sip of your drink before Robin looks at you pointedly. “Alright. You’re up.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your three albums,” Steve says, nudging your foot with his. “You don’t get to wiggle out of it just because you monologued about identity crises.”

Eddie grins. “Yeah, let’s go, Spiral Queen. Top three.”

You sigh and curl your legs underneath you, pressing the rim of your glass to your lips for a moment. “Okay. I want to say No Need to Argue by The Cranberries.”

But Steve immediately makes a face. “Uh-uh. That’s cheating. I already picked that one.”

You squint at him, indignant. “How is that cheating? It’s a different person’s list!"

“But it’s the same album,” Robin counters, already giddy with the chance to pounce.

Eddie points at you, accusatory. “Yeah, sorry, that’s a technical foul. You’re gonna have to dig deeper into the tragic-girl vault.”

You groan, laughing. “Unbelievable. You’re all monsters.”

Steve shrugs, smug. “I don’t make the rules.”

“You literally just did,” you shoot back, but the grin’s pulling at your mouth anyway. “Fine. Okay. First one: Joni Mitchell’s Blue. My mom played it constantly when I was a kid. I knew every word to ‘A Case of You’ before I knew my multiplication tables.”

Eddie clutches his chest. “Ugh. Devastating. I love it.”

Robin lifts her glass. “Perfect album. Continue.”

You pause, thoughtful, tracing a finger around the rim of your glass. “Second one… Parallel Lines, Blondie. For obvious reasons. Teen angst, messy eyeliner, dancing around my bedroom thinking I was very dangerous.”

Robin sighs happily. “God, yes. You’re on a roll, Y/n.”

Steve smiles at you, soft. “Okay, that’s two. What’s the third?”

You hesitate just long enough that they all lean in. And then you say it, quiet but certain: “The mixtape Steve made me in ’87.”

Eddie gasps. Robin actually drops her mouth open. Steve just sits there, stunned.

“Oh come on,” Robin says, scandalized. “That’s not an album!”

“That’s definitely cheating!” Eddie cries, nearly sloshing his drink. You’re all content to ignore the fact that there are currently sleeping kids on the premises.

You hold your ground, eyebrows raised. “Nope. If I’m forced to choose the music that shaped me… That tape is one of them.”

Steve practically glows, a slow, disbelieving grin breaking across his face. “You serious?” he asks, eyes already doing that stupid sparkly thing they do when you say something sappy without warning.

You glance at him. “You put love songs by Springsteen and Prince and The Cure on one cassette and handed it to me like it wasn’t going to change my life.”

Robin groans into her hands. “That’s so romantic I’m going to scream.”

Steve finally moves, leaning over to kiss you— quick, sweet, and totally besotted. “I can’t believe you picked that.”

You smile into his lips, stealing another kiss as your friends pretend to gag. You feel Steve’s laugh fan out onto your cheeks. “Believe it, Harrington.”

“I mean, I’m still calling foul,” Robin says, though she’s smiling like crazy. “But I respect the emotional manipulation.”

You all descend into laughter again, half-drunk and warm, trading one-liners and teasing stories. It’s late when things finally wind down, the kind of late where the music stops unnoticed and no one finishes their last drink. The air has gone soft and quiet, like everyone’s speaking in a lower register without meaning to. The couches are covered in discarded blankets, empty glasses, and the echo of the day’s sun still faintly warming your skin.

Robin yawns and stretches with a groan. “Alright, I’m tapping out. Got a long day of wrangling menaces tomorrow.”

“Hey!” Steve objects.

“Adorable menaces,” she amends. “Menaces whom I love with all my heart.”

Steve brushes your back gently as he passes to turn off the stereo. Eddie flips the last lamp off with a soft click.

“Night, darlings,” Robin calls as she disappears down the hall.

“Sweet dreams of sea monsters,” Eddie adds, heading in the opposite direction with a little wave.

You and Steve linger a second longer in the quiet, letting the peace of it settle over you like a blanket. Then you follow the others down the hallway, barefoot and sleepy, leaving the soft hush of the living room behind.

Steve doesn’t head straight to your room. Instead, he veers quietly toward the kitchen while you slip into the bedroom, peeling off the damp sweatshirt you threw on after your shower earlier. You’re halfway through brushing out your hair when he reappears in the doorway, holding something behind his back.

You narrow your eyes. “What did you do?”

He smiles, crooked and soft and a little sheepish. “You said earlier your shoulder’s been bugging you, right?”

You nod, unsure. He reveals a hot water bottle wrapped in a dish towel— one of the goofy ones with flamingos wearing sunglasses that Robin found in a cabinet this morning.

Your heart catches a little. “You’re so annoying when you do stuff like that.”

“Thoughtful?” he teases, walking over. “Considerate? Handsome?”

You snort, but you take the bottle from him anyway and rest it over your shoulder as you look at him through the mirror. The heat seeps into your skin, immediate and perfect. “Okay, fine. One point Harrington. We’re tied now, I suppose.”

Steve leans in and kisses the top of your head. “I’ll check on the kids.”

You watch him go, still smiling to yourself as you curl your toes into the soft rug and listen to his footsteps down the hall. You hear the gentle creak of a door, and the soft shuffling of blankets.

You brush your teeth and hum under your breath. You don’t hear the phone out on the kitchen wall ring until the third shrill chime, distant but clear.

Then Steve’s voice again— quieter this time. Not just gentle, but… hushed.

You frown, rinsing quickly and pad barefoot into the bedroom doorway, peering out into the hall. His silhouette is just visible in the kitchen, leaning slightly over the counter. The cord of the phone is wrapped tight in one hand.

You catch just the tail end of something, “Yeah, I know. I just… Do whatever you think is best,” before he hangs up and turns.

When he spots you, his expression shifts like a switch. He plasters on something easy and light. Too easy.

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “My mom again.”

You tilt your head. “This late?”

Steve shrugs. “She’s in one of her… moods, I guess. Wanted to hear how the day went. Asked about the kids.” He says it with a note of practiced exasperation, but you’re watching him too closely now to miss the way his jaw tenses just slightly. “Nothing dramatic.”

You nod slowly, but there’s a prickle in your gut that wasn’t there before. “You sure?”

His eyes meet yours for a second too long before he crosses the room and presses a kiss to your temple. “I’m sure,” he murmurs. “Promise. Come to bed.”

You let him guide you back into the warmth of the blankets, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. But your mind doesn’t settle quite as easily this time. Steve’s breathing deepens behind you, slow and even. You lie awake a little longer, eyes tracing the soft pattern of moonlight on the wall, that quiet little prickle still lingering in the back of your mind.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but the morning comes in loud and fast.

A crash from the kitchen. A shriek of laughter. A door slamming. Then Joey yelling, “MOOOOMMMMMY! SAMMIE PUT JELLY ON MY DRAWING!”

You groan into the pillow.

Steve groans into your shoulder.

There’s a moment— brief, precious— where neither of you moves. Just two grown adults pretending they don’t hear anything.

Then another crash. Followed by a voice, probably Robin’s, shouting, “Why is the toaster in the bathroom?!”

Steve sighs. “Okay. I’m going.”

He peels himself out of bed, already muttering something under his breath about caffeine and childproofing, while you sit up, stretching, the sheets slipping down your arms.

You follow the trail of chaos to the kitchen, where Joey’s mid-rant about the colony of sea monsters and Sammie is sitting on the table eating jelly straight out of the jar with her fingers. Robin’s got a spatula in one hand and a Pop-Tart in the other.

You’re barely pouring your coffee when the screen door creaks open, and Eddie strolls in from the back porch in sweatpants and sunglasses, looking like he’s stepped out of a band’s breakup album. There’s a cigarette tucked behind one ear and another freshly stubbed out on the deck railing.

“Morning, freaks,” he says around a yawn. “Is this a child-led uprising, or did you guys just give up?”

Steve turns instantly, voice sharp. “Hey. Don’t smoke with the kids around.”

Eddie freezes, brows lifting under the messy sweep of his bangs. “I was outside.”

“They can still see you,” Steve says, and there’s something in his voice, just a little too pointed, a little too intense for the moment.

You look up from your mug, surprised. “It’s okay, Steve. He was out back.”

Steve doesn’t look at you right away. Just presses his lips together, then runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… forget it.”

Eddie watches him a second longer, unreadable, then tosses both hands up in surrender. “I’ll smoke in the woods like a banshee, got it.”

Sammie perks up. “What’s a banshee?”

Robin groans, “Me, before coffee.”

The tension breaks like a soap bubble. You slide past Steve and bump his hip gently with yours. “C’mon. Let’s get them outside before they redecorate the whole place with fruit preserves.”

It takes a half hour of scrambling: packing snacks, sunscreen, wrangling Sammie into a swimsuit she insists is “too blue today,” and Joey running back inside three times to retrieve very specific shells for the roof of his sea turtle house. Eventually, you all make it down to the beach again, arms full of towels and pails and shovels and a cooler that Robin insists she packed “like a suburban goddess.”

The kids bolt ahead, already arguing over whose sandcastle gets the moat. You and Steve set up the umbrella while Eddie drapes himself over a towel with the exhausted grace of a man who deeply regrets ever waking up.

Robin tosses her sandals off and jogs after the kids, yelling something about architectural integrity and “sand engineering.” Steve follows a beat later, slower but smiling, already shedding his shirt as Joey shouts for help with his shells. You catch him pausing to ruffle Sammie’s hair on the way, pointing something out about wave patterns, his voice warm and gentle and grounding.

You and Eddie hang back beneath the umbrella. The shade is cool against your sun-warmed skin, the sand still clinging to your ankles from the walk down. Eddie flops onto the towel with a groan, and you settle beside him, knees drawn up, sunglasses sliding down your nose.

It’s the kind of day that’s lazy in the best way, breezy but not cold, the smell of salt thick in the air, sunscreen and seaweed and distant grilled food wafting from a few houses down. The sun blinks in and out of drifting clouds like it’s playing hide and seek, and the sound of the surf comes in steady, predictable pulses, like the beach is breathing.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters after a minute, shifting to glance toward the sandcastle drama. “They’ve already formed factions.”

“Robin’s trying to unionize the builders,” you reply dryly. “Steve’s in charge of moat logistics.”

He snorts out a laugh and tilts his head to look at you, squinting. His voice is quieter when he says, “Hey. Is he… okay?”

The question lands lightly, but something about it knots in your stomach.

You shift. “I mean… I guess he’s been tired. It’s been a long week.”

Eddie doesn’t push, but he doesn’t drop it either. “Yeah, sure. It just… I dunno. He’s off. Like, tense. On edge in a way that doesn’t feel like work or the kids or whatever…” He trails off, then says more gently, “You’d tell me if something was going on, right?”

You hesitate. Because nothing is going on. Not really. But there’s a weight in your chest that says you don’t know that for sure.

“He said it was his mom last night,” you admit quietly. “She called late. I heard him, and he said it was nothing, just her being... her. But he seemed weird. Jumpy. Like he was trying to cover something.”

Eddie’s brows draw together. “You think she’s okay?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me if she wasn’t.” You exhale, tugging your sunglasses off and pinching the bridge of your nose. “He’s been really careful not to lie, exactly. But it feels like he’s… hiding something. Or trying not to make me worry.”

“That always works,” Eddie deadpans.

You give him a look. “It’s probably nothing.”

“But you don’t believe that.”

You pause. “I want to.”

Eddie’s voice softens again. “Sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to push it with the smoking.”

You wave him off. “It’s fine. Steve was overreacting. He gets protective, especially with the kids around.”

“Still. I don’t want to mess up the vibe.”

“You’re not,” you say automatically, then glance toward the water, where Steve’s now got wet sand on his nose and a kid on each arm.

The scene is idyllic. Beautiful, even. It should feel perfect. But that prickle is back, faint and hard to ignore.

Eddie’s quiet beside you again. You’re both watching the people you love play in the surf. The kids shrieking with joy. The breeze catching Steve’s hair as he laughs at something Robin says. The sun glinting off the water.

You don’t say anything else.

But you’re both still thinking about it.

Eventually, Robin waves a towel like a flag and announces lunchtime, and everyone drifts back to the umbrella in sunburned, sandy waves. There’s grit in the cooler, juice boxes buried under damp bags of pretzels, and Eddie swears the sandwiches are sweating, but no one really minds. The bread’s squished, the peanut butter sticky, the chips all crushed into crumbs. And still, it tastes incredible. Sun-warmed and salt-crusted, like every childhood summer wrapped up in one bite.

Joey eats his sandwich deconstructed, one ingredient at a time. Sammie accidentally gets mustard in her eye (you’re not even sure what she was trying to do). Steve hands you a bottle of water before you even ask. His fingers graze yours, warm and grounding, and he smiles, soft and distracted.

You catch his gaze lingering on the kids— on Joey, covered in sand from the knees down, explaining some complicated plan to Eddie about his beloved sea turtle house— and something tightens in his jaw again. Just for a second. Then it’s gone.

After lunch, the sun climbs higher, hotter. The kids want to go back to building, and this time, you don’t hang back. You let yourself get pulled into the chaos with Steve and Robin. You crouch next to Joey as he draws flower patterns into the castle wall with a piece of driftwood.

You glance over at one point and see Steve listening intently, nodding along as Sammie explains the rules of her imaginary kingdom. He doesn’t laugh or brush it off, just gives Sammie his full attention, the way he always has. His hair’s a mess, his shirt is half-soaked from getting tackled earlier, and there’s sunscreen smudged on his cheek.

And you think, God , he’s so good at this.

There are sandcastles and attempted seashell currency systems, seagulls who nearly steal a full sandwich, and one dramatic collapse of a tower that results in a group funeral for a plastic shovel. Steve officiates. Eddie sings. Robin throws seaweed instead of flowers.

It’s good. Fun. The kind of day you’ll remember. The kind the kids will remember.

By the time the sun starts dipping lower, the breeze cooler now and laced with the scent of dinner cooking in far-off beach houses, everyone’s a little pink around the shoulders and bleary-eyed with tiredness.

Steve’s kneeling in the sand helping Joey rinse his hands with bottled water. Sammie’s trying to drag a piece of driftwood twice her size back toward the umbrella, insisting it’s absolutely crucial to take it home.

You and Steve work together, shaking out towels, repacking the cooler. The kids hover in and out of the process, too tired to be helpful but too wound-up to be still. You glance over your shoulder at him as you zip up a beach bag.

He’s quiet again. Not distant, but inward. Thoughtful.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He looks up at you, and for a moment, his face shifts like it did last night. Like he might say something.

But then Joey calls out to him, “Daddy, look at this seashell! It looks like a wizard hat!” and the moment vanishes. He flashes you a quick smile, ruffles your hair with one sandy hand, and jogs off to help.

You watch him go, something warm and fond blooming in your chest. But beneath it, that same quiet thrum.

By the time you all trudge back up to the cabin, the sun is melting behind the trees in streaks of pink and orange, and everyone is sticky, sun-drenched, and trailing sand through the house like a breadcrumb trail of summer.

Shoes are kicked off by the door. Swimsuits are peeled off and swapped for oversized shirts and soft shorts. Dinner is a communal effort. Robin is on pasta duty, and Eddie is slicing tomatoes. This devolves into bickering among the two of them in regard to the exact definition of “al dente” and when to pull the noodles. Steve pulls you in to help with garlic bread and refuses to let you go.

He slides in behind you at the counter, arms curling low around your waist, chin on your shoulder. “You smell like sunscreen and ocean and crumbs,” he murmurs, voice soft and tired and full of affection.

You laugh, elbowing him lightly. “That’s because I’ve been rolling around with your children in the sand all day.”

“You looked good doing it,” he says, nosing into the curve of your neck. His mouth brushes the skin there, not quite a kiss, but not not one either.

There’s a beat of quiet where it’s just the two of you, framed in the golden kitchen light and the smell of garlic and basil, and it hits you hard— how grateful you are for this, for him. How much he loves them. How much you love him.

He shifts to face you more fully, eyes earnest, voice barely above a whisper. “Thanks for today.”

You blink. “What?”

Steve just smiles, a little lopsided. “I mean it. You’re good with them. You’re good for me. I don’t say it enough.”

You can’t answer right away. You just reach up and press your hand to his cheek, brushing a bit of sand from his temple, and his eyes flutter shut under your touch.

You all squeeze around the table, plates heavy with pasta, garlic bread passed around, juice and soda and a bottle of red for the adults. Steve sits next to you, thigh pressed to yours beneath the table, hand occasionally brushing your knee when he reaches for something.

It’s loud, laughter echoing off the cabin walls. The kind of dinner that’s more about presence than polish.

And then the phone rings. Everyone quiets for half a second. Just enough to hear it ring again.

“I got it,” Steve says, already halfway to his feet.

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says too quickly. Already walking.

You watch him cross the kitchen, pick up the receiver. You don’t hear what he says, just see the way his shoulders tighten slightly. He murmurs something, then steps out the back door, letting the screen slam shut behind him.

Eddie looks at you, brow crinkled. You give a slight shrug, sipping your wine.

The chatter resumes, with Robin wrangling Sammie into her chair, and Joey eating each noodle individually. 

But your eyes flick back to the window. Outside, Steve paces a little, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’s tense— mouth tight, body pulled in like he’s bracing for something.

You catch his eye for a moment, and mouth “Your mom?” with your brows furrowed.

He hesitates, then gives the smallest nod. You don’t feel reassured. 

The conversation is short. Five minutes, maybe less. But when he comes back in, his jaw is tight, and he won’t quite meet your eyes. He’s trying to school his face into something neutral, but it’s not sticking. He’s still holding whatever that was.

Sammie runs up to him as he closes the door. “Daddy!” she says, pulling on his sleeve. “Mommy said we can do s’mores tonight!”

He sighs, scratching his eyebrow. “No, we’re not doing a fire tonight, Sammie.”

“Please?” Sammie tries again. “Uncle Eddie said he’d show me how to light the marshmallows on fire.”

Steve’s voice comes out sharper and louder than it should. “I said no , Sam.”

The air goes still. Sammie blinks, stunned. Her bottom lip wobbles. And through what you’ve always been convinced is twin telepathy, Joey’s face crumples too.

You stand up instinctively, but Steve’s already there, crouching down fast.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, voice cracking a little now. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I didn’t mean to yell. I just…” She won’t look at him.

“Steve,” you breath out, reaching for Joey and pulling him into your lap. “Was that really necessary?”

“No, I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry, Sammie.” She finally looks at Steve. Still watery, but nodding.  “I’m sorry, Joey. I didn’t mean to yell.”

Steve leans forward, presses a kiss to the top of Sammie’s head. Then another, like a silent apology stitched into skin. You watch him, heart aching.

Robin meets your eyes across the table. Worry there. Eddie’s gone quiet.

No one asks what the phone call was about. But you all feel it, now.

Steve stays knelt by Sammie for a few more seconds, smoothing her hair back, murmuring something only she can hear. You see the way his shoulders slowly drop, tension draining inch by inch, though his eyes still look tired and too far away.

Then Joey pipes up, his voice small but hopeful: “So… no s’mores?”

Steve looks up, glances at you, then Robin, then finally back at the kids. And sighs. “Of course we’re doing s’mores tonight,” he says, softer this time, trying for a smile.

Sammie lights up instantly, all forgiven. She lets out a squeal and does an adorable little spin. “Yes! Uncle Eddie said he’s gonna make a sugar volcano!”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve mutters as he pushes to his feet, rubbing at his neck. “Alright, Robin. Fire duty?”

Robin salutes with a wooden spoon. “Born ready. Let’s go play with matches.”

“Stay inside for a bit, and we’ll call you outside when it’s ready, okay?” Steve tells the kids, and the nod before scattering, Sammie grabbing her stuffed giraffe and Joey dragging his crayons into the living room.

Steve grabs the lighter from the top shelf, and Robin tugs on his sleeve before they head out. You watch her lean in, say something low near his ear. He nods once— tired, but grateful— and the two of them slip out the back door into the cooler evening air.

You start stacking plates, moving on instinct. Eddie stands too, gathering napkins and stray cups, dropping them into the trash one-handed while grabbing a dishtowel with the other.

You can feel his eyes on you before he speaks.

“You gonna talk to him tonight?” he asks quietly, not looking up.

You glance toward the living room to make sure the kids are distracted. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I think I have to.”

Eddie nods. Rinses a plate. Doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then, “He’s not mad at them. You know that, right?”

You sigh, drying the dish he hands you. “I know.”

“It’s like…” Eddie trails off, then shrugs. “I’ve seen that look before. You get a call, the one you don’t want but can’t ignore, and it screws up everything after. Doesn’t matter if it’s five minutes or five hours. It sticks.”

You glance toward the window, watching the flicker of orange starting to dance in the fire pit outside. Steve and Robin are hunched near it, Robin obviously giving instructions he’s half-listening to. His hand keeps raking through his hair.

“I just don’t know what it is,” you say softly. “He said it was his mom, but he’s not telling me what’s going on. I don’t know if she’s okay, or if something happened, or if it’s just her being…”

“Herself?” Eddie offers gently.

You nod.

He leans against the counter. “He’s probably trying to protect you from it. From her.”

“I don’t need protection from a phone call,” you say, but even as the words leave your mouth, they feel a little hollow. “I just… I want him to talk to me.”

“He will,” Eddie says. “You’re the one he always talks to. Just… maybe tonight he needs a nudge.”

You look down at the towel in your hands, at the fading grease smudge and the tiny pasta stain, and nod.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

Eddie bumps your shoulder with his. “For the record, I’m not lighting anything on fire unless Steve gives me full legal permission.”

You huff a laugh, grateful for the shift. “Coward.”

“Realist,” he corrects. “With hair like this, I can’t risk it.”

Outside, you hear the crackle of the fire catch. Robin cheers, and Steve calls for the kids, who dart out wildly.

You and Eddie trail after them, stepping into the flickering firelight. The warmth of the flames cuts the chill of the evening air, the sky deepening to a dusky blue overhead. The scent of woodsmoke curls through the air, mixing with the sweet promise of toasted sugar.

Steve’s crouched by the fire, sleeves pushed up, methodically unwrapping chocolate bars and graham crackers onto a paper plate. He looks up when Sammie launches herself onto the log beside him, grinning like nothing ever happened.

And Steve, his eyes soft, tired but still so tender, smiles back.

“Alright, little pyromaniacs,” he says, voice gentle now, “rules of the fire: no running, no sword fights with marshmallow sticks, and if your marshmallow catches on fire, don’t fling it at your sibling.”

He moves slowly, deliberately, but he doesn’t hesitate. He helps Sammie press her s’more together, fingers sticky with melted chocolate. He teaches Joey how to rotate his marshmallow just-so. He makes one for you without asking, offering it with a tired smile and eyes that linger a second too long.

Then Eddie, true to his word and against his better judgment, brings out his guitar.

“Alright, tiny gremlins,” he says, settling into a camp chair. “Requests?”

Sammie and Joey shout out requests of songs they barely know the names to, songs that you and Steve loved in high school, and that he now plays for them in the car. Eddie wrinkles his nose in disgust at the amount of Van Halen and Madonna, but your brows shoot up in surprise when he slowly reveals that he knows the chords for all of them .

“Shut up,” he tells you as you laugh at him. “I’m a musical genius; it’s not hard to know all of these.”

“I just didn’t know you had such a soft spot for Blondie,” you jab.

Robin snorts and slides onto the log beside you, cracking open a canned something that fizzles and smells vaguely of mango.

Eddie continues strumming along, eventually devolving into some made-up song about two dragons named Sammie and Joey, as they watch him with wide eyes and awe-struck mouths.

Steve doesn’t say much, but you catch him watching it all with this quiet, worn kind of love, like he’s trying to memorize it in case it slips away. His hand comes to rest on Sammie’s back as she clambers into his lap mid-song, her sticky fingers leaving sugar streaks on his shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Just brushes her hair out of her face and hums along, his chin resting on top of her head.

Eventually, the kids tire out. It happens all at once, like a switch flipped. Sammie slumps against Steve’s shoulder mid-marshmallow, and Joey stumbles into you with half-lidded eyes and an open graham cracker sleeve. Once the bedtime process starts— pajamas, toothbrushes, water cups— they’re melting like marshmallows left too close to the flame.

You and Steve tag-team the routine with practiced ease, helping Sammie into her favorite nightgown, finding Joey’s favorite stuffed triceratops wedged under the couch.

Robin stumbles, slightly tipsy, into her room with a kiss blown in your direction, and Eddie heads toward his room with his guitar, tossing you a lazy salute. “Wake me if the kids try to set anything else on fire.”

As you make your way back to the bedroom, you hear Steve in the kids’ room. He lingers for a moment by Sammie, brushing her hair back from her forehead.

“I’m sorry for earlier,” he says quietly.

Sammie blinks sleepily. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he murmurs, kissing her forehead. “That wasn’t your fault. I just had a weird day.”

She nods like she understands far more than she should. “It’s okay,” she says again. “You were just cranky.”

Steve huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. I was cranky.”

Joey’s already asleep, curled up in a tangle of dino blankets. Steve closes the door gently behind him. The hallway is dim and hushed, the only sound the soft creak of wood cooling from the day’s heat. Steve exhales and leans back against the wall, his eyes closed for a beat too long. You can see the way his shoulders drop now that the kids are down, now that it’s just the two of you again. But it’s not peace. It’s fatigue. Deep, bone-level weariness that’s been building all day.

You take his hand, warm and callused, and curl your fingers around his.

“Do you wanna talk?” you ask gently.

Steve’s eyes open, and for a second, you think he might say no. That he’ll wave it off with some excuse about being tired or it not mattering. But then he squeezes your hand and nods, barely.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just… not in here.”

You grab your hoodie and slip on your sandals while he pulls a sweatshirt over his head. Quietly, carefully, you sneak out the back door and down the wooden stairs, stepping off the porch into cool sand still holding onto the last bit of sun-warmth. The firepit’s embers glow faint behind you, the smell of woodsmoke lingering in your clothes.

The beach is quiet and dark, the sky sprawling wide above you in a blanket of stars. The moon hangs low, half full, casting silver ribbons across the gently lapping waves. The wind moves soft and steady, rustling through dune grass, brushing against your skin like a whisper.

You walk for a little while in silence, your footsteps soft in the sand. Steve’s hand is still in yours, but his grip is loose, like he doesn’t know what to do with it. His other hand is shoved into his hoodie pocket, his brow furrowed. He keeps glancing at the ocean like he’s trying to find the right words in the tide.

Eventually, he stops walking and looks out over the water. The breeze tousles his hair, and the moonlight catches on his profile: strong jaw, tight mouth, the tense line between his brows.

“I really am sorry,” he says quietly. “For yelling at the kids.”

“I know,” you say, stepping a little closer. “I know you didn’t mean it. It scared them. But you caught it. You apologized. That’s what matters.”

Steve nods, but he doesn’t look relieved. Just more twisted up.

“I just… I never wanna be that guy,” he mutters. “The one who loses his temper and scares the people he loves.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, gently: “Is that what this is about? Today?”

Steve swallows hard, eyes still on the water.

“My dad,” he says eventually. “That’s what the calls have been about.”

You don’t say anything, just let him keep going, even as the words seem to stick in his throat.

“He’s sick. Lung cancer.” He says it flat, matter-of-fact, like if he doesn’t put weight on the words, they won’t sink. “Stage four. It’s in his bones, too. And… he didn’t tell me. For months.”

You feel your breath hitch, but you wait.

“I haven’t talked to him in years. I mean, really talked. We haven’t had a relationship since…” He lets out a dry, mirthless laugh. “I mean, you know how he was. How he is .”

You reach for him, wrapping your arm around his waist. He leans into it, just slightly.

“I thought I’d feel… I don’t know. Angry. Or numb. But it’s like I’m a kid again and he’s yelling in the kitchen and I’m just waiting for it to be over.”

You squeeze his hand tighter. The breeze picks up, sending a spray of sand across your shins. Steve stares at the waves.

“And now he’s dying. And my mom wants me to come see him. To say goodbye. To… I don’t know. Make peace or something.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “And I just… can’t. I don’t know if I want to. But then I look at Joey and Sammie, and I think about yelling like that, and—” His voice cracks. “I don’t want them to remember me that way.”

You step in front of him, cupping his face, feeling the prickle of stubble against your palms. “They won’t,” you say. “Honey, you’re nothing like him.”

His eyes are red-rimmed, but he doesn’t cry. Just looks at you like he’s not sure what to do with the relief and the shame tangled up in his chest.

“You lost your temper once . That doesn’t undo all the bedtime stories, the piggyback rides, the way you hum when they fall asleep on you. That doesn’t make you him.”

Steve leans forward, presses his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut. You can feel his breath on your lips, shaky and soft.

“I’m trying so hard,” he whispers.

“I know,” you whisper back. “And you’re doing a damn good job.”

You stand like that for a while, the two of you held together by moonlight and sand and the distant hush of the ocean. The wind shifts again, lifting his hoodie and tugging your hair.

“And the kids… they’re so happy here. I don’t want to ruin that. I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

You shift closer, pressing your forehead to his temple. “You’re not ruining anything.”

He exhales shakily, like he’s been holding it in all day.

“You should’ve told me,” you whisper.

“I know. I just… I didn’t know how.”

You sigh, pressing your nose against his cheek. “God, I’m so sorry, honey.”

“It’s okay,” he says, immediately.

“No it’s not,” you argue.

“No, it’s not,” he agrees.

“Eddie’s worried about you,” you tell him.

Steve grimaces, eyes dropping to where your hands are laced together. “I know,” he says quietly. “Robin too. You. Probably even the kids, a little.”

You give him a look. “Of course we are.”

“I just…” He lets out a breath and shakes his head.

You step closer, resting your hands gently against his chest. His heart is thudding under your palms, a little too fast.

“I understand that it’s, like, your worst nightmare to have someone worry about you,” you say, soft but steady. “But I’m here. We’re all here. And it’s happening, so…”

Steve’s mouth pulls into this sad, crooked line, like he wants to argue but knows there’s no point. He leans his forehead against yours again, eyes closing.

“I told Robin,” he murmurs. “Couple days ago. I had to. She knew something was off. I didn’t want to at first, but she was just… being Robin.”

You smile faintly, your thumbs brushing against the fabric of his hoodie. There’s a long pause where all you can hear is the ocean and the wind, the hush of it folding gently around you both.

“I don’t want to tell the kids yet,” Steve says finally. “Not until I figure out what I’m gonna do.”

“Okay,” you say, without hesitation. “That’s okay.”

He looks at you then, like he’s bracing himself.

“If you want to go see him…” you say carefully, “we can make that happen. I’ll stay with the kids. Or we’ll all go. Whatever you need.”

Steve looks down, blinking hard. “I don’t know yet.”

You nod. “That’s okay too.”

For a moment, you just stand like that— holding each other under the moonlight, the tide sliding in and out at your feet.

You tip your chin up, and he meets you halfway, lips brushing yours with something fragile and grateful threaded into it. He kisses you slow, like he’s trying to say something he can’t quite form into words. Like thank you , like I’m sorry , like I don’t know how to carry this .

You pull back just enough to whisper, “I love you.”

He smiles, soft and tired, but real. “I love you too.”

Back inside, the cabin is warm and dark, the embers in the firepit outside barely glowing now. You check the kids one last time. Joey is starfished on the bed, one sock off and his dino clutched tight, and Sammie’s curled into a ball, her arm slung over a pillow, hair a mess of little curls.

Steve pulls the blanket up over her shoulder and brushes a kiss to her temple.

Then, finally, you both head to your room. The hush of night wraps around you, and when you slide under the covers, Steve reaches for you instantly. His arms curl around you like muscle memory, like this is the only place he can rest.

He doesn’t say anything else, just buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out one long, quiet breath. You don’t need to say anything. You just hold him, the weight of the day settling between your bodies, shared. Carried. Wrapped in the dark, wrapped in each other.

The morning comes slow and golden.

Sunlight filters through the curtains in soft strips, warming your cheek where it rests against the pillow. Steve’s arm is heavy around your waist, his breath steady at the back of your neck. You shift just enough to look at him. His hair is a mess, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, face soft with sleep. You let him rest a little longer.

By the time you both finally get up, it’s pleasantly late. The kind of late where no one’s rushing, and the whole world feels like it’s still stretching into itself. Padding out into the living room, you’re greeted with a scene so gentle it stops you in your tracks.

Eddie sits cross-legged on the rug, his guitar resting on his lap, and Sammie wedged between his chest and the guitar, her tiny fingers on top of his on the frets as he shows her the chords to something slow and simple. Her tongue pokes out in concentration, and Eddie’s voice is soft, patient, his usual showboating turned all the way down to bedtime-volume.

Robin’s on the couch with Joey curled against her side, sketchpad on his lap. She’s helping him draw a sea turtle, one hand gesturing wildly while the other sips from a mug. Joey’s got marker all over his fingers and an intense focus in his eyes.

You lean against the doorway and smile, heart full.

Robin spots you first. “Oh good. The grown-ups are up.”

“Y/n, this little maniac’s got natural talent,” Eddie tells you, then catches sight of Steve walking into the room as well. “Seriously, Harrington. She’s born to shred.”

Sammie beams.

You catch Steve’s hand behind you and squeeze it gently. “Hey,” you say softly, looking up at him. “Why don’t I take them down to the water for a bit?”

His eyes flick toward Eddie, then back to you. There’s a quiet gratitude in the way he nods.

So you pull the kids together, pack a quick bag— towels, sunscreen, Sammie’s glittery pail, Joey’s goggles that are permanently fogged no matter how much you rinse them— and corral everyone outside with Robin.

The walk to the beach is easy, the path worn now from your week of coming and going. The sky is impossibly blue, the breeze sweet with salt, the morning air still cool enough to make the first touch of the ocean a little thrilling.

Robin helps Joey start the finalized version of his sea turtle house, and you watch as Sammie splashes around in the water, doing what she deems to be a cartwheel (far from it).

You don’t talk about anything heavy. You don’t need to. The waves do all the talking. Later, when you’re hallways through building a lopsided mermaid tail on Robin’s legs, you see Steve and Eddie making their way down the path. They don’t say much, but something about the way Steve’s shoulders sit tells you the talk was what it needed to be.

He catches your eye, and you offer him a smile. He gives you one back. Real. Lightened, if only a little.

The rest of the day passes like a dream— sand in everything, Sammie shrieking when a fish brushes her foot, Joey convinced he saw a turtle try to swim up by him. 

You eat lunch on the beach. You lose track of time. Eventually, the sun starts to dip, the kids start to crash, and you all trudge back to the cabin to pack. The final hour is a whirlwind of damp swimsuits, forgotten water bottles, and sandy feet stomping through the cabin.

Robin makes a last sweep through the rooms, calling out things like, “This sock has no match but I refuse to leave it behind!” while Eddie packs snacks like you’re prepping for a three-day drive instead of a few hours on the road.

Steve wrestles with the beach umbrella that definitely wasn’t this long when it first came out of the bag. You fold Sammie’s favorite hoodie— still salty and stained with juice— and tuck it into her backpack next to Joey’s battered sketchpad.

Eventually, everything finds its place.

Robin and Eddie’s car is packed up first. Eddie heaves the cooler in with a dramatic groan, and Robin leans back against the hood. “Alright, little monsters,” she says, squatting down to Sammie and Joey’s level. “Come give your Aunt Robin a proper goodbye.”

The kids barrel into her, Sammie’s arms around her neck and Joey muttering something about how the beach was “ten million out of ten.”

Eddie scoops them both up next. “No rock band practice until I come over, alright?” he warns, ruffling Sammie’s curls.

You and Steve work on loading up your car. Kids first, then bags, then the inevitable collection of forgotten socks, half-used sunscreen, and the glitter pail that Sammie absolutely refuses to part with. Joey is already nodding off in his booster seat, sun-drunk and blissed out, and Sammie’s humming to herself, wrapped in her favorite towel like a little burrito.

Once everything is packed and zipped and double-checked, the four of you— grown-ups now, somehow, despite the sand still sticking to your ankles and the drowsy pull of the sun— meet in the driveway.

There’s a pause. One of those rare, easy silences that feels like it means something.

Robin pulls Steve into a hug first, tight and immediate, her chin hooked over his shoulder. “You know I’m not gonna say anything emotional because I’ll cry and ruin this whole thing,” she says, voice muffled, “but I’m here. For all of it. Whatever you need.”

Steve nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. When they part, Eddie steps in and clasps his shoulder, a quiet sort of gesture from someone who’s usually all jabs and noise.

“I got you, man,” Eddie says, rough and sincere. “Anything. Anytime. Even if it’s just to yell about your old man and punch something in my garage.”

Steve huffs a laugh, grateful.

Robin turns to you next, sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head. “You’re stuck with us too, y’know,” she says, softer now. “No backing out. We love you guys. So… whatever this next part looks like, you don’t have to do it alone.”

You swallow thickly, nodding as she pulls you into a hug that smells like sunscreen and sea air and that faint herbal shampoo she uses. “I know,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Eddie claps his hands once, like he’s trying to cut the emotion before it gets too thick. “Okay, okay, that’s enough sincerity. We’re dangerously close to, like, a group cry, and I refuse to go out like that.”

“You’ll cry in the car anyway,” Robin teases.

“Yeah, if you keep fucking playing Melissa Etheridge, Buckley!”

Steve lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head, eyes still a little glassy. “You guys are the worst,” he says, voice warm, “and also the best.”

“Correct,” Robin grins.

“Undeniably,” you add. “Also, we’re already planning dinner when we get back, right? Like, we can’t go more than a day without each other or the universe collapses.”

“Gross,” Eddie deadpans. “Of course.”

Steve smiles again, something deep and settled in it now.

There’s one last round of hugs: Robin making Joey promise to call her with turtle updates, Sammie begging Eddie to teach her a “real rock song” next time, the whole group lingering like no one wants to be the one to break the spell.

Eventually, Eddie and Robin pile into their car, “Come to My Window” already playing as they roll out of the gravel driveway with waves and horn honks trailing behind them.

You and Steve climb into your own car, Sammie already asleep, her cheek smushed against the window, and Joey half-mumbling something about snacks in his sleep.

The road home stretches in front of you, long and winding, but not as heavy now. You reach over and take Steve’s hand, lacing your fingers together over the center console. He squeezes back without looking. He just holds on.

A couple of weeks later, the sky is overcast as you pull up to Eddie and Robin’s place a couple blocks over from yours. It’s not raining, but it smells like it might, and everything has that grayish-blue tint that makes the world feel quiet.

Sammie is practically vibrating with excitement in the backseat, already halfway unbuckled. “Uncle Eddie said we could write a song,” she beams.

Joey is less enthusiastic. He’s holding onto his stuffed dinosaur, his brows pinched together and his lip wobbling just slightly. Steve’s been watching him in the rearview mirror for the last five minutes.

You glance at Steve as you park, offering a gentle smile. “We won’t be gone long.”

He nods, but his grip on the steering wheel is tight.

Robin comes bouncing out of the house first, hoodie zipped halfway over paint-splattered overalls. “Alright, my favorite small humans, who’s ready for an extremely responsible weekend full of healthy snacks and no injuries whatsoever?”

Eddie follows behind her with a dramatically slow walk, sunglasses on despite the clouds, guitar slung over his back. “You ready to rock, princess?” he calls, and Sammie lets out an actual squeal as she throws the door open.

“YES.”

Joey lingers, slower to move.

You and Steve climb out, grabbing the kids’ overnight bags, passing off instructions you all already know but say anyway: don’t forget Sammie’s bedtime song, Joey’s afraid of the dark but won’t admit it, TV time rules are flexible but not too flexible.

Sammie barely spares you a wave as she runs toward Eddie, who lifts her up like a tiny rockstar and sets her down at his amp setup in the garage. Robin’s crouched down in front of Joey now, asking if he wants to help her make lunch.

But he doesn’t move.

Steve kneels beside him, already reading the look on his son’s face. “Hey, buddy.”

Joey swallows hard. “Do you have to go?”

Steve falters. Just for a second. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Just for a couple nights.”

Joey’s eyes fill instantly. “But… what if I need you?”

You crouch next to Steve, hand on Joey’s back. “You can call us, any time. You know that.”

“But you won’t be here,” Joey whispers, voice thick. “And I—” He doesn’t finish it. He just crashes forward into Steve’s chest, arms wrapping tight around his neck, and the sound that escapes him is small but sharp.

Steve holds him like he’s anchoring them both. “I know,” he murmurs. “I know, buddy. I don’t wanna go either.”

You watch him blink hard, one hand smoothing down Joey’s hair as he breathes through it. And then Joey’s whisper: “Please don’t be gone too long.”

It nearly splits Steve in half.

“I won’t,” he promises, voice hoarse. “I swear. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Eventually, Joey loosens his grip. Robin comes to stand behind him, gentle hand on his shoulder, and you mouth thank you to her over his head.

Eddie gives Steve a look as he walks past, quiet, steady. I got him , it says.

Steve nods.

One more round of hugs. A whispered I love you to both kids. And then you and Steve are climbing into the car again, the doors shutting with a soft finality.

Joey’s still watching from the porch, arms wrapped tight around his dinosaur, Robin beside him. Sammie’s somewhere inside already, a guitar string plinking faintly through the open garage door.

You pull away slow, the tires crunching over gravel, and Steve doesn’t look back. Not yet.

It’s quiet in the car for a long time. Just the soft hum of the engine, the world drifting past in streaks of gray and green.

Then he says, barely above a whisper, “That was the hardest part.”

You reach over, take his hand, and hold on tight.

“I know,” you say. “We’ll get through the rest together.”

The flight to Indiana is quiet.

Steve stares out the window the entire time, arms crossed tight over his chest. He hasn’t eaten much all day, just picked at the sad little granola bar from the airport and sipped his coffee.

You don’t push. You sit beside him with a hand on his knee, thumb tracing idle circles. You ask if he wants a mint, offer your headphones, and at one point he does take your hand, holding it in his lap like something solid to keep from unraveling.

The closer you get to Indiana, the more tense he becomes.

He doesn't talk much during the drive from the airport either. The rental car smells like peppermint and vinyl, and he keeps fiddling with the AC, flipping it on and off like he’s trying to focus on something.

“I can call the hospital and double-check visiting hours,” you offer gently.

“I already called,” Steve says, a little sharper than he means to. “Twice.”

You blink, then nod. “Okay. That’s good.”

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Sorry. I just— I don’t wanna get there and have them say we can’t see him. Or that he’s—” He cuts himself off.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I get it.”

He doesn’t respond, just focuses on the road. You reach over and squeeze his hand again, thumb rubbing over the back of it.

By the time you’re pulling into Hawkins, the sun is starting to dip. Everything looks just a little off. The town hasn’t changed much—same rusting water tower, same faded gas station sign—but it feels different. Smaller, maybe. Or maybe that’s just you, changed enough now that Hawkins doesn’t fit quite right anymore.

Steve slows as you pass through the old downtown strip, his eyes flicking to the places he used to haunt: the Family Video he and Robin worked at, now an empty storefront with paper over the windows. The diner where the two of you would share milkshakes. The alley where he used to sneak cigarettes with Tommy H. when he thought no one was watching.

“It’s weird,” he murmurs, like he’s speaking mostly to himself. “Being back.”

You glance over at him. “Yeah.”

There’s a long pause. He exhales shakily. “I don’t know what I’m gonna say to him.”

“You don’t have to decide yet,” you tell him. “You don’t owe him anything rehearsed.”

“I haven’t seen him in years.”

“I know.”

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “What if he doesn’t even recognize me?”

You reach over and rest your hand on his shoulder. “Then you’ll leave. We’ll get pancakes and go back to the hotel and cuddle under too many blankets and call the kids. We’ll listen to Sammie and Eddie rocking out.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh. “She’s gonna be insufferable by Sunday.”

“Fully drunk on rockstar energy,” you grin. “We should probably prepare ourselves now.”

Steve smiles faintly, and for a second, the pressure behind his eyes seems to ease.

You pull into the parking lot of the little hotel on the edge of town. The sign flickers faintly, but the lobby’s warm and smells like old carpet. The room itself is nothing special. Neutral colors, beige bedding, a window that overlooks the highway. But it’s quiet. Private. And when you both kick off your shoes and sink onto the edge of the bed, it feels… safe enough.

Steve sits with his elbows on his knees, head bowed.

You settle beside him and rub a hand down his back. “Do you want to shower? Eat? Lie down?”

He shakes his head. “Just… need a minute.”

You nod and lean into him, cheek resting against his shoulder.

Outside, Hawkins buzzes faintly, a low hum of streetlights and passing cars. Inside, it’s just you and him. The boy who left this town, and the man he became after.

The next morning is gray and quiet. A low sort of light filters in through the hotel curtains, painting everything in soft blue and pale gold. Steve wakes early, already dressed by the time you sit up and rub your eyes. His hands are fidgeting— watch strap, wallet, keys—and there's a restlessness to him like he’s carrying something too big inside his chest.

You brush your hair back and sit up fully. “Hey,” you say gently. “Are you sure you want me to come?”

He pauses in the middle of adjusting his cuff, looks over at you with that worn, wired expression.

“I don’t know what it’s gonna be like,” he admits, voice low. “My mom’s probably gonna say something weird, and my dad— he might not even be awake. But…” He exhales, slow. “Yeah. I want you there.”

You nod. “Okay. Then I’ll be there.”

The hospital smells like antiseptic and lemon floor cleaner, and the fluorescent lights buzz just a little too loud. It’s not a big facility— Hawkins Memorial hasn’t changed much since the eighties— but the sterile walls and faint beeping machines make everything feel a little surreal. The nurse at the front desk gives Steve a sympathetic look when he checks in, and he just nods.

His mom is already in the room when you get there. She’s sitting in the corner chair, a cup of coffee clutched in both hands, her hair swept up and clipped in a way that looks like it took a lot of effort to look effortless.

Her eyes flick to you first, then Steve. She stands up quickly. “Oh, honey.”

She moves to hug him, and for a second, Steve freezes. Then he hugs her back, short and stiff.

“Hi, Mom,” he says, voice tight.

She pulls away and cups his face, looking at him like she’s trying to drink him in. “You look so grown,” she says. “Older. You’ve filled out.”

You glance at Steve and see the flicker behind his eyes, something between discomfort and restraint.

Then she looks at you and smiles a little more softly. “And Y/n. It’s been too long.”

You offer a polite nod. “Hi, Mrs. Harrington. Yeah, it has.”

She sits back down and gestures toward the two visitor chairs. “Sit, please. He’s been in and out today. They’ve got him on a lot of things for the pain.”

Steve nods numbly and walks over to the bed. His dad is there, smaller than you remember, his frame sunken under the blanket. He stirs a little when Steve sits, mumbling something incoherent before drifting back into a doze.

Steve’s hand trembles slightly as he rests it on the edge of the bed. You settle in beside him quietly.

His mom keeps talking, mostly light things. “The twins are in kindergarten now, aren’t they? Or is it Pre-K?” she asks, turning to you.

“Kindergarten,” you say, digging in your bag. “They’re loving it. We actually brought some photos.” 

You hand them over, a little envelope of glossy prints: Sammie holding her glittery pail, Joey half-buried in sand, both kids covered in salt and smiles.

His mom flips through them, her face softening. “Oh. Look at them. Look at Joey; he’s so big now. He looks like Steve.”

Steve’s jaw tightens faintly.

“They had such a good time at the beach,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “Sammie’s still talking about the sandcastle. And Eddie’s teaching her how to play the guitar.”

“Oh, Eddie.” His mom smiles again. “He was such a little punk in high school. Never thought he’d stick around.”

You just nod.

The hours pass slowly. The room is quiet except for the shuffle of nurses and the occasional half-dreamed mutter from Mr. Harrington. Steve doesn’t talk much, just sits beside the bed, eyes locked on the figure under the blanket. Every now and then, his mom tries to fill the silence. She asks about the kids, the house, your neighborhood. You answer as best you can, and Steve just stays still, jaw tight, shoulders tense.

Eventually, your body starts to sag into the stiff hospital chair, the lull of machines and monotony pulling you under. Your eyes slip shut.

And that’s when she says it. “We’ve been talking,” his mom murmurs. “Your father and I. About the house.”

Steve glances up, wary.

She folds the photo envelope in her hands. “We want you to have it. The house. When he’s gone.”

Steve just stares at her.

“We know it hasn’t always been easy,” she says quickly, like she knows the reaction she’s going to get. “But it’s a good house. It’s your home. You should have it.”

Steve lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “It’s not my home.”

She frowns. “Don’t say that.”

He sits back a little, arms crossing over his chest. “I don’t have any good memories there, Mom.”

Her mouth tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s the truth,” he says, a little sharper now. “That house was never safe for me.”

She looks down. The silence stretches.

Steve glances at you. Then back at her. “I have a home,” he says. “With Y/n. With the kids. That’s where my good memories are now. That’s where I want to be.”

The words settle between them, solid and steady.

His mom nods eventually, slowly. “Okay,” she says quietly. “Okay.”

The hotel room is quiet when you get back.

Muted city sounds hum outside the window, the occasional passing car, a distant siren, a burst of laughter that doesn’t quite reach you. Inside, it’s just the thick silence of too many feelings shoved into too small a space. You shut the door behind you, and Steve immediately shrugs out of his jacket like it’s suffocating him.

He’s been quiet since the hospital. Quiet in a way that feels more like boiling than peace.

You give him space. Toes out of your shoes. Bag on the dresser. “You want something to eat?” you ask gently. “I think there’s still that Thai place—”

“I’m not hungry,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face.

You nod. “Okay. Maybe later.”

He paces the room once, then twice, then stops and presses his palms to the edge of the desk like he’s trying to hold himself upright. “That was a waste of time,” he says, suddenly. “He didn’t even know I was there."

“He did,” you say softly. “He was just—”

“He didn’t,” Steve snaps, turning to face you. “He didn’t say a single thing. He doesn’t even know who I am anymore, and the parts of him that do remember— what the hell do they even remember? Yelling at me? Telling me I was useless? That I was embarrassing?”

You go still.

He breathes hard through his nose, then groans and turns away again. “God. I didn’t mean that at you. I just— I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired.”

You walk over to him slowly and lay a hand between his shoulder blades, gentle and steady. He doesn’t flinch. Just leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk again.

“I know,” you murmur. “I know you’re tired.”

“I shouldn’t have brought you,” he says, voice raw now. “I shouldn’t have dragged you into this. I wanted you here, and then I just— snapped at you.”

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you say simply. “I can take it. You don’t have to keep everything in.”

His shoulders hitch once. Then again. His head drops between his arms, and when he speaks again, it’s not really speech at all. Just a broken sound in the back of his throat, choked and miserable.

You step closer. Wrap your arms around his waist from behind, holding on as he breaks down. His hands come up to cover his face, body shaking. You press your forehead to his back and just hold.

“I didn’t want to feel anything,” he admits, voice shaking. “I wanted to walk in, do the thing, and leave. But seeing him like that, it just…” He trails off, unable to finish.

After a while, when he’s quieter and you’ve coaxed him to the bed, you sit beside him and suggest, “Wanna call the kids?”

He hesitates.

“I know it’s late,” you add, “but Robin and Eddie are probably still up. Just a minute or two. Just to say goodnight.”

Steve nods slowly, sniffs. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You grab the hotel phone and call their house, and Robin picks up on the second ring.

“O captain, my captain,” she says, “you’re just in time for Joey’s bedtime meltdown and Sammie’s one-girl concert.”

You can vaguely hear strumming in the background. Not guitar exactly, maybe ukelele?

“Daddy,” Joey says with the kind of betrayal only five-year-olds can conjure, “you left.”

Steve immediately gets misty again. “Hey, bud. I know. I’m sorry. It’s just for a couple days.”

Joey sounds suspicious. “Is it ‘cause I didn’t finish my broccoli last week?”

Steve chokes on a laugh. “No, Joey. No, it’s got nothing to do with that. I promise.”

Sammie finds her way to the phone and yells, “Hi Daddy! Hi Mommy! I played a C chord! Uncle Eddie said it was so metal !”

You beam. Steve lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief.

Robin gives a little chuckle. “They’re good. Honestly. Little feral, but what else is new?”

“Thanks,” you say. “For all of this.”

“You kidding?” Eddie’s voice calls from somewhere. “We’re livin’ the dream over here. Gave Sammie a mohawk. Hope that’s cool.”

“Eddie!” you and Steve both yell.

The kids dissolve into giggles, and Sammie strums a wild dissonant chord on the ukulele.

After goodnights and promises of pizza when you get back, Steve hangs up the phone on the nightstand. He’s still a little red around the eyes, but his whole body looks lighter.

“They’re okay,” he says. “We’re okay.”

“Yeah,” you say, snuggling in beside him. “We really are.”

He wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer. His voice is soft, thoughtful. “I keep thinking about my dad. About all the things he did— or didn’t do. And I just…I never wanna be that for them. I want them to know they’re loved. Every day. No matter what.”

“They do,” you whisper. “Because you show them.”

He nods against your hair. “I’m really lucky,” he says. “To have this. You. Them. All of it.”

The next morning dawns overcast, like the sky is holding its breath.

You and Steve pack in quiet motions. Folding clothes, zipping suitcases, brushing teeth while standing close in the cramped hotel bathroom. The air between you is softer than it was last night, still raw but settled. Like a storm has passed and the ground is damp, but the wind’s finally calm.

On the drive to the hospital, Steve keeps one hand on the wheel and the other linked with yours. He doesn’t talk much, just watches the road like it might try to slip away from under him. You don’t push. You just squeeze his hand every so often, and he squeezes back.

When you get to the hospital, his mom’s already in the room. She looks tired, like she didn’t sleep at all, but her face lights up faintly when she sees the two of you.

“Oh, good,” she says, rising from the chair beside the bed. “He’s still resting, but he’s been in and out all morning.”

She reaches out and hugs Steve. It’s a little stiff, a little awkward, but real. Then she hugs you, too— smaller, more tentative— but she says, “Thank you for being here. I know this isn’t easy.”

You offer her a kind smile. “We’re glad we came.”

Steve sits beside the bed and takes his dad’s hand. It’s thinner than he remembers, lined with blue veins and sunspots. He watches the shallow rise and fall of his father’s chest, the way his eyelids flutter and jaw twitches.

“Hey, Dad,” he says softly. “It’s Steve. I’m here.”

His father doesn’t respond right away. Just a faint hum, maybe a flicker behind his closed eyes. Steve keeps talking anyway.

“I, um… I wanted to say goodbye. I don’t know if you can hear me. But I’m saying it anyway.” He clears his throat. His voice is shaky but steadying, like he’s walking across a bridge that he built with each word. “I spent a lot of my life wanting something from you. Something you didn’t… or couldn’t give me. And I hated you for that, sometimes. But I think now… I think I just wanted to be seen. To be known.”

His dad stirs a little. Not quite awake, not quite gone. Steve keeps going.

“I’ve got kids now. A little girl and a little boy. And they know I love them. Every second, every day. They don’t have to earn it. And that’s because of you. Or… maybe in spite of you. I don’t know.” He sniffles, wipes at his face with the back of his hand. “But I needed to say that. And I hope, wherever you go next, that it’s peaceful. And I hope you know… I’m okay. I really am.”

He leans forward and gently presses a kiss to his father’s temple. “Goodbye, Dad.”

You’re quiet through it all, standing near the window, giving him space but close enough if he needs you. When he finally turns toward you, his eyes are red but his shoulders are lighter. Like the goodbye untied something in him that had been knotted for years.

His mom places a hand over her mouth, like she’s trying not to cry. “That was…” she starts, but doesn’t finish. Just steps forward and takes Steve’s hand. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “You’ve built a good life.”

He nods, and there’s a long, calm moment between them. Years of distance narrowed, if not erased.

“We’ll come back,” he says. “For the funeral. And I’ll bring the kids.”

His mom turns to you and smiles, soft and grateful. “I’d love that. I’d love to see them again.”

You nod. “We’ll be there.”

You all stand there for a moment, watching the slow rhythm of the machines beside the bed.

The flight home is quiet, filled with ginger ales and the scratch of pens on crossword puzzles, and the occasional brush of Steve’s shoulder against yours. He dozes off somewhere over Ohio, his head resting on your shoulder, breathing steady and even.

You smooth his hair back and let your fingers settle against his cheek.

He came here looking for closure. You think maybe he found it. And back home ( real home) your kids are waiting. With ukuleles and marker-streaked hands and probably some kind of epic story involving your best friends.

Steve murmurs something in his sleep, smile tugging at his lips.

The car ride from the airport is quiet. Not heavy, just… gentle. Steve’s hand stays in yours the whole way, thumb brushing slow arcs across your knuckles like he’s grounding himself with the contact. You don’t say much. You don’t have to. The air between you is easy, tired in a good way, like the end of a long hike where the view made every step worth it.

When you pull up to Eddie and Robin’s place, the porch light is already on, spilling a warm halo across the driveway. You barely make it to the front steps before the door bursts open.

Sammie comes flying out first, hair wild and curls bouncing, all limbs and joy and a shrieked, “DADDYYYYY!”

Steve doesn’t even have time to bend down before she launches herself at him like a missile, and he catches her with a breathless oof , staggering back a step as she wraps her arms around his neck and clings like a koala.

“I missed you soooo much!” she says, fingers tangled in the collar of his shirt. “You were gone forever!”

Steve buries his face in her hair and holds her close, one hand splayed across her back like he’s trying to memorize her heartbeat. “I missed you too, bug. So much.”

Joey’s behind her, blinking a little in the porch light, thumb still halfway in his mouth. You crouch just in time to scoop him up and swing him into your arms.

“There’s my boy,” you whisper, kissing his temple. He smells like peanut butter and markers— of course he smells like markers. “You been good?”

He nods solemnly, arms winding around your neck. Then, voice small and earnest, he says, “I was brave.”

You melt instantly. “I bet you were.”

Eddie and Robin follow them out, both looking exhausted and slightly disheveled in that way that says the kids definitely got into something they weren’t supposed to. But Robin’s grinning, and Eddie’s trying not to, his arms crossed like he didn’t love every second of being climbed like a jungle gym all weekend.

“We kept ‘em alive,” Robin announces proudly.

“Barely,” Eddie mutters, but his eyes are warm when he looks at Steve. “Hey, man.”

Steve, still holding Sammie, nods. “Hey.”

There’s something wordless exchanged between them. Some understanding that doesn’t need to be said out loud. Steve looks steadier than he did when he left. Worn out, yeah, but rooted.

Inside, the house is a wreck in the most charming way: blankets on the floor, a ukulele propped up on a chair, an empty juice box on the coffee table. It smells like popcorn and shampoo and kid energy.

“We made a band!” Sammie is saying excitedly, dragging Steve over to the couch. “Uncle Eddie taught me ‘Smoke on the Water’ and Joey played drums on the pots and we made a song about soup!”

“It was actually… kinda good,” Eddie says. “In a weird, avant-garde way.”

“Next stop: Grammy’s,” Robin adds, plopping down beside you and pulling Joey onto her lap. “We’re making shirts and everything.”

“Wow,” you grin. “Missed a whole world of things.”

The kids buzz around you both, full of stories. And then— quietly, gently— Sammie looks up at Steve and asks, “How’s Gramma and Granpa?”

The question cuts through the chatter like a ripple, but Steve doesn’t flinch. He shifts Sammie in his lap and brushes her hair out of her eyes.

“They’re okay,” he says simply. “Grandpa’s really tired right now, and Grandma misses you a lot.”

“Oh,” Sammie says, solemn. She leans her head against his chest. “Maybe we can send them more pictures.”

“That’s a great idea, Sammie,” you tell her, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, and rubbing your thumb along Steve’s arm.

Steve doesn’t say anything at first, just wraps his free arm around Sammie a little tighter, like he needs the hug just as much as she does. You run your hand up and down his back while Joey rests heavily on your hip, half-dozing against your shoulder.

Robin stretches with a groan, cracking her back. “Alright, parents. We’ve done our part. Kids are alive, minimally sticky, and only mildly sugar-overloaded.”

You laugh, and Steve smiles, the kind that’s a little crooked but real. “We owe you both so much.”

“No kidding,” you say, setting Joey down gently so you can grab your bag. “We’re taking you out. Somewhere with fancy cocktails and cloth napkins. And no chicken nuggets on the menu.”

“Seriously,” Steve says. “You pick the place, we’ll get the babysitter.”

“Who?” Eddie deadpans. “You have some other mysterious best friends that we don’t know about?”

“Hmmm… Shit,” you mutter, and you all laugh, not even caring about the little ears listening. They’re too tuckered out to notice anyway. You turn to Robin. “Thank you. For watching them. For everything.”

Robin waves a hand, but she’s clearly a little misty behind her glasses. “They’re easy to love.”

The kids protest a little when it’s time to go, but they’re too tired to put up much of a fight. You help Sammie with her shoes while Steve buckles Joey into the car seat, both of you moving like a well-oiled machine.

Steve drives with one hand on the wheel, the other finding yours between the seats. It’s quiet for a while. Just the hum of the road and the occasional rustle of the kids shifting in their sleep.

Then you glance over at him, his profile washed in the warm orange light of the dashboard. “Hey,” you say softly.

He hums in response, eyes still on the road.

“You’re a really great dad.”

Steve glances at you, and something flickers behind his eyes. Like he wants to argue, maybe— deflect, make a joke— but instead, he just squeezes your hand and exhales. “Thanks.”

“You are. The way you talked to your dad… what you said to him. And how Sammie was so excited to see you…” You pause, shaking your head slightly. “That’s the kind of dad people hope for.”

Steve’s quiet again for a second, swallowing hard.

“I didn’t think I’d be good at it,” he says eventually. “Being a dad. I was so scared I’d screw them up. But… they’re so good. And they make it easy, I guess. You make it easy.”

“ You make it easy,” you counter. “They adore you. And they know they’re safe with you. That’s everything.”

He nods. “I’m lucky,” he says again. Then he looks at you, tired but glowing in that soft, content way. “I’ve got everything I need.”

You smile, leaning across the console just enough to kiss his shoulder. “Me too.”

Joey snores softly, Sammie’s hand still wrapped around the handle of her ukulele. The street lights flicker past in quiet intervals. The road winds toward home.

And in the back seat, your family dreams.

A familiar voice cries out in pain.

You’re ripped from sleep. You fling your body forward, gasping for air. Hands wildly flailing for purchase and landing on crumpled sheets, feet thrashing, kicking blankets off and an odd, strangled scream erupting from your throat before you can orient yourself. 

“Hey!” someone next to you cries, “Hey, Y/n!” they urge again, “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re not… Wherever you thought you were,” the raspy voice assures, clunkily. 

Where did you just think you were? Your brain supplies you with flashes of a dark, cold, chrome basement, miles under the now-defunct Starcourt Mall. You twitch involuntarily at the sense-memory of a foreign man thrusting you by your forearms onto the linoleum floor, injecting unknown chemicals into your veins, and gripping your jaw as he ordered you to give up secrets you weren’t even sure you had.

But you weren’t alone down there. There was a clever, talkative girl, and a charming, courageous, gold-hearted boy in that basement with you. Your mind finally catches up enough to realize that the boy is right next to you. You’re not in the basement, it’s not 1985, and that wasn’t the Russian soldier holding you tight to his chest. 

“It’s me,” he says, hands up in a peace offering and voice smothered with sleep, “It’s Steve.” Through the pitch-dark blue hue of the night, you see him.

It’s Steve . It’s the one who’s been with you through all of this, all the best and the worst. You’re in your apartment, in the city, far enough away from the physical reminders of every sorry battle you had gone through, but close enough to be able to travel back if your fellow survivors needed you. 

You take labored, ragged breaths, white-knuckling the bedsheets. The air conditioner kicks on, reverberating a gentle hum across the room. Steve takes a deep breath in and exhales carefully.

He doesn’t bother asking if it was a nightmare. Doesn’t waste time asking what’s wrong. Doesn’t pretend like pressing you to talk about it is going to help either of you. He lets you breathe, keeping his palm resting on the duvet on top of his knee, outstretched for you to grab onto if you want. 

“It was… It was a bad one,” you admit, feeling stupid. They’re all bad ones. But some worse than others.

He nods, albeit slowly, on account of the fact that it’s just past four in the morning according to the bright red numbers on your nightstand. You turn to him, taking in as much of him as you can see in the near-total darkness of your bedroom. You take note of his sleep-mussed hair, his hunched shoulders, his toned chest steadily inflating and deflating. 

“Steve,” you whisper, just to let yourself hear it. To remind yourself how his name feels coming off of your tongue. To reassure yourself that he’s here. He’s real. And he’s not going anywhere.

He takes note of the fact that you seem to have oriented yourself enough to know who you’re talking to. He uses the opportunity to reach out, slowly, and with enough time for you to shove him away if you need to, and rests his fingertips on your shoulder. Taking cues from you, and noticing that you seem to ease into his touch, he splays his large hand across your back, rubbing feather-light, soothing patterns. 

You dig the heels of your hands into your eye sockets, trying to shove the memories out of your head. Another wave of tears streams down your cheeks, hot and wild. 

“We were back in that… In that fucking mall,” you croak. Your pulse thrums in your ears as you try to remember what’s real and what’s fractured memory.

The details of your dream are so horrific, you don’t even want to tell him. Don’t want to bring him down with you. But your therapist, god bless her soul, has worked with you so hard for so long, and you knew that saying these things out loud robs them of their terrifying weight. 

“Um… We were…” you start, unable to get more than a couple words out at a time without having to take a heavy breath.

He continues his gentle, rhythmic movements on your back. “Take your time,” he says. And you nearly dissolve to pieces right then and there. He’s so good . He’s so patient and so understanding. But how could he not be? He was the only person on this planet who had been through all of these apocalyptic situations alongside you. They could have changed anyone for the worse. But not Steve. With every new fight, every new monster, he’s become a better man. 

“We were in those… Those separate rooms,” you don’t elaborate, because you know he remembers,  “They were yelling at me. And I could hear you in the other room, just screaming and screaming,” you describe, voice cracking, “And they kept wailing on you, I could hear it. And I was crying out for you, and I didn’t know where Robin was and I didn’t know what was happening to you.”

He doesn't know what to say to that. Because that is the truth. That did happen . And you had to hear it all. And that’s never going to change.

You pause for a long, heavy moment before you continue, “And they killed you,” you add, barely above a breath, too scared to say it any louder.

That didn’t happen . 

“We’re not in the mall. We’re at our apartment,” he assures you, stating the facts like a mantra, “I’m right here with you. And we’re both okay.” He dips his head down, catching your downcast gaze. “We’re both okay, yeah?”

You nod, squeaking out a pitiful “Yeah,” before resting your elbows back on your knees, ignoring the dull pain in your left elbow, and bringing your fingers up to your temples.

Making peace with the fact that this is not going to be one of those few and far between nights where you’re both able to fall back asleep, he pulls away briefly to stretch sideways and tug on the cord of the lamp on his bedside table. 

Only when the cozy glow of the light illuminates the room do you see it: a hairline crack right in the middle of his lip, with a fragile trickle of blood coming out. You freeze.

“Oh my god,” you exhale, the breath coming out of you like an engine sputtering, “Tell me I didn’t do that to you.”

He opens his mouth and takes a breath in, surveying you with careful, weary eyes. You would guess he considers lying, considers telling you it’s his allergies, or he tripped getting a glass of water, or he brushed his teeth too hard, something silly to keep you from spiraling. But he knows that won’t work. You’ve been together for so long and seen so much that you know the best course is always going to be telling the truth. So he shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head ever-so-slightly, confirming you did, in fact, hit him in your nightmare-clouded panic.

A sob rips up through your chest and out of your mouth as you slump forward. He’s quick to catch you, lunging forward and holding you tight, as he buries his head in your hair.

“Hey, hey honey,” he says, rubbing soft circles between your shoulder blades. 

“Steve, I’m so sorry,” you sob, “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“I can’t believe I did that.”

“Hey, you didn’t do it to me,” he mutters into your hair, “You did it to those Russian bastards.”

“No, I did it to you. My stupid goddamn brain won’t--” you heave out a sigh again, letting yourself cry in frustration at the hand you’ve been dealt.

“I’ve always known you had impressively sharp elbows,” he jokes, knowing it’s too soon and that you probably won’t laugh. But he needs you to know that he’s not going to hold this against you. Hell, you’d both done so many things to each other that you never meant to. Perks of being some of the most fucked-up young adults in the state. 

You don’t bother asking him how he stays so strong. How he keeps going. How he can handle comforting you when he’s been subjected to all the same things you have and worse. He’ll tell you the same thing he always tells you: because he has you. He knows you’ll pick up his pieces and mend him back together as best you can, just as he’s doing for you right now.

And sure, a bruise will begin to blossom under his bottom lip, the flesh delicate and raw. But he’s been through worse. You both have. And the only thing in the world right now that would make him feel worse is if you thought he was upset with you. Of course he’s not. 

You had blown him away time and time again with your bravery. Your actions in the face of the most alarming sights imaginable were nothing short of heroic. The amount of times you had pulled the kids out of harm’s way, or sucker-punched a Russian soldier, or delivered a fatal crack to a demonic bat, or helped stitch Steve’s wounds up on the battlefield, or some other maneuver straight out of a blockbuster movie were too many to count. He couldn’t believe he got to call you his, and that you were both lucky enough to still have each other after every horror the world had thrown at you. He told you as much in his proposal last autumn, as you tried to memorize the moment through your joyful tears. And you knew that come this September, he’d swear to love you for better, worse, richer, poorer, and on and on.

“You’re safe,” he swears, “I promise. It’s all over.”

But he knows that it won’t make a difference. It doesn’t make a difference when you tell him the exact same thing. Anything could happen. You thought the monsters were gone back in ‘83. You thought El had closed the portal in ‘84. You thought that heinous, evil part of the universe had been shut out for good four summers ago. And your mind had learned to stop believing that you were in the clear when the nightmare that was the spring of ‘86 happened. 

And sure, you had eventually stopped jumping at shadows and could manage to fall asleep most nights, but you aren’t stupid enough to think that things could ever be completely over. While that slimy, evil motherfucker never entered your head and tried to suck your eyeballs out, who’s to say he was really dead? What was stopping him from crossing town lines and finding you now? There will always, always, always be that looming cloud over your life. A really beautiful life, one that you’ve built with Steve. One filled with kisses, tenderness, laughter, and so much love it seems impossible for these catastrophic thoughts to break through. But they find a way.

“I love you so much,” he tells you, pulling just far enough away from you to look you straight in the eyes.

“I love you so much ,” you repeat, with increasingly clearer eyes, and heart rate returning to normal.

He leans in, but before his lips can do anything more than just start to brush over yours, you pull back, interrupting with “I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have.”

He doesn’t care if it would hurt. He’d just love to kiss you, but he doesn’t want to have some sort of involuntary reaction that would upset you more. Doesn’t want to reflexively gasp or groan in pain at the contact and bring you to tears all over again, so he settles for a hug for now. Wrapping his arms around you, he pulls you in as tight as he possibly can and tenderly scratches his nails up and down your back.

With your chin resting on his shoulder, your eyes land on the moment framed in gold on his nightstand. It’s a picture of the two of you in the Byers’ kitchen, about five months ago. You’re seated at the cluttered table, a pleated skirt and wool tights layered with a beautiful emerald blouse you had found in a secondhand store with Robin. Steve stands behind you, in a soft red sweater, nose pink and frostbitten from helping Hopper haul firewood inside. He holds you snug to his side, and you have your hand clasped on top of his while a dainty, glimmering diamond sits in a ring around your finger. This was the first holiday season after Steve had gotten down on one knee in your tiny, cozy, perfect apartment, and asked you to spend the rest of your life with him. Steve stares down the barrel of the camera with adoration in his eyes but a goofy quirk to his mouth; he had been in the middle of asking Jonathan what he was doing with his fiancée (he was obsessed with that word, throwing it around any chance he got), when Jonathan snapped the shutter, freezing the playful moment in amber. Jonathan had developed the photo and framed it for you as an engagement present, and you and Steve fought over who got to display it on their side of the bed. You had won, obviously, but Steve snuck it over to his whenever you weren’t looking.

“It’ll be healed by tomorrow, I guarantee it,” he says.

You nod, burying your face in his chest.

“And then you’ll just owe me a hundred kisses and we’ll be square,” he jokes, trying again. And this time, it works. He feels you giggle rather than hear it, your voice still too strained to make much of a sound, but your body vibrates, and you sharply exhale out of your nose, and he knows he’s doing something right.

He has you. And you have him. And you’re both okay.

You’ve got stray glitter from your eyeshadow smudged down the side of your face. That’s what he notices first: a trail of twilight-blue sparkles bridges the outer corner of your eye to the apple of your cheek, like the swirling, inky midnight sky. He only wonders how that came to be for a moment before he spots your red-rimmed eyes and sticky tracks of tears. 

Eddie, the dealer, was often singled out as the person to go to if someone’s buddy got too high for their own good. He had seen it all, as far as all of the sheltered assholes in this town were concerned. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when Stacy, the host of the dwindling house party had tracked him down in his little secluded corner of the chaos, informing him of someone “tweaking out” in the backyard.

He waved her off, never having been a big fan of Stacy, personally, and not really wanting to cap his night off by dealing with some aggressive, coked-out moron from the football team. “I’m not a doctor,” he had told her, “And I’m not a babysitter.”  

But then she had clarified that it was a girl out there. That changed things. And maybe that makes him a sexist idiot, but he could never leave a damsel in distress.

He slowly lowers himself to the ground, on tired legs, and hovers in front of you.

He’s silent for a while, almost studying you, a feeling in his gut telling him that even greeting you, alerting you to his sudden presence in any way may set you off. He decides to just park himself in front of you and wait for you to notice him before offering to help.

He recognizes the signs of an all-encompassing, smothering high. Your head bobs back and forth, almost pulsating, as the lower half of your face remains completely unexpressive, and your eyes, glazed and fiery red, stay locked on the plucked blades of grass in your fists. You drop them, watch as they are lifted by the wind, and flutter a few feet away. Then you start your process over again, reaching into the earth, grasping two more handfuls, and ripping them out of the ground.

He recognizes you, sort of. He’s pretty sure you had a class together last year. As he sits there, he squints, trying to place you more concretely. Yep, he thinks— World History, fifth period. You’d sat a few rows ahead of him, closer to the front. He doesn’t know much about you, not really, just enough to remember your face and a few scattered details. In class, you’d been quiet but focused, the kind of student who took notes diligently, occasionally asking questions that seemed more thoughtful than most. He remembers that you always seemed to know the answer to the teacher’s questions, even when no one else did.

Now, though, you look like a hollowed-out version of that girl— eyes dull and distant, like they’re struggling to latch onto anything real. He’s never seen you like this before. Not that he’s spent a lot of time looking, but there’s a striking difference between the girl in his memory and the one in front of him. You were a smart girl. So what the hell were you doing?

Fully intending to continue to observe you, he silently curses his bones when they betray him as he tries to get into a more comfortable stance, his ankle popping rather loudly and startling you. Your eyes dart up to him, and the blades of grass are once again released from your firm grip and dragged along with the wind.

“Sorry,” he launches into damage control, “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He uses the opportunity to sit down fully, cross-legged to match you. You stay silent, fearful eyes surveying him. “I just wanted to come check on you, make sure you’re feeling okay.”

“Eddie,” you state, a fact, the plain truth. 

He looks at you, shocked, and at a loss for what to say to a girl that he hardly knows, saying his name with such confidence. But you read his hesitation as the wrong kind of confusion.

“ Not Eddie,” you say, gears turning in your head. “No. You look like this guy from my school. His name is Eddie.”

“No,” he says, finally, “No, I—”

“Sorry. I’m being a fucking idiot right now.”

“You’re not being an idiot,” he tells you, all-too-aware of how many times people have told him that he is, and how shitty that feels.

“Yes I am,” you stress, burying your head in your hands, “My brain is waterlogged.”

He leaves your mistaken/correct identification of him on the backburner, focusing on your current state. “What’s your name?” he asks, knowing the answer, but wanting to see just how cognitive you currently are. When you correctly offer him your name, he nods. “Did you take something fun tonight?" he asks, keeping his voice steady, gentle.

You bring your head back up, revealing a dozen blades of grass stuck to your cheeks. He suppresses a giggle. You blink slowly, trying to process his words. “Take?” you echo, your voice thin and distant. “Nothing. I… I didn’t… I don’t do that.”

He nods, not wanting to push too hard, knowing that sometimes the truth slips out easier when there’s no resistance. “Alright. Maybe you’re just tired, then?” he suggests, his tone still soft, nonjudgmental. “Long week? Long night?”

You nod slowly, your gaze dropping back to the grass between your legs. “Yeah, I don’t… I didn’t even want to be here.”

“I get that,” he tells you. “I don’t want to be here either. Do you have a ride home?”

“Home?” you ask.

“Is…” Eddie hesitates, not quite sure how much clearer he can be in his questions. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“I need…” you bring your fingertips up to your lips, delicately running them over the chapped skin. “I need chips.”

And at that, he has no choice but to huff out a laugh. Not unkind, but he’s caught by surprise. “Been there,” he tells you. 

“Chips,” you say, somehow turning the word into three syllables, really chewing on each part of it.

He chuckles softly, but the humor fades quickly as he looks at you, still visibly lost and dazed. “Alright, we can definitely make chips happen,” he promises you, knowing it’s a small comfort in a situation that clearly needs a bigger solution. “But we should get you somewhere safe. Can you tell me where you live? I can drive you there. My van’s out front. I haven't had a drop to drink tonight, honest-to-god.” He makes the sign of the cross, assuring you he wouldn’t drive you around drunk.

You frown, staring off into the distance, and he can practically see your brain struggling to catch onto the question. “Where… I live?” you repeat, sounding more confused than ever. “I live… in my house.”

He nods, trying to coax out more details. “Okay, great start. And where’s your house?”

You stare at him for a moment, as if he just asked you to explain rocket science. Then you shake your head, the motion slow and loose. “I dunno… my parents’ house?” There’s a pause, and you mumble, “But they’re never there. It’s empty. I don’t like it.”

Eddie sighs, glancing around the dark, empty backyard. It’s clear you’re not in any shape to give directions, and he doesn’t have the heart to push you further. “Alright,” he decides, more to himself than to you. “We’ll figure that out later.” He stands up and reaches a hand down to you. “Come on, let’s get you up. We’ll go grab those chips and get you somewhere to sleep this high off.”

You make no move to leave, digging your hands into the grass again, and pulling with all your might. He pinches the bridge of his nose, still holding out out his other hand, and waves it closer to you. “Come on, party girl. We gotta get out of here. The grass’ll still be here tomorrow.”

You hesitate, your fingers threading through the blades of grass as if they hold some secret you’re desperate to uncover. “No, no, you don’t get it,” you mutter, your voice dropping to a whisper. “The grass… it’s like, breathing. It’s alive. Like… I can feel it moving under my skin.” You drag your hand slowly across the ground, eyes half-lidded. “It’s talking to me. It’s saying… I have to stay.”

Eddie sighs, his patience wearing thin but not gone. He crouches down in front of you, trying to get your attention. “Look, I know you’re feeling all sorts of weird things right now, but trust me, okay? Staying out here alone all night is not gonna make you feel any better. Just let me help you out for tonight, yeah?”

You blink up at him, your face caught somewhere between confusion and awe. “But… I can’t just leave. The grass needs me.”

He presses his lips together to keep from laughing, not wanting to mock you when you’re clearly so far gone. “Well why don’t we…” He looks around, doing a mental inventory. He remembers the contents of his pockets, and pulls out an empty dime bag. Unzipping it, he holds it out to you. “Why don’t we take some of the grass with us, so you can stay with it, and you can get the chips you need. And tomorrow, if you still wanna commune with all of the grass, I’ll bring you right back. Deal?” He holds his palm out one last time.

You hesitate for a moment, your hand still twitching in the grass like you’re considering staying there forever, but then you rip a final handful of grass, stuff it into the bag, and take his hand. He pockets the bag in his jacket and helps you up, steadying you when you wobble, and guides you over to his van parked out past the front yard. You practically melt against him, your entire body turning to liquid, and he keeps his arm around you to keep you from splattering on the sidewalk.

He manages to get you into the car without any other roadblocks. You sit in the passenger seat, your head lolling slightly against the window, eyes half-open and unseeing. The hum of the engine and the faint rhythm of the metal song playing on Eddie’s old stereo system are the only sounds in the van as he drives. He keeps the volume low, not wanting to overwhelm you, but enough to fill the silence between your breaths. The song is raw, gritty— one of those Dio deep cuts that Eddie loves, where the riff carries a primal, thrumming energy, the kind that gets under your skin.

You sit there, staring out the window, barely blinking. Then, slowly, you turn your head toward him, a sluggish movement like you’re emerging from deep water. “This song,” you mutter, your voice soft but filled with a sudden, intense wonder. “It’s… This is the best song I’ve ever heard in my entire life.”

Eddie glances at you, surprised. “Yeah?” he asks, fairly certain you wouldn’t say this under any sober circumstances. Still, he’s amused, and maybe a little proud. “It’s pretty killer, huh?”

You nod, your expression serious, like you’ve just made a profound discovery. “It’s… it’s like the grass,” you say, your voice taking on that dreamy, distant tone again. “Like, it’s alive. I can feel it… in my bones. It’s like… vibrating through me.”

He chuckles, a soft sound that gets lost in the rumble of the engine. “That’s the power of metal, sweetheart,” he says, shifting gears as he takes a turn. “Gets right in your soul and shakes things up.”

You lean your head back against the seat, closing your eyes, a small, content smile spreading across your face. This part of a high, he’s intimately familiar with. The amount of times Wayne has come home to find Eddie, in a cloud of smoke, sprawled out on the couch like a ragdoll, blasting some abrasive, thundering album, acting like his world was being rocked to its very core were too many to count.

When he finally pulls up to his trailer, he turns off the engine but lets the song finish, watching you as your head gently bobs in time with the fading rhythm. “Alright,” he says softly, “we’re here. Come on, let’s get you inside.”

He helps you out of the van, guiding you up the steps to his trailer. You’re still shaky on your feet, but you follow him, that small, dreamy smile still lingering on your lips. Inside, he steers you back toward the couch and settles you down. The metal song has long since ended, but it seems like you’re still riding its wave, swaying slightly as you sit.

Eddie watches you for a moment, trying to gauge how much of the real you is coming back through the fog. The dreamy smile on your face has softened, but there’s still a distant look in your eyes, like you’re half in the present and half lost somewhere else entirely. He feels a strange sense of protectiveness— like you’re this delicate thing that’s wandered into his world by accident.

“Hey,” he says gently, crouching down in front of you to get your attention. “You’re probably gonna crash soon, yeah? I mean, that’s how it goes. If you want, I can grab you something to wear. Those jeans don’t exactly look comfortable.”

You blink at him, slowly processing his words, then glance down at yourself as if only just realizing what you’re wearing. You run the palms of your hands over your lap, clad in acid-wash jeans. He’s right, they’re tight and scratchy, and drawing attention to them has made you feel like you’re suffocating all over again. You nod slowly, the discomfort suddenly feeling unbearable now that he’s mentioned it. “Yeah… yeah, that’d be nice,” you mutter.

“Cool. Be right back,” he says, pushing himself up and heading to his room. He rummages through a drawer and finds an old Metallica tee— well-worn, soft from too many washes, and a pair of plaid pajama pants with a loose elastic waist. He figures they’ll be cozy enough and, more importantly, familiar enough to make you feel a bit more at ease. He heads back to you and holds them out. “Here, these aren’t as glamorous as your current threads, but they should do the trick.”

You take them, staring at the stack of fabric like it’s some foreign object you’ve never seen before. After a moment, you murmur, “Thanks,” your voice more focused than before but still shaky, like you’re trying to hold onto a thread of reality.

“Bathroom’s right over there.” He points to a narrow door down the hall. “Take your time."

You nod and shuffle toward the bathroom, clutching the clothes to your chest. Once inside, you close the door and lean against it for a moment, taking a deep breath. The room is small and dimly lit, the fluorescent light above flickering slightly. You glance at yourself in the mirror and see someone who looks vaguely familiar but not quite right. Your eyes are bloodshot, your hair mussed and sticking to your forehead. Your blue eyeshadow is smeared every which way across your face. Everything feels distant and warped, like you’re seeing yourself through a funhouse mirror. You feel like a complete clown.

Changing into Eddie’s clothes takes more effort than it should, your fingers fumbling with the buttons and zippers as if they’re puzzles designed to confuse you. When you finally manage to slip into the oversized shirt and pajama pants, you feel a slight sense of relief— the fabric is soft against your skin, and the looseness gives you some much-needed space to breathe. But that relief is short-lived.

You stumble out of the bathroom, but Eddie’s nowhere to be found. The room feels like it’s spinning, and you tumble backward onto the couch, gripping the cushions under you as tight as you can. Your breathing rapidly picks up pace, as your heart feels like a hummingbird’s. 

Eddie finally walks back into the room, carrying a large plastic bowl and a glass of water. “Hope you’re okay with Doritos, because that’s all I’ve got,” he says, crouching back down to your seated level.

“I don’t—” you start, and Eddie’s smile falls when he notices tears welling up in your eyes. “I feel really weird. I don’t like it; I’m scared,” you tell him, with the honesty and vulnerability of a child.

“Oh shit,” he says, “Hey it’s okay.” He sets the bowl and the glass down on the coffee table and quickly moves closer, his hand gently resting on your knee. “It’s gonna be alright,” he says, his voice calm but firm, like he’s done this a hundred times before. He’s helped Gareth get through intense highs, but he’s never been faced with someone falling apart that he doesn’t already know. He’s not sure if it’s polite to touch you this much, but he knows the grounding helps other people typically. “I know it’s scary, but you’re safe. Just try to focus on my voice, okay?”

You nod, but the tears are already spilling over, trailing down your cheeks, your eyeshadow streaking again as you struggle to steady your breath. Your chest feels tight, like there’s a weight pressing down on it, and the room still feels like it’s spinning around you. You grip the fabric of the band tee you’re wearing, desperate for the soft cotton to anchor you. “I just… I feel like I’m… like I’m about to die,” you stammer, your voice trembling with fear.

“Listen, I know you maybe didn’t remember earlier, but can you try really hard to tell me what exactly it is that you took? No judgment here, obviously, but I just need to know what’s making your brain feel like this. Was it pills? Did you snort something? Can you give me any… sort of direction here?”

Your breathing quickens even more, and you shake your head rapidly, squeezing your eyes shut like you’re trying to block out the entire world. “No, it was… it was just weed,” you stammer. “My friend, Jessica, she gave me a brownie and I think she lied about how much was in it.”” Jessica , Eddie thinks. That rings a bell. He sold her a few grams during the football game last week. She must have used that. So at least he knows what you took wasn’t laced with anything more dangerous. “I’ve smoked before, but… but I’ve never felt like this. My heart is about to beat out of my ribcage. I’m gonna die.”

Eddie shifts his hand from your knee to your shoulder, his touch warm and grounding. “Hey, listen to me,” he says softly, leaning in a bit closer so you can hear him clearly. “You’re not gonna die. No one’s ever died from pot. Seriously, okay? No one. It’s impossible."

“I’m gonna be the first!” you cry.

“No,” he pushes down a laugh, “No you’re not. I promise. You’re right here, with me. Just focus on what’s real, okay? Feel the couch under you, feel my hand on your shoulder, yeah? You’re still here.”

Your breath hitches, and you try to follow his instructions, pressing your back and your legs into the cushions, feeling the rough fabric against your skin. You close your eyes, focusing on the warmth of his hand, the steady tenor of his voice.

“Good, that’s good,” Eddie continues, his voice low and soothing. “Keep breathing, nice and slow. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like this.” He takes an exaggerated, slow breath in, then lets it out with a soft whoosh. You follow his lead, trying to match his rhythm, and bit by bit, the tightness in your chest starts to loosen.

You nod, doing your best to mirror his breathing. “I’m trying,” you whisper, your voice still shaky but a little more grounded now. “I just… I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeats, keeping his hand steady on your shoulder. “Sometimes this shit just hits you harder than you expect, and it makes everything really, really intense. But I promise you, it’s gonna pass. It’s just your brain playing tricks on you. Nothing’s gonna hurt you here.”

You focus on his words, your eyelashes fluttering rapidly. After a few more moments, your breathing starts to even out and the tears begin to slow. You glance up at him, your eyes still watery but clearer than before. “I… I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Eddie shakes his head, giving you a reassuring smile. “Don’t apologize,” he says gently. “A bad high is the worst. It happens.” You nod, still feeling a bit raw but grateful for his presence. Eddie pats your shoulder one last time before he stands up, glancing around the trailer. “Tell you what,” he says, trying to lighten the mood, “How about we put on a movie, something to help you chill out? You can crash here on the couch if you want. My uncle’s working the night shift, so it’ll just be us. No one’s gonna bother you.”

The idea of a distraction— something to take your mind off the lingering anxiety— sounds like a lifeline. You manage a small, shaky smile. “Yeah… that sounds good.”

Eddie walks over to the TV and rummages through the pile of VHS tapes. He realizes, in that moment, that nearly all of them are horror movies. And you clearly are in no shape to handle that right now. Luckily, he lands on a tape that he was embarrassed to have rented. So embarrassed in fact, that he had been putting off returning it, hoping Wayne would do it so the Family Video employees wouldn’t associate his face with this movie. He pops the tape into the VCR and soon enough, the faces of John Travolta and Olivia Newton John fill the screen. “You seen this one?” he asks you, walking back over to the couch.

You squint at the screen, your mind still sluggish. “Grease,” you murmur, recognizing the opening credits as they flash across the screen.

Eddie reaches for the bowl of chips he brought over earlier. “Here,” he offers, holding it out to you. “I promised you chips, didn’t I?”

You look down at the bowl like it’s the answer to a question you didn’t know you had. “Oh, yeah… chips.” Your hand trembles a little as you reach for one, but as soon as you pop it into your mouth, you close your eyes, savoring the crunch and the salt that your brain so desperately needed.

“Good, right?” Eddie asks with a soft chuckle, watching as you eat with a sort of cautious enthusiasm, like you’re rediscovering the joy of food. He’s been watching people get high for years now, and it never gets old.

You nod, chewing slowly at first, but then you start reaching for more, the anxiety of the past hour gradually being replaced by the simple satisfaction of eating. The chips disappear quickly. Eddie watches in amusement as you devour the entire bowl, chip after chip, until there’s nothing but crumbs left at the bottom. It’s awesome. 

A thought pops into his head, one he hasn’t been able to let go of since he first started talking to you tonight. And he knows it’s ethically a bit shady, but it’ll kill him if he misses the opportunity to ask you this.

“So… That Eddie guy you were talking about earlier,” he starts, squinting and honestly pushing his luck, but he’s nothing if not cheeky. “What’s he like?”

“Oh, he’s nice,” you tell him, “He’s a great writer; I read one of his papers in class.” 

Eddie smiles in awe at your response, his curiosity piqued. “Yeah? Didn’t realize he had a fan club,” he teases, trying to play it cool even though his heart is thumping a little faster. “What was the paper about?”

You pause, munching on crumbs as you think. “It was about... something weird. Like, elves or something. Like, the way that different civition— civilation…” you stumble over the word, “The way different civ-i-li-za-tions…” you correct, very deliberately, “Told stories about dragons and… Magic and stuff. I don’t remember exactly.” You give a small, sleepy laugh. “But he wrote it like he believed every word. It was kinda… cool.”

Eddie’s grin widens, a mixture of pride and amusement. “Cool, huh?” He stretches out the word, enjoying this far too much. “So, what else? What else is so great about this guy?”

You look at him, eyes half-lidded, and shrug. “I dunno… He’s just… Eddie, you know? He does what he wants. People spread rumors about him, but I don’t think they’re true. I think he’s a nice person.” Your voice is soft, and for a moment, Eddie wonders if you’re really talking about him or just your idea of him. Either way, he’s flattered. Maybe even a little flustered.

The movie carries on in the background, the songs softly reverberating throughout the trailer. Eddie’s eyes are still on you, and he can’t help but notice how much more relaxed you seem now— your breathing even, your posture loose. He decides to let his line of questioning go, not wanting to push too far and risk breaking the delicate peace that’s settled between you.

He chuckles, leaning back against the arm of the couch. “Well, I’ll have to get to know him.”

You nod again, your head bobbing slightly like a buoy in the water. “He’s really cute, too.”

Eddie feels his heart nearly stop beating all together at your words. Cute. You think he's cute. He knows you're not in your right mind right now, but it still sends a warmth flooding through him that he tries to keep in check. He’s been called a lot of things in his life, but "cute" isn't exactly one of them. “He’s cute?” he asks you, finally gathering the courage to look your way. 

“He’s really pretty.”

Now that’s certainly something he’s never been called.

Your eyes are laser-focused on the TV screen, and you clearly still have no idea who you’re talking to. He feels a pang of pity for misleading you, and anger at your friend for getting you so high that you don’t even realize who you’re with or where you are. But it’s no match for the warmth he feels when you continue. 

“In class, he would sit in the back, by the window, and after lunch the sunlight would come in through the windows and catch in his hair. It’d get all gold and wild around his face, like… like a halo or something.” You pause, lost in thought, and Eddie just stares at you, his breath catching in his throat. “Yeah, he’s really pretty.”

For a second, he doesn’t know what to say. No one’s ever described him like that before— like something worth looking at, worth noticing. 

He wants to ask a million follow-up questions, but as your eyelids start to droop again— although this time more relaxed— he thinks better of it. “You feeling a little better now?” he asks.

You nod, your smile softening as you settle back against the couch cushions. “Yeah… I kind of feel like a person again. Chips are magic.”

He laughs and nods, watching as you start to drift off. The way you look now— content, peaceful— makes him feel like he’s done something right, something good.

As the movie continues on, Eddie stretches and lets out a soft sigh. He should probably head to his own room, but he decides against it. Instead, he grabs a worn blanket from the other side of the couch and carefully drapes it over you.

Then, he settles back into Wayne’s chair, sinking into the worn cushions. The trailer is quiet now, save for the melodic hum of “Beauty School Dropout” and the occasional rustle of the wind outside. He watches you for a little while longer, his eyes tracing the increasingly relaxed lines of your face.

He doesn’t know what any of this means— what it’ll mean tomorrow when you’re sober and back to your usual self. If you’ll even remember any of this. But maybe, just maybe, he’ll let himself believe, if only for tonight, that he really is as pretty as you think he is.

It’s been nearly an hour, and he hasn’t asked you yet why you’re here. He never really does. That’s not how Steve works, not with you. 

He just gives you space. Quiet, steady space, like he’s laying it out brick by brick so you have somewhere safe to land when the world cracks open.

You're curled in on yourself near the peak of his roof, your arms looped tightly around your legs, chin resting on your knees. You pull your legs tighter to your chest, your sneakers scraping against the roofing, and press your eyeballs into your knees, the pressure calming your head in some sick way. You let out a deep sigh, one of those ones where the breath back in is shaky, made damp by all the embarrassing weeping you did before you drove to Steve’s.

You stay there for a moment, letting the cool air pass through your hair, before you feel a tap on your shoulder. You pick your head up, and see Steve’s hand holding the half-smoked cigarette a few inches from your face. You take it from him, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. The contact lingers. You bring the cigarette to your lips, and the smoke hits your lungs in a way that makes your head slow down just enough to be bearable. Warm. Distracting. Better.

They’d said it would be beneficial to maintain routines. The experts, the doctors, they all said that in order to live a typical ( right ), average ( uh huh ), well-adjusted ( fat chance ) life, you needed to try your best to pretend like things were normal. And you suppose these doctors know better than you, so who are you to argue, even when all that pretending things are normal does is repress and bottle everything up until it explodes in spectacular fashion?

You take another long drag before passing it back. Steve accepts it with a small, familiar gesture: two fingers, a quiet nod, the flick of ash off the side of the roof like he’s done it a thousand times before. He’s sitting close now. Not touching, but not far. His thigh is near enough that you could lean your weight into him and he wouldn’t flinch. He never does. You both watch the town without saying anything. From up here it’s peaceful, like nothing could possibly be broken. Like the monsters were just dreams you once had and finally outgrew.

“He could tell I didn’t…” You start, but realize your phrasing isn’t exactly correct. “He could tell I couldn’t trust him.”

You don’t look at Steve, but you can feel his gaze on you. You just continue staring straight ahead, zeroing in on the high school in the distance. You can just barely see the long, stretching roads from the breaks in the tree branches. You’d think after everything, it might start to feel less humiliating to admit any of this out loud, but your heart still does that stupid little twinge that it did back in ‘83, when all of this was so scary and new .

Steve senses that you need a little bit of a nudge to keep talking. “The nightmares again?”

“Not just— well, yeah,” you admit, voice rough. You shrug one shoulder like you can shake off the weight of it. “I mean, the nightmares were a big part of it. Kind of hard to brush off bolting up straight in the middle of the night screaming like it’s nothing.”

He passes the cigarette back to you— burned down close to the filter. You take it anyway, fingers grazing against his again.

“I guess I just don’t know what I expected,” you murmur, smoke slipping from your mouth in a slow ribbon. “The only two ways this could’ve ended are either I married him, and made him sign some fuckin’ NDA,” you laugh bitterly, “and then finally tell him everything, and he gets so freaked out that he divorces me, and then I’m right back where I started, and—”

Steve interrupts you with a gentle utter of your name, bringing your attention back to him. You finally gather the humility to look at him. But the pity on his face makes you turn away almost immediately, blinking against the heat rising behind your eyes.

“Or,” you continue, watching a lone set of headlights snake down the interstate in the distance, “I can’t tell him anything, and I push him away so much that I end up right back where I started anyway. Great odds. Lose-lose.”

You take the final drag, holding it a little longer than necessary, and then grind the butt out against the side of the roof. There’s already a little pile of them gathered there— yours, his, yours again.

You miss the comfort of it immediately. God , you think. I wish I had another one .

And through magic, or mind-reading, or perhaps just trauma-bonding, Steve wordlessly takes the carton back out of his jacket pocket. He slips a fresh cigarette (your third one tonight) between his lips, lights it with a flick of his thumb, and passes it to you in one fluid motion. When you look over at him, you’d almost think there’s a bit of a smug smile playing on his lips.

You nod your head in a silent thank you , and happily take it.

He shifts beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he turns to face you more. “Are you gonna try to—”

“Nope,” you say instantly. “Fucked it up beyond repair. He’s history. I’m history,” you amend.

“You’re not history,” he argues, and you give him a look, as if to say come on . He takes the cigarette back from you. “You’re not.”

“Well I don’t exactly know how I’m supposed to move forward when my last three relationships have ended this spectacularly poorly.”

He’d had his fair share of disastrous, tragic almost-relationships too. Girls that kept his bed warm, but ended up asking too many questions. Ones that refused to wipe his tears or hold his hand at night when he would turn skittish at a branch snapping outside. He’d admitted it to you one night much like this, with your fingers already intertwined with his.

You study him under the hush of the streetlight— just one, far down the block, casting a soft amber glow that dances along the curve of his cheekbone and catches faintly on the slope of his nose. The freckles dotting his face are dimmed in the dark, half-shadowed, but you can still count the familiar constellations if you squint. His hair’s a little flattened from the wind, and he keeps pushing it back like it matters, even though no one else is here to see him. 

Your eyes trace the faint gleam of the scar around his neck. The waxy, pale strip that’s never quite faded. ‘86. You remember that spring like it was still blooming in your chest. The heat, the blood, the sound of him gasping for breath. The memory comes sharp and fast, and your stomach lurches with it. You physically shake your head, trying to jar the image loose, and mutter a low god damnit under your breath, snatching the cigarette back from him before he can say something you don’t want to hear.

You don’t look at him, knowing you’ll just be on the receiving end of that pitying look again.

“I think it’s just not in the cards,” you admit, in a voice so small you hardly even recognize it as your own. 

“Finding love?”

“Finding anything,” you tell him. “Living.”

He says your name again, low this time, like it’s been knocked out of him. Like it’s something fragile in his mouth. You hate how worried he sounds. You hate that you made him sound like that.

You take another very long pull before clarifying, “I’m not gonna…” you wave your hand in front of you vaguely. “I’m not looking to check out early or anything; don’t go calling some hotline on me.”

You glance over, and his expression has sobered again. His gaze is fixed somewhere out past the edge of the roofline now, but you can see the tightness in his jaw, the way the muscles there twitch like he’s biting down on words. His fingers worry at the seam of his jacket sleeve, over and over, like if he doesn’t keep them busy they might reach for you. You’re relieved that he doesn’t. Not because you don’t want him to. But because if he did, you might fall apart.

Silence settles again, the kind you’ve both grown comfortable with. There’s a kind of relief in the quiet, in not having to explain the ache in your bones to someone who already knows what it is. Someone who still carries the same tremble in his hands some mornings, though he’d never admit it unless you caught him in the right light.

“Listen, I don’t think it’s about the cards,” Steve says eventually, voice lower now. “I think sometimes we just... get dealt shit ones. Doesn’t mean the game’s over. Just gotta reshuffle ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s incredibly optimistic for someone with an lengthy concussion record.” You take another pull off the cigarette. A long one. You’re hogging it now, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Hey,” he says, nudging you again with his elbow, “I’m serious. You’re still here, aren’t you?”

You huff a breath. “Yeah. Woohoo.”

But he doesn’t laugh. He just watches you again, real careful."Do you remember that night you screamed at me in the back of the ambulance? After Starcourt?”

You blink. “Steve, I screamed at everyone after Starcourt. I think they actually legally classified it as a psychotic break.”

“No, I mean the part where you grabbed my shirt and said if I ever died, you’d find some way to bring me back just to kill me yourself.”

You snort, smoke leaking out through your grin. “Yeah, well… You scared me that summer, you dick.”

“You were serious.”

You go quiet again. It’s your turn to toy with something now, your shoelace, frayed at the end and ready to give.

“I just mean,” he says, “you don’t scream like that if you don’t care. If you’re not planning to stick around.”

You swallow down the lump in your throat, breathing in smoke in an attempt to smother whatever else is trying to rise up.

“You don’t have to know what’s next,” he adds. “You just have to be here for it.”

You try to hand him the cigarette back, now nearly gone, but he wordlessly pushes it back toward you. Your fingers brush again. Always brushing. Always right there. “You sound like a fortune cookie.”

Steve smiles, tired but real. “Robin’s rubbing off on me.”

You grin at that, despite yourself. But the smile fades quickly. 

“I loved him,” you say suddenly. “At least I think I did.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning back onto his elbows.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice thick and smoke-warmed. “I mean it wasn’t fireworks or anything. But… It was easy. He was thoughtful. Remember he bought me all those books? And he’d get me flowers. He just felt like…” You pause again, taking a deep inhale of smoke. “It was nice to pretend that I was a normal, non-fucked-up person when I was with him.”

You flick the ash off of the end of the cigarette and bring it to your lips one last time. You lean forward, elbows settling on your knees, spine curved, cigarette smothered out against the metal lip of the gutter with a soft hiss. The rooftop beneath you is cool and slightly damp from earlier drizzle, that particular smell of rain still clinging to the shingles. Neither of you say anything for a long while.

But then, in that Steve Harrington voice, quiet, scratchy from smoke and worn in history, “You think that’s what love is?” he asks. 

Your stomach drops. You glance over at him, unsure if it’s a jab or something real. Sometimes Steve forgets to soften the edges of his questions; forgets how easily you bruise. His face gives you nothing. Earnest, a little furrowed, but not cruel.

You look away before you can decipher it any further. Your eyes drift down to the driveway, to the familiar silhouette of his car parked just under the floodlights of his parents’ house. The light catches on the dent above the passenger-side headlight— bent metal, paint chipped, rust creeping at the edges.

It’s from that night. The one where you froze.

You hadn’t meant to. It had been one of those moments where the world narrows, collapses in on itself, sound disappearing, instincts betraying you. You remember it with sickening clarity. The demogorgon had you cornered near the woods, blood in your mouth, your legs shredded from running. You’d thought it was over until headlights came flying out of the trees, horn blaring, and Steve’s car hit the thing hard enough to send it flying. He hadn’t even hesitated. Just floored it.

You didn’t even notice the dent until the next morning. And you hadn’t stopped noticing it since.

That wasn’t the only time.

There was the time he tackled a soldier to keep them from seeing you duck into a hallway. The time you knocked him clean off his feet pulling him out of the way of flying debris from that goddamn gate collapsing. The tally of injuries between you is stupid. It’s obscene. You’ve both nearly died for each other too many times to count.

You exhale slow, shoulders sinking with it. “I don’t… I don’t know what love is. But… it felt like something . With him.”

Steve sits with that for a second, chewing on the inside of his cheek the way he does when he’s nervous. His hand rubs absent-mindedly along his thigh, thumb grazing the seam of his jeans like he's thinking hard, choosing his next words with care.

“I just think,” he says, “maybe love should feel like fireworks. At least sometimes. I don’t think it should just be what’s easiest.”

You bristle. The words sting more than they should. Your hands retreat into the sleeves of your hoodie, curling into fists inside the fabric. 

“It’s not like I was with him ‘cause it was convenient.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m not just looking for whatever’s easy.”

“Y/n, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” he says quickly, shifting toward you.

You shake your head loosely. You wave a hand like it’s no big deal, even though your chest has tightened again, and you hate that you’re taking this personally. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“I didn’t mean to overstep,” he says, softer now. “I’m sorry. Really. I wasn’t trying to… discount what you had. Or what you felt. I just… I think sometimes we settle for something that feels safe because the alternative is so much scarier.”

You nod, curtly. It’s enough to show you’re not storming off the roof, but not enough to say it’s fine. Because it’s not, really. You doubt you’ll ever be fine again.

But then he does what Steve always does. He gives you space. He stays still beside you, his presence solid and unshaking. He lets the silence return without trying to drown it in apologies or more talk. That’s what you’ve always liked about him: this surprising patience he’s learned, this stillness he offers you when words aren’t the right balm.

The wind shifts slightly, brushing your hair across your cheek. Below, the town glows faintly in the night haze, a collection of yellow-lit windows and dim streets. You’ve both bled for this place. Watched pieces of yourselves get swallowed by it.

After a while, he tilts his head, brushing his knuckles against your arm just once.

“You staying over?” he asks, quiet.

You shrug, before leaning your head to the side and resting it on his shoulder. “You gonna make me a bed on the roof?”

He exhales half a laugh. “You can have the left side of my bed if you don’t hog the covers.”

He says it like a joke, but you hear the softness beneath it. The invitation, the familiarity, the quiet promise that there’s still a place for you here, even when everything else feels like it's unraveling.

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “When are your parents back?”

Steve shrugs, like he hasn’t thought about it much. “I dunno. Few more days, maybe. They’re in Maine or something.”

Your heart twists in that slow, familiar way it always does when he mentions them—like an old bruise you forgot was still there until you poked it.

“Do they even know you're here?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Probably not.” He shrugs again, but it’s smaller this time. “They don’t really check.”

You nod slowly. The silence settles again, heavier now. You try not to let it break you. You’ve known this about him for years, but it never stops hurting. You don’t know how it doesn’t harden him, but somehow he still shows up with soft words and spare blankets.

Eventually, you both climb back through his bedroom window, your limbs cold and a little stiff. It’s muscle memory at this point, the shuffle of routine that’s become something like home. You kick off your shoes by the door, wander to the laundry basket where you know the soft stuff lives, and swap your own hoodie and jeans for an oversized sweatshirt and sweatpants that still smell like his detergent and maybe a little like him.

He disappears to the bathroom while you change, and when he comes back, you’re already in his bed, curled on your side. He’s stripped down to just his boxers, skin golden in the soft light spilling from the hallway.

He slides in on the other side, like always. You face opposite directions, like always. A gap of maybe two feet between you, like always. The room is quiet, except for the fan ticking softly in the corner and the distant hum of the cicadas through the still-open window.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

You think about lying. You almost do. But instead, you say, “Not really.”

He exhales slowly. “Yeah. Me neither.”

You smile faintly, even if he can’t see it.

A few more minutes pass like that. Quiet, except for your breathing, for the occasional rustle of fabric as you shift under the blanket. Then you feel it, the slow bend of the mattress as he turns toward you.

“Can I…” he doesn’t finish the sentence, just leaves it hanging. You know exactly what the end is.

You don’t answer, just shift too, closing the space between you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Your forehead presses gently to his bare chest, and his arm comes around you a beat later, tentative, careful. Like if he holds too tight, you might vanish.

You don’t vanish. He smells like clean skin and the faintest trace of smoke from earlier, like boy and summer and safety all at once. His fingers start to move—soft brushes along your arm, back and forth, steady and soothing.

He’s quiet for a long time. You can feel his breathing shift, feel the little catches in it when his mind spirals too fast. Then his voice breaks through, low and frayed around the edges, brushing against your hair.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, and you feel the way his chest vibrates softly beneath your cheek. It makes you smile, slow and warm.

He swallows, and you feel it. The nervous hitch in his breath.

“About what I said. On the roof.”

You don’t answer, but your hand moves, slow, finding its way to the side of his ribs. You press in just slightly, grounding yourself. He notices. His arm tightens around you a little more.

“I think I messed it up,” he says, his voice rough. “Not the part where I said love should feel like something. I meant that. I just—”

His hand stills on your back, fingers splaying, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

“I didn’t mean that what you had wasn’t real. Or good. I just…”

You tilt your face up toward him, your nose brushing the soft line of his jaw. His breath stutters at the contact. You wait, gently pressing your lips to the edge of his throat in quiet encouragement. I’m here. I’m listening.

“I think love can feel like… all sorts of stuff,” he continues, voice barely above a murmur. “Like knowing the worst parts of someone and staying anyway. Like…”

His thumb skims softly across your spine. Up, down. Like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

“Like knowing exactly where the good blankets are. Or leaving the porch light on even when you don’t know if they’re coming over. Or, I dunno. Picking glass out of your hair after a monster throws you through a window.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh against his skin, your fingers trailing along his ribs now, slow and aimless, just to feel the heat of him beneath your touch. Your chest is tight with something bright and aching.

He leans back a little to look at you, his palm brushing your cheek with the softest touch, like he’s still afraid you might pull away.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is… Love can feel like fireworks, sure. But maybe it also feels like this . You and me. All of this.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. His eyes are wide, unsure, but there’s nothing hidden in them anymore. No bravado. Just that familiar, golden-hearted honesty that’s always undone you.

Your voice catches. “Steve…”

“I’m not saying it right,” he murmurs, shaking his head a little, his forehead brushing yours. His fingers slide into your hair, slow and trembling. “I just— when I think about the people I’d die for, it’s… it’s you. But I’d live for you, too.”

Your heart is pounding. You know he feels it. Your hand curls around the back of his neck, thumb sweeping over the soft hair at his nape.

You don’t even think. You just move.

The kiss is gentle at first, almost unsure, the soft brush of lips and breath and years of almosts pressed into one stolen second. But then his hand tilts your face, and you lean in closer, melting into the warmth of him, into the way he holds you like he’s terrified and certain all at once.

He kisses you like he’s wanted to for years but never dared. With reverence. With relief.

When you finally pull back, you’re taken aback at how natural this feels. You suppose that after seeing each other at your absolute lowests, with blood caked in your hair, and deep gashes strung along your bodies, breaking down and snotty crying, screaming in the middle of the night, this all seemed less intimidating.

And then you kiss him again, slower this time, deeper. His fingers tangle in your hair and you sigh softly into him, into the quiet and the closeness. He whispers your name, laced with desperation.

It isn’t until you go to rake your fingers through his hair that you realize you’re shaking. That’s how badly you want this. How badly you need this. You nearly die of embarrassment, until Steve sees the panicky look in your eyes, and quickly grabs your hand, and holds your palm to his chest. His heart is beating a million miles a minute.

It gives you the courage you need to surge forward again, and let out a soft breath as he kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. You fall into a rhythm, nodding your head as he keeps his lips locked on yours. You let out a small whimper, and he groans in response, slipping his tongue into your mouth, completely taking over your senses.

The room is filled with the sounds of your mouths on each other, your tongues tangling together, and your frenzied breathing in the dark. He firmly plants his hand in your hair, tugging a bit, exploring, testing, and groaning again when you whine. He sends vibrations through your throat all the way down to your core, where an impressively quick drip is forming.

He grazes his teeth against your throat, slowly bringing his knee up between your legs, giving you the pressure you need . You grind against it, whining again, and he breathes a broken sigh into your neck.

And again, through magic, or mind-reading, or perhaps just trauma-bonding, Steve doesn’t even need to ask, he just slips his fingers past the waistband of your pajamas— his pajamas, and drags them oh-so-slowly down to your slit, absolutely drenched. He moans, shamelessly, at the slick he finds.

“Oh, baby ,” he wines. “You need this,” he tells you, and it leaves your head spinning. “My baby needs this, right?” 

His baby .

You jerk at the way his fingers swirl around your clit, your chest bending forward to press toward his. You bury your hands in his hair, twisting the locks around your fingers. “ Steve ,” you murmur.

“What do you need, baby?” he presses again, dragging his two fingers up, and down, and up, and down, and around in circles. “Tell me what you need.” 

He moves his hand down further and slowly, achingly, teases his finger in and out of you in messy, languid strokes, as you manage to squeak out a tiny uh, uh, uh .

“Do you need this?” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the shell of your ear, the hot air making you squirm. “Tell me you need this.” 

It’s an intensity you haven’t been on the receiving end of in a long time— if ever.

“I nee—” you try, but you’re finding it near impossible to get words out. He pulses his finger in and out, curling it slightly, stealing the air from your lungs, desperate and smoke tinted.

“Tell me you need this,” he repeats, gooey tone turning forceful, and it only fuels the fire between your legs. He adds a second finger, increasing the delirious pressure. “Tell me you need this, baby.”

You’re not even sure what sentiment is actually being exchanged here. You’re not sure if he needs you to say it, or if he needs to hear it. It’s all the same, you suppose.

“I need this,” you whine. “I need you , Steve.”

And he’s a goner. He increases the speed, increases the force, increases the rabidity with which he thrusts his fingers in and out, and with which he attacks the skin between your jaw and your throat.

You melt into a puddle, muttering completely incoherent ramblings into the top of his head, the strands of his hair enveloping you. He’s getting you where you want to go, and fast . But it’s not exactly what you need , and you’re just about done settling for anything less.

You tug on his hair, forcefully enough to get him to pull away from the dark bruise he was sucking into your collarbone. He looks down at you with pupils blown wide, swollen, pink lips, sticky with want, and ten percent of a frown, as if to ask you if he’s doing something wrong. His hair falls into his face, and you feel his labored breath from a mere few inches above you.

“I need you,” you breathe out.

“You have me,” he tells you, with a sincerity in his gaze that sends your heart racing all over again. He brings one hand up to trail his finger up and down your cheekbone. The tenderness solidifies the want in you.

“I need you inside me,” you clarify; every second you’re left empty makes you want to scream.

He nods his head ever-so-slightly, dark eyes searching yours. His mouth twitches, and he  squeezes your forearm, almost nervously.

“Yeah?” he asks. “You need me? You need me inside you?” 

“I need you,” you tell him, finally catching on to the way that this word drives him so crazy. “I need you so bad, Steve.”

A low, gravely moan snakes out from somewhere in his chest, as he slips his painfully hard cock from the waistband of his boxers. He barely has time to stroke his hand over it twice before you displace it with your hand, running your delicate touch up and down the shaft like you might die if you aren’t holding it.

“Baby,” he whines. “ Baby , so good. You’re so good,” he continues his lauding, rambling, ranting, breathlessly. Then, a dizzying string of thoughts spills from his lips, so shamelessly, so earnestly, that your heart flips. “I need this to be good. I need to be good. Baby, I need you.”

You waste no time shoving your (his) sweatpants and your underwear down your legs, leaving you bare to him. In similarly desperate and quick succession, he lines his tip up with your slick, puffy slit, and taps it teasingly.

“I need you,” you tell him, something animalistic coming over you, hand coming up to grip the side of his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “ I need you .”

That’s all he needs. His eyes slip closed from the delirious pressure, and you both let out unholy groans. It takes every fiber of your resolve not to start shrieking as he buries himself all the way inside you, tip just kissing your cervix.

It’s unbelievable. It’s exactly what you need .

After your walls stretch to accommodate him, and after letting the moment settle, he slowly, agonizingly pulls out, hissing through his teeth, and pushes back in, this time earning that slight shriek from you.

“ Steve ,” you keen, breath hitching in your throat, his name spilling out like a prayer.

You don’t think about what this means. Maybe he doesn’t either. Or maybe he’s thought about it far too much—maybe he’s spent endless, sleepless nights alone, staring at the ceiling and wondering what it would take to finally call you his . Or worse— better — maybe he’s thought about it while you were right there beside him , tangled up in dreams and grief, trading nightmares and whispered comfort.

It unravels something in you, like a loose thread. One that’s been fraying for years, since 1983, when a spoiled, sharp-edged boy with a ridiculous amount of hair grabbed your hand and yanked you out of death’s path like it was nothing. Like he didn’t even think twice. A thread that wore thinner each time he stood in front of you instead of behind, each time he said he’d keep you safe and meant it with every breath in his body.

And now that thread’s unraveling fast, a soft and sacred undoing one final time.

You work to push down the ugly thought rearing up in you that he’s only doing this because he feels bad for you . Not because he wants to. 

But that’s not how Steve works, not with you. 

You think about telling him. About letting him in on the secret you’ve been harboring behind your own back. The truth you didn’t dare speak or even fully form until right now, when it’s as clear as the weight of his body over yours and the burn of his lips against your throat. It’s the undeniable truth—

You do know what love is. 

You think about locking eyes with him, finally letting it fall from your lips, finally saying it. But then his hips roll forward again, slow and deliberate, his mouth dragging along the delicate curve of your neck, and you realize you don’t need to say anything at all.

He already knows.

Your walls begin to pulse, and you’re nearing that cliff, senses completely blown out as he sinks into you again and again, sucks harshly into your neck, and his hand comes up to slip under your sweatshirt ( his sweatshirt) and pinch at your hard nipple.

“You gonna cum, pretty baby?” he drawls, wrapped in another adorable whimper. “Yeah? You gonna cum for me? You need to cum?”

You nod your head rapidly. “I need it,” you whine. “I need it, I need it, I need it ,” you repeat, like a mantra.

He slips his hand from your breast to rub again hurriedly, messily at your clit, fingers jittering back and forth and back and forth and…

And there it fucking is. 

Fireworks. 

They explode behind your eyes, and you try in vain to muffle your cries, but you scream out, a rippling shockwave sent through your body and out of your throat. 

“That’s my baby,” he moans, guiding you through it. You float through the air and come back down to the sound of his voice, his breath hot in your ear, rambling soft, scattered praises— so good, so perfect, I’ve got you, I’ve got you — the words spilling out between his own gasps, the tickling warmth of them making your whole body twitch with leftover sparks.

And then he follows, his rhythm faltering, stuttering, until he shudders against you with a low, guttural sound, every muscle in his body going tight before he slumps, trembling, forehead pressed to your shoulder. His hand finds yours blindly, fingers weaving through like it’s instinct, like it’s reflex.

You stay like that for a moment. Breathing hard. Chests rising and falling in tandem. Sweat-slicked skin cooling in the stillness of the room. You can feel your pulse in your ears, in your throat, in the places where his body still touches yours.

Eventually, he shifts just enough to slide out and settle beside you, collapsing onto his back with a quiet groan, like the air’s been knocked out of him. His arm stays hooked around your waist, keeping you close. You turn your head, cheek brushing against his damp shoulder, still catching your breath.

No words come. Not yet.

It’s not awkward, though. It’s weighty. Like the moment has stretched around the both of you, holding you in the soft aftermath.

He reaches over, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles where your hands are still laced. “You okay?” he whispers, and his voice is quieter now, barely there.

You nod, then say it aloud so he knows for sure. “Yeah. Are you?”

He exhales, soft and shaky, then turns his head just enough to look at you. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks flushed, lashes heavy where they cast shadows under his eyes. And still, he gives you the smallest, most honest smile.

He nods, then dips his head to press a gentle kiss to your lips. It’s not about desire—not anymore. It’s slow and soft and certain, like he’s anchoring you to this moment, like he’s making a promise without having to say a word.

When he pulls back, his eyes flick across your face, studying you like you might disappear if he blinks too long. Then he sinks back onto the pillow beside you, arm still around your waist, drawing you in until you’re pressed against his side, your leg tucked over his, hand resting on his chest. His heart is still racing under your palm.

He lets the silence stretch again, lets it breathe. 

Then, quietly, almost like he’s speaking more to himself than to you, “I think it feels like this. Like breathing you in after the world’s fallen apart. Like knowing I’d pick glass out of your hair all over again. Even if it cuts me up.”

It lands heavy in your chest. You press your face into his skin, wrapping your arm tighter around him, your fingers curling against his side like you’re trying to etch the shape of him into memory.

“I think I knew,” you whisper. “Somewhere in me. I think I always knew it was you.”

His breath stutters, then catches. And then his arms wrap around you fully, completely, like he’s pulling you into the place he’s made in his chest just for you.

Neither of you speaks for a while after that. There’s nothing more to say, not right now. Just the steady thrum of your hearts syncing back to a rhythm you’d both forgotten you knew. Just the quiet unfolding of something old, something soft, something fiercely real.

You and Steve lay in the quiet, steady space, laying the foundation brick by brick so you have somewhere safe to land, just in case the world cracks open again.

Author's Note: Hi! I've been writing and posting on ao3 for the past few years and finally made the decision to start crossposting my works here. It's gonna take me a while to find my footing and figure out the differences in tagging/etiquette, so please don't hesitate to let me know if something looks wrong! And feel free to message me about anything else! Happy to chat about my past works, my plans for upcoming stories, or anything that's on your mind.

I wanted to start with this fic I wrote earlier this year, and I'll let me original notes speak for themself: "I don't want to get too self-righteous or mushy or anything, but I really feel like this is my magnum opus. I really loved writing this one and I'm so proud of how it turned out. I think Steve Harrington is one of the most interesting characters of all time, and I love digging deep beneath his ribs and figuring out what makes him tick. And my favorite kind of smut is the kind that's messy, and steeped in all sorts of complicated emotions. Please let me know what you think! <3"