Blue Writes

Julie announces her arrival with a triumphant squeal, the kind that ricochets down the hallway like a joyful little flare. You’re halfway through blending your foundation when the sound of determined shuffling hits the bedroom carpet.

You glance down. There she is. Your tiny tornado. Curls sticking up like dandelion fluff, mismatched socks, one drool-damped sleeve, and the biggest, proudest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Hi, bug,” you say, warmth blooming through your chest.

She immediately makes a beeline for you, walking fast (still a fairly new concept to her) and crooked, her diapered butt wiggling as she steers. She stumbles a bit as she reaches you and you barely have time to set your compact down before she hauls herself upright using your knee.

“Mama,” she announces, reaching up with grabby hands.

“Mama’s trying to look human,” you tell her gently, lifting her onto your lap because resistance is futile and also because there isn’t a universe in which you’d actually resist. “Big night. Date with Dada.”

Julie wastes zero seconds before snatching your makeup sponge and directing it toward her mouth.

“Nope— no, honey, that is definitely not food.” You pry it from her hand, replace it with a clean brush, and she beams like she’s been promoted. Then she tries to chew the brush. “Julie.” You sigh, amused and helpless. “Why must everything go in your mouth? You are not a goat.”

She giggles, a bubbly, delighted sound, and leans forward to plant a drooly kiss on your chin. Something inside you melts, as it always does. You can feel the imprint of the kiss like a tiny stamp from the sun. You make a half-hearted attempt to finish your eyeliner one-handed, but Julie wriggles, twisting toward the open makeup bag like it’s a treasure chest. As if she doesn’t have an entire nursery filled to the brim with toys. She manages to grab a tube of lipstick and immediately tries to uncap it.

“Whoa, whoa— no ma’am, not that one,” you say, lunging and intercepting it. “Mama needs that. It’s expensive. Here,” you say, taking the brush from her other hand and delicately swiping it down her cheek. “Does that feel nice?”

Julie freezes like you’ve just performed sorcery, then breaks into an astonished, delighted gasp. Her tiny hands fly to her cheeks. 

“Pretty,” she announces in her tiny little voice. Her ‘r’s are still soft and slippery, making every word that much cuter.

“Yes, you are,” you whisper, kissing the crown of her head.

The bathroom door swings open behind you, and steam spills out in a lazy wave. Eddie steps into the bedroom with a towel slung low on his hips, curls slightly dripping, smelling like Irish Spring and warm water. His eyes land on you instantly.

And then he stops walking. Stops breathing, too, probably.

“Sweetheart,” he says with a low whistle, leaning in the doorway like something out of a magazine he’d stubbornly pretend he doesn’t read. “You look beautiful.”

Heat blooms up your neck. “I’m halfway done,” you say, trying for casual, though Julie is currently gnawing on her own fist, which ruins the effect.

He grins, slow and crooked. “You’re done enough for me.”

You roll your eyes. “Please go put on pants.”

“Can’t. I’m stunned. Legs don’t work.” He presses a dramatic hand to his heart, but slips sweatpants on anyway. “She’s too pretty, Judge. I rest my case.”

Julie kicks her feet at him, squealing like she knows he’s performing.

“Heyyyy, bug,” Eddie croons, walking over and scooping her up from your lap with practiced ease. “What’s goin’ on? You helpin’ Mama get all fancy?” 

Valentine’s Day was a month ago, spent with a feverish toddler wedged between you in bed, cheeks flushed pink and nose stuffy from whatever delightful plague she brought home from daycare. You’d made soup and checked her temperature every twenty seconds. Eddie had fallen asleep sitting upright against the headboard with Julie drooling on his chest. Romance at its finest.

Then the cold lingered. Passed to you, then to Eddie. Then work piled up. Before you knew it, Eddie was asking Wayne if he could watch Julie for the night so he could take you out for Valentines— well into March.

“Dada!” she shouts, grabbing a fistful of his damp curls.

“Yeah, yeah, careful— those are expensive too,” he mutters, wincing but grinning. He bounces her lightly on his hip. “You helpin’ Mama get all fancy even though Valentine’s already came and went?”

“Vaw-ties,” she says confidently.

“That’s right. We’re celebrating late because somebody,” he taps her nose gently, “brought home the daycare plague.”

She blows a raspberry at him.

Eddie presses a kiss to her temple. “I still think you milked it,” he stage-whispers. “Total diva.”

Julie pats his mouth firmly. “No.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he corrects immediately. “You were brave. The bravest. Daddy was the diva.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “You were the one whining about not getting your Valentine’s steak.”

“Vaw-ties,” Julie gets out, making another solid two year old attempt at quite a hard word, you admit. Further compacted by the brush bristles in her mouth. How did she get that back in her grip?

Eddie plucks the brush from her hand and turns his attention back to you. “Listen, I normally think you’re the picture of a perfect mom,” he says, earning a proactive eyeroll from you. Here he goes… “Although I was thinking,” he continues, “I could feed her some actual food instead of makeup products.”

“Ugh,” you groan, playing along. “You’re so much smarter than me. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He adjusts her on his hip and swings her gently back and forth, the little curls at the nape of her neck still damp from her earlier bath. She leans her head against him with that soft toddler trust that always makes your heart twist.

“You wanna help Daddy make dinner?” he asks, brushing her hair back. “Mama’s got glamorous business to attend to.”

“Mac an’ cheese!” Julie chirps, already all in.

“That’s right,” he says proudly, bouncing her once for emphasis. “And maybe some vegetables too? Wouldn’t that be novel?” He glances at you then, softer. “Wayne should be here any minute. Come on, bug,” he murmurs, nuzzling Julie’s cheek. “Let’s get you fed before Grandpa Wayne gets here and spoils your dinner with whatever chocolate he’s got hidden in his coat.”

Julie pats his face. “Choc-wat,” she echoes.

“Ah, shit. Shouldn’t have said it.” He leans down, kisses the top of your head. His voice softens like velvet. “Finish getting ready,” he murmurs. “I’ll handle the gremlin.”

“Hey,” you call as he starts toward the kitchen, Julie’s socked feet kicking happily as she bounces on his arm. “Eddie?”

He pauses at the doorway, turning back. You take him in: damp curls, sweatpants slung low, baby balanced on one hip, affection softening every line of his face.

“You look good,” you say quietly.

He brightens like you handed him the moon. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He winks. “Wait till I put on my fancy jeans.”

You finish your eyeliner without poking yourself in the eye, which already feels like a cosmic win. You slip into the dress you dropped half a paycheck on at J.C. Penney’s two weeks ago after Robin nearly forced you at gunpoint— asking you when the last time was that you bought an item of clothing that wasn’t immediately covered in applesauce or drool or worse. You finish the look off with lipstick, a light spritz of perfume, the necklace Eddie gave you on your last anniversary. When you finally stand and look in the mirror, there’s a moment (not long, just a flicker) where you actually feel like yourself again. Not just Mom. Not someone just trying to keep a tiny human alive.

You feel like you. And it feels good.

You pad out into the kitchen, heels dangling from your fingers so you don’t biff it on the hallway rug. Eddie is exactly where you expect: shirtless, still damp-haired, leaning one hip against the counter while making ridiculous airplane noises as he guides a spoonful of mashed sweet potato toward Julie’s mouth.

She clamps her lips shut and turns her face away.

“No?” Eddie asks, offended. “Sweetheart, this is gourmet. This is five-star mush.”

Julie bangs both hands on her high chair tray and squeals, delighted to be ruining his bit.

“Open up, bug,” he coaxes, dodging an incoming flail. “Come on. Just a little. A teeny tiny—”

Julie smacks the spoon. A soft splatter of orange hits Eddie’s cheek. You clap a hand over your mouth, trying and failing not to laugh.

He turns slowly, eyes narrowed in mock warning. “Say one word,” he says, pointing the spoon at you, “and I’ll feed you next.”

You saunter in, smug. “Tempting. But you should go get ready. I’ll finish.”

Eddie straightens, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. “You sure? She’s feisty tonight.”

“Go,” you say, waving him off as you grab the spoon.

“Have I mentioned how fucking incredible you look?” he asks, keeping the curse under his breath, away from little ears.

“Go,” you repeat, laughing. “Put on the fancy jeans.”

As he heads toward the bedroom, Julie holds both arms out dramatically. “Dada! Dada! No go!”

“You didn’t even want me!” he calls back. “And you got Mama. Much better deal.”

Julie squints skeptically at her spoon.

“Yes,” you tell her, sitting beside the high chair and picking up the napkin. “Mama is a great deal. Mama is the best deal. Mama is also going to lose her mind if you fling sweet potato at her new dress, so let’s keep the chaos to a minimum.”

She leans forward, curious, like she’s considering it.

“That’s right,” you murmur, offering the spoon. “Please be the angel that Grandpa Wayne seems to think you are.”

Julie accepts the bite. Barely. But you call it a victory.

“You know,” you tell her quietly, “Dada’s taking Mama out tonight. Even though Valentine’s was forever ago.”

“Vaw-tine,” she repeats automatically.

“Yeah. That.” You smile. “He wanted to do it on the real day. But somebody had a little cold.”

She opens her mouth for another bite, which you happily give her.

“You were so sick,” you murmur, softening, brushing your thumb under her eye. “My poor baby.”

Her hand reaches out, small and warm, patting at your collarbone. Her fingers catch on your necklace and she grips it with determined curiosity.

“Easy,” you laugh softly. “That’s special.”

She tugs once, then just holds it between her fingers, staring at it like it’s treasure. The pendant glints in the kitchen light.

“Dada gave that to me,” you tell her. “He’s very good to me. Did you know that?”

She looks up at you, blinking.

“He makes me laugh,” you continue, brushing her curls back from her forehead. “Even when I’m tired. Even when I’m grumpy. He sings my favorite songs— even the ones he doesn’t like. He takes care of us. He loves you so much it’s ridiculous. Sometimes I think his heart might actually explode.”

Julie smiles again, slow and bright, still clutching the necklace.

“And I love him,” you say softly. “Very, very much.”

You press your forehead gently to hers. She smells like baby shampoo and sweet potato.

“And I love you,” you whisper, voice wobbling just a little. “More than anything. You’re the best thing that ever happened to us. Even if you did delay Valentine’s dinner. I love you, bug.”

“Love you, Mama” she says, the words clumsy and miraculous all at once.

Everything in you melts. You close your eyes for a second, committing it to memory: the kitchen light, the soft hum of the fridge, your daughter’s sticky fingers tangled in your necklace.

You’ve just gotten her halfway through the bowl when there’s a knock at the door.

Julie’s eyes widen. “Gah-pa!”

“God” you remark, slipping her bib off and unbuckling her. “How do you always know it’s him? You’re my little witch, aren’t you?” You hoist her onto your hip and open the door.

Wayne Munson stands there with his same old work jacket, nose a bit pink from the cold, huge smile on his face at the sight of his grandchild.

“Evenin’, darlin’,” he says, stepping inside.

Julie practically leaps out of your arms and into his, squealing, “Gah-pa! Gah-pa! Gah-pa!” with the kind of joy reserved only for her favorite people and any animal or bug she has ever seen.

Wayne’s face softens like butter. “You’re gettin’ big,” he murmurs, voice warm enough to heat the whole apartment. “I keep tellin’ you to knock that off.” Julie responds by patting his cheek with a hand absolutely covered in orange goo. Wayne doesn’t even blink. “Look at that. Feedin’ your old man early.” Julie nods decisively, then steals his hat. Wayne lets her. “And look at you,” he adds, turning to you. “All dolled up. You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smile, handing him a napkin. “And thank you for watching her.”

“I should be thanking you,” he says, wiping the sweet potato from his face. “I miss havin’ a baby around the house to spoil rotten.”

You think of baby Eddie, wreaking havoc on Wayne’s life. Your heart kicks up at the little family you’ve found yourself a part of.

Eddie emerges from the hallway right then, adjusting his “fancy jeans”— which are, you admit, pretty damn flattering— and attempting to tame one rebellious curl.

Wayne looks him up and down. “You clean up good, boy.”

Eddie beams. “Why thank you, old man.”

He walks over to you, hands sliding to your waist almost automatically. “Well?”

You glance him over, slow and appreciative. “You would never even know about all the sweet potato you were wearing earlier.”

Julie, wearing Wayne’s hat sideways, points at Eddie’s jeans and declares, “Dada pants!”

Eddie laughs. “Fancy jeans, as advertised. Somebody appreciates the effort.”

You hand Wayne the half-finished bowl and bib. “She ate most of it. You can try to get her to eat more, but she might not, and that’s okay. But who knows? She’s in a really good mood now. Probably because you’re here.”

“Did you hear that, Wayne?” Eddie says, slipping his shoes on. “Real food, please. Not just garbage.”

Wayne balances her with one arm like he’s been doing it since the dawn of time. She wraps both arms around his neck like she’d physically fight anyone who tried to peel her off.

“Gah-bage,” Julie parrots.

Wayne laughs softly. “Well that settles it. You two better scram before she realizes you’re leavin’. She gets wind of that, I won’t get her to stop cryin’ till morning.”

It’s kind of him to lie. You know with him here, she couldn’t care less that the two of you are leaving.

Eddie leans in to kiss Julie’s cheek, but she clamps onto Wayne tighter like a koala.

“Wow,” Eddie mutters. “Okay. Always thrilled to see where I rank.”

“About third,” Wayne deadpans.

You step forward, brushing your hand down her curls. “I love you so much, baby. Be good for Grandpa Wayne.”

Julie doesn’t look at you. She is fully Wayne’s creature tonight.

“See?” Wayne says, hitching her on his hip. “Go on. Get outta here while she’s distracted. Have yourselves a Valentine’s.”

Eddie squeezes your hand. “Thanks, old man. Bed by nine? Please?” he requests, knowing it’s a losing battle.

You laugh and tug him along. Wayne raises a hand in a farewell salute, Julie imitating him with her tiny palm, still wearing his giant hat. You both grab your jackets and slip out. Once the door clicks shut behind you, the cold March air settles in. Eddie exhales, long and satisfied, like stepping out of the parental force field resets him. He holds your hand so you can balance, trying not to slip on the disgusting, sludgy leftover snow from last week’s storm. You glance over at him, taking in the jeans, the fitted shirt, the leather jacket, the delicate chain glinting against his collarbone.

“You look handsome,” you tell him, simple and sure.

He nearly trips over his own feet. “Handsome?”

“Mhm.”

“Like… actual handsome? Or just… ‘you look like you tried and that’s cute and I’m taking pity on you’ handsome?”

You lift a brow. “Are you fishing for extra compliments?”

“I just need clarity,” he says, stepping closer, voice dipping warm. “Because if you actually think I look good, I’m gonna start struttin’.”

“I feel like that’s your default setting.”

“For you,” he corrects, tipping forward to nudge your nose with his. “Always for you.”

You nudge him back. “Let’s go before I try to jump your bones in the backseat.”

“Mrs. Munson!” he gasps, mock-scandalized, wide grin taking over his face. He grabs your hand and spins you round, planting you firmly in his arms.

You shove him away playfully. “Get in the car, doofus. We’re gonna be late for the movie.”

It’s not far to the theater. Eddie drums his fingers on the steering wheel along with whatever rock station he settles on, but even when he’s pretending to pay attention to the road, you can feel his gaze flick your way. This is big. A night out. No diaper bag, no spare onesie stuffed in your purse, no half-crushed puffs rattling around the cupholder. It feels almost illicit. Still, halfway to the theater, your stomach twists.

“You think she’ll go down okay?” you ask.

Eddie glances over, amused. “You’re starting early.”

“I’m not starting anything, I’m just— Wayne always lets her stay up too late.”

“He’s the grandpa. It’s in the job description.”

You suppose it is.

“What if she won’t stop crying after we leave?”

“She didn’t even look at us,” he counters, laughing. “She’s probably already got a stomach full of chocolate and bullying Wayne into giving her more.”

You roll your eyes, but the worry doesn’t fully retreat. Eddie notices. He always does.

His hand leaves the wheel, finding your thigh in a warm, grounding press. “She’s okay,” he says gently. “Babe, I promise.”

You take a breath. His thumb traces one slow circle. The knot eases.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You’re right.”

“I usually am,” he teases, flashing a grin that achieves its goal of making you swat at him.

The theater marquee glows warm as you pull up, advertising the new release you’re here to see: Silence of the Lambs. You and Eddie had heard it’s tense and sickening and stomach-churning— everything you used to love in a movie before you had tiny eyes accompanying every video rental.

You’re a bit overdressed in your new dress, but you both wanted the night to feel special. And the outfit will make more sense at the restaurant, you figure.

Eddie buys you a giant popcorn, even though you insist you don’t want to spoil your fancy dinner. He even gets Milk Duds so he can eat half while claiming they were for you. Inside, the theater is half-full. You sit near the back, sharing popcorn, sharing whispers, sharing tiny bursts of laughter in the dark whenever he pretends to shield your eyes during the tense parts despite your insistence that you’re not remotely scared. And you let yourself sink into the movie with him, letting the world shrink to just the glow of the screen and the warmth of his side pressed to yours.

By the time you and Eddie spill back out into the crisp night air, you’re buzzing with that strangely pleasant leftover adrenaline the movie planted under your skin. He helps guide you again through the grey piles of snow in your heels. You’ve got an 8:15 dinner reservation to make.

Eddie stretches, groaning dramatically as he unlocks the car. “I swear, every time I go two hours without moving, my knees age fifteen years.”

“You’re so brave for enduring all that you do,” you deadpan, sliding into your seat.

“I am,” he agrees solemnly. “Please tell everyone.”

Once he’s in the driver’s seat, he leans back with a satisfied sigh. “Alright. Next stop… fancy dinner with my fancy girl.” He drums a triumphant intro on the steering wheel.

You snort, buckling up. He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road, headed for the fancy Italian place you haven’t had the chance to try since it opened almost a year ago.

But then you pass it.

The diner.

Your diner.

Flickering neon buzzing in the cold. The parking lot glinting with melted sludgey snow. The same red vinyl booths you used to make out in during slow nights. The same tabletop jukeboxes that had your favorite Ronettes song ready to go.

Your heart does a strange, soft lurch. “Hey,” you say, reaching your fingers out to touch his arm.

“Yeah?”

“I know we have a reservation,” you say, watching it slide past the window, little ghosts of your teenage selves pressed up in the memories. “But… would you take me there instead?”

Eddie glances at you, confused at first, then softening immediately. “The diner?” His brows lift. “Sweetheart, I wanted to spoil you tonight.”

“You still can,” you say, grinning. “I want a burger and a milkshake. Like… desperately.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice gentling. “Because that reservation is like three courses and— and a tablecloth, and I shaved my face and everything.”

“Positive.” You reach over, brushing your fingers along his jaw. “You can still spoil me. Just… maybe with fries instead of fancy wine.”

His whole face lights up. “Anything for my girl.”

Eddie makes a U-turn so fast you grip the door handle and laugh until your stomach hurts.

The diner is mostly empty when you walk in, warm and bright and smelling like grilled onions and malt. The waitress recognizes you instantly and gives you a wink as she seats you in the booth you always used to claim. The vinyl cracks beneath you in the exact same places. The sign in the window still says Try our new pancakes even though they haven’t been ‘new’ in ten years. If you thought you were overdressed for the movie, you look like the Queen of England here.

You take his hand across the table, tracing the familiar silver rings. You talk about the movie, about how badass Clarice is, how freaky Hannibal Lecter is, and how mega-freaky Eddie’s impression of him is. He makes you laugh. He always makes you laugh. You smile into your shake when it arrives. Chocolate. He ordered it for you without even asking.

You’re halfway through your burger when Eddie leans back, stretching one arm across the top of the booth like he owns the place. His eyes drift, casual as anything, toward the little tabletop jukebox bolted beside the napkin holder.

His fingers slide toward it. You barely notice at first, just the soft clink of coins, the quiet press of a button,  and then he settles back like nothing happened at all, reaching for a fry.

A beat passes. Two. And then the opening drums start.

The night we met I knew I needed you so…

Eddie’s head snaps up in exaggerated surprise. He points up at the ceiling, eyes wide as he looks at you. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “What are the odds?”

You stare at him. Then your mouth curls into a slow grin. “Are you seriously pulling this again?”

And if I had the chance I'd never let you go…

He blinks innocently. “Pulling what?”

“Your classic little teenage charade,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“And what charade would that be?” he asks, playing the fool.

So won't you say you love me?

You narrow your eyes. “Eddie.”

“What?”

I'll make you so proud of me…

“You want me to say it?”

He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Say what?”

You lean forward across the table. “You used to do this all the time.”

We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go…

His grin spreads wider.

“Every time we came here as stupid kids, you’d do the exact same thing. You’d put my favorite song on and then pretend it was some cosmic accident.”

“I mean, how do we know it wasn’t? Isn’t?”

Be my, be my baby…

“You are such a sap.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Romantic.”

“You were trying way too hard.”

“And it worked.”

You can't argue with that.

The song floats soft and golden around you, syrupy and warm like the diner lights. For a moment you can almost see it layered over itself like a film strip: two kids in this same booth, knees bumping, sharing fries because neither of you had enough money to order your own meals. Young Eddie, all nerves and devotion and wild hair.

“One thing I do remember,” Eddie says, dragging a finger along the scratched tabletop, “is sitting in this booth and pretending I wasn’t staring at you the whole time.”

You snort. “You were awful at it. You’d look at me, then look away so fast you’d almost give yourself whiplash.”

“I was subtle,” he insists.

At that, you let out an honest guffaw. “Oh, that might be the funniest thing you’ve ever said,” you tell him. “You have not been subtle about anything in your entire life, ever.” You pop another fry into your mouth.

“Well how could I be?” he throws his ego out the window, leaning in closer. “I was head over heels.”

You blink at him, heart kicking up. “I remember.”

“Still am,” he says. His gaze softens, full of something molten and familiar. “You still look as beautiful as the day I fell in love with you.”

You instinctively roll your eyes. You always do when he’s cheesy like this. But your breath still catches. He doesn’t say it lightly. He never has. He still looks at you like that. Still plays your favorite song on purpose and pretends it’s an accident. Still skips a fancy dinner because you wanted french fries.

You think about the necklace resting warm at your throat. The way he fed Julie earlier, making airplane noises and letting her smear sweet potato across his face like he didn’t care in the slightest. How gentle he is with her. How patient. How completely in love. He’s always been so good to you. Even when you were both broke and scared and pretending you weren’t.

And then, naturally, the conversation tilts toward the gravitational center of your current universe.

“Do you think Wayne put her to bed yet?” you ask, glancing at the clock on the wall. Almost ten.

Eddie snorts. “Absolutely not. She’s probably eating ice cream straight outta the carton.”

Outside, the air is sharp, the kind that stings your nose and makes you tuck your chin into your jacket. Eddie slings an arm around your shoulders as you walk to the car, pulling you close like he always does when it’s chilly.

The engine rumbles to life, heater coughing warm air into the cabin. You settle into your seat, still smiling a little, still full in that quiet, content way that has nothing to do with food.

Eddie backs out of the space one-handed, the other already reaching across the console for you like muscle memory. You slide your hand into his. His fingers lace through yours without looking, warm and steady, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles as he pulls toward the exit. The diner’s neon glows behind you in the rearview mirror, buzzing softly against the dark.

Near the edge of the lot, a handful of teenagers linger around a beat-up car, jackets too thin for the weather. One kid leans against the hood smoking something he probably shouldn’t be. Another is perched on the trunk, laughing loudly. One of them tosses his hair out of his face in a way that feels weirdly familiar.

You watch them as Eddie slows for the turn onto the road.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

You nod toward them. “That remind you of anyone?”

Eddie glances over, then back at the group. “What, me and the boys?”

You hum. “Yeah.”

He squints at them through the windshield as you idle there for a second. A couple of the boys are swatting at each other. One of them’s holding what looks like a cassette tape up to the light like he’s trying to read the label. Another one is doing that exaggerated rock-guy hair toss that every teenage boy thinks looks cool.

You feel a little tug in your chest. Because suddenly it’s easy to see it.

A younger Eddie leaning against a van in some parking lot somewhere. Long hair, ripped jeans, leather jacket even when it’s too cold. Jeff and Gareth nearby, arguing about guitar parts and band names and which Sabbath album is the best. D&D character sheets shoved into backpacks. Dice in jacket pockets. A whole future none of them could see yet.

You smile to yourself.

“You should roll down the window,” you tell him.

He glances over at you. “Why?”

“So you can tell them they’re looking at their future.”

He barks a laugh. “Oh fuck off.”

“I’m serious!”

He shakes his head, already grinning. “No way. Those kids don’t look anywhere near as cool as we did.”

You let out a loud laugh. “Eddie Munson.”

“What?”

“You were not cool.”

“We were!” he insists, but you can tell from the glint in his eye he’s just riling you up. “We were cool in our own way!”

“You need to know that I say this with love—”

“Oh great,” he anticipates.

“But you were a long-haired seedy freak,” you remind him.

“Wow!” he barks out a full-throated laugh.

You know that he knows that you’re pushing his buttons, and you wouldn’t be telling him this if you didn’t know that he finds it hilarious. But still, you lean over the console to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m filing that away for later,” he warns you playfully, “Don’t try to be sweet on me now.”

“I’m just telling you the truth.”

“Right.”

“And the truth is that I, on the other hand, was cool. So at least I can pass that down to Julie.”

He snorts. “You were not.”

You scoff, playing up your offense. “I was cool!”

“Absolutely not.”

“I was!”

“Ehhhhhhhhh,” he tosses his head to the side. “I think you’re misremembering, sweetheart. Because you, unfortunately, were dating the…” he cuts a sideways glance at you, corners of his lips curling upward. “What did you call me?”

“I don’t remember,” you fib.

“Did you call me a long-haired seedy freak?” An outright grin spreads on his face at your audacity.

“I don’t…” you scratch at your eyebrow. “... think that was me.”

“You were dating the long-haired seedy freak!”

“So?” you grumble.

“So,” he continues, clearly delighted with himself, “that makes you a freak by association. You can’t date the resident weirdo of Hawkins— let alone have a child with him, might I remind you— and walk away with a clean reputation.”

You fold your arms, pretending to consider it.

“Well,” you say slowly, “then I guess I should’ve picked someone cooler.”

Eddie gasps. “Oh my god!”

“Maybe a nice football player,” you continue thoughtfully. “Or a future accountant.”

He groans. “Don’t do this.”

“Someone with a sensible haircut.”

“Oh, you are such a dick,” he laughs breathily.

You glance over at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “But I think when all’s said and done, I’ll stick with you.”

“Oh!” he yelps. “Ladies and gentlemen, she saves it at the last second! It’s a Valentine’s miracle.”

You grin, giggle leaking out.

“What a wonderful closing sentiment. That was really impressive, sweetheart.”

“You’re welcome.”

He scoffs, still smiling. “Although, if I may,” he adds, “I’d like to formally object to the phrase long-haired seedy freak.”

“You object?”

“I object strongly.”

You gesture toward him with your free hand. “But now it’s a badge of honor,” you tell him.

“Is it now?”

“Mm-hm. ‘Cause now you’re a long-haired seedy freak who plays legendary music venues all over the country,” you tell him.

“Legendary, hm?” he laughs again.

“Yep.”

“Mmm,” he nods. “And we’re counting Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, and occasionally Minnesota as ‘all over the country’ now?”

His joke hangs between you, warm and gently self-deprecating, the way he gets when the truth scares him a little. His eyes flick up to you like he’s checking that you’re still here. Still with him. Still choosing this life that uproots everything every few months.

You squeeze his hand. “You’re getting bigger every tour.”

He gives you that small, crooked smile— the one that says he wants to believe you but doesn’t quite trust it yet. “Yeah, well. Don’t blink or we might make it to Ohio next.”

The heater hums steadily, warming your feet. The windshield glows faint gold from passing streetlights. His thumb keeps tracing slow circles against your knuckles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

After a minute, you glance over at him. “When do you leave again?”

He shifts a little in his seat, not surprised by the question.

“Not for a couple weeks,” he says. “We got rehearsals next week, then we head out after that.”

Relief spreads through you before you can hide it. “Good.”

His eyes flick back to the road, then back to you, catching the way your shoulders loosen. “Yeah?” he asks gently.

“I like having you home,” you say simply.

His mouth curves into a small smile. “I like being home.”

And he means it. You can hear it in the way he says it.

He squeezes your hand. “I got plans, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods toward the road like he’s mapping it out in his head. “Gonna fix that dishwasher before I go.”

You laugh quietly. “You said that last time.”

“Okay but this time I mean it.”

“Mm-hm.”

“And I figured I’d finish Julie’s room.” He glances over. “Paint the bugs on her walls like we talked about.”

You turn toward him immediately. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

Your whole face lights up. “Eddie.”

He shrugs, a little shy about the reaction. “I already drew a couple designs. Ladybugs, butterflies, beetles, all the creepy crawlies… maybe a big dragonfly over the crib.”

“Oh my god,” you breathe.

He smiles sideways. “Too much?”

“No,” you say instantly. “It’s perfect.”

Julie loves bugs. She points at every ant on the sidewalk like it’s a mythical thing. She sits cross-legged in the grass watching beetles crawl like it’s television. She’d spent ten full minutes last week staring at a caterpillar at the park instead of climbing on the jungle gym.

And Eddie is ridiculous about details. You’ve seen him paint. The patience. The tiny careful lines. The way he leans in close, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth like he’s solving something important. He could make those bugs look real enough to crawl right off the wall.

“She’s gonna lose her mind,” you say.

He grins. “That’s the goal.”

You lean your head back against the seat, smiling.

You picture it instantly— the pale yellow walls, the little wooden crib Wayne sanded down and refinished himself, Eddie crouched on the floor with paint on his hands and curls falling in his eyes while Julie tries to “help".

Your chest aches in that full, grateful way.

“You’re such a good dad,” you say quietly.

He exhales through his nose, almost embarrassed. “Tryin’.” He squeezes your hand. “Gonna make that room look like a whole bug kingdom,” he adds. “Julie Munson: Bug Queen.”

You lean your head back against the seat, smiling to yourself, imagining Julie toddling into the room and looking up at walls full of bright little wings and spots and crawling legs painted by her dad.

It feels so Eddie, the way he makes things with his hands. Music, drawings, little repairs around the apartment. The way he pours himself into the details. The way he leaves pieces of himself behind for you and Julie when he has to go.

Your fingers tighten around his. He squeezes back without looking away from the road.

The road back home is quiet this late. Streetlights pass in warm golden blinks across the windshield, sliding over Eddie’s face and disappearing behind you. The heater hums low, and your favorite radio station faintly plays in the background.

The light ahead turns red. Eddie slows, one hand loose on the wheel, the other still holding yours. The car rolls to a stop with a gentle little rock. For a second he just sits there. Then he turns his head. You’re already looking at him. His eyes are soft and warm in a way that still sometimes catches you off guard, even after all these years.

“What?” you ask, smiling a little.

He shakes his head.

“Nothin’.”

But he doesn’t look away. His thumb brushes once across your knuckles.

Then he leans over the console and kisses you. Slow and warm and unhurried. Your hand lifts automatically to his jacket collar, fingers curling into the worn leather as you kiss him back. The world is very small for a second, just the faint rumble of the engine and the warmth of his mouth and the soft brush of his hair against your forehead.

A car honks somewhere behind you.

Eddie pulls back with a quiet laugh. “Okay, okay —”

The light’s green.

He straightens, shifting the car back into motion, one hand coming back to the wheel. But your hands find each other again without looking.

By the time you turn onto your street, the houses are mostly dark. Your porch light is on, but the rest of the windows are dim.

Eddie slows as he pulls into the driveway. He glances at the house. “Think she’s out?”

You study the dark windows. No movement. No flickering TV. No tiny silhouette bouncing around. “Maybe,” you say cautiously.

He cuts the engine. Silence settles around you. You both sit there for a second like you don’t want to jinx it.

Then Eddie exhales. “Holy shit.”

You laugh quietly. “Don’t celebrate yet.”

But hope is already creeping in. You get out, the cold air nipping at your cheeks, and walk up the steps together. Inside, the house is dim and warm. Wayne must have turned most of the lights off. The living room lamp is low. TV off. Quiet.

You shut the door softly behind you while Eddie locks it. Your heels come off with a soft thump against the mat, as do Eddie’s. You exchange a hopeful and surprised look. You grin. Maybe you are off the hook. Maybe Julie fell asleep easy. Maybe tonight stays calm and soft all the way through. 

You hang your coat. Eddie stretches his arms overhead, spine popping faintly. He exhales in relief.

“Man…”

And then, from down the hallway, a tiny voice explodes into the quiet.

“MAMA DADA HOME!!!” High-pitched. Triumphant. Pure joy.

You and Eddie both freeze. Then you both tip your heads back and sigh at exactly the same time. You laugh helplessly.

Little feet pound against the floorboards. Fast. Chaotic. Julie appears around the corner in her pajamas like a tiny hurricane, hair sticking up in every direction.

“MAMA!!!”

She runs straight at you. Full speed. No brakes. You barely get your arms open before she collides into you, wrapping around your legs.

Eddie rubs a hand over his face. “Did Grandpa Wayne do any part of his job tonight?”

Julie bounces in place, vibrating with happiness.

“You go DINNER?”

“We went to dinner,” you confirm, scooping her up.

She throws her arms around your neck. Then twists immediately toward Eddie.

“Dada!!”

He reaches automatically, taking her from you like second nature.

“Hey, bug.”

She pats his cheeks with both hands.

“You BACK.”

“We’re back!” he parrots, and presses a kiss to her temple. 

Julie settles against his shoulder like she belongs there. Because she does.

Wayne appears in the hallway behind her, looking apologetic. “You gotta believe me,” he says quietly. “I almost had her down, I swear.”

Eddie laughs under his breath. “Course you did.”

Julie pats Eddie’s shoulder proudly. “Gah-pa read books,” she tells you, the word coming out more like ‘weed’. Completely adorable.

“How many books?” you ask her, brow quirked, because Julie likes to push her luck with bedtime books lately. One story very sneakily turns into five.

“Uhhhhhh…” she pretends to think, and comes up empty. “I fo-get.”

“You forget?” you ask her, brow now thoroughly furrowed.

Julie nods solemnly, like she’s given you a perfectly reasonable answer.

Eddie snorts. “Convenient.”

Julie ignores him and presses her cheek into his shoulder. You reach up and smooth over a rogue curl. It springs right back up again.

God, you love her.

The warm pajamas, the sleepy brightness in her eyes, the way she keeps checking your faces like she needs to make sure you really came back. Eddie’s doing the same thing in his own way, rocking her gently without realizing it, nose brushing the top of her head.

“You miss us?” he asks.

Julie nods immediately.

Your heart does that stupid squeezing thing again. “We missed you too,” you tell her.

She smiles, wide and proud, like that’s exactly the answer she expected.

Behind her, Wayne shifts awkwardly in the hallway. “Sorry she’s still up,” he says. “Really thought I had her.”

You shake your head right away. “It’s okay.” And you mean it. You step closer and touch his arm lightly. “Really. It’s fine, Wayne, don’t sweat it. These days it feels like it’s a miracle if she’s down before the sun’s up.”

Wayne huffs a quiet laugh at that.

“Sounds about right.”

Julie is still clinging to Eddie’s shoulder, one small fist tangled in the collar of his shirt like she’s making absolutely sure he doesn’t disappear again.

Wayne shifts his weight in the hallway, glancing between the two of you.

“So,” he says, casual, “how was that fancy dinner?”

You and Eddie look at each other immediately. Just a quick glance. But it’s enough. Your mouths both twitch.

Eddie clears his throat first. 

“It was…” he says slowly. 

You can see the corner of his mouth pulling upward. 

“…perfect.”

You bite your lip.

Wayne nods like that’s exactly what he expected to hear. “Good.”

You finally let the smile spread across your face. Because technically he’s not lying.

It was perfect.

Eddie looks over Julie’s head. “You wanna just crash here tonight?” he asks Wayne. “Save yourself the drive.”

Wayne shakes his head immediately. “Nah. I’ll get outta your hair.”

“You’re not in our hair,” you say.

“No trouble at all,” Eddie adds.

Wayne gives you both a look. “I got a hard time believing she goes to sleep if I stay.”

Julie perks up instantly. “Gah-pa Wayne stay?”

Wayne points at her. “See?”

Eddie grins. “Ohhh, listen to this guy,” he says. Wayne just sighs. Eddie nudges Julie’s side. “He’s bragging,” he tells her. “Hear that? He’s acting like he’s your favorite.”

Julie considers this very seriously. Then nods. “Gah-pa favorite.”

Eddie presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “Wow.”

You laugh. Wayne tries (and fails) not to look pleased with himself.

“Dada favorite too!” she adds, but Eddie’s already playfully devastated.

“Too?” he cries. “Too??”

“I’m not even getting involved in this,” you mutter, coiling one of her little curls around your finger delicately.

“Unbelievable,” Eddie mutters. “You know, your mama and I pay the rent.”

Julie pats his shoulder sympathetically.

“It okay Dada.”

That makes you laugh harder. Wayne shakes his head and reaches for his jacket. You stop him.

“Do you want coffee before you go?”

“I’ll be alright.”

“I’d really like to make you coffee.”

He pauses. “You don’t have to.”

“It’ll only take a minute,” you say. “And since you still refuse to accept any kind of payment for watching the munchkin…”

Eddie nods immediately. 

Wayne sighs like he’s losing an argument he knew he was going to lose. “Alright.”

So you all drift into the kitchen. The overhead light clicks on warm and soft. Julie stays glued to Eddie while he drops into one of the chairs, hauling her into his lap automatically. Wayne sits across from them, hands folded loosely like he never quite knows what to do with himself when he’s not working on something.

You fill the coffee maker with water, measure grounds by memory.

The familiar small sounds fill the room— the scoop against the tin, the tap of the carafe settling into place. Eddie asks Julie which books Wayne read to her.

“We read bug book,” she reports importantly. More like ‘wed’, again. Completely adorable, again.

Eddie perks up immediately. “Yeah? What bugs we talkin’ about?”

Julie wiggles a little in his lap, suddenly shy now that she’s being quizzed.

Wayne leans forward, patient as always. “C’mon, you remember. What’s the little red ones?”

Julie scrunches her face. “Uh…”

“Ladybugs,” Wayne says gently.

Julie brightens immediately. “Yeah!”

She twists toward you.

“Lay-bug.”

“Ladybug,” you echo warmly. “We love those.”

Wayne continues, steady and encouraging. “What about the ones that crawl on leaves?”

Julie scrunches her face up again. You can practically see the gears turning.

“Cat… cat… catta…”

“Caterpillars?” he suggests.

“Catta-pillas,” she says triumphantly.

“Close enough,” Eddie says.

You smile into the cabinet as you reach for the mugs.

Wayne keeps going. “And the shiny ones? The crawly ones with the pincers?”

“Bee-duls!” she says, wiggling in Eddie’s lap.

“That’s it.”

Eddie squeezes her gently. “You’re a bug expert, huh?”

She nods very seriously.

Wayne settles back a little. “So which one’s your favorite?”

Julie doesn’t even hesitate.

“Daggon-fly!” She throws one hand into the air like she’s making an announcement.

Eddie and you look at each other instantly. That quick, quiet, knowing look.

The dragonfly. Of course. The big one he’s planning over her bed.

“What other books did you make Grandpa Wayne read to you, bug?”

She thinks for a moment before listing: “We read bear book. An’ moon book. An’ twuck book.”

Wayne nods. “That’s right,” he says. “Truck. Just like the one Grandpa has, right, Julie?”

Julie nods and leans heavier into Eddie’s chest, eyelids drooping a little, but she’s still determined to tell the story.

“Big twuck,” she says.

“Big truck,” Wayne echoes.

“Red twuck.”

“Red truck.”

“Go brrrrrrrr.”

Eddie obliges with a low rumbling engine noise that makes her giggle against him. Then he glances over at you with a little grin. 

“Hey, Bug,” he says.

She looks up.

“Lemme ask you something important.”

Her eyes widen a little.

“Do you think Dada’s cool?”

You snort softly at the counter because you know exactly where that came from.

Julie doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

Eddie immediately looks over at you, triumphant. “Ha.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh please.” You lean against the counter, folding your arms. “Julie,” you say, “do you think Mama’s cool?”

Julie studies you both very seriously. Then she points. “Mama mo’ cool.”

Wayne chokes on a laugh.

Eddie gasps like he’s been shot. “Excuse me??”

Julie nods, completely confident. “Mama mo’ cool.”

Eddie clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Wow."

Then he scoops her up and tosses her gently into the air.

Julie shrieks with laughter. “Dada cool! Dada cool!” she squeals mid-giggle.

“Too late!” Eddie says, catching her and peppering her cheeks with kisses. “Damage done! You broke your old man’s heart!”

She giggles wildly, kicking her feet while he tickles her ribs. Then she suddenly remembers something very important.

“Oh! Put me down, Dada.”

She wriggles down out of Eddie’s lap and toddles out of the kitchen for a second. You and Eddie exchange a curious look. A moment later she comes running back with a wrinkled sheet of paper clutched in her hand. She holds it out to you proudly. You take it carefully.

It’s… incredible. In the way only a two-year-old drawing can be.

Four vaguely human shapes made of big wobbly circles and stick limbs. One of them has a scribbled mass of black curls that can only be Eddie. Another wears a sparkly necklace that must be you. One smaller blob between them is clearly Julie. And off to the side is another tall stick person.

You look up at Wayne. “Oh my goodness, Julie.”

Julie points. “Mama.”

You nod solemnly. “That’s me.”

She points again. “Dada.”

Eddie grins. “Nailed the hair.”

Another jab of her finger. “Me.”

“Beautiful portrait,” he says.

Then she points to the last figure. “Gah-pa.”

Wayne huffs quietly through his nose but you can see the way his shoulders soften.

“You got all of us,” you tell her.

She beams. You lean down and kiss the top of her head before setting the drawing carefully on the fridge with a magnet. The coffee maker gives a final sputter behind you. Perfect timing. You pour a mug and slide it across the table to Wayne.

“There you go.”

He nods his thanks again, and you sit across from him, next to Eddie and Julie.

Julie is still explaining the drawing in intense detail. “This house. An’ bug. An’ moon. An’ truck…” Her voice is getting slower now.

Eddie smiles down at her, brushing a curl off her forehead. She rubs one eye.

“You had quite the night."

She nods slowly. Then she yawns. Huge. Her head droops against his chest. Wayne chuckles quietly into his coffee.

Eddie looks down at her. “You ready for bed, Bug?”

Her eyes snap open just enough to protest. “No.”

“You’re falling asleep sitting up.”

“No bed,” she insists, even as her eyes drift shut again.

You laugh softly from the counter.

Julie squints at Wayne. “Read mo books?”

Wayne lifts his eyebrows at you.

You shake your head. “Nice try,” you tell her. “You already got four books tonight.”

“Five,” Wayne corrects.

“Five?” you repeat. “Julie Munson…”

Julie doesn’t look guilty at all. Her eyes are closing again.

You crouch beside Eddie’s chair and lean closer to her. Your voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “Listen,” you murmur, “I bet if you go to bed right now…”

Her eyes crack open.

“... Dada might sing to you.”

Julie freezes. Then she bolts upright like you hit a switch.

“OKAY.”

Before Eddie can even react she scrambles out of his lap and sprints down the hallway.

“BED!”

Her little feet thunder across the floor. Eddie stares after her. You grin.

“Got her.”

Eddie drags a hand down his face, already pushing back from the table. “You sold me out,” he accuses, pointing at you.

“Had to sacrifice you for the greater good,” you shrug. “So sorry, darling. You would’ve done the same to me.”

Eddie just shakes his head. “You’re damn right, Little Miss Mo’ Cool.” But he’s smiling. You see the little crease at the corner of his mouth.

“Dada!” Julie calls again from down the hall, impatient now.

“I’m coming, Bug Queen,” he calls back, already heading that way.

He pauses long enough to lean down and press a quick kiss to the top of your head as he passes.

“You owe me,” he mutters.

“You love this part,” you whisper back.

He gives you a look that says you’re not wrong, then disappears down the hallway.

A second later you hear the soft thump of Eddie sitting on the edge of the bed, and Julie’s excited little voice spilling over itself.

You smile to yourself.

Wayne finishes the last sip of his coffee, and stands from the table.

You stand and grab a travel mug from the cabinet. “Here,” you say, gently tipping the rest of the coffee from the pot into it. “You can take the rest for the road.”

He opens his mouth to protest. You give him a look. He closes it again.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You screw the lid on and hand it to him. “Seriously,” you add, softer now. “Thank you for watching her tonight.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“Anytime.”

“Well,” you say, leaning against the counter, “you should come over for dinner next week.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have to feed me too."

“We want to. And Julie will absolutely riot if she doesn’t see you again soon,” you add.

That gets a small smile out of him.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll see what my hours are this week.”

You walk him to the door. The house is quiet now except for the faint murmur of Eddie’s voice down the hall. You pull Wayne’s coat off the hook and hand it to him.

“Drive safe.”

“Always do.”

He steps out into the cold night, breath fogging in the porch light. You linger in the doorway a moment as he walks to his truck. He lifts the coffee mug in a small salute before climbing in. The engine starts, and headlights sweep across the yard. You close the door softly behind him.

For a second you just stand there in the quiet house. And then you hear Eddie’s voice, soft and low. A little rough around the edges. 

For every kiss you give me, I’ll give you three…

You lean against the wall and close your eyes without even realizing it.

Oh, since the day I saw you, I have been waiting for you…

It’s gentle. Slower than the record. Turned into something sleepy and warm. 

You know I will adore you ‘til eternity…

You can picture it without looking. Julie curled up under the blankets. Eddie sitting beside her, one big hand smoothing her hair back while he sings.

So won’t you please be my, be my baby…

You smile softly to yourself. Because you know he pretends to grumble about it.

But Eddie Munson loves nothing more than giving his girls music.

Author's note: I hope you enjoy this Valentine's fluff… more than a full month after the date. As always, let me know what you think <3

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

A few months later, Eddie and Steve have a party at their apartment to celebrate the construction finally being completed on their building. Of course they do. Because Steve can’t let a milestone go by without turning it into an Event, and Eddie loves any excuse to fill a room with people and music and booze. You’d be more surprised if they didn’t throw a party.

When you step inside, you’re honestly a little stunned.

The place actually looks… good now, which is almost disorienting, considering how truly, impressively awful it used to be. The popcorn ceiling is replaced by fresh plaster and paint. The dingy carpet (that always smelled faintly damp) is replaced by polished wood floors. The walls are freshly painted instead of that sad, peeling haunted wallpaper. You remember the way the roof above the kitchen used to leak every time it rained. The bathroom door that wouldn’t stay closed unless you physically held it shut. The lighting fixture that fell from the ceiling and sent Steve to the ER for what Robin and Eddie jokingly (but not really jokingly) claimed was “his tenth concussion”.

You and Robin had been there that morning, armed with coffee, bagels, and a garbage bag full of decorations. Eddie had already left for work (some early shift he’d grumbled about all week) so you hadn’t seen him at all today. The apartment had still smelled faintly like fresh paint and sawdust when Steve let you in, hair sticking up, already stressed about ice and cups and the speaker system.

You and Robin had claimed the living room as your territory. You climbed up on one of their wobbly kitchen chairs— still the same one that used to threaten to collapse at any second— and taped streamers in wide loops from wall to wall. Robin handled the balloons, and ignored Steve’s requests to “stick to a color scheme”.

You’d spread butcher paper across their coffee table and painted a banner in thick block letters: FINALLY HABITABLE! Robin added little stars around the edges, and you outlined everything in black marker when the paint dried. Steve hovered, offering unhelpful suggestions and nearly smearing the letters when he tried to “help”. You’d made him go hang it instead, standing on that same wobbly chair and squinting while you and Robin shouted minor adjustments from below. How many lefts did one boy have??

It’s packed. People you vaguely recognize from other nights out, friends of friends, coworkers, neighbors, random musicians Eddie’s collected over the years. There’s music playing low over the buzz of voices, and it is much warmer in here than it is outside. The furniture’s been shoved back to create a dance floor that’s already half-full, bodies pressed close, laughter loud and overlapping.

Robin squeezes your arm as you navigate inside together. “See?” she shouts over the music. “Worth the hot glue burns.”

You laugh, nodding, and then—

You see him. Just for a second.

Eddie’s across the room, half-turned away, laughing at something someone says. He looks the same: hair pulled back loosely, black T-shirt stretched thin over his shoulders. For a split second, something in your chest stutters. And then, just as quickly, the feeling curdles into something sour.

Because the last few weeks have been… weird.

Ever since he got back from Indiana (later than any of you expected, Wayne’s birthday stretching into something longer, at least a week) Eddie’s been hard to pin down. For you, at least. Always busy. Always distracted. Conversations that used to flow easy now ending too soon. Him glancing away when you walk into a room, like he hadn’t been looking for you at all. Like nothing had shifted, when it very clearly had. You’d felt it immediately. The way he spoke to you, careful and measured. The way his jokes stayed surface-level. Like he’d rewound himself to an earlier version, before he’d let you see anything real.

Robin and Steve don’t seem to notice. Or maybe they do and don’t think it means anything. They still talk about him the same way, still loop him into plans, still assume everything’s fine. You try to tell yourself it is.

Then someone steps in front of him. The crowd shifts. And he’s gone.

Steve barrels toward you next, already grinning, already reaching out to pull you into a hug. “You made it!” he yells, then clocks the man at your side and freezes, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. Mark.”

Mark laughs, easy and charming, like he always is. “Hey, Steve.”

“Wow, I see how it is,” shake your head at Steve. “The girl who burned all her fingerprints off making you these beautiful decorations is nothing compared to her boyfriend.”

You still aren’t used to how naturally that name comes out of your mouth. Boyfriend. It’s new enough that the word hasn’t lost its shine yet. 

Very new.

Mark, who was supposed to be just a client. Mark, who you’d prepped for that Monday meeting like your life depended on it, only to discover he’s funny in an understated way and surprisingly easy to talk to. Mark, who asked you to get coffee after and kept showing up after that. Mark, who Steve and Robin have been absolutely merciless about.

You’ve only been dating for a couple of months, and though he seems nice enough— solid job, decent sense of humor— you’re still not used to having him tucked into this part of your life. He stands comfortably beside you now, laughing and nodding along to whatever Robin’s saying about how sexist Steve always has been and always will be. Robin’s actually been warming up to him, which is a relief; she’d been skeptical at first.

Steve brushes Robin off. “Drinks?” he offers, already backing away. “I’m getting drinks.”

“Get us something good,” Robin calls. “We’re slumming it with you people tonight.”

Mark grins at you, slipping a hand to the small of your back. The contact is warm, grounding. Normal. You lean into it without thinking.

The night unfolds in fragments. You mingle. You laugh. You dance, a little. Mark fits in easily; he asks questions, listens, remembers names. You catch Robin watching you with a pleased, knowing look more than once. Steve makes a point of checking in, dramatic thumbs-up included.

And Eddie is… around. Somewhere.

You hear his obnoxious laugh from another room. Catch glimpses of his jacket, his hair, the flash of his rings. Every time you turn your head, he’s just out of reach, just missed. It’s like he’s orbiting the party without ever intersecting with you.

It shouldn’t matter. You’ve got your boyfriend here. You’re supposed to be having fun, celebrating. But the thought nags at you anyway, and after another polite smile at Robin and Mark’s back-and-forth, you murmur an excuse about needing the bathroom.

Then you slip away.

Weaving through the crowded living room, you glance around for that familiar mess of curls. He’s not at the makeshift bar in the kitchen, not near the stereo, not in his room rolling joints for the masses. You catch glimpses of Steve playing host, topping off drinks, laughing loudly. But Eddie’s nowhere in sight.

Finally, when you slide open the flimsy door to the porch, the June night air greets you, cooler than the press of bodies inside. And there he is. Leaning against the railing, cigarette pinched between two fingers, the ember glowing orange as he takes a drag. The lights from the living room spill onto the porch, throwing him half in shadow, half in warm glow. His shoulders are slouched, curls a little frizzed from humidity, and when he glances over, something almost sad passes over his face before he gives you a crooked half-smile.

“Hey, counselor,” he says, voice low, teasing, but somehow softer than it usually is. “Come to check on the riff-raff?”

You step closer, arms folded loosely, smiling back. “More like come to escape the riff-raff. Place looks nice, though. Almost like real humans live here now.”

That earns a snort. “Don’t tell our landlord. He’ll raise the rent if he finds out.”

You smile, then hesitate. There’s a beat where neither of you quite knows where to step next.

“So,” you say finally. “How was… everything?”

Eddie nods, gaze drifting out into the dark. “Yeah. It was… good. Glad I went. Old man was happy.”

“That’s good.” You shift your weight, fingers hooking around the railing. “Did he— um. Did he like it?”

For a second, Eddie looks back at you. He averts his eyes for a millisecond, then latches back onto you with a seriousness that pins you in place.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “He loved it.”

You nod, throat tight. “Good.”

“Still the favorite child,” he says. “You think it’d be easier with no competition.”

You laugh, settling against the railing a few feet from him. He’s easy like this— bantering, relaxed, blowing smoke into the air. Almost like before. It fills you with a slight sense of nostalgia, for a mere few months ago.

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, flicking ash into the tray perched on the railing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You squint at him. “Because you’re hiding out here instead of inside celebrating.”

“I’m smoking,” he points out flatly, raising the cigarette like proof.

“Mmhmm.” You grin, nudging his arm lightly with your elbow. “I know you. You brood out here when something’s eating at you.”

His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile, but then he shakes his head.

You bump him again, playful. “So what’s wrong? Tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

You roll your eyes, emboldened by Steve’s strong drinks and by Eddie’s stubbornness and by the ever-growing desire to poke and prod him like you used to. “You’re a terrible liar, Munson. Come on. Out with it.”

“Drop it, Y/n,” he says, a little sharper now, but you’re still reading it as part of the game, part of his whole dramatic, sarcastic schtick.

You lean in, sing-songing, “Eddieeee. What’s wroooong?”

That’s when he snaps.

“Why the fuck’d you bring him here?” He says it suddenly, with a crinkle to his eye and a crease in his brow.

You freeze, the words knocking the breath right out of you. For a second, all you can do is stare, heart hammering.

“What?” The useless word claws its way out of your mouth.

And then the sliding door opens behind you.

“Hey,” Mark says cheerfully, stepping onto the porch, utterly oblivious to the tension hanging thick in the air. He slips an arm lightly around your waist, smiling between the two of you. “There you are. Been looking for you.”

You tamp down your shock and straighten your face out quickly before turning to face your boyfriend. “Hey, honey,” you say, but it feels forced now.

“Or— sorry,” he says, looking from you to Eddie. “I was looking for both of you I guess. Eddie, Steve said that Gareth put one of his,” he makes quotation marks with his fingers, “‘moody emo bullshit records’, and that you’re the only one who can stop it before everyone leaves.”

Eddie’s jaw flexes once, the glow of the cigarette burning low between his fingers. He exhales a stream of smoke through his nose before answering.

“Yeah,” he says, clipped but controlled. “Guess that’s my job, huh?”

Then, like he’s flicked a switch, he pastes on a grin, charming in that effortless way. He crushes the cigarette out in the tray and straightens up, offering Mark a nod that’s polite enough.

“Good to see you, man,” Eddie says, voice smooth now. He claps Mark once on the shoulder, firm enough to jostle him. “Glad you could make it.”

Mark beams, clearly taking it at face value. “Yeah, of course. You and Steve did a great job with this place.”

“Thanks,” Eddie says, short but not unkind. Then he shoots you one sad look— quick, gone before you can pin it down— before sliding the door open and disappearing back inside.

The porch suddenly feels like a vacuum in space without him.

Mark sighs beside you, still cheerful, still oblivious. He tightens his arm briefly around your waist, pulling you closer against his side. “Your friends are great,” he says, warmth in his voice. “I was a little nervous, but… they’re funny. Easy to be around.”

You force a smile, tilting your head against his shoulder for show. “Yeah. They are.”

But your pulse is still uneven, thudding harder than it should. You try to match his ease, to let yourself melt into the comfort he’s offering, but your stomach churns.

After a moment, you press your smile into place, pat Mark’s chest, and suggest heading back in. The hum of voices and music swells as you slide the door open, letting the noise of the party swallow you back up. You chat with Mark in the kitchen for a while, roping in a couple of Steve’s coworkers to your discussion about how weird the weather’s been lately. Whatever. It’s easy enough, and after a while, you and Mark make your way to the living room in search of Robin.

Steve spots you almost instantly, and his face lights up with the warm, tipsy glow of someone already three drinks too deep. “Y/n!” he crows, waving you over with both arms like he’s reeling in a fish. “Perfect timing. C’mere, you gotta help Eddie tell the sandwich story.”

Your stomach sinks. Across the circle of laughing faces, Eddie’s perched on the arm of the couch, a beer bottle dangling lazily from his hand. His eyes find yours in an instant, dark and tense, and your pulse spikes again.

“I— no,” you say quickly, as Steve hooks an arm around your shoulders and starts dragging you toward the group. “You’ve got Eddie, let him tell it.”

Steve shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I don’t trust him to tell it right. He’s a liar, Y/n, he— what’s it called— he editorializes. You, on the other hand—” he pokes your shoulder, grinning wide “—you’re a woman of the people. I need your side. It’ll be funnier.”

“Steve—” you try, but your protest is cut off.

Mark laughs behind you, ever eager to be part of the fun. “Wait, this is that story about the construction guys, right?” To which, Steve nods enthusiastically. “I don’t think I ever heard the whole story,” Mark says, sliding an arm casually around your waist again. “You’ve mentioned it, but I don’t know the details.”

You glance up at him, trying for a smile, but your eyes flick inevitably back to Eddie’s. He’s still watching you, but now with a faint, knowing smirk.

The room buzzes around you, Steve egging you on, everyone waiting with bated breath, but it feels like the world narrows to just that locked stare across the crowd— Mark’s hand warm at your hip, Eddie’s gaze burning from the couch.

“Which, uh—” you clear your throat. “What part are you at?”

“We set up the camera,” Eddie says, almost bored.

“You slept with him?!” Robin cries out, eyes as wide as they’ll physically go.

Robin’s voice ricochets off the walls of your apartment like a gunshot, and you wince, shoving a hand toward her in a shushing gesture. “Keep your voice down! Jesus, Robin.”

She ignores you, pacing across the living room in her socks, hair falling into her face as she waves her arms. “No, no, no, sorry— you don’t get to drop that casually, okay? You’ve been sitting here for months, letting me think this was just, like, a dumb little prank caper where you two ate popcorn and played detective together and never got results, and meanwhile— meanwhile— you were—” she flails, stops, drops her arms. “God. You lied to me.”

You sink lower on the couch, knees drawn up to your chest, picking at a loose thread on your sweatpants. “I didn’t lie.”

“You lied by omission!” she shoots back immediately. “Do you know how many times I’ve asked about that story? How many times you told me that nothing happened??? How many times you let me laugh along, like we were all in on the joke, when the real story was apparently you and Eddie—” she breaks off, throwing her hands in the air again, “—hooking up?”

“It wasn’t like that,” you mutter.

Robin stops pacing. She stares at you. “You either did or you didn’t.”

You press your lips together, heat prickling up your neck. Finally, you manage, “We did. We did. But just once. The night of the…” You roll your eyes, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of it all. “The night of the sandwich heist.”

She drops onto the coffee table instead of the couch, knees knocking dangerously close to your shins, eyes locked on you. “Okay,” she says, quieter now, deadly calm. “What did you tell them. Tonight.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“What version,” she clarifies. “Of that story. I mean, you didn’t—”

“No!” Your stomach twists again. “I just… told the same one I’ve always told,” you say carefully. “The boring one.”

“The one where nothing happens,” she says flatly.

“Yes.”

“The one where you and Eddie do some half-baked stakeout but you two are fully baked—”

“Please don’t get cute with it,” you grumble.

She puts her palm up at you “—and don’t catch anything on camera.” She folds her arms. “Same thing you told me and Steve months ago.”

“Uh huh.”

“But that’s not the truth.”

You take a deep breath in. “No.”

Robin tilts her head, studying you. “Okay,” she says carefully, standing up and beginning her pacing again. “So what really happened?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“I don’t know,” you finally say. “I really don’t.”

She narrows her eyes, sizing you up.

“That’s not good enough,” she says finally.

You blink. “What?”

She steps closer, voice firm now. “That answer works on coworkers. It works on people you don’t owe anything to. It does not work on me.”

“Robin—”

“Best friends don’t lie to each other,” she says, cutting you off.

Her word choice distracts you momentarily. Best friends.

There’s a brief, stupid flicker of surprise in your chest. Some instinctive part of you wants to say well, obviously Steve— but Robin keeps going before you can spiral.

“And before you say something dumb,” she adds, rolling her eyes, “yes. Steve too. You’re both my best friends. Congratulations. You’re stuck with me.”

You swallow. The very plain language of it all gets to you.

She softens just a little, but her gaze stays steady. “So don’t dodge me. Don’t give me the ‘I don’t know’ shrug. That’s a total cop-out.”

“I’m not trying to,” you say weakly.

“I know,” she says. “But you are.”

You pick at your sleeve, shoulders curling inward. “Things were… they were different that night. And then afterward they weren’t. And now they’re weird. And I don’t know where the line is anymore.”

She takes another beat. “Do you like him?”

The question hangs in the air like smoke, choking you before you can even think of an answer. You wrap your arms tighter around your knees. “I don’t know,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you can manage. “I’m with Mark now.”

Robin blinks, chewing on her lip, like she’s trying to download ten thoughts at once. “Okay, but— that’s not the question I asked, is it? Because Mark is— Mark is great, obviously, yeah, very… normal and very into you and he, like, has an actual job, which is a nice thing to have in a boyfriend, but—” she gestures vaguely toward you, “Eddie isn’t Mark.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I know.”

Robin drops onto the couch beside you, pulling her knees up, mirroring your posture. She’s quiet for a second, which is almost worse than her rambling. Finally, she tilts her head toward you. “Did something happen tonight?”

You take a shaky breath. “Eddie kinda… snapped at me. Out on the porch.”

Robin’s eyes narrow. “Like— what do you mean?”

“Like…” you swallow. “Asked me why the fuck I brought Mark. Like he was disappointed in me, I think?”

Robin winces. “Oof.”

“Or like…” Your brow creases. “Like I brought Mark just to— to get a reaction out of him, or to piss him off? Which I— I didn’t, I swear.”

Robin makes a small noise in her throat. She reaches out, tugging gently on your sleeve. “Y/n, that sounds like… a whole thing. Did you guys— did you just sleep together, or were there… feelings? Did you guys talk about it?”

“I don’t…” you groan, shoving your face into a throw pillow, the tassels getting caught in your mouth. “I don’t know…” comes out muffled. 

Robin tugs the pillow away from your face so she can see you. “Does Mark know?”

Your stomach twists. You shake your head. “No.”

She leans back a little. “Why not?”

You flinch. “Because… it was before him. It doesn’t matter now.”

Robin raises her brows, unconvinced. “Mm. Except— you tell me everything, and you didn’t tell me that.”

You flinch.

“I’m not saying that to be shitty,” she adds, holding up a hand. “I’m just saying— when you don’t tell anyone something, it’s usually because it still has a certain weight, you know? And you didn’t tell your best friends or your boyfriend. Which makes me think maybe… maybe it does matter.” She fidgets with the cuff of her sleeve, eyes darting to yours. “Do you think you haven’t told Mark because you still have feelings for Eddie?”

The silence after that is brutal. Heavy. You can’t bring yourself to answer.

Robin exhales, long and slow, and lets her head thunk back against the couch cushion. “Oh my God. You do.” It’s not judgmental; it’s more like she’s piecing the puzzle together in real time.

“I didn’t say that,” you whisper.

“Babe.”

“I don’t know!” you whine. “I don’t know. Why do I have to know? I’m young and I’m stupid and I should be able to— to not know what I want!”

“Right,” Robin pats your leg. “I completely agree with that sentiment, obviously. I’m all for us being young and massively stupid and not knowing what we want in the slightest.” She sighs before continuing, “But I think… if you’re dragging Mark around while you figure out what you want… and what you want is possibly a different guy… that might be kind of a dick move.”

You groan again, covering your face with both hands. “I know. I know it’s a dick move. I don’t know what to do, Rob. I don’t know how to fix it.”

Robin’s quiet for a beat. Too quiet. You peek between your fingers and catch her staring at the ceiling, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What?” you demand, dropping your hands. “You’re doing a face.”

“I’m not doing a face,” she says quickly, too quickly.

“Yes you are.”

She groans, dropping her head back against the couch. “Okay. I’m… I’m weighing the logistics of something… and the… the moral implications of it.”

“Robbie. Spill.”

She groans, dragging her hands over her face before blurting out, “Fine! But you have to swear you won’t be mad at me, because I promised I wouldn’t say anything, but now I feel like I’m keeping you in the dark and that’s not fair, so…” 

“Robin, what the hell are you talking about?”

She blows out a breath. “Eddie told me something. Earlier this year. Before the construction started on their apartment.”

Your brain stutters. “Told you what?”

Robin grimaces, bracing herself. “That he has feelings for you.”

The room goes still. “What?”

“It was— God, it wasn’t like some big confession, okay? We were out at that bar in the West Village, you were out of town for that wedding, Steve had ditched us for some girl, and Eddie was like two beers past tipsy, and he got all— all soft. And he said it. Just kind of… out loud. That he liked you. That he’d liked you for a while, actually.” She hugs a pillow to her chest, eyes darting away. “And then he made me swear not to tell you. I kept it because he trusted me. And I’ve known him longer than you, and he wasn’t asking me to help him manipulate you or anything. He just didn’t want to blow things up. And he said he’d handle it. Except, here we are, and he clearly did not handle it.”

Your jaw drops. “Robin. You sat here and crucified me for not telling you I slept with him, and meanwhile you’ve been sitting on that? I thought best friends don’t lie!”

Robin’s head snaps up. “That’s not the same thing!”

“It’s literally the same thing!” you shoot back, heat rushing to your face. “We both had information the other person would’ve wanted to know, and we both kept it. But somehow I’m the bad guy?”

“You’re not the bad guy,” she insists, flustered. “I just— God, okay, yes, it’s a double standard, but he looked at me with those big doe eyes and begged me not to tell you. And I didn’t tell you, but now I did, and now I feel like I screwed up no matter what I did.”

You glare at her for a second, but the fight fizzles almost as quickly as it flared. Because she looks miserable, and you feel miserable, and maybe you’re both right. You sag back into the couch, staring up at the ceiling. For a long second, neither of you says anything.

You think about Robin, and the way she showed up in your life sideways, unassuming at first, and then somehow became the person who knows everything. The person who will call you on your shit and then sit with you in it anyway. You think about Steve, too, caring and earnest and endlessly trying. About Eddie, before things went wrong, how easy it had been, how natural, how safe it felt to laugh with him, to plot dumb schemes and talk until three in the morning.

These are your people. And the thought of losing any of them, of being the reason something fractures beyond repair, leaves a knot in your stomach.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you say quietly. “I don’t want to lose you. Or Steve. Or… him.” You swallow. “I don’t want to be the thing that ruins everything.”

She turns toward you, knee bumping yours. “Hey,” she says gently. “You’re not that powerful.”

You huff a weak laugh. “Feels like it.”

“I know,” she says. “But you’re not. This is already messy. You didn’t make it messy all by yourself.”

You stare at your hands. “I honestly have no idea what I’m supposed to do.”

Robin nods. “Okay. We can figure it out.” Then, after a beat, she adds, “And for the record? I’m really sorry he was mean to you tonight.”

That makes your throat tighten more than anything else has.

“It’s not your fault,” you murmur.

She shifts closer, pressing her shoulder into yours. “We don’t have to solve it tonight. Or tomorrow. But—” she glances at you sideways “—no more secrets. Deal?”

You hesitate for half a second, then nod. “Deal. No more secrets.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”

“Even if they’re messy?”

“Especially if they’re messy.”

She relaxes against you, head tipping to rest lightly against your shoulder. You let yourself lean back into her, the two of you folded together on the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before.

A beat passes. Then Robin says, quickly, all in one breath, “One quick tiny last one: I wore your leather jacket last week.”

You jerk upright. “I knew it!”

She grins, unrepentant. “You left it on the chair!”

“It smelled like your stupid cologne!” you cry. “And you said I was crazy!”

Author's note: Happy Galentines/early Valentines! Felt appropriate to celebrate with some Robin&Reader bestfriendism and some shitty, confusing romantic feelings. As always, let me know what you think <3

Two weeks later, Eddie is gone.

Back in Hawkins for Wayne’s birthday, which you had known was coming up, but he never made any mention of flying back to Indiana for it. You hadn’t even found out until he was already gone. Steve had relayed the information offhandedly, like it didn’t matter, like Eddie’s absence wasn’t a noticeable hollow in the shape of your social orbit.

It is noticeable. To you, at least. Your friends, apparently less so.

Tonight, it’s just the three of you crammed into your and Robin’s apartment, knees knocking under the coffee table, some new nerdy board game spread out between half-empty wine glasses and a bowl of popcorn. The radiator clanks aggressively in the corner, and some artsy college radio station hums from the kitchen.

Robin is absolutely annihilating the game.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair twisted up in a messy clip, counting resource cards under her breath as she rearranges the board. “Okay,” she says, moving a piece with deliberate slowness, “robber goes here, which blocks Steve’s brick— sorry— and I’ll take one of your cards.”

Steve splutters. “You can’t just keep stealing from me.”

“Yes I can,” Robin says pleasantly. “You’re in the lead.”

“I have two roads and no cities,” he says. “That is not the lead."

“You have longest road,” she replies instantly. “Which I will be taking from you in exactly one turn.”

She lays down another road, then another, without hesitation.

Steve stares at the board. “This game sucks.”

“You’re just mad because you didn’t diversify your resources,” Robin says, already stacking development cards. “That’s on you.”

“I don’t even know what half of these do,” he mutters.

“It is not my fault,” she says brightly, continuing with ruthless confidence, “that this is a game of strategy and foresight, and unfortunately, dingus, you have neither.”

You snort softly, leaning back against the couch. Steve’s been terrible at this game from the start; he keeps forgetting the rules, keeps trying to illegally trade with you (you were very tempted by his offer to take your trash out and hang those shelves in the kitchen, but Robin insisted on a good, clean game. Nerd). Robin thrives on it. She lives for games like this, the smug little smile she gets when she knows she’s already won.

“Okay,” she says a moment later, counting again. “That’s ten points. I win.”

Steve drops his head back against the couch cushion. “Of course.”

“You’re up,” she says to you, tapping the table.

You glance down at the board like it’s written in another language. “I thought you just won?”

“I did!” she beams, “But you and Steve can duke it out for second place.”

“I’m actually okay not continuing, and also never playing this game again in my life,” Steve offers to you, hand outstretched like a business proposal.

You look at Steve’s outstretched hand, then at the board, then back at him.

“…Yeah,” you say after a beat. “I’m good stopping too.”

Steve exhales, dropping his head on the seat of the couch. “Thank God,” he groans.

Robin rolls her eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck. “Unbelievable. Both of you. Absolutely no stamina. Eddie wouldn’t be complaining.”

“That’s because Eddie’s a huge nerd,” Steve says, sitting up again. “He would, however, be pitching a fit about the wine.”

Robin gathers up a few loose pieces with sharp, irritated movements, then pushes herself to her feet. “Speaking of— which one of you quitters wants more?”

You both raise your hands. She pads into the kitchen, barefoot against the tile, and you hear cabinets opening. Steve slumps back against the couch beside you, shoulders sagging in relief.

“I swear to God,” he mutters. “She enjoys the suffering.”

“I heard that!” she calls.

“I don’t get why we can’t ever play, like, Uno or some shit,” he tells you.

You huff a quiet laugh, but it fades quickly, leaving you staring at the blank TV screen. The apartment feels dimmer than usual, lit mostly by a lamp with a crooked shade and the streetlight glow bleeding in through the gaps in the curtains.

“Good news is,” Robin comes back with the bottle, holding it up like a trophy. “We can drink all the good stuff while Eddie’s gone,” she announces, already pouring for both of you without waiting for approval.

You squint at the label. “Robin, that was six dollars.”

“Low expectations set you up for success, we know this,” she says seriously, pouring without asking. “And any wine is the good stuff when Munson isn’t here to complain about it.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head.

“Ughhh, Buckleeeeyyyyyyyy,” Robin complains, dragging it out and pitching her voice down. “Why does it taste like that? Why is it so— so sharp? Is it supposed to burn? Are you guys sure this hasn’t gone bad?”

Steve laughs, loud and surprised. “He does that thing with his face too,” he says, scrunching up his nose. “I don’t get why you guys can’t just drink beers.”

You smile, a little reflexive at the mere idea of his voice filling the room.

Steve lifts his glass, inspecting it, and lets out a sigh after sipping it. “I actually think this one is pretty good.”

You level him. “Steve. Be serious. It’s a Sauv Blanc from the bargain bin.”

“Low expectations,” Robin points out.

“I am serious,” Steve insists. “I mean you know how my mom was. All the fancy shit, the expensive wine with the embossed labels, things you’re not allowed to touch.”

“Wasn’t allowed to touch anything in that house,” Robin mutters.

Steve nods. “Exactly. All the made-up stuff about undertones and— and notes…” He gestures vaguely with his glass. “I didn’t know what ‘oak-forward’ meant. I just knew I was in trouble.”

Robin snorts, pouring herself more wine. “God. Rich kid wine trauma. That’s a new one.”

“I’m serious,” Steve says again. He’s still rambling about how his mom used to hide the good bottles, and Robin’s expertly pushing his buttons, and your attention slips sideways.

You’re thinking about Eddie. How he hadn’t told you he’d be gone. That he’d be home, visiting his uncle. After he swore, weeks ago, that he wasn’t going back there any time soon. You could’ve sworn that he said that Wayne was coming out here. And you know Eddie’s a fickle and impulsive person, so it’s possible that he changed his plans for some normal reason last minute.

But you can’t help but feel like he ran away after—

“—Did Eddie tell you?”

You blink.

“What?” you ask, a little too fast.

Robin’s turned, bottle still tilted over Steve’s glass, wine hovering dangerously close to the rim. She’s staring at you now, eyebrows raised. “Ground control to Major Tom,” she says, laughing.

“Uh,” you say, eloquent as ever. “Tell me… what?”

There’s a beat.

Then Robin’s face lights up, sudden and bright, like she’s just been handed the best secret in the world. “Oh my God,” she says. “So you’re the only one who doesn’t know?”

Your stomach drops straight through the floor.

“What?” you repeat, too fast this time. “Know what?”

Robin laughs, giddy now, bouncing a little on her heels. “Wow. I really thought he would’ve told you. I mean— Steve knows. I know. I just assumed—”

Your pulse is loud in your ears. “Robin.”

She stops short, really looking at you now. Your expression must give something away, because her smile falters just a fraction.

“…Okay,” she says slowly. “Why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

“I’m not,” you say immediately, which is a lie. “Just— what are we talking about?”

She studies you for another second, then tilts her head. “Did Eddie tell you what he got Wayne for his birthday?”

The tension dissipates, sharp and disorienting.

“Oh,” you say, deflated albeit relieved. “No, he didn’t.” You scrunch your brows in confusion. “Why are you being so weird about it?”

“I’m not being weird,” she says, shooting a confused look at Steve, who shrugs. “You’re the one being weird, weirdo.” She takes another sip of wine. “It’s just very cute of him,” he says. “I don’t know why he’s so sentimental all of a sudden.”

“Just tell her what it was,” Steve whines. “You’re dragging this out so much and it’s not even that cool.”

She waves him off. “Wayne’s turning 60, right? Big deal. Eddie’s been searching for weeks for the perfect gift, or so I’m told. Honestly, the details that he chooses to give versus the ones that he leaves out are astonishing sometimes.” Steve rolls his pointer finger in a circle, your collective shorthand for get to the point, Robin. She clocks it and sighs. “But that’s beside the point. Anyway. He ends up finding this old Walkman. Vintage. Like, from when we were kids. Actually,” she says, brow quirking in thought, “Y/n, I think you used to have one just like it.”

The pit in your stomach intensifies. 

But Robin continues. “Beat to hell. Some guy in Queens had it sitting behind the counter of his repair shop forever.”

“Thing barely worked,” Steve adds. “So, of course, Eddie bought it and brought it home. Even though the last thing we need at our place is more dust-covered junk.” Robin nods in agreement. “And he spent, like, all of last week fixing it. Took it completely apart. New belt, cleaned the heads, rewired something. I dunno. He was sweating and cursing over that thing for hours.”

Your fingers tighten around your glass.

“And then,” Robin adds, softer now, “he’s gonna give it to Wayne with this whole speech about how Wayne taught him everything he knows about fixing stuff. About not giving up on broken things. Blah blah blah…”

Steve exhales. “And, because he’s the most dramatic person on the planet, he decides to book a last-minute flight back to Indiana.”

“I didn’t even know he was leaving until he was already gone,” you admit, near-sheepish.

“Really?” Robin asks.

“Yep,” you say, popping the “p” in an effort to seem completely and totally unbothered. 

“Oh,’ she says, “Well, I’m sure he just forgot to tell you. You know how he is—”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. “He’d forget his head on the floor if it wasn’t… Or, he’d forget— what the fuck is it?” 

“Don’t help him,” Robin orders you immediately, throwing up her hand, chaos flickering in her eyes. “This is total board material.”

Steve groans, slapping his palm on the coffee table. “Come on!” he whines. 

“You have twenty seconds to get there,” Robin warns, already standing and making her way toward the whiteboard on the kitchen wall.

When you and Robin moved from your dorm into this apartment two years ago, this whiteboard was mounted on the wall before any single box was unpacked, or furniture arranged. This list was the number one priority. It lives on the sliver of wall between the fridge and the fire escape window, slightly crooked, permanently smudged with old marker ghosts no matter how hard you scrub at it. At the top, in bold, blocky handwriting, it reads:

STEVE-ISMS

Underneath is a growing, lovingly curated list— years’ worth of linguistic casualties. Phrases Steve almost got right. Close enough to be recognizable. Wrong enough to be immortalized. You’ve all been quoting them for so long they’ve practically become a second language.

Steve watches Robin beeline for it in horror. “No, no, no— don’t you dare.”

She’s already grabbing a marker from the cup taped to the wall. “Too late.”

“You know what I’m trying to say!” he insists, scrambling to his feet. “It’s just— hang on—”

You lean back on the couch, grinning now, tension bleeding out of you as familiarity settles in. You’re thankful for the detour. This, at least, is safe ground.

Steve rubs his face. “Okay, okay— the saying is—” he snaps his fingers, pacing once. “If he didn’t forget his head on the floor… if it wasn’t… if his head was on the floor—”

Robin gasps, horrified and delighted. “Oh, it’s getting worse.”

“Don’t rush me,” Steve says. “If he didn’t forget his head—”

“—attached to his body,” you supply, partially helpfully.

Steve points at you triumphantly. “Yes! That!”

Robin doesn’t even look back. “Not quite,” she says cheerfully. Marker squeaking as she writes.

You crane your neck to read as she adds a fresh line to the bottom of the list.

— He’d forget his head on the floor

“That is not what I said!” Steve insists, though you can tell he knows by now it’s a losing battle.

“That is literally what you just said,” Robin tells him, capping the marker. “Twenty seconds ago. Word for word.”

“It doesn’t even make sense!” he cries, dropping down next to you on the couch.

“That’s kinda the whole point,” you tell him, playfully ruffling his hair.

“Awwww, Stevie, you never make sense,” Robin coos, laughing. “That’s why it must be immortalized. It’s anthropologic research.” She shrugs, bopping him on the head with the marker.

Steve mutters, “I hope one day you both say something stupid and I get to write it down forever.”

“Well, that’s never gonna happen,” she says definitively, plopping back down on the other side of you.

Steve sits there for a second longer, sulking, then exhales through his nose and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Anyway,” he says, dragging the word out like he’s reclaiming lost ground. “What I was saying before I was slandered—”

“It’s not slander if it’s true,” Robin points out. He shoves her.

“—is that it’s weird,” Steve continues, shooting her a look. “Eddie said he wasn’t going back to Indiana. Like. Very specifically. Made a whole thing about it. ‘I’m not doing the sad Midwest pilgrimage, Harrington, Old Man’s guilt trip isn’t gonna work on me this year,’ those were his words.”

Your smile tightens just a fraction. Eddie hated Indiana. He hated Hawkins. There was some serious deep-rooted trauma there.

Steve keeps going, warming back up now that he’s got the floor again.

“And then,” he says, gesturing vaguely with his cup, “he turns around and buys a last-minute plane ticket. Which, I’m not sure if we’re all aware, but those are pretty fuckin’ expensive.”

“And Munson is so broke—” Robin starts, not even trying for a setup, but you and Steve instinctively hit her with a—

“How broke is he?”

— to which she smirks, narrows her eyes, thinks for a second, and finishes with, “He’s so broke that little cartoon moths fly out of his pockets when he opens them,” making little moth-flying-motions with her hands and putting on a cutesy voice.

You all dissolve into laughs.

Steve takes another sip of his wine and shakes his head. “Which is why the plane ticket thing is insane. If the ‘sandwich heist’,” he says with air quotes, “had worked out, sure, fine, whatever— but clearly that didn’t happen.”

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly around your wineglass.

Robin tilts her head, squinting at Steve. “And I hate to keep constantly asking, but—” she says, lowering her voice just a notch, always content to keep revisiting old, half-solved mysteries about everyone’s personal lives. “Did you ever get more details on that? Or is he still being… y’know, weird?”

Steve exhales through his nose. “Still weird,” he confirms. “Super cagey. Every time I ask, he changes the subject or gets all deflective.”

Robin hums. “And, Y/n, my darling, you’re sure nothing completely and perfectly embarrassing happened to him during it? Something you’re protecting him from because you’re soft? And you’re too nice to everyone? And you won’t participate in making fun of Eddie even though he totally deserves it?” she teases in one long-winded question.

Your heart skips a beat. You don’t let it show. They’ve been asking the entire week for details on what happened with the sandwich heist. And why wouldn’t they be? Eddie had certainly talked this whole scheme up enough to warrant a desire for results.

“There’s nothing to tell,” you offer, tone deliberately light. “You know how he is. His favorite things in the world are being dramatic and complaining. I promise, if anything interesting in the slightest happened, he’d never shut up about it.”

Robin considers that, lips pursed.

“…Yeah,” she concedes. “You’re right. He would’ve been unbearable.”

You try to lean back against the couch and loosen your shoulders. You try to sink back into the moment. But your mind lingers. 

Because they’re right. If the 'sandwich heist' had gone sideways in some spectacular, stupid way, Eddie would’ve complained. He would’ve joked. He would’ve found a way to make it loud.

But what happened between you wasn’t loud.

It was quiet. Tender. Complicated.

The kind of thing Eddie doesn’t know how to joke about. That apparently neither of you even know how to talk about without him fleeing the state.

“But, I guess,” Steve adds, glancing between you and Robin, “What the hell do I know?”

Robin hums. “He didn’t say anything weird before he left?” she asks, and for a moment you freeze, at the idea of that question being directed toward you. But then you look at Robin to find her looking past you at Steve. Obviously she’s asking his roommate. Not you.

“Nah,” he furrows his brow. “Just kind of moody lately. But that’s normal, I guess.”

You nod, hoping it looks casual. Inside, your thoughts start to spiral anyway.

What if he didn’t just go for Wayne?

What if he left because of you?

You swallow, the room feeling suddenly too warm. “I—” You stand abruptly, glass clinking softly as you set it down. “I’m gonna go to bed.”

Both of them look at you like you’ve just announced you’re joining a convent.

“What?” Robin says. “It’s, like, barely midnight.”

“It’s Saturday,” Steve adds. “Illegal to go to bed.”

“I have work to do tomorrow,” you say, already backing toward the hallway. “It’s not my fault we spent all night learning that impossible board game.”

Steve groans. “Robin, this is all your fault.”

“I’m serious,” you insist. “I’m meeting with a client on Monday. Big one.”

They boo you louder now, dramatically, in stereo.

“Corporate sellout!” Robin chides.

“Make fun of me all you want, but at least I pay for drinks,” you remind them. “And I can’t do that if I—” You drum your palms on your thighs as you stand up in a makeshift drumroll. Your friends look at you expectantly. “Keep burning the cradle at both ends,” you finish, grin overtaking your face.

Robin screeches in delight, pointing at the board, where the butchered phrase you just harkened back to is scrawled in her handwriting from last year.

Steve tips his head back and flips you off affectionately. “I am never speaking again.”

“Goodnight, losers.” You retreat down the hall before they can throw anything at you, the apartment narrowing into familiar shadows. 

“I’m drinking the rest of your wine!” Robin calls out after you.

You pad into the bathroom and shut the door softly, just enough to signal I’m done socializing. The light clicks on too bright. You squint at your reflection. You look… fine. Normal. Not like someone whose chest has felt vaguely hollow all week. 

The bathroom’s sort of a disaster. You add tidying it up to your growing mental list of things to do tomorrow. You wonder if you’ll ever get the tiles to look clean, or the mirror to not be streaky and foggy. The pedestal sink is covered in an explosion of bobby pins, lip balms, and almost certainly expired skincare products with their labels half-smudged. 

You turn on the tap and start brushing your teeth.

From the other room, voices drift through the thin walls. Low. Careful.

“…think she’s okay?” Steve asks.

Your hand stills for half a second before you force it to keep moving.

Robin hums thoughtfully. “Yeah. I mean— mostly. She’s just been a little off this week.”

“Off how?” Steve presses.

You lean closer to the sink, eyes fixed on your own reflection.

“I don’t know,” Robin says. “Quieter. More in her head. But she’s got that client thing coming up. You know how she gets when work stuff piles up.”

Steve exhales. “Yeah.”

There’s a pause. The faint clink of a bottle setting down. Probably more wine.

“She’ll tell me if something’s wrong,” Robin adds, confident. “She always does.”

Your chest tightens, just a little. You haven’t told her at all.

You rinse your mouth and spit. You rinse your face, the cold water shocking you a bit back to your senses. You hold your face against your towel for a beat longer than normal, sighing. When you head back out and into your room, you do so quickly and quietly. You don’t want to risk them hearing you there, listening.

Because what would you even tell them?

It shouldn’t matter this much. You’re not as close to him as they are. You don’t share a lease with him. You didn’t grow up with him. You don’t share the unspeakable and amorphous trauma from their hometown. 

But still. You thought you were close enough to warrant a conversation.

You slip into your room and shut the door softly behind you.

The room is barely bigger than the bed. A full-size mattress atop a secondhand bedframe shoved against one wall, mismatched sheets, the comforter perpetually twisted from nights you toss more than you sleep. A narrow desk crammed under the window, papers stacked in uneven piles, along with your bare-bones makeup collection. A thrifted lamp throws warm light over everything, softening the chaos. There’s a milk crate at the foot of your bed filled with half a dozen books you swear you’ll get around to starting just as soon as work slows down. Photos taped to the walls of every happy memory you’ve had in this city, and back home.

You toe off your jeans and trade them for the soft, threadbare pajama shorts you’ve had since college; the ones that have survived a dozen moves and should’ve disintegrated by now but haven’t. An oversized T-shirt follows, cotton worn thin enough to feel like a second skin.

You crawl into bed and tug the comforter up around your waist, then higher, until it’s tucked just under your chin. The mattress dips in the same place it always does, the faint creak of the frame answering you like it always has.

You turn onto your side, facing the wall, trying to think about anything else.

And your brain, traitor that it is, brings him back anyway.

You remember the way he touched you that night… The way his hands lingered, warm and grounding, like he was memorizing you. The way he looked at you, open and unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen before.

You remember thinking, distantly, Oh. This matters. This changes everything.

He’d been tender in a way that felt deliberate. Like a choice. Like he was trying to say something without actually saying it (which felt unique because he was always saying something). And afterward— after everything was messy and quiet and vulnerable— he’d gone still. Folded inward. Like he’d realized too late how much he’d given away.

That was the part that stuck with you. The silence that followed. The pit that slowly formed in your stomach.

You’d told yourself it was fine. That Eddie was complicated. That maybe he’d needed time to recalibrate after feeling too much. You’d given him space because that’s what you do when you care about someone.

But leaving? Skipping town without a word? That hurt in a sharper, more personal way.

You squeeze your eyes shut, jaw tightening. You’re not owed anything, you tell yourself for the hundredth time. You know how this works. You know how boys work. And still, it feels cruel. Like he reached out, took something fragile from you, and then placed it just out of your reach.

You roll onto your back, staring up at the ceiling where a hairline crack runs diagonally above the bed. You’ve traced it a thousand times with your eyes. It doesn’t offer answers tonight; it seldom does.

Maybe he really did just go for Wayne. Maybe it really was impulsive and sentimental and harmless.

Or maybe Indiana felt safer than staying. Maybe distance felt easier than figuring out what to do with what happened between you.

In the other room, you hear Steve laugh at something Robin says, loud and familiar and home. Their presence has always steadied you in a way you don’t quite know how to articulate. The knowledge that if you stepped back out there, they’d make room for you without question.

You’re grateful for them. For Robin, who knows you well enough to be right even when she’s wrong. For Steve, who notices when you’re off even if he can’t always say it right. For this little pocket of New York you’ve built together, mismatched and imperfect and yours.

Their laughter and the radiators and the hum of the city outside blend into your typical nightly lullaby. Your eyes start to burn in that dull, heavy way that means sleep is coming whether you’re ready or not. You roll onto your side again, this time facing the desk. And, without meaning to, you focus on the empty square of dust near the back corner, where something used to live.

Your old Walkman.

He didn’t take it; you’d given it to him. He didn’t take anything; you’d given it all to him. You just didn’t realize what it all meant at the time. Maybe neither of you did.

The two of you had, after all, decided not to let feelings get involved.

Author's note:

I'm back! I've been putting off posting this chapter because I needed to solidify what exactly I wanted to do with the rest of this story. But here we go!

And yes, I know that Catan wasn't technically invented until 1995, but come on. It is totally a game that early 20's Robin would be obsessed with, so I took a tiny bit of anachronistic creative liberties there.

For a very brief, fleeting second, you’re pissed when you hear a cacophony of familiar boisterous voices coming from the other side of your front door. While fumbling with your keys and mentally hexing your condescending boss, your demanding clients, and every idiot on the subway, you have a moment where you’re not exactly thrilled to hear your friends in your apartment. It’s quite frankly been a hellish day, and you were looking forward to kicking your shoes off, taking a scalding shower, and settling in for a quiet night with the new Stephen King book you picked up from the library this weekend.

But your irritation quickly makes way for excitement when Steve sees you walk in and greets you with the best possible sentence in this scenario— or maybe ever:

“Do you wanna hear Eddie’s newest load of completely ridiculous bullshit?”

Eddie shoves Steve in a friendly enough way, but still hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. This, in turn, starts a familiar back-and-forth of light horseplay toward each other from across the kitchen island.

“God, yes,” you groan, dropping your bag on the table by the door. “Please. More than anything.”

“Oh, Y/n, you are going to love this.” Robin holds up the half-empty bottle of red wine, to which you enthusiastically nod. She grabs another glass from the cabinet and gives you an adequate pour. But when she looks back up at your face, she takes in the dark bags, the wrinkled button-up, and the still-fading scowl from your day at the office, and adds another inch.

“Okay, you guys are assholes,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not gonna bring my scandals to you if you’re gonna chalk them up to make-believe.”

“Noooooooo!” you whine, plopping yourself onto the stool next to his. You scoop your wine from Robin with one hand and grab his shoulder with the other. “Please, I really need this— whatever this completely ridiculous bullshit is.” 

Eddie sighs, then swivels to look at you. “You know how they’re doing all that construction on me and Steve’s apartment?”

“They’re rezoning it to be a haunted house,” you supply, to which Steve and Robin both giggle.

“Dont—” Eddie points a finger at you, lips pursing. “Don’t you start now too.” 

You tamp down a smirk and widen your eyes in exaggerated reaction, bringing your wine up for a large gulp. “They decided it would make more sense to just tear it down and start from scratch, right?”, you ask, slightly muffled by the glass.

Now, your two friends across the island bust out into full cackles. 

Eddie’s hands shoot up. “Never mind!” he decides. “You fuckers don’t get to hear about this.”

“Wait, wait, wait—” You’re laughing now, grabbing his wrist before he can get up and storm off in mock indignation. You nearly slosh your wine across the counter, but you don’t care. “I’m sorry! I’ll shut up, I swear.”

“You’re lying,” Eddie accuses, deadpan, but there’s a twitch in the corner of his mouth.

“No! No, I promise.” You slide your hand down to his forearm, holding on like you’re swearing a blood oath. “Cross my heart. Look—” You drag your finger over your chest in a shaky X. “Terrible day, Eddie. Awful. Boss was a nightmare, subway was a nightmare, my entire life was basically a nightmare until—” you gesture between the three of them “—this. So please, please, for the love of God, just tell me the story. I need it.”

Eddie narrows his eyes at you like he’s weighing whether or not you’re worth trusting. He leans in a little closer. “You have to swear you’re gonna take me seriously.”

“I swear.” You hold up your hand like you’re testifying in court. “Scout’s honor. No laughter. None.”

“Mhmm.” He eyes you suspiciously, but then he sighs and settles back on his stool. “Fine. Okay. So.”

You force your face into something resembling solemnity, sipping your wine with intense focus.

Eddie clears his throat. “I think the construction guys have been eating my food.”

You nearly choke, the wine burning your nose as you try to swallow it down without sputtering. Across the island, Steve wheezes, grabbing Robin’s arm for support as she dissolves into a puddle.

But not you; you promised. You slam your glass down and nod, lips pressed tightly together to stop the laugh threatening to break free. “Okay,” you say, voice strangled but determined. “Okay. Go on.”

Eddie leans in closer, lowering his voice like he’s about to reveal state secrets. “It started small,” he says, gesturing with both hands like he’s framing the memory. “An apple here, a string cheese there. I thought maybe Steve was just... I don’t know, stealing my snacks because he’s too lazy to buy his own.”

Steve throws his hands up immediately. “Woah, what the hell?”

You toss a look in his direction and wave him off. 

Eddie continues. “So today, I make myself a sandwich.”

You nod, like you’re following along with a crime report. “Uh-huh.”

“A perfect sandwich,” Eddie stresses, fingers curling in reverence. “Turkey, provolone, tomatoes from the farmer’s market, little bit of mustard, one of my last decent sandwich pickles.”

“Thank you for painting the complete picture,” you tell him, nodding solemnly. “These are all essential details.”

“Shut up,” he says quickly. “And then— then, Y/n, fate intervened. Because at the very moment I’m about to enjoy this creation, the doorbell rings. UPS guy. Package for me.”

“What was it?” Robin interjects, near heckling.

“Not important!” he barks, slamming his fist on the counter. 

“Booooooooo,” Robin cups her hands around her mouth.

“Maybe,” he sighs. “You’ll all find out in a bit, if you just shut up and let me tell my story.”

You raise your brows and purse your lips toward Robin, intrigued by the idea.

“Listen,” Eddie stresses. “I go sign for this package. I’m gone for—” he snaps his fingers, “—thirty seconds. Maybe less. I come back—” he pauses dramatically, staring each of you down in turn “—and it’s gone.”

Robin screeches, kicking her foot against the cabinet. Steve’s jaw drops.

“Bullshit!” you shake your head. 

“Swear. On. My. Life.” Eddie’s mess of chunky silver rings clank against the countertop with every slap of his palm. “These guys stole my sandwich!”

You tilt your head thoughtfully. “Or maybe,” you say, careful and innocent, “you’re just getting high and forgetting you ate it?”

Eddie reels back like you slapped him. “Excuse me?! Are you accusing me of rookie-level stoner mistakes? I’m not some new smoker wandering the grocery store aisles in a haze, Y/n. I know what I’m doing.”

Eddie’s been smoking pot essentially from when he learned to read, you’ve gathered. Maybe since he could walk. You’d had a front row seat to his particular proficiency on the matter ever since he and Steve joined you and Robin out in New York. Random roommates at Barnard freshman year, you and Robin became inseparable very early on. You’re not proud to admit that when her self-described “best friend” from home visited, you and Steve didn’t get off on the best foot. Jealousy sparked from both of you, and you didn’t exactly become close until you and Robin graduated and he and their friend Eddie moved into a horrifyingly crappy fourth-floor walkup in Brooklyn.

The three of them had grown up together, she’d told you. You didn’t know much about their hometown in Indiana, but it always sounded like some shit went down. Robin didn’t like to talk about it much, so you didn’t pry. But there were times when it seemed like certain words, or places, or scenes from movies that would trigger them in some way.

It wasn’t that you felt left out— clearly the things that bonded them together back then weren’t fun. But you figured there would always be a part of their lives you were missing out on. So you tried to make up for it wherever you could. 

You weren’t sure exactly when your friendship solidified with the boys, but you guessed it happened somewhere around the time you stuck up for Robin at that awful dive in the East Village. Some guy had muttered something ugly and homophobic under his breath, loud enough for Robin to hear. You’d seen her shrink back into herself, embarrassed and hurt, and before you could think better of it, you’d snapped back at him— sharp enough to draw attention from the bartender and get him kicked out, and succinct enough to not cause a complete scene.

You’d been shaking, adrenaline running high, but the guy backed off, and Eddie, who you barely knew then, had stared at you like you’d just sprouted wings. Steve had bought you a drink after, his way of saying you’d passed some invisible test. And Robin had grabbed your hand on the walk home, squeezed tight, and told you she was glad you were her friend.

That was the night you realized maybe you weren’t just a tagalong. Maybe you were theirs, too.

Your wineglass is warm in your hand now as you half-listen to Steve and Robin going in on Eddie.

“You gonna set mousetraps around the fridge? Sprinkle flour on the floor and check for footprints?”

Robin snorts into her glass. “Oh, you complete amateaur, Stevie. He’s gonna do something way more convoluted than that.”

Eddie smirks, a little secretive, like he’s been waiting for this opening.

And then it hits you. “Oh my God,” you say, sitting up straighter. “You bought a camcorder, didn’t you? That’s what was in the UPS package.”

For a moment, Eddie’s eyes light up like a fireworks show. His grin is wide and boyish, all dimples and triumph, and it makes your stomach flip so hard you nearly lose your grip on your wineglass.

Across the island, Robin actually groans, tipping her head back. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” Eddie crows, pointing at you with both hands, practically glowing at being caught out. “And see? Y/n gets it. She’s the only one who believes in justice around here.”

And your stomach flips again, harder this time, because suddenly you’re not thinking about sandwiches or construction workers— you’re just watching him glow with that wild excitement he gets when he’s on a roll, and it’s enough to make your wine feel like it’s gone straight to your head.

“Unbelievable,” Robin mutters into her glass, and then louder: “You’re a broke, starving musician-slash-barista, Eddie. You haven’t paid for a round of drinks in, like—” she looks at Steve for confirmation.

“A year,” Steve says immediately, pointing at him. “At least.”

Eddie gasps, affronted. “There’s no way that’s true”

Robin ignores him. “And instead of chipping in for drinks like a normal human, you’re out here blowing your money on camcorders to chase down imaginary sandwich thieves?”

Steve shakes his head. “You still owe me for rent, by the way.”

“You guys should not even be paying rent for that dump,” you say, before downing the last of your wine. Robin immediately fills your glass back up, and tops herself off, draining the bottle.

“You guys don;t get it,” Eddie insists. “This is the only way I can save money. Every sandwich that goes missing? That’s four, five bucks worth of groceries right there. Multiply that by however long this has been going on—”

“Maybe your whole life,” Robin goads, with wide eyes. “Maybe this is all one big conspiracy.”

“—and pretty soon you’re looking at major savings!” Eddie barrels on, undeterred. “Or, best-case scenario, evidence. I catch these guys red-handed? Boom. Lawsuit. Huge payout. Million-dollar settlement.”

Steve’s cackling now. “A million dollars. Over a turkey sandwich.”

Eddie swivels toward you. His expression softens, smug but conspiratorial. “And since Y/n is the only one who sees my vision, she’s the only one who gets to know my plan.”

“Oh, don’t encourage him,” Robin groans, rolling her eyes.

But Eddie’s already leaned closer, lowering his voice. “What do you say, counselor? You in?”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, the wine blurring your usual instinct to overthink. With him looking at you like that, like you’re his partner in crime, it’s impossible to say no. You nod, solemn and maybe a little giddy. 

“I’m in.”

Author's note: How 'bout that finale! Yikes! As the ever talented greatunironic once said: "i've elected to stick my fingers in my ears + ignore most of it." Don't expect me to be writing anything canon with that finale.

Welp! We'll see where this one goes! Frankly, this one is mostly an excuse to write friend group scenes between the four of them, which I honestly don't do often enough based on how much fun I have writing them. And, of course, an excuse to write some deliciously messy slow burn. Apologies in advance if this one is slow to update. 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 wish you could go back in time, to the exact moment you let Nancy talk you into enrolling in an introductory Spanish class that gets out at 8pm every Thursday… and strangle yourself. Or her.

What kind of an idiot enrolls in a night class their senior year? It was one thing when you’d all exit the building to sunshine back when the semester started, but now, in the dark, dreary December weeks, leaving class every week feels like a march toward death.

“One last chance for us to do something together,” she had billed it. With her always-analytical brain, she found an intro-level course that somehow worked to fulfill a requirement that she, you, Robin, Steve, and Jonathan all still needed to graduate. And on a good day, you were thankful for Nancy’s persistence. It was nice to remedy the monotony and annoyance of this course with the company of your friends. 

You and Steve had the most course overlap out of anyone; both working your way toward education degrees. While you had chosen to specialize in Secondary Education, Steve was eyeing Special Education for Elementary-aged kids. You were no stranger to being in intro-level courses with him. The rest of the gang, however, was spread out across a variety of concentrations and schools. So you’d begrudgingly admitted to Nancy that it was nice to all be together.

But there was one person whose presence in that Spanish class was sorely missed, by you in particular.

Eddie was the only one who remained unconvinced by Nancy. “Your mind tricks won’t work on me, Wheeler,” he had told her during course enrollment last semester. His audio engineering major had no foreign language requirement-- Robin had labeled this as totally bogus and America-centric-- so he ended his Thursdays much, much earlier than the rest of you suckers.

Eddie had a funny way of completely disarming you, of making you weak in the knees with just a look. When you met in the freshman dorms, it had taken you a total of five seconds to realize how much you enjoyed his company. It took you a significantly longer amount of time to put a name to those strong feelings. And another five seconds to realize you could never, ever tell him.

You’d confided your truth in Robin at your shared apartment one night, after too many glasses of shitty wine. And being the unwavering friend she is, she kept your secret. But that didn’t stop her from teasing you.

So while you missed him in your group Spanish class, there was a part of you that was grateful he was absent from it. Who knows what you’d do if he was sitting right next to you for an additional three hours a week. You sure as hell wouldn’t be learning any Spanish.

Steve walks a few paces ahead to hold the door open for you all, ever-the-gentleman. You nod a tight thanks at him, as you’re in such a crummy mood, you think all you’d be able to speak right now would be expletives. And that mood only worsens when you’re faced with the elements: a gust of wind carries endless, gigantic snowflakes sideways, as far as the eye can see. Several inches of snow coat the ground, and a precarious layer of ice lines the walkways. You all sigh in unison, and begin your slow trudge toward your apartments.

“Does anyone wanna grab food?” Robin asks. It had become routine most nights after class to rally the troops and walk a few blocks down to the diner near campus. You’d grab a late dinner and discuss plans for the upcoming weekend, shitty professors, and assorted romantic prospects.

“I can’t,” Nancy says. “I’ve got that test in Sociological Stats tomorrow and I have a ton of concepts I’m still shaky on, at best.”

“I’ve gotta finish my portfolio, and I need to be in the photo lab when it opens at seven tomorrow morning,” Jon adds. 

Robin groans, and Steve grimaces before adding “I may or may not have ten pages to write for my Assistive Tech class.”

“Ten pages??” Robin yelps. “How long have you known about this?”

“Month or so,” he shrugs.

“Are you just planning on not sleeping?” Jon asks, laughing.

“Yeah, basically,” Steve says. “And Coach had us swimming laps at six this morning, so I’m running on fumes already.”

“I think you might die,” Robin decides. 

You all laugh, despite the shitty weather surrounding you.

“At least I know Y/n, my sweet perfect angel,” Robin looks at you with pleading eyes, as if she can already anticipate what you’re going to say, “would never let me down…”

You pause for a moment before informing the group of your plans for the night: “Classroom Management presentation tomorrow.”

“Oh my god,” Robin groans, bending over to pick up a handful of snow and toss it into the air in your direction. “You all suck!”

You shriek slightly and dodge the falling snow. “I’m sorry!” you tell her. “Let’s go back to the apartment. You can sit with me while I work on it,” you offer. 

“Oh yeah,” she says, sliding a hand down her face. “That sounds thrilling. Am I the only one who got all my shit done before the last minute?”

“You can call Eddie and see if he’s home,” Steve offers, oblivious to your big fat crush. Boys , you think fondly. “He’d probably hang out with you.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Robin says, continuing her string of sarcasm. She didn't dislike Eddie by any stretch, but she certainly didn't share your singular affinity for him. Hanging out with him one on one was much more of a dream to you than to her.

The campus courtyard comes into view, and all of you fall silent for a moment, appreciating how the snow has transformed it. The bare tree branches, twinkling under the lamplight, with the continuous snow falling delicately, create a quiet serenity that feels at odds with the stress of looming deadlines.

“I kind of hate how peaceful it looks,” Steve mutters. “Like it’s mocking us.”

“Same,” you agree. “I’d much rather it just reflect my mental state. You know, like… the snow should be on fire or something.”

Jon snorts. “Now that’s a winter aesthetic I could get behind.”

Robin tilts her head back dramatically. “Does anyone have their life together?”

“Eddie, probably,” Steve says absentmindedly, and you stumble over your next step. You quickly recover, but you’re pretty sure Robin notices anyway.

“Oh, sure,” she says, voice suddenly teasing. “Eddie, king of structure and discipline.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you. She leans down again, this time picking up a large handful of snow and packing it into a ball.

“He’s at our apartment with his guitar and some pizza,” Steve adds with a laugh. “Living it up while we’re out here suffering. I’m just saying. I think he’s got it all figured out.”

As if cued for his entrance, the man of the hour appears.

He drifts, like a sports car, into the courtyard. Arms outstretched wildly as he tries to balance himself and nearly fails, feet sliding on the ice. You yelp, but make no move to help him. You can’t get too close. 

From the look on his face, frantic, urgent, your heart does a stutter step. It looks like he’s about to deliver horrific news. But he breaks out into a smile at the last nanosecond before announcing: 

“Classes are cancelled tomorrow.”

Everyone is stunned into momentary silence. Robin drops the snowball she was palming.

“You’re pulling our leg,” Jon decides. And he’s not exactly wrong to do so, Eddie had a knack for jokes, for mischief, for all things silly. 

But Eddie shakes his head, steadying his boots on the ground. Proving to you all that he’s dead serious by repeating his declaration to the sky, and to the rest of the student body filtering out of the lecture halls.

“CLASSES ARE CANCELLED TOMORROW!” he bellows.

The still courtyard is thrown into chaos.

“Seriously?” Robin shrieks. She clutches your arm for balance, practically hopping up and down.

“Swear on my guitar,” Eddie says solemnly, raising a hand like he’s taking an oath.

“What— how do you know?” Nancy cuts in, ever the skeptic.

“I got a call from the admin office while you nerds were in class,” Eddie says. He’s practically vibrating with energy, clearly basking in the attention. “Some pipe burst or something in the science building. It’s like a river in there. So between that and the snow on the roads, the school decided to close the whole campus tomorrow.”

For a moment, the weight of final projects, deadlines, and stress feels like it lifts. Steve, of all people, throws his hands in the air, laughing. Jonathan pumps a fist, and Robin immediately bends down to scoop up another handful of snow.

“You magnificent human being!” she hollers, pelting Eddie square in the shoulder with it.

“How dare you attack the town crier!” Eddie crows, instantly diving to make his own snowball.

And just like that, you’re all kids again. Snow flies everywhere, gleeful laughter ringing out into the cold night. Nancy ducks behind Jonathan for cover, while Robin goes on the offensive, ambushing Steve and sending him stumbling through a snowdrift. Eddie’s aiming for everyone, dodging and weaving through the chaos like a snowball ninja.

You find yourself slowing down, breath puffing out in front of you as you take it all in. The biting cold, the shining snow, the absolute abandon your friends are throwing into this impromptu celebration. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, you’re not thinking about assignments or responsibilities.

But before you can process it fully, someone barrels into you, snow erupting into a cloud around your head.

“Gotcha!” Eddie says, grabbing your shoulders to keep you from falling as he grins at you, entirely unrepentant.

“You are such a menace!” you tell him.

“I am the savior of the hour! The Paul Revere! I’m quite Christ-like, actually,” he argues. But his grin softens as his eyes meet yours, and suddenly everything feels… quieter. The chaotic shouts of your friends seem far away as the two of you stand there in the snow.

For a moment, neither of you says anything, and you’re acutely aware of the closeness, his hands still lightly gripping your shoulders, the faintest of smiles playing at his lips.

“You good?” he asks softly, his voice warm and teasing.

You nod, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah. Just… processing the idea of not waking up at six tomorrow.”

Eddie chuckles, finally letting go and shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Took you long enough. You overthink everything, you know that?”

“And you don’t think about anything,” you shoot back, grinning.

He leans a little closer, eyes dancing with mischief. “That’s what makes us such a good team, isn’t it?”

Before you can come up with a retort, Robin’s voice cuts through the night.

“Hey!” she yells, “No alliances! Even if you’re in love with each other!”

Your face flames instantly, and you freeze, eyes snapping to Robin as she cackles wildly, ducking behind Steve before you can even form a response.

“What the hell, Robin?” you shout, the waver in your voice betraying the indignant tone you were going for.

Eddie, for his part, bursts into laughter— big, wheezing laughs that he makes no attempt to stifle. His hands shoot back to your shoulders as he doubles over, as if you’re the only thing holding him upright.

You glare at him, even though your lips are dangerously close to breaking into a smile. “You cannot find that funny. You're supposed to—defend me or something.”

“Defend you?” Eddie says, standing upright now but still grinning. “She wasn’t wrong.”

You gape at him, heart stopping. “Excuse me?”

“About us having an alliance,” he backpedals smoothly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “What else would I have meant?”

A relieved (and entirely exasperated) groan escapes you as you push at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.

Robin pokes her head out from behind Steve, who’s looking between the two of you with the kind of dawning realization that is both mortifying and infuriating.

“She’s gonna kill you!” Steve warns Robin, trying (and failing) to hide his own grin.

“I wish she’d try!” Robin calls, packing another snowball in her palm.

Robin lets loose the first snowball, and it sails wide, prompting a gleeful, triumphant laugh from Eddie. “You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, Buckley!” he jeers, grabbing a handful of snow to craft a retaliatory shot.

“Oh would you shut the fuck up and fight, Munson?” she snaps back, dodging his incoming snowball with ease.

Nancy, still hidden behind Jonathan, peeks out and tries to aim a sneak attack at Robin, but Steve catches the movement and pelts her first. And with the windup of his long swimmer’s arm, it looks like it hurts on impact.

“Ow, Steve!” she shrieks, dissolving into laughter as she ducks back behind Jon, who seems content just staying out of the chaos.

Meanwhile, Eddie shifts his focus back to you. “If we have an alliance,” he starts, that mischievous glint back in his eyes, “why aren’t you defending me?”

“Maybe I’ve switched sides,” you reply airily, crouching low to pack a perfectly compact snowball.

“Oh, betrayal!” Eddie clutches his chest theatrically. “I should’ve known you’d turn on me, Judas.”

You throw the snowball, aiming for his shoulder, but at the last second, he ducks. It hits Steve square in the chest instead.

“Great shot!” Robin calls.

“That wasn’t for him!” you yell, already scooping up more snow.

Steve grumbles as he shakes off the impact. “I’m gonna remember that, Y/n. No mercy.”

For a solid ten minutes, chaos reigns. Snow flies from all sides as laughter echoes through the courtyard. You don’t even notice the cold anymore, too caught up in the frenzy of dodging, throwing, and shouting empty threats at your friends.

The courtyard is a mess of churned-up snow and footprints by the time someone finally breaks the momentum. It’s Steve who taps out, chest heaving as he straightens, brushing snow off his coat. “Robin, are you putting rocks in yours??” he says, exhausted. 

“Just call for a truce, Stevie,” Robin pants, half-collapsing into a snowdrift with a grin. “You’re too old for this much cardio.”

“Are you kidding?” he says, indignant. “I swam twenty miles this morning!"

Eddie grins at the lot of them, leaning casually on a bench like the snowball champion he seems convinced he is. “Alright, hear me out,” he starts, brushing a stray flake from his hair. “Classes are canceled, it’s Thursday night, and none of us have to be responsible until Monday.”

You narrow your eyes at him, already predicting where this is going. “Eddie…”

He raises his hands in defense, already wearing an exaggeratedly innocent expression. “I’m just saying! We’re not gonna let the night end like this, right? I mean, look at us! A rowdy band of misfits with nothing better to do. It would be criminal if we didn’t celebrate this once-in-a-blue-moon situation properly.”

Nancy quirks a brow. “We’re all still taking finals next week.”

“Exactly,” Eddie shoots back with a grin. “Next week. And this? This is now . Snow, freedom, no deadlines looming over your heads…” His eyes flit to you. “What d’you say, Y/n? Back me up here.”

You tilt your head, playing along. “What are you proposing, exactly?”

Eddie plants his hands on his hips, letting his grin stretch impossibly wider. “I propose we go to the bar!”

The group breaks into various reactions: Robin cheers, Steve groans, Nancy glances at Jonathan with a smirk, and Eddie looks at you like he’s waiting for some kind of approval.

“What do you think?” Eddie asks, stepping closer to you, his voice dipping just enough that the others wouldn’t catch it. “You game, or are you gonna make me beg?”

You roll your eyes, already smirking. “That didn't already qualify as begging? You seem to do that a lot.”

His grin sharpens as he leans in slightly, close enough that his breath curls warm against the chilly air. “Only when it’s worth it, sweetheart.”

Your stomach flips, but before you can come up with a retort, Steve cuts in loudly.

“You cannot call her sweetheart when you’re dragging us into one of your questionable plans, Munson,” Steve says, pointing a snow-covered glove at him. “That’s cheating!”

“Questionable?” Eddie looks offended— well, dramatically so. “Steve, my ideas are brilliant. My follow-through? Occasionally less so, I’ll admit, but that’s half the fun!”

Jonathan chuckles under his breath. “What’s your definition of fun exactly?”

Eddie gestures grandly toward the street. “Right now? Hitting up Nick’s, beating all of you at pool, and celebrating our collective genius for surviving one of our last semesters.” He turns back to you with a pointed raise of his brows. “But only if the lovely Y/n agrees, of course. No pressure or anything.”

You cross your arms, pretending to deliberate. “I’m torn. On one hand, it’s cold, and I’m already soaked from head to toe.”

“And on the other hand?” he prompts, stepping even closer with that teasing, too-charming smile.

You let the pause drag out, watching the way his eyes linger on you. “On the other hand… I’d like to see you try to beat me at pool.”

Eddie’s grin widens, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Oh, it’s on.” He turns back to the group, clapping his hands together. “There you have it, folks! The night shall not end in frosty mediocrity. To the bar!"

As the group starts moving toward the street, Eddie slows his pace, hanging back with you while Nancy and Jon walk hand in hand, and Robin and Steve argue about jukebox songs, their voices carrying in bursts of laughter down the snowy sidewalk.

“Cold?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost reverent.

You shake your head, your breath clouding in front of you. “Not really. Adrenaline, I guess.”

He chuckles, his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets. “Good.”

The two of you walk in companionable silence for a moment, the crisp snow crunching under your boots. As the others pull further ahead, you suddenly find yourself slowing, overwhelmed by the quiet beauty of the night. The world feels smaller somehow, just the glow of streetlights, the sheen of untouched snow on rooftops, and the warm sound of your friends' laughter in the distance.

Eddie stops when you do, turning to look at you. “What’s up?”

You glance at him, the playful teasing in his tone replaced by a gentle curiosity. For once, there’s no quip on the tip of his tongue, no mischief in his expression, just warmth, easy and unassuming.

“Nothing,” you say quietly, but you stay where you are, tilting your head back to watch the snow fall in lazy spirals. “It’s just… nice, you know? The snow. Tonight. This.”

Eddie follows your gaze, his expression softening. “Yeah. It is.” When he looks back at you, something lingers in his gaze. He steps a little closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him even in the cold. “Makes you kinda wanna freeze it, doesn’t it? Just… keep this exact moment for a while. Before we have to try out the real world. It’s fun to pretend we’re still kids.”

You nod, suddenly unable to find your voice. The way he says it, so quiet and honest, makes your chest ache. Not in a bad way, but in that bittersweet, fleeting kind of way that makes you feel too much all at once.

“The thing is, though,” Eddie continues, his voice dropping even lower, “I don’t think it’s about the snow or the night. It’s who you’re with that makes it worth wanting to keep, y’know?”

You meet his eyes, his face just close enough that you catch the smallest flicker of hesitation in his expression. Like maybe he’s testing the waters, unsure if he’s said too much.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and the word carries more than you intend. “I think I know exactly what you mean.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. There’s only the sound of the wind and the muted chatter of your friends ahead, wrapped in their own world. And then Eddie grins, breaking the spell in the way that only he can.

“And an adult would definitely not do this,” he tells you, before launching a snowball he had apparently been hiding behind his back straight at the center of your coat. 

You scoff and stare at him, brows pinched and mouth agape in disbelief. But he only catches the end of your glare for a second before he jogs up ahead to avoid your immediate retaliation.

As you catch up to the group, a part of you quietly tucks the moment away— a tiny piece of warmth and nostalgia to carry with you when the snow melts, and the world spins on again.

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.