STRANGER THINGS 1.03 | Chapter Three: Holly, Jolly
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STRANGER THINGS 1.03 | Chapter Three: Holly, Jolly

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it's not easy bein' green
summary: keys has been stressing for weeks about a big project, and what kind of roommate would you be if you didn't help out? nothing helps with nerves quite like a little herbal remedy (a good fuck couldn't hurt either).
pairing: roommate!walter ‘keys’ mckey x reader
rating: explicit (18+, minors dni)
content warnings/tags: marijuana usage, breast play, unprotected sex, p in v sex, high sex, strong language
word count: 6k
Living with Keys was like living with a very nervous, very helpful house cat. You came to understand this about a month into living with him, after you found an ad for an empty bedroom while apartment hunting in Seattle. The ad read, "I'm a responsible 24-year-old man with a full-time job and no pets. I promise that I am not a serial killer. Looking for a neat roommate." The tone of the ad was odd and earnest, and you were desperate enough for cheaper rent that you decided to text the number in the ad to meet. Luckily, the face that greeted you in the coffee shop where you organized your first meeting was a friendly one. He introduced himself as 'Walt' first, but 'Keys works too'. He was nice, the pictures of the apartment he showed you were nice, and you were only a week away from starting your new job. It didn't hurt that he was pretty cute, too.
He stayed up concerningly late most nights, moved through your shared apartment in near silence most of the time, and was happy to sit with you quietly as you went about your own day. He lingered on the kitchen stools while you cooked dinner, joined you on the couch without a word while you watched TV. Sharing space with him was peaceful. Despite his career in video games, he was meticulously neat. Rather than the empty cans and chip bags that crowd the computer spaces of his industry peers, his desk was littered with sticky notes and various bottles of over-the-counter heartburn and headache relief. His room always smelled of clean laundry (come to think of it, so did he), and his dishes never sat in the sink for longer than an hour. If he ever runs late for work and doesn't get time to load them in the dishwasher, you get an overly apologetic but incredibly endearing apology text. You could say after almost two years of living with him, that objectively, Keys was an excellent roommate.
With the approaching developer's summit, where indie studios were going to get the chance to show off their work to executives and creatives from major consoles, his nerves have gone from lightly frazzled to full-on system overload. You can't remember the last time he slept for more than four hours, and you could hear him using any spare moment he got practicing his pitch script to himself, his soft voice and pacing footsteps audible through your thin walls. It's all he's thought about for months—he even decided to take his rarely touched PTO to take two weeks off and grind on his project. It was three days before the summit, and his presentation had been finished for weeks. To anyone else's view, and especially yours, Keys was overprepared. This is why you decided he deserved one night fully away from it all. Ordering his favorite takeout, relaxing on the couch while you watched The Social Network—his favorite movie because, according to him, he "appreciates any media that portrays Zuck as the piece-of-shit-loser he is inside."
You knew that getting him away from his project was going to be hard, even with the dangling of his favorite things in front of him, so you decided to sweeten the deal further. After your own work day, you stopped at the dispensary around the corner from your apartment. With Seattle being Seattle, the dispensary looks more like an Apple store than a place where you purchase drugs. Behind a counter, a 38-year-old man wearing jean shorts and a name tag that says "Smoky Trev" walks you through their selection of gummies.
"You looking to relax or lock in?" He asks, painfully enthusiastic to employ the lingo of a generation below him. You explain that these were for a friend, really amped about a big presentation, and you wanted to help cool him off. He jumps excitedly into a monologue, walking you through various strains, ratios, flavors, head high vs body high, until you interrupted as kindly as possible.
"I'm looking for something pretty low-key, he doesn't really drink or smoke," you explain. "So, whatever you have for 'baby's first high', I guess."
After an 'I gotchu' that sends a shiver of second-hand embarrassment down your spine, you end up with a container of five blueberry lemonade gummies, 10 milligrams each.
"I'd advise he starts with half, you can always take more, but you can't exactly have less once you get started," he advises, bagging up the container.
"Will do," you say, tapping your card on the terminal. "Thanks, Trevor."
"It's Smoky Trev," he responds, with a passive aggressive tap to his name tag.
"You and I both know it's not," you mutter, giving a tight-lipped smile as you take the paper bag from him.
After leaving the dispensary, you look up to see heavy clouds that will start to drizzle any second. Perfect weather for a night of staying in and getting high. You make one more stop for Keys's favorite takeout, happy that your walk home is only a few more minutes once the bag of hot Thai food is in your arms.
When you make it inside, Keys is where you expect—at his desk in the living room, sitting up and leaning forward, his face only inches from his computer screen and his chin in his hand. His hair is slightly askew, likely due to his nervous and adorable habit of running his hands through it when he's working through a problem. His glasses are perched a little lower on his nose than normal. You set the bag of food on the counter and toss your keys into the bowl on the counter, where his own set of keys sits, attached to keychains of a little Dragonball and Lego Darth Vader. Nerd, you think to yourself affectionately.
"You're worse than an iPad baby," you scold lightly, standing next to him with your hands on your hips. "You've been finished for weeks, what could you possibly be working on?"
He leans back against his chair, probably for the first time all day. When he swivels to face you, you can see the outline of his pecs and soft tummy through his long sleeve shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows to reveal surprisingly toned forearms. Pokéball socks peek out from the hem of his dark gray joggers.
"This little bug popped up when I replaced a character design in the demo a few days ago," Keys explains, trying to flex the tension out of his fingers. "I think I fixed it today, but I was going back through the code to make sure."
You push up his glasses with your index finger.
"Good," you say, dropping your hands into the pockets of your jeans. "Because I have treats for you if you promise to put it away for today." His face lights up a little before the excitement quickly fades.
"I don't know, dude," he groans. "I still have some development stuff to-"
"I brought pad Thai."
His eyebrows rise a little.
"We can watch Andrew Garfield and Jesse Eisenberg suppress the urge to make out."
His head tilts a little, weighing the situation.
You sigh, deciding to play your final card.
"I have edibles."
This is all Keys needs to hear to save his progress and stand from the chair, stretching upward to reveal a sliver of his stomach and happy trail.
Overall, he wasn't big on substances. Drinking was fun to do at the occasional work party, but he rarely ever brought booze home, and you remember the time he told you about his first experience attempting to get high. He was still in college and decided to make a rare appearance at a computer science party. These mostly consisted of people crowding around a television and playing Super Smash Ultimate while someone passed around a weak joint. Keys had a few hits, and he didn't even get to feel high before the weed put him to sleep. He mentioned being curious to try it again, and from his response to the mention of edibles, he was apparently more curious than you initially thought.
"Really? That's what did it?" you tease, heading over to the kitchen to unpack the still-warm paper bag of food.
"I know I've been kind of a pain in the ass," he says, getting a set of chopsticks from a kitchen drawer. "I've been trying everything to calm myself down. Music, meditation audios, stuff like that. My sister recommended these breathing exercises, but I just got kind of dizzy. Honestly, I was this close to going and buying some stuff for myself."
"Well, you're very welcome," you say, opening your own takeout container. "I survived a whole interaction with a man in tie-dye to get you these."
You pull the little bottle from its bag and Keys inspects it, smiling slightly in amusement at the blueberry and lemon wearing sunglasses on the label.
"You wanna go ahead and take some?" you suggest, "It'll be about an hour before it kicks in anyway."
"Sure." He passes you the bottle and you tip one gummy out, placing it on the lid. You retrieve a knife and slice the candy in half, using near surgical levels of precision. You pop your half in your mouth and offer Keys the other half. You watch him chew for a while, and he grimaces slightly as he swallows.
"The label said blueberry lemonade, why did it taste like the smell of computer duster?" He asks, taking a long drink from his ridiculously stickered water bottle—logos of random indie developers that constantly give out free stuff, overpriced ones sold in coffee shops and comic stores from growing up in Portland, MIT computer science swag, and a little frog sticker that you offered him after it came for free in a random package.
"These exist to get you high, not to snack on," you say, screwing the cap back on. "They never actually taste good."
You both bring your plates over to the couch, sitting on the floor with your backs to it. Keys likes things neat, and while he would never try to enforce a rule about eating on the couch, you knew he would be more comfortable if you didn't. You both dig into your dinner, Keys especially eagerly, as he tends to forget he has basic needs once he's in "the flow". You chat a little about your respective days, telling him about your co-worker's Twilight themed baby shower coming up this weekend. He tells you excitedly about the last of the concept art he got today from the artist he's commissioned to work on character designs. Once your plates are empty, Keys picks them up and brings them over to the sink, rinsing them and loading them into the dishwasher before he can even be asked. As he washes the dishes, you change into your own pajamas, eager to be out of your work clothes and totally relaxed into the high. He makes his way back to the sofa after lighting a Mandarin and White Tea scented candle on the kitchen counter.
You both settle onto the actual cushions, and Keys queues up The Social Network. You're close, not quite touching, but near enough to feel his warmth and breathe in his ever-present detergent fragrance. The introduction score is familiar to both of you at this point, with his fondness for using the movie as background noise when he's working from home.
"You feeling anything yet?" you ask. He assesses himself for a moment.
"I don't think so," he decides, stretching his legs onto the sofa. "It's alright, even if it doesn't kick in, I got to have a nice night with you."
You smile a little to yourself and settle a little deeper into the cushions, fidgeting with the cuffs of your pajama pants. It's around the twenty minute mark that time starts to slow a little, and you start to feel a little lighter. Five milligrams was nothing crazy to you, being at least a little more experienced than Keys. You take a sip from your own water, noticing your drying mouth, then take your first look over at him in a while. The sight of him immediately pulls a gleeful little giggle from you.
His eyes are heavy lidded behind his glasses, the whites tinging pink around the edges, and his pupils almost entirely occupying the hazel irises. His cheeks are rosier than normal, and his mouth is ever so slightly parted. His tongue slowly peeks out to wet his lips.
"You okay?" you ask, resting a hand on his shoulder. He exhales at the sensation.
"I think so," his voice is slower, way slower compared to his usual, slightly frantic stream of consciousness way of speaking.
"Good," you affirm, moving your hand back to rest on your lap. A few seconds go by.
"Um," he starts, a little nervously. "The second you stopped touching me, I immediately felt like I was going to float into space, so if you could just, um, hold my hand or something? I don't know." The stream of consciousness has persisted through the weed.
"Are you scared?" you ask, your eyebrows furrowing as a little tug of concern pulls at you. He shakes his head, comically swinging it slowly from side to side.
"Not scared," Keys clarifies. "Just, um, floaty. Your hand on me felt really nice." He turns his face to look at you, a blissful smile on his face that gets a smile out of you. You know this feeling—not necessarily frightening, but the littlest bit of grounding makes all the difference when everything around you has gone fuzzy. You bring an arm up to rest on the back of his shoulders, giving his bicep a little squeeze. Keys exhales.
"That's good, that feels really good," he mumbles blissfully, his head finding your shoulder almost as soon as your arm rests.
You have to admit to yourself that you're glad that the edible has helped weaken the barriers that Keys had put up from years of being hyper-aware of every social interaction. You gave him a hug for the first time a few months into living with him, after he brought home your favorite cake for your first birthday away from family and your friends from home. You can perfectly recall the memory of him stiffening sharply before melting into it, his palm rubbing the space between your shoulder blades a few times before he pulled away, apologizing under his breath. He needed it. What he doesn't understand is how happy you are to do it.
"He's such a fuckin' prick," Keys mumbles to the TV, pulling you from your thoughts. Jesse-Mark is being a bad friend to Andrew-Eduardo. You laugh a little.
"Why do you like this movie again?" You ask. "I mean, it's good, but you're like…a big fan."
"It's well made," he says, shrugging a little. "I guess it also makes me feel good that I'm not that kind of computer guy. I meet so many weirdos, like, dudes obsessed with Mark and Elon and they think they're this gift to programming. I like to think that I'm not like that, you know, that I remember the person behind everything." It's nice to hear a guy who is usually so self-critical be this nice to himself.
"I'm really glad you moved in," he says through a dopey grin. "Really glad we're friends."
"I'm glad I moved in, too," you say, your own lowered inhibitions allowing you to press your lips to his temple. Keys's eyes close, and his eyebrows knit together a little, like he's hearing sad news. He turns his head and plants a kiss on your clothed shoulder. Neither of you says anything.
"I'm hungry," Keys observes aloud after a bit of silence. "I just ate a lot of pad Thai, why am I hungry?"
"You have the munchies," you say through a laugh. "It's normal. I can get you something to eat."
His eyes narrow a little, searching himself for what sounds most satisfying right now.
"We have ice cream, right?" He asks. You nod. "I'll have some, that sounds yummy." In the two years you had known him, Keys had never once uttered the word 'yummy'. His voice is light and serene, a little eagerness seeping through it at the thought of satiating the strong and sudden hunger. Slowly standing from the couch, you give yourself a moment to adjust to the movement before heading to the freezer. A pint of cookie dough ice cream sits in the door, purchased after an especially long day last week. You bought it for a stupidly inflated price from the convenience store and only managed a few bites before exhaustion took over. This meant that luckily for Keys, the pint was almost full.
"How much do you want?" you call out, reaching for a bowl.
"Um," he starts, gauging his hunger. "Can you bring the pint?" You giggle a little as you put the bowl back up in the cupboard. After wrapping a paper towel around the pint to keep his hands clean, you return to the couch, pint and spoon in hand. He accepts them eagerly, and without sliding down to eat it over the coffee table, Keys digs right in.
"Fuck," he moans after a comically large mouthful of ice cream.
"Good?"
"It's really good," he rambles around the spoon. "I didn't know ice cream could taste like this, I mean, I like ice cream as much as any guy, but this is a whole other thing. It's good, you're so good to me."
A little heat rushes to your cheeks.
"I'm glad I could help," you reply, lying back against the cushions again. In a matter of five minutes, Keys has wolfed down around two-thirds of the pint.
"I sort of want to eat all of it, but that's so rude," he says, a little whiny. "You bought this and I just ate, like, 80% of it. That's kinda fucked up."
"It's alright, you've had a long few weeks," you say, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "Go for it." He gives you another sleepy smile.
"I owe you one," Keys murmurs. "I owe you as much as you want. Thank you, baby."
You freeze a little, and Keys goes back to happily spooning the dwindling contents of the pint into his mouth. The shock of him saying it is quickly replaced with a more troubling feeling—the overwhelming desire for him to say it again. You glance over to see if he's had any response to it, but he only looks up at you with hooded, red eyes, showing you the empty pint.
"S'gone," he laments.
"I can see that," you respond. "You want me to toss it for you?"
He shakes his head as he leans forward, setting the empty pint on the coffee table.
"I'll do it on my way to bed," he says, resting his head in your lap. Your hands begin to rake through his hair, the urge to do it as instinctual as the urge to breathe. His hair is silky soft, unsurprising considering he's the only man you have ever met who routinely conditions. It smells clean, vaguely like apples, and you bring your face a little closer. Apple, laundry, a little something on his skin that is uniquely Keys. Once the smell mixes with the high, another rush of gentle warmth comes over you, taking you to an entirely new level of ecstasy. A little tension takes over your thighs before you can stop yourself, pressing together slightly under his head. You kiss his smooth cheek. His ability to get the shave close without nicking himself has always fascinated you. A low, happy hum leaves his throat.
As you start to brush your hands through a little deeper, scratching occasionally at the back of his head, Keys starts to squirm a little. Tiny shifts of his hips, tense bends and extensions of his legs, balling his fists slightly, until he sits up suddenly. His eyes shut, thrown off kilter by the suddenness as he pulls a cushion into his lap.
"Are you okay?" You ask in a small voice, worried you've done something wrong. His eyes widen.
"No, not at all," he assures you, shaking his head as quickly as the high will allow. "You're so great, I just, um, I didn't wanna fall asleep yet. Your hands, they were really…relaxing."
You're not entirely convinced—he's still squirming, grasping hard at the fluff of the cushion.
"I'm really sorry if I made you uncomfortable," you start, your voice sweet and low.
"It's not you at all," Keys insists, his hand pushing his glasses up in near slow motion. "If anything, I'm a little too comfortable."
"What are you-"
He blushes harder, looking down at his lap and adjusting the cushion stiffly.
"Oh."
"Yeah," he says, letting out a tense exhale. "Oh." When he finally looks at you, your heart lurches at his expression. Glassy, red eyes filled with a churning mix of anxiety and want, pink cheeks burning with embarrassment. His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, a habit he resorts to when frustrated or nervous, or both.
"It's totally fine," you eventually manage to say, after what feels like forever. "I mean, this is natural. I can get worked up when I'm high, it's just your body relaxing and everything."
"Are you…worked up?" He asks shyly. Warmth begins to flood your core.
"Mhmm," you reply, shifting a little closer to him. "Kind of a lot, actually."
"My whole body feels so crazy," he sighs, finally loosening his grip on the pillow. "Like, light and heavy at the same time, does that make sense?"
"Totally."
"Your hands felt so good on my head," Keys says, craning his head a little to look at you. "And then you kissed me, you were so close."
You reach over, laying your hand on top of his.
"Keys, it's really okay," you reiterate. "If you want me to, I can help." His mouth falls open slightly.
"H-Help?" he gulps. "Like…"
He gestures vaguely at his cushion-covered crotch.
"Can I see?"
Keys nods a little and moves the pillow back into its original corner of the sofa. When your eyes land on what it was concealing, your mouth starts to water through the marijuana-induced dryness. Under his sweatpants, his cock strains hard against the thick fabric. Just the size of the outline is impressive, definitely longer than average from your limited view. The waistband of his underwear peeks out above the sweats, enticing you further.
"Can I touch you?" you ask, looking up at him through your lashes. He nods, surprisingly fast considering how high he is. As you slowly reach for him, palming him slightly through his pajamas, Keys lets out a soft, involuntary whimper. Your own core begins to stir and pulse as you grip him, slightly squeezing and encouraging him to grind up. He does so, with a present but sleepy rhythm, the high still coursing through his veins.
"You feel so good, Keys," you coo in his ear. "So big, and I haven't even touched you under your clothes."
"W-want you to," he whines, his hands balling at his sides. You add a little more pressure as you move your free hand to rub at his inner thigh. His mouth parts a little more, and he lets out a real, voiced moan, tension stirring too hard in him to stifle the sounds.
"Um," Keys whimpers, biting down on his bottom lip. "Can I kiss you?"
The words stop the movement in your hands, and they skim up his body until they reach Keys's face, cupping his cheeks. The pink skin is so warm under your hands, and you giggle a little at his sleepy, needy expression.
"You're so fucking cute," you breathe, pulling his face to meet yours. His lips are pliant at first, soft and sweet from the ice cream. As he kisses back, you feel a hand on the side of your thigh, gripping a little at the softness. An arm snakes around your waist and you suddenly feel him tug, lifting you onto him. Your thighs fall on either side of Keys's legs, and you lower your aching core onto his clothed cock, moaning against his mouth as you finally get some relief. You let out a soft, almost pouty noise into his mouth. His hands travel up and down your waist, the back of your neck, an especially bold hand settles on your ass and squeezes. When you both come up for air, Keys's kiss-bitten lips and shiny eyes make your tummy flip and flutter.
"Is this a bad time to tell you I really, really like you?" Keys pants, blinking his pretty red eyes slowly.
You giggle, sliding your hands into his hair again. He sighs, shuddering a little at the sensation.
"S'not a bad time," you say sweetly against his lips, kissing lazily. "You feeling good?"
Keys nearly scoffs.
"Good? I feel fucking incredible," he says through a laugh. "I've been so tense. I haven't even jerked off for weeks, like it didn't feel good until now." His hips stutter upwards, and your clit catches on his erection despite the layers between you. The urge to take everything off of Keys simmers inside of you again, and you slide one of the hands in his hair down his chest to the hem of his shirt. From the rare glimpses you got of his body, you knew Keys wasn't going to be ripped or anything, after all, he spend 90% of his waking hours in front of a computer. But you definitely didn't expect what was there instead. Broad shoulders covered in moles and freckles that you wanted to count and kiss, dark, soft chest hair that tapered into a happy trail, his tummy just round enough to extend slightly past the waistband of his underwear. He wasn't necessarily muscular, but solid. Still lean, but round and strong in all the right places.
"I know I'm not i-impressive or anything," Keys mumbles, his hands finding his hair as they always did when he was nervous. "I'm sorry if you're disappointed, we don't have to-"
You cut him off with a bruising kiss, palms planted firmly on his chest. His warmth and wildly beating heart feel so right under your hands. He lets out a little noise of surprise before melting into the kiss, his hands resting on your upper arms.
"Keys, you're hot," you say to him. "I don't need you to be this ultra-jacked dude with a ten pack, I like you the way you are. I promise, I'm not disappointed at all."
"You're sure?"
"I'm positive," you say, punctuating with a soft kiss. "I mean, I'm not perfect, but you still like me, right?"
"But you are perfect," he says factually. "Can I see more of you?" The fabric of your big sleep shirt shifts as Keys grips the hem. You nod, feeling the beginnings of nerves for the first time this evening as he pulls the shirt up and over your head. You regret not wearing a bra for a moment, until you remember that if you were wearing one, Keys would have to try and figure out the hooks while high.
"Shit," he breathes out, awestruck at the sight of your bare breasts. His hands hold your waist again, thumbs brushing upward toward your chest. "I really wanna touch you." You reach for his wrists and pull them upward, and Keys cups your breasts, lightly groping as his mouth falls open again. The pads of his thumbs brush and tease your nipples, and you whine, giving the hair at the back of his head a little tug. His head cranes forward and he pulls a nipple into his mouth, licking and barely nipping with his teeth while his hand squeezes and teases the other breast with growing confidence. Without thinking, your hips start to grind against his crotch. You glance down and desire rushes through you harder at the sight—Keys licking messily at your breast with an open mouth, only taking a second to breathe before finally giving the other the same attention.
"Keys, you're doing so good," you pant. "But if I don't get fucked soon, I'm gonna go crazy."
His mouth releases your nipple with an audible 'pop', eyes fluttering open to look up at you. The pretty hazel is almost entirely eclipsed by his pupils, either from the high or the sex. Probably both.
"Fuck, I want you," he groans, pulling you up a little by the waist as he reaches for his waistband, finally freeing his cock from his sweatpants. The sight of it finally bare pulls a soft noise from you, the curve and pink tip resting against his pelvis. You sit back a little on his thighs, marveling at how gorgeous he looks underneath you. Hard cock already leaking precum onto his happy trail, hairy chest rising and falling with deep breaths.
"Come back," Keys pleads softly, reaching again for your hips.
"I will," you soothe with a giggle, kissing him quick before you stand on slightly wobbly legs. You pull down your pajamas and underwear together and the skin of your thighs dimples with goosebumps at the sudden cool air. You climb back onto his thighs, shuddering as your bare cunt makes contact with his erection. With an experimental roll of your hips, Keys lets out a shameless moan as he reaches for your face, pulling it down to kiss your lips and lick into your mouth gingerly. As you part your lips to slide your own tongue to entangle with his, Keys moves a hand from your face down to your pussy. The tips of his middle and ring fingers shallowly push into you.
"You're so wet," he says needily against your lips. "This all for me?"
"All for you, baby," you moan, reaching down to wrap a hand around his cock. Keys grasps your hip as you lower yourself onto him, eyes rolling back as your walls sink down around his tip. Needy whimpers escape his mouth as you lower yourself onto him, his cock twitching inside you as your thighs meet his again.
"You feel so good, so warm," Keys whimpers, kneading at your ass hungrily. "Shit, I feel so fucking crazy, you're so pretty, like really pretty." God, he was going to kill you.
"Your cock is perfect, Keys," you moan, lifting your hips and slowly drop them again, whining at the stretch. "Can I move a little more?"
He nods a little frantically.
"I really want that, really want you to ride me," he says, hands hot and eager as they explore your body. You happily indulge his request, starting to rock your hips more and more—suddenly very aware of his size. Through your high and the sex-fog in your brain, you recall the jokes online about computer nerds with giant dicks. You've never been so happy to confirm a stereotype. Chasing his own pleasure, Keys starts to thrust up into you, his arms around your waist with a vise-like grip. You throw your arms around his neck as his hips move, burying your face into his neck and suckling at the skin where he neck meets his shoulder.
"Oh my God, Walt," you say against his skin and he moans, fucking into you with deeper, stronger rolls of his hips.
"Fuck, say my name again, pretty," he groans. "Tell me how my cock feels inside you."
For a second, it's hard to really believe that this is Keys. Sweet roommate Keys that bought you a rain jacket as a 'Welcome to Seattle' gift. Keys that insists on walking closer to the street when you're on the sidewalk. Sweet, shy Keys that waves politely at your friends when they come over before retreating back to his desk. That same Keys was working you on his cock, pulling hot, filthy, wet noises from your cunt as he fucked you. This side of him was unbelievable. You always thought he was cute, in the dorky, nice guy kind of way, but this Keys was hot. You prayed this would not be the last time you see him.
"Love it so much, Walt," you whine, gripping his shoulders hard. "Your cock's so big and it's filling me up so good, making me all messy." The earliest waves of orgasm start to build in your stomach, your cunt pulsing around him.
"Close?" he pants, his hips maintaining their rhythm.
"Mhmm," you nod against his shoulder, a little dizzy as more and more waves of pleasure rush through your body.
"Come on me, baby," Keys says in your ear, pressing a kiss to your soft cheek. "Wanna felt your perfect pussy soak me, please." His words reach your fuzzy mind, mixing with the sensation of his cock fucking into you and the waves of pleasure build, and build, until they crash into full body euphoria—your pussy clenches around him as you mouth at his shoulder, kissing and licking and mumbling nonsensically. Keys starts to chase his own orgasm, the once consistent rhythm in his hips starting to slip as his desperation builds.
"I'm really close," he cautions, his voice reedy. "Where should I-"
"Inside," you plead against his shoulder. "Pill."
"Holy fuck," he mutters at this, his hips starting their frenzied thrusts again. You whine into his shoulder, the sensation of his cock stirring into staggering, overwhelming pleasure.
"I know, sweet girl, I know," Keys assures, one hand bracing the back of your neck as he thrusts. "M'so close, just a little longer. Doing so good for me, taking me so well."
His praises ease the overstimulation a little, softening the edges of the intense feeling in your tummy. You kiss at his neck again, licking and letting out soft mewls of pleasure against the flesh, now sticky from sweat.
"Fuck, m'gonna come," he pants, arms locking around you. "Thank you, baby, shit-I needed this so bad, I-so tight on my cock, so perfect-you're so fucking pretty oh my God, fuck." His cock finally spills into you, painting your walls with pulse after pulse of hot cum. Your chests heave up and down against each other as you both chase for a deep breath. Keys presses a sweet kiss to your forehead.
"Thanks," he says with a breathless laugh. "I feel bad, I usually like to show a girl a good time before we do that."
"The two years of living together wasn't enough good times?" you giggle, tracing swirling shapes across the plains of his chest with a lazy finger.
"No, they've been good times," he assures, a hand rubbing up and down your back gently. "Best times of my life, actually." A soft, sleepy smile spreads across your face.
"I really like you, Walt," you say against his chest, a little shy.
"I do too," he says. "Like you, I mean. A lot."
"Sorry I crashed your work night and got you high," you sigh, and he laughs softly.
"I'm glad you did, I've probably been a nightmare to live with for months," he replies, his thumb subtly tracing the bone of your shoulder blade.
"No," you say, shaking your head a little. "Obsessed and very anxious, yes, but not a nightmare."
"You're sweet," Keys says with a gentle smile. "Once the project's over, I'm gonna try to be less…on edge, I promise. You don't deserve to go out with such a workaholic."
You look up at his earnest face and let out a little breath of laughter as you push up his glasses.
"So we're going out?"
Keys's face blooms pink with embarrassment.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to assume anything, I just thought-"
You press your lips to his before he can stay on the spiral.
"Of course I wanna go out with you," you assure him. "I've always had a thing for nerds anyway."
author's note: who up waltering they mckey!!! This one was so so so much fun to write and I hope you enjoyed :) as always let me hear your thoughts!! Thank you for reading!

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smashingkeys69 4.0
my navigation smashingkeys69 collection
summary: after discovering that smashingkeys69 was actually your coworker, you have your first in-person encounter
warnings: MDNI +18, cursing, kissing, making out, a bit of asshole keys, public? sex, mention of nudes, nipple play, dirty talk, fingering (f receiving), edging, teasing, p in v, unprotected sex, riding/cowgirl, big dick! keys
w.c.: 4,2k
author's note: once again, of course, for juls who always reads this first and comments and makes me laugh and and and. this is technically not proofread. i don't have much more to say other than im not very content with this one but needed to get it out of the way after so long.
that morning you almost didn’t go to work, having even come up with a fake cold and typed out the email before deciding against it. the thought of having to face keys after what had happened the day before made you nauseous.
the image of his face falling and the sound of his “oh, fuck me” when he realised exactly who you were sat low in your stomach. you hadn’t been able to sleep because of it. every time you were about to drift off it came back to haunt you, and not in a good way.
it was his tone and the way he had avoided you the rest of the day, as if he was pissed off that all this time you were the one behind the screen. as if you yourself hadn’t also been flabbergasted when realization hit you.
so yes. having to seat across from him, work with him, talk to him right now was the worst thing that could happen to you.
but you weren’t going to let him win on this one.
thus, as you walked into soonami and your eyes inadvertently looked for him just to not find his mop of hair anywhere, you smiled. especially when you made your way over to your desk and noticed he wasn’t on his chair and his computer wasn’t on. maybe you had won and he would be the one to not show up today.
weak, you thought and sat down while pulled out of your bag your little notebook, reading your to-do list for the day.
an hour passed and you had even forgotten keys wasn’t nowhere to be seen. still, it didn’t last long.
your eyes were too focused on the screen as your fingers flew over the keyboard. so much that you almost didn’t notice when someone placed a mug on your desk. the sound of the clay against the glass of the desk pulled you away from the code you were working on as you took notice of it. it was your mug that you always left at work, filled to the rim with burning coffee.
you lifted you head and saw him sitting down in front of you. the only thing you could see was the poker expression on his eyes, barely visible above the monitors that separated you. he didn’t look at you.
the grip on the white mug was stopped by the feeling of something more rough on it. turning it around, careful not to spill its content, you noticed a light blue sticky note on its side.
you peeled it off and read it, stay late tonight?
you know all too well what he wanted to stay late for. you knew it ‘cause you had thought about it too.
your fingers seemed to have a life of their own as they reached for your phone, unlocking it and opening your chat with the one and only smashingkeys69. the last messages from yesterday stared back at you, sent just before both of you stepped out of the bathroom and came face to face with each other.
smashingkeys69: ill text u tonight
you: deal
he hadn’t texted you that night. of course he hadn’t. keys was just as embarrassed about the whole thing as you were; however, he didn’t look too embarrassed right now. his leg went up and down again and again, anxiously waiting for your answer.
you: im not fucking u
you took the coffee and sipped, staring at him as he got the notification from you.
smashingkeys69: good
smashingkeys69: cause thats my job
your legs pressed together from the rush of excitement that went through your body at having him so near. sending you texts like the ones he had sent you had multiple multiple times before from that exact desk. the only difference was this time you had finally put a face to the username. a pretty one.
you: if u think ill get naked for u in a bathroom stall at work youre insane
smashingkeys69: then lets go somewhere else
smashingkeys69: a closet
you: no
smashingkeys69: okay then here
you: theres cameras everywhere
smashingkeys69: not in antwans office
the crinkle in his eye and slight smirk as he stared at you, waiting for your reaction, told you all you needed to know. you wouldn't be going home early tonight.
—
when the last of your coworkers left the office, keys wasn’t around. you turned off your computer and sat back in your chair, debating whether you should send him a text or not. but just as you started to think he had ditched, he appeared, arms swinging by his sides as if you hadn't been waiting almost ten minutes for him.
keys stopped in his tracks when he saw you still sitting at your desk, like he hadn’t expected you to still be there “you stayed,” he said incredulously, more to himself than to you.
and for some reason that you did not understand, it pissed you off. “where the fuck were you?” you asked. there was a sharp ting in your voice that surprised even you, not really meaning to snap at him, but the irritation you felt was stronger.
“i was in the kitchen getting a coffee,” he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the tiny room. his brows furrowed in confusion and you didn’t know if it was because he expected you to know or because it was obvious, “you’re here.”
you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, “what? would you prefer i’d left? you were basically begging me to stay late,” you got up and started to tidy up things around you that didn’t need to be tidied up, just an excuse to keep you busy and not stare at him for too long. your keyboard, your planner.
“oh my god what has gotten into you?” he questioned in between giggles as he walked to his own desk, right in across yours, and tidied up his own place. of course he founded your irritated state funny. sometimes it was everything he was good at, riling you up.
“you’re wasting my time, that’s what’s happening,” you opened and closed drawers with no real purpose.
“wasting your time? don’t be so dramatic now, it’s friday where else would you be?” keys threw his arms in the air.
“I- look, are we doing this or not?” you leaned forward and rested your hands on the wooden table.
keys didn’t answer. instead he let his gaze fix on your face, trying to decipher if you were actually pissed off or just trying to play difficult. he couldn’t figure it out. he knew there was a little something in your tone that told him he was so close to getting shut down. so, he didn’t try to test his own luck by doing anything else that could add to it. his legs suddenly got a life of their own as they got farther away from his desk, rounded it and got closer to yours.
your body didn’t move, but you let your head turn and look at him once he stopped next to you. one. two. three. four. you counted the moles on his face, and you could’ve continued if it hadn’t been for his touch.
keys lifted his right hand and hovered it on the side of your face, millimeters away. so close that the coldness of his palm got to you. you knew his eyes were on your lips, only because you could sense them but also ‘cause yours were on his just the same. and after a few seconds of hesitation, he whispered a tiny okay just to grab you by the nape of your neck harshly, and finally kiss you.
it’s not that it caught you by surprise, you knew it was coming; yet, you weren’t prepared for how good his lips would feel against yours. they were softer than they looked as they worked over your top lip, which was weird given how much he bit them.
your hands finally left the wood, a silent permission for him to touch you. keys’ hand left your neck to travel down your back and rest on your hip, just as the other one had been doing. and with a swift motion he lifted you up, sitting you down on top of your desk. the unexpected movement and the brush of his thumb on the side of your neck got a low moan out of you, but it was lost in between your mouths.
it wasn’t a careful kiss, it was heated and rushed, sweeping away all that was not him and you from the room. you savoured the lingering taste of coffee on keys’ mouth. when your lips slightly parted for the smallest breath he let his tongue crash into yours, but not before he dragged it across your lower lip.
you opened your legs to give him more space as you let the tips of your fingers get under his shirt and roam over his back, pulling him even closer.
you were both too high on the moment to realize the danger of what you were doing, and especially where you were doing it. the possibility of someone walking in at any given moment didn’t cross your mind, even less so when keys released your lips to instead kiss the sensitive spot behind your ear that you had told him about many times before over text.
he bit the thin skin and grunted against it when you dragged your nails down in response. it wasn’t until keys started fumbling with the button of your jeans that reality hit you, and you hit it back by trying to push him off.
“keys” you attempted to get his attention.
“mhm- what?” his hot breath against your damp skin from his own saliva made your entire body shiver.
“we-” as much as you didn’t want to, you stopped torturing his back and instead grabbed his shoulders, making him stop at last, “we said not in here, remember?”
“right. yeah.” he sighed and helped you get down from the desk. his hand wrapped around your wrist, making you follow his steps across the open-floor office until you reached antwan’s door.
“are we really going to antwan’s office?” you whispered for no real reason. there was no one else around but you two.
keys abruptly stopped in his tracks and you almost crashed into his chest as he turned around to face you. “you’ve got a better idea?” he snapped.
“not really, but maybe-” you were trying to find another solution but he cut you off.
“listen,” he was hovering over you, and right then and there you realized for the first time how good he smelled, a musky scent that was not too soft but also not too hard, just the right amount of intensity on it to pull you right under. “i’ve been thinking about this since the first night i texted you and i really, really need to fuck you,” his pupils were dilated, almost the entirety of his eyes was black as they went back and forth over yours.
you didn’t answer, there was no need to. if you were having second thoughts about fucking your coworker, they all slipped away at the neediness of his words, and that at the end made you take over. the cotton of his shirt was delicate inside your fist as you opened the door and pulled him by the collar, slamming your own back against it to close it.
keys was back on you immediately, going straight for your neck and getting his hands on your ass. he took his sweet time nipping at it and you didn’t know how much longer you could wait. he seemed to get the memo when you hooked your leg around him and tried to get some friction where you needed it the most. keys, desperate on his own end, tapped the side of your other leg, signaling you to jump, and you obliged.
“i’m taking you to the chair” he announced as if you would’ve been capable of denying him.
he carried you over to the place where your boss sat everyday and from where he gave stupid orders that you almost never followed.
keys let your feet hit the floor before flopping down on the leather. you watched him unzip his pants and lift his hips to get them off, he kicked the pool of fabric to the side with his feet. there was nothing you could do but stare at his already too tight underwear that covered his growing bulge, and prevented you from seeing what you had appreciated before through photos. the image of the dick picture he had sent you the first night you sexted came to your mind. you hadn’t forgotten how big he was, but it was different having it so close.
“are you sure?” keys asked when he noticed you too focused on what he was hiding.
“i wouldn’t have stayed if i wasn’t sure,” you came closer to him, undoing the button of your jeans and letting them fall before stepping out.
keys’ gaze went directly to your black panties, barely visible under the sweater you were wearing. he licked his lips before speaking. “come here” the words were accompanied by the motion of his hands which hit his own thighs two times, signaling you to sit on top of him. the order turned you on even more and you could practically feel goosebumps make way all over your body.
you did as he said and climbed on top of him, resting your knees on each side of his legs and purposely let your core rub against his boxers.
“fuck-“ he cursed as his head hit the back of the chair and his eyes closed at the sensation he had been waiting so long for. keys forced his eyes open, there was a fire on them that hadn’t been there two seconds before, as though your movement switched something on inside of him that had been dormant until that very moment.
he cupped one side of your face and kissed you hard, again. his lips hit yours with desperate force, his tongue pressed against your top lip, asking for entrance that you instantly gave, meeting it inside.
the kiss was pure need. the only sound heard in the room was your heavy breathing while you started to crave more.
trying to satisfy yourself, you broke the kiss and rolled your hips against him. the motion made your clothed chest crash against keys’ chin.
“i wanna see your tits” he begged, cupping them over the wool that covered them.
you nodded before agreeing with words, “take it off”
he took your sweater along with your tshirt off of you. keys moaned at the sight of your boobs spilling out of your bra, he wasn’t patient enough to let you unclasp it, and instead pulled the straps down your arms until they were completely free and let the piece of underwear rest on your waist.
the moment full of craving was interrupted by a rather sweet one when keys dropped his head down and left a trail of kisses on the valley between your breasts; however, it didn’t last long before he got his mouth on your left nipple.
“keys” you moaned and racked your hands through his hair, tugging on his brown messy locks. his tongue flicked over your bud while he pinched your right one between his index finger and thumb.
“you wanna know what i did last night?” he said against your skin and sucked hard in a way that would leave a mark that wouldn’t disappear for days.
“wh- what did you do?” it was hard to speak when all you were concentrated on was the feeling of his tongue dragging over you.
“i read our conversations,” he stopped playing with your tits to look you in the eyes, heavy breathing. “thinking about all the times you were just a few feet away from me, getting off to me, touching yourself how i was telling you to do…” he trailed off, almost like he was imagining it right then and there. “if i had known it was you-“
“what would you have done?” you nodded your head and touched his nose with yours, teasing him.
“i would’ve fucked your bitchy attitude out of you so much sooner,” he grabbed your thighs and pressed you down against him.
“what’s stopping you now then?” you tried to move but his hold on you was too firm.
“can’t a man enjoy what he has been waiting for for so long?” he joked with a smirk plastered on his face, and you giggled. “you gonna ride me?”
you attempted again, in vain, to grind against him, “i don’t care how, i want you inside me”
but he wasn’t done with his teasing. “you gonna show me you aren't all talk?” his thumbs made circles on your sides as the rest of his hand got under the elastic of your panties.
“i need to feel you keys” the way he was dragging it on was infuriating and cruel.
“i just wanna play with you for a bit first,” you grunted, you were running out of patience and he smiled. “you gonna let me play with your pussy?”
you felt his fingers slowly making their way to your front, and as much as you would’ve liked to have been able to get back at him, it was too much. so, you caved in “yeah”
keys didn’t need more confirmation to get his hand under your underwear. you jerked and hissed at the coldness of his fingers on you, he parted your lips with two of them and the slight rub of his palm close to your clit got you gasping for air.
“so wet,” he teased your entrance with slow, agonizing circles. “i bet you’ve been like this since this morning, haven’t you?” keys let the tips of two of his fingers get inside of you, and somehow that was worse than nothing.
“dont flatter yourself” you spat at him. the sudden attitude made keys push the rest of his two digits into you. “shit-“ you screamed.
he started pumping in and out of you in a steady rhythm. keys found pleasure in watching your head hang back with your mouth open and hearing tiny whimpers escape it, knowing he was the reason for them. knowing that he was making you feel good enough to bless him with your sounds. he wondered how many times it had happened before and he wasn’t there to hear them.
“go faster” you pleaded, breathless.
he sped up and started to rub your clit with his thumb, alternating between circling motions and just pressing on it, “like that?”
“yeah- fuck!” keys curled his fingers. “yes like that” you encouraged him to keep going and pulled his head back by his hair, exposing his neck where your mouth found its place, moaning against his jaw “i’m close”
the disappointment was instant.
keys took his hand away from your pussy and lifted it to his face, sucking his digits clean of your arousal. you felt empty the moment he stopped fingering you, but seeing him taste you made it worse. you felt jealous of his own mouth for having his fingers inside. “no, not yet,” he basically made fun of you.
“what the fuck!?” you hit his chest with your fists. you were still trying to catch your breath.
“you said you wanted me inside of you,” he tried to kiss you but you dodged it. “come on,” he rolled his eyes and squeezed your waist over the bra you never got totally off.
“you were inside of me,” you argued like you didn’t know exactly what he meant.
“but i want you to come on my dick,” his erection was pressing on your ass, he felt so hard that it was impossible to not be aware of it, but you had been too focused on your own high to notice it before.
it took everything in you not to look at him, knowing damn well that he probably had his puppy eyes on — a certain trait of him that you had caught on as soon as you started working together — but you did it, looking over his shoulder at the city through the window, the sun just minutes away from fully setting.
two minutes, maybe three passed and neither of you had moved. both of you were too stubborn.
until keys couldn’t take it anymore. your body tensed in anticipation the second it felt his hands travel from your waist to your pussy again. he stopped right above the wet spot on the dark fabric and searched your eyes with his own. you weren’t strong enough and stared right back, a silent agreement crossing your minds as you slightly lifted yourself off of him, so as to make way for him to grab your panties and pull them to the side.
“put it in,” he demanded, helping you up with his free hand on your ass.
your fingers sneaked under the waistband of his boxers; but not before you let them get a feel of his happy trail you were too aware of. after freeing his dick, you grabbed his length on your hand and started to jerk him off as best as you could from that angle.
keys’ hold on you hardened when your thumb rubbed his pink tip, smearing down his precum and getting him ready for you.
you decided to get back at him for his teasing by dragging his tip through your folds twice.
“fuck” he moaned.
once his dick was coated with your arousal, you lined him up with your entrance, ready to have a part of him inside of you again. slowly, you lowered yourself down, and keys let out a groan. there were still a few inches left; yet, you stopped. “shit,” you cursed at nothing. “i can't sit yet,” you told him, overwhelmed by his size.
“it’s okay,” he assured and you hugged him by the neck to try not to fall apart. without a warning, you sat down, taking the rest of him all at once. “holy fuck-” keys screamed in your ear.
“oh my god,” you said at the same time. the stretch burned you in the best way. you could feel him everywhere even if you were not moving.
you rolled your hips forward carefully, trying to get used to the feeling of all of keys inside you. for a moment all you could hear was your own heart beating and the unmistakable sound of skin moving against skin, with your face resting on the crook of his neck.
until he took your hair in a makeshift ponytail and got you out of your hiding spot with a not-so-gentle tug. “look down,” he told you. his dick was buried deep inside of you and there was no space left in between your bodies. “look how i'm filling you up,” keys pressed the heel of his hand on your lower stomach and you swore in that moment you could see stars as your vision got blurry from your watering eyes.
“it feels so good, keys” you managed to say and increased the pace. you began jumping up and down on his cock, all the pain you had felt at first had been replaced with complete ecstasy.
“just like that- you’re so good for me,” his praises made your walls clench “fuck- and so tight” he was again working on your clit, two of his fingers rubbed it relentlessly, sending a shock wave through your spine. “so much better than i imagined”
a knot was forming low on your abdomen and it was clear you weren’t going to last much longer, especially not since you had been so close before with just his fingers, “i’m gonna cum”
keys started to meet you halfway, pounding into you. “come for me, i can feel you want to- you almost came on my fingers now come on my dick” he cried your name out over and over again with each of his thrusts “fuck- fuck- fuck- let me feel how soaked your pussy gets“
the chair creaked under your bodies and if you hadn’t been so drunk on his dick you would’ve worried about breaking it. but in your head there was only keys, and when he hit that special spot inside of you that sent you over the edge, you let go.
“oh- keys,” your pussy squeezed around him as you reached your high and you fell on his chest, spent.
the warmth of your climax, and the clenching and unclenching of your walls as you came down did it for him. “i’m coming, shit- i’m coming,” keys’ broken cries echoed all over the room as he spilled inside of you, incapable of pulling out in time.
his arms wrapped around your middle as he held you close, your chests rose and fell as if you had just ran a marathon. you rested your sticky forehead on his and closed your eyes.
“same time on monday?” keys asked, still trying to catch his breath, and you laughed.
TAGLIST: @djopuppy @louisbelongstome28 @lofi-fics @whispersoflost @l-r-fernandez @brrrainst3w @goofyg00b @gatorsleftnut @amy-brooklyn99 @rubyscrux @scorpioluvrrr @adoreyou-ido @imnopsychic @calelundaa @downbad4bil @coward-kitty @chestharrington @cowboyhatsteve @drifting-daydream @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @lilsarcreactor @patrickbtman @sugarbunnyzz @simplybarnes @deffnotvaal @cursedradio @megaaaan2929 @corroded-munson @crystal1sblog @greenqway @or4nda @jesus-hotwheel-christ @tenderlyuniquepatrol @liaspersonaldiary @powerpuffedbjtch @endlessstorms @anastasiarxmanxff @slytheringirl502 @officiallytrixie @amy-brooklyn99 @ugottabedjoking @lqvelocket @brrrainst3w @jas-mines-things @notreallythatlost @letspachecx @prettykitty830 @merbear78 @cherryprincess11 @its-a-me-mario-21 @dude-where-s-my-tardis
BEST CHARACTER OF 2025 ↳ Steve Harrington
a million little times (that's the things about illicit affairs)
prologue: "born from just one single glance"
pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader
chapter summary: when you first met steve harrington, you had no interest in him, but once you get to know him, you can't help but form a bit of a crush on him, and as the years go on, that crush seems to grow into something more. the only issue? steve is four years older than you.
chapter tags/warnings: there are no romantic interactions between steve and the reader in this chapter other than her crush on him. age gap (4 years), stranger things seasons 1-5, mentions of blood and violence and death, unrequited love, underage drinking, alcohol, hospitals, lil childhood crush, references to bad relationships with parents, uhh monsters and kidnappings and basically everything that happens in the show butttt a few things change. el lives!! references to henderhop and byler (which will be canon later idgaf). steve has no romantic interest in the reader when she is a minor. that’s weird as fuck.
word count: 19.4k
series masterlist , spotify playlist
–
The first time you met Steve Harrington was in Hawkins Memorial Hospital.
It was July 1976, you were five years old, almost six, he had just turned 10. He had fallen off of his bike and broken his arm, and you were waiting for your dad to come pick you up while your mom started her shift as a nurse.
You and Steve had been sitting next to each other in the Emergency Room, his arm in a brand new cast, and you swinging your legs over the edge of your seat.
You had spoken to him, asking if his arm hurt or what happened, and Steve had told you.
Neither of you remembered that moment, but when you think about the first time you met Steve Harrington you still think about Hawkins Memorial Hospital, but for a different reason.
The night of November 12th, 1983, or maybe it was the early hours of November 13th, your friend Will Byers had finally been found after spending a week trapped in a dark, alternate dimension you and your friends had dubbed ‘The Upside Down’.
You were 13 now, the oldest of the party (beating Lucas by a whole 4 months), and Steve was 17.
After you had spent the night chased by government agents, and evil scientists and literal monsters, and after you had watched your new friend Eleven – El – die.
You and your friends had been cramped into the hospital waiting room, hoping to see Will when he woke up. Lucas and Dustin had been passed out, leaning on each other, and your head was on Dustin’s shoulder as you slept too.
Steve Harrington was also in the waiting room, sitting between a snoring Ted Wheeler and the door. His face was bloody and bruised as he stared at a blank spot on the floor ahead of him.
At this point in time, you didn’t know Steve. You knew of him, that he was a douchebag high schooler, that people called him ‘King Steve’, and that he was dating your friend Mike’s older sister, Nancy.
That night is when you think you met Steve Harrington for the first time.
You didn’t see him very often after that, maybe a few times at the Wheeler household when he was hanging out with Nancy and you were there to play D&D in the basement with your friends, sometimes you’d both be seated at the dinner table, but that was about it.
You didn’t really care about Steve then, he was just some guy – an asshole – who was dating Nancy, and nothing else.
That is, until the beginning of November, 1984. Just days after Halloween, after meeting Max Mayfield for the first time, and after Will’s episode on the field at the school.
You’ve always been closer with Dustin and Lucas than you have been to Mike and Will. In fact, out of all of them, you always considered Dustin to be your best friend.
That might be why you answered his code red that morning, while Lucas went out to try and recruit Max, the new girl, into your party. You were all for Max joining your party, you thought she was cool, and it would’ve been nice to have another girl around.
You ended up helping Dustin scrub blood out of the shag carpet in his bedroom, and helped him bury his now-dead cat after Dart, the slug-like creature Dustin had found in his trash, had turned out to be a baby Demogorgon.
Nobody else was answering the call, so you and Dustin headed to the Wheeler house to try and find Mike, or maybe even Nancy, but neither of them were home.
And when the two of you turned away from the front door to head back to your bikes, Dustin muttering obscenities under his breath, you watched a familiar BMW pull up outside the house.
Enter Steve Harrington. Again.
A bouquet of roses in one hand, running the other through his perfectly styled hair, now walking across the Wheelers’ front lawn and towards the door.
Was it fate? No, just convenient timing, but the next night your perception of Steve Harrington would entirely change for the rest of your life.
You had watched him walk down the steps to Dustin’s cellar, nail bat gripped in his hands, and your first thought was that you hadn’t realized how brave Steve Harrington actually was.
And the next day you had followed him down a set of old rail road tracks, dropping chunks of raw meat onto the ground and listening to him giving Dustin horrible advice on girls. At one point, he had even turned back and asked for your opinion, only for you to totally disagree with what he was saying, but he brushed you off like it was nothing.
Soon, once Lucas and Max had joined you in the junkyard, the five of you set up an old bus as your base of operations, and after that you were hiding inside.
Lucas and Max were up on the roof, keeping watch, Dustin was pacing angrily; he was mad about Lucas telling Max everything and letting her tag along, and you were sitting on one of the old bus seats with your arms crossed to your chest, watching Steve flick his lighter open and closed.
He was cool, you could admit that now. Sure, he still seemed like a douchebag, but after spending literally all day with him, you had come to find Steve wasn’t as bad as you had thought.
And he was kind of… cute. He had nice eyes, and a nice nose, and the moles littering his face were just the cherry on top. And not to mention his ridiculous, but somehow attractive hair that you had recently learned he styled with Farrah Fawcett’s hairspray. Plus, he was charming.
He looked up at you, catching you staring, and gave you a smile. Your eyes darted down immediately, face heating up quickly out of embarrassment of being caught.
“You good over there, kid?” He asked, calling out across the bus. You just nodded in response, avoiding his eyes.
That nickname would stick around much longer than you’d have liked.
And once Dart and the other Demo-dogs had started to arrive, and they weren’t taking the bait, Steve tossed his lighter to Dustin, telling him to “get ready,” and you watched him go outside with that nail bat, using himself as bait.
“He’s insane.” Max had stated, and you had silently agreed.
“He’s awesome.” Dustin had said with an awestruck expression, and for some reason you agreed with that too.
Dustin had clearly begun to admire Steve as a kind of role model, while in that moment, as you watched a number of Demodogs surround him swing at the monsters after you and your friends, you were beginning to admire Steve in a different way.
When he had run back to the bus, several Demo-dogs were right on his tail, and you had all screamed at him to run faster until he was eventually launching himself into the bus.
He pushed you all to the back of the bus, away from the monsters clawing at the door, and you were the one to make it to the ladder at the back of the bus, and the moment you looked up at the hole and saw a Demogorgon looking down at you, you screamed loudly.
“Out of the way! Out of the way!” Steve had yelled and Max yanked you back with her own shriek of fear, having seen the monster for the first time. Steve forced his way in front of you all, pushed you behind him, and raised the bat threateningly, ready to swing at the Demogorgon again. “You want some?! Come get this!”
And in that moment, right there in that rusty old bus, you fell in love with Steve Harrington.
He had jumped in front of you with nothing but that nail-studded baseball bat to protect you all, he had pushed you behind him like it was nothing, like it was easy.
For the rest of that night you were practically glued to his side, not close enough for him to notice, but lingering close enough that he was always nearby. Whatever room he was in, you weren’t far behind him.
From your walk to the lab, where you met up with Nancy and Jonathan, and soon after Chief Hopper, Joyce, Mike and Will, all the way to the Byers’ house, where you discovered that Will was possessed by the shadow monster he had seen and was somehow connected to the monsters, like a hive mind.
You and your friends made the connection between the shadow monster and the Mind Flayer, which Dustin then explained to the rest of the group, and soon after you, Dustin, Lucas, Max, Steve and Nancy waited inside while the others tried talking to Will in the newly disguised shed.
You sat on the couch, watching Steve as he practiced swinging his bat in the middle of the living room. You tried not to stare, really, but your newfound crush was hard to ignore. But then, awkwardly, you glanced over to Nancy.
Right, she was Steve’s girlfriend. Or… ex-girlfriend now? You weren’t sure, but all you knew was that you immediately felt guilty and you cast your eyes down to stare at your shoes instead.
When the Byers’s phone rang not once, but twice, and Nancy ripped it from the wall and threw it across the room, everything got hectic immediately.
The others came rushing back inside from the shed, weapons were distributed, and as Steve raised his nail bat, he pushed you behind him again so you were standing beside Dustin.
When the dead Demo-dog came flying through the window, shattering the glass, you all jumped back, and when El walked through the front door, relief flooded through your body immediately.
Her hair that had once been shaved was now slicked back, she was wearing dark clothes, converse and cuffed jeans, and had dark eye makeup on her face.
And when Hopper took a yelling Mike down the hallway to Will’s room after it came out that the Chief had known where she was for the entire last year and hadn’t said a thing to anyone.
But then she walked over to you, Dustin and Lucas, hugging the boys first and even touching Dustin’s teeth, which had only just grown in, before she walked over to hug you next.
“I’ve missed you so much.” You told her and she hugged you tighter.
“I missed you too.” She said before pulling back and smiling.
Max stepped forward to introduce herself, giving a polite smile and holding out her hand, but instead of greeting her back, El brushed her off and walked away, towards Joyce.
Max turned to look at you, hurt evident on her features, and you watched El walk away.
“Did I do something wrong?” Max whispered to you and you frowned.
“I don’t… No, I don’t think so.” You told her and pat her shoulder.
Then soon after Hopper and El left to close the gate, and Will was taken by the Byers’ and Nancy to try and separate him from the hive mind, which left you and the rest of your friends alone with Steve once more, which was fine until Billy showed up.
Billy Hargrove was Max’s older step-brother, and he was a total piece of shit. Steve had gone outside to try and get him to leave, and Billy had just shoved him to the ground before bursting through the door, but instead of going for Max, he went for Lucas.
You and your friends were all shouting at Billy to stop as he slammed Lucas against the wall, threatening him, telling Lucas he was “So dead.”
And that’s when Steve stepped in and punched Billy, and for a moment things were looking up. Until they weren’t and Steve ended up getting his face pummeled in by Billy, who Max knocked out a moment later with a needle of whatever Hopper had used to knock Will out earlier.
“Shit, shit, shit, what do we do?” Dustin exclaimed, looking down at the two unconscious 18-year-old boys lying in the middle of Joyce Byers’s living room.
“We have to get to the tunnels,” Mike decided immediately. “To help El.”
“What about Steve?” You spoke up, gesturing down to him and his swollen face.
“What about Steve?” Mike repeated, giving you an unbothered look.
“Well, we can’t just leave him here, Mike, look at him.” You pointed out, and the five of you stared down at his bloody face, bruises already blooming on his skin beneath the red liquid.
“She’s right.” Dustin backed you up immediately. “Besides, he just saved Lucas, we can’t just leave him here for Billy to probably murder when he wakes up. Or what if he chokes on his own blood or some shit?”
Mike groaned loudly, rolling his eyes and looking down at his older sister’s ex? boyfriend. “Fine, whatever, we can bring him.”
“Yeah, but how are we even going to get there? It’s not exactly like we can just walk to the farm.” Lucas asked and Max spun on her heels quickly, walking over to Billy and digging through the pockets of his jeans before pulling out his car keys.
“I’ll drive.” Max said, holding the keys up and dangling them from her fingers.
“What? No!” Mike scoffed. “You can’t drive!”
“I’ve driven in a parking lot before, and I can guarantee that’s more than any of you.” She pointed around at the rest of you. “Besides, Steve clearly can’t drive because he’s practically dead.”
Dustin took off running down the hallway.
“Dude, where the hell are you going?” Lucas yelled after him.
“I’m getting medical supplies!” Dustin had shouted back.
You and Dustin were stuck cleaning up Steve’s face to the best of your abilities while the others scrambled around the house, collecting items they said you needed to go into the tunnels and light the ‘hub’ on fire.
Mike made a map based on the drawings taped to the walls, you all put pairs of gloves and masks in the trunk of Billy’s Camaro before you and Dustin hauled Steve into the backseat.
The car was extremely cramped, Max taking the driver’s seat, much to Mike’s chagrin, and Lucas took the passenger seat beside her to navigate with a map of Hawkins.
You, Dustin and Mike squashed into the backseat, and Steve was pulled between you and Dustin, though he was mostly lying on your laps due to the lack of space. At the time you had been extremely thankful that the car was dark, because your face was burning just due to the minimal contact.
After that, the night faded into a blur of chaos. Steve woke up, screaming frantically about Max driving, sounding so terrified that you were surprised he didn’t jump out of his skin, while Mike snapped at her from the backseat. Dustin was doing his best to comfort Steve while Lucas shouted directions at Max over the noise, screaming at how sharply she turned the corner into the farm.
You were frozen in your seat, stiff as a board, because in his panic Steve had grabbed a hold of your arm and now your heart was beating a mile a minute.
Then came the tunnels, dark, slimy, filled with spores from the Upside Down, and monsters from the very same place. Once you had made it to the hub with little-to-no trouble and doused it in gasoline, Steve tossed in his lighter and lit the place up.
You all raced back to the exit while Demo-dogs chased you all down the tunnels. Steve had lifted Max, Lucas and Mike up and out of the hole before the monsters came bounding around the corner, heading right towards you.
Steve’s arms wrapped around you and Dustin instinctively, and you had squeezed your eyes shut out of fear for your life.
The Demo-dogs just ran right by the three of you, and once they were gone, you all let out relieved breaths.
“You okay, Henderson?” Steve asked, patting Dustin on the shoulder and he nodded. Then he looked at you. “You good?”
Steve hoisted Dustin up first, and Mike and Lucas pulled him up and out of the hole. Then Steve turned to face you.
“Alright, your turn, kid.” He had said, and all you could do was nod before Steve was grabbing your hips to help lift you out of the hole, and butterflies had swarmed in your stomach.
You felt ridiculous. All this for some stupid crush on Steve Harrington? You had to be out of your mind.
Surely it must’ve just been because of the situation over the last few days, and once everything went back to normal, you’d see Steve less and this crush would fade, right?
Wrong.
Suddenly, Steve was everywhere. Since his breakup with Nancy (which you had confirmed a couple weeks later when Will mentioned something about her and Jonathan definitely being together) Steve clearly had a lot of time on his hands, because now he was always hanging out with Dustin.
And because Dustin was your best friend, that meant you saw Steve a lot more than you would’ve liked. And that crush didn’t fade, not even a tiny bit.
By the time December of 1984 rolled around, Hawkins Middle School’s annual winter dance, the Snow Ball, was here.
You had been excited for the dance for weeks, it was an excuse to go out and dress up with your friends for a night, and maybe you hoped a boy would ask you to dance.
You had seen Lucas and Max grow closer, and Mike and El seemed to have something going on, and you wanted something like that too. And, besides, a boy your age asking you to dance might’ve helped you get rid of this stupid crush on him.
But it turned out that the boys at the dance weren’t the people you should’ve been worried about, because not even five minutes after you had arrived, feeling good about yourself and excited to see your friends, Stacey Albright cornered you.
–
Steve watched Dustin walk into the gym with an unfamiliar sense of pride; the smile that sneaks its way onto his face shows as much. He watched Dustin talking with Mr. Clarke, like a proud big brother, before his eyes betrayed him, his gaze slipping past Dustin and landing on Nancy.
Nancy, his now ex-girlfriend, was inside the gym, volunteering at the middle school dance because that’s the kind of person she was.
Steve’s eyes softened, but the smile he had had already disappeared from his face. He only stared for a moment, just a couple of seconds, before he forced himself to start the car and drive away so he could spend the next couple of hours alone before he had to come back and pick Dustin up.
But Steve only drove a few feet away before he stopped again, because as he turned to drive around the side of the gym, he spotted you.
You were sitting on the curb in your dress, knees brought up to your chest, and from where Steve was it looked like you were crying. Steve’s brows scrunched at the sight, why aren’t you inside with the others?
Steve parked not too far away before exiting his car, brushing his hands on the front of his red sweater, before he approached you.
Your eyes were glued to the ground in front of you, your shoulders shaking as your body was wracked with sobs, your chin buried in your arms that sat atop your knees. The sight made Steve frown.
“Hey, kid.” Steve spoke up and you jumped, your head snapping up so quickly Steve thought you were going to get whiplash. “Sorry– didn’t mean to scare you. What are you doing out here?”
You shrug half-heartedly, looking away from Steve and down at the ground, sniffling as you brought a hand up to your face, rubbing your eyes.
“I’m fine.” You told him and Steve let out a snort.
“Yeah, I’m not buying it.” He dropped down onto the curb to sit beside you, and your eyes went wide as you watched him do so. “What’s going on?”
“It’s dumb.” You muttered, still avoiding his eyes.
“It can’t be that dumb if it’s got you out here crying instead of being inside and having fun with your friends.” Steve pointed out and you sighed, still not looking at him. “Come on, kid, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Just… some girls.” You mumble, and Steve’s frown etched itself deeper into his face. “They were saying stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
You didn’t reply, instead you crossed your arms across your chest and curled further into yourself.
“Sometimes I just wish I was normal.” You said, and Steve paused.
“You are normal.” Steve said and you scoffed.
“No, I’m not.” You stated. “I’m a weird nerd and I’m ugly, and my dress looks ugly and no boys are gonna dance with me, I shouldn’t have even come to this stupid dance.”
For a moment, Steve didn’t know what to say. He knew how to talk to the boys, because he used to be a 13-year-old boy, but you? That was some new territory for him. But he found the words soon enough.
“Don’t listen to those other girls, they’re just jealous.” Steve stated. You immediately opened your mouth to protest, but Steve cut you off. “You’re way cooler than those other girls. You’ve fought interdimensional monsters.”
“You did most of the fighting.” You mumbled, but Steve waved you off.
“That’s besides the point.” He said. “If those other girls are being mean to you, they’re just lame.”
“This dress is lame.” You muttered back, flicking at your skirt.
“No, it’s not. You look pretty.” Steve complimented and you finally looked over at him.
“You really think so?” Your voice was quiet, but your eyes were wide and locked onto Steve as your tear-stained cheeks flushed.
“Very pretty.” He told you with a nod. “Too pretty to be sitting out here and crying while all of your friends are inside and probably wondering where you are.”
“But what if nobody wants to dance with me?” You asked Steve, tears still brimming in the corners of your eyes. “That’s what Stacey said would happen.”
“Well Stacey sounds like a bitch.” Steve stated bluntly, causing a giggle to escape your lips. “And if no boys want to dance with you, it’s because middle school boys are dumb.”
“I can’t wait to go to high school.” You said, and Steve chuckled.
“Yeah, well, high school boys are pretty dumb, too.” He said with an exhale, gesturing to himself. “But trust me, kid, one day you’re gonna find some guy who loves you for all those things you don’t like about yourself, and those girls are probably never gonna find something like that.”
“What makes you so sure?” You asked Steve, more curious than anything, but still soaking in every word.
Steve just shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”
You stared at him for a moment. You had stopped crying by now, and Steve took that as a small victory as you gave him a small smile.
“Thanks, Steve.” You sighed and Steve stood up, offering you his hand.
“Come on, let’s get you inside to your friends.” Steve said and you took his hand and let him lift you to your feet. You brushed off your skirt, frowning as you wiped your cheeks, and you nodded.
But you didn’t even make it around the corner before you froze at the sound of Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time flooding out from the gym.
You spun around to face Steve again.
“I can’t do it. Nobody’s gonna dance with me.” You stated. “I don’t even know how to dance.”
“It’s easy.” Steve shrugged, then he offered you his hand again. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Steve, you don’t have to.” You told him, eyes full of panic, but he brushed it off.
“I need practice before prom anyway, if anything you’re doing me a favor.” He said, making you chuckle. “Here, put your hands on my shoulders.”
That night Steve Harrington became the first boy you had ever danced with, in the dark Hawkins Middle School parking lot in the middle of a cold December night.
That night you also knew you were completely screwed, and no boy your age would ever stand a chance, because you were absolutely head-over-heels obsessed with Steve Harrington.
–
The new year came quickly after that, and with 1985 came a brand new mall in Hawkins called Starcourt Mall, and after you and your friends officially finished middle school you were all spending almost every day of the summer there.
Well, all except Dustin, who went off to summer camp in the beginning of June. But the rest of you were spending your days outside riding your bikes or going swimming in the day before heading to the mall in the evenings.
And your favorite part of each trip to Starcourt, by far, was when you’d visit the little ice cream shop, Scoops Ahoy. Sometimes it was just for a snack, and sometimes it was to sneak into the movie theater for free.
The reason didn’t matter to you, because you were just happy to see Steve. He had gotten a job at Scoops Ahoy for the summer, which meant every time you went there, he was standing behind the counter in a cheesy sailor’s costume that he somehow still looked good in, hat and all. You were sure your face had flushed with heat the first time you had noticed his chest hair peeking out from beneath the shirt of his uniform.
There’s only one thing you didn’t like about seeing Steve at Scoops Ahoy, and that’s when he flirted with almost every girl his age who crossed the counter. He didn’t score a single date, not in that uniform, but it still hurt.
It made you wish that you were just a few years older. It made you think, if I was his age maybe he’d actually return your feelings.
And the thing was, Steve didn’t have a clue.
He greeted you casually, smiling at you or rolling his eyes like he did with all of your friends. A part of you was upset, but another part of you knew it was for the better.
Steve had just turned 19 that June, and you were turning 15 in September. He had graduated high school, and you were only just about to start when the summer was over.
Realistically, you knew it wouldn’t work, and you knew it would be just weird if Steve actually liked you back at that point, but it still felt like a curse.
–
The night before Dustin came home from Camp Knowhere, you and your friends wanted to go see Day of the Dead, which meant you had to sneak in. And sneaking in meant seeing Steve.
It’s not that you purposefully dressed up just because you’d be seeing Steve for what was probably one minute at most, but you might’ve been dressed just a little bit nicer than usual for a trip to the movies with your friends.
Of course, you, Lucas, Max and Will all ended up waiting outside the mall for Mike to arrive from his usual daily visit to El at Hopper’s cabin, which meant your friends had plenty of time to analyse your outfit–specifically Max.
“Why are you dressed up?” She asked you suddenly, cutting off Lucas and Will’s complaining about Mike’s tardiness, and you scoffed.
“I’m not, these are my regular clothes.” You weren’t exactly lying, but you weren’t telling the whole truth either.
Max’s eyes narrowed at you, but Lucas shrugged from beside her. “I think she’s dressed normally.”
“Thank you.” You said to Lucas, but Max just raised an eyebrow.
“Right.” She nodded slowly, and a moment later Mike arrived.
“You’re late.” Lucas had stated with crossed arms as Mike jumped off off his bike.
“Sorry!” Mike replied, but he didn’t seem to mean it.
“Again.” Lucas emphasised.
“We’re gonna miss the opening.” Will added.
“Yeah, if you guys keep whining about it.” Mike said as he put his bike in the bike rack. “Let’s go!”
“‘If you guys keep whining about it. Nyeh-nyeh-nyeh.’” Lucas imitated Mike and you had snickered.
Then as you walked through the mall, Lucas complained about and mocked Mike for spending so much time with El and not the rest of you. It made you and Will laugh.
As you and your friends pushed your way down the escalator and towards the food court, bumping into a bunch of people as you went, your stomach began to flip with excitement.
You all made it to Scoops Ahoy and Steve was nowhere to be seen, instead his co-worker Robin was behind the counter. You thought Robin seemed cool, from what you had seen she was funny, sometimes a little blunt, but you liked her. You just hoped Steve didn’t.
Mike smacked his hand down on the bell on the counter several times, despite the fact that Robin was right there. She sighed and called out, “Hey, dingus, your children are here!”
And then the window on the back wall slid open and there was Steve in his sailor uniform with a scowl on his face as he looked over your group.
“Again? Seriously?” He asked, but instead Mike just rang the bell once more. He groaned, but ushered you all over.
He held the door to the back room open for you all, Mike and Will entering first, then Lucas and Max, and you were pulling up the rear. You smiled up at him as you passed him.
“Hi, Steve.” You greeted quietly and he sighed, but put on a smile.
“Hey, kid.” He said, letting the back door swing shut before he headed to the front of the group to open the door to the delivery tunnel out the back. He peered out through the peephole to make sure nobody was around before ushering you all out the door and into the hallway. “Come on. Come on.”
While your friends all pushed in and walked ahead, you gave Steve an appreciative smile. He didn’t pay any mind, instead just looked pretty stressed out as he called out after you all.
“I swear, if anyone finds out about this–” He would say the same thing almost every time, because he was worried about losing his job, but he knew your friends wouldn’t give up until he let them through.
“We’re dead!” You all chorused and you waved to Steve before following your friends down the hallway.
Steve closed the door with a heavy sigh and walked through the Scoops Ahoy back room before he made it behind the counter again, only to find his co-worker Robin already staring at him with an amused smile.
“Oh, what now?” He groaned and she chuckled.
“That little girl has a crush on you.” Robin stated and Steve stopped in his tracks, his blue Adidas sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor.
“What? Who, Max?” He asked, confused. “I’m pretty sure she’s actually with Lucas again right now, so you’re definitely wrong.”
“Is Max the redhead?” Robin asked and when Steve nodded she sighed. “Well, I’m not talking about her, I’m talking about the other girl.”
Steve said your name, and now looked even more puzzled, his brows drawing inwards as he looked at Robin. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Uh, yes, she totally does, dingus.” Robin chuckled, shaking her head. “God, you really are oblivious.”
“Um, no, those kids all see me as, like, I don’t know… A babysitter, older brother type, you know? I’m their friend.” Steve explained, like Robin was maybe just missing something. She was completely unaware of the trauma bond that had formed between the group over the last two falls. “She doesn’t have a crush on me, okay? She probably just thinks I’m cool.”
But, of course, Steve was wrong and Robin was absolutely right, because you did have a crush on Steve, which is what Max had been making fun of you for quietly as you walked through the delivery tunnels.
“You totally have a crush on Steve!” She had whisper-shouted to you at the back of the group with a giggle and your cheeks flushed with warmth.
“No, I don’t.” You lied. “Shut up.”
“That’s why you got all dressed up!” She realized and you shot her a glare.
“Shut up, Max, before the others hear you.” You hissed and she snickered.
“I knew it.”
When you had successfully made it into the theatre, you had split off to the few empty seats in the room. Max and Lucas ended up in the row in front of you, Mike and Will
The movie had been fine, except for the fact the power had cut out completely only a few minutes in. But it wasn’t just in the cinema, it wasn’t even just Starcourt Mall, it was the entire town of Hawkins.
When the power came back and the movie continued to play, the entire theater cheered before falling back to a regular silence and the rest of the night went on just fine. Completely normal, unlike the rest of the week would turn out to be.
–
The next day you and your friends surprise Dustin at his house once he returns from camp, and Lucas ended up with hairspray in his eyes.
Finding out that Dustin had somehow scored a girlfriend he deemed ‘hotter than Phoebe Cates’ in his three-week-long science camp was a shock to not only you, but the rest of your friends too.
But that wasn’t as much of a shock as what you and Dustin heard on his super radio, which he had named Cerebro in a true X-Men fan fashion.
You had all spent the entire afternoon lugging Dustin’s radio equipment up the tallest hill in Hawkins, one your friends called Weathertop, because he wanted to introduce you all to his girlfriend, Suzie.
But as the day turned into night and Suzie was nowhere to be heard, your friends had slipped away one-by-one. First Mike and El, who had ditched you before even making it up the hill, then Lucas and Max who left once nightfall had hit. Will stayed the longest, but once it started to get too late he left too, suggesting you all play Dungeons and Dragons the next day.
You stuck around, mostly because you had noticed the way Dustin had seemed to deflate as each of your friends left, and you wanted to know if his girlfriend was real or not.
“Guess it’s just you and me, huh?” Dustin had said and you just nodded at him in the dark as he repeated the prase, “Suzie, do you copy?”
By the end of the night you still hadn’t heard from Suzie, but you and Dustin had somehow intercepted what sounded like a secret Russian communication. Which led you to Scoops Ahoy the next day.
Dustin, of course, had wanted to see Steve and complain about how everyone else had ditched him the night before, but he also wanted to recruit him because overnight he had somehow gotten the idea that if you were to translate the Russian phrases he had recorded off the radio, you’d all become ‘American Heroes’.
The thing is, though, Dustin wanted to tell Steve all of this alone, which meant while they were talking in a booth in the back corner, you were leaning against the front corner, shooting them glances.
Robin was behind the counter, serving customers and wiping down benches, while also watching you. And after calling out to Dustin, making fun of Steve, she turned to you.
“So…” She said your name and you looked up. “That’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” You replied and she nodded.
“Cool. So, uh, how long have you had a crush on Harrington over there?” She asked and your cheeks immediately flushed with warmth. Your fingers pinched at the chain of the necklace hanging from your neck, fiddling with the charm.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You lied. 13-year-olds aren’t the best at lying, and Robin very clearly saw right through you. “He’s, you know, old. And dumb. And hairy.”
Robin snickered and you looked down at your shoes. “Right.”
“I would never like him, okay?” You defended weakly.
“Like who?” Steve’s voice came from behind you and you froze, eyes going wide.
“Nobody.” You muttered and he raised his eyebrows. Dustin’s eyes locked onto yours and he stared you down like he was trying to read your mind. “Seriously, nobody.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever, kid.” Steve teased and Robin glanced at you with amusement evident on her features. Then he nodded for you to follow him and Dustin to the backroom of Scoops Ahoy.
That’s where you spent the rest of the day, translating Russian phrases that seemed to be utter nonsense. Not a single word seemed to correlate with one another, and yet you had ended up translating a few sentences anyway.
Then, as you left Scoops Ahoy that night, you had all debated whether or not ‘The week is long, the silver cat feeds when blue meets yellow in the west,’ was a secret code of some kind.
And then Steve worked out that the music in the background of the recording, something the rest of you had chosen to ignore, was in fact coming from a mechanical horse from inside of Starcourt Mall.
Then Robin left on her bike, while Steve waited in his car, watching to make sure you and Dustin were alright riding your bikes home.
When you were gone, riding your bikes side by side, Dustin spoke up. He offered for you to stay the night at his. He knew you didn’t want to go home, not to your parents who fight every night. You took him up on the offer.
The next day, you and Robin sat around at Scoops Ahoy trying to crack the entire code you had finished translating while Steve and Dustin searched the mall for any signs of ‘secret Russians’.
You sat cross legged on a countertop in the back room, the straw of a milkshake between your lips while Robin mumbled the same words over and over, staring down at a notepad.
Robin cracked the code that same day, and that night was the night you found the secret room in the back of the mall, guarded by what your group had now confirmed to be ‘Evil Russians’.
But, of course, finding the room wasn’t enough and then you needed to find a way in, and after Robin bought blueprints to the mall and roped Erica Sinclair into the mix, you made it into the secret room the next night.
Upon opening a box that was labelled for the mall’s Chinese restaurant, you all found something that absolutely wasn’t Chinese food. Once Steve had pulled out a glass cylinder of some kind of mysterious, green liquid, the secret room had began to move.
That was when you found out the room was an elevator.
The next couple of days were a blur. You were all stuck in that elevator overnight, you had to spend the night listening to Steve and Robin talking the entire time while your chest burned with jealousy.
But the rest of your time in that dark, underground base was worse. So much worse.
You had spent almost all day walking down a painfully long hallway, arguing about the design of the base, who was and wasn’t a nerd, and whatever the hell that mysterious, green and acidic liquid was. There was even one small moment where you, Dustin and Steve had all shared looks and debated quietly whether or not the Russians knew about the Upside Down.
Then you made it to the main part of the bunker which was crawling with soldiers and scientists. You made it up to the comms room and watched Steve fight and successfully knock out one of the Russian soldiers.
While Dustin celebrated and Steve smiled proudly, pushing some of his floppy hair away from his face, you had struggled to tear your eyes away from him. That was, until Robin found something at the top of a set of stairs.
It was a giant machine, and that machine was opening a gate. A gate to the Upside Down.
You couldn’t even explain anything to Robin or Erica because a moment later the five of you were sprinting down hallways and running around corners while Russian soldiers chased you until Steve and Robin had yelled for the three of you to leave them behind and escape into the vents.
You, of course, had been extremely hesitant. You didn’t want to leave them, and neither did Dustin, but they were busy trying to hold a door shut and get the rest of you out of there to follow you.
Erica went in first, then you had forced yourself to follow her before Dustin joined you in the vents and you crawled away having to listen to the sound of yelling in Russian behind you, because Steve and Robin had been caught.
Your time in the vents might’ve been worse than the elevator or the hallway, because now you were terrified. You had no idea if Steve and Robin were okay, or even alive. You had no idea where you were or how to get out of the bunker.
While Dustin explained everything to Erica, about when Will went missing and the Upside Down, and the two had an entire long conversation about My Little Pony, you were silent, only chiming in a few times to add to Dustin’s story. Erica had believed it all, except for the fact that Lucas was there, which was apparently hard for her to believe.
Once you had made it out of the vents and found Steve and Robin, they weren’t in the best condition at all.
You had gasped upon running into the room to find his face beaten black and blue, blood coated his face and his uniform and his eye was swollen shut. Robin looked better, shaken but unharmed for the most part.
Dustin had taken out the doctor in the room and the three of you had hurried to untie the older teens. The only issue was that Steve and Robin weren’t acting right.
They were giggling, a little hyperactive, whispering to one another, laughing hysterically at things that weren’t even funny, and just acting nothing like themselves.
You were the one to come to the conclusion that they were drugged once you were all back in the elevator, this time heading up. You had just watched Steve tumble to the ground after pretending he was surfing on some kind of delivery cart.
Dustin had checked and found his pupils were dilated and his eyes were a bright red. Though neither of them would give any of you a straight answer.
After getting out of the elevator, you had made it maybe ten feet away from the doors before two Russian guards were running towards you.
“Shit!” You and Dustin had yelled and shared a look before ushering Steve and Robin towards a door by your side.
“Why are we running?” Steve questioned and you had grabbed onto his arm to pull him into the delivery tunnels you would use to sneak into the cinema, and despite everything going on your stomach had fluttered at the contact.
Hiding in the cinema was easy. There was a late night showing of Back to the Future playing and you had forced Steve and Robin down into front row seats. You, Dustin and Erica had found more seats, but a moment later you and Dustin had headed up to the projection room with his walkie to try and get into contact with any of the others.
Luckily, you had managed to get into contact with Mike.
Unluckily, you had barely been able to tell him anything before the audio cut out and Dustin’s walkie ran out of battery.
He turned to face you with a desperate expression.
“Do you have yours?” He asked and you shook your head before pausing. “What about more batteries?”
“Wait–” You had realized and your face lit up as you met Dustin’s eyes. “I think my walkie is still in the backroom at Scoops.”
“Does it have battery?” He questioned you.
“I mean, it should do. It hasn’t been used in like a day.” You pointed out and Dustin shrugged. “Do you think we’d be able to get down to Scoops without getting caught?”
“Do you know the way through the tunnels?” He asked and you nodded.
“You have no idea how many movies Steve has sneaked us into, dude. Yeah, I know the way.” You stated before you both jumped up and hurried back down to the front row to find Erica.
The only issue was that now Steve and Robin weren’t in their seats.
After some searching, you had found them in the women’s bathroom, sitting on the dirty floor of the same stall, facing each other and laughing.
While Dustin scolded the pair for running off, you were trying your best to push down that disgusting feeling of jealously that swirled in your stomach.
The rest of the night was a mix of running from both Russian soldiers and a giant flesh-like version of the Mind Flayer, arguing with the rest of the group once you had all reconvened and shared what you had each discovered.
There was blood, you had to hold El’s hand tight while Jonathan had sliced her leg open looking for something that had been moving inside it. There had been singing, when Dustin had somehow come into contact with his girlfriend Suzie and you and Erica just had to sit on the grass beside him and watch. There had been fire, after the others had used fireworks to attack the Mind Flayer they had unintentionally set the entire mall on fire.
And there had been tears, because when they were down in that Russian bunker to close the gate that had been opened, Hopper had died. And Max’s step-brother Billy had been killed by the Mind Flayer right in front of her.
But, for the most part, everyone was okay. Some bloodier than others, some suffering a little more trauma than before, but okay.
Once he had gotten his keys back, some American soldiers had recovered them from the Russian base, Steve had driven you, Dustin and Robin back to his place.
The Harrington house was large, and empty. Steve had made some excuse saying it was to make sure the drugs wouldn’t kill him and Robin in their sleep, saying something else about how he had accidentally given the Russians Dustin’s full name, but you had a feeling he just didn’t want to be alone, not after everything that had happened.
The four of you had crashed in his living room, Steve covering the sofas and large wooden floor in a collection of pillows and blankets before you all practically passed out, sleeping in until late the next afternoon.
–
El and the Byers’ moved three months later, not long after you all started high school. Saying goodbye to your friends before they moved to California wasn’t easy for any of you, especially not for Mike, but you all pushed through.
High school was different. You, Dustin, Lucas and Mike had a rough start, but soon you joined a D&D club called the Hellfire Club, led by a senior named Eddie Munson.
Eddie was great, despite being older than most seniors due to being held back for several years. He was cool, he was funny, he had a band and he loved D&D.
Steve, unlike the rest of you, didn’t like Eddie very much. He would make vague comments here and there whenever Dustin mentioned him in passing, or when Mike talked about Hellfire, or when Lucas told him a story while the two practiced basketball.
High school was very different from middle school. While, at first, you and your friends had fallen into your usual places at the bottom of the food chain, that didn’t last long for some of you.
Lucas had made it onto the basketball team, though he had been riding the bench all year, which had already given him a bit of a boost when it came to terms of friends.
Mike and Dustin didn’t seem to care about popularity, rather embracing the fact that you were all nerds and geeks thanks to Eddie’s ‘guidance’.
Max still sat with you guys sometimes, hung out occasionally, but she had started to isolate herself from everyone. She had been struggling mentally, mostly due to her step-brother’s death, something she only ever told the school therapist and, well, you.
You weren’t quite sure what had happened to you in high school, or what had happened to your peers, because the bullying from other girls had diminished, and now they actually talked to you in the hallways, or sat with you in class, or paired up with you for projects.
It was different, but it was nice.
Though, sure, there were still times where they’d judge your friends, or some of your interests, like D&D, but you’d much prefer they make fun of the fantasy game you played with your friends than make fun of you.
Your first year of high school started off fine, great even, up until Spring break.
That’s when shit really hit the fan.
The last day of school before break was the last day of the Hellfire Club’s D&D campaign against the cult of Vecna, but it had coincided with Lucas’s basketball game. You had wanted to go and watch, but Eddie was already pissed enough that Lucas would be missing Hellfire, and you didn’t want to get on his bad side.
So you instead recruited Erica to be his substitute for the night, though you felt bad for missing your friend’s game, especially when you found out he not only actually had a chance to play, but had scored the team’s winning shot.
But the break itself was worse.
Mike had gone to California to visit El and Will, while you, Dustin and Max spent the first day of your break finding out that a Hawkins High student, Chrissy Cunningham, was found murdered at the trailer park Max lived in – specifically in Eddie’s trailer.
But Eddie himself was nowhere to be found, Max had seen him fleeing the scene in fear the night before, speeding out of the trailer park faster than she had ever seen him drive before.
So, of course, you, Dustin and Max had ended up in Family Video, where Steve and Robin had been working since about October, since the Byers’ had left town.
Your group debated on whether or not Eddie was capable of murder, Steve being the only person to really think he was, while proceeding to use the three phones inside the video store to call Eddie’s friends in an attempt to track him down.
You were helping your friends, of course you were, but you couldn’t help but sneak longing stares over at Steve as he ‘attended to the customers’, and flirted with any girl his age that walked through those glass doors.
But you pushed down those feelings of jealousy and disappointment you had grown familiar with and did your best to focus on the task at hand.
Still your eyes would betray you and flick towards Steve every so often, taking him in. The way his green vest stretched over his shoulders, the chest hair sticking out from the open top buttons of his polo shirt.
You’d watch him drag his hands through his hair in some kind of pathetic attempt to impress a girl who turned out to have a boyfriend and mourned the fact that you’d never be able to have him.
Eventually your friends managed to track Eddie down to the house of a drug dealer named ‘Reefer Rick’, and once you found him there, wide-eyed, shaking and terrified, Eddie told you all about what had happened with Chrissy.
How she seemed to be in a trance, how she floated into the air with her eyes rolled into the back of her head. How each of her limbs snapped and broke violently before her eyes popped from her skull and her body crumpled to the ground right in front of Eddie.
You, Dustin and Eddie then noticed the similarities between Chrissy’s trance and being under a spell or a curse. Specifically, Vecna’s curse. The same dark wizard you had just finished fighting in your Hellfire campaign.
You and your friends spent the next days doing your best to keep Eddie hidden from the police, bringing him food deliveries when you could, while also doing whatever research you could to find out what, or who, Vecna was, and why he was going after Hawkins High students.
After the second murder, a boy from the school paper named Fred, Nancy Wheeler joined your small group and you had to pretend you weren’t jealous whenever Steve looked her way, his eyes softening. When he practically jumped at the opportunity to go with her to follow a potential lead, only to end up pissed off when Robin went with her and he was stuck ‘babysitting’ you, Dustin and Max.
But then you found out Vecna was going after Max next, and suddenly everything was scarier. When you watched her float into the air just moments after Lucas had slipped her headphones over her ears, you thought she was going to die.
You had grabbed onto Steve’s arm out of fear, staring up at your friend as you all screamed her name, begging for her to come back down to the ground and out of that trance she was stuck in.
And she did, Max fell to the ground with the rest of you and Lucas cradled her shaking body in his arms, holding her close to his chest as she struggled to catch her breath.
After Nancy and Robin found out that Victor Creel’s family might’ve also been killed by Vecna, and Max had seen an old, broken house when she was in Vecna’s mind, your group went to the old abandoned Creel home to search for clues.
After Max found an old grandfather clock identical to the one she had seen in her visions, and Steve had suggested that Vecna could’ve been a clockmaker, you all split off into groups to explore. Robin and Nancy went together, Max and Lucas, which left you with Dustin and Steve.
Steve didn’t seem too thrilled, letting out a loud sigh and complaining about always being grouped with Dustin.
It made you frown, disappointment flooding your body. First you had been watching him make eyes and flirt with Nancy for the last couple of days, and now he was acting like being grouped with you and Dustin was a chore.
You were quiet as the two boys argued, Dustin quoting Sherlock Holmes and Steve not understanding a word before Dustin wandered off, and you followed behind.
Nobody really found anything in the house, but at one point while crossing the upstairs hallway you caught a glimpse of Steve and Nancy standing a little too close together while she smiled up at him. That was enough to dampen your mood for the rest of the night.
You knew it shouldn’t have mattered, there were more pressing issues going on at the time – like the fact Max had almost died and Eddie was being framed for murder – but you just couldn’t shake the jealous feeling away.
That night, after your flashlights had all blown up, you spent the night staring at the ceiling and replaying the way Steve had looked at Nancy over and over again.
It had just made you feel ridiculous. You needed to move on, find someone your own age, someone who could actually return your feelings and give you that love you craved so much. So you decided that you would, that tonight was the last night you would care about Steve Harrington and after that he would go back to being nothing more than a friend.
And then you saw him the next day, wearing that yellow sweater with a wide smile on his face, offering you Pringles in the back of Nancy’s station wagon, and you tried so hard to ignore the way your stomach fluttered when his big, brown puppy dog eyes met yours.
The fact that Vecna had killed another teenager – a boy from the basketball team named Patrick – the night before helped keep you distracted, but when you and your friends were walking through the woods in search of Eddie, following Steve and Dustin as they argued while leading you all to ‘Skull Rock’, you were left alone with your thoughts.
Of course, it wasn’t that long before Steve had found Skull Rock and began rubbing it in Dustin’s face that he was right and your best friend was wrong and you had found Eddie.
While Eddie ate the food you had all brought for him and he recounted the previous night’s events, including when Patrick was lifted into the air in the middle of Lover’s Lake and had each of his limbs snapped one by one, Dustin paced back and forth while staring down at his compass.
That was, until he yelled out a very loud, “Boom!” That echoed through the woods before he pointed at Steve. “Bada boom.”
Steve, naturally, was confused, as were the rest of you, before Dustin began spouting off about how Skull Rock was North once more, which made Steve roll his eyes before he started to argue back.
Then Dustin told you all that Skull Rock in fact was North, and his compass had been leading him in the wrong direction, which then made him point towards you and Lucas, making you recall a piece of information you had learned back when you were 13 and had just learned about El and the lab for the first time.
“Do you guys remember what can affect a compass?” Dustin had asked, and it was like a lightbulb had gone off in your head.
“An electromagnetic field.” You and Lucas both answered, like the memory of that information had just resurfaced for the first time in years.
While the others in the group were confused, you were starting to understand what Dustin was getting at. There was likely a gate somewhere nearby, much like when your compasses had deflected towards the lab back in 1983.
The rest of the afternoon was spent following Dustin and his compass through the woods as the sun set and darkness fell over Hawkins, and eventually his compass had started going totally beserk and he started running.
Eddie managed to grab him by the shoulder and stop Dustin from falling right into Lover’s Lake, which was where the compass had led him, which meant the gate was likely somewhere… inside of it.
The older teens all ended up on a rowboat with Dustin’s compass, leaving you, Dustin, Lucas and Max on the shore, watching them with a pair of binoculars.
“Wait, wait, wait. They’re stopping.” Lucas said suddenly, holding the binoculars to his eyes while hitting Dustin in the chest. “What are they stopping for?”
Dustin scrambled for his walkie. “Guys, what’s going on? Come on, guys, talk to me, what’s going on?”
You and Max had been standing off to the side, a little further back, whispering to each other, but your attention had been stolen once the boys had started to speak.
“Uh, Dustin, your compass has gone from wonky to wonky with a capital, ‘ahh!’” Robin’s voice crackled through and you had sighed, disappointed that you were all sidelined and forced to stay on the shore.
A few more silent moments passed before Lucas let out a disgusted groan.
“Ugh. When’d Steve get so hairy?” He asked and Max’s head snapped towards you with a wide smirk on her face, making your cheeks heat up as you whispered for her to stop.
“Right? I keep telling him he needs to tame that jungle, but he claims the ladies dig it.” Dustin explained and the boys each made a face before you stepped forward and reached for the binoculars around Lucas’s neck.
“Pass me those.” You said and he shot you a confused look before you took them right from his hands and peered through them yourself, getting a look at a very shirtless Steve Harrington in all his glory.
Lucas and Dustin shared confused looks for a moment before Dustin made a sound that was half a scoff, half a surprised yelp before asking, “Dude! What the hell?”
You just gave a shrug and watched as Steve dove into the lake, disappearing beneath the cold, dark water, and you handed the binoculars back to Lucas.
However, you and your friends didn’t get to see the outcome of the dive, because only a few moments after Steve dove in, you and your friends were lying on the ground and hiding behind a log because the cops had arrived.
Robin’s voice crackled through on Dustin’s walkie, saying Steve found the gate, but none of you paid any mind as he switched the walkie off and you stayed hidden for a moment more. And in order to keep the cops away from Eddie, Max jumped up and yelled for the cops to follow her.
Of course, you all got caught, and an hour later the four of you were cramped onto the couch in the Wheelers’ living room, surrounded by cops and your parents.
You had shrunk into the sofa at the sight of both your mother and father in the same room, but this time their anger was directed at you and not each other.
After some questioning, where you all lied in response to almost every question, you explained everything that had been going on to Erica, and she was the one who noticed the blinking light in the dining room, morse code that Dustin translated spelling out S.O.S..
Communicating with Steve, Nancy, Robin and Eddie in the Upside Down using Holly Wheeler’s lite-brite seemed crazy, but what was crazier was sneaking out of Nancy Wheeler’s bedroom window and running away from the cops, Erica popping the tires of the police cruiser before the now five of you rode your bikes across town to Eddie’s trailer.
There was a gate on the ceiling, and Dustin used a broom to break open the red, fleshy gateway to reveal the Upside Down on the other side. A moment later, Steve appeared above you, standing in the same place you were, looking up – or down – at the rest of you. Nancy, Robin and Eddie followed suit and you all waved happily, chuckling at the absurdity of the situation, before you were dragging Eddie’s mattress out of his bedroom to use as a landing pad to help the others through the gate and back to your world.
Except that proved difficult when after Robin and Eddie had crossed over, Nancy ended up in a trance much like Max and the rest of you searched Eddie’s trailer for any music that could help her while Steve stayed with her in the Upside Down, cupping her face and shouting for you all to hurry.
But Nancy got out of the trance on her own, and once she explained to you all what had happened, what she had seen, what Vecna – or Henry Creel, Number One – had shown her, to say you were terrified would be an understatement.
The end of the world. Hawkins on fire, everyone dying. Four gates opening up and spreading across Hawkins, splitting the Earth open.
Hearing that was enough to stop you from thinking about how Steve was sitting just a couple of feet away from you, completely shirtless except for Eddie’s denim vest he had started wearing at some point in the Upside Down.
So your group started coming up with a plan, Vecna wanted to kill four people, so Max would offer herself up as bait. Then, you’d strike.
Naturally, Eddie suggested getting weapons and gear from an army surplus store known as ‘The War Zone’, but it was too far for you to bike there. So Eddie hotwired his neighbors’ motor home and had Steve drive the damn thing there.
Halfway there, you had been sitting at a table in the back with Dustin, but your eyes kept drifting over to Steve driving the RV, and Nancy in the passenger seat talking to him with a soft smile. And Steve would turn and look at her with an expression you could only describe as pure longing, maybe even love.
And he told her a story about his dream for the future, about driving around in a Winnebago with five or six kids of his own, and then he looked at Nancy again. Suddenly you wanted to sink into the floor and never come back.
At the War Zone, you had to stay in the RV with Eddie, Dustin and Lucas as members of the Hellfire Club who were currently being hunted like the Salem Witch Trials, and obviously one of you had been framed for several murders in town. All of Hawkins believed you to be devil worshippers of some kind.
After your friends bought half of the store and then had a brief run in with Jason, Chrissy’s boyfriend, and the other members of the basketball team who were currently hunting you all down – especially Eddie – Steve, now dressed in a leather jacket and a camo shirt, pulled the RV off onto a field where you all began preparing your weapons.
You sat beside Max and Nancy on some old milk crates as Nancy sawed off the end of her new shotgun. Max asked her if it was legal for her to do so, and Nancy replied with something about it being a felony. You were distracted, yet again, by your overwhelming crush on Steve.
He was sitting with Robin in front of the Winnebago, filling bottles with kerosene to make their own flaming molotovs. And you kept glancing his way, then practically staring.
Then, at one point, he looked up and glanced your way. Your eyes darted away immediately and you turned your body to face Max, unaware that Steve hadn’t even noticed you staring because he had been looking at Nancy.
Max chuckled at you and immediately began with the teasing again, some comment about you drooling or making ‘heart eyes’ at Steve. You shushed her, but it was too late because Nancy, Steve’s ex-girlfriend who he had been flirting with over the last several days straight, had heard her.
Your face flushed with warmth and you looked down at your shoes on the grass, then shot Max a harsh glare when you thought Nancy wasn’t looking. But, of course, she still was, and even huffed out a little laugh.
“It’s okay,” She told you, her lip quirking up slightly as she said your name, and your attention was all hers a moment later. “I mean, I was the same once upon a time. Had a big crush on Steve, obviously you knew that because we…”
“Nancy.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands out of embarrassment, and Max had immediately started saying something about you being ‘in love with Steve for like two years’.
You should’ve been used to her teasing by now, it was stupid and you knew it. It was just some dumb teenage crush. But you had slowly began curling into yourself, your arms wrapping around your body as your thoughts and insecurities took over.
You weren’t sure if it was about Steve, or just about craving that kind of attention. Craving love and a relationship, much like you had seen and heard from your friends.
Max and Lucas, Mike and El, Dustin and his long distance girlfriend Suzie, hell, even seeing Nancy with Jonathan. It felt like you were missing out on something that everyone else was allowed to have.
Your friends were all growing up and getting these experiences you could only dream of, like having a first kiss, or dancing with a boy who actually liked you and wasn’t just trying to comfort you when he found you crying on the curb outside the Middle School gymnasium.
So you lived vicariously through teen romcoms and stories from other girls in school, fantasizing about the moment a boy would actually show that kind of interest towards you. To want you, to love you.
And Steve… Steve was older. He was cool, he was good looking, he was funny, he had that charm you had seen him use to ask girls out on dates at Family Video while you were browsing for the closest thing you’d ever get to a relationship, aka. Star Wars, where you’d watch Han and Leia and sigh to yourself, or some cheesy movie where the guy pines after a girl for years and then finally wins her heart.
But Steve was also the first boy who had ever said that you looked pretty, and he was the first boy who had ever danced with you. And he was the first boy you had ever had a crush on that had lasted longer than a couple weeks.
All of it together was just enough to make you crave it so badly. Crave that experience of a relationship and that feeling of love.
And of course the only boy you had ever really liked had absolutely no chance of liking you back. Not in a million years.
“Can we just drop it please?” You asked and while Max nodded, Nancy gave you a sympathetic look that made you want to crawl into a hole and die.
So that night you were dropped off at the Creel House with Max, Lucas and Erica, and after stepping off of the dead silent Winnebago, you turned back and looked at Steve, eyes full of fear. He was watching you all as you left, and when he saw you looking back, he nodded at you, telling you to go on.
You did. You followed your friends into the creaky, old, crumbling house as the sun set, unaware of just how badly the night would end.
It started off okay, walking around the house only in socks, using lanterns as light and communicating using notepads to avoid making any noise that could potentially alert Vecna to your positions, and soon you and Erica had been hurrying outside as phase 2 initiated, to signal to the others in the Upside Down when you were going into phase 3.
That’s when shit went downhill, because then Jason and his jock friends showed up. One of the basketballers, Andy, chased you and Erica away from the playground before he tackled you to the ground and pinned your arms behind your back.
You had been struggling against his grip until Erica managed to push him off of you and kicked him right in the balls, and Andy curled into himself, his hands grabbing at his crotch as he groaned in pain.
Then you and Erica had sprinted back into the Creel House, where Jason had headed when Andy went after you. The attic door had been locked once you reached it, but the two of you had managed to break it open and make it up to where Lucas and Max had been.
“Lucas!” Erica called out her brother’s name and you froze at the top of the stairs because Lucas was sobbing on the ground with Max pulled into his lap. Her limbs were snapped, twisted abnormally out of place and sticking out in directions that they shouldn’t, and her eyes were glazed over in a pure white, blood dripping down her cheeks.
Lucas had spun around immediately to face you both, screaming out, “We need a doctor! Call an ambulance! Hurry! Call an ambulance!”
And when Erica had rushed back downstairs, likely to find a neighbor or the closest possible phone, but you were completely stuck in place, staring at the girl you had grown up with, one of your best friends, as she sobbed in her boyfriend’s arms telling him that she was scared and that she wasn’t ready to die.
You were crying, your body shaking uncontrollably as you stumbled over to them, trembling as you dropped to your knees and practically begged her not to slip away.
“Erica, help!” Lucas shouted out, his voice so full of pain that you couldn’t breathe as you sobbed, gripping Max’s hand in yours as you pleaded with her to stay. But it didn’t work. Max died in his arms.
And then the Earth split open, a gate forming and growing. Lucas pulled Max away and you both scrambled to the side, watching as the gate ripped Jason in two and continued to spread further away from the Creel House and through Hawkins.
Then, after over a minute had passed, Max’s heart had started beating again, just enough that she was still alive. But Eddie wasn’t so lucky, he had died in the Upside Down, sacrificing himself to save Dustin.
Three days later, Max was in a coma in Hawkins Memorial Hospital, Mike, Will, El and Jonathan all arrived in Hawkins again, and you were helping Dustin, Robin and Steve volunteering in the post ‘earthquake’ aid and suddenly not having a boyfriend, or your crush not liking you back, didn’t feel like as a big of a deal as it had before.
And, somehow, life managed to return to normal after that. Well, something close to normal.
Hawkins was now under a government mandated quarantine, where the military crawled around every inch of the town, keeping you blocked off from the rest of the world.
You and your friends were starting your junior year in high school, except for El, who was hiding from the military, and Max was still in a coma and had been for the entire 18 months that had passed.
The crawls were new. Every couple of weeks Hopper would sneak into the Upside Down with the military through the massive gate in the middle of Hawkins, right at the library, and would search for Vecna while Dustin and Steve tracked him from your side and Mike and Lucas kept watch from the nearby church.
But after 18 entire long months, you found nothing. Not even the slightest hint that Vecna was anywhere near, and after over 30 crawls it was like the entire Upside Down had been searched from top to bottom and absolutely nothing was found.
Not until what would be later known as your last crawl, the one where Dustin didn’t show up and you were thrown into the Squawk van with Steve and had to practically beg for Jonathan to come along for ‘help’ when really you didn’t want to be left alone with Steve.
Your crush hadn’t faded, despite the fact that you didn’t see him as often as you used to. Not when Dustin was acting differently and seemed to be avoiding him half of the time. But you listened to the WSQK radio broadcasts every day, mostly for Robin’s DJ-ing and to listen out for any hidden codes about crawls, but also because you knew Steve was the one behind the station’s many sound effects in the background of the broadcasts.
You were now 17 years old, almost an adult, and you hadn’t gotten over the crush on the guy who was basically your best friend’s older brother that had formed back when you were 14. You still had absolutely no experience in anything even slightly romantic, and it was killing you.
But the crawl in the Squawk van had been even more awkward with Jonathan around, because then they argued about Nancy, of course they had, while you sat in the back of the van awkwardly while thinking about Hopper’s signal, which you had lost when the van broke down.
At one point, Steve had spun around to face you, gesturing to Jonathan and asking why you had brought him along because, “Byers is a total buzzkill’. Jonathan had rolled his eyes and called Steve a name, and Steve had mumbled a bland insult back, and it almost felt like you were at home, listening to your parents doing anything but getting a divorce.
Just seconds after Steve had managed to get the van running again, finally, Dustin showed up. His face was completely busted and he had blood leaking from his nose and down his chin.
That just resulted in another argument, this time between Steve and Dustin, while you searched for Hopper’s signal again, only to come up with nothing, other than a strange noise Dustin had brushed off as nothing important because it wasn’t Hopper.
That same night, Holly Wheeler had been taken from her own home by a Demogorgon and her parents had been attacked and had almost died. El had followed the monster into the Upside Down to try and catch up to them and save Holly.
Sometime early the next morning, long after the sun had risen, you had arrived back at the Squawk, where Will then explained that he had a connection to the hive mind again, and to Vecna, and he knew that Vecna was going after another kid from Holly’s class next, a boy named Derek Turnbow.
Mike and Nancy shared the information they had learned at the hospital, that Vecna had stalked Holly long before she was taken, but had appeared as Henry and pretended to be her friend, not someone to be afraid of.
So then you were all coming up with a plan to try and save Derek, and this plan involved drugging and kidnapping the kid and his entire family.
Lucas and Mike recruited Erica, because her best friend Tina was Derek’s older sister, meanwhile you were on the McCorkle farm watching Dustin destroy Steve’s car by affixing the telemetry tracker to the top of the Beamer and crushing Steve’s heart.
You couldn’t help feel bad for him and the way he frowned for the rest of the afternoon, wincing every time he caught a glimpse of the car.
That night, the plan went well. The Turnbow family were all successfully knocked out by the pie Erica made using benzos that Robin and Will stole from the hospital, and while Joyce, Robin, Will and Erica took the family away to the farm, the rest of you set up traps around the house in preparation.
Watching Steve use a chainsaw to cut open a giant hole in the living room floor might’ve been the highlight for you, well, until you had helped him set up a trap outside Derek’s bedroom door using some wood planks, nails and a trip wire. Once the trap had been set, Steve had given you a high five that had genuinely sent a jolt of electricity through your body and a smile etched itself onto your face.
When the Demogorgon arrived in Derek’s room, only to find a dummy in his bed instead, it was your and Lucas’s job to pelt the thing with water balloons filled with acetone so it was guaranteed to catch a flame once Jonathan threw a flare at it.
Once the Demogorgon flipped using a small gate it had made in the living room, Nancy and Jonathan rushed outside to join Steve and Dustin in the Beamer as they chased the Demogorgon, hoping it would lead them to Holly.
Later, when you, Mike and Lucas made it to the farm on your bikes, telling the others about how you saw soldiers loading Debbie Miller and a bunch of other kids Holly’s age onto a bus, Dustin, Steve, Nancy and Jonathan were nowhere to be found because Steve drove his car through a gate and right into the Upside Down.
Will told you all about what he had learned in the hive mind, how many kids Vecna wanted to take, and now the military had all of those kids in one place in an attempt to protect them. But you and your friends knew the only way to really protect them was to get them out of Hawkins and out of Vecna’s reach, which meant it was time to make a new plan.
This time, Robin made it, basing her entire plan on the film The Great Escape. But there were a few key pieces of information you needed. How would you know where the washroom was to know where to dig up from the tunnels below Hawkins? How would you know which kids were even being targeted by Vecna?
Mike’s solution was to send Derek Turnbow, the kid you had managed to save, into the MAC-Z and into the barracks with the other kids.
And the plan had almost worked, until a burst pipe led to you all getting caught before you had gotten all of the kids out and into the tunnels. Robin and Lucas took half the kids to Murray, but the rest of you were captured by the military.
Of course there was arguing, a fight started to break out after one soldier hit Derek on the back of the head, both you and Mike immediately jumping in to defend him, but everything stopped when Will fell to the ground.
Joyce rushed over immediately while you and Mike stayed with the kids, who were absolutely terrified. Will could sense the hive mind. Demogorgons were coming for the kids.
They burst through the plates and immediately began attacking the soldiers, who were shooting at them left and right. Gunshots filled the air, echoing through what should’ve been a quiet night, and flames burst around the military base.
You hadn’t really realized how much you had grown up over the last few years until you and Mike were leading the group of kids around the base, protecting them from the monsters, shielding them the same way Steve, Nancy and Jonathan used to do with you and your friends.
But it was all for nothing, because the Demogorgons took the kids in the end. Vecna himself had come through the gate in the MAC-Z and when a blast of flames sent you, Mike and the kids flying back, you were knocked out.
When you came to, Mike was pulling you to your feet, only for you both to flinch back when a Demogorgon jumped towards you.
You had raised your arms to cover your face in a weak attempt at a shield, but no impact was made. The Demogorgon had frozen midair, and how? Will had his arm outstretched towards it, keeping it frozen in the air, using his own powers to stop the Demogorgon.
You were absolutely bewildered, your mouth falling open in surprise, having to blink a few times just to confirm you weren’t still unconscious and that this was actually happening. Mike, on the other hand, was staring at Will in absolute awe.
Will lifted the Demogorgon into the air and snapped its limbs one by one before snapping its neck, similar to the way Vecna had killed Chrissy and the other teens, and had almost killed Max the year before. When its body crumpled to the ground, Will fell to his knees and wiped the trickle of blood that had formed under his nose.
Beside you, Mike had started to smile. The look on his face wasn’t something you quite knew how to describe at the time, but looking back later, you knew that was a look of love.
Back at the Squawk, the group had to come up with yet another plan to be able to find the others in the Upside Down and come up with a plan, because Lucas was sure Vecna’s plan to end the world was going to take place on November 6th, and that was just a day away.
Both Lucas and Erica came up with two separate plans, Erica’s involved creating a new telemetry tracker and finding Mr. Clarke and getting him to help, while Lucas wanted to Frankenstein one of the dead Demogorgons to link Will back to the hive mind.
You ended up going with Erica and Murray to find and recruit Mr. Clarke to help you, and it didn’t take much once you told him Dustin was in trouble and you needed his help.
The four of you spent all night recreating the telemetry tracker until you tracked Dustin’s location to Hawkins Lab, though, in the Upside Down. Of course, Mr. Clarke didn’t know that and assumed he had left or something similar.
The others had arrived not long after, and when you saw El, you moved forward to hug her, glad that she was home safe and no longer in the Upside Down, even if Dustin and the others were still stuck.
“Mr. Clarke, thanks for the assist.” Mike spoke, walking forward to shake your former teacher’s hand as you stood by his side again.
“Don’t thank me yet.” Mr. Clarke had replied. “We successfully trilaterated Dustin’s position here, to precisely where I stand now.”
“But by the time we arrived, he was MIA.” Erica continued.
“Well, he wouldn’t be precisely here. He’d be under.” Robin pointed out, crossing her arms, and you nodded along.
Mr. Clarke tilted his head in confusion as he looked at Robin. “Sorry?”
Mike’s head then snapped towards you. “You didn’t tell him?”
“Told me what?” Mr. Clarke asked you.
“It… slipped my mind?” You excused, speaking to Mike, but your attention was stolen a moment later. “Oh, my god.”
“Holy shit.” Erica spoke from beside you as her gaze also landed on Max, who was being wheeled towards you all in a wheelchair, but she was very much alive and no longer in her coma.
“Holy shit.” Max echoed and your face lit up as you let out a surprised chuckle.
“Max!” You hurried over and she grinned as you crouched down to hug her, but the moment was cut short by Murray yelling that he got Dustin’s signal on his walkie and you all rushed down to his level.
After a brief conversation about Holly was shared between Mike and Dustin over the walkies, El ripped up one of the plates covering the rifts in the ground and you all, except for Lucas and Max, went into the Upside Down.
You were all calling out the names of your missing friends while you were trying to take in the fact that you were in the Upside Down for the very first time before you heard Dustin calling out your name, and then Mike’s. You both rushed towards him as he barrelled over.
“Jesus, it’s good to see you guys.” He sighed in relief, throwing his arms around you both and hugging you tight.
As you hugged him though, your eyes drifted to Steve as he approached behind him, standing off to the side from Nancy and Jonathan. It took a moment for you to notice how miserable they looked, and another moment for you to realize that Holly wasn’t with them like you had thought.
Turns out Vecna had pulled her into the literal sky and she had disappeared into the clouds. And you and your friends needed to save her before Vecna likely ended the world on that very same night.
So you all went back to the Squawk to share new information and come up with the final plan to defeat Vecna.
Dustin stood in front of you all with a black marker in hand, drawing on the glass windows of the recording booth as he explained something he had learned in the Upside Down version of Hawkins Lab.
“We’ve always the Upside Down was another dimension opened by Brenner, but it turns out it’s actually a bridge.” Dustin added two long lines to his diagram, representing the bridge. “More specifically, an interdimensional bridge that rips through space-time. It is wildly unstable, but held together by exotic matter, which we found dead center right above the lab. In theoretical physics, they call this type of bridge a–”
“Wormhole.” Both Erica and Mr. Clarke finished in sync, and Dustin pointed at them. You shared a glance with Max, who was sitting beside you in her wheelchair.
“And this wormhole connects Hawkins to here, another world that I’ve coined the Abyss.” Dustin explained.
“Any particular reason?” Robin asked and Mr. Clarke leaned forward in his seat.
“A realm of pure chaos and evil.” He spoke and Robin looked towards him.
“I’m sorry?”
“D&D.” You, Mr. Clarke, Erica, Mike, Will, Lucas and Dustin all answered at once.
“Jesus Christ.” Hopper groaned.
Dustin went on to explain how he believed the Abyss was the true home to the Demogorgon and the Mind Flayer and all of the monsters, and that Henry Creel had been sent there by Eleven years ago, before Dr. Brenner had her find him and created the bridge between the two worlds.
That had explained a lot over the last few years, like why every single crawl had come up empty, because Vecna hadn’t been in the Upside Down, he had been in the Abyss.
Will came up to the conclusion that the reason he was taking kids like Holly into the Abyss was because the minds of children were weaker and easier to mold, like he had done with Will himself, and he was going to use them to amplify his abilities and move worlds. To draw the Abyss and Hawkins closer and merge them together.
Will jumped forward to draw something on Dustin’s diagram and you shifted your body away from Max, who had just been talking, to then face him. In doing so, your arm brushed against Steve’s leg, and you muttered a quiet apology but didn’t look up at him where he was sitting on the back of the couch you were seated on.
Then you were working out a plan to get up to the Abyss to try and stop Vecna before he could draw the worlds together.
After Hopper’s first suggestion of a helicopter, which then resulted in the rest of you telling him that it wouldn’t work, and a rather crude comment about Steve made by Robin that made your eyes go wide, Steve himself was the one to come up with the plan.
He had jumped up from his place on the couch beside you and you had watched him as he walked a few steps away, then stopped, his brain clearly moving faster than his mouth could before shouting that you wouldn’t need a magic bean to make a beanstalk and climb up to the Abyss like some fairytale.
His idea was to use the Squawk radio tower in the Upside Down as a way into the rifts, letting Vecna draw your worlds together just enough that you could all make it inside before El would stop him from drawing them closer.
It was genius, and while the others added a few more small details to help, Dustin was the one who finalized it, suggesting for you all to leave a bomb at the exotic matter that would detonate when you left the Upside Down and destroy the bridge for good.
Then everyone was gearing up, dressing in old combat gear, gathering weapons, and Mike built the detonator for the bomb using a record player and a minifigurine.
You sat with Lucas on a table in the basement as he adjusted his giant slingshot, a great improvement from his old Wrist Rocket he used against the Demogorgon when you were younger.
You were filling more water balloons for him with the flammable liquid inside the unlabelled canister you had found in the Squawk basement, but every so often you’d glance over to Steve in that same leather jacket he had worn the first time, the material stretching along his shoulders, and a backwards cap on his head, a small tuft of hair sticking out from the front, as he walked away from the cabinet in the corner that usually held the weapons, specifically the guns.
He held a small handgun until Nancy approached him, questioning whether or not he had used a gun before. Of course, he hadn’t, and you forced yourself to look away, only to find Lucas smirking at you.
“What?” You asked.
“You’re, like, in love with Steve.” He whispered with an amused laugh and you shushed him.
“Shut up, no I’m not.” You scoffed, then glanced towards Steve again, watching him follow Dustin through the basement before you met Lucas’s eyes again and saw he was still smirking. “Shut up.”
Getting into the Upside Down was the easiest part of the plan. Murray’s huge Bradley’s Big Buy truck was large enough to hold all of you as it charged into the MAC-Z right through the front gate, and Hopper took down any soldiers shooting at you from the inside, having sneaked in through the tunnels like he would before a crawl.
Nancy and her rifle climbed up the ladder in the middle of the truck and stuck out the hole at the top, where a Demogorgon had ripped the metal open, only to rain fire on any other soldiers around trying to stop you.
Once Hopper was inside the truck and the truck had successfully made it through the MAC-Z gate, the ride got a little bumpier.
“Jesus Christ.” Steve wobbled on his feet a little from beside you.
“Everybody alright? Everybody okay? You alright?” He asked Steve, who nodded, before looking around and asking the others. “Everybody alright?”
Steve looked down at you, where you looked a little shaken as you blinked a few times, and his face scrunched into one of concern.
“You sure you’re okay, kid?” He asked and you looked up, eyes going wide when you realized he was talking to you, as if it were something out of the ordinary.
You nodded before forcing yourself to speak. “Yeah. Thanks, Steve.”
Then he had reached over and patted your shoulder for just a moment before leaning back against the wall. He smiled at you, and you returned the gesture, though you had a feeling you were blushing before you looked to your other side and reached for El’s hand.
Once you reached the lab, Hopper, El, Murray, and El’s ‘sister’ Kali all left the truck, and Steve moved to the front to drive the rest of the way to the Squawk.
You hated the climb up the ladder on the tower, you weren’t the biggest fan of heights, and once you had made it up to the top, you, Lucas and Dustin all stood together and stared out at the Upside Down Hawkins skyline.
“It’s pretty damn spectacular.” Dustin had commented, bumping your shoulder with his.
“Yeah,” You agreed breathlessly, staring out at the dark, yet amazing parallel to your hometown. “It is.”
“It’s almost too bad we have to blow it all up.” Lucas added and you had glanced his way.
“Is it though?”
It wasn’t long after that when you could hear, and see, the Abyss as it descended towards you all, and the plan seemed to be going okay until Lucas noticed that the top of the tower wasn’t lining up with the rifts, which only meant bad news.
El wasn’t able to stop the Abyss fast enough and the planet above you came into contact with the needle, snapping it off.
You all jumped out of the way as it fell, gripping onto the edges and each other. The needle broke off one end of the tower’s railing, and it took Steve with it.
Both you and Dustin shouted his name, watching as he dangled from the edge of the tower, only gripping on with one hand. If he slipped, he would fall and die.
And then he did slip, and he fell. But not far enough, because Jonathan caught him. He grabbed onto Steve’s hand and pulled him back up onto the tower, saving his life.
The moment he was back on the platform, Dustin charged forward and pulled Steve into a hug. You had almost wanted to follow him, but instead hugged Robin, who was sobbing in relief that she hadn’t just watched her best friend fall to his death.
The Abyss was strange, it was almost like a desert. A vast, empty desert. It seemed too empty, and too quiet, but eventually you found where Vecna was keeping the kids, inside of a ginormous spider-like monster. The Mind Flayer in a much larger, physical body.
And while El fought Vecna inside of the thing, you and your friends attacked the monster from the outside, shooting it, stabbing it, lighting it on fire, until it eventually collapsed to the ground.
Nancy was the first to rush inside in search of Holly, and the rest of you joined her a moment later, Mike rushing forward to reunite with his sisters. The rest of you helped the other 11 kids from where they were up in the spires on the wall. They were all confused, and dirty, covered in some kind of slimy residue as Mind Flayer particles expelled themselves from their mouths.
As you helped a young girl brush herself off, telling her you would help get her home, you could hear gurgling coming from somewhere nearby. You turned to see Vecna, though impaled on a sharp spike of some kind, was still alive.
Joyce dealt with him, decapitating him with her axe. The moment you watched his head tumble to the ground, rolling for a moment before coming to a stop, it felt like a weight was lifted from your shoulders immediately.
Soon you were all heading back home, having climbed back down the radio tower and all cramped into the back of the bus. Steve and Robin were in the front, and you were squashed between Dustin and El as you all talked, almost celebrating the fact that you had won.
Everything descended into chaos when you returned through the gate. The tires of the truck were flattened by spikes and everyone was hauled from the vehicle by soldiers in a flurry of chaos.
You were pressed against the side of the truck, El to your left and Mike to your right, as soldiers surrounded you all. There was yelling, arguing as soldiers patted you all down and searched you all.
Dr. Kay approached El, who glared in response, wincing at the loud radio feedback sound coming from the speakers around the base.
But then the bomb went off inside the Upside Down, and everyone watched the wind whipping around inside as the buildings collapsed and then… it was gone. The gate disappeared, leaving nothing but the crumbling destruction of the library.
After that, you and your friends were all brought in for hours of questioning by the military and Dr. Kay, asking about Henry, El, Kali, the Upside Down, the Demogorgons, why you had taken the kids, why you had gone into the Upside Down. They asked you about everything from the moment Will went missing and you found El in the woods to that point in time where you were being interrogated.
And, eventually, you were all let go and expected to go on with your lives like normal. With the Upside Down gone and Henry dead, El had lost her powers again and now the military had no reason to be after her, not after everything had gone down and she had stopped Vecna.
While it did take a long time, eventually things did get back to normal, as much as they could’ve at least.
–
The morning of your high school graduation you woke up with more energy, and more anxiety, than you had had in a long time.
You went through your morning routine like normal, waking up to a silent house because neither of your parents liked being around each other, or you, before getting dressed.
You had nothing to do all day before graduation, no boyfriend to celebrate with, no family around who wanted to take photos of you. You had the day to yourself.
So you turned on the radio and sat down on the couch with a book, listening as Robin Buckley presented the Squawk’s morning broadcast for the first time since Jimmy ‘Fast Hands’ Lee had returned to Hawkins and she had gone off to college.
At least that was something you could look forward to – college. You couldn’t wait to get out of Hawkins, to do more with your life. You were going to study to become a teacher, something you had wanted to do probably since middle school when you and your friends had all idolized Mr. Clarke.
A burp sound effect playing at the wrong time caused you to look up at the radio for a moment, brows furrowed before a whip cracking sound effect played and Robin’s voice came in.
“There we go. Sorry about that. My partner in crime ditched me.” Robin explained and your face fell for a moment. “But, well, as far as excuses go, he had a pretty good one.”
She was, of course, talking about Steve, who now coached the middle school baseball team. He was the only one of the older teens that hadn’t left Hawkins to go to college when the quarantine had been lifted.
At the mention of Steve, your stomach had flipped uncomfortably. 18 months had passed, and while your crush hadn’t faded, something had happened that now just made you feel guilty for liking him.
Steve had a girlfriend now, a woman named Kristen who he had been dating for a couple of months by this time, and it killed a part of you every time you thought about it.
But that was another reason why you were excited to get out of Hawkins, you would leave Steve behind, maybe meet a guy at college and finally move on from your dumb crush and have a relationship of your own.
That afternoon after you made it to the graduation, everything felt too real. You stood with your friends, dressed in your orange caps and gowns as guests all took their seats, and then the music played, queuing you all to take your seats so the ceremony could begin.
As you walked to your seats, lined up alphabetically like you had rehearsed, you looked around the bleachers to see who you could recognize.
There was Jonathan filming the event off to the side, Joyce, Hopper and El, the Wheelers (including Nancy), Lucas’s parents, Dustin’s mom, Mr. Clarke and Murray, Robin, and Steve.
He was dressed in a suit with a pair of sunglasses on, but as you all walked out, his head turned away from Robin to watch you all. You raised a hand and gave a small return, and he grinned, both him and Robin waving back and you smiled, looking down at your shoes before taking your seat.
Dustin’s valedictorian speech started off normal, he mentioned how he had wanted a normal childhood, but that didn’t really happen, due to obvious reasons. He went on to mention D&D, talking about bad chaos and good chaos. He mentioned making friends with people who were never supposed to be his friends, and how he had seen the same happen to others. He talked about how he was now a better person because of his friends.
But then, towards the end of his speech, something shifted. He called Principal Higgins a square, took off his robe and ripped open his shirt to reveal a t-shirt reading ‘Hellfire Lives’. You cheered loudly for your friend, and so did the others as he went on to say, “Screw the school. Screw the system. Screw conformity. Screw everything and everyone trying to hold you back and tear us apart, because this, this is our year!”
And as you all cheered for him, Dustin snatched his diploma from Principal Higgins and flipped the old man off, just like Eddie had said he would your freshman year.
After the ceremony, you and your friends ran through the sea of orange robes to find him.
“Dustin!” You all called out upon spotting him and the four of you hugged him tight.
“You’re a madman. You’re an absolute madman.” Mike said first as Dustin shook his shoulders with an excited laugh.
“Higgins totally shit his pants.” Lucas added with a laugh.
“Yeah, what’s he gonna do, expel me?” Dustin asked.
“You’re crazy.” Lucas told him, but before the conversation could continue, a voice cut in.
“Hey.”
You turned to see Stacey Albright, the same girl who had once teased you at the Snow Ball, approaching you, Dustin, Lucas, Mike and Will.
“Hey, Stacey.” Dustin greeted her with a grin and an attempt at speaking casually, but your smile fell just a little.
“I just wanted to say what you did up there was pretty badass.” She complimented Dustin, and for a moment you thought she wasn’t going to be serious. But, then again, everyone had matured since middle school.
“Oh. Thanks. I was kind of just going for like a bit of like a Belushi thing. But if he was like in a Hughes film.” Dustin scratched his eye and you shared a glance with Will, who was standing to your left. “But I don’t know. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah. No, totally.” She told him and there was a bit of an awkward pause where she went to turn around and walk away.
“Why did I say that?” Dustin whispered to you and you shrugged, but then Stacey had turned back.
“Hey, so I’m having a party later tonight. You guys should come.” She told you all, then made direct eye contact with you and smiled. Not in a teasing way, but more genuine. You did your best to smile back before she walked away.
“Did that just happen?” Dustin asked Will the moment she left, and the boy chuckled in response.
“Should we go?” Will asked, looking around the group, his eyes lingering on Mike.
“Is that rhetorical?” Lucas asked back, because the answer was obvious.
“No. Screw that. I got a better idea.” Mike stated.
His better idea had been a D&D campaign, and so the seven of you – You, Dustin, Lucas, Mike, Will, El and Max – all cramped around the table in Mike’s basement to play D&D until dinner, laughing and reminiscing about the last six years of your lives and the chaos you had all survived.
But after dinner?
“We still have time to go to Stacey’s party after this.” Lucas had said first, checking his watch by the Wheeler family’s front door.
“Oh, my god, please.” Dustin clamped his hands together and gave Mike his best puppy dog eyes. “Come on, dude, let’s go.”
Mike rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”
“Come on, Mike, don’t be a party pooper.” Max had teased, making El giggle from where she stood by Dustin’s side.
El and Dustin had gotten closer over the last year or so, after she and Mike had finally broken up for good. She had, obviously, been very behind on school, and was currently a grade behind you all, having to take summer school to catch up, but Dustin had been tutoring her and helping her with any subjects she had been struggling with, and now sometimes she hung out with Dustin more than you did.
Another recent development had been with Will and Mike. About a year ago, Will told you, Dustin, Lucas, Max and El that he was gay. He said he had only told his mom, his brother, Mike and Robin before that. Now, Mike hadn’t told you anything, but sometimes you caught the two of them sending each other glances across the room like they were the only two people around.
Will turned to face Mike. “Yeah, Mike, come on. It’ll be fun.”
Then Mike sighed, dropping his head back with a groan before throwing his arms up in the air in front of himself. “Fine.”
You had all walked to the party at Stacey’s house, and once you arrived she, as well as many others, were happy to see you all there.
It was like years of bullying and cliques and labels in school didn’t matter anymore, and that felt weird. It looked like the entire senior class was there.
Kids were high-fiving Dustin as they passed him, complimenting him on his speech loudly, raising their voices to be heard over the thumping bass of the music practically vibrating the house.
You and your friends decided to just let go and have fun; talking to people you usually wouldn’t, drinking alcohol, drinking a lot of alcohol. At one point you and Dustin had started teasing Lucas and Max as they made out in the corner of the room, only for Lucas to let go of Max and start chasing Dustin through the house, leaving you, Max and El bursting into a fit of laughter in the corner.
But the later into the night you got, the more drunk you had all become, and eventually you were all collapsed onto a couch together, El giggling as she played with Dustin’s curls while Max rested her head on your shoulder, her legs thrown across Lucas’s lap. Mike and Will were sitting just a little too close for it to not mean anything by your other side.
Then someone mentioned being tired, someone else started to get sad about the fact you would all be going away to separate colleges soon, and then you were all debating who to call to pick you up.
Will called Jonathan first, who said he could come pick up his brother and sister and one other person, which ended up being Mike.
You, Dustin, Lucas and Max had to find a different ride home, so Dustin went to make a call.
–
Steve had gotten home a couple of hours earlier after making plans to meet up with his friends in Robin’s weird uncle’s house in Philadelphia once a month, and he had been stretched out on the sofa, his arm around Kristen, his girlfriend, as the two of them watched a movie together.
When his phone rang, he furrowed his brows in confusion before getting up and crossing the room to pick it up, assuming that maybe Robin had left something behind in his truck earlier.
Instead he found Dustin on the other end, his words slurred slightly as he asked for Steve to come pick him up.
“Are you drunk, Henderson?” Steve asked, crossing one arm around his torso as he leaned back against the kitchen counter. Kristen had poked her head out of the living room to see what was going on, and he waved her off.
“Pfft, not even. Just, like, a little.” Dustin replied, though his words said otherwise.
“Alright, bud.” Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Where are you?”
“What’s the address?” He could hear Dustin ask someone else on the other end before he recited Stacey’s address. “Oh, and can you pick up the others too?”
Of course, Steve couldn’t fit four teenagers into his truck, which meant he had to borrow Kristen’s car to go pick you all up, and when he arrived at the address he found the four of you seated on the curb, the party still going on in the house behind you.
Dustin was already half passed out, leaning against Lucas, but he grinned when Steve approached.
“Steve!” He cheered before nudging you and tugging on Lucas’s arm. “Guys, Steve’s here!”
“Steve!” The rest of you chorused the cheer, your face lighting up immediately, and Steve laughed before offering Dustin a hand to lift him up.
While Dustin, Lucas and Max all piled into the backseat, you were left with the passenger seat. And while your friends passed out almost immediately, all leaning against each other as they snored softly in the backseat, you were wide awake.
Something by Queen played on the radio, faint but still clear enough for you to understand every word Freddie Mercury sang as Steve tapped along to the beat on the steering wheel.
“Thanks for picking us up, Steve.” You spoke, half mumbling, as you shifted in your seat, no longer staring out the window and now facing him.
Steve shrugged. “No problem. You know I’d do anything for you guys.”
You hummed before looking around the car. “This isn’t your truck.”
“Nope.” Steve agreed, taking a look around himself. “It’s, uh, my girlfriend’s car.”
“Right.” You had replied, then sunk back into your seat, your eyes fluttering shut a moment later. Steve exhaled out his nose lightly in a gentle laugh.
He glanced over at you, then to your other friends in the rearview mirror before you spoke again.
“I love you, Steve.” You stated, still half-asleep, but your voice was clearer than it had been before.
He smiled, flicking on his blinker as he turned a corner on the dark, empty streets of Hawkins. “I love you too, kid.”
“No.” You had sighed, and Steve glanced your way again, watching how each street lamp illuminated your face for a few seconds as he passed them. “I mean, I love you like… like how you love Kristen.”
He stopped completely, the car slowing slightly, and he frowned as he looked your way again, one eyebrow raised. You what?
“You love her, right?” You asked and Steve coughed awkwardly.
“Well, yeah.”
“Good. She’s nice.” You mumbled. “You deserve that.”
Steve didn’t know how to reply. He had never felt so awkward in his life as he glanced your way.
“You don’t love me.” He told you, like he could decide that. Like saying that erased any feelings you might’ve had for him.
“Yes, I do.” You sighed again, turning to face the window again. “But, it’s fine. I get it. And I’m glad you’re happy, and once I go to college I’m gonna find a boy and he’s gonna love me and I’m gonna forget all about you, so it’s fine.”
And then you went silent for the rest of the car ride. When Steve pulled up outside of Dustin’s house, you shot him a kind smile, thanked him, and left the car like nothing had happened, waking Dustin up before the two of you headed off to the front door with nothing more than a goodbye.
And Steve sat there for a moment, watching the two of you make it into the house before he just stopped, thinking over the interaction he just had with you, extremely confused, because you were in love with him? Since when had you loved him?
The next time he saw you was a week later at one of his baseball games when you and your friends had all shown up to watch.
You were acting like nothing had happened, teasing him with Max like normal, laughing with your friends, acting like you hadn’t drunkenly confessed your love to him a week earlier.
Naturally, Steve assumed you were too drunk to remember the interaction. Hell, he assumed the entire interaction had only happened because you were drunk, because Steve didn’t think you loved him.
But you did love him, and you didn’t forget about the interaction.
Neither did Steve.
–
a/n: holy shit this was wayyyy longer than i had anticipated uhhh no wonder it took me literal months to write omfg. anyway the rest of the series is set in 1993, and the next chapters will be shorter i swear. um, i hope you liked this and the few changes i made lol. i’m excited for this series!!
series taglist (pls comment if you'd like to be added or removed): @djopuppy @stvswrld69 @imani4reading @bethlikestoread @redvelvetcupcke1 @jamieexistss @madeinheavxn @scaramou @arilevinsonwifey @cciessuzi @borhapgirlforlife19 @holawdw @lananabanana42 @valentine-night @prettykitty830 @strangegirl26sff @tapedbunnies @peaxxhyyangell @brrrainst3w @prettybutaching @batmanssssss @yerxm @harrystylesgirlie @whysoseahrious @darcae591 @badbussylol @pleasecallmeunhinged @mari-18s-world @glittermermaid222 @mhayes777 @b4omyz @waywardalpacaoctopus @mlt2000 @tomsspidermangf @zabcoin @lov3notez @spodermans3 @kurtsw7rld96 @tez0 @lovelyuser1908 @they-ignoreme @yujyujj @serendipdipity01 @zzluvsronweasleyyy @fallout-girl219 @thequotesjunction @faxxxxxx12 @loveu2themoonandtosaturn @loriepov @marienen
safe until sunset — steve harrington
part one
summary — steve harrington is your bodyguard. he's your bodyguard you've become overly fond of. you spend too much time with him. then, you're on your way to spain for a press tour, and steve is acting weird. he's cold and distant, and mean. you find out why.
chapter summary — after everything that happened in spain, you don't know how to fit in the world anymore. you don't know how to do anything, especially now that you don't have steve. he gets reassigned, and you realise you need him. depsite the version of him you saw on that street in barcelona.
or "Steve flagged it himself. Steve sat across from someone — from your father's security director, from some operational review committee, from whoever receives these things — and he told them that the professional boundaries of the arrangement had not been appropriately maintained, and then he accepted the reassignment that followed, and he didn’t call you, and he didn’t knock on the door, and you have not spoken to him since the ambulance doors closed in Barcelona."
content —15.8k words, bodyguard!steveharrington x reader, she/her, mentions of violence, making out, slowburn!!!
note — ohhhh my god it's finally finished!!! thank you to all the love and appreciation on my silly little version of steve harrington i love u all. hope you enjoy!! mwah
⋆˚꩜。
Your father's study smells the same as it always has.
Old paper and leather and the cedar of the panelling that runs floor to ceiling along the east wall, the wall with the fireplace that hasn't been lit since your mother left and that nobody has ever suggested lighting again.
There are books on shelves that have been in the same positions for as long as you can remember, their spines faded to the same warm brown as the wall behind them. The desk is enormous and clear, the way powerful men's desks always are, paperwork filed elsewhere by someone else, the surface kept empty to suggest that whatever happens here happens at a different scale from ordinary work.
You've been sitting in the chair across from it for eleven minutes.
Your father is still reading something.
This is a thing he does — finishes what he's doing before he turns his full attention to a room, a person, a conversation. You grew up understanding this as a statement about the relative importance of things. You grew up understanding a lot of things in this room.
Outside the tall windows, the grounds are green and fresh. The fountain near the back terrace still flows, attracting birds and such. Everything is the colour of late summer, you swear the trees have gotten bigger in the weeks since you were last home.
Three weeks since Barcelona.
Your stitches came out eight days ago. Four small scars, barely anything, the kind that will fade to near-invisible within a year. The doctor had said so and been right, and you'd looked at the four small marks in the mirror and thought about what they cost.
Your father sets down whatever he was reading.
He looks at you. He has a particular way of looking at you — the look of someone taking inventory. You’re in your twenties and this look still makes you feel like you've been called to account for something.
"You look tired," he says.
"I'm fine."
"I didn't say you weren't fine."
You hold his gaze. He holds yours. This is also a thing you grew up learning to do.
"I'd like to know what the plan is," you say. "Going forward."
"That's what we're here to discuss."
"Good." You fold your hands in your lap. "Then let's discuss it."
Your father leans back in his chair slightly, the leather making its small sound, and he looks at you for another moment in the inventory way.
"The man has been charged," he says. "Formal charges were filed in Spain last week. There are parallel proceedings here, given the domestic incidents. The legal team is satisfied with the trajectory."
"I know," you say. "Amelia sent me the update."
"Then you know the immediate threat has been addressed."
"The immediate threat," you repeat.
"That's the appropriate framing."
"Is it?"
Your father's expression doesn't change, exactly, but something in it adjusts slightly. He is very good at conversations — better than almost anyone you've met, which is where you get it from, probably, though you would never say so. He reads subtext the way other people read text, and he’s reading yours right now.
"What would you like to know?" he asks.
"I'd like to know what happened," you say. "The full version. Not the update Amelia sent, not the version that was managed for my consumption. What actually happened."
A pause. He doesn’t hesitate, but you think he wants to look like he is. "The threat was identified in March," he says.
March. March is four months before Barcelona. Four months.
"March," you say.
"A pattern was identified. Your movements were being tracked. The team ran an internal assessment, and the decision was made to monitor the situation rather than alert you."
You know this. You’ve heard it over and over.
"The team," you say. "Or Steve?"
"The decision was made collectively," he says, which is an answer that contains another answer inside it.
"But Steve knew."
"Harrington was briefed, yes."
Harrington. The use of the last name in that register — the management register, the business register — lands in a particular way that you can’t identify.
"The team monitored the situation for four months," you say. "Across multiple locations. Hotels, venues, my building." You say it the way you've been saying it to yourself for three weeks, not because you don't know the facts but because saying them out loud to your father makes them a different kind of real. "He accessed restricted floors at two hotels."
"Attempted to access."
"Attempted to access." You look at the empty fireplace. You smile. "And the decision throughout all of that was that I should not be told."
"The assessment was that knowing would affect your behaviour in ways that could compromise the operation."
"I've heard the assessment."
"And?"
You look back at him. "And I think someone should have told me. That's all. I think as the person whose life was being organised around a threat I didn't know about, I had a right to know about the threat." You say it without heat. You've had three weeks to get the heat out of it. "I'm not angry about it anymore. I was. I'm not now. But I want to say it clearly to you because I don't think it was the right call, and I think you should know that I think so."
Your father is quiet for a moment.
"Noted," he says.
It's not an apology. You didn't expect one. Your father doesn’t apologise for operational decisions, considers it a category error. But noted from him carries a specific weight — it means it has been received and it won’t be forgotten.
You nod. "I'd like to talk about what comes next," you say.
"Yes," he says. "There are some changes to discuss."
Something in the way he says it. You look at him more carefully.
He’s picked up a pen from the desk, is turning it slowly between his fingers, which is the closest thing he has to a tell. You learned to read that pen a long time ago.
"What kind of changes?" you say.
"There will be a full security review," he says. "Given the events in Barcelona, the current protocols are being reassessed at every level. Staff, procedures, communication structures."
"That seems reasonable."
"It is reasonable." He pauses. "As part of that review, adjustments are being made to the close protection team."
The room is very quiet. Outside, the sun presses against the windows.
"What kind of adjustments?" you ask.
"Rotations," he says. "Reassignments. When a situation reaches the point that Barcelona did, it indicates a structural issue in how information is being managed. The review indicated that the current configuration had developed certain—" He pauses, choosing the word. "—inefficiencies."
"Inefficiencies," you say.
"In terms of information flow. Decision-making."
"You're talking about Steve?"
He doesn’t blink. "I'm talking about the team structure."
"You're talking about Steve," you say again, not a question this time.
"Harrington has been reassigned," your father says.
The study is very still.
You hear the clock on the mantle. The particular measured tick of it, the clock that has been in this room for your entire life, the clock that has counted down every difficult conversation you have ever had in this room.
"When?" you ask.
"It was confirmed last week."
Last week. While you were in this house, in your room, not answering calls and watching the grounds from your windows, it was confirmed last week, and nobody called you, nobody knocked on your door.
"Where?"
"He's been placed with another principal. The arrangement suits his profile."
Another principal. The arrangement suits his profile. The professional language of it, the complete removal of Steve from the sentence, and the reduction of eight months to a profile being matched to a placement.
"I wasn't consulted," you say.
"This is an operational decision."
"He was assigned to me."
"He was assigned to your security detail," your father says, someone drawing a distinction they've thought about in advance. "Reassignments within that structure are not subject to—"
"He was assigned to me," you say again, and something in your voice this time makes your father stop.
He looks at you. Turns his head towards the floor only slightly, and squints his eyes.
You hate it. You look at the empty fireplace again because looking at your father right now requires something you're not sure you have.
"I see," your father says, after a moment.
"Don't," you say.
"I haven't said anything."
"You were going to."
A pause. Then: "Was it mutual?"
"It doesn't matter," you say, quickly. So quickly you don’t know you’re saying it.
"It might matter quite a lot."
"Not to the decision that was apparently already made last week without anyone telling me."
Your father picks up the pen again. Sets it down. The tell, running twice in three minutes.
"Barcelona changed the situation," he says, carefully. "What happened there — the threat, the response, the circumstances of it — indicated that there were complications in the current arrangement that could not be resolved within the existing structure."
"What complications?"
He doesn’t say anything for a second, and you understand that he’s known. Has known for some time. Probably longer than you've known yourself, which is the specific humiliation of fathers who are very observant and very quiet about what they observe.
"The review flagged a concern," he says, carefully, "about whether the professional boundaries of the arrangement had been appropriately maintained."
The professional boundaries of the arrangement. You sit with that.
"Who flagged it?" you say.
Your father is quiet.
"Dad." You say it the way you said it when you were seventeen and sitting in this room the first time something happened that required this kind of conversation. "Who flagged it?"
"It was part of the broader review," he says. Which means it wasn't the broader review.
"He flagged it himself," you say.
Your father says nothing. Which, with this man, is the same as saying yes.
Steve flagged it himself. Steve sat across from someone — from your father's security director, from some operational review committee, from whoever receives these things — and he told them that the professional boundaries of the arrangement had not been appropriately maintained, and then he accepted the reassignment that followed, and he didn’t call you, and he didn’t knock on the door, and you have not spoken to him since the ambulance doors closed in Barcelona.
He flagged it himself.
You think about I couldn't afford distractions said across a restaurant table with a candle burning low between you, and you think about not distractions from the job, and you think about eight months of him maintaining the wall, and the wall developing a fracture, and him apparently deciding, at some point in the aftermath of Barcelona, that the fracture had become structural.
That the only way to fix the structure was to leave it.
Your throat is very tight. You hold on to the arms of your chair so hard the tips of your fingers pinch.
"The new arrangement," you say, and your voice comes out level, which surprises you slightly. "When does it take effect?"
"It already has," your father says.
Of course it has. "And the new detail lead?"
"A man named Reeves. Excellent record. He'll come to you for an introductory briefing before the end of the week."
Reeves. You file the name somewhere distant, the part of you that has been managing your exterior since you were old enough to understand the value of it.
"Fine," you say.
"It doesn't have to be fine," your father says, and it's the closest he gets to the thing underneath the operational language, the closest he comes to the version of this conversation that isn't about security structures and professional reviews. "It's all right if it isn't."
He’s not a warm man, your father. He was never the kind of father who sat beside you on this kind of thing, who put an arm around the shape of a difficulty and made it smaller. But he’s perceptive, and he’s honest, and right now the way he is looking at you is the way he looked at you the first time something broke. When you were trying to pretend it hadn't, and you know this look, you've known it since you were seventeen, and it is still the hardest look to be on the receiving end of.
"I'm going to need some time," you say.
"Of course."
—
Carter calls Steve on a Wednesday evening in the fourth week.
This isn’t unusual — they've maintained working contact, professionals operating in the same field, the ordinary commerce of people who do the same job in adjacent spaces. Carter calls with operational things fairly regularly.
What's unusual is that Carter calls at eight in the evening, which is not an operational hour, and opens with How's Hartley? in the tone of a man who does not particularly care about the answer to that question. He doesn’t actually care about Steve’s new principal.
"Fine," Steve says. "Uneventful."
"Good." A pause that is doing something. "How are you?"
"Fine."
"Right," Carter says. He doesn’t press on the word fine and its limitations.
"She's okay," Carter says, after a moment. "If you were going to ask."
Steve doesn't say anything. He doesn’t think there’s anything banked in his mind to say. He’s caught off guard.
"Stitches came out clean. She's been at the estate mostly." A pause. "Quiet, Amelia says. But working. She went back to work a couple weeks ago."
Steve looks at the wall of the Kensington flat. He thinks about you going back to work. He thinks about what that looks like — the particular focused quality you get when something is actually demanding your attention, the way the professional exterior slides into place so naturally that most people can't see the effort in it.
You’re good at it. Better than you know, probably. Better than he's ever told you, which is its own category of thing he's not going to look at directly tonight.
"Reeves seems capable," Carter says.
"His record is good," Steve says.
"You looked him up."
"Yes."
Carter doesn't comment on this, which is generous. "She's been—" He pauses, choosing. "There was a thing with the coffee. Apparently took three weeks to get right."
Steve closes his eyes. Opens them. Sighs.
"She asked for your location," Carter says. "Did they tell you? In the briefing."
"Yes."
"She said she wasn't going to do anything with it." Another pause. "Wanted to know where you were."
Steve looks at the packed second bag in the corner of the bedroom. He looks at it for a moment, the bag he hasn't unpacked, which has been in the corner for weeks, which he is going to unpack eventually when this placement stops feeling like something to keep one bag packed for.
"Carter," he says.
"I know," Carter says. "I know. I'm not — I'm just telling you."
"Okay."
"She's okay," Carter says again, softer. "She's getting there."
Steve thinks about getting there as a destination. As something with a location you can be moving toward.
"I had the cloth ready," Steve says. It comes out differently than he expected — something with more weight. "In Barcelona. In the inside pocket of my jacket. I'd been carrying it since before we left the hotel because I'd already assessed it as a possible outcome."
Carter is quiet. Steve can hear people moving around him.
"I went to dinner with her," Steve says. "I sat across from her, and I talked about tomorrow's schedule, and I had the cloth in my pocket because I'd run the numbers and decided that what was coming toward us was close enough that the contingency was real." He pauses. "And she still got hurt."
"Yes," Carter says.
"So the reassignment was right."
"Steve—"
"The conflict of interest was real," Steve says. "That's what the review found. It's what I told them before the review found it. I was making decisions with something in them that shouldn't have been there, and even with all the preparation, even with the cloth and the team and the planning, it still—" He stops. Starts differently. "If the outcome had been different. In Barcelona. If what happened to her had been worse. I couldn't have—" He doesn't finish.
Carter is quiet for long enough to be saying something.
"You flagged it yourself," Carter says eventually. "Before they'd found anything. You walked into that room, and you handed them the problem before they'd identified it." A pause. "I don't think you know what that is."
"It was the right call."
"I know it was the right call," Carter says, with a patience that suggests he's been waiting to say this for some time. "That's exactly my point. You knew it was the right call, and you made it anyway. You made it knowing what it meant. You sat in that briefing room, you were clear, and you were honest, and you took the reassignment without—" He pauses. "You were very clean about it. And I don't think you've given yourself any credit for that."
Steve doesn't say anything. He chews the inside of his cheek raw. He’s been doing it since way before Barcelona.
"She asked for your location," Carter says again.
"I know."
"She has an address in Kensington that she's had for six weeks."
"I know."
"And she hasn't—"
"I know," Steve says. "Carter."
"Right," Carter says. And then, simply: "Get some sleep."
He hangs up.
Steve stands in the kitchen of the Kensington flat in the fourth week and looks at the cold tea on the counter. He thinks about an address being kept for six weeks unused. He thinks about what it means to hold something and not act on it — not because you don't want to, but because you're still figuring out what acting on it would mean.
He thinks about this for longer than he should, standing in a kitchen at eight-thirty in the evening. Then he pours the tea down the drain, picks up his phone and puts it face down on the table, and goes to bed.
He doesn't sleep for a long time.
He knows the shape of that, too, by now. The specific texture of the Kensington ceiling in the dark, the ambient sound of the street below, the way the night stretches out when there's something underneath it you're not looking at directly.
He looks at the ceiling. He thinks, getting there. He thinks about what it looks like when you reach it.
Eventually, he sleeps.
—
You're not sure what you're looking for when you open your messages app — probably nothing, probably just the insomniac phone habit of scrolling through the recent conversations looking for something to rest your brain on — and then his name is there, and you stop.
You haven't deleted the thread.
You've thought about deleting it several times. The last message in it is from June, a week before Barcelona, something practical and logistical about a schedule change, and you've thought about deleting the whole thing because having his name sitting in your phone is its own particular ongoing thing that you've been managing alongside everything else.
You didn't delete it. You're looking at it now. It’s been six months.
And then, because your thumb is moving before your brain has fully weighed in, you tap on the text field, and the drafts folder opens — the messages app's automatic archive of things typed and not sent — and there they are.
Eleven of them.
You didn't know there were that many. You knew there were some. You'd typed things and then not sent them, and apparently, the app had been more diligent about preservation than you'd been about erasure.
You read them in order.
August 31st Steve I don't know if you've been told I asked for your address but I want you to know I'm not going to do anything with it. I just needed to know where you were.
September 4th The new detail lead is fine. He's good at his job. I just wanted you to know that I'm not comparing. I just wanted to say something to someone and you're the person I wanted to say it to, which is its own problem I'm working on.
September 13th I found out from my father that you flagged it yourself. I don't know if I'm angry about it or not. I think I understand it.
Novmember 25th Are you okay? I know you don't owe me an answer and I know Carter would have told me if something had happened but I still think about asking. I still think about whether anyone is asking you that.
December 11th I had a bad night. Nothing happened, I'm fine, I just wanted to tell someone and you were the person I reached for and then I remembered.
December 19th I'm not scared of you. I want you to know that. I was, for a little while, and I've thought about it a lot, and I'm not anymore. I don't know if it matters to you. I just wanted to say it somewhere.
January 2nd Happy new year.
January 9th I've been thinking about the dinner. The restaurant in Barcelona. The way you ordered for me because you knew I wasn't going to be able to read the menu properly. I didn't say thank you for that at the time and I've been thinking about it.
January 14th I think you made the right call about the reassignment. I think you were right and I think you did it for me and I've been trying to figure out how to feel about that for three months. I don't have an answer yet.
January 21st Do you ever think about Portugal? I know it was a cover story. I know we made it up. I just—
This one ends there.
February 4th I miss you. I've been not saying that for six months. I miss you and I don't know what to do about it and I'm still not sure I would know what to do if I were standing in front of you but I think I'd like the chance to find out.
You put your phone face-down on the nightstand. You look at the ceiling of your room, which is the ceiling you've been looking at for months, which knows everything you've been thinking at eleven o'clock at night since July.
You pick the phone back up. You look at the last one.
I miss you. I've been not saying that for six months.
Your thumb hovers over the send button for a long time. You put the phone down. You don't send it. But you don't delete it either.
—
You're in your room at the estate at half past nine in the evening, when the house has settled into its nighttime quiet, and the only sounds are the ones the building makes to itself. You're reading a book, but not really. The grounds are dark beyond your bay window, the fountain off for the winter, the garden doing its bare and quiet thing.
Your phone rings. Unknown number.
You look at it for two full rings. Unknown numbers have a different quality now — they carry a low-level wariness that wasn't there before Barcelona, before you understood what it means to have your movements tracked by someone you didn't know was watching.
You pick up anyway. You always pick up.
"It's me," he says.
Everything goes still. The hum of your humidifier. The crackle of the candle beside you. The soft tick of the clock on the wall. All of it continues. None of it matters.
Your hand tightens around the phone, and you let the silence hold for a moment because the specific fact of his voice — just his voice, at half past nine on a Tuesday, through a phone you nearly didn't answer — does something immediate and physical to the centre of your chest that you weren’t prepared for.
Six months. Six months of his name sitting in your messages app, eleven unsent drafts, the address in Kensington that you've looked at more times than you've admitted to yourself.
And now just: it's me. Like, no time has passed. Like, six months haven't been six months.
"I know it's late," he says, into your silence.
You find your voice from somewhere. "When did you get a new number?"
It's not the question you meant to ask. It's the one that comes out, the deflective practical one, the one that gives you a second to locate yourself before anything more loaded has to leave your mouth.
"New phone," he says. "Since January."
"Right." You swing your legs over the edge of your bed and stare at your socks. At the little sheep. "Why are you calling?" It’s not an abrupt question, but you wouldn’t mind if it came across that way.
A pause. Not long. The kind he uses when he's choosing words carefully rather than when he doesn't have them.
"I've been trying to figure out the right time," he says. "And I've decided I've been using that as an excuse. There isn't a right time. There's just time."
You don't say anything immediately.
You press your free hand flat against your bed and screw the sheet in your hands, and let yourself think for a second before you speak, because the temptation is to say something that sounds fine, something that keeps the surface of things managed and level. You've been doing that for months, and you're tired of it, and also, you're still not entirely sure what you want the alternative to be.
"Okay," you say, and even you can hear that it isn't quite okay, that it's the sound of someone not ready to give more than that yet.
You’re sure he hears it, too. "Are you—" he starts.
"Don't ask me if I'm okay," you say. Quickly. Before he can land the question cleanly and require you to answer it honestly in your bedroom at half past nine on a Tuesday.
"Okay," he says quietly. And then: "I wasn't going to ask that."
"What were you going to ask?"
"How you are," he says. "Which is different."
You look at the mirror across from you on the far wall. At your own reflection in it. "Getting there," you say finally.
The silence that follows has a different texture from the first one. Less the silence of shock, more the silence of two people in the same held breath from different places.
"I've been better," he says, after a moment, and it's quiet and undefended when he says it, which is what makes it land the way it does. "The job is fine. Everything else is—" A pause. "It's been a long few months."
You close your eyes briefly.
It would be easier if he were fine. It would be easier if you could maintain the careful distance you've built by being angry at him, or afraid of him, or uncertain enough that staying away felt like the obvious choice. But he says it's been a long few months in a voice that has something stripped out of it, and you can't locate the distance you're supposed to be maintaining.
"I know," you say, and hear how much you mean it.
"I thought about calling a lot," he says.
"I drafted texts," you say. "Eleven of them. I didn't send any."
Something changes in the quality of his silence.
"What did they say?" he asks. Careful. Like the question might be too much and he's bracing for you to say so.
You could deflect. You know how to deflect. You've been deflecting for months with some proficiency, and it would be easy now, easier than saying it out loud, easier than handing something to him you've been keeping to yourself since July.
"Different things," you say. "On different nights."
He waits.
And maybe it's the hour, or the darkness outside, or the fact that it's been so long and the drafts are still sitting in your phone unsent and it is very late to still be holding all of this alone — or maybe it's just him, on the other end of the phone, waiting without pushing, which is the thing he has always done that you have never been able to fully close yourself to.
"December third," you say. "I asked if you were okay. I said I know you don't owe me an answer. I said I think about whether anyone is asking you that."
The silence stretches. Too long for your liking.
"Nobody was," he says. The words come out very level and very controlled and don't quite hide what's underneath them. "Nobody was asking me that."
Something in your chest pulls tight. A hollow thump that stretches up into your throat. Like a pebble stuck in a stream.
"I know," you say.
Which is worse, somehow, than if you hadn't known. Knowing and not sending it anyway. Knowing and choosing the distance because the distance felt safer than what might happen if you closed it.
"February fourth," you say, before you can think better of it. "I wrote that I miss you. That I'd not been saying it and didn't know what to do about it." A pause. You press your palm harder against the bed. "And that I still wasn't sure what I would do if I were standing in front of you. But I thought I'd like the chance to find out."
"Yeah?" he says, and the word is very quiet and very steady, but you can hear everything underneath it, the not-calling and the new number, and there's no right time, there's just time.
"I don't know what that means yet," you say, quickly, because you need him to understand that. You need the acknowledgement to not be more than it is. "I'm not — I'm not saying everything is fine. It's not fine. There are still things I haven't worked out, and I don't want to pretend I have."
"I'm not asking you to pretend," he says.
"I know," you say, and you do know, which is the problem. He has never once asked you to pretend.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
Your jaw tightens slightly. You wish you could see his face. Or maybe not. No, you want to see his face, and his stupid eyes, you want to look past his face and up into his hair because you can’t look him in the eyes. You wish he could be here, making you nervous. He’s so tall.
"Depends on the something."
"The step back," he says.
There it is. Your breath goes out slowly through your nose. "What about it?"
"I've thought about it every day since then," he says. "Not with—" He stops. Starts again. "Not with any expectation attached to it. I just want to know if you've been able to make sense of it."
You think about the drafts. About December nineteenth — I'm not scared of you. I want you to know that. I was, for a little while. About the months of turning it over, looking at it from every angle available, arriving at something that feels like the truth, even if it doesn't feel like a resolution.
"I think," you say slowly, "that my body decided before I did. About something it didn't have context for." You pause. "If I'd known. If you'd told me what you'd been carrying all week, what I was actually seeing when you—" You stop. "I think the step back would have been smaller. Or not there."
"That's generous," he says.
"It's honest," you say. "There's a difference." And then, because you're tired and it's late and the tea on your bedside table is cold and you've been holding this particular thing for months: "I'm not scared of you, Steve. I was. I'm not anymore."
The silence that follows is long enough that you almost say something into it just to fill it, except you've learned, over the eight months of proximity, that some of Steve's silences don't need filling.
"I know I should have told you," he says eventually. "Earlier. About the threat. I've gone over it enough times to understand that the calculation I made was wrong in ways I didn't see clearly at the time."
"You were scared," you say.
"Yes."
"Of what would happen to me."
"Yes." A beat. "And of what knowing would do to the — to how things were between us. Before Barcelona. I told myself that was tactical. It wasn't only tactical."
There it is. The thing underneath the professional explanation, the thing that's harder to say and that he's saying anyway.
You sit there with it.
"I know," you say. "I think I've known that for a while."
"I'm sorry," he says. "I want to say that clearly. Not as a professional apology. As the actual one."
Something inside you that has been holding itself carefully for so long shifts slightly. Acknowledges the weight of it being said.
"I know you are," you say.
"That's not the same as it being enough," he says.
"No," you agree. "It's not. But it's something."
The house is very quiet around you. It’s dark and cold, and the night is going on without you, indifferent and ongoing, the way nights do.
"I should let you sleep," he says, after a while.
"Probably," you say, though you both know you won't.
"I just wanted to—" He stops. You hear him make the small sound he makes when he's choosing between things. "I wanted to hear your voice. That's all."
You close your eyes for one second. You nibble your lip between your teeth, and you worry it might split. You don’t think you have it in you to care. You let it go and absentmindedly decide to pick at the skin around your thumbnail instead.
"Okay," you say, and this time it doesn't sound like the managed version. It sounds like what it is.
"Okay," he says.
A pause.
"Goodnight," he says.
"Goodnight," you say.
He hangs up.
—
He doesn't call again.
You tell yourself this is fine. The call happened, things were said that needed saying, the line between you has been reopened if not fully repaired, and that is — that is something. That is more than you had in January. You hold this in both hands and try to let it be enough.
It almost is.
On a Wednesday in March, you're in the estate's sitting room with a book you've been reading for two weeks without making meaningful progress, the late afternoon light doing its grey winter thing through the tall windows, when you hear tyres on the gravel.
You don't look up immediately. There are always cars at the estate — Amelia, deliveries, the occasional meeting your father has here rather than at the office. The sound of tyres on gravel is not, in itself, interesting.
Then the car stops.
And there's a pause — a pause where you're not sure if a car has stopped to turn around or stopped because it has arrived — and then a door, and then footsteps on the stone path toward the front entrance.
Amelia would ring the bell. The delivery services use the service entrance. Your father's associates tend to arrive in twos.
You put your book down.
The doorbell doesn't ring. There's a knock instead — three, measured, unhurried. Something in the quality of it reaches you across the hallway before you've even stood up.
You know that knock, and you hate that you do. You stand up. You cross the hallway. You open the front door.
He's standing on the step with his hands in his coat pockets — the dark coat, the one that isn't the work overcoat, the one that belongs to the version of him that exists outside of professional contexts — and he looks at you when the door opens the way he has always looked at you, the immediate, automatic thing that has never once required a run-up.
For a moment, neither of you says anything.
The February air is cold around him. The drive behind him is empty except for his car — a rental, you notice, not the company vehicle, not anything that belongs to the security firm — and the afternoon light is low and grey and doing nothing to help anyone look their best, and he looks tired in the accumulated way, the way that lives in someone's shoulders rather than their eyes, and he’s here.
He is just here.
Without telling you.
Without giving you a chance to prepare for it, or to talk yourself out of opening the door, or to manage the first moment of seeing him into something more controlled than what is currently happening on your face.
"Hi," he says.
You look at him.
You look at him, and you don't say anything for a second because you're busy doing the thing you're always doing with him, the thing where you have to catch up to yourself, find the gap between where you are and where you were a moment ago and figure out what happened in it.
"You didn't call," you say.
"No," he says.
"You could have called. You had the number."
"I know."
"So why didn't you?"
"Because you would have had time to decide not to let me through the gate," he says simply. Just the truth of it. "And I didn't want to give you that chance. Not because I think you should have to see me. Because I think you'd have talked yourself out of it and then regretted it."
Your jaw shifts. He's right. You hate that he's right. You stand there in your doorway and feel the truth of it settle in your chest and hate it thoroughly.
"That's presumptuous," you say.
"Yes," he agrees.
"You drove all the way from Kensington on the presumption that I'd open the door."
"I drove all the way from Kensington," he says, "because I've been trying to find the right way to do this, and there isn't one. And I decided showing up was better than another night of not showing up."
He doesn't fidget. He just stands on your doorstep in his coat, lets you look at him and waits. He's always been very good at waiting. It’s always been one of the most difficult things about him.
"Come in," you say finally.
Something in his face does something small that he doesn't try to manage. He steps through the door, and you step back to let him pass, and close it behind him. The house swallows the sound of it, and you stand in the hallway together for the first time since Barcelona.
He looks around the hallway briefly. You think it’s a security sweep, there’s probably a part of him that is, but you think he’s adjusting to being back in this house. You see it settle in his chest. He takes a breath in and holds it for a second.
"How long are you planning to stay?" you say, arms folded, leaning against the opposite wall.
"As long as you'll let me," he says. "I'm not making assumptions about that."
"Good," you say. "Don't."
He nods once.
You unfold your arms, push off the wall, and turn toward the kitchen because the kitchen is where everything happens in this house, because you need something to do with your hands, and because standing in the hallway staring at each other is not going to get any easier the longer you do it.
"Coffee," you say over your shoulder. "And then you can explain yourself."
"I wasn't aware I needed to explain myself."
"You showed up at my house without calling," you say. "That's an explanation situation."
"Fair," he says, and follows you.
He sits at the island.
He sits where he used to sit, the specific stool at the specific angle, and you're struck for a moment by how completely this kitchen absorbed him — how he became part of the geometry of it without either of you deciding that was happening, until the shape of him in that spot became something you knew without thinking about it.
You fill the kettle, find the coffee and do the small procedural things of making it, which buys you some time and gives you something to look at other than him.
"The call," he says, after a moment. "Tuesday. I didn't plan it the way it came out."
"Which part?" you ask, not turning around.
"Any of it." A pause. "I've been running conversations in my head for some time. None of them went the way Tuesday went."
"What did the ones in your head go like?"
"More controlled," he says. "Better arguments. Better sequencing." Another pause. "Tuesday was none of those things."
You turn around with both mugs. You set it in front of him. You stay on your side of the counter and wrap both hands around your own, and look at him.
"I just wanted to hear your voice," you say.
He looks at you.
"That's what you said," you say. "At the end. Before you hung up. You said it like you hadn't planned to."
"I hadn't," he says.
You look at him across the counter in the dull afternoon light.
There are things you've prepared for this conversation — things you've been holding in reserve since, the ones that needed saying in a room rather than a text draft, the ones that deserve to be said out loud to his face rather than to the ceiling at eleven o'clock at night. And you intend to say them. You intend to be very clear about several things.
But first:
"Nobody was asking if you were okay," you say. "That's what you also said on Tuesday."
His jaw tightens slightly. "It's not—" He stops. "Carter. Occasionally. But not — not the way you mean."
"Not the actual question," you say.
"Not the actual question," he confirms.
You look at him. At the tiredness sitting in the accumulated way through his shoulders. At the lines of his face which know you and have always known you, which you have spent months and too many unsent messages trying to reconcile with the face you saw on a Barcelona pavement doing something you hadn't known he was capable of.
"Are you okay?" you ask.
He meets your eyes. "No," he says. "Not particularly."
"Okay," you say.
"Are you?" he asks.
You think about the question. Actually, think about it, the way you haven't let yourself for months, the way the real answer has been sitting underneath the getting there and the I'm managing like sediment.
"No," you say. "Not entirely."
Something in him exhales. You feel it, the small release of something that had been held too tight.
"The step back," he says, after a moment. "On the pavement in Barcelona. I've been—" He stops. "I need to know if you're still—"
"I'm not scared of you," you say, before he can finish the question, because you've been holding that particular thing in, and he deserves to hear it before anything else. "I was. For a while. I'm not anymore."
He waits. His hands tighten around his mug, and his knuckles almost turn white. The steam curls up his arms and disappears into the air. He hasn’t looked away from you since you sat down.
"I'm still angry," you say, and your voice stays even when you say it, which takes some effort because it's true, and has been true since the hospital. It’s been sitting underneath everything else. "I know you had reasons. I know they were real, and I know you thought you were doing the right thing. I'm still angry that I walked around another country, not knowing someone was following me. I'm still angry that you decided on what I could handle without asking me."
"Yes," he says. There’s nothing defensive about it, and you appreciate it.
"And I'm angry," you say again, quieter now, "that you removed yourself. That you sat in that room, flagged it and accepted the reassignment and didn't — " You stop. Regroup. "I understand it. I've thought about it from every angle, and I understand the logic of it. But the part of it that was about me, the part where you decided the safest thing for me was to not be there, and you made that decision alone — I'm still angry about that too."
"I know," he says.
"You don't get to make that call for me," you say. "I needed to say that to you in person."
"I know," he says again. "You're right. I should have—" He stops. "There's no version of how I handled this that I'm fully satisfied with. All of it was made with one idea in mind, and I got the execution wrong in several directions."
"What was the idea?" you ask.
"Keeping you safe," he says.
"From him."
"From everything," he says, and it's quiet enough that it takes you a second to hear the full weight of what it covers.
You stand there with it. The kitchen is warm. The coffee is cooling in your hands.
"The sitting room has better light," you say.
He blinks. The tiniest fraction of something that might have been tension leaves his shoulders.
"Okay," he says.
"We can talk there," you say. "Properly. I meant what I said — I'm not promising anything, and there are still things I need to say. But—" You look at him. "You're here. So we might as well talk."
"Yeah," he says, and stands up from the stool.
You lead him out of the kitchen, down the hallway and into the sitting room. You sit. He sits across from you.
And there, in the room with the better light, with forever between you that are neither forgiven nor forgotten but that you have both carried here and are finally, carefully, beginning to put down in the same place at the same time
You start to talk. Really talk.
The kind that takes the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening, and that ends not with anything resolved but with something opened, something that had been sealed against itself for four months finally given air.
When he eventually stands to leave, it’s completely dark outside.
He stands in the hallway the way he stood on the step three hours ago, hands in his coat pockets, looking at you with the look that has always been specifically yours and that months of absence haven't changed the quality of one bit.
"I'll call," he says. "Before I come next time."
"Next time," you say.
"If there is one," he says carefully.
"Call first," you say.
The corner of his mouth moves. "Okay," he says.
He leaves.
You stand in the hallway after the door closes and listen to his car on the gravel, and then the silence of the estate settles back around the space he occupied, and you stand there for a while in the quiet and let the evening be what it is.
—
The call doesn't come.
Not the day after he leaves the estate, which you'd half-expected and half-dreaded in equal measure. Not the day after that, which you'd spent doing things with the concentrated attention of someone deliberately not checking their phone. By the end of the first week, you'd gotten through with some dignity. By the middle of the second week, which had started to feel less like patience and more like slow frustration, like waiting for a thing to happen and watching it not happen.
By the third week, you've stopped telling yourself you're waiting.
You're not waiting. You don't wait. You have a life and a schedule and work that needs doing and friends who call and a house full of the quiet machinery of your own existence, and you are not sitting by the phone like some relic of a century with fewer communication options. You are living your life. The phone is simply also present while you live it.
And then on a Thursday evening at six o'clock, you're standing in the kitchen eating crackers over the sink because you forgot to eat lunch and the address in Kensington has been sitting in your phone since November, and you put the crackers down and pick up your keys.
It's not a decision, exactly. It's the end of a decision that's been made for three weeks without your full participation.
You're in the car before you've thought about what you're going to say when he opens the door.
The drive is forty minutes in the Thursday evening traffic.
You spend most of it not thinking about what you're doing, which requires some effort, and the remainder thinking about it in the abstract rather than the specific. The fact of going, not the thing you'll say when you get there.
You've learned, at some point in the last few months, that planning what to say to Steve Harrington is largely a waste of time because conversations with him rarely go the direction you've planned them in, and by the time you reach the right street in Kensington it's almost seven and the evening is blue and cold, and you've found a parking space and you're getting out of the car and that's that.
The building is a converted Victorian terrace, red brick, the kind that looks expensive without trying. Third floor, the address said. You find the buzzer panel in the small lobby and press the right number.
It takes long enough that you start to think about what you'll do if he isn't there — whether you'll wait in the car, whether you'll leave, whether you'll text I'm outside your building, I know— and then the intercom crackles.
"Yeah," he says.
"It's me," you say.
A pause. Not a long one. The door buzzes open.
He's waiting in the doorway of the flat when you come off the landing. Third floor, last door, and he's standing there with his arms loosely folded and his shoulder against the door frame. He's wearing a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, not the suit, not the overcoat, not any version of the professional armour you've seen him in for those eight months — and he's looking at you with an expression that is not shocked.
Not shocked at all, actually. More like someone whose calculation has just come back confirmed.
"You said you'd call," you say, stopping a few feet away.
"I was going to," he says.
"When?"
"Soon."
"That's not a specific time, Steve."
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
"You drove all the way from Kensington without calling," you say. "Three weeks ago. And then I've been waiting for a call that apparently was coming soon, which—"
"So you drove all the way from the estate without calling," he says.
"I learned from the best."
The corner of his mouth moves. He unfolds his arms.
"Come in," he says, stepping back from the door.
The flat is smaller than you'd imagined.
There's a sitting room and a kitchen that's separate from it, a hallway with two other doors, a window in the sitting room that looks over the street below. But smaller than the estate, smaller than anything you associate with Steve's presence, which tends to make spaces feel larger rather than smaller.
Here, the walls are close, and the furniture is the particular style of furnished rentals — inoffensive, mid-range, slightly too beige — and there are signs of him layered over the top of it in the way you layer yourself into a space you haven't fully committed to.
A jacket over the back of the sofa. Running shoes by the door. Two mugs on the kitchen counter. A book on the arm of the chair.
And by the hall — a bag.
Partially unpacked. Sitting there with its zip half-open like it arrived and got partially dealt with, and then was left, which means it's been here for months still half-unpacked, which tells you something about the degree to which Steve has committed to this space.
He hasn't. He's been here without quite being here, which is its own kind of thing to notice.
"Tea?" he says, from the kitchen doorway.
"Wine if you have it," you say.
"I have it," he says.
You sit on the sofa that isn't quite his sofa and look around the sitting room while he opens a bottle in the kitchen, and you think about all the times you've been in his professional space — your kitchen, your sitting room, cars, hotel rooms, terminals — and how different this is.
This is where he actually lives. This is the shape of his private life, the one that exists when nobody is watching, and it’s smaller and less settled than you expected, and for reasons you couldn't entirely articulate, it makes something in your chest loosen slightly toward him.
He comes back with two glasses and sits at the other end of the sofa, at the comfortable middle-distance of two people who have decided not to make a thing of proximity, and hands you yours.
"You could have called," he says.
"You could have called," you say.
"I know." He settles back against the sofa, easily like someone in their own space, which is the version of him you haven't seen much of — unguarded in the physical sense, taking up the room without calculating it. "I was drafting things."
"How many?"
He considers. "Not eleven."
"How many?"
"Four," he says. "Five, maybe. I deleted as I went."
"That's worse," you say. "At least mine are documented."
He looks at you sideways, and then something happens — a sound that is brief and low and surprised out of him, the beginning of a laugh that he doesn't quite finish — and it does something to the atmosphere in the room, that sound, because you don't have a lot of data points for Steve Harrington laughing.
You find that you want more of them.
"What did yours say?" you ask.
"Things I've already said in person," he says. "More or less."
"More or less."
"Some things were harder to say in person." He turns his glass in his hand. "I rewrote the same paragraph about the restaurant in Barcelona four times. The part where I ordered for you."
You look at him. "I wrote about that too," you say. "In January."
"I know. You told me."
"I didn't say thank you at the time," you say. "For that. I've been thinking about it."
He looks at you with a specifically quiet look, the one that receives things without making a production of it. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"I know I don't have to," you say. "I wanted to. In person."
He nods. Accepts it. Doesn't deflect it back the way people sometimes do when they're uncomfortable being thanked — he just takes it and lets it be, which is something you've always noticed about him, the way he receives things without either dismissing them or inflating them.
You sit in the small sitting room with your wine and the quality of an early Thursday evening, the street below doing its quiet business through the window, and you try to locate yourself inside the fact that you're here, in his flat, without the professional context for the first time since knowing him.
"This is strange," you say.
"Very," he says.
"Not bad strange," you say quickly.
"No," he agrees. "Just different. I keep waiting for something to require managing."
"I know." You look at him. "I keep waiting for you to boss me around"
He almost smiles. "Is it worse?" he asks. "Without the—" He makes a gesture that seems to mean all of it, the whole professional structure.
You think about it. "No," you say honestly. "I'm just recalibrating."
"Me too," he says.
The recalibrating takes the form of talking for the next hour in a way that starts carefully and gradually stops being careful.
It starts with the work things — both of your lives since July, the things that happened and can be described without being loaded. He tells you more about Hartley, who is exactly as professionally uneventful as advertised, and something about it makes him more specific than he was in the phone call, more willing to characterise, less restrained. He does an impression of Hartley explaining the merits of a particular kind of parking space, and it catches you completely off guard.
"You're funny," you say, like this is new information.
He looks at you. "I've always been funny."
"You've always been dry," you say. "That's not the same thing."
"It's a subset."
"I've never heard you do an impression before."
"You've never been in my flat before," he says. "Different context."
"So in professional contexts, you don't do impressions?"
"In professional contexts, I don't do a lot of things," he says.
There's something in it — the easy way he said it, the way it landed without weight, the fact that he's sitting here in his grey t-shirt doing impressions of his boring principal and making you laugh in his half-unpacked flat — that feels like a door opening. Ajar, enough to see through.
"Like what?" you say.
He considers this with the thoughtfulness he applies to most things, except tonight it doesn't have the controlled professional cast to it. "Laugh," he says. "At things that are actually funny rather than things that are politely funny." He tilts his head. "Tell people when they've said something that's landed."
"You do that?"
"Not at work." He takes a drink. "I notice a lot at work. I don't say most of it."
"Like what did you notice?" you ask. "That you didn't say."
He looks at you sideways. "Specifically?" he says.
"Specifically."
He looks at the window for a second. Then back. "The colour-coded tabs," he says. "You said, Oh my god when you saw them. I thought that was funny. I didn't let myself think it was funny for about four minutes because I was trying to brief you, and then I thought about it again, and I had to stop looking at you."
"I saw that," you say. "I thought you were annoyed."
"I was trying not to smile," he says. "Which in professional contexts looks identical to being annoyed."
You laugh. A proper one, the kind that arrives before you've curated it, and you watch him watch it happen with the attentiveness he's always had, except tonight it isn't managing attentiveness, it's just him. Paying attention to you because he wants to.
"The bathroom breaks," you say.
"Movement windows."
"You called my bathroom schedule a movement window."
"It's a more elegant term."
"It really isn't," you say, and he exhales through his nose, and his mouth does the full version of the thing it's been doing all evening, the actual smile, unhurried and slightly crooked and entirely directed at you, and you sit there with it for a second.
You're on your second glass of wine when it comes up.
Not because either of you planned it. It's the way conversations find the hard things when the room has gotten warm enough and late enough and safe enough — they circle and circle and then settle, just there suddenly, the way you become aware of a sound that's been in the background the whole time.
He'd been talking about something else — the Hartley placement, working in a low-risk environment after eight months of a very different one — and then he stops, mid-sentence, and looks at his glass.
"I owe you something," he says.
You swallow. "For what?"
"Barcelona," he says. "Specifically—" He pauses. Sets his glass down on the coffee table. "The street. What you saw."
The room goes slightly quieter around the word, the way rooms do.
You hadn't planned to have this conversation tonight. You'd thought, somewhere in the drive over, that it might take a few visits to get here, that you'd circle it the way you'd been circling everything before finally approaching. But he's sitting here on his sofa in his grey t-shirt, and he's put his glass down like he’s decided to say something, and you find you don't want to manage it away.
"Okay," you say.
He looks at you. "I scared you."
"Yes," you say. Simply. You’ve already told him this.
"I need to say sorry for that." He says it directly; the way he says things he means. "Not for what happened — I'm not sorry for stopping him. But for what it looked like. What I — how far it went."
You hold your wine glass and look at him and wait, because there's more, you can hear more underneath that, and you're not going to fill the space before he's had a chance to put it in.
"I don't—" He stops. Starts again more carefully. "That isn't who I am. In general. I need you to know that."
"I know that," you say.
"You watched me do something that night, and I'm aware of what it looked like from where you were standing. I don't want you to think I’m—" He seems to run out of the sentence. Picks up the glass again. Puts it back down.
"Steve," you say gently. "Tell me."
He exhales slowly through his nose. "I'm trained," he says. "I've done the courses, and I know the protocols. In professional situations, I apply those things in the right way. I don't over-extend. I stop when the threat is neutralised. That's how it's supposed to work, and that's how it works ninety-nine times out of a hundred."
"And the hundredth?" you ask.
"The hundredth is Barcelona," he says. "The hundredth is what happens when the threat isn't abstract." He looks at his hands, resting on his knees. "It's different when you're the person in the middle of it. When I saw what he'd done. When I saw your hand."
Your hand presses briefly, automatically, toward the place below your ribs.
He watches the gesture. Something in his jaw tightens.
"I stopped being the right me," he says. "I stopped running the protocol. It became something else, and I let it become something else for longer than I should have, and the three people who pulled me back are people whose job it was to pull me back, and I'm not proud of it."
"You were protecting me," you say.
"That's not a justification," he says, and he says it firmly, not at you but at the space between you, the way someone says something they've been saying to themselves repeatedly and have finally said out loud. "The fact that I was scared for you doesn't make it okay that I kept going past the point where I needed to. Those are two different things, and I've been trying not to confuse them."
"You've been thinking about this," you say.
"Since then," he says. "Most days."
"I didn't know you could be like that," you say.
You say it, and he receives it without flinching. "I know."
"I knew what the job required. I'd thought about it in a general way." You look at your glass. "I hadn't thought about what it actually looked like."
"No one's supposed to see it," he says. "That's the point, usually. You manage it before it gets to that stage." A pause. "Barcelona didn't give me that option. He was there before I'd fully understood he was there, and then your hand was—" He blinks. "I stopped being a professional."
"You became something else," you say.
"Yes," he says.
"Something more," you say, slowly, trying to find the right word. "More than just the job."
"You weren't just protecting a principal," you say. "You were— It was different because I'm different to you."
His jaw shifts and he can’t look at you. "Yes."
"And that's the part you couldn't calibrate."
"I've been in difficult situations. I've had principals I cared about in a professional sense. This was—" He stops again. He seems to keep running out of the sentence, which is unlike him, the man who chooses words with care and usually lands exactly where he means to. "You were hurt," he says finally. "I saw it. And everything else went."
You look at the careful, tired quality of his honesty. The way he's holding his own hands loosely on his knees, just sitting in what he's saying.
"Does it—" You choose the words. "Does it happen? In general. Is that something that—"
"No," he says, and it comes out certain. "No. In twelve years of doing this work, I have never lost control of a situation the way I lost control of that one. Not because I haven't been in dangerous situations. Because I've always been able to keep the distance." He looks at you steadily. "You are the variable, not the work."
"I'm the variable," you say.
"Yes," he says. “It became more difficult to maintain.”
"In general," you say. "Or specifically in Barcelona."
"Both," he says, and the honesty of it is simple and completely uncushioned.
Something you've been carrying since then — the fear-that-isn't-fear, the image of the narrow street, the three people it took, the way it had gone past the point of necessary — shifts very slightly.
You don't think it entirely vanishes. But it shifts, accommodated by the new information, fitted into the shape of a man who lost his control for a very specific reason and has been sitting with the knowledge of that without excusing it.
"Thank you," you say. "For saying it."
He looks slightly surprised. "I owe you more than—"
"You explained it without justifying it," you say. "Those are different things. You didn't tell me it was fine or that I shouldn't be bothered by it. You just told me what happened and took the responsibility for the part that went wrong." You look at him. "That matters."
He's quiet for a moment.
"I was terrified," he says, and it sounds like the truest version of several things at once. "When I saw your hand. When I understood what had happened. Everything I'd been trying to prevent for months had happened anyway and I—" He breathes. "I'm sorry. That's what I needed to say. I'm sorry for scaring you. Not for being there, not for any of the rest of it, but for the part where I lost the line, and you had to watch that."
"I know," you say.
"I mean it specifically," he says. "You specifically. Not as the principal. As the person you are."
"I know," you say again, and mean it differently this time.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," you say.
You reach over and put your hand over his. He turns his hand under yours and holds it.
Neither of you says anything.
After a moment, you both reach for your wine glasses, and the sitting room settles back into the easier register of the earlier part of the evening, and the conversation finds its way to other things, and that is the end of it.
"Have you eaten?" he says, later on.
"I had crackers," you say.
"Before you drove here?"
"Yes."
He gives you the look. "I have food," he says. "If you want."
"You don't have to cook," you say.
"I know I don't have to," he says.
"I can get something delivered—"
"I have pasta, and I have the ingredients for the sauce May makes," he says. "It takes twenty minutes. It's better than delivery."
"You cook?”
"I cook," he says, simply, like this isn't information that somehow feels revolutionary. "Less so when it's just me, but I cook."
"Less so when it's just you," you repeat.
"Cooking for one is an exercise," he says. "Everything is too much or not enough."
You follow him into the kitchen because there's nowhere else to go in the flat and because the kitchen is where things happen, and this seems like a thing that's happening.
The kitchen is small — smaller than the one at the estate, smaller than your kitchen at your flat, the closeness of a London kitchen that was designed for efficiency rather than comfort. There's a window above the sink that looks at a wall, which is a very London window, and the counter space is limited enough that when you sit on the only available surface — the small stretch of counter beside the fridge — and Steve moves around the kitchen getting things out of cupboards, you're closer together than you'd be in any other configuration.
He doesn't seem to mind.
More than that, he moves around you, reaches past you for the olive oil without asking you to move, hands you things to hold without explanation, and treats your presence in his kitchen with comfort.
"Hold that," he says, handing you a can of tomatoes.
"Am I helping?" you say.
"You're in the way," he says. "Which is adjacent."
"I can move—"
"Stay where you are," he says firmly, reaching past your shoulder to the spice rack, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, and your hand tightens slightly around the can of tomatoes.
He doesn't acknowledge it. He moves back to the stove.
"What's in May's sauce?" you ask.
"If I told you she'd lose her greatest leverage," he says.
"She doesn't know I exist."
He glances at you over his shoulder. "She knows you exist."
You smile at him. "You told her about me?"
"She asked about the assignment," he says, turning back to the pan. "I gave her information appropriate to what she asked."
"Which was?"
"Who the principal was." A pause. "And then she asked other things, and I gave her information appropriate to those, too."
"What other things?"
"Things I'm not going to tell you in my kitchen," he says, which is itself information, and you sit with it on the counter holding the can of tomatoes while he cooks and the kitchen smells of garlic and olive oil.
"I would like to know," you say.
"I know you would," he says.
"Steve."
"The sauce needs the tomatoes," he says.
You hand him the tomatoes.
—
You open a second bottle of wine because the first is finished, and this feels like a second-bottle evening. He tells you more about May, who sounds like the kind of person who would ask other things and receive the answers with absolute equanimity.
You tell him about Dana, who had made an observation in December about the kitchen feeling different since July, and had not pressed for an explanation, which you describe and which makes him do the sound again. The low brief one. The almost-laugh.
"You're doing it again," you say.
"Doing what?"
"The thing where you almost laugh but stop yourself."
He turns from the stove. "I'm not stopping myself."
"You are," you say. "You've done it three times tonight. You get almost there and then you—" You make a small gesture.
"Okay," he says. "Fine. What would you like me to do about it?"
"Just laugh," you say. "Like a person."
"I am laughing like a person."
"You're laughing like someone who was told at some point that laughing freely in a professional setting was wrong and never figured out how to turn that off."
He stares at you for a moment. Then, unhurriedly, he turns back to the stove.
"That is an extremely specific observation," he says.
"I have eight months of data," you say.
"And now you're analysing it."
"I've always been analysing it," you say. "I was just more subtle about it when you were my bodyguard."
He makes a sound then. The full version. Low and genuine and surprised by itself, the laugh that didn't get stopped in time, and it fills the small kitchen in a way that does something to you, hearing it — the warmth of a sound you've been waiting for without knowing you were waiting.
You smile at your wine glass. He doesn't see it.
Or if he does, he doesn't say anything, just turns back to the sauce, and you sit on the counter. The kitchen smells of garlic, and the evening has gotten properly dark outside the wall-window, and the flat is warm and small and full of the particular texture of this.
Dinner is at the kitchen table because the sitting room doesn't have one. It's a small table, the kind that technically seats two and practically seats one and a half — close, knees almost touching, the plates taking up most of the available surface.
The pasta is good.
Genuinely good, something made by someone who knows what they're doing and isn't showing off about it, and you tell him so, and he accepts it the way he accepts things, without deflecting.
"May's recipe?" you ask.
"Adapted," he says.
"What did you change?"
"More garlic," he says. "She goes light on the garlic. I've never understood it."
"More garlic is always correct," you say.
He looks at you with a warmth that is very simple and very present. "Yes," he says. "Exactly."
You eat and talk, and the talking is different from the talking in the sitting room — lighter, somehow, the food giving it something to organise around, a conversational structure that keeps it from getting too pointed in any one direction.
He listens to you talk absentmindedly with his fork in his hand and his eyes on you, and asks questions at exactly the right points, the questions that open things up rather than close them down.
He’s looking at you, and his eyes are sparkling, and he hasn’t taken a bite of his food in probably three minutes. You worry it’s going to go cold.
He reaches across the table.
Not for your hand — he reaches past your glass, straightens the salt shaker that's been sitting at a slight angle the whole meal, and retreats. A completely unnecessary adjustment to a salt shaker that wasn't causing anyone any problems.
You look at the salt shaker. You look at him.
"Was that necessary?" you say.
"It was crooked," he says, with perfect composure.
"It was off maybe a three-degree angle," you say.
"It was bothering me."
"Since when?"
"Since we sat down," he says. "I've been thinking about it."
"You've been thinking about the salt shaker?" you ask, in the tone of someone who doesn't believe a word of this.
"Among other things," he says, and the corner of his mouth is moving, and his eyes are doing the other thing, and you look at him across the small table in his small kitchen. The evening is full, and the pasta is great, and the wine is warm in your chest.
"Among other things," you say.
"Yes," he says.
You carry the plates to the sink.
He washes. You dry. This is the most domestic possible thing, and it happens without discussion, the natural division of two people who have been in proximity long enough to develop instincts about each other's preferences.
He washes efficiently, the way he does most things. You dry with the tea towel that was hanging over the oven handle, which is the obvious tea towel, and you stand side by side at the sink in the small kitchen, and it is the most ordinary thing and also somehow everything.
"You said you didn't know how to act without the boundaries," he says, after a while, handing you a plate.
"Earlier," you say. "Yes."
"Do you still not know?"
You take the plate and dry it and think about it. "I'm figuring it out," you say. "It's easier tonight than I expected."
"Why?"
"Because you're different here," you say. "You're—" You look for the words. "Less managed. You laugh. You have opinions about garlic and salt shakers, and you cook pasta. You did an impression of your principal that made me actually laugh, and you're—" You stop.
"I'm what?"
"More," you say. "You're just more. Of yourself. And I'm adjusting."
He hands you the last thing — a pan, still warm — and turns off the tap, leans against the counter beside the sink, close, the small kitchen putting you within arm's reach of each other naturally, without either of you navigating toward it.
"This is the part that's strange," he says. "For me."
"What part specifically?"
"The part where I don't have to—" He pauses. "Where I'm not upholding anything. Where talking to you doesn't have a function except talking to you." He looks sideways at you. "I've been thinking about how to be around you without the job, and I didn't know it would feel this much like—"
"Like what?"
"Like breathing," he says on an exhale. "Like something I don't have to think about."
You put the pan down on the counter.
You turn and look at him properly, half-facing him in the small kitchen with the tea towel still in your hands, and he's already looking at you, has been looking at you, and the distance between you is less than a foot and has been less than a foot for most of the last twenty minutes without either of you doing anything about it.
"Steve," you say.
"Yeah," he says.
"The salt shaker wasn't crooked," you say.
His mouth moves. "No," he says. "It wasn't."
"Okay," you say.
"Okay," he says.
He looks at your face. He does this with the quality he has — directly, the full attention, the thing that has always felt like more than looking. And then his hand comes up, and he tucks a piece of hair back from your face with two fingers, the lightest possible touch, and leaves his hand there at your jaw, warm and unhurried.
Your breath shifts.
"Is this okay?" he says.
"Yes," you say, and mean it.
He closes the distance.
It's not what you expect, and it's exactly what you expect — the same time, the same moment. It's quiet and deliberate, the way he does most things, no rush to it, his mouth against yours with patience like he’s thought about this for a long time and isn’t going to waste it by doing it quickly. His thumb traces a small, slow arc along your jaw. You drop the towel, and your hand finds the front of his shirt without deciding to.
He pulls back just slightly. Checks. The way he always checks.
You close the distance again.
This time it's softer and longer and his other hand finds your waist and you think, distantly, that this is what it was always going to feel like — inevitable like the way things that have been true for a long time and are only now being allowed to be true, just the particular rightness of two things that fit coming together after a long time of being kept apart.
When you finally separate, it's gradual.
You look at each other. You're still holding his shirt. He's still holding your jaw.
"Hi," you say.
Something does what it does on his face — the slow warm version, the full one, the one you've been cataloguing for months from what you'd once thought was a safe distance.
"Hi," he says.
Neither of you moves.
This seems to be a theme — the two of you in a room together, neither of you moving, some invisible current running between you that you'd both been pretending for months was something else. Professionalism. Circumstance. The natural intensity of a situation with high stakes. You'd been very creative about what you called it. You'd had to be.
His thumb is still moving. That small, slow arc. Like he's not aware he's doing it, or like he is and has decided he's done pretending he doesn't want to.
"Steve," you say, and then don't know what comes after it.
"I know," he says.
Which is the thing about him. He usually does.
You look at his face — properly, the way you've been careful not to, all these months. The line of his jaw. The particular steadiness in his eyes that you'd catalogued as professional once and then revised, quietly, to something else.
You don't say you're nervous. It seems important, for reasons you can't entirely articulate, not to say it. As if saying it will make it larger than it is. As if the shape of the evening will change if you admit out loud that your heart is doing something irregular against your ribs.
He sees it anyway.
He always sees it. That's his job — reading rooms, reading people, clocking the thing that's slightly off before it becomes a problem. You'd resented it sometimes, early on, the feeling of being legible to him when he remained so carefully, professionally unreadable. It had felt like an imbalance. It probably still is. But right now, with his hand at your jaw and his eyes on you in the quiet, you find you mind it less than you expected.
"You don't have to be nervous," he says, low and careful.
"I'm not nervous."
A beat. He doesn't argue. He looks at you very steadily and simply waits.
"I'm not," you say again, smaller.
"Okay," he says.
"I'm really not."
"Okay," he says again, the same way, the same tone, which means he is allowing you this completely and doesn’t believe a word of it, and something about that combination makes your chest ache in a way you're not prepared for.
"You always let me say something that isn't true and don't correct me."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens, maybe, though that's not quite the right word for it — it's more like the professional layer going briefly transparent, something underneath showing through. "It's not my job to correct you," he says. "Not about that."
"What is your job, then? Right now."
He looks at you for a moment. Then he says, quietly, "Making sure you're alright."
You look at him. You think about all the versions of that sentence you've heard from him. Stay close. Don't open the door. I've got you. All the iterations of the same basic thing, which is that he pays attention, and he’s careful, and he doesn’t let things go wrong if he can help it. You'd understood it as professional once. You'd understood it as dedication, as competence, as someone who takes their work seriously.
You understand it differently now.
"I'm alright," you say. And then, because it's true, and because the evening seems to have become the kind of evening where the truth is allowed: "I'm just — this is the first time."
He goes still. Not alarmed — more like recalibrating. "First time," he repeats, carefully.
"I mean — not—" You make a small, frustrated gesture. "The first time with you. First time this. First time any of this is — real. And I just—" You stop. Try again. "I've thought about it a lot. And I didn't know what it would actually feel like, and now I do, and it's—"
"A lot," he offers.
"Yeah." You exhale. "It's a lot."
He doesn't say anything for a moment. He just looks at you, and you let him, because you're tired of being careful about what you let him see. Then he moves his hand from your face — slowly, deliberately — and takes your hand instead, and just holds it. His hand is bigger than yours. Warm. Completely steady in a way that makes you aware, by contrast, of the slight tremor in your own fingers.
He notices. Of course he does. He doesn't say anything about it.
"Come here," he says instead.
His bedroom is the way you would have guessed, if you'd let yourself guess. Spare. Ordered. Nothing on the surfaces that doesn't need to be there. A single lamp on the nightstand, already on — the low, warm kind.
The bed is made with the corners tucked. There are no decorative pillows. There’s another book on the nightstand, face down, which is the most personal thing in the room and somehow the detail that stays with you.
He sits on the edge of the bed, looks up at you and waits.
The way he can hold a position, physical or otherwise, without it costing him anything. You've always found it slightly unnerving. Right now it's something else.
You sit beside him.
Not quite touching. Close.
Your hands are still loosely linked between you, resting on the mattress. You look at them — his hand around yours, his thumb not moving now — and you think about all the times you've been in proximity to him and pretended not to notice the proximity.
All the car rides. All the briefings. All the times he'd put a hand briefly at your back, guiding, and you'd catalogued the weight of it and told yourself it was nothing and known, on some level you didn't look at directly, that it wasn't.
"You're thinking very loudly," he says.
"I'm not."
"You are." Observational. "Your face does a specific thing."
"It does not."
"It does." He says it simply, not as a challenge. "It's not a bad thing. I like that I can tell."
You look at him. Something about the admission — small, unguarded — does something to the nervous thing in your chest. Rearranges it slightly.
"What does it look like?" you ask. "The specific thing."
He considers. "Like you're solving something," he says. "Working something out. You get a line here—" he reaches up and touches, very gently, the space between your brows— ", and you go a little still. And then whatever you were working out either resolves or you decide to leave it for later."
"You've been watching me for a long time," you say.
"Yeah," he says.
"I'm still nervous," you say.
You don't know why you say it. Maybe because the room is quiet enough to be honest in. Maybe because he's been honest, and it seems only fair. Maybe because you're tired of holding it, the pretending, the I'm fine, I'm not nervous, everything is normal, which has been the primary activity of the last several months.
He looks at you. Doesn't say I know, though he could, though he clearly does.
"It’s alright," he says instead. "You don't have to not be."
Something in your shoulders releases. A little. Almost involuntary.
He brings your linked hands up slowly and presses his mouth to your knuckles, a press, warm and deliberate, his eyes on yours the whole time — and holds it for a moment and then lowers your hands back down and doesn't let go.
"Nothing's going to go wrong," he says. "I'm not going anywhere. There's no rush." A pause. "We don't have to do anything."
"I want to," you say immediately.
Something in his expression shifts. "I know," he says. "I know you do. I want to be clear that you don't have to."
"I know I don't have to."
"I know you know." He says it gently, patient in the way he is about most things. "I'm just saying it so it's been said."
You look at him. The lamp. The book face-down on the nightstand. His hands, which you have thought about — you realise now, fully admit now — for considerably longer than you'd been willing to say.
"Okay," you say. "It's been said."
He almost smiles. "Okay."
You lean in first this time.
It feels different from the first time. This is quieter. More room in it. He makes a soft sound when your mouth meets his, and his hand comes up again to your face, to your jaw, that same place, and you understand that it's going to keep going back there, that it's where his hands want to be, and something about that knowledge settles warm in your sternum.
He kisses you slowly. With considerable patience. Like he's making good on something.
His other hand finds your waist, and then the small of your back, and draws you slightly closer without hurry, and you go, and you're still nervous, but it's different now — lighter, less like dread and more like the feeling of standing at the edge of something and choosing to step off.
You bring your hand up to the side of his neck and feel his pulse there, steady and unhurried, and yours is not steady and not unhurried, but he doesn't say anything about that.
He pulls back a fraction. Forehead almost against yours. Checking.
"Still okay?" Low. Private. Just for the room.
"Still okay," you say. Your voice comes out softer than you intend.
He kisses you again.
This one goes longer. He's unhurried — like it has more room in it than it usually does, like the space between seconds has expanded to fit something larger. You stop thinking about what you look like or what you're doing with your hands or whether you're doing this right.
You stop, somewhere in the middle of it, being nervous. Not because the nervousness resolves into something else but because it simply gets crowded out, the way noise gets crowded out when something takes your full attention.
His thumb is doing the thing again. The slow brush. You lean into it without deciding to.
He makes a quiet sound. Low and involuntary, almost. It catches you somewhere central, and you bring your hand up from his neck to the back of his head without thinking, and he tilts into it, just slightly, and you think — distantly, because you're not quite capable of full thoughts — that you have never had someone's complete attention like this. Not the professional kind. The other kind.
When you separate, it's slow again. It's always slow with him. The city is still outside. The lamp is still on. His forehead rests against yours and you stay there, breathing, his hand at your face and your fingers in the short hair at the base of his skull, and neither of you says anything for a moment.
"Okay," he says, eventually. The word seems to mean several things.
"Yeah," you say.
"You're still thinking," he says.
"Constantly," you say. "It's a problem I have."
"What are you thinking about?"
You consider lying, or deflecting, or making it a joke. You consider all of these things and then don't do any of them. "That this is real," you say. "I keep — I keep landing on that. That it's real."
He looks at you. Very steadily. "It's real," he confirms.
"I know."
"I've wanted—" He stops. Starts again, and you realise you've almost never heard him do that, restart a sentence, which means this one costs something. "I've wanted this for a long time," he says. "I want to make sure you know that. That this isn't—" A breath. "That I'm not going anywhere."
You look at him. The lamp. The book. His hands.
"Okay," you say.
"Okay?"
"I believe you," you say. Which is true. Which is maybe the most frightening thing about the evening — not the kissing, not the nervous thing, but how completely and without reservation you believe him.
He looks at you for a moment, and then he does something — a full smile, the warm, slow version, the one you've been cataloguing from what you'd once thought was a safe distance — and it turns out that being close to it is different from cataloguing it. It turns out it does something different when it's aimed at you from a foot away in a quiet room.
"Come here," he says again, quieter, and opens his arm. You shift so you’re in his lap, your legs over each side of his waist, and he leans against the wall behind him. He wraps around you and settles, and it's that easy, and somehow that's the part that gets you — how easy it is, how right, like this is where you've always been supposed to fit.
His chin rests on the top of your head. His breathing is even.
"Still nervous?" he asks.
You think about it honestly. "A little," you say. "Less."
"Less is good."
"Yeah."
Outside, the city does what it always does. The lamp casts the same light it was casting before, which feels strange — that the room looks the same when the room is entirely different. You’re aware of the weight of his arms, the warmth of him, the slow and steady rise and fall of his chest.
"Steve," you say.
"Mm."
"The book on your nightstand."
A pause. "What about it?"
"What is it?"
Another pause, slightly longer, which means he's deciding something. "History," he says. "Fairly dry. I like something that doesn't require a lot of—" He stops.
"Something you can put down," you supply.
"Yes." And then, quieter: "Usually."
You sit with that for a moment. The idea of him in this room in the evenings, picking up the dry history book and putting it down again. The version of him that exists when there's no job, no function, no professional frame. You've been trying not to think about that version for months. You let yourself think about it now.
"I have questions," you say.
"I know."
"About you. The—" You gesture vaguely. "Non-professional you."
"I know," he says again, and you can hear something in it, a warmth, a patience. "We have time."
It lands quietly. We have time. As if the evening is not a single event but a beginning. As if he is already past the question of whether there will be more evenings, has already folded it in as a given, is simply waiting for you to catch up.
You press a little closer. He adjusts his arm.
"Okay," you say, and you mean it the way he meant it — in the multiple-things sense. Yes, and I understand, and I think I believe that too, and I'm still nervous but less, and you can keep talking or we can be quiet, and either is fine.
He seems to understand all of it.
"Okay," he says back.
You stay there, in the quiet, in the particular rightness of things finally being allowed to be what they are — and you think that this is the part no one tells you about, the part after the moment, the soft and unhurried settling of two people figuring out what comes next.
You find, somewhat to your surprise, that you're not nervous anymore.
ruin the friendship
keys mckey x reader
summary: boundaries blur when real feelings get mixed up, and a comfortable office friendship with keys starts to shift into something far more dangerous; especially since his long term girlfriend works just down the hall.
warnings: smut +18 mdni, cursing, kissing, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, slight dry humping if you squint, cheating, angst.
wc: 8,5k
author's note: this is for my precious lil ani who gave me the idea, and as usual thanks to juana for proofreading my nonsense. lmao sorry if anyone was expecting more neighbour keys i wanted to change it up, this is just a one shot.
it didn't start as anything big. just a few shared laughs over a broken server branch and an inside joke or two that nobody else in the company understood.
at first, keys was just the brilliant programmer two desks down. the guy who would quietly slide a mug of coffee onto your desk when he saw you rubbing your eyes, never saying much, just giving you a quick nod before heading back to his own monitors.
your friendship was built in the quiet, empty spaces of the office. in the kitchen while waiting for the microwave to beep, or during those late hours of the night when everyone else had gone home, leaving only the two of you to decipher messy lines of code. you became his go-to partner for everything. you were the only person who could actually keep up with his chaotic, fast paced train of thought, taking his raw, unfinished ideas and making them sharper.
it was comfortable. it was easy. it was a harmless office friendship; or at least, that was the lie keys had spent the last six months telling himself.
the truth was much more complicated.
everyone at soonami offices knew keys and millie as the ultimate power couple. they were the genius duo who had built their careers side by side since college, their lives so deeply intertwined that the company practically treated them as a package deal. millie was smart, beautiful, and completely devoted to him. they shared an apartment and a decade's worth of memories. they were a done deal, a perfect algorithm.
but corporate logic didn't account for the way keys' chest would tighten every time you laughed at his stupid jokes. or explain why his fingers always lingered just a fraction of a second too long whenever he handed you a cup of coffee, or why he found himself checking his phone just hoping to see your name pop up on his screen.
over the months, the easy camaraderie had warped into something thick, heavy, and dangerous. the air in his cubicle always felt thirty degrees hotter the moment you leaned over his shoulder to look at his screen, your proximity driving him completely out of his mind.
he was supposed to be the perfect boyfriend, planning a bright future with millie.
you were his coworker, his friend, and the one person who made him want to tear down the perfect life he had spent years building.
the sun was shining through the high ceiling windows of the office common area. the blinding morning light, paired with the constant sound of typing, spinning office chairs, and the overlapping voices of everyone talking, were doing absolutely nothing to help your growing headache.
you checked the time again. the meeting was supposed to start ten minutes ago, yet hardly anyone had even arrived.
you were starting to dissociate, staring at some point on the wall, when you felt a sudden, familiar tap on your shoulder. right beside your face, a big, warm hand appeared, holding up a paper cup of coffee with your exact name scribbled messily on the side.
“here ya’ go,” keys said, flashing you a warm smile.
“what's this for?” you questioned, confused but grateful for the much needed caffeine.
“you sent me a text last night at 4 a.m. asking for the server login password because you locked yourself out again. i figured you stayed up late; therefore, you were going to be cranky this morning.”
“i am not cranky. and how would you know my mood when you just got here,” you tapped your phone screen to show the time, “and late.”
keys gave a smug smile, raising his eyebrow as if to say, ‘see? told you.’
“when someone gets you coffee, you are supposed to say thank you, you know.”
“oh thank you, my savior. what would i do without you,” you said mockingly, rolling your eyes and taking a sip. “how did you remember my order?”
he shrugged, his eyes lingering on yours a fraction of a second too long, tracing the tired lines under your eyes before dropping down to your lips. whatever comeback he had prepared was cut short by millie walking into the office, the click of her heels announcing her arrival before she smoothly greeted keys with a soft kiss on the cheek.
“hi, baby. did you see the text i sent you? you were supposed to look over the budget spreadsheets.”
keys shifted awkwardly, the easy, relaxed posture he had just a second ago instantly vanishing as his shoulders squared up. he cleared his throat, deliberately avoiding your eyes as he looked up at his girlfriend.
“oh, hey, mills,” keys mumbled, his hand instinctively coming up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous habit you knew all too well. “uh, yeah, sorry. my phone was on silent during the drive. i’ll look at it right now.”
millie smiled, completely oblivious, and rested her hand on his shoulder. “perfect. don't forget, okay? anyway, let's get this meeting started. i want to leave early today.”
as everyone finally trickled into the conference room, you deliberately took a seat on the opposite side of the long glass table, trying to put as much distance between you and keys as possible. he sat directly across from you, with millie right by his side, her laptop open as she took the lead on the presentation.
it was a standard corporate update, but your headache made it feel like torture. you took a slow sip of the coffee keys had bought you, keeping your eyes on your notebook.
then, the project manager started droning on about a budget issue that you and keys had literally fixed two days ago.
you couldn't help it. you looked up.
keys was already staring at you. the moment your eyes met, he gave you a subtle, barely perceptible roll of his eyes, dropping his pen onto his notebook in a synchronized show of mutual exhaustion. a small, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your lips, and you quickly bit the inside of your cheek to hide it.
the project manager kept speaking, seamlessly presenting the slides while everyone nodded along, completely unaware of the silent conversation happening right across the table.
you saw keys' hand move beneath the edge of the glass surface, his thumb tapping quickly against his screen before setting it down.
a second later, your phone buzzed in your lap.
keys: if i have to hear one more bullet point from that slide be read word for word, im going to fake a medical emergency
you bit your lip so hard it hurt, trying to choke back a laugh. keeping your phone hidden under the table, your thumbs flew across the keyboard.
you: please do you: ill call 911 you: whats ur symptom?
you looked up just in time to see keys check his screen. his jaw tightened, a low, suppressed huff escaping his nose that he quickly disguised as a cough. millie glanced at him briefly, offering him a quick, sweet smile as she reached down to hand him a bottle of water. keys took it, murmuring a quiet thanks, but his focus immediately snapped back to you across the room. his eyes narrowed in a playful challenge.
keys: extreme boredom leading to cardiac arrest keys: u will have to give me cpr you: sorry, im not certified… you: ill just steal your coffee while ur down
across the table, keys let out a tiny, silent laugh, his shoulders shaking slightly. he didn't even look at his screen this time, his thumbs moving by pure muscle memory as he kept his eyes locked on you.
keys: cold blooded keys: and after i bought u your specific ridiculous order? keys: i see how it is.
you bit your lip, your heart doing a little dance as you tapped out your reply.
you: hey! you: i didnt ask u to buy it you: were u thinking of me that much…
the moment you hit send, you kept your eyes glued to him. you watched him look down at his lap. the playful smirk he had been sporting slowly vanished, replaced by a sudden stillness. his jaw set. when he looked back up across the table, the teasing, casual facade was entirely gone.
keys: maybe.
your breath hitched, your thumb freezing over the screen. you hadn't expected him to just admit it. not here. not with millie literally sitting right next to him, her hand casually brushing against his arm as she pointed at a graph on the projector screen.
a sudden wave of panic and intense self-consciousness washed over you. the playful bubble you had been in just popped, leaving you feeling exposed and incredibly guilty in the brightly lit room.
forcing your eyes away from his suffocating gaze, you hurriedly clicked the power button on your phone, turning the screen black. you flipped the device face down onto your thigh beneath the table, hiding it from view as if the text message could somehow be read by the rest of the room.
you cleared your throat softly, trying to shake the sudden flush creeping up your neck, and forced yourself to sit up straighter. clutching your pen tightly, you fixed your eyes firmly on the projector screen, nodding along to whatever budget metric someone was going on about. you didn't look back at keys as you did your absolute best to blend into the background, desperately pretending you were just another attentive employee.
“i told you, no matter which buttons i press, the characters keep getting stuck on the far wall. must be something with the colliders,” you said, throwing your hands up in pure frustration.
“it can't be,” keys replied from the desk directly across from yours, squinting at his dual monitors. “i already went over the physics a thousand times. there's gotta be something else we are not seeing.”
“i don't know about you, but this is not how i planned to spend my friday night.”
it was already late, and the only sounds left on the entire office floor were the hum of the servers and the frantic clicking coming out of your small cubicle. everyone else had clocked out long ago. now, you two were the only ones stupid enough to be working at 9 p.m. on a friday night.
“well, it's not like we have a choice,” keys said, groaning as he leaned back. “if we don't get this build done, antwan is going to kill us both on monday.”
“can we at least take a break? my eyes are burning and i don't even remember the last time i ate.”
keys sighed, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. the blue light of his screen caught the tired lines around his eyes. “yeah, alright. i’m hungry too. i can order something. pizza good for you?”
you nodded and stood up immediately to stretch your legs. “would it kill them to buy some fucking ergonomic chairs? jesus christ, my back is killing me,” you muttered, arching your spine and reaching your arms toward the ceiling.
keys chuckled, his eyes tracing the line of your body for a second before he quickly looked down at his phone. “they can’t do that, that would mean treating us as actual human beings. pizza should be here in twenty. meanwhile, can you show me the bug again?”
you walked back to your desk and sat down. keys followed, stepping into your cubicle to stand right behind your chair.
“see, i start walking, do a few jumps, then bamn, glued to the wall.” you turned around to face him, raising an eyebrow.
he leaned down, caging you against the desk. he placed one hand on the edge of your desk and the other on the armrest of your chair, his head now hovering right over your shoulder. he was entirely too close. you could smell the faint scent of mint and the coffee from earlier. you couldn't help but notice how his glasses were hanging low on the bridge of his nose, and his lips looked a bit dry, probably from chewing on them all afternoon.
“do that again,” he murmured.
“what?” you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry.
“do that again. i wanna see exactly which buttons you're pressing,” he jerked his chin toward the keyboard, his breath brushing against the side of your neck.
“right. um. i go this way, i turn around, and-”
keys suddenly burst out laughing, the heavy tension breaking instantly.
you frowned, completely confused. “what's wrong?”
“oh my god,” he stepped back, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “we forgot to enable that zone after the beta test. we've been stuck here all day for something so stupid. i can fix that in a minute.”
you leaned back into your seat, letting out a massive sigh of relief. “great. so we can go home now.”
“wait, the pizza is about to get here. shouldn't we at least eat it?”
“i don't know, you can just take it with you.”
“i’m not going to eat a full pizza by myself.”
“then take it and share it with millie?”
“right… millie”
you paused, noticing the sudden shift in his expression. his posture stiffened again.
“what? trouble in paradise?”
“no, i mean… we just kinda argued before she left today.”
the conversation was cut short by the sharp buzzing of the intercom downstairs. the delivery guy was here. keys gave a small, tight nod and turned to take the elevator down.
meanwhile, you started to tidy up your desk, shutting down your monitors and getting ready to finally leave.
when you were shoving your laptop into your bag, keys came back into the room holding a cardboard box. “you sure you don't wanna share?”
you wanted to say no. you knew you had to say no. but it was late, and you knew the refrigerator in your apartment was completely empty. staying meant free food, but it also meant more time alone with him in the dark. your stomach made a loud, rumbling sound, making the choice for you.
“fine, sure. but i can't sit on these chairs for a minute longer,” you said, walking toward the employee lounge where the comfortable breakroom couches were.
you led the way to the employee lounge, dropping your bag onto the floor and sinking into the big, plush couch in the corner. the dim, warm overhead lights of the lounge felt like heaven compared to the harsh fluorescent glow of your cubicle.
keys followed you in, setting the steaming pizza box down on the low coffee table in front of you before sitting right next to you. the couch dipped under his weight, shifting you just an inch closer to him than you anticipated.
“god, this is so much better,” you sighed, resting your head back against the cushions and closing your eyes for a brief second.
“told you,” keys said softly. you opened your eyes to find him already looking at you, his glasses off now, sitting on the table next to the box. without them, his eyes looked softer, tired, and entirely too focused on your face.
he opened the box, the rich scent of cheese filling the small room. he handed you a slice on a napkin, his fingers brushing against yours. his touch lingered for a fraction of a second, sending a quiet hum of static straight up your arm.
you both ate in silence for a few minutes, the initial awkwardness melting away into the easy comfort you always shared.
“sooo,” you started carefully, taking a small bite of your crust. “you and millie. do you want to talk about it?”
keys paused, staring down at his pizza slice. he let out a low, heavy sigh and leaned back, mimicking your posture. “it’s nothing new. just… the same old thing. she’s talking about moving into a bigger place closer to downtown, looking at floor plans, talking about the next five years. and i’m just…” he trailed off, his jaw tightening.
“and you’re not ready?” you asked softly, turning your head to look at him profile-side.
keys turned his head too. the distance between you felt incredibly small. “it’s not that i’m not ready. it’s that when she talks about the future, it feels like she’s reading from a script we wrote three years ago. and i don't think i want to play that character anymore.”
his voice was dangerously quiet. his eyes dropped to your lips, then traveled slowly back up to meet your gaze. there was an admission in his words, a confession beyond what he was letting on.
the silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with everything neither of you was brave enough to say out loud. keys' hand was resting on the cushion between you, just inches away from your thigh. you could feel the heat radiating from him.
you wanted to reach out. you wanted to close the gap.
but before either of you could move, keys suddenly blinked, as if snapping himself out of a trance. the heavy, intense look in his eyes instantly fractured. he looked away, clearing his throat and rubbing a hand over his face.
“anyway,” keys muttered, his voice suddenly tight as he stood up, abruptly cutting off the moment. “it's late. we should probably get out of here before they lock the garage.”
the cold air rushed into the space he left behind. you swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding quickly as you grabbed your bag. “right. yeah, let’s go.”
the neon lights of the bar were dim, casting a heavy, reddish glow over the crowded room. the bass from the speakers vibrated straight through the floorboards, mixing with the loud chatter of the soonami team celebrating the successful deployment of the new build.
you were leaning against the wooden counter of the bar, holding a half empty drink laughing at a story the lead designer was telling you.
keys was sitting at a large booth across the bar, surrounded by some of the project managers and corporate leads. millie was right beside him, her hand resting comfortably on his knee, laughing as she chatted with one of them.
since you got there, you couldn't help but fixate on the way they were always glued to each other. they always seemed to be too close somehow, even if it was something as small as touching shoulders or the familiar way she leaned her head against him.
you couldn't understand exactly why it was irking you so much. yet you couldn't take your eyes away from it, as if you could somehow force it to move by sheer willpower. the lead designer by your side kept talking non stop, but you weren't listening anymore. you were just nodding along mindlessly, letting his words turn into pure white noise.
what you didn't notice was that keys wasn't paying attention to his conversation either. his beer was gripped so tightly in his hand his knuckles were turning white. and every time you laughed, every time the guy leaned in closer to you, keys' jaw would tighten, his eyes narrowing as he tracked every single movement from across the dim bar.
when he laughed and casually placed a hand on your shoulder, keys abruptly stood up from the booth. millie blinked, looking up at him in surprise as her hand fell from his knee. “hey, where are you going?” she asked over the noise.
“just getting another drink, mills,” keys mumbled, his voice tight as he stepped out of the booth without waiting for her reply.
you noticed him moving toward the bar, and a sudden spike of adrenaline shot through your chest. needing to escape the sudden, suffocating shift in the air, you excused yourself from the designer and headed toward the quieter, narrow hallway near the back exits and the restrooms.
the hallway was poorly lit, the noise of the bar instantly muffling into a dull hum. you took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart, when a heavy shadow blocked the light from the entrance.
you turned around, your back pressing against the wallpapered wall as keys stepped into the narrow space, effectively cutting off your escape.
“are you having fun?” keys asked, his voice low.
you blinked, swallowing hard as you looked past his broad shoulders toward the main room.
“what are you doing here? millie is going to wonder where you are.”
“i don’t care about that right now,” he muttered, taking another step forward.
you could smell the faint scent of alcohol and the mint chewing gum. his glasses were reflecting the dim red light, his eyes dark and completely unblinking as they dropped down to your lips before locking back onto yours.
“what are you doing, keys? seriously,” you whispered, your hands flat against his chest to keep him from going any closer, though you could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his heart under your palms. “someone is going to see you.”
“i noticed you’ve had four drinks since we got here,” keys said, ignoring your warning completely, “and i noticed that guy from design hasn’t left your side once.”
you let out a shaky, defensive laugh, “he was just telling me a story. we were just talking.”
“he was hovering,” keys countered, his voice tight, laced with a quiet frustration. “he saw you were tipsy and he was entirely too close, he was looking for an excuse to put his hands on you.”
“keys, he was just being friendly,” you hissed back, your face starting to flush. you looked at his broad shoulders, then past him toward the entrance of the hallway, “and why do you even care? you don't get to monitor my drinks, and you definitely don't get to look after me like this.”
“someone has to,” keys said softly.
your breath hitched, your throat locking up.
“keys...” you whispered, your fingers involuntarily tightening against the fabric of his jacket. “stop. go back to the booth. millie is waiting for you.”
before either of you could move, the heavy door to the hallway creaked open, and the loud laugh of a coworker echoed into the space.
reality slammed back into the room. keys instantly stiffened, stepping back a full foot and running a hand through his hair as he looked away from you.
“uh, sorry,” the coworker muttered, passing by to the restrooms.
keys kept his back turned to you for a second, his shoulders tense as he let out a shaky breath. without looking back at you, he cleared his throat roughly.
“i’m going back outside,” he muttered, his voice cold and strained as he walked out of the hallway.
the storm had been brewing all afternoon, and by the time you finally packed up your things to leave the office, torrential rain slammed against the glass windows of the lobby, turning the streetlights outside into a blurry mess.
you stood near the glass exit doors, pulling your jacket tighter around your shoulders as you looked at your phone. the uber rates kept going up, and the app was unable to find a driver willing to drive through the downpour. you let out a defeated sigh, preparing yourself to just sprint through the freezing rain.
“hey.”
you jumped slightly, turning around to see keys walking up behind you. his laptop bag was slung over one shoulder, his hair was a little messy and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose.
“hey,” you murmured, your throat suddenly feeling tight.
keys looked past you, squinting at the sheet of water cascading off the building. “you’re not seriously going to walk in this, are you?”
“uber is completely dead,” you said, shrugging weakly and gesturing to your screen. “i don't really have a choice. my apartment isn't that far anyway.”
keys frowned, his jaw tightening slightly. he checked his phone, then looked back at you, a strange, tense conflict flitting across his features. you knew millie had left early today to go visit her parents for the weekend, leaving him with the apartment all to himself.
“i’ll drive you,” keys said, his voice dropping into that quiet, firm tone he used when he wasn't going to take no for an answer.
“keys, no, it’s fine, i can-”
“i’m not letting you walk through a storm at 10 p.m.,” he interrupted, stepping past you and pushing the glass door open. “come on, my car is right in the first row of the lot.”
the run to his car was a blur of freezing rain and splashing puddles. by the time you slammed the passenger door shut, both of you were breathless and damp, the sudden warmth of the vehicle's interior hitting your skin. the heavy thudding of the rain against the roof immediately isolated you from the rest of the world, wrapping the small cabin in a intimate silence.
keys started the engine, shifting the heater to high. the vents began to hum loudly, blowing warm air that instantly started to fog up the windows. he threw his bag into the back seat and ran a hand through his damp hair, shaking off the water.
“thanks,” you whispered, buckling your seatbelt and staring straight ahead at the blurred windshield.
“don't worry about it,” he muttered, his voice tight as he shifted the car into drive and slowly pulled out of the parking lot.
the first half of the drive was agonizingly quiet. the only sounds were the steady, rhythmic clicking of the windshield wipers and the heavy downpour outside. keys kept both hands tightly gripped on the steering wheel, his eyes focused entirely on the flooded road ahead.
“um, so… any big plans tonight?” you asked, trying to ease the tension.
“if you consider catching up on hours of sleep big plans,” he shrugged, a faint trace of his usual relaxed self peaking through the tight set of his jaw.
“wow, living on the edge, keys. don't party too hard,” you teased, leaning your head back against the headrest and turning to look at his profile.
he let out a low, dry chuckle, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror before settling back on the dark road. “hey, after dealing with antwan's erratic change of requirements all afternoon, a quiet bedroom and zero monitors is all i need. what about you? going to try and lock yourself out of the servers again?”
“that was one time,” you groaned, rolling your eyes but unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “and for your information, i plan on doing absolutely nothing. just eating leftover takeout and watching whatever trashy show is trending.”
“sounds fun,” he murmured, his tone finally softening, slipping back into that familiar, easy rhythm you two always had. he relaxed his grip on the wheel a fraction, the heavy silence from before completely melting away.
after a few more blocks and the easy back and forth, keys pulled up to the curb outside your apartment building, shifting the vehicle into park but keeping the engine running. the street outside was completely deserted, save for the soft glow of a single streetlight cutting through the sheet of rain.
the comfortable bubble you had just built suddenly popped, replaced instantly by a thick, suffocating weight. you turned your head to look at him, your heart starting to hammer violently against your ribs as you realized the drive was over.
“well... thank you for the ride, keys. i’ll see you on monday.”
you reached for the door handle, but before your fingers could even touch it, keys’ hand shot out across the console. his fingers wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm, warm, and slightly trembling.
you froze, your breath hitching.
“wait,” keys whispered, his voice rough.
you slowly turned your face back to him. he had turned his body in the driver's seat, his eyes dark, intense, and completely stripped of his usual composure. he looked desperate. his gaze dropped down to your lips, and you could see his chest rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.
“she called me before i left the office,” he muttered. “she wanted to check in. tell me about her drive. talk about that apartment downtown again.”
you swallowed hard, your chest aching at the familiar topic, you didn't need to ask who he was talking about, “and?”
“and i couldn't do it,” keys confessed, his thumb tracing a tiny, subconscious circle over the pulse point of your wrist. the raw honesty in his tone was suffocating. “i spent the whole phone call giving her one word answers because the only thing i could focus on was the fact that you were still on the fourth floor, and that it was pouring rain, and i couldn't let you walk home alone.”
“keys, don't-”
“i tried, alright?” he interrupted, his voice cracking slightly as he leaned closer. his free hand came up, his fingers brushing against your damp cheek, his touch so warm it made you shiver. “i’ve been trying for months to pretend like everything is fine, like things are still the same with her. but they’re not. she keeps leaving on the weekends… she leaves me alone in that apartment, and i don't even care because the only person i want to see, the only person i want to talk to... is you.”
you swallowed the lump in your throat, he looked so agonizingly torn.
“i’m so tired of pretending,” keys whispered, his face now inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin.
“keys...” you breathed, the sound of his name breaking whatever last shred of control he had left.
he let go of your wrist only to wrap both of his large hands around your jaw, pulling you fiercely towards him. his mouth crashed against yours with a desperate urgency that knocked the wind right out of your lungs.
the kiss was anything but gentle; you let out a soft, muffled whimper against his mouth, but you didn't pull away. instead, your fingers buried themselves into the collar of his damp jacket, anchoring him to you as his tongue parted your lips.
he groaned deep in his throat, a low, desperate sound that vibrated straight into your chest. his hands slid down from your jaw, his grip bruising as his fingers dug into your waist, lifting you effortlessly over the dividers of the center console. before your brain could register the shift, you were tangled entirely in his lap on the driver’s seat.
the space was impossibly tight. your knees framed his hips, your jacket rustling against his, and your back pressed hard against the steering wheel.
keys’ hands made his way under your sweater, his palms hot and slightly rough against the bare skin of your waist. he yanked you down flush against him, and you could feel the thick, hard length of his erection pressing tightly through his jeans right against your core.
the friction was agonizingly perfect. you shifted your hips instinctively, rolling against him to find a rhythm, and keys let out a choked, broken gasp into your neck. his teeth bit lightly at the sensitive skin right beneath your jaw, his hips rolling up to meet yours. the windows were entirely fogged now, completely blocking out the rain and the dark street.
but then, keys’ phone suddenly lit up in the cup holder right beside your leg.
the bright, glare of the screen cut through the darkness of the car. millie flashed in bold, white letters, accompanied by a picture of her smiling.
keys froze. his lips stopped moving against your neck, his chest heaving violently against yours.
for three agonizing seconds, the car was silent except for the heavy drumming of the rain and his ragged breathing. you looked down at him, your hands still tangled in his hair. he stared at the phone, then slowly looked up at you. his face was pale, his eyes wide behind his glasses. the realization of what he was doing slammed into him like ice water.
“oh god,” keys breathed, his voice cracking, looking physically sick with himself.
he immediately dropped his hands from your waist, his palms pressing against your shoulders to gently but firmly push you off his lap. his hands were shaking uncontrollably as he helped you navigate back over the center console and into your own seat, his breath coming in shallow, panicked hitches.
“keys...” you started, your voice trembling, your body shivering from the sudden loss of heat.
“i can't. i’m sorry, i- i can't,” he stammered, completely backing down. he wouldn't even look at you now, his eyes pinned to the steering wheel as he gripped it with white knuckles, his chest heaving. “you need to go. please. just... go.”
without saying another word and the sudden humiliation making your eyes sting, you grabbed your bag from the floor, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the pouring rain, slamming the car door shut behind you.
ever since that night, things had been incredibly strained between you two. you had both avoided each other’s eyes in meetings, reverting back to short, strictly professional emails.
you had even asked to change desks, using the lame excuse of some monitor not working properly. to admit it, you were a bit paranoid that keys had told millie what happened in the car. but a week had already passed, and nothing seemed to change in their dynamic. having moved to a completely different section of the office floor meant you barely even saw them anymore, and you were incredibly grateful for that. you needed the distance to breathe.
it was another stressful morning. you were trying to fix a code loop on the game that had been driving you crazy all day, your eyes straining against the screen, when you felt your phone vibrate against the desk.
keys: can u come down to the servers room
your heart did a sudden, nervous flip. you stared at the text before putting the phone back down, face down. you tried to convince yourself he had probably sent it to the wrong person. it had to be a mistake.
then, it buzzed again. twice.
keys: i need ur help with something keys: urgent
your thumbs hovered over the screen.
you: help with what? keys: just come here you: cant u ask someone else? you: im pretty busy rn keys: it will be quick keys: please
letting out a deep sigh, you finally stood up and headed toward the elevators. your hands were slightly clammy, and your mind was racing with every worst case scenario. you just wanted to get whatever this was over with, so you could go back to avoiding him in peace.
the server room was located in the basement of the building, a place nobody went unless something was seriously broken. you stepped inside, the metal door hadn't even closed properly when keys greeted you, slamming his palm against the heavy frame to trap you, backing you up against the hard surface and instantly guiding his lips to yours.
it was an all too familiar rhythm, fierce and desperate, crashing into you before you could even process what had just happened. the absolute shock of it held you frozen for a split second as his mouth moved against yours, hot and demanding. then, reality slammed back in, and you placed both hands firmly against his chest, shoving him off you.
“what the hell is wrong with you?!” you yelled, your voice echoing sharply in the room. you threw your hands up in the air, your chest heaving from the sudden burst of panic and anger.
keys didn't respond immediately. instead, he just stood there staring at you, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths. his dark hair was messy, and his eyes were wide, completely stripped of that cool composure he usually carried.
“what kind of sick game are you playing?” you demanded, the sting of how he had left you in the car a week ago fueling the fire in your throat.
“it's not a game,” keys said, his voice rough and incredibly low.
“then what the fuck is this?”
“i don't know,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, his fists clenching at his sides. “but it's not a game. i swear.”
“it feels like it,” you sighed in pure, exhausting frustration, rubbing a hand over your face before glaring back up at him. “what are you doing now? you were the one to back down the other day. you were the one who practically threw me out of your car!”
“i know.”
“do you have any idea how i felt after that? how humiliating that was?”
he shook his head, looking down at the concrete floor for a fraction of a second before locking his pleading eyes back onto yours. “i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. that never should have happened like that. it was wrong, and i panicked, but...” he swallowed hard, taking a small step closer. “but i don't regret it.”
your brows furrowed in complete confusion, your mind racing to keep up with his whiplash. “what?”
“i thought after that... i thought if it finally happened, i could just get it out of my system and move on,” keys confessed, his voice trembling slightly with a terrifying level of honesty. he stepped closer again, completely crowding you against the metal door, the heat radiating off him fighting the freezing air of the basement. “but i can't. i can't stop thinking about it.”
you stared at him, breathless.
“do you have any idea how many times i’ve touched myself to that memory over the past few days?” keys asked, the filters completely gone from his brain now. he looked agonizingly frustrated, his jaw tight as he let out a bitter, self deprecating breath. “a concerning amount. a completely fucked up amount. i close my eyes and all i can feel is you on my lap, the way you tasted, the way you looked at me. i’m losing my mind here.”
“i just don't get it, keys,” you whispered, your anger suddenly melting into confusion. your heart was beating so hard you could hear it in your ears. “what are you doing? what do you even want?”
“you,” keys said instantly, without a single second of hesitation. he stepped into your space, his face inches from yours. “i want you.”
“but you are with millie,” you stated, the name landing between you like a physical barrier.
“god, i know that, but-”
“did you end things with her?” you interrupted, your voice turning sharp, demanding the one answer that actually mattered.
keys froze. his mouth parted slightly, but no sound came out. the silence stretched between you, broken only by the whirring fans of the servers.
“no,” he finally whispered.
you let out a short, bitter chuckle, the stinging disappointment hitting you right in the chest. you shook your head, your eyes burning as you reached sideways for the door handle. “goodbye, keys.”
“stop.” in one swift motion, he stepped even closer, his large hands shooting out to press flat against the cold metal door on either side of your head, caging you in completely. his broad shoulders blocked out the rest of the room. “you can't just walk out. you can't deny you want this too. you think i don't notice the way you look at me? you think i didn't feel the way you kissed me back in that car?”
you swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. your back was flat against the door, your eyes locked onto his dark, desperate gaze behind his glasses.
“tell me to stop,” keys whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, bleeding vulnerability. he leaned down, his forehead almost resting against yours, his breath hot and uneven against your lips. “tell me you don't want this. tell me you don't want me. say it, and i swear to god i’ll walk out that door right now and i will never bring this up again.”
you opened your mouth to speak, to say the words that would save you both, to say the name millie one more time and end the madness. but the words got caught in your throat. you looked at his parted lips, at the desperate, pleading look in his eyes, and you couldn't do it. the lie wouldn't come out.
you swallowed, staring up at him in helpless silence. and in the quiet, freezing room, your silence was answer enough.
this time you initiated the kiss.
you reached up, your fingers tangling into the hood of his sweatshirt to pull him down, burying your mouth against his before your brain could find another reason to hesitate. a low, broken sound escaped keys’ throat as he locked his arms around you, lifting you slightly off the floor to press your lower back harder against the cold metal door.
his tongue parted your lips with a heavy, demanding familiarity, tasting like the strong coffee he’d been drinking all morning. his hands dropping from the door to grip your thighs, guiding your legs to wrap tightly around his waist. you clung to his shoulders for balance, your chest pressing flush against his as he drove you back against the door.
he didn't wait. he didn't care about being gentle anymore.
his hips slammed up against yours, and a sharp gasp was choked out of your throat and straight into his mouth as the hard length of his erection locked perfectly against your center. keys let out a ragged breath against your lips, shifting his grip to your hips, holding you down against him while his lower body grinded against yours in a desperate rhythm.
he shifted, his lower body rolling against yours with a heavy friction that had you arching your back, a breathless moan slipping past your lips. keys caught the sound with his own mouth, kissing you, his hips moving faster.
without breaking the kiss, keys hooked his hands under your thighs and lifted you completely. he carried you down until he reached the small desk at the far side of the wall. with a sweep of his arm, he knocked some papers onto the floor to make space.
he set you down on the edge of the high desk, pressing your thighs wide apart as he stepped right between them. his hands were trembling slightly now as he reached for your zipper, his eyes locking onto yours behind his glasses, completely consumed by you. in one swift, desperate motion, he pushed your clothes out of the way, the freezing air of the server room hitting your bare skin for a split second before his large, burning palm completely erased it.
keys’ fingers slid down, finding your center, and a sharp gasp broke from your lips when you felt his warm touch. his fingers moved with a purpose, tracing over your wetness before sliding one, then two fingers deep inside you. you arched off the cold table instantly, your hands gripping his shoulders as he began to pace his fingers into you, finding a fast rhythm that matched the frantic beating of your heart.
“keys- god,” you whined, your head tossing back.
he didn't let you breathe, kissing you to stifle your cries while his thumb pressed hard against your clit. you were stretching around his fingers, slick and tight, and keys let out a low, ragged growl into your throat, his fingers pushing deeper, moving faster until your hips were rolling against his palm to chase the ache.
knowing you were completely ready and soaked for him, was what finally broke his last shred of sanity.
he pulled his hand out, which made you let out a weak whimper of protest. then he didn't waste another second. his knuckles brushed against your bare skin as he unbuttoned his jeans with a frantic rush.
he freed his impressive length from his underwear. you had already felt how much he was packing back in the car, but experiencing it now in the raw light of the room was completely different; you honestly hadn't expected him to be that big. the sight of him made your throat go completely dry.
his fingers wrapped around his base and he stroked himself a few times. his eyes stayed locked onto yours behind his glasses, watching your reaction. then stepped even closer, until the heat of his skin was pressing right against your soaking center.
he drove himself inside you in one deep, heavy thrust.
a loud, breathless gasp caught in your throat, your head slamming back against the metal rack behind the desk. keys groaned out loud, his eyes closing tight as his hands gripped your hips so hard his fingers left marks.
he didn't wait. he couldn't. keys began to move, his pace fast and deep, his hips slamming against yours. the desk rattled with every thrust, the cold metal biting into your lower back, but you barely felt it. you were completely focused on him, your fingers tangling into his hair, your nails digging into the skin of his neck as you matched his frantic pace.
keys leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he let out low, broken whimpers with every push. his tongue tasted your skin, his teeth biting lightly at your collarbone, sending waves of pure electricity straight down your spine.
the friction was overwhelming, the intensity building so fast in the freezing room that the air felt thick with the scent of heat and sweat. you locked your ankles behind his back, pulling him even deeper, your own voice breaking into loud moans that keys kept catching with his mouth.
“keys… please,” you cried out against him, your fingers gripping his shoulders so hard your nails dug into his skin through his sweatshirt.
he let out a low groan, his hips rolling into yours, hitting your sweet spot over and over again. “tell me,” he mumbled against your lips, his voice dropping into a commanding register you’d never heard from him before. “tell me how it feels. tell me you’ve been wanting this as much as i have.”
“i have,” you gasped, your head tossing back against the metal rack. “god, keys, yes...”
“i knew it,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear as his teeth grazed the sensitive skin of your jawline. “ you’re so tight for me, love... you’re so wet.”
“you’re mine,” keys choked out against your lips, his voice raw, rough, and completely stripped of his usual control. “god, you’re all i can think about. day and night... it’s always been you. fuck everyone else. you’re the only one i want.”
the admission shattered whatever restraint you both had left, but keys didn't let you fall over the edge just yet. he held your hips pinned against the table, delivering three more slow, agonizingly deep thrusts that made your vision go blurry.
“look at me,” he gasped, his voice trembling as he forced himself to pull back just enough to lock his eyes onto yours. “let me see you take it. take all of it for me.”
you stared back at him, breathless.
with one last, powerful surge of his hips, a suffocating wave of pure heat crashed over you. your insides clamped down around him, and you let out a sharp cry, your body arching completely off the table as your orgasm ripped through you.
hearing your sounds, feeling you squeeze him so intensely, was the final trigger for keys.
he let out a ragged moan, his hips locking desperately against yours as he came inside you. his entire body went completely rigid, his muscles straining and his length pulsing deeply within your core. keys buried his face in your hair, his fingers digging into your waist with a bruising grip as he rode out the waves of his own release.
for a long, agonizingly quiet minute, the only sound was your heavy, combined breathing. keys stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest heaving violently.
the intense heat in the room begins to fade, and the freezing air of the basement slowly creeps back in, chilling the sweat on your bare skin.
keys doesn't move. he doesn't pull away immediately. instead, he lets out a long, shaky exhale against your neck that feels terrifyingly weak. then slowly, very slowly, he pulls his head back to look at you.
the desperate, unhinged look in his eyes is completely gone, replaced by a hollow, quiet exhaustion. his glasses are fogged up and sitting crooked on his nose. he reaches up with a trembling hand, takes them off, and sets them blindly on the desk beside you. without them, his eyes look wide and completely exposed.
he looks at your swollen lips, at the marks his fingers are leaving on your thighs, and then he looks down at his own hand, specifically at the finger where the shadow of his life with millie hangs.
the reality of what they had just done settles over him.
“keys?” you whisper, your voice cracking in the quiet room. your hands are still resting on his broad shoulders, but he suddenly feels a million miles away.
he doesn't answer. he gently, almost robotically, pulls himself out of you. the sudden loss of his warmth makes you shiver violently on the edge of the cold table. keys keeps his eyes pinned to the floor as he fixes his clothes, his movements slow and stiff, as if he is trying to put a fractured version of himself back together.
when he finally looks back up at you, his face is deathly pale. there is no anger, and there are no excuses. just a profound, heartbreaking defeat.
“i can't look at her,” keys whispers, his voice so quiet it is almost swallowed by the whirring of the server fans. he lets out a bitter, breathy laugh that sounds closer to a sob, running a hand over his face. “god... i have to go back upstairs, and i have to sit next to her, and i... i don't even know how i'm going to look her in the eye.”
the words sting, a sharp injection of reality that makes your throat tighten with immediate humiliation.
“keys...”
“i’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice breaking completely. he picks up his glasses from the desk, his hands shaking so hard he can barely slip them back over his ears. he looks at you one last time, his eyes wide, “i’m so fucking sorry.”
he doesn't wait for you to answer. he doesn't offer to help you down. keys just turns around and walks away, his boots heavy and slow against the concrete, before pushing the heavy metal door open and stepping out.
the door slams shut behind him with, leaving you alone in the freezing room, shivering on top the table with the ghost of him still burning inside you.

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your friendly neighbourhood coworker | spiderman!keys
can’t stop thinking about spidey keys and @keeryspullman made me a little feral over it with this post
you had walked home from the office perhaps a million times before and you figured that the walk home was pretty safe. that was until some asshole tried to rob you down the alley two blocks away from your apartment.
“hand it over, lady,” the guy yells at you as he attempts to wrench your handbag from your arm. “or i’ll—”
but whatever he would do—you never find out. because he was cut off by a flash of red and blue and suddenly—the guy was flat on his back on the asphalt.
because of course fucking spiderman had come to save you.
you blink, your heart still pounding as adrenaline rushes through you. it takes a few seconds before you even register your name was being said.
wait—how did—
“—are you okay? oh god, please say you’re—”
“keys?” you gap, looking at the masked man who was stood in front of you in a state of utter disbelief. “keys? is that you?”
you recognised that voice. because of course you did—keys mckey was the guy who sat directly opposite your desk every day, the guy who had memorised your coffee order and the one who always dropped everything to help you.
‘spiderman’ seems to swallow before shakes his head quickly. too quickly.
“what kind of name is keys?” he asks in a suddenly very thick brooklyn accent that he didn’t have moments ago. “i’m not—”
he’s quick to grab your bag from your attacker’s—who seemed to be knocked out cold—hand before holding it out for you to take.
“take care of yourself, miss,” he tells you in that same, clearly fake accent and before you could even think of a reply, he’s already swinging away—leaving you lost for words. because you could have sworn that was the voice of your sweet and quiet coworker.
while under the mask, keys mckey was blushing while cursing himself for being so careless with his rather big secret.
dividers by @anitalenia
lying to my therapist
pairing: steve harrington x reader summary: after a bad breakup, you start therapy to fix your intimacy issues. your new therapist, steve harrington, is younger than expected and far too way attractive. what starts as professional help slowly turns into something more complicated and probably forbidden. wc: 8.9k warnings: porn with plot, +18 (minors do not interact), explicit nsfw, therapist / client relationship, thigh riding, cheating mention, fingering, unprotected sex, oral sex (f receiving), creampie, dirty talk, female masturbation, semi-public if you squint, internal conflict, p in v, consensual sex, kinda forbidden sex, big dick steve. author's note: hihiii sorry for not posting tysm for 490+ followers and ty ani for the idea & nic for the help. i have a lot of exams but i wanted to post this before locking in and coming back with all requests and fics <3 love yall
four years. that's how much time passed since the night marcus –your now ex– broke up with you.
the breakup with him didn’t happen because you were unavailable. it happened because he was a lying cheating piece of shit.
and the memory still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade completely.
you found out a random tuesday evening. a mutual friend posted a story on instagram: nothing dramatic, just a casual photo for a party the previous weekend. in the background, clear as day, you saw him with his tongue down another girl’s throat.
the same weekend he told you he was ‘’too tired to hang out’’ and needed ‘’space.’’
you confronted him the next night when you two went out to have dinner. you played your role perfectly; laughing at his jokes and leaning at the right moments.
you were good at faking. you always had been.
you wanted to talk about that, and when you did, he didn’t even try to lie.
‘’yeah. i slept with her. so what? you’re never really present anyway. you’re always halfway out the door emotionally.’’
you tried not to cry. not in public. not in such a luxurious restaurant. you were about to speak, but he interrupted you.
‘’maybe if you actually talked to me instead of acting like some mysterious untouchable girl… i wouldn’t have needed to find pleasure in someone else.’’
his words were cruel, but the betrayal burned deeper than the insult.
you had let him in more than most. you shared pieces of yourself you usually kept hidden. and he rewarded that vulnerability by cheating you and then blaming you for it.
that night you drove home in silence, your hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. you didn’t cry until you took a shower.
the hot water was burning your skin as reality settled in: trusting someone backfired spectacularly.
after marcus, something inside you shifted.
you stopped believing that real intimacy could be safe.
every man who showed interest felt like a potential traitor. every sweet word sounded like manipulation waiting to happen. every touch made you wonder what that guy was hiding behind that smile.
you still went on dates. you still flirted effortlessly and still let men take you home and fuck you. but you never truly let them close.
the second things started feeling real –the second a conversation turned vulnerable, when sometime tried to stay the night and hold you, or even when a touch became too tender– you disconnected. you left your own body and watched everything from above.
years passed like this.
a string of shallow relationships that never lasted more than a few weeks. you became an expert at keeping people a comfortable distance while making them believe they were close.
but you never stayed. not emotionally at least.
your best friend watched this cycle repeat itself with growing worry and frustration. she was there the night you found out about him cheating. she held you while you cried angry tears. and she was tired of seeing her best friend never letting anyone in.
one afternoon, after you mentioned yet another guy who slowly ghosted you after a few dates, she sat you down on her couch with two glasses of wine and a look that said she wasn’t going to let you dodge the conversation this time.
‘’i love you more than anything in this world,’’ she started quietly. ‘’but i can’t keep watching you destroy any chance of real connection because of what he did to you four years ago. you deserve to feel something.’’
you tried to brush it off with some humor, but she wasn't having it.
‘’you need therapy,’’ she said. ‘’you’re so scared and that fear is costing you years of your life. just go to one session. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up.’’
‘’i don’t need therapy,’’
‘’yes, you do. you think you’re fine because you can still flirt and get guys, but you’re not fine. you’re lonely when you’re with someone.’’
you let out a bitter laugh.
‘’i’m not scared. i’m smart. after what marcus did, why the hell would i let someone in again? so they cheat on me and then blame me for having trust issues? no, thanks.’’
‘’not every man is marcus. but you’ll never know that if you keep pushing everyone away before they even have a chance. you deserve to feel safe with someone. you deserve to be loved and not just desired.’’
you looked away.
‘’i’m handling it.’’ you repeated stubbornly.
‘’you’re not handling it,’’ your friend said softly. ‘’you’re surviving. there’s a difference.’’
she slid a small business card across the table toward you.
hawkins behavioral health.
you didn’t book the appointment right away.
for nearly three weeks, the small business card your best friend gave you sat in your kitchen like a quiet accusation. every time you went to drink water, you saw it. every night you came exhausted from work, it was still there.
at first, you ignored it completely.
you told yourself you didn’t need therapy. but the words felt thinner every time you repeated them.
you started researching the place anyway – mostly out of boredom, you convinced yourself. hawkins behavioral health had a clean website and good reviews.
but one name kept appearing with particularly strong feedback: dr. steve harrington.
you read review after review.
‘’he actually sees you. doesn’t just nod and write things down.’’
‘’first therapist who called me out on my bullshit in the kindest way possible.’’
‘’made me feel safe enough to be honest.’’
you closed the browser more than once, annoyed at yourself for even considering it.
then came the date with tyler. a guy you met.
it was supposed to be casual, just drinks at a nice bar. he was charming, successful, and funny.
on paper, he was perfect. in reality, he spent most of the night talking about himself.
when you finally opened up a little, he didn’t seem to care. but there was a specific comment that hurt.
‘’guys don’t want to deal with a bunch of emotional baggage, you know?’’
the comment stung more than it should have.
later that night, when he kissed you outside the bar and invited you back to his place, you went. but the entire time you felt hollow. you two didn’t even kiss there, just talked at night and he let you stay to sleep.
the next morning you drove home in silence. when you walked into the apartment, the little business card was still on the counter. you picked it up, turned it over in your hands for a long time, and finally sighed.
‘’fuck it,’’ you whispered.
you called hawkins behavior health that same afternoon and booked an appointment for the following thursday.
the day of your first session arrived faster than you expected.
you spent the entire morning convincing yourself you could still cancel. you changed outfits three times and almost turned the car around twice on the way there.
but somehow, you ended up walking through the front doors of the building.
the reception area was warm and comforting, with soft lightning and exposed brick walls. behind the desk stood a woman with short brown hair and energetic presence.
her name tag read: robin buckley – office coordinator.
she looked up and gave you a bright welcoming smile.
‘’hi! you must be the 4:30. first time with us?’’ you nodded, gripping the strap of your bag a little too tightly.
robin’s smile softened, sensing your nerves.
‘’totally normal to feel anxious. everyone is on their first visit.’’ she typed something on her computer. ‘’you’re here to see dr. harrington, right?’’
‘’yes.’’
‘’he’s really good,’’ she said kindly. ‘’a little young for a psychologist, but perceptive. something annoyingly so, but don’t tell him i told you that.’’ she gave you a playful wink. ‘’just be honest with him. he can candle the truth.’’
she printed some forms and handed them to you.
‘’fill these out and i’ll let him know you’re him. deep breath. you’ve got this.’’
ten minutes later, robin returned and led you down a quiet hallway lined with plants.
she stopped in front of a wooden door and gave you one last encouraging smile.
‘’dr. harrington? your 4:30 is here.’’
you took a deep breath and stepped inside.
the office was nothing like you had imagined. it didn’t feel clinical or cold. warm afternoon light poured through tall windows, bathing the room in a soft golden hue.
one wall was lined with tall bookshelves filled with psychology texts, novels, and a few personal items – like a small framed picture of a group of friends, and what looked like a tiny hawkins high keychain hanging from a shelf.
two comfortable deep armchairs faxed each other with a low wooden table between them. a box of tissues on the table and a long couch that looked untouched.
and he was rising from one of the armchairs. steve harrington.
he was younger than you expected even if robin told you before.
much younger. early twenties, if that.
he looked tall even if he was sitting, with messy brow hair that looked like he’d run his hand through it several times that day.
and he had warm hazel eyes. big hazel eyes you weren’t able to ignore.
he also wore a brown jacket over a button-up shirt.
steve looked more like a handsome graduate student than a licensed psychologist.
‘’hi,’’ he said with low warm voice. ‘’i’m steve harrington. you can call me steve if that makes you feel more comfortable. come in, please.”
he gestured toward the empty armchair across from him.
‘’sit however you’d like. there are no rules in this room.’’
you gave him a small smile and sat down, crossing your legs neatly and folding your hands in your lap. you studied him from a moment: the way he moved, the way he looked at you.
he was annoying attractive. too attractive to be doing this job.
steve sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. he didn’t speak right away. he just looked at you –not staring, but truly paying attention– and it made your skin prickle.
‘’so,’’ he said gently after a few seconds, offering a small smile. ‘’what brings you here today?’’
you let out a soft breath and gave him a smile.
‘’well…. apparently i’m very good at making men want me, but terrible at actually letting them stay.’’ you titled your head a little, letting your gaze linger on his face for a second. ‘’my last boyfriend said i’m emotionally unavailable. among other things.’’
you finished with a light laugh, hoping it would steer the conversation into safer waters.
steve didn’t laugh with you.
he simply watched you with a calm and thoughtful expression.
after a moment, he talked.
“you started with a joke,” he noted gently. “and a compliment hidden inside it. you smiled while talking about something painful. that’s interesting.”
you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression light.
“are you always this direct?”
“well… i’m noticing some things. you are trying to deflect,” he replied but not unkindly. “you’re very good at it. you use charm and humor to keep things from getting serious.”
you felt a flicker of irritation mixed with uncomfortably and nervousness.
“you’re very observant for someone so young,” you said, your tone was still light but with a subtle edge. “does that usually work for you? reading people before they even say anything?”
steve’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.
but his eyes remained steady.
“you’re doing it again,” he said softly. “shifting the focus onto me and testing my reactions.” he paused, then added. “it’s okay. we don’t have to rush. this is your space.”
you sat back slightly, studying him.
he was good. too good.
and the fact that he was young somehow made it worse.
he shouldn’t be this perceptive.
he shouldn’t be able to see through you this easily.
steve waited patiently, giving you time. his presence was calm, steady, and strangely grounding.
those hazel eyes never left yours, but they weren’t intimidating either.
they were patient. kind. like he really had nowhere else he’d rather be.
“so,” he said again. “when you say you’re “terrible at letting people stay”… what does that feel like for you?”
you opened your mouth, ready to give another polished half-joking answer.
but for the first time in a long time, the words got stuck in your throat.
steve didn’t push. he simply waited, watching you with that calm gaze.
the silent stretched between you, not awkward, but heavy. for once, you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t have a clever line prepared. you didn’t have a flirty deflection ready.
after a long moment, you let out a slow breath and looked down at your hands.
‘’i don’t know how to… stay,’’ you admitted quietly. ‘’when things get real. when someone starts looking too closely. i just… leave. not physically. but emotionally. i go somewhere else in my head. i smile. i say the right things. but i’m not really there.’’
steve nodded slowly, his expression soft but attentive.
‘’that sounds lonely,’’ he said gently. ‘’being with someone but no really being with them.’’
you swallowed hard.
‘’it is,’’ you whispered. ‘’but it’s safer.
steve leaned forward sightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘’can you tell me more about that? when did you start feeling the need to protect yourself from the others like this?’’
you hesitated. the memories of your ex came rushing back – his cruel words, the way he blamed you for his own cheating, the humiliation of realizing you tried to be vulnerable with someone who never deserved it.
‘’four years ago,’’ you said, voice quieter now. ‘’i was with someone. i thought i was letting him in. i was trying and he cheated on me. then told me it was my fault and after that… it just felt easier to never let anyone close enough to hurt me again.’’
steve listened without interrupting. you liked that. and his eyes never left your face.
when you finished, he spoke carefully.
‘’so you learned that being vulnerable leads to pain. and now, even when you want connection, your mind and body protect you by disconnecting.’’
you looked up at him, surprised by how gently he said it.
‘’you’re very young to be this good at this,’’ you said, trying to regain some control with a teasing smile.
steve’s lip curved into a faint smile.
‘’and you’re deflecting again,’’ he replied softly, but there was no judgment in his tone. ‘’it’s okay. we’ll work on that. one step at a time.’’
he paused and then asked gently.
‘’when you’re with someone now… physically… what does that disconnection feel like in your body?’’
you shifted in your seat, feeling exposed under his attentive gaze. you hadn't expected him to go there so directly, yet so kindly.
‘’it feels like… im floating,’’ you admitted. ‘’like i can do everything right but i’m not really feeling anything. it’s like automatic.’’
steve nodded slowly, processing your words.
‘’and does that bother you?’’ he asked. ‘’or has it become normal?’’
you stayed silent for a long moment.
‘’.. it bothers me,’’ you finally whispered. ‘’but i don’t know how to stop doing it.’’
he gave you a small nod.
‘’that’s why you’re here,’’ he said gently. ‘’we’re going to figure that out together. no pressure. just honestly, at whatever pace you need.’’
for the rest of the session, steve listened carefully as you spoke. he didn’t interrupt. he didn’t judge.
he simply asked thoughtful questions and noticed things you hadn’t even realized about yourself; the way you joked when things got heavy, the way you crossed your arms when you felt vulnerable…
by the time the session ended, you felt strangely drained. but also lighter.
steve stood up when the hour was over and gave you a warm smile.
‘’you did really well today,’’ he said. ‘’i know it wasn’t easy. same time next week?’’
you nodded, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and relief.
as you left his office, you couldn’t stop thinking about how easily he had seen through every wall you tried to put up.
then the days after your first session passed in a strange haze.
you went back to your routine: work, nights with your best friend… but something felt different. lighter, maybe. or perhaps just more aware.
you tried dating again. not because you suddenly believed in love, but because you wanted to prove to yourself (and maybe to steve), that you could try.
his name was daniel. he was kind, funny and worked as a graphic designer.
he didn’t try too hard.
on your first date, you talked for almost three hours about music and movies. on the second, he kissed you goodnight outside your car.
you wanted this to work.
you returned for the second session. you spent the entire week thinking about steve’s words.
the way he looked at you. the way he actually listened. it was unsettling how much space he was taking up in your mind.
when you walked into his office and steve was already waiting, sitting in his usual chair. he wore a blue polo shirt that made his hazel eyes stand out even more.
the moment you entered, he gave you a warm smile that made your stomach tighten.
‘’hi,’’ he said. ‘’it’s good to see you again. come in, make yourself comfortable.’’
you sat down in the armchair across from him, crossing your legs and folding your hands in your lap. for a few seconds, you didn’t know where to begin.
steve waited patiently, as always – never rushing you, never filling the silence.
‘’i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,’’ you started quietly. ‘’and… i went out with this guy named daniel. a few times, actually.’’
steve nodded slowly, giving you his full attention.
‘’tell me about that,’’
you took a deep breath.
‘’he’s really kind. patient. he doesn’t pressure me. we talked for hours and he actually listens.’’ you paused, then added more softly. ‘’i wanted it to be different this time. i want to try going somewhere serious with him. not just casual.’’
steve listened, his eyes steady on you. when you finished, he spoke carefully.
‘’that’s a significant step – choosing to try something real with someone after being hurt. how did it feel for you?’’ you looked down at your hands.
‘’at the beginning it was okay. i felt present. but then i slipped away again.’’ you let out a small breath. ‘’i hate that i keep doing that.’’
steve was quiet for a moment, processing your words with care.
‘’what you’re describing is a very common trauma response,’’ he said gently. ‘’after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your nervous system learned that vulnerability equals danger. so when intimacy starts to feel real, your mind protects you by dissociating.’’
you looked up at him, surprised by how good he explained it. steve continued.
‘’the fact that you’re aware of it happening is already a progress. most people don’t even notice when they disconnect.’’
his words wrapped around you like a blanket. you felt your cheeks grow warm and you bit your lip.
‘’thank you,’’ you whispered. steve’s expression softened further.
he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
‘’would you like to practice some grounding exercises? things you can use when you feel yourself starting to flow away?’’
you nodded. and for the next thirty minutes, steve guided you through several exercises with patience and care. his voice was incredibly calm and silky as he spoke.
he watched you practice, his eyes never leaving you.
‘’good,’’ he said when you did it correctly. ‘’that’s really good. you’re picking this up quickly.’’
every time he praised you, even subtly, you felt warmth spread through your chest. you found yourself feeling timid under his attention.
steve remembered details from your previous session and wove them in naturally.
‘’you mentioned last time that you tend to perform because you want others to feel good,’’ he looked at you. ‘’we can work on finding balance.’’
you felt exposed but safe. the way steve spoke made you feel truly seen.
when the session was nearing its end, steve looked at you.
‘’you did really well today,’’ he said softly. ‘’you were honest about something difficult. you let yourself be vulnerable.’’
his praise hit you deeply. you felt your face flush.
you left his office with warm cheeks and the confusing realization that your therapist’s gentle praise was starting to affect you far more than any touch from daniel ever had.
after that, you continued seeing daniel. the relationship –if it could even be called that yet– developed slowly and sweetly. he was consistent in a way that was almost foreign to you.
but every time the moment leaned toward something more intimate, you gently stopped him.
daniel was always understanding. he’d kiss your forehead and never made you feel guilty. and yet, every time you left his apartment, you felt a quiet frustration with yourself.
you wanted him fully. you wanted to be normal. but something inside you still head back.
in the other way, your therapy sessions with steve became the anchor of your week. you found yourself in that office. steve seemed to look better each time you saw him.
sometimes it was the way his hair fell across his forehead.
sometimes it was the soft sweaters that hugged his biceps and shoulders.
sometimes it was simply the way he looked at you.
the flirting on your part was subtle, almost unconscious. quiet and soft words while tucking your hair behind your ear.
steve never crossed any lines.
he remained perfectly professional. but his gaze would linger a second longer than necessary, and his voice would drop into that low silky tone when he praised you.
you told yourself it was nothing. he was just doing his job.
one afternoon, after a particularly long session, you met your best friend for a coffee. the moment you sat down, she studied your face with a knowing look.
‘’so… how are things going with daniel?’’ she asked, cutting into her avocado toast.
you smiled, a small genuine one.
‘’they’re good, actually. he’s really sweet. we’ve been seeing each other a couple times a week. we haven’t slept together yet… but i feel like i might be getting closer to wanting that.’’
her eyes lit up.
‘’that’s great! i’m really happy for you. he sounds like a good guy.’’ you nodded, stirring your coffee.
there was a comfortable pause. then she took a sip of her drink and asked casually:
‘’and how’s therapy going? you haven’t told me much about it lately.’’
you hesitated for a second, then shrugged lightly.
‘’it’s… going well, i think. my therapist is really good. he’s patient, he actually listens, and he explains things in a way that doesn’t make me feel like i’m broken. we’ve working on grounding exercises so i can stay more present, especially with daniel.’’
she raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.
‘’tell me more about him. what’s he like?’’
you looked down at your cup, feeling a little shy.
‘’he’s… younger than i expected. really perceptive. he remember everything i tell him. he just helps me understand why i do it.’’
she stayed quiet for a moment. then she leaned forward with a mischievous grin.
‘’okay… i have to confess something. after you told me you started therapy, i got curious and looked him up on google.’’
you blinked. ‘’you what?’’
‘’i googled him,’’ she said, laughing. ‘’dr. steve harrington. i found his profile on the practice’s website and some pictures. girl… he’s ridiculously hot. like, stupidly attractive. i mean… i get why tour sessions feel intense.’’
you felt your face heat up instantly. you looked down at your latte.
‘’he’s just my therapist,’’ you said quickly, trying to sound casual. ‘’he’s professional. really good at his job. that’s all.’’
‘’sure. that’s why you are blushing right now.’’
after that comment, you may have started seeing steve a little bit differently.
maybe more handsome.
maybe with more interest.
you tried to think it was just nonsense, that your best friend’s talk was inside your brain.
while waiting in the reception area for your session, you made the mistake of checking the practice's recent google reviews on your phone.
several new ones appeared. from women in their twenties.
one in particular caught your eye:
‘’dr. Harrington is incredible. i’ve never felt so understood in my life. he’s helped me so much with my intimacy issues. 10/10, would recommend to anyone.”
there were several more like that – all women praising how attentive and emotionally available steve was.
your stomach twisted with an ugly feeling you didn’t want to name.
jealousy.
then, as you were sitting in the waiting room, the door to steve’s office opened.
a pretty brunette woman stepped out, smiling brightly. steve followed her to the door, speaking to her in that same gentle, warm tone he used with you.
“see you next week. you did great today.”
she left, laughing at something he said. you felt a sharp pang in your chest.
when Steve turned and saw you waiting, his expression softened immediately.
“hey,” he said warmly. “ready?”
you forced a small smile and followed him into the office, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot of jealousy twisting inside you.
you sat down in your usual armchair. steve settled across from you, leaning forward sightly with his elbows on his knees.
‘’how has your week been?’’ he asked softly.
you hesitated for a moment and opened your mouth to give a vague answer, but steve continued you could speak, his tone calm.
‘’you mentioned last session that you’ve been seeing someone. daniel, right? how are things going with him?’’
the question caught you slightly off guard. he had remembered the name.
of course he had.
you shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed.
“they’re… going well,” you said carefully. “he’s really kind. patient. we’ve been spending more time together. we talk a lot, we kiss… but we haven’t slept together yet.”
steve listened with complete focus, his eyes never leaving your face. he nodded slowly, processing your words.
“and how do you feel about that?” he asked with a soft voice. “about holding back with him?”
you let out a slow breath.
“i feel guilty sometimes,” you admitted. “he’s a good guy. he deserves someone who can give him everything. but i’m scared. every time things get more physical, i feel myself starting to disconnect again. i don’t want to perform with him… but i don’t know how to stop doing it.”
steve was quiet for a few seconds. His expression remained calm and professional, but you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tightened slightly around his pen.
“it makes sense that you’re scared,” he said gently. “after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your mind and body learned that intimacy equals danger.”
he paused, then added in that low silky tone he had.
“but I also notice that when you talk about daniel, you describe him as ‘nice’ and ‘kind.’ you don’t talk about desire. about wanting him. does that feel significant to you?”
his question felt more direct than usual. you felt your cheeks warm under his steady gaze.
“i… i don’t know,” you whispered. “maybe I’m still not ready. or maybe i’m comparing how i feel with him to… other things.”
steve’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. he didn’t push further on that comment, but the air in the room felt heavier.
you felt your face flush. you looked down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes.
a shy, nervous smile formed on your lips as you played with the hem of your sweater and your fingers trembled slightly.
you left his office with the confusing realization that steve’s gentle praise affected you.
and no matter how many times you told yourself he was just being a good therapist.
the feeling was getting harder to ignore.
another day that daniel texted you asking if you wanted to do something casual. you said yes before you could overthink it.
the night arrived. he was the same as always: easy to talk to, interested in what you said, and never pushy. he brought you flowers –white daisies– and remembered your drink.
when dinner was over, you ended up on his couch. the kissing started slow and sweet. his hands were careful as they slid under your sweater, caressing your back.
for a while, you stayed present. you felt the warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the way he whispered how beautiful you were. it felt nice.
but the moment his hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, something inside you tightened.
you pulled back gently, placing a hand on his chest.
‘’daniel… wait,’’ you whispered. he stopped immediately, looking at you with concern.
‘’is everything okay?’’ he asked softly.
you sat up a little, pulling your sweater back down.
your heart was racing, but not from desire – from anxiety.
‘’i’m sorry,’’ you said quietly. ‘’i thought i was ready, but… i’m not. not tonight.’’
daniel nodded without hesitation. he sat back and gave you a kind, understanding smile.
“that’s completely fine,” he said. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. i’m really happy just spending time with you.”
you felt a wave of relief mixed with guilt.
yet you still couldn’t give him what he probably wanted.
you stayed for a little while longer, talking on the couch, but the atmosphere shifted.
when you left his apartment that night, you hugged him goodbye and told him you’d text him soon. the drive home was quiet. you felt disappointed in yourself.
by the time you got home, took a shower, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the frustration had built up to a breaking point.
now it has been months. months of this same cycle. flirting, dating, getting close, but then freezing or performing the moment things became truly intimate.
you were tired of it. exhausted.
you arrived at your session feeling a mix of determination and deep embarrassment.
steve was already seated when you walked in. he wore a sweater that made his shoulders look broader. when he saw you, his hazel eyes softened with that familiar warm attention.
“hi,” he said gently. “come in. make yourself comfortable.”
you sat down. steve noticed your body language immediately.
“you seem a little nervous today,” he observed softly. “would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?”
you took a deep breath and decided to be honest.
“i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,” you said quietly. “about why i disconnect during sex. i… i want to understand it better. so i can try to fix it with daniel.”
steve nodded slowly, his gaze steady and kind.
“i’m glad you want to explore this,” he said. “to help you, i’m going to ask some personal questions about your sexual experiences. you don’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable. but the more honest you can be, the better i can understand what’s happening and help you work through it. is that okay with you?”
you swallowed hard and nodded. steve kept his voice low and professional.
“when you’re with daniel, or with previous partners… do you feel any physical pleasure at all? or does it become purely mechanical after a certain point?”
your cheeks started burning.
“sometimes… at the beginning,” you whispered. “i feel warmth. tingling. but then it fades. i start focusing on what i should be doing instead of what i’m feeling.”
steve nodded, completely focused on you.
“do you touch yourself when you’re alone?” he asked calmly. “masturbate?”
your face went hot. you looked down at your lap, fingers twisting nervously in your sweater.
“…yes,” you admitted.
“how does that feel compared to sex with someone else?” he asked gently. “do you stay present when you’re touching yourself?”
you bit your lip, feeling incredibly exposed.
“mostly yes,” you whispered. “it’s easier when i’m alone. i can control everything. i don’t have to worry about what the other person is thinking.”
steve’s voice remained soothing.
“that’s very common,” he said. “when you’re alone, there’s no fear of judgment or betrayal. your body feels safe enough to stay present. but when someone else is involved, that safety disappears and your mind protects you by dissociating.”
he paused, then continued.
“when you masturbate… what do you usually think about? do you stay focused on the sensations in your body, or does your mind wander to fantasies?”
your face was burning now. you couldn’t look at him.
“i… try to focus on the sensations,” you mumbled. “but sometimes i fantasize. about… being wanted. being seen. not just fucked.”
steve was quiet for a moment, giving you space. the silence felt heavy but not uncomfortable.
when he finally spoke, his voice was even softer, almost careful.
“thank you for being honest about that,” he said. “that’s really helpful information.”
he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
“as an exercise for this week, i’d like you to try something at home. when you masturbate, i want you to focus completely on the physical sensations. you don’t have to do it every day, just when you feel comfortable.”
your heart was beating fast. the idea of doing that and then telling him about it made your stomach twist with nerves.
“and… you want me to tell you how it went?” you asked, voice small.
steve nodded calmly.
“only if you feel comfortable sharing. this is your space. but yes, talking about it next session could help us understand what makes it easier or harder for you to stay present.”
you swallowed hard, cheeks still burning.
“okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try.”
the drive home was quiet. your hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly the whole way.
steve’s voice kept echoing in your head.
the way he looked at you when you spoke. the subtle way his fingers tapped against his knee.
by the time you stepped into your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed, replaying steve’s words from the session.
you lay back on your bed, still wearing your clothes from the day. you slid your hand inside your now pajama pants and started slowly rubbing yourself over your panties.
you tried to focus on the sensation, on your own body like steve suggested. but after a few minutes your mind began to wander.
you kept thinking about him.
about the calm way he looked at you when he spoke.
about how low and steady his voice got when he explained things.
about the way his hands rested on his thighs during sessions.
you imagined those same hands on you and immediately felt a rush of heat between your legs.
you slipped your fingers under your panties and touched yourself directly, circling your clit slowly. soft sounds left your lips as you got wetter.
every time you tried to push the thoughts away, they came back stronger.
you pictured steve’s face, his kind eyes, the slight scruff on his jaw, the way he said your name.
guilt twisted in your chest even as pleasure built between your legs.this is wrong, you thought.
he was your therapist. he was trying to help you and you were here touching yourself while thinking about him.
still, you didn’t stop. your fingers moved faster, sliding inside yourself while your other hand gripped the sheets.
your breathing grew heavier. you whispered his name once, very quietly, like a secret you couldn’t keep inside.
when you finally came it was sharp and intense; your thighs shaking, a soft broken sound leaving your throat.
you felt dirty. wrong. like you had crossed a line you could never uncross.
steve trusted you.
he was patient and professional and genuinely trying to help you heal, and here you were fantasizing about him.
“what the hell is wrong with me…” you whispered into the quiet room.
the next few days were hell.
you tried to pretend it never happened.
you told yourself it was a one-time mistake. that it wouldn’t happen again.
but when thursday afternoon came and you walked into steve’s office, your hands were already shaking.
steve was sitting in his usual chair, wearing a soft beige sweater, looking calm and professional like always.
he smiled gently when you entered.
“hey,” he said warmly. “how have you been since last session?”
you sat down on the couch across from him, legs pressed tightly together.
“fine,” you mumbled.
he studied you for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.
“did you try the homework i gave you?” he asked, voice gentle but direct. “touching yourself without pressure?”
you stayed silent, staring at the floor. your throat felt tight. steve waited patiently.
“you don’t have to share details if you don’t want to,” he continued softly, “but it would help if you could tell me whether you did it or not… and if you did, what came up for you. what you were thinking about.”
you still didn’t answer. your fingers twisted in your lap.
steve tilted his head.
“it’s okay,” he said. “you can sit over here if it feels easier to talk.” he gestured to the smaller couch closer to his chair, only a couple feet away. “sometimes being a little closer helps.”
you didn’t move.
after a few seconds of silence, steve slowly reached out and placed his hand gently on your knee, warm and steady, trying to get your attention.
“hey,” he said quietly, voice low. “talk to me. what’s going on in that head of yours?”
your heart hammered in your chest. his hand on your leg made everything worse. you felt tears burning in your eyes.you finally whispered, barely audible:
“…i did it.”
steve nodded slowly, thumb brushing lightly against your knee in a comforting motion.
“good. that’s okay. and when you were doing it… what were you thinking about?”
you stayed quiet for a long moment, shame burning through your whole body. then, in a tiny, broken voice, you admitted:
“…you.”
the word hung heavy in the air between you.steve froze. his hand stilled on your knee.
for the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard.
steve didn’t move. the air between you grew thick.
he stayed quiet for a few seconds, processing your words, then spoke carefully.
“you need to try thinking about something like that when you’re with daniel. that kind of arousal… that’s what we’re trying to build with him.”
you finally looked up at him with glassy and frustrated eyes.
“how am i supposed to feel that way with daniel?” your voice cracked. “how do i differentiate it? how do i know what i really want with him?”
steve stared at you. his breathing changed.
the professional mask cracked right in front of you.
for a moment he looked conflicted, struggling hard with himself.
then he leaned in slowly, cupped your face with one hand, and kissed you.
the kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but full of months of hidden tension. his lips were warm and gentle against yours. your heart slammed in your chest.
he pulled back after a few seconds with his breathing ragged.
“fuck… i’m sorry,” he whispered. “that was completely unprofessional. i shouldn’t have done that. we can’t—”
you didn’t let him finish.
you grabbed the front of his sweater and pulled him back into the kiss, harder this time.
steve froze for half a second before he gave in completely, kissing you back with a quiet groan. his hand slid to the back of your neck as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate.
both of you knew how wrong this was.
but in that moment, neither of you cared.
“this is so wrong…” he said. “i could lose my license. i could get fired. we shouldn’t be doing this.”
you looked into his eyes, desperate.
“i need you, steve,” you whispered back, voice breaking. “i don’t want anyone else. i only think about you.”
he let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself.
then pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your jeans rubbing against his thighs. his hands immediately gripped your hips.
“fuck… you’re going to ruin me,” he murmured before kissing you again, deeper this time.
his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin as his hands worked between you.
“ride my thigh, baby,” he whispered hotly against your neck. “just like this. with your clothes on. use me to feel good.”
you moaned softly and started rocking your hips, grinding your clothed pussy against his thick, muscular thigh.
the rough fabric of your jeans created a delicious friction against your clit with every roll of your hips.
steve’s hands stayed on your hips, guiding you, pulling you harder against his leg.
“that’s it,” he breathed, sucking on the sensitive spot below your ear. “grind on me. use my thigh to get yourself off.”
you moved faster, rolling your hips in desperate circles, the seam of your jeans pressing perfectly against your clit.
you could feel how wet you were getting, the fabric growing damp as you humped his leg.
“steve…” you whimpered, burying your face in his neck.
“good girl,” he praised softly, kissing down your neck while helping you grind harder. “look at you… riding my thigh fully dressed like you can’t wait any longer.”
his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you down firmer against him with every roll. the pressure was intense, the friction making your legs shake.
“does that feel good, princess?” he murmured, voice low and rough. “humping my leg like a needy girl?”
“yes… fuck, yes,” you moaned quietly, moving faster, chasing the building pleasure.
steve kept kissing and biting your neck gently while you rode his thigh desperately, the wet patch on your jeans growing bigger with every grind.
then he didn’t even wait for you to cum and unbuttoned your jeans and tugged the zipper down. his long fingers slipped inside your jeans and under your panties, finding you soaked.
you gasped as two thick fingers touched you.
“so wet already,” he breathed against your neck, kissing and biting softly while his fingers played with your pussy. “you really do need this, don’t you?”
you moaned quietly, rocking your hips against his hand as he fingered you deeper.
his thumb found your clit and rubbed firm, steady circles while his mouth continued its assault on your neck.
“steve…” you whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “with you… i feel good.”
he lifted his head from your neck, eyes dark but full of concern. his fingers kept moving inside you, slower now.
“tell me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and careful.“i don’t feel blocked,” you breathed, grinding down onto his fingers. “i’m not anxious… i’m not overthinking. i’m just… enjoying it. i feel safe with you.”
steve let out a shaky breath, clearly worried.
he stopped moving his fingers for a moment and looked straight into your eyes, his free hand gently cupping your cheek.
“are you sure?” he asked softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “i need you to be honest with me. if anything feels wrong or too much, you tell me immediately, okay? your comfort is the most important thing right now.”
you nodded, leaning into his touch.
“i’m sure,” you whispered. “i want this. i want you.”
steve searched your face for any sign of doubt, then kissed you again, slower this time, more tenderly.
his fingers started moving once more, curling gently inside you while his thumb kept rubbing your clit in steady circles.
“good girl,” he whispered against your lips, voice full of care. “just relax. i’ve got you. tell me if you want it slower or deeper.” he whispered hotly against your skin, curling his fingers inside you perfectly. “just ride my fingers, baby. take what you need.”
his other hand slid under your shirt, squeezing your breast as he kept kissing and marking your neck.
his fingers moved faster inside you, thrusting deep while his thumb pressed harder on your clit.
you were grinding desperately on his hand, moaning softly into his shoulder, completely lost in the feeling of his fingers stretching you and his mouth on your neck.
steve groaned quietly against your skin.
“you feel so fucking good… so tight around my fingers.”
you moaned quietly, rolling your hips against his hand as he fingered you with perfect rhythm.
his mouth returned to your neck, kissing and sucking softly while he focused completely on your pleasure, always watching your reactions, always making sure you felt safe.
“you’re doing so well,” he murmured against your skin, fingers curling just right. “i just want you to feel good, baby. nothing else matters right now.”
the pleasure built quickly until it crashed over you. you came hard with a broken moan, thighs shaking, pussy clenching tightly around his fingers as waves of pleasure rolled through your body.
steve kept moving his fingers gently, helping you ride out every last pulse.
when you finally came down, breathing heavily, you reached down to palm his obvious erection through his pants.
steve immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.
“no,” he said softly but firmly, breathing hard. “not today. this is about you.”
he gently lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the couch.
he knelt on the floor between your legs, pulled your jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, and spread your thighs wide.
steve leaned in and kissed your inner thigh, then higher, until his mouth was on your pussy. he licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting you.
you moaned loudly, your hand flying to his hair.
he licked you slowly at first, savoring you, then became more eager; sucking gently on your clit, fucking you with his tongue, then sliding two fingers back inside you while he focused his mouth on your sensitive bud.
“steve…” you whimpered, back arching. “oh my god…”
he ate you out with perfect focus, humming against you, curling his fingers deep while his tongue worked your clit in stead patterns.
you felt completely overwhelmed in the best way.
“it’s been so long…” you moaned, voice breaking, fingers tightening in his hair. “i haven’t felt this good with anyone in so long… steve, fuck—”
he groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you shiver.
he doubled down, sucking harder on your clit while his fingers thrust faster.
you came again with a loud cry, thighs clamping around his head as intense pleasure flooded your body.
steve kept licking you gently through it, drawing out every wave until you were trembling and oversensitive.
he finally pulled back, lips shiny, breathing heavily. he looked up at you with dark, worried, but undeniably hungry eyes. then he slowly stood up, towering over you as you lay on the couch.
he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at you for a long moment.
“do you really want me to fuck you?” he asked, voice low and rough. “because we’ve already broken every rule… if we do this, there’s no going back.”
you nodded, still catching your breath.
“yes,” you whispered. “i want you.” steve let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself one last time.
he quickly unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, pulling out his cock. he was big — thick and long, the head already leaking.
you stared at it, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding you.
“you have to be quiet,” he warned, voice serious. “no matter what. if someone hears us, i’m done.”
you nodded quickly. steve pulled your jeans and panties completely off, then climbed on top of you on the small couch.
he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked pussy before slowly pushing inside.you gasped at the stretch. he was so big it almost hurt, but it felt so good.
he covered your mouth with his large hand as he sank deeper while his eyes were locked on yours.
“shhh, baby,” he whispered, bottoming out inside you. “fuck… you’re so tight.”
he started fucking you on the couch, deep and steady thrusts, his hand still firmly over your mouth to muffle your moans. every time he buried himself completely you whimpered against his palm, eyes rolling back.
after a few minutes he pulled out, stood up and turned you around, bending you over the desk. he pushed back inside you from behind in one smooth thrust, groaning quietly.
“quiet, princess,” he reminded you, hand returning to cover your mouth as he started fucking you harder.
the desk creaked softly with every deep thrust. steve was so big you could feel him in your stomach, stretching you perfectly.
his free hand gripped your hip tightly as he pounded into you, trying to stay as quiet as possible while giving you exactly what you needed.
“is this what you wanted?” he breathed against your ear, voice strained. “you feel so fucking good…”
you could only moan helplessly against his hand, completely lost in how full you felt and how deep he was hitting inside you.
“is this what you wanted?” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips brushing your ear. “when you were touching yourself at home… thinking about me… is this what you imagined?”
you moaned against his palm, nodding frantically.
“oh yes, steve…” you whimpered, the words muffled against his hand.he fucked you a little harder, deep and slow, making sure you felt every inch.
“you were fucking yourself thinking about my cock, weren’t you?” he breathed, voice soft but filthy. “touching that pretty pussy and wishing it was me stretching you open like this…”
you whimpered louder, pushing back against him.
“yes… yes, steve… i wanted you so bad,” you gasped against his fingers.
steve groaned quietly, pressing deeper, grinding against you.
“good girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck while still covering your mouth. “you feel even better than i imagined… so fucking tight and wet for me.”
he kept a steady rhythm, rolling his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. his hand stayed firm over your mouth, muffling your moans as you trembled beneath him.
“that’s it, baby… take it,” he whispered hotly. “this is what you needed, isn’t it? my cock deep inside you while you’re bent over my desk…”
you nodded desperately, tears of pleasure in your eyes.
“yes, steve… oh god, yes…” you moaned against his hand, voice broken and needy.
steve kissed your neck again, sucking softly on your skin as he fucked you deeper, slower, making sure you felt every single inch.
“you’re doing so good for me,” he praised gently, voice full of lust and care at the same time. “such a good girl… letting me fuck you like this…”
“that’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough. “cum for me. let go.”
your orgasm hit you hard. your whole body tensed, thighs shaking as you came around his cock with a muffled cry against his palm.
your pussy clenched tightly around him, pulsing again and again.
steve groaned quietly, burying himself deep as he followed right after you. his hips stuttered and he came hard inside you, filling you with warm pulses while pressing his face into your neck to stay quiet.
for a few seconds you both stayed like that, breathing heavily.
then reality seemed to hit him. steve pulled out slowly and grabbed the box of tissues from his desk. he cleaned you gently first, wiping between your legs with care, then cleaned himself.
you both dressed quickly in silence. he helped you button your jeans. once you were both fully dressed, steve sat on the edge of the desk and pulled you to stand between his legs.
he looked at you softly.
“how do you feel?” he asked quietly, genuine concern in his eyes. “be honest with me.”
you took a deep breath, still a little shaky.
“i didn’t feel blocked,” you whispered. “i didn’t overthink everything like i usually do. i just… felt good. really good. safe.”
steve’s expression softened. a small, relieved smile appeared on his lips.
“that’s really good,” he murmured, sounding genuinely happy. “i’m glad you felt that way. that’s important.”
“and… is this what all your patients get?” you asked softly, half-joking but clearly a little nervous.
steve’s eyes widened. he let out a surprised little laugh and shook his head immediately.
“ohhh no, no, no,” he said quickly, almost embarrassed. “you’ve been the exception. completely. i usually stay very professional… i’ve never crossed this line before. not even close.”
he cupped your face with both hands, looking straight into your eyes, sincere.
“this has never happened with anyone else. you’re the only one.”
you bit your lip, feeling a strange mix of relief and warmth in your chest.
steve leaned in and kissed your forehead gently, then rested his forehead against yours.
“this is new for me too,” he whispered. “and probably really stupid… but i couldn’t stop myself with you.”
© dividers by angeliicide and suupersonic
"[...] before the advent of computers in music, you were forced to embrace a lot more imperfections [...]."

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why arent all men built like joe keery? broadback, chest hair, nice tummy. god men youre soo disappointing
Steve Harrington



