Creative Ash Productions

Steve shifted beneath you, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair with a familiarity that made your chest ache. "Morning, Mrs. Harrington," he mumbled, voice deep with sleep, sex and contentment, and you felt the vibration of it rattle your brain.

"Mmm," you managed, your course as you tried to gain awareness of your surroundings. "Wha - "

"Time is it? Too early," he groaned, but he was smiling, his eyes still closed, his thumb playing with the hairs at the nape of your neck. "Don't move. You're perfect right here."

You tried to lift your head to look at him properly, but Steve made a protesting groan, his arm tightening around your waist to pin you flush against him. He cracked one eye open, hazel, warm and slightly crinkled at the corners with amusement. "Nope. Sunday morning rule. No getting up before the alarm."

"We have a Sunday rule?" you murmured, your voice muffled against his shoulder in slight confusion. Your fingers traced idle patterns over his collarbone, mapping the familiar landscape of his skin without thinking and that you weren't controlling - muscle and bone and the faint scar from where a demodog had caught him years ago, now faded to silver.

"Since always," he said softly, his hand sliding down to settle possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing circles there. "You, me, five more minutes of pretending the world doesn't exist. Don't you remember?"

He lifted his head just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth - soft and unhurried, tasting like sleep and the mint toothpaste he used every morning. When you pulled back slightly to breathe and think, he chased your lips, making a dissatisfied hum in his throat. "Coffee's brewing," he whispered against your mouth, his hand drifting up your spine in a way that made your toes curl. "But I don't want it yet. I want this."

"Steve," you laughed quietly, the sound foreign in your own ears - too light, too unburdened. You pushed at his chest half-heartedly. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you," he said, and there was something raw and vulnerable in his voice that stopped your teasing. He caught your hand, the one with the gold band, and brought it to his lips, kissing your knuckles one by one. "Only ever for you, sweetheart. You know that."

You stared at him, at the way the morning light caught in his hair - longer than you remembered, curling at the ends - and the peace written across his features. No tension in his jaw. No shadows under his eyes. Just Steve, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

"I know," you whispered, and the words tasted like truth, even as something deep in your gut whispered this is wrong, wrong, wrong.

He tugged you back down, nestling you against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head. "Just five more minutes," he begged, his voice dropping into that register that always made you swoon - that honey-sweet tone he used when he wanted something, when he was scared and needed comfort from the horrors of Hawkins - and reserved just for you. "Let me hold you. Let me pretend we don't have to get up and deal with Lily and the grocery list and your mom coming over for dinner. Just us."

You melted against him, your reservations dissolving under the heat of his skin. "Okay," you breathed. "Five minutes."

"Good girl," he murmured, his hand resuming its lazy tracing on your back.

You tried to sit up to stretch once five minutes past, but his arm tightened around your waist again like a steel band, keeping you flush against him. He made a protesting noise in his throat, half-laugh, half-demand. That was when you felt it - not just the press of his morning arousal against your hip, but the distinct, unfamiliar roundness of your own body. You looked down, past the sheet pooled at your waist,

A soft swell. A slight, firm curve where your stomach usually lay flat, the skin there paler, marked with faint silvery stretch marks - worn out of time. You pressed a hand to it instinctively, and beneath your palm, you felt a flutter. Not a kick - not yet - but the subtle, alien sensation of life shifting, swimming, existing inside you.

Four months, maybe five.

Panic staryed to set in as you snapped out of the daze. You were meant to be twenty, fighting monsters in alternate dimensions, covered in scars that had nothing to do with kitchen accidents - not nesting in suburban Hawkins with white picket fences and -

"Mommy?"

The voice was small, delicate, coming from the doorway.

You turned your head, your heart already recognizing the sound that your brain wouldn't. A little girl stood there, maybe two years old, clutching a stuffed demodog with button eyes and mismatched fabric patches that looked homemade. She had Steve’s hair - thick, brown, unruly curls that stuck up in every direction - and your eyes, wide and searching. She was wearing a t-shirt that said World's Okayest Big Sister with an arrow pointing to her stomach, the fabric swallowing her small frame.

"Bad dream," she whispered, lower lip trembling, her stuffed monster dangling from one tiny hand by its frayed ear. "The shadows were eating the stars again."

Steve shifted, sitting up slightly, the sheet sliding down to his waist to reveal the scatter of scars across his chest - old wounds from fights and teeth and things that should have killed him, now faded to memories. He didn't let go of you. If anything, he pulled you closer against his side, one hand protectively covering your bump like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"C'mere, peanut," he said softly, his voice dropping into that register he only used when he was terrified but trying not to show it - the same voice he'd used in the tunnels when the demodogs were closing in. "Stars can't be eaten. You know that. You're made of star-stuff, remember? Grandma said so."

The little girl padded forward, bare feet on hardwood that creaked in familiar places, and climbed onto the bed with the graceless efficiency of a toddler. She wedged herself between you and Steve, her small hand immediately finding your stomach, patting it with familiarity to counter your foreignness - her palm warm and slightly sticky.

"Baby sister kicking?" she asked, looking up at you with those impossible eyes - yours and Steve's combined into something new. She smelled like strawberry shampoo younised to use when you were young and sleep.

"Not yet, sweetie," you heard Steve say. His voice sounded distant, like you were listening to it from underwater, like it was coming through a radio with bad reception. "She's still sleeping. Like you should be."

"Don't wanna sleep," she mumbled, pressing her face against Steve's bare shoulder. "Wanna stay with you. With baby"

Steve kissed your temple, the bristle of his unshaven jaw scraping gently against your skin, then dropped his head to press his lips to the top of his daughter's head, inhaling deeply. "Go back to sleep," he murmured against her hair. "It's early. Daddy's got you. I've got both of you."

But you couldn't. You stared at the ceiling - the vaulted beams, the ceiling fan spinning lazily, the crack in the plaster that looked like a tree branch - and felt the wrongness creep in like frost on glass, crystallizing at the edges of the perfect picture.

This was Vecna.

You remembered now. The attic. The clock ticking away. Steve screaming your name as his hands shook you and you felt your consciousness fading, eyes rolling back. You'd tried reached for him, your fingers brushing his, and then -

Then this.

A vision, you thought, your stomach dropping out even as the baby fluttered again beneath your hand. He’s showing us what we want most so he can destroy it. He's feeding on the hope.

Steve's hand moved from your back to your stomach, spanning the width of it, his thumb stroking reverently over the stretch marks there like they were medals. "You're shaking," he whispered against your hair, his voice suddenly worried, losing that sleepy contentment. "Hey. Hey, look at me."

You looked at him. Really looked. He looked older here, softer around the edges, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes that you hadn't put there yet, a scar above his eyebrow that you didn't recognize. He looked happy. Content in a way that the real Steve - the one constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the monsters to come back, who checked the locks three times and never drove anywhere without a bat in trunk- never quite managed.

"What is it?" he asked, his brow furrowing. He cupped your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone in worry. "Talk to me. Is it the baby? Are you hurting?"

"No," you whispered. You turned your head to look at the window, at the too perfect sunrise. It was always night in the Upside Down. Always dark. "Steve... do you remember how we got here?"

He blinked. His hand stilled on your stomach. "What do you mean? We... we live here. We bought this house last spring. You wanted the big kitchen for baking, and I wanted - " He stopped. His eyes darkened, confusion clouding them. "We... the nursery. We painted it yellow. Because we didn't want to know the sex, but you said yellow was happy..."

"Steve," you said, your voice breaking. You took his hand - the one with the gold band - and squeezed until you felt bone. "We're not here. This isn't real. We're in the Creel house. Do you remember? We went in to find Max, and the clocks stopped, and I - "

"Don't," he said sharply, jerking back coming into reality. The little girl - Lily, you'd heard anpther version of him say before, her name is Lily - whimpered at the sudden movement. Steve's face went pale beneath his tan. "Don't say that. Don't - this is real. I can feel you. I can feel her." His hand pressed harder against your stomach, desperate. "I can feel your heart beating. That's real."

"It's a lie," you whispered, tears pricking your eyes. Your other hand went to your stomach, to the life that wasn't real, to the future that Vecna was offering as both gift and execution. You could feel the curse tightening its hold somewhere in the back of your mind, the vines in the real world digging into your ankles, feeding on your acceptance of this lie, drinking down the desire like wine. "Steve, look at me. Look at my eyes. We're twenty. We're kids. We don't... we don't have this yet. We haven't earned it."

"We could," he said, and his voice cracked like a bell struck too hard. He was crying now, silent tears tracking down his face. "We could have this. We could run. We could leave that Hawkins. Let the others handle it. Just... us. Her." He looked down at the sleeping toddler between you, at the bump under your hand. "Them. We could have the whole thing, Y/N. We could be safe."

"At what cost?" you asked, your own tears falling now, hot against your cheeks. You touched his face, mapping the lines that weren't there, memorizing the way he looked with joy written all over him. "If we stay here, we die. Our bodies die in the real world, and this... this becomes a grave. A pretty grave, but a grave."

Steve made a sound like he'd been stabbed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath was warm, coffee-sweet. "I want it," he confessed, broken. "God, I want it so much. I want the boring mornings. I want the kids running in with nightmares. I want to grow old and fat and gray with you. I want to meet them." His hand trembled against your stomach. "I want to meet our kid."

"I know," you sobbed, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Me too. I want it so bad I can taste it. But not like this. Not as a trap."

The little girl - Lily - stirred between you, her small hand finding your cheek, patting the tears there with confused concern. "Don't cry, Mommy. Daddy, why is Mommy crying?"

Steve looked at her, really looked, and his expression shattered into a thousand pieces. He pulled her up, cradling her against his chest with one arm while the other anchored you to him, his body shaking with silent sobs. "Because she's brave, peanut," he whispered into her hair. "Braver than Daddy."

"We have to wake up," you said, your voice steadier now despite the tears. You took his hand - the one with the gold band - and pressed it flat against your chest, over your heart. "We have to choose the real world. The hard one. Where we fight."

His eyes met yours, red-rimmed and desperate. "What if we don't get this?" he asked, his thumb tracing the ring. "What if we die anyway? What if we never get to be this happy?"

"Then we die trying," you said. "But at least we'll be real. At least we'll be together in the truth."

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, the sleeping child warm between you, the phantom baby kicking softly under your hands. "I love you," you whispered. "I choose you. The real you. The one with the bat and the bad jokes and the hero complex. Not this... this perfect ghost."

Steve closed his eyes, his tears wetting your skin. "I love you," he breathed. "I choose you. Always."

You kissed him. It tasted like goodbye, like the end of a dream. The bedroom seemed to dim, the sunlight retracting like a tide, the world froze.

"Hold on to me," you whispered.

"Never letting go," he promised.

The gold band on your finger burned cold.

The bedroom dissolved into a dark sky and ash.

You woke up gasping on the splintered floor of the Creel house, Steve's hand clutched in yours so tight your bones ached, your fingers interlocked white-knuckled. He was sobbing, choking on air, his other hand pressed against your flat stomach like he could still feel the curve of it, still feel the kick.

"She had your eyes," he wept as you dragged him into your lap, both of you bleeding slightly, Vecna's laughter echoing in the rafters like breaking glass. "She had your eyes, and they were kicking, Y/N, the baby was - "

"I know," you cried, rocking him, your free hand cupping the back of his head where his hair was still shorter, still twenty, not the longer curls of the dream. "I know. I felt them too."

"They wanted us to stay," Steve gasped out, his face buried in your neck, his body trembling against yours. "They wanted us to choose it."

"We didn't," you promised into his sweat-damp hair, the memory of gold bands and baby kicks and morning light burning behind your eyelids like a brand. "We chose this. We chose real."

"But what if - " Steve pulled back, his face ravaged, blood smeared across his forehead. "What if that's all we get? What if that was our only chance?"

You looked at him - really looked at the boy who had become a man in the trenches of Hawkins too soon, who carried trauma like a shield, who loved with his whole bleeding heart. You took his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping at the blood, at the tears.

"Then we make it real," you said fiercely. "Not the vision. Not Vecna's trap. But us. We survive this, Steve Harrington. We kill that bastard, and we go home, and we build that life for real. Not in a dream. Not perfect. Messy and scary and real."

Steve stared at you, his breath hitching, his eyes searching yours. Slowly, the despair receded, replaced by something harder, more determined. The same look he got when he knew he had to step up to protect the ones he loved.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. For real."

"For real," you repeated.

He leaned his forehead against yours, his hand finally leaving your stomach to grip your hip instead, grounding himself in the present, in the flat plane of your body that was yours alone, not yet shared, but someday - someday if you survived.

"We're going to get that," he said, his voice steady now, rough but sure. "The house. The kids. The Sunday mornings. We're going to steal it back from him."

"Yeah," you said, smiling through the tears, through the blood. "We are."

You, Robin’s other best friend, never pass up an opportunity to remind Steve that actually, according to Best Friend Law: you were there first. Which allegedly gives you some sort of eternal precious connection to Robin and bragging rights until death.

It was you who defended Robin against the Chocolate Milk Bullies of ‘74, you who has spent countless hours in the Buckley basement for sleepovers, you who Robin has clung to through the tumult of the last decade.

But if Steve ever needs to rile you up, he’ll mutter something about the ‘psychokinetic bonds formed through drug-induced hallucinations’ and that’ll get you going for a good half hour, at least. (He doesn’t actually know what the words mean, beyond memorizing them to imply a badge of closeness with Robin that drives you up the wall.)

If it weren’t for Steve’s deep love for Robin, he’d have weaseled you out of the psuedo-triangle of friendship already. But he’s not a total jealous tyrant and he respects Robin’s wishes, however irritating those wishes may be. 

If it weren’t for your deep love of Robin, Steve would be buried six feet under. Somewhere offroad, past mile marker 10. 

You’ve run the logistics enough to know you probably wouldn’t get away with it, but there’s always room for a plan b in your heart.

___

Robin has a right to be worried about this evening. 

During the Thanksgiving meal at the Wheeler’s, you’d snuck a giant spider (courtesy of Dustin and your bribe of twenty bucks) through the cracked window of the Beemer. 

Steve ran to get the leftover can of whip cream in his front seat before the pie was cut, and screamed so loud Hopper nearly shot out the Wheeler’s living room window.

You’ve never seen Steve that color before- a bright, cherry-cheeked red, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon, shaking with adrenaline and anger. 

It’s a personal goal of yours for next year to make him return to that color, somehow.

But for tonight, you really do mean to swallow it down, for Robin's sake. To put your bitter rivalry on the back burner and come together in holiday cheer, just for an evening.

And then you walk in the room, and across a room full of faces you love, there he is- wearing a green cashmere sweater that looks stupid expensive and is hugging his frame stupidly tight across his stupidly broad chest. 

There’s a glass of champagne in his hand; he’s leaned a shoulder against the wall, talking to Jonathan on the couch- but when Steve see you walk in, he stops conversation altogether to grin wicked, calling out far too loudly- 

“Hey, look who it is! Lay any evil spider eggs recently?”

“Funny, Steven,” you shoot back, bickering coming as easy as breathing, pushing it even when Robin gives you a sharp warning look over the coat rack- “I’ve reserved all further egg clutches for that towering mess you call hair.”

You catch the twitch in Steve’s fingers, like he’s dying to push a hand through those auburn strands falling over his forehead but doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. It makes you smile. 

“OH-kay!” Robin announces, brightly, pushing at your shoulderblades to hurry you into the kitchen. “Merry Christmas, everyone- let’s not fight in front of the kiddies.”

The kiddies, in various groups of board games and television watching, remain undisrupted. It’s not exactly new to hear you and Steve exchanging barbs; most of them keep absorbed in their current holiday fun.

Dustin manages a wave before you’re ushered into the bustling kitchen, much to Steve’s chagrin. 

“What?” From the couch, Dustin shrugs off Steve’s death glare, eyes dropping back to the screen of Lucas’s new GameBoy. “I’m not the one who thinks she’s the devil incarnate, come to slay us all. Maybe it’s time you turn a new, reasonable leaf.”

“You’re twelve,” Steve retorts, with stunning childish inaccuracy. The stem of the champagne flute creaks under his grip. 

Once you’re in the kitchen it’s easier to ignore your rival’s presence- Mrs. Byers and Nancy set you up with a cutting board, and you get to work, chatting happily over the holiday radio station.

Dinner passes mostly without incident, a blend of families and friends so big that some of the younger kids resort to stretching out on the living room carpet with plates piled high. 

You and Steve are sat on opposing corners of the extended table, so you’re able to keep true to your deal with Robin. No chance for you to accidentally knock the table vase of flowers into Steve’s mashed potatoes; no chance for Steve to sneak a spoonful of gravy into your water glass. 

It’s almost a little boring. You wonder if Steve (seven seats away and listlessly pushing his fork through a mound of peas) is missing the chaos, too. 

After dinner and cleanup, everyone disperses back to various groups. An instrumental of Silent Night plays softly from the handheld radio, while in the living room, A Charlie Brown Christmas rerun is just beginning.

Eddie catches your eye from across the kitchen, pack of cigarettes raised in question. Your jean jacket and boots are thrown on in record time, shoulder bumping into Eddie’s genially on your way out the back door.

___

Steve is really trying to pay attention to Argyle’s one-sided debate about the merits of flats or wings, but he can’t stop thinking about your coat. 

And about how thin it looked, and how much it’s snowing, and how long you’ve been out there- jesus christ, is Munson trying to kill you? It’s been thirteen and a half minutes. How long does a smoke break take, anyways?

“-but the sauce, brochacho, you gotta consider the sauce-” Arglye gestures towards Steve with emphasis while Jonathan, two couch cushions down, hums in sage agreement. 

“Yeah,” Steve replies, eyes on his watch. “That’s awesome, man. I’m gonna hit the bathroom. Back in a bit.”

The kitchen is still bustling with conversation as Steve ducks in unnoticed, snagging two clean glass tumblers from the side table and bringing them over to the cooler resting on the far counter.

Among other drinks in the ice bed, a vintage whiskey lifted from Harrington Sr.’s cellar for the occasion lies in wait. Steve uncorks it, then pours a generous stream into each glass. 

His eyes flick to the window above the sink- it’s dark, but in the dim back porch lights he can just make out two forms at the edge of the yard, backs turned and feet stomping with cold. 

“Be nice,” Robin calls in warning from her seat at the table, slung over Vickie’s lap and being no help at all in the current round of Jenga.

In answer, Steve raises two glasses of perfectly nice alcohol, an extra coat tucked under his arm as he backs out the front door and into the chill of the night air.

The snow has eased some, but there’s still plenty on the ground; it soaks through the bottom of Steve’s jeans as he crunches across the frozen grass to join you and Eddie on the far side.

Duel clouds of smoke trail and twine into one as Eddie passes you a joint, and you pass him a cigarette- a trade off, as both of them are lit. 

Steve tsks in greeting. “What, not enough fresh air out here for you two to desecrate, so you gotta smoke twice as many things?”

“I knew I smelled hairspray.” You’re quick with another hit off the joint, blowing it downwind, the pretty shape of your profile hitting Steve with unusual force. “Careful, Eddie- Harrington here isn’t supposed to be near an open flame with the amount of product it takes to keep it up.”

Steve’s sigh floats out of him in a cold cloud. “C’mon, princess, lighten up- ‘tis the season. I brought you some spirits.”

You squint at the glass Steve leans to hand you, immediately suspicious- “Did you spit in it, or something?”

“No, I didn’t spit in it,” Steve protests- and then, knowing you won’t believe his word without action, takes a sip from both glasses to prove his point.

“I dunno.” Smoke streams from your nose, eyebrow cocked. “You might be the type of guy to drink your own spit.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Exasperated, Steve makes to give the whiskey to Eddie, instead, but you intercept the glass.

Eddie takes a step back with his fingerless gloves palm-out in surrender. “Hey, man, as long as you two promise not to tear each other to ribbons, I’m gonna head in.”

Steve waves him off, and you give a half-hearted scout’s honor with your free hand. The back door creaks closed again, and Steve steps into place at your side, proffering the flannel-lined coat he’d brought. “Here. For you, too.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You’re appreciative but don’t say anything more as Steve helps you into the first sleeve, then the second, and soon it’s quiet as the fresh snow all around.

Steve swirls the whiskey in his glass and takes another swallow. Then, because he can’t stand the silence anymore- “Smoking is bad for you.”

“God,” you groan, but it’s followed by a snort of amusement. “Thanks for the health tip, mom.”

Steve smiles into the rim of his cup. He sees you smiling, too, from the corner of his eye- until it fades and you’re staring unseeing into the winter forest past the fenceline. 

“Do you think we’re totally just gonna end up like our parents? Mine, they used to fight just like this. Like you and me. I’d hate to be like either of them, when I get older.”

Steve’s heart flickers at the raw, open vulnerability in your voice. 

He thinks about the Christmases spent between his parents at either end of the dining table, used once a year; his father talking incessantly about the world of law, trying to mold his son into it like an ill-fitting suit; his mother, all blurry lipstick and distant smiles as she used the holidays as an excuse to polish off the fancy wine.

Steve thinks about his parents’ absence from the last three Christmases, and how little he misses them. How the seasons have brought him siblings in droves, aunts who always make sure to send him off with overflowing tupperware, friends to warm the cold interior of the Harrington mansion and make it feel like home for the first time.

From what Steve’s heard in bits and pieces over the years (via the ever-accessible Robin gossip line and the more rare drunken confessions from yourself), your parents weren’t exactly batting a thousand, either. 

Probably, you’ve had it even harder- which is why Steve is so awed by your nature. You’re a caretaker, a shining pillar of quiet goodness, with a soft quality that’s only obscured like a finely-tuned reflex during tiffs with Steve. 

Memories weave in and out, seamless and shifting into the next- your hands braiding Holly’s hair at the breakfast counter. Your grin, bright as a sunbeam, for Max’s skating trick, then a whoop and a holler and a round of applause that makes Max blush but secretly preen. Your arms around Robin on the couch, Nancy in the summery front yard, Jonathan on the porch; always willing and eager to give kindness where you can.

Even to Steve, when he really needs it. Mugs of tea that have appeared noiselessly at his elbow. The gentle pressure of a hand on his back. The poke of your sneaker against his knee under the table. Small ways to show that you care, that you see him, usually when no else bothers to. 

The fights with you are just a bonus. He counts himself lucky that he’s been hand-picked to take on this side of you.

Steve realizes he’s been quiet for a long time, thoughts tumbling; you shift beside him from one boot to the other, and he pinwheels his way into speaking-

“Oh, like- you mean like, we’re playing at being adults. With their bad habits, and everything.”

You nod. Still staring off into the distance, still with your hands around the unsipped whiskey glass. The cherry of the cigarette between your fingers is no longer glowing.

“I know what you’re saying,” Steve starts, cautious but earnest- “-but no, I don’t think we’re like our parents. Either of us.”

There’s a beat, a moment where you really absorb this- and then, as if the honesty makes you squirrelly, you breathe out a sigh and close your eyes in mock contemplation. “I think this fighting’s good for my aggression outlet. So. I’m not gonna stop.”

“Merry Christmas to me,” Steve says dryly, reaching to clink his glass into yours. “What would I do without your smart mouth and the threat of life-endangering pranks in the new year?”

“Quit talkin’ about my mouth or I’ll hit you in yours.” 

You both descend into quiet snickering laughter, and Steve feels something loosen in his chest. Words bubble to the surface before he can think to censor them.

“Y’know, some days, the only reason I get out of bed is because I know I get to fight with you at a party.”

And then he turns on his heel, cutting a swift path back towards the house, leaving you in open-mouthed silence in the gently falling snow.

___

Steve thought that statement was a clear white flag. An unsubtle declaration of wanting to stop pretending- pretending like he doesn’t stare at your mouth just to memorize the shape, pretending to take no heed of your laughter even and especially when it’s at his expense.

Three days after Christmas, in yet another crowded family kitchen, you’d eased past Steve with your hands settling on his hips, briefly, the pressure there and then gone in your path towards the living room.

Steve had to go to his parked car for a bit. He sat in the passenger seat and bit his knuckle raw, reciting every Mets player like a Hail Mary just to will away the stiffness in his dick. 

So yeah, Steve’s in deep, and while he has the distinct feeling you and him are speaking different languages entirely, he’s still trying to send signals. 

The softer he gets, the more you resist, claws digging in with a bite, remarks sharper than usual. Never cruel, but pointed and quick. 

Steve knows he’s throwing off the whole rhythm you two have built up over the last few years. The bitch-for-bitch routine only works if he’s a bitch, too-

but he can’t help it. He’s tired of the bullshit. He’s tired of pretending. 

He just needs you to see it, too.

___

Steve has been so weird, recently. 

The more you’ve been dishing, the more he’s been taking- graciously. With a smile quirked at the corner of his lips like the whole thing is funny. You’ll tee up a snide comment and he’ll bow his head, hair flopping over his forehead in a puppy-like way that makes verbal combat so much harder.

You feel like the rug keeps getting pulled out from under you in every social interaction. It’s like he doesn’t even want to be friends anymore. What’s the point of this whole arrangement if you’re sparring by yourself?

There’s a sneaking suspicion you have- that after that night in the snow, Steve pities you. He feels bad, and that’s why he’s been going so easy. 

It makes his niceness much harder to swallow. 

Which is why the reappearance of your crush on Steve is so goddamn inconvenient. 

Usually, you’d be in the rightful position to take advantage of his lack of comebacks- but he has you feeling flustered. Goddamn twitterpated. 

Looking at you under long lashes, with those doey eyes. The moles on his neck deeply confronting every time he wears a low collar. 

And the killer is, you don’t even have the guts to talk to Robin about it. Your best friend in the whole world. It becomes a secret guilt, something that pushes your psyche to the avoidant side.

You start withdrawing from Steve. You stop picking at him like you normally do the second he walks in the door; you excuse yourself to activities in other rooms, on other couches; you pick up extra shifts and tell yourself it’s for the holiday pay but really, it’s to get out from under the potency of Steve’s gaze.

Most of your friends are too wrapped up in their own shit to really notice the new strangeness, the new tension that’s formed (one-sided though it may be). 

It comes to a head one evening, though. 

With that fucking sweater. 

The off-white, heavy-knit, rainbow-thread-pricked sweater that fits Steve like it was made for him. The contours of his shoulders, hunched against the winter winds in the Wheeler’s driveway, draw your eyes in like a beacon. 

“Did you hear me?” Steve says your name again, pointing at Eddie’s van idling on the curb. “There’s not enough seats. I’m gonna stay behind- it’s past my bedtime, anyways.”

The idea of leaving Steve in an empty house while the rest of you enjoy the heated interior of the kids’ concert hall performance is ridiculous. It jolts you from the single-mindedness of watching a snowflake melt into the golden apple of Steve’s cheek.

“Don’t be an idiot,” you say, pulling him by the sleeve to the open door of the van. The last empty seat is by the window. “I’ll just sit on your lap. As long as you promise not to be a weirdo about it.”

Steve grins. The flash of his teeth feels like a shot through the heart. “Promise.”

Nancy and Jon had the same idea, already snuggled up with a shared lap belt, so it shouldn't be weird, except that Jon and Nance are a couple, and you and Steve aren’t, and you’re really trying not to overthink it-

and then you’re sitting in Steve’s lap. Someone else closes the door, the van kicks into gear, and the radio fills in all the gaps as your world shrinks down to just the feeling of his thighs underneath yours. 

You’re not sure how to place yourself best, half-perching and holding onto the seat in front until Steve slips an arm around your waist. 

“I won’t break,” he says, low at your ear, just for you. 

So with his coaxing you settle your weight further in, letting him ease the front of his chest to your back. There’s a bump in the road, and Steve tightens his hold to keep you steady.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, breath spilling down the line of your neck. 

Goosebumps cascade across your skin. You’re grateful you thought to wear jeans tonight, not a dress- although feeling him all around, so suffocatingly close, feels just as revealing.

“It’s okay,” you breathe back, nose turning down over your shoulder to reply. His right eye, the one you can see, squinches like he’s smiling. 

The drive to the community center is a staggering 15 minutes. Around you, your friends are laughing, talking over the radio like nothing has changed and Steve isn’t pressing his forehead to the back of your neck in the dim light.

There’s an ache growing steadily between your thighs. You try your best not to shift around too much, but then there’s a bend in the road that has Steve’s thumb slipping against the bare skin of your stomach, and it takes enormous effort to keep your legs from snapping shut at the feeling.

“Are you cold?” Steve asks. In that same quiet, just-for-you voice.

You shake your head. He feels it. 

The tenderness of his thumb stroking over your hipbone is making your head foggy. Impairing your better judgement. He smoothes gently, at first, waiting for you to snap at his wrist or maybe tell him off- but when you don’t, Steve grows more confident with his touches.

He settles into a stroking rhythm with his thumb while his other hand subtly crawls up the path of your outer thigh, one wide, warm palm coming to rest over the seat of your jeans. If anyone looked now, it would simply seem like Steve had your best interests at heart, wanting to steady you from the rocking of the backroads.

When in reality, Steve was taking you apart at the seams. Splitting them open one by one. 

His nose is pressed just above the collar of your coat, like he’s breathing you in the same way you’re taking lungfuls of his spiced cologne and laundry detergent. You think his breath might be shuddering, but whether it’s from the cold or the proximity, you can’t tell. 

The spell breaks when the van screeches to a halt in the parking lot. There’s a flurry of movement, a tangle of limbs as everyone catapults back out into the chilly night air. 

Steve’s lips brush the back of your neck before he withdraws. It feels like it might’ve been an accident. You’re not sure of anything, anymore. 

He opens his arms, releasing his hold, and you crawl from the van, stepping into the snow without looking back.

___

The night before New Year’s Eve, Robin comes over to help Steve prep for the party.

There’s tinsel strewn across the dining table, black and gold balloons in various states of inflation bobbing in a cluster underneath Robin’s chair. She ties off the end of another gold one and drops it unseeing to the pile below.

“Jon will grab the pizzas, Vick’s on soda duty, and Eddie will supply us with all the age-appropriate drugs our devious little hearts desire.” Robin reaches for a deflated black balloon, wincing around the taste of latex. “And Sweets will bring the cake. You got any top-shelf champagne you’d like to gift us from Dear Old Dad?”

“Technically basement-shelf,” Steve corrects, letting go of the half-blown balloon in his hand. It squeaks a loud path upwards, careening towards Robin’s side of the table and glancing off her shoulder with the last of its air. 

Steve feels unsettled and overly warm at the mention of your name, the epithet rolling off Robin’s tongue like it’s simultaneously precious and nothing to call you that. 

He spins a string of tinsel around his pointer finger, winding it tight enough to cut off circulation, then releasing it again. “Is Sweets- is she, um. Seeing anyone? Recently, I mean.”

“Not since Roy.” Robin pokes her tongue out in concentration, flat end of the balloon twisting in her uncoordinated fingers. 

Steve almost flinches at the name. Roy Stillwell, the biggest idiot on the former football team, who somehow managed to capture your attention for nearly six months. 

Robin finishes tying off the balloon and lets it slip through her grasp, already reaching for the next. “He wasn’t nice to her, like, at all. I’m so relieved she listened to the good sense of her most wise best friend and dropped his hulking ass after the earthquakes.”

It’s been almost a year, then. Steve tries not to sound suspicious but fails, ears tingeing pink as he asks- “So no one… no one special for her since then?”

Robin looks up from her self-imposed balloon wrangling job with a withering squint. “Why? Are you planning to mess with her, or something? You’ve both been so good recently. It’s been bringing my poor torn heart such healing.”

“Shut up,” Steve tells her, feeling overly fond and deeply embarrassed. The tinsel stretches between his fingers and breaks, noiselessly. “I was just thinking, if she wants to get back out there- I could set her up with one of my buddies.”

“Buddies,” Robin echos, incredulous. “I’m sure our graduating class of high school rejects would absolutely froth at the mouth to get a chance with her, but honestly, Steve, she doesn’t deserve it. You can’t sabotage her love life. I draw the line at food and animal-based pranking.”

Steve shakes his head, eyes dropping to the half-drunk beer between them; he picks it up just to have a label to pick and peel at. “I wasn’t planning any love-based sabotage, so you can cool your jets with that.”

He cringes to think about the narratives you’ve likely been fed by Robin regarding his own love life (or lack thereof), what with her fantastic propensity to bloat the truth. Daliances distorted and disproportionate and probably miles away from reality. 

Steve Harrington might not hold the king’s title any more, but his track record this last year as far as keeping women around where any meaningful long-term capacity is concerned has not been good.

He’s lied, here and there, to Robin, which he hates doing, but there are only so many times he can come crying to her about a girl never calling him back after the third date before it gets pathetic. 

The details of who, exactly, neglected to call whom after sleeping together have been fudged enough to make Steve seem slightly less lame. More in control, more laid back and casual than he actually is. 

He really shouldn’t bother, anymore. Like he said- he’s tired of pretending, tired of the bullshit- 

and Robin already thinks he’s kinda lame, yet loves him anyways. 

Robin rises from the table, breaking Steve from his thoughts. She kicks gently at the balloons to begin herding them into the living room, and says over her shoulder with finality on the issue- “She deserves better.”

Steve peels the label off his beer in one clean sweep. “Yeah. Can’t argue there.”

___

In the end, it’s Robin that brings the two of you together. 

As she always does. Intentionally or not. 

Two AM in the new year finds Robin belting out a jazzy rendition of Auld Lang Syne, cheeks flushed with spirits as she’s half-carried, half-pushed up the stairs by you and Steve.

“Don’t worry,” you’re calling down the hall to where Vickie stands giggling, car keys in her hand. “We’ll take good care of your girl.”

“If she doesn’t kill us first,” Steve grumbles, ducking another one of Robin’s far-flug arms. “All right, songbird, that’s enough out of you.”

He takes a wider stance against the stairs, leaning forward to tuck Robin’s waist against his shoulder, then straightening up with a grunt. She drapes like a sack of potatoes, and Steve grits his teeth before the next step. “Christ alive, Buckley. You’re practically sloshing.”

Robin’s head lifts from the small of Steve’s back as she declares, “You are the slushed one. Shteve.” 

Your hands go to stabilize Robin as you follow them both, and Steve can hear you laughing quietly at her drunken antics. 

Steve decides to put her to sleep in the second guest bedroom- it’s the one furthest down the hall, with a bathroom attached. He eases Robin from his shoulder straight onto the mattress, supporting her neck on the way down- then gets stuck halfway to standing as she throws her arms around him.

“Steve,” Robin sighs. “You’re the best- my best- friend. Ever. Love you, dingus.”

Steve’s cheek is squished into the side of her neck. He chuckles and pats at her hips. “Hey, love you too, Goose. Unhand me and I’ll take your shoes off for you.”

Robin’s arms flop back to the sheets, and Steve bends to ease the sneakers from her feet. He sets them under the bedside table, where you’ve just appeared with a glass of water and two blue Tylenol pills.

“I scrounged around in the bathroom cabinets,” you say, by way of explanation.

“No, that’s- that’s cool,” Steve rushes to assure- but your focus has already been pulled entirely to Robin.

You kneel at the mattress edge, the back of your hand lifting to brush down the side of Robin’s flushed cheek as you tell her softly- “Gonna leave you some water. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Sweets,” Robin croaks, eyes hazy and roaming over your face. “Jus’ you’n me?”

“Yeah,” you say, keeping to the same soft tone, even as your free hand jolts backwards. “Just me, honey pie.”

Somehow you land a perfect hit to the side of Steve’s ribs, and he’s forced a step backwards into the shadows of the room. He stifles a laugh into his fist, your touch melting into his skin long after the initial impact of your fingertips. 

Robin doesn’t notice the noise, eyes only for you as she catches your hand in both of hers and says, “You should tell ‘im goodnight. Go onnnn. It would be so fun, I love y’both so much-!”

You shush Robin’s stream of consciousness, in a mild way, like one might for a child fighting a much-needed nap. “Hush, Robs, you’re talking silly. Beddy bye time.”

Then you pull up the covers to her chin, lean in to kiss her sweaty forehead, and brush past Steve on your way out to the hall. 

After turning out the lamp and ensuring Robin is snoring, Steve follows in your wake; he finds you downstairs, on the living room couch. Feet tucked under yourself, hands twisting in your lap. 

It’s a bit of a disaster area, empty bottles and Happy New Year ephemera strewn about the room. The lamp over your shoulder is the only source of light in the room, casting your profile in warm oranges. 

“Hey.” He eases onto the cushion next to you but keeps his knees tilted away, leaving a careful amount of space between your bodies. “What did, uh. What’d Robin mean?”

Steve’s heart thumps unsteadily at the base of his throat, waiting for your response. 

It comes quietly. 

“She wanted me to tell you goodnight. Which I guess is code for, like, admitting my big fat crush on you.”

Steve jerks his gaze to yours, heart thudding louder. 

There’s no indication of any life-altering statements that have just been made- in fact, your chin is tilted upwards, an expression of practiced nonchalance settled into your features.

When Steve meets your eyes, though, there’s something that courses over your face unhidden. It’s fear, or embarrassment, maybe, the intensity of it there and gone in the span of a breath as you work to smooth back into a blasé manner. 

Your gaze drops to the knee of your jeans, plucking at a stray thread. There’s a bitter quality to your voice as you speak. “What, no punchy comment? It’s fine. You can let me have it. You pity me, and I’m the last person you’d ever wanna-”

Steve moves on pure instinct and desire, closing the gap of your bodies in a moment, hands reaching to cup your cheeks, noses bumping together briefly as his face crowds yours. He hears the quick intake of your breath before he whispers, sharp-

“Please shut up.”

And then Steve is kissing you. In the hungry, desperate way he’s been thinking about for the better part of three years. Lips pressing and sliding together, teeth clacking with the force but it doesn’t matter because you’re kissing back. 

Parting your lips for him, tongue sliding against the front of Steve’s teeth, the roof of his mouth; your hands fly to his wrists, keeping him in place, keeping him close as the kiss keeps spiraling. Drawing back only to readjust, to fit your nose to the side of his, angling to get in deeper-

Steve’s hands are trembling. The adrenaline is coursing through his veins, along with a dozen other emotions rapidly rising to the surface. He sends a silent prayer to every god ever that you won’t notice, that you’ll let him keep kissing you and drinking you in.

You do notice, though. There’s a wet click as your lips leave his, and Steve keeps his eyes closed, begging to keep the moment for just a little longer, nose still pressed to your cheek.

But all you ask, in a quiet whisper, is- “Are you okay?”

Steve nods. A hoarse exhalation shudders through him, as his thumbs memorize the path of your jaw. He wants to tell you that he’s more than okay- that the tremors are just a pesky side effect from all that torture and trauma, that he’s shaking with anticipation and delight, not nerves, exactly- 

then you’re swinging a leg over his hip and sitting in his lap and under the weight of you, Steve’s racing thoughts go silent. 

All he can think about is that car ride where he felt suffocated by lust, by wanting, and how badly he’s longed for this, the pressure of your thighs draped over his and your fists in the roots of his hair like they’re doing right now. 

“I don’t pity you.” Steve says the words before his brain gets too clouded by your smell and touches. He settles his hands at your waist, guiding you to sit more heavily, just like he had in the car. “You believe me?”

This won’t work if you don’t. 

To Steve’s immense relief, you nod, eyes flicking from his spit-slick lips to his gaze still locked on you as you whisper back, “Yeah. I believe you.”

With a stifled groan, Steve reaches one of his trembly hands to the nape of your neck, pulling you in to kiss again. His cock is rapidly filling out a hard line in the leg of his jeans, brain going static at the tiny whimpers you’re making into his mouth.

It’s nearly overwhelming, being this close to you. Steve has always wondered what noises you’d make when kissed, how you’d respond to a hand sliding under your shirt along the length of your back- and now, he’ll never have to wonder again. 

Your tongue twists against his. Steve’s glad he had the foresight to close his eyes, because the way they’re currently rolling to the back of his head is probably not very pretty. 

His left hand, beneath the sheer black shimmer of your shirt, grazes the edge of your bra, and can’t help but think he used to be good at this. Good at hookups, at fun, meaningless sex; at unhooking a bra with nothing but an unshakeable pinky. 

This hookup isn’t nothing, though. It’s sort of everything to Steve. The culmination of all the pent-up feelings of the last few years, channeled into every touch, sinking deeper than the surface of his skin, down into his bones. 

The hands in his hair tighten and loosen in a repetitive pattern, sharp then gentle, like you’re having a conflict of your own- you break the kissing again just to let out a frustrated huff. “I can’t- I don’t know how to be soft. It might break me, to be that with you.”

Steve knows what you mean. The intimacy of gentleness, with your shared history of bickering, can’t be overstated. 

He pets at your hip, across the planes of your back, leaning forward again to kiss at the downturned edge of your mouth. “Hey. I get it. Even though I do think you know how to be nice, I’m not asking you to be that. Not right now, at least.”

You shift again in his lap and Steve grits his back molars at the feeling of your thigh against his cock, electric even through all the layers. Tentatively, you tug at the roots of his hair again, then harder, gaining confidence as Steve responds to the sharper pulls. 

Your mouth is back on his and there’s a flash of teeth again, on purpose this time as you bite into the plush bottom of his lip. Steve hisses, brows drawing together, another lightning strike of arousal turning his thoughts to dead air. 

“Like that?” You question, but it’s self-assured and slightly smug and Steve feels like he’s burning up.

“Please let me go down on you,” he murmurs, instead of a simple ‘yes’. 

He doesn’t have time to consider how very whiny he’s sounding because the begging increases, surges with force as Steve licks under your jaw, planting kisses down the pretty line of your neck in between each word.

“Please let me, please, I’ll make it so good- wanna taste you-”

You’re already guiding him with the pull of your limbs to a much more horizontal position on the couch, Steve catching his weight with a hand planted on either side of your shoulders as he continues to kiss his way down your body.

He carves a path between the valley of your breasts, leaving wet lip imprints against the sheer shimmering black fabric of your shirt (a New Year’s-themed low-cut number that Steve didn’t put a whole lot of effort into pretending not to stare at all night). 

There’s the darker outline of the lace edge of your bra so Steve kisses that, too, then continues to your tummy, a bare stripe of skin waiting for his lips to press over. Steve’s left hand drifts underneath the hem of your shirt, exposing more skin to kiss at, seeking out the soft mound of your breast and squeezing to mold the shape in his hand.

At this, your hips give a short jolt upwards, and Steve hears a soft gasp leave you. The sound lights him up, moving on pure instinct to drive his own hips down into the pressure of the cushion beneath. 

Steve ruts the bulge of his cock forwards and fumbles at the button of your jeans with his free hand, tremors at an all-time low as his focus hones in between your thighs.

Everything Steve has ever learned by fumbling in the back seat with girls who wouldn’t care about him in a week- he thinks it might’ve been all for you. 

All to be able to hear that noise you make the first time he gets his mouth on you.

It’s halfway to a long, breathy moan, cut short by the slap of your own palm, but it doesn’t matter because Steve’s already burned it into his mind for forever as he laps against your bare cunt. You taste just as good as he’s always imagined, sweet and bright and honeyed as his tongue slides into the channels of your muscle. 

He feels you pulse around him. Steve moans, the vibrations making your hands snap to his hair again, taking the reins to pull him further in. 

“Steve,” you whisper, thighs beginning to close around his ears. “Steve-”

His name has never sounded better, coming from you. Not ‘Harrington’, not ‘King Steve’ with sarcastic derision. Just Steve. He’s never felt more seen. 

It’s probably for the best that his mouth is occupied, because Steve gets pussy-drunk at an alarming rate- a rate that’s made even worse if he likes the person. 

And he really, really likes you.

Steve withdraws his tongue from your cunt and seals his lips around the beating heart of your clit, listening for the hitch in your breath as he finds the right pressure. His fingers squeeze tighter around your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching at your nipple; your back arches from the couch, pressing yourself into his touches. 

His hips grind mindlessly down and forwards, trying to find a reprieve for all the blood currently pooling southwards but it only serves to draw the band of pleasure even tighter. 

Steve distracts himself by sinking his middle finger into the wet heat of your center, sucking on your clit in time with the exploratory thrusts he gives with the digit. He slides another alongside it as your thighs begin to quiver.

When Steve curls his fingers and drives the angle against your front wall, a choked cry and a sudden sharp pull at his hair tells him to keep going. Steve does, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, humming a low note of encouragement. 

He stays the course until you’re spasming around him, cursing quietly with his name thrown into the mix. 

Steve pulls off just long enough to look at you, still keeping the rhythm up with his hand but resting his chin briefly on your lower stomach.

“I gotta give you three, sweetheart, okay? Not trying to blow my own horn, or whatever, but- uh- I won’t fit unless I stretch you out a little. Yeah?”

“Oh my god-”

You take his third finger like you were made for it, head lolling back and hands still fisted in his hair. There’s another spasm of your walls and then you’re coming, unexpectedly soon but Steve acts quick, latching back onto your clit and coaxing you through the wave of it with feverish enthusiasm.

That’s it, he thinks, instead of speaking aloud, mouth full of your taste, a palm full of your slick. That’s it, baby- 

Steve draws out your orgasm for as long as you’ll allow him, fingers finally pushing at his forehead when you’ve had enough. He lifts his mouth from you, but not before leaning forward to lick the flat of his tongue through the new wetness dripping from your hole. 

His dick leaks in the confines of his briefs at the sight of you- sweat dewing your skin, making you glow, lips parted in short heaving breaths as Steve gives you another kiss. A lingering but overall rather chaste one from someone who was just drinking from you like a starving man.

“I don’t have- I didn’t really stock up on condoms,” Steve stammers, suddenly remembering as your hands wander down the front of his button-down chest. “Shit. Sorry. It’s, uh- it’s been awhile, for me.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur back. Hands fiddling with the buckle of his belt. “Been awhile for me, too. But I’m on the pill. So. Have your way with me, or whatever.”

You give a shrug and a grin and Steve feels like the luckiest person to have lived, maybe ever. He buries a groan into the plush of your breast as you giggle at him. 

His burn of embarrassment quickly gives way to the hot flame of desire, rutting into the flat palm of your hand as you work your way to the top of his zipper.

Steve is overcome with a need to be good for you- to let you have whatever you want. He’s spellbound with obedience, looking down at you with half-lidded eyes. 

“Let me see you.” You thumb at the button of his jeans. Half of a smile on those lips Steve knows so well.

Steve helps by sliding the waistband of both his briefs and pants down, settling them just under his ass because he’s too wound up to stop for a proper strip. He can’t help himself, brushing over the head to spread his pre over his shaft, pumping a few times before you reach to bat his grip away. 

Then your hand is wrapping around the throbbing length of his bare cock and Steve has to restabilize against the cushions again, putting his weight in his forearms that sit snug along your sides. He has to dip to bite at the column of your neck in order to smother a loud moan as your fingers tighten around his girth.

“Holy fuck, you weren’t kidding.” You’re still speaking in a low voice but this time it’s hushed with awe and disbelief. “You really are huge.”

Steve licks at the indent of his teeth in your skin and huffs a laugh, then chokes on it when your hand twists around the base and up again in a cruelly slow arc.

You help pull the collared tee from his body and then your hand is trailing down his chest, through the thicket of hair, with curiosity- lingering on parts Steve doesn’t normally think of as hot. Fingertips trace the outline of his scars, the round of his stomach, the sparse line of hair leading below his belly button.

It’s the way you’re looking at him, too, eyes skipping between his and down lower to the cock in your fist. It’s almost like you’ve been dreaming of this, as well. 

“So handsome,” you’re murmuring, still roving over the scars at his side with the hand that isn’t pumping him into oblivion. “Steve- you’re so hot, so good-”

Steve feels it in that space behind his chest, the white-hot bloom of feeling. You’re not saying it like he’s some sort of novelty, some sort of side-show you’ve been jonesing to see, a ticket punched with no promise of return.

You’re saying it like Steve’s something to really look at. Like he’s worthy of the praise and kindness you’re doling out without expectation. 

Steve tries his best to take it in stride, but it’s becoming increasingly hard to think when all the blood in his body is currently being siphoned into the led pipe of his cock in your hand. 

He’s spilling precum onto your stomach, and you pause mid-stroke to gather some of it from your skin before taking him up again, moving more slickly with the help. 

Steve feels the weight of your gaze again as he tilts his hips, aligning himself with your entrance; his own hands rest on either side of your head, thumbs at your temples as he leans in to kiss you again.

He reaches to shove the hem of your shirt up to your throat, exposing the stiff peaks of your nipples through the fabric of your bra, chests crushing together as the head of his cock notches into place. 

Steve’s toes are curling in his socks while the arches of his feet press for further stability against the couch’s arm. From between the press of your bodies, your hands slip out to rest at the tops of Steve’s freckled shoulders. 

He kisses your breastbone, your jaw again, then says at your ear with ill-concealed strain- “I’m gonna- I’ll go slow, okay? And you tell me if- if anything, something- doesn’t feel good, and we can stop, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, fingernails beginning to sting into his skin. “C’mon, Stevie. Let me have it.”

Fighting words, Steve thinks, hiding a smile into the side of your neck. He pulls back only so he can monitor your expressions as he begins to enter you.

The thick head of his tip gets swallowed up with immediacy by the warm, wet embrace of your walls, sinking further in, pausing when there’s some resistance. Steve’s trembling again but this time it’s with the concerted efforts of slowing down, of avoiding the overwhelm for both of you. 

Your cunt is so blissfully tight. He’s only got the first few inches in but already Steve’s having trouble breathing, stuttering out short pants as he keeps watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

“It- you’re so- so big.” The words are strung thin, your brows knotted together, eyes pinched in concentration. 

Steve presses another kiss to your sweaty cheek, feeling the dampness of his own hairline and hoping he doesn’t drip any onto you as he sinks another inch inwards. “I know, honey, I know- and you’re doin’ so good, that’s my girl-”

The term of endearment leaves before Steve thinks to drag it back, but all it does is make you sigh, eyes blinking long-lashed and half-open to look up at him again, right hand leaving the top of his shoulder to fist back into the longer curls at the nape of his neck. “Steve… I can take it all. Let me.”

And who would Steve be, denying you a thing?

He lets you have all of him, pelvis lowering to seat the length of his cock fully inside you. Your nails dig past the first layer of his skin in your ecstasy, crown of your head tipping backwards as Steve feels the pulse of your walls surround him.

“Fuck me.” Another hoarse whisper as he waits, letting you adjust to the feeling of being stuffed before dragging his cock back again, until it’s just his head at that upper wall of your cunt- then sinking back in with one long thrust.

This makes you moan, loud enough that Steve instinctively curls a hand to fit over your parted lips. His best friend may be notorious for being able to sleep through a hurricane after a few shots but he’d really rather not invite chance to play tonight.

If Steve is worried about the covering being too much, he’s instantly gratified when your teeth sink into his middle fingers, like you needed something to mouth on. 

You’re so wet from Steve’s earlier work that his length glides smoothly with every rock forwards and back of his hips, a maddening cycle that’s starting to steal his breath again. The sharp tugs to his hair and the punctuated, muffled whines you’re making are enough to have his climax looming close. 

“Ah- fuck, shit-” Steve curses, stilling when his hips are pressed to yours, cock throbbing. “Not gonna last long, sweetheart, fuck- sorry, you feel too good. Pussy is choking me.”

The dirty talk has your eyes fluttering. Steve takes his hand off your mouth and kisses you, once, twice, then whispers- “Feels good, yeah, honey? Y’like taking me like this?”

Your ankles lift to cross at the small of Steve’s back, hand like a vice at his roots once Steve starts up a rhythm of fucking into you again. “Steve, keep- keep talking like that, and I’ll- I’m right there-”

He obeys, holding your shoulders again to keep you in place as his cock drags against the inner front wall of your cunt with precision. The beginning stages of an impending orgasm have Steve babbling- “That’s it, sweetheart- let me give it to you. I’ve got you, shit- y’feel so amazing. So good for me-”

“Fuck, Steve-!” Your face turns to profile as one side presses to the couch cushion beneath, mouth dropping into a silent o.

Steve slides as deep as he can, muffling his own shout into the fat of your breast, nuzzling in as your cunt flutters and squeezes around him. Your ankles pull him in hard, pelvis hitting at your clit and sending you over the edge for a second time. 

You’re silent as you come, back arching, eyes squeezed shut. Steve feels the wave of it wash over you, every sense dialed up to 10 as he memorizes how it rolls through your body. 

When you return to earth, you gasp in a breath, reaching to cup Steve’s face in your hands, stars still sparkling in your eyes when you whisper-

“Your turn, Steve. Gonna fill me up?”

Steve is done for three sharp jerks of his hips later, spilling into you with a growl caught at the back of his throat, abs rippling and jaw clenching with every rope of cum pulsing out. 

He swallows down noise as he keeps circling his hips. The highs spiral down slowly; once you begin to squirm under Steve with overstimulation, he takes it easy on you and stops. Kissing at your collarbone with apologies. 

Breathing still struggling to return to normal, he sags into your arms, careful to keep most of his weight off you. You’re giggling at him somewhat breathlessly, dotting kisses along the apple of his cheek and petting over the back of his skull with a gentle hand. 

In all those hidden fantasies with you at the back of his mind, Steve never let himself linger on the afterglow, one of the best parts of sex, in his opinion- holding his partner, feeling the bellow of their ribs, the hitches as everything simmers back to normal. 

It felt too personal, like just by wanting it bad enough (because Steve did want it, badly) the sacredness would somehow dim. 

Steve’s delighted to find this isn’t the case. 

Even with all the bodily fluids, sweating, and achy muscles that have accumulated, you don’t seem to care, pulling Steve to fit between your back and the couch. He wraps his arms around your middle, nose tucking to the hollow of your neck, breathing in the trace smell of your faded perfume and hormones. 

You breathe a long, contended sigh. Somewhere beyond the far window, an owl hoots into the dark night.

Your hands smooth across Steve’s forearms absently as you break the room’s silence with a whisper. “Hey. Do you think- would it be okay if we don’t tell Robin? Not yet, at least.”

Steve holds you a little tighter, running the tip of his nose up the line of your neck. “Yeah. ‘Course it’s okay. And, y’know, we don’t have to do this again, if you- if you don’t want-”

“Oh, we’re definitely doing this again.” There’s a shadow of a former tease in your voice. “It’s just- she’s gonna be so goddamn smug when she finds out. She already said I wouldn’t last two weeks from when I first told her about the crush-”

“And how long’s it been? Since you told her?” Steve interrupts to ask, ears perking up. 

He can only see the back of your head, but the long silence is enough to clue him in to your loss of pride before you mutter, “About 12 hours.”

“Oh my god.” Steve laughs against you, even as you growl at him to shut up, even as your teeth skim over the soft skin of his elbow, daring him to say more. “If I knew you had it so bad for a jock I would’ve pulled out the ol’ Hawkins Tigers shirt way sooner.”

“Former jock,” you correct, turning in Steve’s arms to plant one elbow against the cushions, other arm lifting to rest your hand over his heart. “And I think you look best wearing nothing at all, so. Might want to take that note.”

Steve doesn’t care at all how dopey he might look right now, fondness all-consuming as he reaches up to thumb at the corner of your wry smile. “Note taken. Y’know, I think this setup will be a great outlet for your aggression. Feel free to use me any time.”

Your wide smile pushes into the pad of his thumb, sweetness on your tongue when you lean down to kiss him again. “Note taken.”

Your own fingers lift to roam over Steve’s face, tickling at his hairline, down to the corner of his brow, like you’re memorizing the feeling. Steve lets his eyes slip shut, smiling as your pointer finger traces at the edge of his right eye.

“I like these little lines,” you murmur. “They only happen when you smile, though. Lights your whole face up.”

In the dawn of a new year, Steve rises with a heart overflowing to kiss at your bare shoulder. 

And as much as you didn’t want to admit it, his lack of contact really bothered you. He seemed pretty firm in wanting to be in Lily’s life, so what was taking him so long to get back to you?

“Just give him some time to think,” you mom says blowing smoke out of the back door from her cigarette. “I told you that there was 70 percent change that he would want nothing to do with her. Be happy he even heard you out.”

“Thanks mom,” you grumble, cutting up pieces of banana and feeding it to Lily in her high chair.

“Look, don’t be mad at me. This is the consequences of your actions,” she says, pointing her cigarette at you.

“Trust me mom, I know. Could you at least act like you’re on my side?”

“Sweetie, if I wasn’t on your side I would be lying to you and telling you everything was going to be fine. But I know well enough that that’s not the truth, so what’s the point in sugar coating it for you?”

“Well when you win ‘mother of the year,’ be sure to thank me in your speech,” you say, slamming the knife down on the counter in frustration. Lily jumps at the sound and you instantly regret letting yourself get that worked up in front of her. You lean down and place a peck on her soft head and she shoves a piece of banana in her mouth unbothered.

Suddenly, the phone rings and you’re dart across the kitchen to the wall phone and pick it up. “Hello?” You ask eagerly, ignoring the way your mom rolls her eyes at you. You hear your name on the other end and instantly light up. “Yes, Steve?”

“Hey, yeah, it’s me, Steve. Wait, you just said that. Sorry, I—” You hear him take a deep breath and you try to hold back the giggle that wants to escape. “Sorry, let me start over. Hi,” he says, and you smile like at his dorkiness.

“Hi,” you say, twirling the phone cord in your finger. “What’s up?” You ask, feeling like an idiot for not coming up with something better to say.

“Um, well, I wanted to give you a few days to get settled and all, you know, before asking about the test again,” he says, fumbling a bit over the last few words. You couldn’t help the slight tinge of disappointment, but you knew this was going to be a necessary step in this whole process so you pushed the feelings down.

“Yeah, um, there’s a lab in the city that we can go to. They just need to swab your cheek. I can give you the number and you can call to make an appointment whenever is convenient for you.”

“Can they do it tomorrow?”

“Well, I don’t know,” you say, biting your lip. “Even if they can, the results still take a couple days to come in.”

You hear him grumble on the other line. “Like how long?”

“I think they said 3-5 business days when I talked to them,” you say, trying to recall everything from your initial call with the lab.

The line is quiet for a moment, and you almost think he might have hung up on you. You’re about to say his name when he finally speaks again.

“Okay, so I’m gonna call this place and see if I pay them more if they can try and get the results sooner. I have a pen and paper, what’s their number?” You’re a little surprised that he seems so impatient about this, but you give him the labs name and number anyway. “I’m gonna call as soon as we hang up. If I can get an appointment for us at the same time, do you want to go with me?”

“Oh, well, we can do that if you want,” you say, taken aback by his offer. “We can take my car since it has the car seat in it.” Your mom looks at you with a tilt of her head and you hold a finger up to her.

“Okay, let me call them and then I’ll call you back. Do I need to know anything? Like her birthday or her middle name?”

“Her birthday is December 3rd, 1986,” you tell him. “I doubt you’ll need her middle name, but it’s Jane, you know, just for you to know.”

“Did you say Jane?” He says after a beat.

“Yeah, Lilian Jane,” you inform him. There’s another silent pause and this time you do say his name to make sure he’s still there.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry, I just…I really like that middle name.” That makes you smile, happy that he approved of your name choice. “Wait, so she just had a birthday, too?”

“Yep, she’s my precious little one year old,” you say, tickling under her chin and making her giggle.

“Is that her?” Steve asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

“Yep, she’s eating lunch right now,” you tell him and he hums.

“What, uh, what does she like to eat?”

“Oh, she loves fruits. Crazy about them. Except for apricot. That was a big no for her. And she’s a green girl. Green beans, peas, broccoli, you name it.” Steve listens intently as you continue to go on about your daughter’s likes and dislikes, asking you questions here and there that shows he’s actually listening to what you have to say.

“Um, is there, anything else I should know?” A million things cross your mind, but you can’t possibly tell him everything in this one phone call.

“We’ll be on the phone for hours if I try and tell you everything there is to know about her, so why don’t we save it for another time?”

“Okay, okay, I get that. I need to call this lab anyway. Let me hang up with you and do that and then I’ll call you back,” he says with a bit of urgency. “Is there any time that doesn’t work for you?”

“Nope, we’ve got a pretty clear schedule.”

“Good, okay, I’ll call you right back,” he says, giving you a quick goodbye before hanging up.

You place the phone back on the receiver and chance a look over at your mom, whose mouth is almost on the floor.

“What?” You ask, walking over to Lily and wiping her face on her bib.

“You know what, good for you,” is all she says, her smile wide as she walks out of the room.

“Alright, Lily pad,” you say as you zip buckle your baby in her car seat, “Lets go get your dad and take a little trip together. Won’t that be nice?” Lily blows raspberries at you and you just nod, deeming that an appropriate reaction.

You’d been nervous all morning, slightly worried that Steve was going to call and cancel on you. Instead, he called you about an hour ago and confirmed everything with you, asking you if you wanted him to come to you so you didn’t have to pick him up. But you told him it was okay, which is why you were on the way to his house now.

It snowed the night before, so you took your time getting there, not wanting to risk crashing into anybody’s cars parked on the side of the road. When you pulled up, you noticed the blue pick up you saw at the station was parked in his drive way, making you curious as to where his beamer was. You gave the horn a honk to let him know that you were there, and a few minutes later he was coming out of the house and making his way to your car.

He stopped at the back window first, smiling when he saw Lily in her car seat. Then, he rounded the front of your car and opened your door.

“What are you doing?” You ask, looking at him like he had two heads.

“I was gonna drive,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell him, but he waves you off.

“I don’t want you to have to drive in these conditions. Let me, please?”

“Well, I guess since you asked so nicely,” you say, undoing your seatbelt and climbing out of the car. He follows you to the other side, opening the passenger door for you to get in. You give him a small thanks and he nods before rounding the car and jumping into the drivers seat.

“Alright, let’s get this thing goin’,” Steve says, shifting the car into drive and starting off down the road. Steve seems to know where he’s going, navigating the town with ease and getting you on the interstate going north. Reaching for the radio, Steve turns it down and looks at you briefly before going back to the road.

“So,” he starts, his hands wringing the steering wheel, “You nervous?”

“Me? No, not at all,” you tell him, and he nods.

“Oh, yeah me neither,” he says, but you’re not totally convinced.

“It’s okay if you are, Steve. You just found out 4 days ago that you have—might have a kid, and I’m sure it’s just eating you alive as much as me telling you about her did.”

Steve looks at you out of his peripherals, biting his cheek before he talks again. “Okay, yeah, I’m a little nervous.”

You chuckle, “That’s fine. I figured you would be.”

“I hope that me trying to get the results faster doesn’t, like, offend you or anything,” he says suddenly, making you look at him.

“No, not at all,” you reassure him. “It kinda makes me happy if I’m being honest. Because I know she’s yours, and I feel like you’re being a bit…”

“A bit what?”

“Reserved? Like I can tell you want to do more but you’re holding back,” you tell him, and you see the corner of his lips tug into a small smile.

“I guess you could say that,” he says, looking into the rear view mirror. “I just…I think I believe you, that’s she’s mine and all. I just don’t, I don’t know, don’t wanna get my hopes up.”

“Will it bruise your ego if I tell you that’s cute?” You ask him, and he chuckles.

“No, my ego is not that easily bruised,” he assures you.

“And you’re not…mad that she’s a girl?” You ask, eyes focused out the window to avoid looking at him.

“What?” He asks with a breathy laugh. “You think I’d be upset over something like that?”

“Well, I don’t know,” you shrug, twiddling with the zipper of your jacket. “Some guys want a son to carry on the name and all that.”

“I’ll tell you right now I do not care about that stuff. My dad, sure. But I think girls are just as cool as boys. Probably cooler, actually. And I’ve seen a lot of girls do a lot of really cool stuff.”

“Have you now?” You say, smiling at him cheekily.

“Trust me, you have no idea some of the things I’ve seen.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Steve merges and gets off at the next exit, and you stay quiet while he concentrates on where he’s going. About 10 minutes later he pulls into a parking lot of a small medical building and follows the signs until you see the one for the lab that you were going to. Steve pulls into a parking spot close to the entrance and cuts the engine, the both of you getting out of the warm car and feeling the chill instantly.

You grab Lily from the back and rush inside, Steve holding the door open for you as you walk past him. “Brrr, it’s so cold Lily pad,” you say to your daughter, who looks around the doctors office as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Lily pad?” Steve asks with a toothy grin.

“One of her many nick names,” you tell him.

The three of you check in with the receptionist before taking a seat. You set Lily down as she was getting squirmy in your grasp, probably tired of being still after that car ride. She wobbles in front of you, her hands holding onto you as she bounces up and down.

“Does she walk?” Steve asks, and you shake your head.

“She’s getting close, though.”

Lily looks between you and Steve, then down at his legs next to yours and decides she would rather check Steve out than hang out with you. She picks up her chunky legs and shimmies until she’s in front of Steve, looking up at him with her wide eyes.

“Hey there, angel,” he says, leaning down to get closer to her.

Then she does something you don’t expect. She reaches an arm out, making grabby hands at Steve.

“Whats up, honey?”

“She wants you to pick her up,” you say, leaning over him.

“Really?” He asks, looking at you with wide eyes. “Do you want me to pick you up?” Lily just continues to give him grabby hands, waiting patiently for Steve to catch on.

“Is—Is it okay if I—”

“Of course,” you tell him and he swallows. He lifts his hands and you can tell he’s nervous. “Just pick her up under her arms. She’s not as fragile as she used to be.”

“Right, okay,” he says, placing his hands in her armpits and picking her up slowly.

“There you go,” you say as he plops her in his lap. She immediately grabs his shirt and you know that she’s about to make him carry her until you have to get back in the car. But by the look on Steve’s face, you don’t think he will mind that.

After a few minutes in the waiting room, someone finally called for the three of you to come back for the testing. Steve picks Lily up without a second thought, carrying her in his arms through the doors and into the room the nurse took you to. The both of you sat down in the chairs and the nurse looked at Steve with Lily in his arms and smiled.

”Okay, who’s going first?” She asks, holding up a little swab stick.

”Why don’t we do hers first and get it over with?” You say, holding your arms out to take your daughter from Steve. She leaned into you, letting you take her into your arms.

”Okay sweetie, let’s get that paci out and do this real quick.” The nurse pulls Lily’s paci and slowly brings the swab to her mouth. But, just as you expected, she did not want anything to do with getting her mouth swabbed, her lip quivering as the damn was about to burst.

”It’s okay, baby, just real quick,” you say, trying to coax her to open her mouth. But she buried her face in your chest and refused to partake. “I’m so sorry,” you tell the nurse, but she waves you off.

”It’s okay, the day I have an easy child swab is the day I retire,” she kids, making you feel a little better.

Steve’s hand crosses in front of you, tapping on Lily’s shoulder to get her attention. “Hey Lily pad,” he says, and she turns her head slightly to peek at him. “Look, watch daddy do it first, okay? See, ahhhhhh—“

Steve opens his mouth and the nurse very gently swabs the insides of his cheeks. “Wow, daddy is so brave,” the nurse cooes, pulling out the swab and pushing it into a test tube. “Here you go, dad.” The nurse takes a kids sticker and pops it on the chest of Steve’s shirt, and this catches Lily’s attention.

She leans over, wanting Steve to take her again, and he obliges. Once he has her, she starts playing with the sticker on his chest, totally forgetting what she was originally upset about. The nurse takes this chance to get the next swab ready, telling Steve to ask her to open her mouth to see if she listens to him.

”Hey, angel, will you do what daddy does?” Lily looks up at Steve, seeing him with his mouth hanging open and instinctively reaches to put her hands in his mouth. He laughs, grabbing her hand and shaking it lightly. “No like this baby, ahhh—“

Lily’s mouth drops open and the nurse quickly swabs her cheeks, Lily’s eyes going wide as she’s caught off guard. The nurse is fast, taking no more than a second to swab her. Still, she barely got the swab out of Lily’s mouth in time for her to start screaming at the top of her lungs, making Steve’s eyes go wide with panic.

”Oh no,” he says, looking at you with so much concern.

”It’s okay, she’s just upset,” you tell him, patting your daughters back as she sobs into his sweater.

“She’s going to hate me now,” he says, clearly getting upset too.

”Trust me, she’s not going to remember this to hate you,” you assure him. He stands from his chair and starts bouncing her up and down softly, shushing her in an attempt to comfort her. It seems to work as the hard sobs turn into little whimpers from your ittle girl.

”You’re a natural,” you tell him, and he smiles so wide, not taking his eyes off of Lily.

”Alright,” the nurse says, sealing the swabs in their vials in a plastic bag with some paperwork. “I saw you paid for expedited results, so we will send this straight to the lab and you should get your results either tomorrow or Friday.”

”Okay, thank you,” you tell her, and she waved goodbye to Lily before leaving the room.

”Can we get out of here?” Steve asks, still slightly bouncing Lily in his arms.

“Let’s go.”

The three of you make your way out of the lobby and to the car. You watch as Steve attempts to put Lily in her car seat, almost getting it on the first try before turning to you with stress in his eyes. You show him the proper way to do it, him watching you every step to memorize what to do.

”They couldn’t make those any simpler, huh?” He asks, making you laugh.

”Hey, they’re better than they used to be,” you say, closing the back seat door.

The two of you get in the car and Steve turns on the heat, cursing when all that blows out is cold air. “Sorry, it will take a minute to warm back up,” you tell him.

”It’s okay, I should have come out here and started it while you guys waited inside.”

”Don’t worry about it, it warms up faster as you drive it.”

”Well, then let’s get going,” he says, putting on his seatbelt. “Where to?”

”What do you mean?” You ask, confused as to where else you would go besides back home.

”Well, I figured I could take you guys to lunch,” he says, looking back to back out of the parking spot.

”Steve, you don’t have to—“

”I want to,” he says, looking at you seriously. “I want to, you know, be there for you guys n’stuff.”

”Yeah, but I don’t want you to think you have to do anything for me,” you try to explain.

But Steve isn’t hearing any of it, looking around as he drives you through the quiet city. “What kind of man would I be if I didn’t take care of my daughter’s mother?”

”So she is your daughter?” You ask, looking at him with a smile.

”Well, have you seen her eyes?” He says sarcastically, and you roll your eyes at him.

The two of you drive around, the air between you feeling different, more light, at least to you. You both decided on going to an ihop since it was still kind of early for lunch, Steve pulling into the parking lot and dropping you and Lily off at the door while he parked.

You and Lily grabbed a table and Steve joined you shortly after, the three of you enjoying a nice brunch together. Lilly was well behaved, nomming on her pancakes and cut up fruit, much to Steve’s delight. Steve paid for all three of your meals, even though you told him he didn’t have to. But he still insisted, so you just had to bite your tongue and let him.

”She’s gonna pass out in the car,” you say, looking at your daughter’s sleepy eyes as she sat in Steve’s lap.

“That’s okay, it’s a good drive back,” he says, resting his cheek on top of her head. With their faces so close together like this, you could really see the resemblance between them. You knew she had his eyes, but she also has his lips. And the way her hair falls in her face looks almost identical to how Steve does his hair does with his cowlick. They looked so sweet together, and it hit you that you really made the right choice to come back and find him.

”She smells good,” he says, putting his nose in her hair.

”Yeah, she still kinda has that new baby smell.”

”Wish I could have been there to smell her when she was fresh.”

You slumped your shoulders immediately feeling that guilt start to creep back in.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—“

”It’s okay,” you say, scooting down to the end of the booth and standing. “Do you care to watch her while I use the restroom?”

”Of course,” he says like he can’t believe you even have to ask.

Lily watches you as you leave, but seems too content in Steve’s arms to be that upset that you’re leaving her, which makes your heart swell. You do your business in the bathroom as quickly as you can, and rush back out to the table to make sure they’re okay.

You’re surprised to see three waitresses standing at the end of the table, all cooing over your baby…and her father holding her. You don’t know why, but the sight pissed you off. You know Steve is attractive, and you know how girls can get about babies, but something about it being your baby with your—well with her father…it just ground your gears to witness.

”Wow, she looks just like you,” one of the girls says, and Steve chuckles, making you roll your eyes.

”That’s what I’ve been hearing,” he says, looking down at your daughter.

You clear your throat, and the three women all turn to look at you. Lily sees you past them and immediately starts to whine for you, making you feel a bit better about the situation.

”C’mere baby,” you say, reaching out in front of the women to take your girl from Steve.

“Ready to go?” Steve asks, completely ignoring the waitresses now.

”Yep, let’s get out of here, daddio.”

Steve jumps out of the booth and doesn’t give the girls another ounce of his attention as he follows you and Lily out of the restaurant. He dashes to the car and pulls it around, letting you put Lily in the back before jumping in yourself.

“I could use a nap now, too” Steve says with a yawn.

You chuckle, looking at the road as Steve drives. “I like to nap when she does sometimes. You hear ‘sleep when the baby sleeps’ a lot when you have a kid.”

”Do babies not sleep or something?”

”Oh, god, no,” you say with a shake of your head. “I don’t think I slept more than an hour at a time for a whole month after she was born.”

”Really?” Steve says with genuine concern.

“Yeah, it was rough. Worth it, but I had a hard time.” The way Steve looked at you made you immediately regret your words. You shouldn’t have said anything about it, because you were starting to suspect the topic hurt his feelings.

”But it’s fine now!” You say, trying to correct the situation. “She sleeps great now, only gets up for a bottle once during the night.”

”Well, I guess that’s good,” he says, his tone giving you the impression you needed to change the subject.

”So, um, are you going to tell your parents? Or are you going to wait until you get the results back?”

”Oh, about that…” he says, cracking his neck nervously.

”Oh, god, what?” You ask, looking at him worriedly.

”Well, they already know…”

”You don’t sound very happy about that,” you comment, and his mouth opens and closes before speaking again.

”Well, they won’t tell me how they found out, but they were pissed not to hear from me first,” he said, puckering his lips.

“Oh, that…might be my fault,” you say, making Steve look at you with a raised brow.

”Well, when I was trying to find you, I may have gone to Tommy Hagan’s house…”

”Oh, Jesus,” Steve says, running his hand over his face.

”I’m sorry! I knew you guys were friends when we were in high school and thought maybe he would know how to find you!”

”No, it’s okay, I get it. I haven’t talked to Tommy in…god, three, four years? Him or Carol.”

”I thought I heard you guys had a falling out, but you guys had been friends since we were in kindergarten. I figured you guys would have made up by now,” you say, looking out the window awkwardly.

”Yeah, well, it’s a touchy subject,” he says, rolling his head. “Plus, him and Carol jumped ship and went to Purdue so I haven’t really had the chance to talk to them again anyway.”

”I see,” you say, “Well, let’s talk about what your parents had to say.”

”Well, dad’s not happy. He said some choice things to me, things I won’t repeat,” he says, glancing in the rear view mirror. “But, my mom wasn’t as upset as dad. She actually seemed kind of excited.”

”Well, that’s good,” you say, feeling a bit relieved to hear that.

”She’s going to book a plane ticket out here to see her once the results come in.”

”Oh, wow, okay,” you say, suddenly hit with shot nerves.

”Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. She does really well with smaller kids,” he says with a distant look.

“I’m sure my mom would like to see her, too,” you say, and Steve nods.

”Oh yeah, I don’t even want to imagine what those two would talk about,” he says, the both of you laughing at the thought of your mothers gossiping to each other.

”I’m sure your mom would have a lot to say about me,” you say, and Steve shakes his head.

“Trust me, she’s more upset with me for being ‘irresponsible’ than she is with you. I think she understands the why, just not the how.”

”Well the how is pretty self explanatory, don’t you think?”

“I think she thinks I did it on purpose or something,” he says, throwing his hand up. “They were telling me I need to find my own place so they could sell the house and I think they think I planned this child with you two years ago so they wouldn’t kick me out right away.”

”Oh yes, I remember this,” you say sarcastically, “In the heat of the moment you told me you wanted to get me pregnant so you could keep your parents nice ass house. It’s all coming back to me.”

”You got me,” he says with a chuckle.

Steve pulls down his street and you suddenly feel a little sad. You didn’t know why, but you tried to brush it off as he pulled in front of his driveway, leaving the car on as he jumped out to open your door for you. He looked in the back seat, melting when he saw Lily was asleep in her car seat.

”Well, I guess I’ll see you guys later,” he says, his hands on his hips as he looks at you disappointedly.

”Yeah, call me when they call you with the results” you tell him and he nods.

”Definitely. I’ll call you right away,” he says surely.

”Good.” The two of you looked at each other for a moment before you flicked your gaze down to the ground. “Okay, well, see ya later, Steve.”

”Yeah, um, see ya,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

You turn from him and get into your car, giving him a small wave before pulling away. In your rear view mirror you could see him standing there, watching you as you drove off.

There was so much caution in the way you closed the bedroom door after putting Lily down for her nap. She had put up a bit of a fit today, not wanting to cooperate with anything you wanted her to do. So when she finally went down for her nap you were able to breathe a sigh of relief.

Except when the phone suddenly began to ring. You ran at top speed into the kitchen, stopping only when you saw your mom holding the phone up to her ear. She greeted whoever was on the other line, lips curling into an amused smile as she looked to you. “Yeah, she’s here,” she said, covering the phone and handing it to you. “Guess who.”

You gave her an annoyed glare as you took the phone from her and brought it to your ear. “Steve?”

“Hey, yeah it’s me,” you hear him say on the other line. “Is this a bad time?”

”No, no,” you say, “I just got Lily down for her nap.”

”Ah shoot, really?” He sounded bummed to hear that.

”Yeah, literally just walked out of her room.”

”Well, I guess that’s okay. Can I come over anyway?”

”Oh, you mean like right now?” You ask, not expecting him to ask that.

”Yeah, it’s probably better to talk while she’s asleep.” He was right. If it was something important it would be better to just do it while there were no distractions.

“Okay, yeah, that’s fine,” you tell him. You look down at yourself and become self conscious immediately. You were in a baggy sweater and pajama pants, no make up, your hair a mess, and you could probably use a shower. “Uh, can you give me like, 30 minutes?”

”Yeah, sure thing. Have you guys had lunch? I can bring something with me.”

”You don’t have to do that,” you tell him.

“What did I tell you yesterday,” he asks sarcastically.

You sigh, but can’t help the smile that spreads across your face.

”I’ll just make us something so you don’t have to go anywhere,” you tell him, and he makes a contemplating noise on the other line that makes you snort.

”Okay, deal,” he says.

”Good, I’ll see you in a bit then?”

”Sounds great,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

The two of you hang up and you make a mad dash to the bathroom to freshen up, leaving the baby monitor with your mother while she watches her daytime television. You do your best to make yourself presentable, having a quick shower, putting on a little something on your face, and putting on a cute sweater and a nice pair of jeans.

A knock at the front door pulled you from your bathroom mirror where you were overanalyzing every little thing about yourself. You ran with haste to the front door, your mother not moving an inch from where she sat on the couch to grab it herself. You find that when you reach the door that you’re overwhelmed with jitters for some reason. It was just Steve on the other side, no reason to be scared.

You swung the door open and were greeted by a large bouquet of flowers being held by a very handsome man. “Hi, Steve,” you say, stepping to the side and motioning for him to come inside.

“Are these for Lily?” You ask, looking at the flowers in his hand. You also notice as he comes inside that he has a couple of gift bags, and you feel a bit overwhelmed at the sight.

”Oh, these?” He says, holding the flowers up. “No, these are for you.” He has a big dorky smile when he tells you this, like he’s very proud of himself. You wouldn’t admit it, but the kind gesture made your tummy do flips, and you took them from him carefully.

”Wow, thank you…” You say, smelling the flowers.

“These are for Lily,” he says, holding up the gift bags in his other hand. “One is from Robin,” he says, turning to present the biggest bag. “She went a little crazy.”

”She didn’t have to do that,” you say, taking the bags from him and setting them on the dining room table.

“She’s, like, really excited.”

”Well, I’m glad,” you say, looking at the pink and purple bags on the table. “Lily has another auntie to love on her.”

”Oh, Robin would be so stoked to hear you call her that,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

”So did you….tell her then?”

You realized that you hadn’t really discussed it while you were on the phone, but you assumed that if things had gone any other way than what you expected that Steve wouldn’t be here.

”Oh, yeah, I told her after I got off the phone with you.” His face drops, hand coming to his forehead. “Oh, man, I didn’t even ask if that was okay. I’m sorry—“

”No, no, it’s okay, you can tell whoever! She’s your kid, too, so…go nuts,” you say with a laugh.

Steve nods enthusiastically, a big smile taking over so bright it was like the sun shining in your dining room. “Can I tell you something?” He asks, looking at you bashfully.

”Of course.”

”I may have…cried a little when they told me she was for sure mine,” Steve admits, and you look at him sympathetically.

”Oh, that’s sweet.” Steve jumps when he hears your moms voice from behind him. He addresses her, giving her a nod as she walks by to stand next to you. She tips the edge of one of the bags and looks inside, but you swat at her to scold her.

”Sorry, I didn’t know you were here—“

”It’s okay, I was just observing you two anyway,” she says with a smirk. “Glad to see you’re handling all of this so…well.” You give your mother a look, but she ignores you, keeping her eyes on Steve.

”Yeah, you know, I always wanted a family,” he says, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

”Really? Must not take after your father, then.”

”Mom!”

She turns on her heels and walks into the kitchen, shoving the baby monitor in your hand as she disappears. You hear the back door open and close, signalling that she’s out of earshot.

”Steve, I am so sorry—“

”No, it’s cool,” Steve says with a chuckle, “I grew up with my dad, so I unfortunately know exactly what she’s saying.”

”Still, she doesn’t need to comment on it,” you say, getting more pissed by the second.

”It’s really okay,” he says, trying to calm you down, but his words weren’t going to make you feel better. Instead, you had to just let it go like you always did, breathing in and out to let off the steam.

”Sorry, can I offer you something to drink? I haven’t had the chance to start cooking yet.”

”I’m okay for right now,” Steve shifts back and forth, “I, um, I actually wanted to ask you some things…if that’s okay?”

”Sure, can you ask them while I cook?”

Steve nods and follows you into the kitchen, taking a seat at the bar top while you zoom around. You look over at him and see he’s pulling a paper out of his jacket pocket, his hands shaking a little as he holds it.

”Steve.” He looks at you when you say his name, his eyes wide and laced with concern. “I’m not gonna bite. Just relax.”

”Yeah, yeah, um,” he clears his throat, straightening the paper in his grasp. “Some of these are questions my mom wanted me to ask.”

”Okaaaayy,” you say, eyeing him.

“Firstly, she wanted me to ask you how you wanted to do custody.”

Oh, boy, the big questions right off the bat.

”Well,” you start, not really looking at him while you talk. “We still, technically, live in Illinois. My parents are just letting us stay here right now because they haven’t had the chance to sell this house yet. But, it’s only, like, a three and a half hour drive from here to my grandparents.”

”So you’d want me to come to you then?” He asks, and you can feel his eyes boring into you.

”I mean, if that’s okay?” You say, looking at him out of your peripherals.

You see him nod, looking down at his paper before speaking again. “Okay, okay, we can definitely try that. Um, the next thing she wanted me to ask was if you wanted…you know, like, child support….” He seemed hesitant to bring it up, and it made you smile.

”I don’t expect anything from you, Steve. I think I’ve mentioned that,” you say with a laugh.

”I know, but what if I want to? I know your parents are probably helping you, but she’s my daughter, so I should be contributing.” Him finally saying she’s his daughter with so much confidence made you smile so hard your cheeks squished your eyes.

“You can if you want to, but I’ll only use your money on stuff for her. I’m not going to spend it on myself,” you tell him, and he makes a scrunched face at you.

“Okay, I guess that’s fine,” he says, but you can tell he’s not totally happy with it.

”I also don’t want to go through the courts, if that’s okay.”

He looks up at you, a mixed expression on his face that had you worried.

”I get it,” he starts, adjusting in his seat. “We don’t have to, just, if anything happens down the line—“

”Right. I don’t think anything will, but I won’t fight you if it comes to that,” you tell him.

”Okay, okay, cool,” he says, seeming relieved.

”Um, last thing from my mom…she wants to know if we can get her last name changed to mine.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth. You had a feeling this would happen, and you told yourself you wouldn’t get upset if he suggested it. But, still deep down you couldn’t help but feel hurt at the idea of your daughter not having your last name.

“I don’t know Steve…”

”It’s okay, I told her you might not want to. She seemed pretty adamant about it, though, so I had to ask.”

”I understand, it’s just…my mom always told me that a mom and her kids should always grow up with the same last name.”

Steve nods, looking past you like he’s deep in thought. He goes to open his mouth, but is cut off by your mom opening the back door and walking into the kitchen. She looks between you and Steve, eyes going wide like a deer caught in headlights.

”Am I interrupting something?” She asks, shucking off her fur coat and hanging it up in the closet.

”No, no!”

”Not at all!”

She looks at you both suspiciously as you talk over each other, shrugging before taking off to go back to watching her shows in the living room.

”Um, we can come back to that last question later, if you want,” Steve says, setting the paper on the counter and tapping it with his finger.

”Yeah, please,” you say with a nod.

”I have some of my own questions, though, if that’s okay?”

”Sure.”

”Okay, so what’s her favorite color?” That makes you laugh, and he looks at you like you’ve personally insulted him. “What? I’m just curious!”

”No, it’s okay,” you tell him, wiping a tear from your eye. “It’s just, she’s only one, so she hasn’t really told me what her favorite color is yet.”

“Hmm, okay, well…what about music? Does she have a favorite song?”

”She listens to whatever I do, but she really loves it when you sing My Little Sunshine to her before she goes to bed.”

Steve gets a big, goofy grin and shakes his head. “That’s great. I love that.”

”What else do you want to know?”

Steve goes on for a bit, asking you questions about your daughter as you make the two of you food. Even as you eat, he still seems to havw more questions to ask you.

But you don’t mind. You love talking about your daughter, she was your whole world after all. And who better to info dump all of this onto than her own father, who clung to every word you said like it was gospel.

Eventually, you heard Lily stirring over the baby monitor. Steve eyed the little machine like it was a piece of alien technology, which made you laugh considering he worked in a radio station.

You dismissed yourself to go get Lily, but Steve rose up from his seat and started to follow you. “Can I come?” He asks, and you nod, waving for him tag along.

Creaking open the door, you sang Lily’s name as you entered the room and you watched her head pop up from the mattress of the pack n play.

”Guess who’s here to see you,” you say to her. She rubs her eyes as she stands herself up, looking around disoriented until her vision lands on Steve. You watch her binky fall out of her mouth, a big smile spreading across her face as she saw him. She started to bounce excitedly, making you laugh as you pick her up in your arms.

”She’s really happy to see you,” you tell Steve, that big, goofy grin spreading across his face again.

”Hi baby,” he says, waving to her from the doorway.

”Tell dada hi, sweetheart,” you say to her, grabbing her little arm and waving it at Steve. Lily makes a sound that kinda sounds like “hi” and it tickles Steve so much that he looks at her as if she recited the entire Declaration of Independence to him.

The three of you make your way out to the living room where Lily’s toys are and get her set up, Steve taking a spot on the floor by her to watch her play. “I probably need to change her,” you say to him, and Steve’s eyes go wide.

”Oh, okay, should I…?”

”I mean, you should probably learn,” you giggle at him. He nods his head, and you’re impressed that he’s not putting up a fight not to.

”You’re lucky,” your mom says as she follows you into the kitchen a few minutes later. “Your father never changed neither you nor your sister's diapers when you were babies.”

You don’t say anything to her, choosing to ignore her comment and just enjoy watching Steve and Lily play together. It was so sweet to see them interact. You could tell Steve was nervous, sometimes stopping to ask you if what he was doing was okay, which was almost always yes. He was so mindful of her, treating her like she was made of glass.

Watching the two of them, it suddenly hit you that this was the King Steve in your living room, playing with the daughter you made together, and he was actually enjoying himself. Arguably the most popular guy in your whole high school, you wondered how many girls he’s been with that wish they were in this exact scenario with him right now.

He could probably get any girl he wants, even with a daughter. He’d probably get even more attention now. You thought about the waitresses yesterday who definitely waited for you to leave the table to go and talk to him. It sort of pissed you off. You hope Steve isn’t the type to use your daughter to get attention.

Not because you would be jealous or anything. No, it was because you didn’t want your daughter to be used like that. Like some kind of prop.

”Steve,” you say, your tone sounding a bit more venomous than you intended.

”Yeah, what’s up?” He asks, looking at you like he was the most content human in the world.

”Can you promise me something?”

”Yeah, of course,” he says, turning to fully face you.

”Just…promise me that you’re not going to use our daughter to pick up chicks, okay?”

Steve looks at you dumbly, like he had to connect some dots to make sense of your words. ”I…didn’t even know that was an option.”

”It’s not.”

”No, right, that’s not what I meant,” he says, waving his hands defensively. “Like, that just never even crossed my mind.”

”Well don’t think about it now just because I brought it up,” you say, crossing your arms.

He laughs, shaking his head at you. “Cross my heart I won’t. Can’t blame me if people look, though,” he says with a cheeky grin.

”Whatever,” you mumble under your breath.

Steve stays and plays with Lily until the light from the street lamps starts shining in the front windows. You’d snuck away to make dinner, trusting the two of them not to get into trouble while you were in the other room. When you called for them to eat, you were met with the sight of Steve holding Lily as he tried to figure out her high chair. You laugh, taking Lily from him to show him how to put her in it.

”Everything has to be so complicated,” he says with his hands on his hips.

”It’s for safety reasons,” you tell him, but he just hmphs.

You set the table up, but notice Steve is just standing there looking unsure of himself. “You okay?”

”Um, I—I didn’t ask if I could eat dinner with you guys,” he stutters.

”You think I’m going to make all this food and not feed you?”

”Well, I don’t want to impose.”

”Just sit,” you laugh, pointing at the seat next to Lily with your wooden spoon.

You all have dinner together, with Steve helping you feed Lily her spaghetti the best he can. Somehow all three of you ended up covered in red sauce, but there were no complaints from Steve about his nice shirt being ruined.

“Do you want me to wash that?” You ask him, trying to wipe spaghetti sauce from Lily’s hands and face.

”Nah, it’s okay. This will just be my “feed Lily spaghetti” shirt.”

Steve stayed for bathtime, too, just hanging out while he watched you go through the motions of your bedtime routine. Lily rubbed her eyes in his arms, and you knew right then and there she was going to throw an absolute fit when she had to go to bed.

”It might be better if you go ahead and go,” you tell Steve, and he looks at you wounded.

”What? Why?”

”I mean, unless you want to see her have a meltdown—“

”It’s okay, Daddy is here to make it all better. Right, angel?”

Lily did a little yawn as Steve bounced with her, slowly putting her to sleep.

“I mean, if you can get her to sleep, I’ll let you say I told you so,” you say, throwing up your hands.

And he tried, he really did.

He just didn’t expect her to start crying as soon as he closed the door to the room. You felt so bad when you watched his face morph into disappointment after thinking he’d gotten her to sleep on the first try.

”You put up a good fight, dad,” you tell him, patting him on the shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. This is normal for her. She’ll fall asleep eventually.”

”It just breaks my heart,” he says with a pout.

”Gotta be strong,” you say, walking with him out to the living room.

There’s an awkward beat between you now that Lily is in bed. There’s really no reason for him to stay, but part of you doesn’t want him to leave just yet.

”Steve—“

”I should probably get going,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

”Oh, um, yeah you’re probably right,” you say, biting your cheek.

”Thanks for letting me come over and hang out all day,” he says with a tight lipped smile.

”Yeah, anytime. And I mean that,” you say, looking at him seriously. “I want you to be able to see her as much as you want, okay? Just give me a heads up before you come over.”

His smile breaks and becomes all teeth, “Okay, I’d like that. So, I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

”Sure, if you want,” you tell him and he lights up. “She usually wakes up around 6:30 if you want to have breakfast with us.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, “She gets up that early?”

”Yep,” you say with a nod.

”No wonder she goes to bed so early.”

”Hey, I’ll take it over her waking up every two hours to eat like when she was a newborn,” you say with a shrug.

”Okay, yeah, that sounds way worse.”

The two of you laugh before a silence settles between you. Steve clears his throat and takes a step towards the front door, prompting you to move out of his way. “Um, I guess I will see you in the morning then.”

”Yep, yeah, we’ll see you,” you say, watching as he goes to grab the door handle.

He looks at you in a way that you can’t read. You want to ask him what he’s thinking, but despite him spending the entire day in your house, you don’t feel like you’re allowed to. So you just give him a tight smile and a small wave.

He lets out a small bye before walking out the door and closing it behind him. You stare at it for a moment, secretly hoping he would open it back up and—

Nope. You can’t do this. This is the one thing you promised yourself you wouldn’t do when you came back to Hawkins and found Steve. The one thing you said you’d never let happen again.

No, you weren’t going to fall for Steve Harrington. Not again.

thanks for reading!

"It must be nice," you'd said to Bob when he showed you a piece of comb for the first time. The beekeepers at New-Bee's farm only wear netting on their faces, which made you only a little bit nervous but you'd pushed it down.

"What do you mean?" your new boss asked you.

"To know what your life means," you said softly. A single worker bee crawled onto your hand to explore. Her tiny legs tickled a little. "To know how you're supposed to spend it." Bob gently clapped a hand on your shoulder and smiled at you.

"I think you're going to learn a lot from the bees while you're here. And from this town. If you want to."

And right now you're wondering if you want to. If this hadn't been a huge mistake -- snatching at the vague opportunity your parents had presented after you dropped out of college. To work at and live on a bee farm in Hawkins, Indiana owned by a college friend. To help out for the last few months at the local farmer's market. To see if you can figure out what's next before the goodwill of everyone around you wears out.

It's still a little warm for September. You and Bob had been a bit red-faced unloading the beeswax candles, soaps, and jars of honey onto the wooden stand you're running. You'd reassured him you could handle selling by yourself until he came back to help you pack up when the market ends at 2 pm. The other stands are looking thinly staffed -- school starting has taken away most of the summer hires -- and you see plenty of people your age. A boy with a tangle of long hair and a black bandana around his neck is organizing mushrooms a few stalls over while laughing at something the tiny woman you know to be Joyce Byers says to him. She's got a clipboard in hand and looks very serious. A pretty girl in a Hawkins Band shirt sporting a backwards baseball cap is bickering with another boy whose back is turned to you, but you can see the work gloves tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, his arms straining against his t-shirt as he gesticulates wildly.

You sigh and yawn, checking your watch. 8:50 am. Market opens in ten minutes, and you can already see people milling around on the surrounding sidewalk. It's going to be a long day.

"Hello? Anybody home?" You startle out of your stupor to see the boy with the gloves standing in front of you. He's alarmingly pretty -- messy hair and cheeks dotted with faint freckles, chewed lips pouted as he looks at you with annoyed eyes. His baseball shirt is tucked into his jeans and the gloves are in one hand now, a hand he's settled on his hip like he's about to chastise you.

His name tag is crooked.  It reads Sara's Farm: Steve.

"Hi," you say, a bit dazed. "Can I...help you?"

"Who are you? Where's Melanie?" He sounds impatient and almost rude, glancing over his shoulder as if checking for someone.

"Uh," you point to your own name tag to answer his first question, wondering if he actually cares about the second. "She's back at field hockey. So can I help you...Steve?"

He starts at the sound of his own name before his brows narrow again. He seems to have a very quick conversation with himself before he leans on your stall, his demeanor changing completely.

"Well, she put aside some candles for me. Any chance you can hand 'em over?" It's almost like he's flirting with you, but he's still glancing over his shoulder, his fingers tapping on the wood betraying his impatience. Maybe he's buying them for the girl he was talking to earlier.

"I'm really sorry," you say, bending down to check the crates of glass jars. "I don't know anything about that." You hate to disappoint this cute boy on your first meeting, even if he's not exactly charming you.

He sighs and rubs his free hand over his face. "Look," he says. "Are you sure? You're new, so maybe you just didn't see them, or maybe you're not looking in the right place--"

"Do you want to do my job for me?" you snap. It doesn't feel like he's being rude on purpose, but you're bristling. This is your stall and yes, you're new, but you know what you're doing. Steve throws up his hands and backs away a little.

"No," he mutters. "Sorry. I'll just -- come back later." He turns away without another word and you feel your mouth twist into a frown. Hopefully not everyone is as sour as this guy.

"Harrington, be nice to the new girl!" calls a rough voice. "Don't mind him, he's not usually such a sourpuss." It's the long-haired boy by the mushroom stand. He waves.

"Fuck off, Munson!" Steve sends his middle finger in that general direction and does not look at you.

"Christ," you mutter. But you can't think about it for long, as Joyce unties the thin rope at the entrance and townspeople spill into the square.

It's not a hard job, not really. And you do like talking to people -- hearing about how much they love Bob, love the candles. How they use the honey in their tea or to fend off seasonal allergies. It's nice to have people smile at you, to have their hands brush yours as you take their change. It makes you feel lighter, makes you feel needed. Most people are charmed by your newness, giving recommendations of local businesses to check out and asking you how you like Hawkins, their Midwest kindness making your cheeks ache.

The morning rush dies down a little around 11:30, so you resolve to look for those stupid candles again. Because no matter how unpleasant this Steve Harrington might be, you don't like that he thinks you're bad at your job. And he looked pretty anxious to get his hands on those candles. You search every crate for anything with his name on it until you finally find a small parcel tied with twine and labeled "SH."

"You're welcome," you mutter. A glance at the stalls around you proves fruitful as you get a glimpse of Steve for the first time since this morning. He's standing close to the mushroom stall whispering furiously to the same girl from earlier. You slide out from behind New-Bee's and trot over to where they're standing, parcel in hand.

"She couldn't find the...uh...stuff I ordered weeks ago, Robin. I mean, keeping track of stock isn't hard. I don't know where she came from anyway. Maybe she'll be gone once Bob realizes she's losing stuff like an idiot." The girl -- Robin -- has the decency to grimace when she catches sight of you. You're tempted to drop his candles on the ground right then and there, but you instead put on a smile that your mother once called "extremely unsettling."

"Steve," you say loudly, putting a hand on his shoulder. He's warm through the fabric. He turns, eyes wide. A flush spreads across his cheekbones.

"Uh--"

"I found your things." You make sure to keep your voice sticky sweet. "So sorry it took so long. I'm just so new and stupid." You shove the parcel into his hands, leaning into his space. His pupils dilate and he smells a little like sweat, a little like apples. "You don't know a thing about me," you hiss, "so I think you should go fuck yourself." You flash your teeth at him and turn on your heel. Robin bursts into laughter but you don't look back. Your fingers tingle and Steve's scent fills your nostrils. Why are you getting so worked up over a random boy?

Maybe because you're staring down the barrel of three Saturdays of farmer's markets and you've already made an enemy.

___

By 1 pm you are very hungry.

"Damn," you say to yourself. You'll have to bring a snack next time.

But then, as if by magic, a girl appears in front of the stand. She's young, probably high school-aged, with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. She sports a Sara's Farm name tag that reads Jane.

"Hi," she says. Her eye contact is intense immediately, but something about her makes you smile, even if she works with Steve.

"Hi," you echo. She holds out a brown paper bag. You raise your eyebrows but reach out to take it from her. "Thanks?"

"My dad told me to welcome you," she says. "It's just an apple and a scone we made this morning. I figured you forgot your lunch. Eddie always does." You must look confused at her name dropping, so she points to the mushroom stand first, and then to the white tents where Steve had disappeared earlier. "Eddie. And my dad's farm."

Your chest is doing something messy as you take in that this girl has brought you food. "Thank you," you say, softer this time. She beams at you.

"Was Steve mean earlier?" You open the bag and pull out a gorgeous red apple rather than answer. She huffs. "He's been so rude this week. I think it's because he doesn't know what to get Robin for her birthday." Girlfriend, maybe?

"Candles," you mutter. He must have bought the candles in advance for her. It doesn't make you like him anymore, but it makes you see why he was a little desperate. But he didn’t have to call you stupid.

"So, who are you? Why are you in Hawkins?" the girl asks. You point to your name tag for the second time today. "Oh!" she says, just realizing that she never introduced herself. "I'm Jane, but you can call me El."

"Hi, El." Her question doesn't carry any accusation like Steve's had. She’s genuinely curious with a child-like kindness that makes you want to hug her. "I don’t have a fun story or anything. I didn't want to be where I was, so I thought I'd try somewhere new." You shrug and take a bite of the apple. It's crisp and fresh.

"Maybe you can start making one now that you're here."

"Making what?" You wipe juice from your chin.

"A story."

___

You realize very quickly that you don't have much to do to fill the week. Bob insists that you take a while to settle in before helping out around New-Bee's and he gives you the keys to one of the farm pickup trucks to explore whenever you want. But most of your days during the week are spent wandering the property or taking as long as possible to buy groceries with the money you're being paid -- money that you feel a bit strange taking, considering you're living in Bob's house and only working here because he knows your parents.

But goodwill is goodwill, you suppose. By Wednesday you've made two different kinds of muffins and one loaf of banana bread with a cookbook tucked away on a shelf.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I think it might be good for you to go into town," Bob says through a mouth full of the latter. "Go for a walk in the square. Go to the library! Maybe you'll see some of the kids your age who aren't in school." You smile thinly at him as he whistles his way to the hives. He's being kinder than you deserve, like a cool uncle or something. No one else who works on the property really talks to you.

"The library," you mutter. You could do with something to read. Or at least another place to sit and waste time. You scowl at the idea that you'll run into some other "kids your age" if their name is Steve Harrington, but it's worth the risk because you're so bored.

The parking lot is empty except for some bikes in the bike rack when you arrive. The truck sputters a little when you put it in park and you hop down into a fairly nice day. The chill has finally started to set into Hawkins, the sky a mess of fluffy white clouds and enough sunshine that you shade your eyes.

The front desk is deserted when you go inside. There's a small bell on the dark wood that is begging to be pushed and your hand is midair when a voice comes from your left.

"That never does anything," it says. You turn and see the girl from the market -- Robin -- with a stack of books in her arms. One of them teeters off of the top and you surge forward without thinking to grab it so it doesn't fall. She beams at you. You want to smile back but remember that she's maybe Steve's girlfriend and probably remembers how rude you were on Saturday so you step back quickly, clutching the hardcover. History of Art, it reads.

"Sorry," Robin says. "I've been walking around with all of these trying to find someone to check them out for like, 20 minutes but this place is a ghost town." She plunks her stack on the front desk with a sound far too loud for a library but no one shows up.

"We didn't officially meet," you say, biting the bullet. Steve Harrington be damned, you will not be known as the rude new girl in town. Even to your apparent nemesis's girlfriend. "You're Robin, right? And uh, you might have seen me at the farmer's market? I'm--"

"Oh, I know your name!" She says it with such warmth that you feel the corner of your mouth lift. "How could I forget? You burned Steve better than I could ever hope to. Seeing pretty girls be mean to him is like, the best thing ever."

You can't tamp down your confusion in time and Robin clocks it. Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an "o" before she bursts into laughter. Not just a chuckle, either. She's bent over, hands on her knees, shaking.

"Sorry," you say. This is the loudest you've ever been in a library in your life. "I think I'm a little lost." She straightens and runs a hand through her bob.

"You probably thought I was his girlfriend, right? Everyone does at first." You tap your fingers on the front desk and chew on your lip, nodding.

"I mean, he was buying stuff for you when we met." When he was rude, you don't say, but Robin picks up on the way your shoulders tense because she sighs.

"Yeah, he told me all about that. And he deserved the telling off you gave him!" Robin rings the bell just once, almost absentmindedly. "I feel like I need to apologize for him but he obviously should do that himself."

You huff. "Yeah, well. It's fine if he never does. We don't need to be friends." The thought causes a pang in your chest that you don't totally understand -- maybe it's because this lovely, kind girl is friends with him and that makes you yearn for companionship, too. Maybe it's because when you saw him for the first time you couldn't look away.

"He's a good guy," Robin hedges. "I met him when I started working at Sara's in high school and he's been there like, forever. He worked the market in the summer and then Hopper -- the guy who owns it -- took him on full time after graduation and he moved onto the property. Which is a pretty sweet gig if you ask me because he doesn't have to pay rent and he gets to like, be outside all the time." She sighs, examining her nails as she keeps talking. "I don't know how much you know about the whole thing, since this is your first time here. I mean, we all know about you because Bob told us you were coming and all that. But most of us do summers at the market growing up and maybe a little after when we can. It's just part of the town, part of our lives. Everyone there has a story, you know? And for Steve, the market and Sara's are like, his things." She seems to want to say more but stops herself. "Sorry," she says, a little sheepishly. "I talk a lot."

It must be nice to have a tether like that, you think. To have a place to gather, to know that you can always come back to. Your chest aches again and you blink rapidly, trying to think of something else to talk about. "What are you here for?" you ask instead. Robin takes on your change of subject kindly.

"Gotta rent these for school." She pats the top of her stack of textbooks. "I'm in college nearby enough that I come home a lot. And I forgot to get everything on my course list in time so there aren't enough copies at school. I don't have class today and I drove back yesterday because it was my birthday and Steve threw this party for me and all that stuff, so." She shrugs like it's no big deal.

"Happy birthday," you tell her, and you mean it. She winks at you.

"Thanks for the candles," she says. You roll your eyes but huff out a laugh. "He's really not that great at gifts. Better at doing stuff, you know?" You nod. Robin cracks her knuckles and rings the bell one more time. A woman finally pops out from the hallway behind the front desk as if she's hearing it for the first time.

"Library card, Dolores," Robin says, jerking her head at you. "Then all of these for me." The woman doesn't say a word but holds her hand out for your driver's license, which you pass over.

"You were here first," you mutter.

"Yeah, but my best friend was a dick to you, so." She examines you for a long second and you want to squirm, but you meet her gaze. "You're not bad at your job," she says. "He'll get over himself, I promise. But I hope you like it here and I hope he didn't ruin my chances of becoming your friend."

"I--"

"Here," the librarian says, shoving your license and a plastic card that says Hawkins Library under your nose. You take them from her as she starts to scan Robin's books.

"No late returns this time, Ms. Buckley," she says. Robin makes a face that says 'who, me’?

"See you on Saturday!" Her words echo behind you as you give her a little wave. Maybe you could be friends with her. And Steve, if he apologizes. And stops being such an asshole. And they're not dating, so Robin wouldn't have vouched for him unless she really meant it. How else are you going to spend the next few months? You can't sit in Bob's house every day. So maybe you need to suck it up and try harder this weekend, try to be nice. But something in you doesn't want to -- something that feels like Steve sees you as an outsider. As someone who doesn't belong at his market, this place that is clearly the center of the community. And the last thing you need is someone telling you that you're not welcome here.

You're so busy thing about Steve fucking Harrington that you don't realize until you're halfway back to the farm that you didn't even check out any books.

__

Unloading everything yourself for your second ever Hawkins Farmer's Market is probably not a good idea. But Bob was stressed this morning because a new queen was being introduced to one of the hives so you told him you had it covered. One box of honey and candles and soap is easy. But by box five? Holy shit, your arms hurt.

You're hauling your last box to your stall when you hear a low whistle from the Sara's Farm tent. You flick an errant piece of hair out of your eyes and glare in that direction only to find Steve Harrington with his arms crossed, frowning. He's in dark blue work pants today and a white shirt with a flannel pushed up to his elbows. And a stupid baseball cap on his head, backward.

"Have you been standing there this whole time?" Your voice is more disbelief than anger. But then he shrugs.

He takes a step forward. "Damn, why didn't you ask for help?" His hands form fists on his sleeves as he looks at all of the stock you've carried by yourself. It looks like his stand is all set up already.

"Don't you know how to put on a hat properly, Harrington?" you snarl, perhaps a bit harsher than you intended. Steve takes a step back and his eyes widen before he turns on his heel without so much as a wave.

You think about saying something else but it's then that you realize your stool is missing. And something in you deflates. Sure, you could stand for the next five hours but who really wants to do that? You look around as if it'll appear by magic, as if it's hiding behind the crates you brought in. But it's nowhere to be found, so you just start to unload, setting up your display and trying not to worry a hole through your lip.

"That looks nice!" Joyce Byers has her hair pulled up in a rather frazzled ponytail but she's all smiles as she compliments your work. "You okay over here?"

You shove down your discontent and nod. Joyce has been nothing but kind so far, coming to check on you at New-Bee's more than once, and she does her best to keep the market well-run.

"Well, actually," you say, grimacing. "I think the stool I had last week has moved somewhere? Would I be able to get another?" Joyce scribbles something on the clipboard she's holding before nodding.

"Oh, of course. I'll have Jonathan find something. Stuff can get moved around when the stalls get put away, so I'm sure it's somewhere!" Movement over her shoulder catches your eye.

It's Steve. Moving your stool behind crates of apples and plopping his annoying ass onto it. You clench your fingers into fists and any goodwill you were considering after running into Robin this week totally evaporates.

Fuck him.

"You okay?" Joyce asks. You blink and smile at her.

"Just a little tired," you say. "I'll be okay standing until Jonathan has a second." Not even a single part of you wants to tell her that Steve took your stool. It would feel like defeat. In what, you're not totally sure. Joyce pats you on the arm and heads off on her rounds.

You sell a few soaps and a very large jar of honey to a strange man called Murray who asks your opinion on wiretapping. He's just left for Rick's Mushrooms when a boy with a mop of hair and kind face approaches carrying two wooden crates.

"Uh, hi," he says. "My mom said to bring you these?"

"Oh thank god," you moan, louder than you probably should. "Jonathan, right?" You step around the stall to grab them from him. He's got a name tag on that says "Byers Flowers."

"That's me. Sorry I couldn't find a stool. But if you stack these it should work." You do as he says and plop down and sigh so big that Jonathan laughs. "Who is watching the flowers if you're here?" you ask. Maybe this boy could be your friend. 

"My little brother, Will." A smile spreads across his face as he keeps talking. "He's better at it than I am, really. Really good at selling people on big bouquets."

"I'll have to buy one sometime," you say, and you mean it. "Thank you for these, really." You kick at the crates with your heels. 

As soon as Jonathan goes back to his job you feel your good mood slowly slip away. Someone must have it out for you because you can see Steve perfectly from here. He hasn't flipped his hat around all day and he's barely using the stool that he stole from you. You watch him flirt with old ladies and girls your age alike, watch him juggle apples for kids and recommend different kinds of tomatoes and potatoes and squash and it makes you furious.

It makes you so mad and you don't dare think about why.

A nice girl your age is admiring some soap when she notices you staring. "Do you know Steve Harrington?" she asks you.

"Uh," you say, embarrassed to be caught. "No?"

"Probably best," she sighs. "You're new in town, right?" You nod. News spreads faster in Hawkins than wildfire. "I've got nothing against him, not really. People change, right? But he was a piece of work in high school. Lots of girls, lots of broken hearts." She shrugs.

"You ever date him?" you ask. She laughs.

"No. Had a boyfriend the whole time. But he's a flirt, that's for sure. I'd be wary, I guess is what I'm saying." She picks up the soap she's eyeing. "Can I get this?"

"Sure," you say, grabbing the purchase pad. "And thanks, I think. But I don't think I'll be going anywhere near him."

"Hi, Brenda," the boy in question interrupts. The girl -- Brenda -- grabs her soap and hands you some cash before grimacing and giving Steve a wave. "Thanks," she says to you. "Hi, Steve." He rocks back and forth on his heels as she walks away, hands in his back pockets. You want to knock the hat off of his head.

"Harrington," you say, sitting back on your crates.

"On a last-name basis, are we?" You cross your arms. He nods to himself before taking a deep breath. "Okay. I wanted to apologize for last week." Your eyebrows raise but you say nothing.

"Well, Robin told me that I was a real dick, and I--"

"Oh, Robin told you," you say, slapping a hand on your thigh. "So you're here because Robin told you to apologize, not because you realized you were an asshole?" Steve looks gobsmacked that you've turned this into an argument, and you’re a little surprised yourself, but you keep going. "Save it, Steve." You say his name like it stings to have in your mouth.

"Woah," he says over you. "What is your problem?"

"What's my problem?" you grit out between your clenched teeth. "My problem is you think you own this place and you make assumptions about people before you know them." Watching him all day has made you like a pipe fit to burst. With loathing, you tell yourself. "And you stole my stool."

"I...what? Your...stool?" he sputters. He takes off the godforsaken baseball cap to run a hand through messy hair before replacing it. "I have no idea what you're talking about." His eyes harden and you realize you've actually pissed him off, maybe for the first time. The smile he sends you is sharp and you don't like it. It makes him less handsome. "Well, I'll leave you to your beeswax. Good luck wrangling those bees, bee girl. Can't be that hard if you can do it."

It's a cutting remark you don't expect. "Bee girl?" you say in disbelief. "I have a name, Steve! What is your problem?"

He starts to walk backwards. "Or should I call you honey?" He ignores your question. "Nah. That's too sweet for you." He barks a laugh at his own joke and it's a bitter thing.

When you're packing up your crates at the end of the market he brings back the stool. It slams on the pavement, startling you into turning around with a yelp. Your mouth tugs into a frown at the sight of him, his hat on the right way this time. He's got that same ice-cold smile on and you fight a shiver.

"Here you go, honey," he says, the word sounding like an insult.

"Go away," you say before you can stop yourself.

Steve just shrugs. "See? Doesn't work too well." He salutes you. You flip him the bird as he turns because what else can you do? Strangle him? If only, you think. If only.

___

The details of your life in Hawkins start to fade into the background. You've been here for over a month and have been at two farmer's markets and you've got hardly anything to show for it. A few arguments and not a single friend to speak of, though there are a few friendly people. And you're hardly friendly these days anyway, still smarting from the argument you had with Steve.

Okay, so maybe he didn't steal your stool. But he was mean to you! And... you were mean to him. What a mess. An embarrassing, juvenile mess.

It only gets worse when you start to see the Sara's Farm pickup truck everywhere. In the parking lot at the grocery store, stopped at the Arcade, just driving through town. You only actually see him once -- heading into Family Video with Robin -- but it makes your cheeks heat and your fingers twitch every time. Why does he get such a reaction out of you? How is one boy single-handedly causing you to become a recluse in your new home?

"I'm sure he's not that bad," your mom says. You've finally caught your parents at home and have spent the last twenty minutes being uncharacteristically detailed about your life. You can't help it -- you just want to talk to someone.

"He's rude," you huff. "He's rude, and everyone knows him and he won't leave me alone."

"Is he cute?" Her voice is tinny through the phone line. You scoff, and she laughs. "Yes, then. Always makes it worse." Your mother sighs. "Maybe you just need more work, baby. Ask Bob."

Bob, who continues to be so kind to you even though you do hardly anything. You know she's right. The whole purpose of this relocation to Hawkins was for you to find something you liked, something you were good at. To figure your shit out and to work hard. To get the ground under your feet again. So you take her advice and see what you can get your hands dirty with. He’s thrilled and soon you find yourself in one of the property sheds.

"It's fairly simple, but you do need to pay attention," Bob tells you. "The other beekeepers and I harvest the beeswax, so it's all ready for you." He gestures to a metal tub covered with what looks like a cheesecloth next to the stove. "I've written out the steps to take for making soaps and candles and everything is labeled."

The small workroom has a kitchen sink and a fridge. The shelves are stocked with lye, bottles of oils, and plenty of pots and jars. "It smells wonderful in here," you say. In truth, it's a little overwhelming but not unpleasant.

"You can make any scent you want, just write it down so we can label it right." Bob gives you a smile. "And be careful with the hot wax. I've burned myself tons of times."

He leaves you to it. You turn on the radio and set it low to keep yourself company. And the work is easy, Bob was right. You decide to make candles first, melting the beeswax on the stove and adding some of the oils to make it smell good. You lay out the jars with the wicks pulled tight across the tops and start to pour.

"Fuck," you hiss. A bit of the hot wax splashes onto your fingertips but you don't drop the pot, instead finishing your pours as your skin throbs. You set the empty pot back on the burner and move to the sink, peeling the now-hard wax off of your skin to reveal a reddening welt.

"Damn." You run it under cool water for a second before steeling yourself to do it again. Because you finally feel useful. And so you do another batch and another. And the next day you try soaps. You put colorful bandaids on your fingertips until your hands look like the rainbow but you get better and you stop getting wax on your skin. And by Friday night, when you and Bob are labeling everything you've made, you feel proud.

"You're going to be selling stock you made tomorrow," he says. "How does that feel?"

You smile and you mean it. "Like I'm doing something right."

___

You've finished your setup early for your third farmer's market and decide to talk a walk around the stalls. There's a jewelry table next to a stall selling loose-leaf tea across from Rick's Mushrooms. A curly head is barely visible over the stall's counter, whoever it belongs to clearly organizing something underneath. You wrinkle your nose at the array of gilled fungi, one of your least favorite foods.

Eddie pops up from his crouch and grins at you. "Hey there new girl." Not your name, but better than bee girl. "Wanna buy some 'shrooms? I'll give you an early bird discount."

"Nah," you say. "Don't really like them." You admire how he's got them all laid out like he's taken care to make the stand pretty as well as thoroughly stocked. "We haven't really met, I'm --"

Eddie says your name, eyes on your name tag. "Talk of the town!"

"Really?"

"Nah," he scoffs. "I mean, I know you're new at New-Bee's. And with Harrington's antics since you got here I'm sure everyone else does too." You scowl at the mention of Steve, who you haven't seen yet. "Oh, looks like he's gotten under your skin!"

"He's everywhere," you grumble. "And he's nice to everyone but me."

Eddie hums, tucking his hair behind his ears. "Well, we've all got good sides and bad sides, sweetheart." He seems to eye how you take the pet name, but from him it feels friendly. "Harrington is used to this place. He's known it for years, worked summers here since he was in high school. I think he's unsure how to deal with a new girl."

"That's what Robin said." You rub your arms a little against the morning chill, your bandaged fingers throbbing dully. “But I heard he was…different in school?” Eddie whistles long and low, crossing his flannel-clad arms. He’s wearing silver rings on almost every finger and he’s got dirt under his nails, you notice. 

“Total douchebag. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but he started at Sara’s because he got community service hours for vandalism or something. Took the fall for some shit his asshole friends did.” Eddie shrugs. “But it did him good. Less of a douche after that. And how he’s pretty close to being a good guy.”

You drum your fingers against your thigh and wince, forgetting they’re blistered. There’s a story there and despite yourself, you want to know more. "I just don't get why he's so hot and cold with me."

"Probably bothers him that you don't like him very much." Eddie's got a sly smile that looks suspicious.

"Well, if he was less of an asshole maybe I would!" He laughs at you, not unkindly.

"Okay, sure. It'll be an interesting end to the season!" He cracks his knuckles. His next words are softer, more earnest. "You ever want to hang out, let me know. I know it’s hard to be new somewhere."

__

The market goes by as usual. Every time you sell a bar of soap or a candle that you made it's like the slight throb of your fingers ebbs for a moment. You tell a few mothers that you made them yourself and they fawn over you. But even so, there's a whisper in your head that you haven't seen Steve all day. Is he working today? He doesn't seem like the type to take time off.

You realize that you've spent so much time thinking about Steve Harrington that you could be considered obsessed. You've only really spoken twice as it is, and neither time has been pleasant. But there's something about him.

Maybe that something is how he sidles up to stand next to you behind the New-Bee stand with an expression so worried you don't refuse him. There's a part of you that never wants to refuse him, a part of you that is tired and lonely after three weeks without friends. You let that part take over for today with Eddie’s words top of mind, let him stand next to your stool with his hands in his pockets.

"Do you ever actually work, Steve?" you ask, his first name rolling off of your tongue in your tired tone. "Seems like you come to bother me a lot."

"Hi," he says softly. He doesn't take your bait. "Uh, what happened to your hands?" He juts his chin at the bandaged fingers in your lap. They've felt tender for the last few hours.

"If I tell you you'll just make fun of me." You huff. "Bee girl is so bad at her job she burns her fingers, or something."

"C'mon, now." His concern doesn't fade but it hardens. "I'm trying to be nice. I'm here to apologize, actually. Though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for."

You cross your arms and study him as if you could discern his intentions from his soft yellow sweater, his belted jeans, his mussed hair. He looks so lovely you could scream. "I burned them making all of this." You gesture to the candles and soaps around you. Steve steps up to inspect them, closer than you were that first day when you cussed him out. His arm brushes yours and he gently traces the outline of a comb-shaped soap you'd made.

"These are pretty," he mutters. Your mouth falls open.

"Are you being nice to me?" He scoffs and...is he blushing?

"Robin told me to --"

"Oh, Robin told you. Again." Steve scowls at you but it's got less heat than last week.

"Fine. I thought I'd try to be nice to you." He runs a hand through his hair, eyes on your hands. "Just for today, though," he says, teasing. "Since you're injured."

Maybe it's your hands hurting or Steve's light tone or the things Eddie said this morning, but you can't find it in yourself to argue with him. "Okay," you say instead. He looks a little surprised.

"Okay," he echoes. "Uh..." Clearly, he didn't think he'd get this far. You smile a little and let him waffle for a topic of conversation. "Did you meet Jane?" he settles on.

"El? She brought me lunch the first week." You haven't spoken with her since, but she waves at you whenever she runs back and forth across the market doing whatever her dad needs -- you haven't met him, either, but you expect you will eventually.

"She told you to call her that?" Steve asks, sounding surprised.

"Yes?" Have you messed up somehow and soured this remarkably pleasant conversation already?

"Damn." He laughs a little. "She wouldn't let me call her El until I'd worked at Sara's full time for three months." You watch to see if this will make him sour, if you need to queue up a barb, but he seems incredulous rather than mad.

"Hey, listen," he says. "I wanted to ask you --"

"You don't work here!" Four teenagers have appeared in front of the stall and Steve's easy expression turns to a scowl.

"Good to know you've been paying attention, Henderson." Steve's voice isn't cruel, though it is annoyed. You wonder what he was going to ask you. "What do you want?"

"We're here to see Will but thought we'd meet the chick you won't stop talking about first," says the only girl, her fiery hair in a braid down her back. She eyes your reaction to her words as you send Steve a confused look.

"Sorry, what --" Steve doesn't look at you.

"Alright, alright, that's enough. Go bother someone else." They don't move and Steve sighs like a put-upon parent. "Fine. Meet the biggest pain in my ass: Dustin Henderson, Mike Wheeler, Max Mayfield, and Lucas Sinclair."

"Hi. Are you all...students?" They stand close like kids who've been together a long time, used to orbiting each other's space.

"Juniors," Lucas says. "We haven't been to the market in a few weeks because we're working on college applications."

"You're old," Dustin says. Steve swears softly next to you. "Do you know anything about college?"

"Um, no." You fiddle with the sleeve of your flannel. "Well, a little. I went but I dropped out.” You feel Steve turn towards you but you don't look.

"Ask Nance when she's back next time, yeah?" he says. Mike smacks his own forehead.

"Shit, I didn't think of that. My own sister!"

"Go take that big brain of yours to bother Will, okay, shitheads?" Max nods at you and tugs Lucas away by one hand, Mike's jacket sleeve in the other.

"I'm gonna...go," Steve mumbles, stepping out from behind the stall without another word. You don't realize that Dustin hasn't left until he speaks again.

"You don't look mean," he says. He crosses his arms like he's looking at a puzzle.

"Excuse me?"

"Steve is probably so obsessed with you because you're like, really pretty. But he won't admit it."

"Oh, so he's pulling my pigtails because he likes me?" you grumble but your face feels hot. "How mature of him." You don't really believe it. Dustin must be willfully misunderstanding Steve's complaining. Plus, he's a heartbreaker, right? Not someone you'd want to be involved with, no matter how nice he is to look at. No matter how good some people say he is.

"He's just a bit of an asshole sometimes," Dustin says fondly. "Don't hold it against him."

"I've heard that before," you say. "Why is he friends with a bunch of high schoolers? No offense." Dustin grins and you see that he's got almost perfectly straight teeth under braces.

"None taken. He was...kind of our babysitter? But now we're too old for that so we just hang out with him because he needs more friends."

"Wow," you say. "Harsh." But you're smiling. You don't want to find the story endearing but you do and it makes you sad more than anything. To see these kids so obviously bonded to each other and their older friend. In another life, you'd wonder if there was something going on here that made them this way, that made this town so close. But as it is, you feel the ache in your chest that's been bothering you for years -- since you went to school, since you left, since you arrived in Hawkins. The ache that wakes you every day, that feels like a bruise in your chest when you fall asleep.

The ache that disappears when you talk to Steve but returns full force as soon as he walks away. 

tags: @cheerupbarry @srrybutno @97soroka @sunlitide @gloryofroses19 @carpediem1219 @themarvelousbee @sunshinehollandd @katsukis1wife @imherefortea @spideyboipete @lonelywidow @louderfortheback @actual-mom-steve-harrington @steveharringtonscarkeys @pennyllanne @ducky-is-dead-inside @ih3artcry1ng @escape-in-time-x @sea040561 @manyfandomsfanvergent @blandyton @liberhoe @annaisweird

Steve smiles a little, corners of his mouth twitching. You did this a lot. People watched. Made up stories about strangers and imagined their lives outside of that moment. Steve had thought you were just nosey at first but then he came to understand that you just liked stories. That you couldn’t not think about stranger’s lives. That you knew you would never know these people and that made you curious. You wanted to know. Wanted to know every heartache, every first day at work and every bad date. And so, you made up stories. You were probably wrong at least ninety per cent of the time, but you always sounded so sure that Steve always believed you. Well, most of the time. The story of the man who had definitely just committed a murder was a little far fetched.

“Alright, little miss voyeur, eat your pancakes before we’re late,” Steve says, nodding towards your half-eaten stack, “again.”

You roll your eyes but do as he says.

Sally’s was your go to haunt with Steve before a shift at Family Video. Robin would come along sometimes but the smell of eggs tended to make her heave and so—it was just a you and Steve thing and had been since you started working together nearly six months ago.

You're barely five more mouthfuls of pancakes before Steve finally asks—

"Why do you think it's their first date?"

You smile. You knew he'd ask. You had made Steve curious over the past few months with this particular quirk of yours. He wanted to know what you had come up with. No matter how wrong you may be.

There's a clatter as you drop your cutlery onto the table before turning to look back over at the couple.

"First of all, that's a new dress she's wearing. My mom just bought the same one. Plus, I can see the tag is still attached—you know, in case it doesn't work out, so she can return it. Secondly, he's got this nervous twitch. Keeps fixing his watch. If they've been on multiple dates, why would he be nervous?"

Steve mulls it over for a few moments. "Because they're having an affair and this is their first outing?" he offers with a slight smirk as he leans forward, invested now as his honeyed brown eyes flicker from yours and then back over to the couple. "I mean, it is breakfast. Who goes out for breakfast for their first date? Clearly, they went to pound town last night and he's married. Maybe he didn't tell Miss Label Still Attached and then she’s convinced him to go out for breakfast. And now he's shitting himself thinking someone he knows will spot him."

You look at Steve for a long moment, your eyes narrowing until you were glaring at him. He laughs. Sips his coffee before he leans forward, dipping his finger in the maple syrup on your plate.

"You ruined my story," you scold him, trying to swat his hand away but his middle finger was already dripping with the golden sticky liquid.

"Didn't," he replies, licking his finger clean and smiling at you nonchalantly. "Made it better. Your stories lack spice, (y/n). That couple last week you thought had just been to their twelve week scan? He was definitely was thinking about tearing her clothes off—"

"Steve!"

You're scolding him but you're laughing. But this was so Steve. Always lowering the tone. Always making you laugh.

"Sorry, (y/n) but I know a horn dog when I see one," he replies, winking over at you.

"Because it's like looking in a mirror?" You offer, brow raised and trying not to smile.

Steve looks back at you and returns your smile, “something like that."

It's quiet then for a few moments, you finishing your pancakes and Steve trying to get the waitress' attention for the bill.

"You know, you're good at reading people," Steve says gently after handing the waitress a twenty before you could even blink. You want to argue but you knew it would end with Steve shoving his fingers in his ears and humming loudly. You decide to let it slide this time. Next time maybe, you’ll be quicker at grabbing the bill before him.

"You really think so?" You ask him, tugging on your denim jacket and standing up from the booth.

Steve nods as he also stands up. His fingers brush over the denim as he adjusts your collar. Your eyes flicker down to watch him do so.

He ducks his head down, those warm eyes meeting yours before he smiles, "I know so," he murmurs back before pulling away and patting your head. "Now c'mon, before Robin decides to put on Piranha Part Two as the movie of the day. Again."

You were good at reading people. But you didn't see that Steve hadn't been looking at Tracey McEvoy. You were so busy watching everyone else that you didn't notice how Steve had been looking at you.

There was never a dull moment working in Family Video. Just this morning, Robin had managed to knock over an entire display and nearly broke her arm. Funnily enough, that was not the first time that had happened.

Another thing about working in Family Video? Steve was always attracting attention. Like the pretty blonde who had just walked in. Usually, Steve would entertain it. He had no shame in casually dating while shoving his feelings towards you to the side. But right now? Steve couldn't care less about that fact she was batting her lashes at him and leaning forward so he could plainly see her cleavage. No—he didn't care about that. Not when Eddie Munson was talking to you and had been for the past fifteen minutes. Especially when you were laughing at him and smiling and—

"—so," the blonde says to Steve, twirling a strand of silky hair around her finger. "Are you busy on Saturday? We could go out and then go back to my place and—”

"Busy," Steve mutters, not taking his eyes off you and Eddie—who was apparently having a difficult time picking between renting either Videodrome or The Hunger. "Super busy."

Steve knew logically that you and Eddie were just friends. He knew that. You and Eddie went way back—had been close since you begrudgingly tutored him in English. But when you were laughing with Eddie like that? Steve was wondering if you had ever laughed with him like that before.

"Dude!" Robin scolds Steve two minutes later, smacking him on the back of the head.

"Ow!" Steve exclaims, rubbing the spot where Robin had hit him with a frown. "What was that for?"

"You being a dummy!" Robin retorts as she gestures towards the window where the pretty blonde was getting into her car, dejected over Steve's disinterest. "What is wrong with you? That girl was flirting with you and she was a total babe!"

Steve blinks dumbly.

"What girl?" He asks because honestly? Seeing you and Eddie had made him momentarily forget about the whole ignoring his feelings for you thing. Made him forget other women existed outside of you.

Robin looks at Steve in disbelief and shakes her head. But Steve pays no mind to her. Instead, he takes the opportunity to back over at you. You were still talking to Eddie—at the counter and ringing up his eventual selection of Videodrome.

Robin notices. She doesn't say anything and just—observes. She notices how Steve's jaw clenches. How he stands up a little straighter. How his eyes are locked on the way Eddie leans over the counter to talk to you.

And Robin being Robin? Well, she couldn't help but meddle. Just a little.

"You know," Robin hums as she moves to stand right beside Steve, smiling a little as she does so. "I think (y/n) might like Eddie."

Steve looks at Robin so fast that she was sure he had gotten whiplash.

"What?!" Steve blurts out. "How do you know—"

Robin shrugs, a wry smile on her face. "Just...womanly instinct."

Steve knows that Robin is teasing. That she doesn't know a damn thing about whether you liked Eddie or not. But Steve? Well, on the outside he might appear as an overly confident and at times cocky guy but deep down? Deep down he was convinced that he didn't deserve a girl like you.

He had been an asshole in school. Had been an asshole to you at times, even. It was only when Nancy Wheler had come along, turned his world upside down (literally) and then broke his heart that he had realised that things he thought were important? Popularity, the status quo, his damn BMW—well, they didn't matter. Not one bit. He had let his want for the superficial things cloud his judgement. He became friends with the wrong people—became swept up in the wrong crowd.

These days however? Well, he didn't really give a damn about being popular. But he did want to be wanted, still, even now. He knew people needed him—Dustin needed him to take him to the arcade, Robin needed him to cover her shifts sometimes and the party needed him when the Upside Down came knocking but did anyone really want him? He wasn't convinced. And so, Steve was always the first to jump into danger. He needed to feel useful. Needed that validation still. And so, when it came to you, Steve did not have the guts to make a move. He was certain you deserved better.

But seeing you with Eddie...

"You look awfully distracted, dingus," Robin observes, thumping Steve on his arm to get his attention back.

Steve blinks, apparently lost in his own thoughts. He had spent so long just standing there thinking that Eddie had now left. You were humming to yourself—Steve imagined it would be an ABBA song. You were always humming along to ABBA.

"I'm not," Steve mumbles, his eyes flickering back over to you. You're rewinding tapes—watching an elderly couple browsing the new releases. Steve can only imagine the story you were already cooking up. "Do you think she really likes Eddie?" He asks Robin quietly, his warm eyes flickering between Robin and you.

Robin, being an agent of chaos that she was, just shrugs. "She might," she says, picking up a random tape and considering it. "She might not."

Steve opens his mouth to press Robin further, but your voice carries over the store.

"Steve! Can you help me with the—"

You didn't even have to finish your sentence before Steve is borderline sprinting across the store towards you.

"Oh Stevie," Robin murmurs to herself with a shake of the head. "You got it bad."

The next time you and Steve were at Sally's? Steve couldn't stop wondering about you and Eddie. He couldn't help it. Robin had successfully planted the seed and Steve? Well, Steve was making a mental note of every time you mentioned Eddie. It wasn't a lot, really. But Robin had got to Steve. Got to him bad.

You had just ordered pancakes (again) and Steve an omelette when Steve decides—fuck it—and asks:

"So, you and Eddie," Steve begins with an easy smile. "What's going on there?"

You blink. Genuinely confused. So confused, in fact, that you start to laugh.

"Eddie?" you say, still laughing a little. "You think—what? That I like Eddie?"

Steve shrugs—like it was nothing. Like if you said yes, you did like Eddie, that it wouldn't have cut him open. That it wouldn't feel as painful as a broken arm or being beaten by Russians again.

"Yeah—I mean, Robin seems you think you might."

"Yeah well, Robin is also convinced that Elvis isn't really dead," you point out, deeply amused by the situation.

"Yeah, well in Robin's defence—that customer who said she saw Elvis in a gas station in Hawaii was pretty convincing."

You roll your eyes, though you're still laughing. And when the waitress comes with your pancakes and Steve's omelette, he feels a little lighter. Just a little.

"So, you don't like Eddie?" He asks, needing the clarification as he pokes at the ham and cheese omelette on his plate. Eyes on you.

You look back up at Steve then, midway through a mouthful of pancake, your eyes meeting his. You take your time to chew and swallow your food before finally, you shake your head.

"No," you tell Steve. "No, I don't like Eddie. Not like that."

The relief on Steve's face is noticeable. His features soften and shoulders physically relax.

"Good," he breathes out before he really thought about what he was saying and then? He panics. Eyes widen. Fork dropping from his hand. Omelette pieces flying across the table. "I didn't mean—I just—I meant like—good because um, you know, Eddie's a—he's a drug dealer! And you wouldn't want to be involved with a drug dealer. You know? You could get in trouble and I’m going to have you bail you out and—"

But he stops talking when he realises that you weren't listening. Too busy watching a couple a few tables over—trying to encourage their baby to eat some scrambled eggs. But the baby? The baby was having none of it. Slamming her tiny fits onto the table and playing with the eggy bits instead.

"I bet she's named after Bonnie Tyler," you say and Steve? Well, Steve just hums in agreement and shoves some more of his omelette into his mouth. Because for once he was grateful that you had been too busy people watching to notice his little slip up.

Steve was usually (always) the one to give you a lift. It wasn't that you couldn't drive because you could. It was more that your car was...well, it was just a little bit unreliable. Just last month, it had broken down outside of the movie theatre and before that one of your wheels had nearly pinged off after you dropped your mom off at work.

And so, when Robin had called you one Friday night and asked you to pick her and Steve up from a party, you knew it was because they really, really needed you.

You parked up a little way down the street before getting out of your car and following the noise of the party. Usually, you would have joined Steve and Robin for a party like this but you had needed to babysit your little brother. And so, you had spent your Friday night watching He-Man before your mom had come home.

The party was loud. You could feel the bass from the outside. But thankfully, you didn't have to go inside and search for your friends. Because the moment you step into the front yard, someone very drunkenly yells your name.

You turn and—oh god.

Steve Harrington was drunk. Very drunk.

And he was stumbling towards you with a concerned but tipsy Robin by his side. You barely have time to react before Steve is wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into a hug so tight that for a few moments, you can't breathe.

"Stevie, stopppp," Robin tells him, tugging his arm. "You're going to crush her."

"M'sorry," Steve slurs as he pulls away, though his hands remain on your shoulders as he looks down at you. You see his face is flushed, his eyelids drooping a little and that lazy, drunken smile Steve got. "Just sooooo happy to see you, pretty girl."

He says it so casually that you almost miss it. Almost. But your cheeks burn as the words slowly hit you and you have to tell yourself that Steve was drunk. He didn't have a clear mind. Wasn't thinking straight.

"Yeah, we're really happy to see you (y/n)," Robin chimes in. "Stevie here threw up—"

"Shhhh!"

"What have you guys drank?" you ask, smiling a little at the situation (because it was objectively funny) and ignoring how Steve's fingers were beginning to squeeze your shoulders. How he had called you pretty girl like it was nothing. How it made your stomach feel fluttery.

"The better question is," Robin replies, giggling. "What haven't we drank?"

"Oh god," you groan as Steve hums and start playing with your hair. The action makes you shudder. "If either of you throw up in my car—"

"I won't," Robin insists, hands up in surrender before glancing at Steve. "Not sure about Harrington here—"

"—M'good," Steve mumbles, smiling down at you in a way that plainly told you that he was not good. Not in the slightest. "S'good cause you're here."

Your face burns. You decide to ignore that.

"Okay," you say, putting your hand over one of Steve's and giving him a gentle pat in an effort for him to let you go. He doesn't. Just takes your hand instead. "Let's get you guys home."

Getting Robin to your car was much easier than Steve. Because Steve? Well, he was like Bambi on ice. Stumbling about every two seconds, distracted by for sale signs ("Hey! (y/n)! Robin! Let's go halves on this one!") and a neighbourhood cat ("come here sweet little kitty"). In the end, you had to throw his arm around your shoulder and wrap yours around his waist and practically drag him over to your car.

"Oh, not this death trap!" Steve huffs as soon as he sees your little red VW Beetle. "Why don't you drive—"

"I'm not driving your car," you cut across him before he could even think of suggesting such a thing. "I'll drive you back here to pick yours up tomorrow—"

Steve groans loudly. Like a toddler throwing a tantrum. You wouldn't have been shocked if he started to stamp his feet.

"Shotgun!" Robin yells, racing up to your car with surprising speed for someone who was as tipsy as she was.

And so, you have to wrestle a drunken and now giggling Steve into the backseat of your car by yourself. Robin is too busy in the passenger seat riffling through your cassettes to help.

When you eventually do manage to get Steve in your car, after having to do his seatbelt for him, he smiles at you.

"Thanks, pretty girl," he murmurs back in a drunken whisper. Your breath hitches a little when you see the look in his eyes. And then—

He leans forward and throws up in the backseat of your car.

"(y/n), again I am so sorry—"

"—you've said that about thirty times already, Steve. It's okay."

"No, it's not. Your backseat smells of vomit and I'm pretty sure I got some in your hair too. So let me pay for your seats to be cleaned or—"

And this was how your morning at Family Video was going. Steve was incredibly hungover and full of shame—which had lead him to apologise to you profusely ever since you picked him up to collect his car from the party.

"Steve, really. You don't have to pay for anything," you insist, though you had a feeling that may have to get your backseats reupholstered because Steve was right—even after you had spent a good two hours early this morning scrubbing and cleaning the seats—your car did still in fact, stink of liquor induced vomit.

Steve takes the VHS tapes from your hands, places them on the counter and looks at you—hands on his hips in that way he only ever did to Dustin Henderson or his friends when they would come in and try and rent an 18.

"(y/n)," he begins in a borderline stern voice. "I'm the one who threw up in your car. Let me pay for it."

"But—"

Steve silences you by pressing a finger to your lips and it takes you by such surprise that you do in fact stop talking.

"Let me pay for it," he says softly, tilting his head down a little bit to meet your eyes. "Please."

Your eyes move between his and despite your stubbornness, you find yourself nodding. And Steve? Well, he smiles. Despite the hangover, he couldn't help but feel a little smug when he realised you were letting him take care of you (or rather your car, but still). And well, taking care of you was one of Steve's favourite things to do.

He drops his hand then, pulling away to run his fingers through his hair. Trying to ignore how soft your lips had felt on his finger. Trying to not imagine how it would feel if it had been his lips instead of his finger—

"So, throwing up my guts aside," Steve says as he casually picks up your tapes and hands them back to you. "Did I do anything else embarrassing? Break dance in the street? Recreate that scene from Footloose again?"

He expects you to laugh because usually you would. Usually the mention of that time Steve had gotten so drunk he had tried to recreate one of the dances from Footloose made you burst into laughter. But you don't laugh instead, you flush. Steve notices because of course he does. He notices everything. Everything about you, anyway. He notices when you change your lip-gloss shade. He notices when you get a haircut. He notices when you get a new top. When you paint your nails a different colour. He notices when you're distracted. When you're sad. When you're quiet. And you flushing? Oh, he definitely noticed that.

"Oh no," Steve says, shoulders tensing slightly as his mind went through everything he could have possibly said to you whilst drink. The possibilities ranged from 'your ass looks great in jeans' to 'I had a dream once that we got married in Paris'. All options were equally horrifying. "Wh-what did I say? Was it bad?"

You shake your head quickly because no, it wasn't bad. Not at all. It was sweet. And confusing. Mainly confusing.

"No Steve," you tell him gently. "It wasn't it—you just—you kept calling me pretty girl," you say, laughing a little so he hopefully wouldn't notice your flush deepening. But he does. He notices.

"Oh," Steve says, returning your easy laughter. On the inside? He's planning a quick escape route. Lunch? He couldn't say that at ten in the morning. Keith wanted to see him? Maybe but then he may have to actually interact with Keith to sell the cover and well—nobody willingly talks to Keith. "Yeah—I—um, sorry about that. If I, um—made you uncomfortable or anything—"

"—you didn't," you interject quickly. Too quickly. You swallow—look away for a moment, bottom lip between your teeth. Steve pretends that the sight isn't burned into his irises.

"It was—it was...nice." You finish.

Steve swears the Upside Down could have swallowed Hawkins whole and he wouldn't have noticed a damn thing. Not when you were looking as shy as you were right now. Not when you just admitted that him calling you pretty girl had been 'nice'. Not weird, not creepy, not stupid but...nice. And so, Steve decides to be brave. Which, of course he was. He had fought demogorgons, demodogs, been captured and tortured by Russians—he was as brave as they came. But being brave in front of you? That was different. But he needed to try.

"Well, it's true," Steve murmurs, shrugging as he looks at you. "You are pretty."

He doesn't miss how your breathing quickens. How you look away from him so he doesn't see how your cheeks burn.

"Thanks?" You reply finally with a small, barely there smile.

For a moment—you two look at each other. In the middle of Family Video. You, for the first time, noticing the way Steve looks at you—the way he's always looked at you when you hadn't noticed. And him—he's just looking at you the way he always did. Like you were the only thing that made sense to him. Like you were the eighth damn wonder of the world.

And then—

The bell above the door chimes, signalling the arrival of a customer. The moment between you and Steve breaking. He's the first to look away. To greet the customer while you stand there—wondering what the hell you had missed while you had been too busy people watching.

The next time you two go to Sally's, it was a Saturday. Which meant it was busy. Really busy. Usually, this gave you ample opportunity to watch various people around you—the diner abuzz with all sorts of people. So many stories in one building. But today? Today, you're looking at Steve.

The way he fidgets by tapping his thigh when he orders for the both of you, almost like there was a part of him that was nervous to do so. How he always sips his coffee as soon as it arrives, even if it's still too hot. How he opts for BBQ sauce today with his omelette instead of tomato like he usually did. How he looked at you when you talked. How he looked at you when you weren't talking. How he looked at you when you laughed. How the brown jacket he was wearing hugs his arm. How his hair fell so fucking perfectly it was almost annoying. How handsome he was.

"So," Steve says, leaning back against his side of the booth and stretching out his arms. You notice how his shirt rides up a little. You notice the happy trail. "What stories have you cooked up so far?" He asks you, brow raised and intrigued.

"What?" You ask him dumbly before it clicks. "Oh."

You're quick to recover—making up something about how the man a few tables over looks a little sad and you posit the idea that he had may have been fired since he was wearing a business suit. Steve latches on the story and soon—he's dreamt up this entire narrative that this guy had been fired for an inappropriate relationship with his secretary. That he was here because he didn't know how to tell his wife and kids that they wouldn't be going on holiday to Hawaii this year.

You're nodding along but really? You're staring at the bit of BBQ sauce on the corner of Steve's mouth. You wonder, for a brief moment whether you had been staring at his lips to begin with or whether it was the sauce that had caught your eye in the first place. You had a feeling it was the former and the thought of that makes your stomach churn.

"Alright, what's going on with you?" Steve queries, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table and looking at you carefully. "Usually, you're all over this—what's wrong?"

The question makes your heart pound. Because you weren't entirely sure what was wrong. You felt the same you just were noticing things about Steve—one of your closest friends and your co-worker—that made your heart beat a little faster. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to call you pretty girl again.

"Nothing's wrong," you say finally after a few moments. "I just..." you pause, casting around for a way to say what you wanted to say without scaring him off. "You said...the other day you said I was good at reading people."

"Yeah?" Steve responds, evidently a tiny bit bewildered as to why you were bringing up that small comment he had made a few days prior. "You people watch all the time, of course you're good at reading people."

"See, I don't think I am," you say as you begin to fiddle with a loose piece of fabric on your jumper. "I—I notice small moments between strangers, sure but—I'm probably wrong like, half the time."

"And...I'm just thinking of all the things that—that I've missed."

Steve looks at you for a long moment, brow furrowed. "Like what?"

"Like...like how you always drive me to work even if you don't have a shift that day," you say, eyes meeting his across the table.

Steve shifts in his seat. Coughs into his hand. The other reaches for his coffee cup.

"How you always let me put my favourite films on but argue with Robin about hers—"

"Because she has a god awful taste in films," Steve mutters, ears red as a he sips from his still-hot coffee. "Yours are better."

"How you let me borrow your cassette tapes even though you know I won't bring them back."

"—oh, I plan on billing you for them. One day. Soon."

You're starting to smile a little, unable to look away from the guy across the table from you who you wished you had noticed sooner.

"And how you love my stories even though most of them are bullshit."

Steve shrugs. "I like the way you see the world."

You bite back a smile, pushing aside your half eaten plate of pancakes and leaning across the table a little.

"Can I do something?" You murmur quietly to him.

Steve nods and—after a moment's hesitation—he leans forward to meet you halfway.

He is sure you're going to kiss him. So sure, in fact that he closes his eyes.

But then, he feels a wet fingertip wiping the corner of his mouth. He stomach sinks as he opens his eyes.

"You had um, BBQ sauce," you tell him in a whisper.

"Oh," he says slowly, face flushing in embarrassment at his hopefulness, "thanks."

You almost let him pull away. Almost pull away yourself. But then—

Your hands cup his face and you're pulling him towards you, leaning uncomfortably over the table as you press your lips to his and kiss him.

He tastes like coffee and there's still a hint of BBQ sauce there but—as he kisses you back—slow and one of his hands carding through your hair—you don't mind one bit. Not when kissing him felt as good as a summer's day or as thrilling as a damn rollercoaster.

Steve is the first to pull away, just to look at your face. Just to remind himself he wasn't dreaming.

"Glad you finally paid attention to me," he murmurs.

"Shut up, Harrington," you say. And he does shut up—in the best way possible, with another kiss against your lips.

dividers by the lovely @zclhs

You look at the small child in your arms, her big hazel eyes looking back at you curiously while she sucked away at her binky. She didn’t seem to be as bothered as you about the current predicament you were in, which was good because you’d much rather her not start a fuss again.

The ride from Chicago didn’t start off great, with Lily crying for a solid two hours before she finally fell asleep. You’d almost regretted coming on your own, but the anxiousness you’ve been feeling since you heard the news that the quarantine was being lifted from Hawkins has been eating away at you, so you braved the 4 hour drive with just your daughter to keep you company.

Seeing the welcome sign as you entered Hawkins pacified some of your nerves initially, but you don’t think you’ll feel like yourself again until you can talk to the person you came here to see. There was just one problem with your plans, and that was that you needed to find him.

Your first and most obvious option was to try and call the house where you hoped he still lived. So once you got your things in the house and got Lily settled, you did exactly that. Thankful that your parents didn’t cancel the land line right away when you first left, you picked up the phone and dialed the number that you found in the phone book. Your leg bounced as you listened to the ringing, whispering for him to pick up over and over as if you could manifest it happening.

But, of course, it didn’t happen. Not even a voice machine to leave a message on either. With a sigh, you hung up and pondered what to do next. Maybe you could try going to the house? If you saw his Beamer parked there you could just knock on the door and see if he answers you.

But looking at the time on the stove you saw it was nearing 6 o’clock already. You still needed to give Lily a bath and get her in bed by seven, so that would have to be a task for tomorrow. 

With a heavy weight in your chest, you do your night routine to the best of your ability. It was the first time Lily has ever slept anywhere other than your grandparents house, so naturally she put up a struggle every step of the way to get her to bed. It was after 9 when she had finally tired herself out to fall asleep and you could relax. 

Well, you couldn’t fully relax, your mind weighing on you as you sit all alone in the quiet house. 

What if he wasn’t even Hawkins anymore? You had no idea if his parents had fled like yours did when all those kids got murdered. Not like the Harrington’s were known for being in Hawkins at any given time anyway.

But, Steve…he just didn’t seem like the type to leave. 

You had a gut feeling, call it intuition or whatever, but something was telling you that he was still here. You just had to find him.

So the next morning you and Lily got back in your car and made the short drive to the Harrington house. It was in your neighborhood, just a hop and skip and a jump to the north of your parents place. As you pulled up to the house, you were disappointed to see there were no cars to be found. The house itself looked empty as far as you could yell, and your heart sank into your stomach that he might really be gone.

”Fuck,” you huff, head thumping against your headrest as tears started to well in your eyes. 

An idea popped into your head. It was far fetched, because you weren’t even sure he still talked to them, but it was worth a shot. So, you drove around until you found the house in question, where the mailbox had “The Hagan’s” painted on the side. You parked next to curb and cut the engine, grabbing your daughter from the back seat and walking up to the house. With a quick knock, you waited at the door for someone to answer.

”Hello?” Mrs.Hagan said as she opened the door. She looked at you, then at Lily, concern written all over her face. You introduced yourself to her and her eyes became as wide as saucers.

”My goodness, I haven’t seen your parents since, what, two years ago now?” 

“Yeah, we left after all that stuff happened. Went to Chicago to stay with my grandparents.” She nods at your words, looking around outside before taking a step back.

”Please, come inside. It’s freezing out there,” she says, gesturing for you to enter. You take her offer and step into the house, relieved to be out of the cold.

”Who is this little darling?” She asks, wiggling her finger in front of Lily, who gives her a baby tooth smile.

”This is Lillian,” you say, bouncing her on your hip.

”Is she…” she starts, looking at you like she was hoping you would say the words so she didn’t have to.

”She’s my daughter,” you tell her, and her lips tuck into her mouth tightly.

”Are you here to tell me that Tommy—“

”No! God, no!” Mrs.Hagan visibly relaxes, her hand coming to her chest dramatically.

”Thank Goodness,” she says with a chuckle before clearing her throat. “I mean, that’s good for you, but, um…”

”It’s fine,” you tell her, and she nods. “I was actually wondering if Tommy was here? And if he maybe had heard from Steve…?”

Her eyes bug out, mouth dropping open in shock at your line of questioning. “Oh my,” she says, tsking as she looks at your daughter. “I thought those eyes looked familiar. That’s definitely a Harrington baby. Wait,” she puts her hand up, “Are you telling me he’s not been supporting you this whole time ?”

”Well, it’s not exactly like that—“

”Oh, Janice is going to die when she hears this.”

”Mrs.Hagan,” you say, pulling her from her thoughts.

”Hmm, oh yes, sorry. I hate to say this, but Tommy and Steve had a falling out a few years ago and don’t really talk anymore. I could try calling him and seeing if he knows anything about what he’s up to if you want?”

”Oh,” you say with disappointment, hugging Lily closer to you. “No, that’s okay. I knew it was a long shot but I figured I’d try.”

”Sorry, sweetheart,” she says, looking at Lily with sympathetic eyes. “You could maybe try the post office? See if the Harringtons are having their mail forwarded somewhere?”

You nod, considering her suggestion. “Yeah, I’ll try that. Thank you.” You turn towards the door and she goes to open it for you. 

“Of course, sweetie,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “Good luck.”

You brace yourself to face the cold once again, walking out of the Hagan house with a wave. After placing Lily back in her car seat, you hop in the car and start it up, cranking the heat up to try and keep the two of you warm on your way to the Hawkins post office. 

The whole ride there you tried to stay optimistic. Maybe if you could get a new mailing address you could send Steve a letter and tell him about Lily. If he chose to respond was up to him, but at least you could feel better for telling him. 

Pulling up to the small building, you parked the car and quickly made your way inside. It wasn’t busy, only the sound of the radio filling the small space. An older man rounds the corner when he hears the bell ring and greets you with a smile. 

“Howdy, folks,” he says chipperly. “How can I help you today?”

“Yes I need to check to see if someone is having their mail forwarded to a new address?” The man’s brows raise, his eyes wandering over to Lily before looking back at you. 

“Is this for court related purposes?” He asks. 

You shake your head confused. “No? I’m just trying to get ahold of someone.”

“I see, I see. Well what’s the name and I can go check for you?”

“I’m looking for the Harrington’s. Steve Harrington specifically, but any of them will do.”

The man nods his head slowly, “Hmm, let me go look.” He turns and waddles away from the counter before disappearing into a back room.

You waited patiently for him to return, listening to the low tune of the radio as you waited. The song playing came to a close, and a familiar voice started to fill the air. 

“Alright, my good ladies and gents. Hopefully you enjoyed that block of tunes we had playing there for ya. We’re playing only the best for our broadcast today.”

You recognized the voice as Robin Buckley, the girl that Steve worked with at Family Video, who he said was just his friend. Platonic with a capital P. It was crazy to hear her voice over the radio, though. She must have moved on from rewinding tapes for a living. 

“That’s right, people of Hawkins, this is Rockin’ Robin here to remind you that today is officially the last broadcast that myself and my good friend The Hair will be hosting.”

The sound of a baby crying and some booing played, but you were still stuck on the name of her cohost. 

Did she say The Hair? Like…Steve “The Hair” Harrington. 

The man reenters the lobby and shakes his head.“Okay, so I don’t see anything indicating—“

“Do you know where this radio station is being broadcast from?” You ask, cutting him off. 

“This one?” He asks, pointing to the radio. “I believe this is WSQK. Their building is across town by the old Miller farm.”

“Yes! Okay I think I know where that is,” you take off towards the door and swing it open. “Thank you!” You call before rushing back to your car. 

The twenty minute drive across town felt like forever, your nerves growing the closer you got. Once the station came into view your stomach was doing flips. You were disappointed to not see the beamer parked there, pulling up next to a blue pick up that sat outside the building. 

Snow started to fall as you pulled Lily from her car seat, so you rushed as quickly as you could to the glass doors on the side of the building. You didn’t think you could just go inside, so you opted to knock loudly on the door instead. 

You waited and waited, the cold seeping into your bones the more you stood there. You knew you couldn’t keep Lily in the cold like this with, her little nose turning red from the temp. But you couldn’t give up yet. You were so close, you just couldn’t leave now. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, but you had decided that you weren’t going to wait any longer. Pulling the door open, you entered the building and felt immediate relief in its warmth.

Walking into the building, you slowly looked around to see if you could find someone. Only when you got into the heart of the building did you see another person. 

Your heart almost stopped right then and there when you saw him. His back was turned to you, but you could recognize him from behind by his hair. Suddenly, he was turning around to look at Robin, who you had only just now noticed. Apparently she spotted you first, because she was pointing at you from the booth. 

Steve opened the door and stepped out, looking at you incredulously. He said your name like a question and you nodded to confirm that it was you. 

“What the—“ he looks at Lily, brows pinched in confusion before looking back at you. “What are you doing here? I thought you skipped town?”

“I did. But I came because…” You take in a deep breath, “Because we need to talk.”

“Okay, let me get this straight.” Robin is sitting in her chair across from you and Lily, looking at you seriously as she speaks. “You and Steve,” he gestures between you two, “hooked up two years ago. And there was an “accident.’” She says the last word with air quotes. “The next week a bunch of kids get killed and the Earthquake happens and everyone high tails it out of Hawkins. Including you and your family.” You nod, and she continues on. 

“And a few weeks later, the military swoops in, locks us all down so we can’t leave. At the same time, you find out you’re pregnant. But because you’re effectively cut off from Hawkins, you can’t come back to let poor Stevie know about your love child.” 

“I mean, yeah, that’s pretty much it,” you say, and Robin nods. 

“But, now the military is gone, and you’re back! So now we know and, and—“ she turns to look at Steve who is pacing the room next you the three of you. “Steve, can you stop? You’re freaking me out here.”

He stopped, his eyes focused on the floor rather than at you or Robin. “I’m sorry, Robin, I’m just a little on edge at the prospect of maybe having a kid here!” His tone is sharp, making you flinch a little. 

“C’mon dingus, you knew this was bound to happen sooner or later,” she says with a shrug. 

“Not helping, Robin!”

“I’m sorry, did you say you might have a kid?” You ask him for clarification.

He stops, finally looking at you for the first time since you showed up. “Well, yeah. H-how am I supposed to know for sure she’s mine?”

Robin leans in close to Lily and looks at her. Lily reaches out and tries to grab Robin's nose, making her laugh. “I don’t know, Steve. She’s got your eyes.”

“What?” He says, looking to Lily. 

“She really does,” you say, bouncing the girl on your knee. “She’s been getting compliments on her hazel eyes since she was four months old.”

“Hazel eyes are hard to come by,” Robin says, and Steve scoffs at her. 

“Okay, so, maybe she is my kid. I just, I don’t know, want to make sure? Is that wrong to ask?”

“It’s okay, I figured this might happen,” you say, running your fingers through Lily’s soft hair. “We can get a DNA test. I’ve already been in contact with a lab that can do it outside of the courts. We just have to go and have it done. My parents said they’d pay for it.”

Steve’s eyes flickered back and forth like he was deep in thought before cursing under his breath. He looked over at Lily again, then back to you. “Okay, say we do this and she is my kid. Then what?”

“Well, that’s up to you,” you start. “You can be in her life, we figure out how visiting would work and all that. Or…we can go back to Chicago and pretend this never happened.”

“No, definitely not.” His tone was firm, and it made you feel relieved to hear him say it. “If she’s my kid then I want to be around. Things are…a little complicated right now for me, but once I get myself back on my feet, I’d like to do things right.”

“Like through the courts or…?” You ask, eyeing him.

“I mean, I don’t really know what that means, but how do I know you’re not gonna disappear with her.” 

“Steve, it's been killing me for the last two years that I couldn’t tell you about this sooner. I promise, if you want to be in her life, we’re not going anywhere without telling you first.” 

“Okay, okay,” he pauses for a moment, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. “We can figure that out later I guess. We need to do the testing stuff first before we do anything else.”

“Well, can I just say,” Robin cuts in, scooching her chair closer to yours, “That I am absolutely thrilled to be an aunty to this cute little angel. Oh my god, Dustin is going to absolutely flip.”

“Oh god,” Steve groans, making Robin laugh. 

Lily starts to get fussy, and you realize that she’s probably ready to go home after such a long morning.“Is she okay?” Steve asks with genuine concern. You stand and bounce Lily in your arms, trying to shush her. 

“Yeah, she’s probably just tired. She usually gets a nap right about now.”

“Wait, so you’re leaving?” He asks with a hint of panic in his tone. 

“Yeah, just back to my parents house. You remember where we live, right?”

“Um, yeah, just a few streets down from me?” You nod and that seems to calm Steve’s nerves. 

“You can come by any time, just give us a call beforehand if you can.”

“Awe, bye sweetie,” Robin says, waving at Lily. 

“Um, I guess I’ll be in touch,” Steve says awkwardly. 

“Okay, sounds good,” you say with a nod before turning to leave the room. Steve grabs the door and follows you out, sticking close behind as you make it to the front doors.

You and Lily rush to the car, her fussing as you try to get her situated. When you’re finally in the car, you look back at the front doors one last time before taking off. You see Steve standing there, watching you until you’re out of sight. 

thank you for reading!

Except, it wasn’t really. This Steve was older, filled out in the shoulders, moving with confidence that seemed so easy and didn’t require an audience. Coaching middle schoolers apparently, teaching them something. You watched him crouch down to the kids’ level, saying something that made half of them laugh and the other half groan. 

Oh, you were so going to kill Devon for so blatantly setting you up with zero warning. 

"Good practice today,"  he was saying as you got close enough to hear. "Really solid work. Daniels, that catch in the outfield?" He made a chef’s kiss gesture. "Carter, your swing's getting better, but you're still dropping your back elbow—we'll work on it Thursday, yeah?"

Carter beamed like Steve had awarded him a trophy. 

The kids stared at the scatter, grabbing backpacks and water bottles, and that’s when Steve looked up. His gaze swept across the parking lot the way you assumed it probably did—making sure parents were here and kids weren’t abandoned—and then it landed on you. 

He went still for a fractional second, then his face shifted from coach mode to something unguarded and surprised. Then he blinked, and his face did a recalculation and rearrangement into something easy, friendly, and casual, and he was walking over. His hands moved to his pockets. They always did that when he didn’t know what to do with them. 

You focused on Carter instead, his backpack dragging and one shoe untied. 

"Hey," Steve said, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that you could see he’d nicked himself shaving, far enough that it was very clear that it wasn’t established whether the two of you could hug. His hands slipped into his pockets again. His voice was lower. Did that happen in high school, and you just didn’t notice? When did any of this happen? 

"Holy shit—it is you," he said, and it sounded like he was on the same boat as you, wondering if he’d been imagining things. "You’re back."

"Yeah," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity. "Been a couple weeks."

"Couple weeks," he echoed, like he was turning the information over and calculating whether you’d known he’d be here. You hadn’t, but you couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

Then his eyes flicked to the kids, then landed on Carter who was zooming toward you with his backpack half-open and dragging on the ground. "I’m assuming this one’s yours."

You chuckled slightly as Carter crashed into your side, sweaty and dirt-streaked and happy. 

"Did you see? Coach Steve said my swing’s getting better!"

"I saw," you said, ruffling his hair slightly. "You looked great out there."

Steve was looking at you and you were looking at him, and there was this weird moment where there were about seventeen things you could’ve said and exactly zero ways to say any of them. The last time you’d seen him was at graduation—almost a year after trying to avoid him and Nancy Wheeler in the hallways because you were just that girl who could not move on from a high school boyfriend. 

Carter’s beady eyes ping-ponged between you both, his brain clearly working overtime, then his brows furrowed just the slightest.

"Wait," he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Do you two know each other?"

"We went to school together," you said. 

"We were friends," Steve said at the exact same time. 

The word hung there like it was something tangible, something you could touch and would cut if you did. 

"Woah." Carter narrowed. "You were friends?"

"Yeah," Steve said, looking at you with eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure what the script was here. "Long time ago."

"How come you never told me your friend was my coach?" Carter asked you, accusatory like you’d been withholding critical information. 

"I didn’t know he was your coach," you said, letting out a small chuckle as you bopped his nose, which made him scrunch his face up. "I didn’t know he was doing—" You gestured vaguely at Steve and the whistle and the whole situation. "This."

"This?" Steve repeated, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

"You know what I mean."

Carter was still looking at you, and you could practically see the gears turning. "Were you like, actually friends? Or like, friend-friends?"

You subtly shook your head at Steve, but he was indulging Carter now. His fingers were on his chin as he hummed. You knew what he was doing. He always did this, making things lighter when they got too heavy and turned serious into a game. It used to drive you crazy, and it still did. 

"What’s the difference?"

"Like, did you hang out and stuff?" he pressed. "Has he been to grandma’s house?"

You’d been fifteen when Steve first said he loved you. At the quarry with the radio playing something you couldn’t remember now, so many it was not all that important as you thought. You’d been seventeen when he stopped. 

"Sometimes," you said carefully, shooting Steve a look that he either didn’t catch or deliberately ignored.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Your mom would keep his favourite cereal in your pantry; he knew where you kept the spare key. Was he thinking about that, too? How he’d been to your house more times than you could count? 

"Did you have classes together?"

"A few," Steve said. "She was waaaay smarter than me, though. She actually did the homework."

Carter was still processing the information, his face scrunched up. Then, apparently, satisfied with whatever conclusion he reached, he shrugged. "Cool. Coach Steve, can I have a snack? I already ate my string cheese."

"You’re supposed to have that after practice, bud." 

"I know, but I’m hungry." Carter dragged the word out like it was a medical emergency.

Steve laughed and pulled a slightly crushed granola bar from his pocket. "Here. But don’t tell your mom."

"Yes!" Carter snatched it immediately and tore into the wrapper.

"Seriously, don’t tell her," Steve said, glancing at you with genuine worry. "I don’t wanna be the coach that ruins dinner."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, pushing down a smile. 

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked, and for a second it was like being sixteen again, that stupid flutter in your stomach, the way he'd look at you across the cafeteria or in the hallway between classes. Except you weren't sixteen anymore, and this wasn't high school, and Steve Harrington was apparently mature enough now to actually look after kids. 

"So," Steve said, watching Carter devour the granola bar three feet away. "What brings you back?"

You shrugged, feeling slightly smaller now. "Didn’t work out the way it would, I suppose."

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, like he understood what you said. "I get that." 

"Do you?"

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. "Took a while to come to terms with it. I mean—I’m still here."

There was something in his voice that sounded something in-between regret and acceptance. "It seems like fun, though. Up your alley, too, now that I think about it."

He laughed slightly at that and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it’s—good. The kids are great. They’re weird and gross and they ask the most insane questions during sex-ed, but they’re great." Your eyebrows twitched up and mouth parted as soon as he said that. He beat you to the cut, saying, "Don’t laugh. I’m still getting the hang of it."

"I wasn’t going to," you said, but your voice wavered in a way that said you definitely were going to laugh. "I just can’t imagine you talking to kids about that."

He pointed a loose finger at you as he said, "Well, sit in on one of my classes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two."

Your rolled your eyes at that. Carter had finished his granola bar and was now attempting to balance on one of the parking lot curbs like it was a tightrope. You should probably get him home before he broke an ankle. "Carter!" you called, because you needed to break whatever this moment was. "We need to get going. Your mom’s gonna wonder where you are."

"Five more minutes!"

"Now, please."

He groaned but jumped down from the curb, trudging toward you with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to their execution.

Steve shifted his weight, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Hey, I'm usually here Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. You know. If you're picking him up again."

You felt something twist in your stomach. "Yeah. I might be."

He nodded. "Cool. That’s—cool."

The silence stretched between you, not quite awkward but close to it. Carter reached you and immediately latched onto your hand, already pulling you toward the parking lot.

"It was good seeing you," Steve said, and his voice had that genuine quality again, the one that made your chest feel tight.

"You too, Harrington." You smiled softly. 

"Steve," he corrected, raising a brow. 

You nodded, flashing him one last smile, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and let Carter drag you toward the car.

"Bye Coach Steve!" Carter yelled, waving frantically.

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Just got Carter buckled in, climbed into the driver's seat, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Everything sucked. The only jobs in Hawkins were either at this very coffee shop (which felt like admitting defeat in a very public, dimly lit way) or required experience you didn’t have in fields you’d never thought twice about. 

You’d taken over the corner table at the Daily Grind because it had an outlet and because Bonnie, who’d been working here since you were in middle school, didn’t care if you nursed the same coffee for three hours. The application in front of you asked you to describe your "passion for customer service excellence" in 150 words or less. You weren’t sure if that was too much or too little. It almost seemed like a dare.

Four years ago, you could’ve written this down in your sleep. You would have talked about forming a "genuine connection" and "creating memorable experiences." You also would’ve been smiling while writing it, already imagining yourself charming the hiring manager in the interview. 

You typed, I believe in treating customers with respect and

You deleted it. Your foot started tapping again. You shifted in your seat, crossed your ankles, kept them still. 

I believe in

Deleted it again. 

Your coffee had gone cold. The cafe smelled like burnt espresso and the cinnamon rolls Bonnie made every morning that were too sweet and somehow always slightly undercooked in the middle. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like Texas, which felt appropriate given that you’d briefly considered moving there last year with your ex-boyfriend before that had imploded with everything else. 

The door chimed. You didn’t look up because looking up meant acknowledging that you were a 21-year-old woman sitting in a coffee shop at 2 PM on a Wednesday, filling out an application for a job you didn't want, in a town you'd sworn you'd never come back to.

"Hey, Bonnie."

You looked up. 

Steve Harrington was at the counter in jeans and a Hawkins High sweatshirt—not a recent one, something older and more worn—and his hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times, but it still somehow looked better than more than half the Hawkins population’s hair. He had a canvas bag over his shoulder, and you could see some papers peeking out of it and the print of a water bottle inside. He was smiling at Bonnie, warm and genuine, completely unaware of how disarming it was. 

Or maybe he was aware. He had used that smile to get out of a lot of things before. 

"The usual?"

"You know it."

You should look back down at your laptop. You should absolutely look back down and pretend you hadn't seen him, pretend this wasn't the third time in a week that the universe had decided to throw Steve Harrington directly into your path like some kind of cosmic joke.

He turned around, already pulling out his wallet, paying, and saw you.

The smile faltered like he was recalibrating. Like he was running through about six different responses in his head and trying to figure out which one was appropriate for seeing your ex-girlfriend you broke up with four years ago in a car on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Hey," he said, slowly striding towards you. 

Bonnie was making his drink—you could hear the espresso machine hissing, the clink of the syrup bottle—and Steve was still standing there, you were still sitting at your corner table with a cold coffee and a half-filled job application, and this was so much worse than the baseball field because at least there you’d had Carter as a four feet and eleven inch tall buffer.

Steve glanced at the empty chair across from you, then back at you, then at Bonnie like she might save him. She didn't. She just kept making his drink with the focus of someone who'd worked in customer service long enough to know when to mind her own business.

"Are you—" Steve gestured vaguely at your table. "Can I—or are you working? I don’t wanna interrupt if you’re—"

You forced a small smile as you closed your laptop. "I’m not working." God, was that an understatement. "Just—job applications. The exciting life of the recently returned."

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked. "Yeah, I remember that. The job hunt thing is always the worst."

"Did you do a lot of it?"

"Enough." Bonnie called his name and he grabbed his drink. Caramel latte, you'd bet money on it, extra caramel because Steve Harrington had never met a coffee drink he couldn't turn into dessert. When he came back, he was holding his cup with both hands and doing that thing with his weight where he shifted from foot to foot. "So. Can I sit, or—?"

"Yeah, course." You gestured at the seat with a wave of the hand, and applauded yourself for how normal you were being in the same orbit as him.

He sat. The table was small enough that when he placed his drink down, his fingers were about six inches away from yours. You moved your hands to your lap. 

He nodded towards your closed laptop. "How’s it going?"

"It’s going." You shrugged. "Turns out Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for people whose only qualifications are ‘gave up on college and came home.’"

"You gave up on college?" he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Your teeth tugged at your lip as you looked down at your hands, the floor, the table, and literally anywhere else that didn’t include him. 

He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond, trying to break the ice. You momentarily felt bad for stalling the conversation and turning sour at the slightest—most normal, in fact—question someone could ask you about yourself right now. "Well, I served ice cream for a while. Then, I worked at Family Video for a while. Then the radio station. You remember Keith? He gave Robin and I the job when someone quit."

You nodded as he spoke, absorbing the new information about him, filling in the gaps in your mind about his life since he’d walked out of yours. "And now you’re a teacher."

"And a coach. Don’t forget coaching." He smiled sardonically. "Which is really me trying to convince middle schoolers that stealing bases is a real thing and not something I just made up." 

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the gloominess that had taken over you just moments ago wash away. "Carter’s been talking about you nonstop since that day, you know? It’s ‘Coach Steve said this’ or ‘Coach Steve said that.’ I think Devon’s ready to kill you." 

"Why?" He asked, letting out a chuckle. "What did I do?"

"You told him he could be a professional baseball player if he practiced hard enough."

"I mean—" He pulled the corners of his lips down as he shrugged. "He could."

"He can’t tie his shoes properly yet."

"Hey, don’t ruin his dreams," he said, pointing his index at you. "He’s got potential."

"You told a room full of middle schoolers they can be Mike Schmidt, didn’t you?"

"They’re kids! They’re supposed to have potential! That’s like, the whole point of being one." He was animated now, gesturing with his hands, and you’d forgotten how he got excited about things, how he cared in such a unique, unguarded way that made you want to believe anything he was saying was true. "You can’t tell an eleven-year-old he’s bad at baseball. That’s how you give complexes."

"I think Carter already has a complex about trying to be cool enough for you."

Steve's expression softened at that, became something more careful. "He doesn't need to be cool. He's already—he's a great kid. They all are."

His voice went softer when he said it in a way you’d never heard from him before. 

"You really like it," you said. "The teaching thing."

"Yeah, I do." He met your eyes, and there was something too honest for you to look at there. "I know it’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. But it’s good. Feels like I’m doing something that matters, you know?"

You didn’t. Not really. But you weren’t surprised he did. 

"That’s good," you said finally. "I’m really glad you found it, Steve."

"Yeah." He paused, and you could see him working up to something, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. "What about you? "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why’d you come back? To Hawkins, I mean—" He stopped, and seemed to reconsider his words. "You had plans. You were gonna study psychology and everything. Help people."

You should have expected this question, especially from Steve after you’d seen him. He’d known all your plans, he had been part of all your plans. You both would pick schools that weren’t too far from the other’s, meet each other on the weekends and… Well, just be. You should’ve had an answer prepared, but you didn’t, so you just said the truth.

"I don’t know." You looked down at your laptop. "I got to college and realized I had no idea what I wanted, just knew what I was supposed to. And that’s not—not enough, you know?"

Steve was quiet, and when you looked up, he was watching you with this expression you couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," you said quickly. "That's—that's a lot. You asked a simple question and I just—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I asked."

"Still."

"I get it," he said. "I did it, too. You remember? What I thought I was always supposed to." His voice had gone quieter.

You thought about Steve in high school. King Steve with his perfect hair and his basketball jersey and his spot at the top of the social hierarchy that he'd inherited and maintained without ever really seeming to try. You thought about the way he'd smile at everyone, the way he'd been friendly and charming and exactly what he was supposed to be. And then you thought about the Steve sitting across from you now, wearing an old sweatshirt and talking about teaching sex-ed and coaching baseball with this earnestness that you weren’t used to.

And you were happy for him. You didn’t resent his happiness the way you thought you always would at seventeen. But a small part of you reminded he had to physically remove himself from your life to be the person he was proud to be. Why hadn’t you become your own, then? It was a bitter pill to swallow that Steve had done the right thing for himself leaving you. 

"You’re different," you said, because you couldn’t not say it. "From high school."

"Yeah?" He smiled slightly, like he was happy you’d noticed. "So are you."

You blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"I don't know. Less—" He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was trying to shape the words in the air. "You used to smile at everyone like you were running for mayor. You don't do that anymore."

You shrugged. That much was true. "Maybe I’m not happy to see people"

His smile turned crooked, self-aware. "Well, you were also running for class president back then." Then, he added, "I think it’s a good different, by the way."

You had to focus on the coffee cup sweating condensation onto the table or on anything that wasn't Steve Harrington looking at you like he understood exactly what you were too afraid to ask out loud.

The thing was, he probably did understand. That was worse, somehow. That he'd figured himself out and you were still here, filling out applications for jobs you didn't want, living in your sister's house, trying to remember who you'd been before you'd spent four years performing for an audience that had already left the theater.

"I should—" You gestured vaguely at your laptop. "I've got like six more of these to fill out before dinner."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stood up, grabbed his bag, and you watched him hesitate. Watched him do that thing where his hand went to the back of his neck and his weight shifted and you knew—you knew—he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how to say it.

Then he did anyway, because this version of Steve said the thing he was thinking instead of swallowing them down. "Hey, if you ever need a reference or something. For the applications. I know that sounds weird, but I’m technically a professional now. May look good if they don’t know me that well."

You stared at him for a moment. "You’d do that?"

"Yeah. I mean—why not?" He shrugged, and it was so casual, so genuinely generous that it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to look at. "You're smart. You're good with people. You even put up with me for three whole years. That’s gotta count for something, right?"

The joke landed wrong. More because it was funny than not. It was exactly the kind of thing Steve would say to lighten a moment that had gotten too heavy, except this moment was already heavy and the joke just made it heavier. Four years. He'd said it like it was nothing, like it was just a fun fact about your shared history and not the entire shape of your adolescence, not the thing you'd built your life around until he'd decided he didn't want to be part of that life anymore.

"Steve—"

"Just think about it," he said quickly, already backing away from whatever he saw on your face. "I'll see you Thursday, right? At practice?"

You weren’t planning on going, not wanting to run into him again. "Yeah. Probably." 

"Cool." He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gave you that crooked smile one more time. "See you then."

The next few times you saw Steve, it was mainly expected. Aside from when you ran into him at Melvad’s or during your run a few mornings, catching him behind the gates of Hawkins High smoking a cigarette and being horrible at keeping it a secret. The two of you had unconsciously—almost involuntarily—formed a routine where you picked Carter up every Tuesday and Thursday, with you staying behind around ten minutes making conversation with Steve that didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

Ten minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. By the third week, you were helping him pack up equipment—baseball bats into the mesh bag, bases stacked and carried to the storage shed behind the dugout—while Carter ran laps around the parking lot with whatever kid was still waiting for their ride. 

"You don’t have to help," Steve said one Thursday, watching you coil up the extension cord he used for the speaker system. "I mean, this is probably half of my job."

"I know."

"So why are you?" 

You shrugged, looping the extension cord around your elbow and hand the way your dad had taught you when you were ten. "Carter’s still running around. Might as well be useful."

He smiled at that and—thank god—didn’t question further. 

It was easier than you thought it would be, falling into this. The talking, the helping, the standing around in a dusty parking lot while the sun started its slow descent and Carter attempted to teach another kid how to do a cartwheel the same way you’d taught him how to do one. 

You watched him demonstrate with arms too loose and legs not quite straight. He’d gotten better since the first day you came back and spent a whole morning in Devon’s backyard breaking down the mechanics. Hands there, then here, push through your shoulders, spot the ground. The same way your ballet teacher had taught you when you were seven. 

The other kid tried and collapsed halfway through. Carter laughed and tried to explain differently. You almost walked over to help before you caught yourself. They’d figure it out. 

Steve told you about his classes, about a kid who asked whether or not someone could get an STD from public toilet seats and how he’d had to explain, very carefully, that no, that wasn’t how it worked. You told him about the receptionist job you’d snagged at Dr. Feldman’s dental office where you spent eight hours a day answering phones and scheduling cleanings and telling people about proper flossing techniques. 

You’d written a thank-you note for Dr. Feldman after your interview using actual stationary, a blue pen, with your mother’s voice in your head about the importance of gratitude. Devon had found it on the kitchen counter. She’d told you that nobody did that anymore. You said you knew. Then she said, "Like, they’re going to think you’re weird," as though you were missing the point she was getting at. You knew that, but you’d mailed it anyway. The alternative was letting go of a habit that actually made you feel like you had control over something. You didn’t want to do that, even if it made you look like you were stuck in an old system of expectations of human interaction.

"That’s the place you got your braces, right?" Steve asked, leaning against the chain-link fence.

"Yeah, and it’s so embarrassing. Mrs. Patterson still works there and she keeps asking if I remember when I was snot-nose crying during my consultation."

He laughed at that. "Well, you got them off right before sophomore year. I’d know."

You rolled your eyes at that. You still weren’t completely comfortable with him bringing up the past so easily, but it made sense for him to do so. He’d made his peace with it. You weren’t sure you ever would. You may have not completed college, but two years had taught you that shit like being left for another girl sticks with a person. 

One afternoon, he mentioned Robin and Eddie were coming by after practice to help him move some equipment to the gym for an assembly. You'd heard the names—Robin Buckley and Eddie Munson—but the pairing still felt strange. Robin had been in band, quiet and a little intense. Eddie had been the guy who sold weed behind the school and wore a denim vest covered in patches. And Steve had been—well. Steve.

"Wait," you said, watching Carter attempt to steal second base from a kid who wasn't even holding the ball. "Robin Buckley? From band?"

"Yeah."

"And Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie Munson?" Your voice had a particular lilt to it that said you weren’t sure how you could describe him.

Steve’s expression shifted and turned into something more careful. "Hey, they’re good people."

"I'm not—I didn't mean—" You stopped, recalibrated. "I just meant I'm surprised. You guys didn't really run in the same circles."

"We do now." His tone had a protective  edge to it. "They're my best friends."

You thought about Steve in high school, about Tommy H and Carol, about the basketball team and the parties at his house when his parents were gone, about the carefully maintained social hierarchy that had felt so important at the time and so stupid in retrospect. You thought about yourself, too, about the cheer squad and student council and the way you'd smiled at everyone but really only talked to a select few.

"That's good," you said finally. "That you found people like that."

Steve relaxed slightly, and you noticed how his shoulders dropped. "Yeah. They’re—they’re really good. Robin’s in Massachusetts right now. Studying feminist theory or something. She’s way smarter than anyone."

"She was always smart," you mused, nodding as hazy memories of high school conversations started rolling around your mind.

"Yeah. Well, now she’s smart and gone, which sucks. But she visits when she can." 

His voice picked up with affection and missing that felt bone-deep. You wondered how that felt, having someone care about you from hundreds of miles away. Having them check in, call on Sundays, come back because they wanted to and not because they’d run out of all other options. 

"And Eddie?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Eddie’s—" Steve laughed running a hand through his hair. "Eddie’s Eddie. He works at the garage on Main and his band’s kicking off and is actually pretty good. He’s kind of insane and loud but he’s—he’s solid, you know? He’s a great person."

Your teeth tugged at your lip. You didn’t really know, but you were glad Steve did. You liked that he’d found people who weren’t constantly trying to be something other than who they were. 

The following Tuesday, you showed up to practice and Steve was talking to a guy with long curly and denim vest, both of them laughing about something while they loaded baseball equipment into the back of a van that had seen better days. Eddie Munson, you recognized. Up close, he looked older. He had sharper cheekbones, more tattoos than you remembered from the brief glimpses you’d caught in the high school hallways. He smiled at you; you’d been trained in that smile, the one that looked friendly without completely meaning it.

"You must be the famous high school sweetheart," Eddie said, so matter-of-factly you were mildly taken back at addressing the elephant in the room you had been avoiding pretty seamlessly so far. 

Steve made a sound in his throat that may have been a protest, but Eddie was already sticking his hand out to you. 

"Eddie Munson. We didn’t really run in the same circles back in the day." His grip was firm, rings cold against your palm. "You probably don’t remember." 

"I remember you," you said, because you did. It was pretty difficult to forget the guy who’d walk on tables in the cafeteria and give monologues about—well, about how horrible the entire crowd you ran with had been. 

"Yeah?" He looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "Huh. Usually cheerleaders pretended I didn’t exist. No offense."

"None taken."

He turned back to the van, tossing in another equipment bag. "So, you’re back in town. That’s—how’s that going? The whole homecoming thing?"

You shrugged. "It’s definitely going by."

"Yeah, I bet." He said it while nodding. "Small towns, man. They’re like quicksand. Really, really slow quicksand."

Steve snorted. "Yeah. That’s how it works."

"You know what I mean." Eddie grabbed another bag. "Anyway, Robin's coming back this weekend. Visiting from Massachusetts. We're doing drinks at the Hideout Friday night if you want to come. Low-key, nothing fancy. Just—you know. Hanging out."

"Oh, I don’t know—" 

"You should come," Steve said quickly, and when you looked at him, his expression was hopeful and open and slightly terrified. "I mean, if you want, obviously. No pressure. It’s just—it’d be nice. To hang out. Outside of, you know." He gestured vaguely at the baseball field. 

You should say no. You should absolutely say no, because going to a bar with Steve and his friends—friends who'd known him after you, who were part of the life he'd built without you—felt like asking for trouble. Felt like stepping into a space where you didn't belong and waiting to be reminded of that fact.

But Steve was looking at you like he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and Eddie was watching you with curiosity, and Carter was running toward you covered in dirt and grinning, and somehow, you heard yourself say, "Yeah. Okay. That sounds good."

"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, and you remembered—God, you'd forgotten this—how his smile could make you feel like you'd done something right just by existing.

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Cool. Friday night, around eight. I can pick you up if—"

"I'll meet you there," you said quickly, because getting in a car with Steve Harrington felt like too much too fast, felt like something that required more thought than you were prepared to give it. "I know where it is."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Eddie was smirking now, clearly enjoying Steve's discomfort. "Cool. See you then."

Carter crashed into your side, breathless and happy. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Maybe." You ruffled his hair, already sticky with sweat. "If you don’t get my car smelling like a sock."

"I don't smell!"

"You definitely smell, bud," Steve said, and Carter shrieked with laughter and tried to tackle him, which turned into Steve picking him up and spinning him around while Carter screamed happily and you stood there watching, something warm fluttering in your chest that instantly made you feel nauseous.

Eddie caught your eye and raised an eyebrow, and you looked away quickly, busied yourself with grabbing Carter's backpack from where he'd abandoned it near the dugout.

By the time you got Carter buckled into the car, Steve and Eddie were still working on the equipment, their voices carrying across the parking lot in easy conversation. You sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to figure out what you'd just agreed to.

Before you went to pick up Carter on Thursday, you ran into Mrs. Perry at the grocery store. She was your old dance teacher, Madame Petrova’s sister, and she lit up when she saw you. "Sweetie! I heard you were back in town. How are you?"

"Good, thanks. How are you?" you asked, pausing to meet her.

"Oh, busy as ever. You know, Linda closed the studio last year? Her hip finally gave out. Such a shame, no?"

Your chest tightened. You’d trained at Linda Petrova’s from age seven to seventeen. Every Wednesday and Friday, sometimes Saturdays. Your mom would drive you twenty minutes because Hawkins didn’t have a real dance studio, just the community center with scratched floors and the mirror that was cracked down the middle. 

"No," you said, voice softening. "I had no idea."

"Mm. All students had to find new places. Some just quit completely." She shook her head. "The high school’s still figuring out how to do their musical, though." She looked around the store, then her eyes landed on you.

You weren’t sure if you knew what she was implying, but you smiled. 

"Well," she continued. "You’re probably busy with settling in. So, I’ll leave you be."

You smiled, nodded, and said goodbye. You had to pick up Carter.

When you got there, Carter was finishing up drills, you helped pack up, and Steve was talking about the kid who'd asked if masturbation counted as exercise.

"What’d you tell him?" you asked, coiling up the extension cord.

"That technically yes, but it wasn't going to replace actual cardio for him." Steve was trying not to laugh. "His face, though. God. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."

You laughed at that, eyebrows going up. "If he lives on Loch Nora, his parents are probably gonna give you a talking to."

"I don’t think he’s going to tell his parents what he asked," he said. "So, tomorrow," he said as he noticed you were getting to ready to leave, Carter already halfway to the car. "You’re still coming, right?"

"Yeah. I said I would."

"I know, I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Robin can be kind of intense at first. And, well, you already met Eddie. I just want you to know if it’s weird or if you want to leave or whatever, that’s totally fine. No pressure."

You looked at him—at Steve Harrington in his coaching jacket with grass stains on his jeans, warning you that his best friends might be too much, giving you an out before you'd even walked in the door. And you thought about how you'd spent four years trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder if he was happy or if Nancy Wheeler had been worth it or if he ever missed you. And here he was, nervous about you meeting his friends, even though the two of you had been nothing but friends—at best—that spent around thirty minutes with each other weekly.

"I'll be fine," you said. "I can handle intense."

"Yeah. You can." He smiled softly. "See you tomorrow, then?" 

"See you tomorrow."

When you were in the car, Carter wasn’t hesitant about prodding anymore. "Coach’s really cool," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

"Yeah, he seems like a good coach."

"He let me practice pitching today even though I'm not supposed to until next year. He said I have good form." Carter kicked his legs against the seat.  "Are you coming to the game next week? We have a scrimmage against the other middle school."

"Maybe if your mom can make it."

"She always does."

"Then I’ll come, too."

There were maybe only fifteen people scattered around the bar, a Bon Jovi song playing from the jukebox in the corner, and you stood in the doorway for a second too long, trying to remember why you thought this was a good idea. The Hideout itself looked the same as the night of graduation—and the other handful of times when the bouncer was a sleepier man who didn’t check ID—with dim lighting, sticky floors, and it looked like it had no intention of ever changing. 

Steve was at the table in the back corner, and you recognized him immediately. He had one arm draped over the back of the chair, laughing at something, you recognized, Robin Buckley was saying. She had short hair and was talking with her hands, fast and animated. Next to her was a girl with strawberry blonde hair watching Robin with all her attention. Vickie. And Eddie was there, gesturing wildly with a bottle of beer, saying something that made Steve shake his head and grin. 

Why were you invited? You were sure every single person on that table had one perfectly valid reason or another to not like you. You could give Steve some excuse about not feeling well; he probably wouldn’t even be that surprised. 

But then Steve looked up and saw you, and his whole face showed something like relief. Then he was standing up, waving you over, and it was too late to turn back. 

"Hey!" Steve said as you approached, and his voice was too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, as though he was suppressing it. "You made it. I wasn't sure—I mean, I thought you would, but—" He gestured vaguely at the table. "Everyone, this is—well. You guys know her."

Robin looked at you with eyes you could only categorize as indifferent but also assessing. "Hi. I’m Robin." Before you could say that you knew, she stuck out her hand and you shook it. "Steve’s told me about you. Some things. Not like, a lot of things, but—you know. Things."

"Good things, I hope."

"Jury’s still out," she said, but she was smiling when she said it, and you couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.

"That's Vickie," Steve said, pointing to the strawberry blonde, who gave you a warm smile and a little wave. "She works at the hospital. And you met Eddie."

"The infamous ex-girlfriend returns," Eddie said, raising his beer in salute. "Want a drink? First round's on Harrington." 

"It is?" Steve asked, furrowing his brows together.

"Yup." Eddie was grinning, looking between you and Steve like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "So what'll it be? Beer? Something stronger? We're celebrating Robin's weeklong presence in Hawkins before she abandons us again."

"I'm not abandoning you," Robin said. "I'm going back to school. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from here."

Vickie reached over and squeezed Robin's hand, and Robin's expression softened immediately.

"Beer's fine," you said.

"One beer, coming up." Eddie stood, stretched. "Harrington? You want another?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. Don't be weird while I'm gone." He pointed at Steve, then at you, then walked off toward the bar.

You sat down in the chair Steve pulled out for you, hyper-aware of how close Robin was sitting, how her eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like she was trying to figure something out.

"So," Robin said, leaning forward slightly. "You're back in Hawkins."

"For now."

"That's what Steve said. 'For now.' Very noncommittal." She took a sip of her drink, something clear with lime, probably vodka. "What brought you back? If you don't mind me asking. Which you might. In which case, ignore me. I ask a lot of questions. It's a thing."

"Robin—" Steve started, but you cut him off.

"It’s fine. I dropped out of college, and didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I guess."

Robin's eyebrows went up slightly, but she didn't look judgmental. Just... interested. "What were you studying?"

"Psychology."

"And you dropped out because...?"

Your eyes landed on the wall beside the table. "I mean—mainly because it wasn’t what I imagined. And it didn’t get better." You blew out a breath. "What about you? Steve said you’re in Mass." 

"It’s good. Really good, actually." She glanced at Vickie and smiled softly. "It’s hard being away from people, but yeah. It’s good."

Vickie squeezed Robin's hand again, and Robin leaned into her slightly, unconscious and natural. You tried not to feel something hollow in your chest at the way they fit together, the ease of it.

And soon enough, the conversation started to move on. Robin was talking about her classes, Eddie was complaining about losing a pick, Vickie was telling a story about a patient who’d come to the ER because he’d superglued his hands together on a dare. By your third beer, the edges had softened. You laughed when Eddie made a joke about Steve's hair.

Steve kept glancing at you, checking if you were okay, if you needed anything, and you wanted to tell him to stop, that you were fine, that you didn't need him to take care of you. But you also kind of liked that he was trying. That he cared enough to worry.

"—I can’t believe you actually wore that to school," Eddie was saying now, grinning at Steve. "That sweater was such a bad joke. The whole school was laughing at you for once."

Steve groaned, dramatically dropping his head in his hands. "Please stop."

"It had a reindeer on it," Eddie continued, clearly delighted at the memory. "King Steve was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater with a light-up nose on it. People could see you coming from three hallways away."

Robin was laughing. "Please, please say there are pictures."

"There are definitely pictures," Eddie said. "It was in the yearbook and everything."

"It was for spirit week," Steve protested. "Ugly sweater day. That was the whole point."

"Except it wasn't ugly sweater day," you said, and immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at you.

"What?" Eddie leaned forward, eyebrows raising.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "It wasn't ugly sweater day. That was the Friday. Steve wore it on Tuesday."

Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

"Wait wait wait," Robin said, waving her hands. "He wore it on the wrong day?"

"I told him it was Thursday," you said, unable to stop the smile now. "As a joke. Because he'd been insufferable all week about—I don't even remember what. And I figured he'd check the schedule himself, but he just—"

"Showed up in a light-up reindeer sweater on a random Tuesday," Eddie finished, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is so much better than I thought."

"You told me it was Tuesday!" Steve said, looking at you with mock betrayal.

"I told you it was Tuesday as a joke, Steve. You were supposed to double-check!"

"I trusted you!"

"That was your first mistake," you said, and Eddie nearly choked on his beer laughing.

"So wait," Vickie said, smiling. "Everyone at school thought he was just being weird on purpose?"

"Oh, everyone had theories," you said, warming to the story now. "Some people thought he'd lost a bet. Some people thought he was trying to start a new trend. Tommy H told everyone Steve just wanted to wear it in for actual Christmas day."

"I got so much shit for that," Steve said, but he was smiling now too, shaking his head.

"You wore it on Friday too, though," you pointed out. "For the actual ugly sweater day."

"Because at that point I'd already committed! Everyone had seen it! I couldn't just not wear it again!"

Robin was wiping her eyes. "This is the best story I've ever heard. Please tell me you have more."

You glanced at Steve, who was giving you a look that was half-warning, half-amused.

"I might," you said carefully.

"Oh, you definitely do," Eddie said. "You dated him for what, three years? You've got to have dirt."

"So much dirt," you admitted, and Steve groaned.

"Please," Robin said. "I'm begging you. He never tells us anything funny from that time. And that was when he was doing the most stupid things"

You told them about the janitor’s closet (he'd been hiding from Coach after skipping practice and got stuck for forty-five minutes), and then about the time he'd tried to cook you dinner and set off the smoke alarm at his parents' house, and then somehow you were all trading stories. Eddie talked about Steve at the video store, Robin shared something about Steve crying at a documentary about penguins. And it was good. It was really good.

And when Steve's knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there, warm and solid and what you assumed was deliberate, you didn't move away.

It was when you were telling them the story about Steve’s attempt at serenading you to ‘I Want it That Way’ and how when he’d forgotten the words, he’d tried to rhyme ‘girl,’ ‘squirrel,’ and ‘beautiful basketball pearl, that someone called Steve’s name from across the bar. 

You all turned to see Melissa Andrews weaving through the tables, smiling wide, and it only took you a second to place her. Cheer squad, junior and senior year. Always had extra hair ties and let you borrow her good mascara before games.

"Steve! Oh my god, hi!" She reached the table, then her eyes landed on you and lit up. "Wait—oh my god, is that you? I heard you were back!"

You stood up and she pulled you into a hug immediately. "It’s so good to see you," she said, squeezing your arms when she pulled back. "How are you? How long have you been back?"

"A few weeks. I’m good. How are you?"

"Good. Really good. Working for my dad’s firm, same boring stuff." She laughed and then looked at the table, at Steve. "Oh, are you guys here together?"

"Just—with everyone." What else were you supposed to say?

"That's so sweet. God, I can't believe—it feels like yesterday we were all in high school, you know?" She smiled at Steve, warm and familiar. "How've you been? It's been what, like six months?"

Steve's expression shifted, went careful. "Something like that. Yeah."

Six months since what, your brain supplied helpfully, and then immediately answered its own question when Melissa continued.

"I'm glad we stayed friends after—you know." She said it easily, casually, like it was nothing. "You're too nice. And you—" She turned to you again. "We have to catch up." Then, she turned to wave at the table, then disappeared into the crowd.

No one said anything. You picked at the beer label. Robin was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity; Eddie was picking at his beer label; Vickie looked confused. 

"So," Eddie said finally. "Melissa seems nice."

"She is nice," Steve said quietly.

You picked up your beer, took a sip. It tasted like nothing.

Your brain was doing math you didn't want it to do: Melissa. Six months ago. Maybe less. How many dates was "a bit"? Two? Five? Ten? And before Melissa, who else? And after? Now?

How many people from your high school—people you'd known, people you'd been friends with—had Steve gone out with while you were gone? 

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice as light as you can. The smile slipped into place. "Melissa. Small world, huh?"

Steve was watching you carefully, tugging at his lower lip like he wasn’t sure what he could say. "Small town."

You nodded, because that much was true. "I mean, Melissa’s great. She was always really sweet in high school, from what I remember." She’d also heard you talk about Steve, hear the intimate details about your breakup, and comforted you throughout it. But that was all the past. Water under the bridge. 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. "It wasn’t really—"

He didn’t finish the sentence, and after a moment of awkwardness, the conversation picked back up. Eddie was saying something about seeing Karen Wheeler at the grocery store, Vickie was asking if anyone wanted another round. You laughed and you nodded, but you felt separate from it now. 

Steve shifted in his seat, knee bumping just slightly into yours. This time, you shifted in your seat to listen to Eddie. You took another sip of beer and tried to focus on what Eddie was saying—something about his band, a gig next weekend—but your brain kept circling back. Steve dated Melissa. Steve dated Melissa six months ago, which meant—what? You weren’t sure. But how many people was it from your past—people you’d run into at the store, or on the street, or at work—that you’d spoken with, caught up with, had dated Steve and you just had no idea?

You finished your beer, set the bottle down carefully on the table. Your hands were steady. That was good. You weren’t sure if they could tell you were drowning in a form of humiliation you hadn’t anticipated, but you had to get out of here. 

"I think I'm gonna head out," you said, and it came out easy, casual. "Early shift tomorrow."

"On a Saturday?" Robin asked.

"Dr. Feldman's doing emergency appointments. Someone's got to answer the phones." It was a lie, but a believable one.

"That sucks," Eddie said.

"Yeah, well." You stood, grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. "It was really nice meeting you guys. Thanks for letting me crash your night."

"You weren't crashing," Vickie said warmly. "It was so nice to meet you."

"Seriously, you should come out again," Eddie added. "Anytime Robin's in town. Or, you know, anytime. We're here a lot."

"I'll keep that in mind." You smiled at them because they'd been nice, because you'd actually had fun before Melissa showed up and reminded you of all the things you'd been trying not to think about.

Steve stood up. "I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Robin and Eddie exchanged a look that you pretended not to see.

The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you'd been building toward earlier in the night, but the heavy kind where both people were thinking too much and didn't know what to say.

Your car was parked near the back, under the one working streetlight. When you reached it, you turned around and Steve was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn't have all the variables for.

"Hey," Steve said. "You okay?"

"Mm-hm. Just tired." You smiled at him. "Early morning tomorrow."

He was watching you carefully. "Feldman has early appointments a lot?"

"Sometimes. You know how it is." Then, to make the mood lighter, you added, "Some people just get convinced their teeth will fall out over the weekend."

He was nodding along like he wasn’t completely listening. "Yeah, yeah. So—tonight was good, right? Robin, Vickie, Eddie. They thought you were cool. I could tell."

"They’re all really great, Steve," you said. "Thanks for letting me come. I mean it. It was really nice to hang out with more people."

"Yeah, I—" He paused. You’d reached your car and had opened the door without getting in yet. You turned to face him with your hand on the frame. "Was it Melissa?" he asked quickly. "Because she didn’t mean anything by it. The whole ‘staying friends’ thing. We just run into each other sometimes. It’s not—"

"Steve, it’s fine, really. You don’t need to explain anything." And you wish he really, really wouldn’t. "There’s nothing wrong that you did," you said, choosing your words as carefully as you could.

He was staring at you like he couldn’t figure out what to believe. Your words or the voice in his head.

"Okay," he said slowly. "But you’re being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too—"

"Okay," you said, forcing out a chuckle, trying to stop whatever was going on before the conversation turned immature. "I really do need to go. Devon’s probably waiting up. Rain check on the interrogation?" you said lightly.

"I’m not—" He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay. Rain check."

"Perfect." You got in the car, pulled the door shut before he could say anything else. You turned the window down because he was still standing there. "Thanks again for tonight. Really. Tell everyone I said bye." 

"I will." You started the engine. He stepped back from the car, hands going to his pockets. You could feel him watching as you checked your mirrors, put it in reverse.  

"Drive safe," he said.

"Always do." You smiled at him one last time and gave him one little wave. 

He lifted his hand but didn't wave back. Just stood there as you pulled out of the spot, and you kept your eyes on the rearview as you left, watching him get smaller in the frame. He hadn't moved. Still standing in the same spot under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, staring after your car. 

You turned onto the main road and he disappeared from view. Three blocks away, you had to pull into the parking lot of a closed gas station and turn off the engine. 

Your hands were shaking. Your palms pressed flat against your thighs. Breathed. In for four counts, out for four. The way Madame Petrova had taught you before recitals when you were thirteen and you thought you might throw up from your nerves.

You were trying your best to avoid Steve during pick up the next Tuesday. Devon had genuinely felt bad about not being able to take over this time after you told her bits and pieces of what you’d heard at The Hideout, but you couldn’t blame her. You’d been voluntarily coming after your shift to pick up Carter at 4:45, recently with a smile on your face at the chance for general social interaction with someone aside from the people at the clinic who knew you from this girl’s sister or that boy’s tutor. 

You parked at your usual spot but stayed in the car an extra minute. Practice was wrapping up, kids were scattering across the field, Steve was near the dugout gesturing at something, probably explaining proper sliding technique or why you couldn’t bat after a strikeout. 

Carter noticed you first and waved so hard his body shook with it. You got out, locked the door, and smiled at him. 

Steve looked up and raised his hand in greeting and nodded. You nodded back. 

Carter jogged over, face red and sweaty, backpack half-zipped and dragging. "I made the coolest catch today!"

"Hey, that’s great," you said, smiling down at him as you ruffled his mussed up hair.

Steve was walking over. You started asking Carter if he had his water bottle and his glove and if he needed help tying his shoelaces. He didn’t, which meant his shoelaces were going to stay untied. 

"Hey," Steve said as he reached you.

"Hi," you glanced at him, smiling briefly. "How was it today?"

"Good. Yeah. Same old, but they’re getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Carter’s been getting amazing at his accuracy, though," he said, moving his eyes to the smaller bystander to this situation.

Carter smiled at Steve then wandered a few feet away to watch two other kids mess around near second base before you could stop him. 

He’d left you and Steve to stand there with the silence stretching. There was no reason to stay.

"So, we’re gonna—"

"So, uh—" Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "How’ve you been?"

You planted your feet in the spot again. "Pretty good. Busy."

"Yeah. Cool." He nodded too many times. "That’s good."

After another beat of silence, Steve continued, "Hey, so I don’t know if you’d be interested, but—" He was talking faster now, like he’d been working up the courage to get this out before he lost his nerve. "You remember Mrs. Stone? The drama teacher? She’s kind of freaking out right now because they’re doing the spring recital and she doesn’t have anyone who knows choreography because the dance teacher isn’t dancing anymore, so she’s been trying to figure it out herself but it’s—it’s kind of a disaster, honestly." His voice went lower at the last part, which made you wonder if he’d sat in on one of the rehearsals and seen the disaster in real time. 

You looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He kept going. 

"And I know you did all those routines for the competitions and choreographed for cheer, and they were always—really good. Like really good. And I just thought maybe you’d want to help? It’s only for six weeks, and rehearsals are on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays around this time." He paused. "I don’t know if that’d be a problem with your schedule. But, I—"

"Steve—"

"—And I know you haven’t been doing that anymore, but I thought, maybe—" He stopped himself. "I don’t know. I thought you’d be great at it. That’s all."

There was something so desperate in the way he said it, like he was trying to fix something without knowing what was wrong. 

You tried to think over your words. "I don’t know if I’m the right person for it," you said carefully. 

"You are. Trust me." He was looking at you now. "Mrs. Stone’s got these kids trying to do a number with flips and it’s—it’s bad. Like, someone’s going to break an ankle bad. They need someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

"I’ve never taught—well, not like that, you know?"

"But you could. You were always—" He stopped, eyes wavering over your entire face like he was reliving the memories. "You were always really good at it all. I don’t think half the dance or cheer team had any idea what to do before you took over."

Your chest felt tight. You looked away from him. "When would she need an answer?"

"Soon, probably. The recital’s in six weeks."

"That’s not a lot of time," you said softly.

"I know. I know, no pressure. But just—" He was fidgeting with his hands now. "Just think about it? That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."

Carter was drifting back over now, curiosity getting the better of him. "Think about what?"

"Grown-up stuff," Steve said automatically.

"That's what everyone always says when they don't want to tell me things."

"That's because it's true, bud."

You watched Steve with Carter and the easy way they talked to each other, the way Carter looked at him like he hung the moon. You thought about those kids trying to choreograph themselves. About the high school cutting the arts and nobody stepping in to fill the gap. About Madame Petrova's voice in your head saying again until you got it right.

"Okay," you said quietly.

Steve's head snapped up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll—I'll call her. Or you can give her my number. Whatever."

"Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind."

A smile broke across his face—genuine, relieved, the kind that made your stomach flip before you could stop it. "That's—that's great. Really great. She's going to be so happy. The kids are going to be so happy."

"I haven't said yes to her yet."

"But you will. I know you will." He was grinning now, and you hadn't seen him look this pleased with himself before. "You're going to be really good at this."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

Carter was looking up at you now, confused but intrigued. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Maybe helping with the school musical," you said. "Maybe."

"That's so cool! Can I come watch?"

"We'll see."

"That means yes," he told Steve confidently.

"It means we'll see," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Steve was still watching you, something soft in his expression. "Thank you. Really. For doing this."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"But you will." He said it with certainty like he knew you better than you knew yourself. "Mrs. Stone's usually in her classroom after school. Room 204. Or I can just—I'll tell her to expect your call?"

"You can tell her." You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you'd been standing here. How easy it had been to slip back into talking to him. "I should get Carter home."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stepped back, hands going to his pockets. "See you Thursday?"

"Mhm."

Carter grabbed your hand, already pulling you toward the car. "Bye Coach Steve!"

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back until you were in the car. Steve was still standing there, watching you leave. You lifted your hand off the steering wheel, waved back, and got yourself out of there as soon as possible.

You’d found your bag in a box filled with your things, shoved behind a box of yearbooks and old cheer uniforms. Navy blue with your initials embroidered on the side in gold thread, a sixteenth birthday present from your mom. The zipper was still stuck in the same place, and you found something ironic about that. Inside were a pair of beat-up jazz shoes you’d forgotten you owned, an old water bottle with about fifty stickers from so many different things, athletic tape gone slightly sticky with age, a scrunchie that smelled faintly of the vanilla you’d worn all of junior year.

You’d pulled it out, dusted it off, and before you could think better of it, you’d packed it with newer things. Fresh water bottle. Clean towel. The notebook where you’d started sketching ideas for the choreography when you couldn’t sleep at 2 AM. 

After you’d introduced yourself to the high school group, you’d surprisingly managed to dodge most of the questions related to your time in high school (and there were a lot of questions). Who did you assign captain after you graduated? Whose sister won ‘most likely to be famous’ in the yearbook superlatives? How long were you and Steve Harrington together? The latter topic, unsurprisingly, involved the most questions. How did you two start dating? And how did he ask you to be his homecoming date, and how could the boy asking the question ask his current girlfriend to be his homecoming date? 

You were heavily reconsidering whether you had it in you to do this after the first run-through. The kids knew the basic steps Mrs. Stone had taught them, but there was no uniformity or energy or sense of music. Two were doing an entirely different dance from everyone else. One girl in the back looked like she was going to cry out of sheer confusion. A boy in the front was clearly making up his own routine as the song went along. 

You hadn’t reconsidered, and two weeks later you were sweating through your t-shirt despite the gym’s aggressive air-conditioning. Your voice was hoarse from counting, but they'd run the opening eight-count twelve times in a row without a single person off-beat.

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. Sarah—the girl with the ponytail—still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count. Marcus—the boy who'd asked about Steve—kept forgetting to spot his turns. But they were together. They were listening. They were trying.

"Good," you said, and you meant it. "That's what I wanted to see. We'll pick up here on Wednesday, okay? And I want everyone to practice those counts at home. In the shower, while you're doing homework, waiting in line at the grocery store, I don't care. Just practice."

They scattered—grabbing bags, pulling out phones, collapsing dramatically onto the stage the way only teenagers could—and you bent down to grab your water bottle, your lower back protesting the movement.

You'd been on your feet demonstrating for two hours and your body was already reminding you that you hadn't done this in four years. Your calves were tight. Your shoulders ached. There was a knot between your shoulder blades that wouldn't release no matter how you rolled them.

But it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant you'd actually done something.

"That was amazing."

You turned andMrs. Stone was standing there with her binder clutched to her chest, looking at you like you'd just performed a miracle.

"It wasn't—I mean, they still need a lot of work—"

"They were flailing around like drunk squirrels before you got here," she said, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the image. "What you just did in two hours—I've been trying to get them to understand counts for three weeks. You're a natural at this."

The compliment settled somewhere in your chest, filling something. You weren’t quite sure what it was yet. 

"Thank you," you said quietly. "I'm just—I'm glad I can help."

On the third week, you were shoving the last of the rehearsal CDs into your bag when you heard the gym door crack open behind you. 

"Hey."

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. You’d developed a sixth sense for his presence over the past few weeks, and could feel the air shift before you heard his voice. 

"Hey yourself." You straightened, rolling your shoulders backwards. The knot between your shoulderblades pulled tight and you winced. 

He was wearing a maroon sweater that was slightly fraying at the edges. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through them repeatedly. 

"Didn’t know you were still here," you said, bending to grab your water bottle from where it had rolled under the bleachers.

"Had to finish grading papers. Heard music coming from down here." He walked closer, and you tracked his movement in your peripheral vision, noticing the easy lope of his stride, hands sliding into his pockets. "Thought maybe the drama kids were summoning spirits or something."

"Close. Just teaching them to count to eight."

He laughed, and the sound bounced around the gym. "How’s it going? The rehearsals?"

You stood, wiping your palms on your leggings. They were damp from sweat and from that nervous energy that hadn't left you since you'd agreed to do this. "It's... going. They're getting better. Slowly. Very, very slowly."

"But they are getting better?"

"Yeah." You couldn't help the smile. "Yeah, they are. Today we actually made it through the opening number without anyone forgetting which direction stage left is."

"That's huge."

"It's something." You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The weight of it—familiar and grounding—settled against your hip. "One of them asked me today if I'd ever considered teaching professionally. Like, as a job."

"What'd you say?"

You paused, replaying the moment. Sarah with the ponytail had asked it so earnestly, like the thought had just occurred to her and she had to share it immediately. The way sixteen-year-olds asked questions was always unfiltered, and always assumed the answer was simple.

"I told her I'd never really thought about it." You started walking toward the door and Steve fell into step beside you. "But I have now, I guess. Been thinking about it."

"And?"

"And I don't know." You pushed through the gym doors and the hallway air hit you—warmer, staler, smelling like industrial cleaner and teenage desperation. "It's nice, though. Teaching them. Watching them figure it out. This one girl, Emily, she couldn't get the timing on this turn sequence. We stayed fifteen minutes after everyone left and just broke it down, over and over, until—" You stopped yourself, realizing you'd been talking faster. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, you're not." He hit the push bar on the main entrance door, holding it open for you. "You're excited. It's different."

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just your car and his parked three spaces apart, both facing the baseball field. The sun was starting its descent, turning everything orange-pink. That specific late afternoon light that made Hawkins look almost pretty if you didn't think too hard about it.

"You look different, too," he said, and when you glanced over, he was studying your face. "Less..."

"Miserable?" you offered.

"I was gonna say tired. But yeah, that too." He leaned against his car, arms crossed. The whistle swung slightly against his chest. "Looks good on you. The happy thing."

Something warm bloomed under your ribs. You tried to ignore it, but it spread anyway, filling more spaces you'd forgotten were hollow.

"Steve—"

"You wanna get a drink?"

He said it fast, as though he was finding space to launch the question before he could overthink it. His hand went to the back of his neck and you could practically feel him trying to reel it back and make it casual. 

"I mean, not like a drink-drink. Or it could be. Whatever you want." He was looking at the parking lot and his shoes and anywhere but your face. "Just thought—you’ve been working hard, I’ve been working hard, and there’s half-price appetizers at the Hideaway on Wednesdays, which is today. Wednesday, so." 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile at how completely he was fumbling this. Steve Harrington, who used to ask you out with the kind of confidence that bordered on cocky, now tumbling over the suggestion of french fries and beer.

"So you're asking me out for half-price appetizers?"

"I'm asking if you want to hang out." He finally looked at you again, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "As friends. Or not friends. I don't—fuck." He laughed, self-deprecating. "I used to be better at this."

"You really weren't."

"I definitely was."

"Steve, your first attempt at asking me out involved you 'accidentally' blocking my locker so I'd have to talk to you."

"That was strategic."

"That was obvious."

"But it worked." He was smiling now, some of that nervousness easing into something more familiar. "So what do you say? The Hideaway? I'll even let you order the loaded fries this time instead of pretending you don't want them."

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your old dance shoes against your hip. The ones you'd found in a box. The ones you'd thought you'd never use again.

Your car was right there. You could say you were tired—which you were—or that you had an early morning—which you did. You could smile and say rain check and drive home and spend the evening scrolling through apartment listings that you couldn’t comfortably afford.

Or you could say yes to Steve Harrington in a parking lot bathed in orange-pink light, asking you to hang out with all the grace of a teenage boy even though you were both twenty-one and should know better.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay. Let's get a drink."

His whole face changed—lit up in a way that made your chest tight.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.." You pulled your keys from your bag. "And if you try to pay for my fries, I'm leaving."

"Deal. No—wait. What if I just pay for my fries and accidentally order way too many and you have to help me eat them?"

"That's the same thing."

"It's completely different."

You were already walking toward your car, but you were smiling. Genuinely smiling, and it was the kind that reached your eyes and made your cheeks ache. "I'll meet you there in forty. Gotta freshen up quickly. I’m all sweaty" 

"Make it thirty," he called after you. "Those fries wait for no one."

You unlocked your car, tossed your bag in the passenger seat, where it landed with a soft thud, your old water bottle rattling against the new one. Through the windshield you could see Steve still standing by his car, watching you. When you looked over, he raised his hand in a small wave.

You’d ordered an Amaretto Sour while Steve ordered a Jack and Coke. You’d opted for The Hideaway this time because you wanted the fries and were sure you were going to drop dead from your day of answering phone calls, then teaching high schoolers a dance routine, going home to shower, then immediately coming here. You and Steve had claimed the back booth, the one where someone had carved ‘CLASS OF ‘79’ into the table edge where the vinyl was patched with duct tape.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket, and you watched him fold it twice before settling it into the seat beside him. It was a habit you didn’t remember him having. He used to just throw his jacket anywhere. You picked at the cocktail napkin under your glass, peeling it into damp strips while he settled beside you. 

"Carter asked me today if I thought he could pitch in the majors." Steve was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He wanted to know what age recruiters started looking. The kid who can’t put on his backpack properly at one go is already planning his draft year."

"Oh, my god. Devon’s gonna kill you." You pressed your fingers to your temples. "He’s already asking for more gear for his birthday. She’s gonna start sending you the bills. He’s also gonna start asking for a pitching coach"

"I am a pitching coach."

"A real one."

"Wow. Okay." But he was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "That’s how it is."

You mockingly tipped your glass in his direction. "That’s how it is."

The conversation started drifting after that, both of you having had. He’d told you how Joyce Byers and former Chief Hopper had moved to Montauk.

"Remember when he tried to arrest you?" You were smiling before you finished your sentence. 

Steve’s hands stopped halfway to his glass. "He did no—" He stared at you for a second, mouth opened. "Holy shit, he did. God, I completely forgot about that." He started laughing, the kind of laugh that built slow and then took over his whole body. "It was partially your fault."

"Who told you to park behind a construction site?"

"You did!" He pointed at you with a fry, laughing now. "You specifically said ‘no one ever goes back there.’" 

"I said no one goes there during the day."

"That is not—" He was laughing again. "That is not what you said. You specifically said—" He put on a voice, one that was higher than yours ever was. "‘No one ever goes there, Steve. It’s fine’"

"I do not sound like that." You smiled into your straw. "I totally did that." 

"I rest my case. You were always the reason for our worst decisions." When you gasped, he continued, "You’re the reason I had to drive for an hour at three in the morning."

"You’re the one who said you were craving IHOP!" 

"And you were the one who said ‘lets go right now," he shot back immediately, like the memory was just on the tip of his tongue. 

"Because you wouldn't shut up about it!"

The bartender dropped off another round for which neither of you had asked, but you were both nearly done with your drinks, so it worked out. Steve immediately grabbed a fry from the basket that had appeared at some point.

"Okay, but that trip was worth it," you said. "We had an entire diner to ourselves."

"Because it was three in the morning."

"And you spilled syrup all over the seat."

You both were grinning when Steve’s arm draped over the back of the booth as he shifted further into it. 

"Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—" He scratched slightly at his chin. "Was—is everything okay? About the Melissa thing?"

You cleared your throat, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Yeah. I mean, I said so."

"Yeah, but you’d also been—sort of—avoiding me after."

"I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, Steve." You let out a short laugh, wishing that you could reset and never let this conversation begin. "It was just weird, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it."

"Try?" he said, and you could hear the little uptick in his voice.

"I can’t imagine dating, like, Tommy H. or Benny or any of your old friends, you know? It would feel too weird."

"Well, I hope you don’t date Tommy H., he’s an asshole." Then, he added, "But yeah, I guess I didn’t think of it that way.  

"I—I’m not saying you should’ve." You took another sip of your drink. Dutch courage was your way to get through this situation. You traced your glass with one finger. "I think—" You stopped, then started again. "I guess I always thought we were building something. Like long-term. And maybe that was just me being seventeen and stupid, but…" You shrugged. "I guess seeing Melissa just reminded me that for you, it was just—high school."

He was quiet enough that you looked up, and you were fearing that there it was. You’d said it, the wrong thing, and made everything wrong wrong wrong. His jaw was tight, and he was staring at his drink. 

"It was serious to me," he said, voice softening as he tilted his head to look at you. "Not just high school or whatever bullshit you’re saying."

"Was it?" you said, trying to keep your tone gentle. Then, you loosely waved a hand. "I was young and dramatic and it was my first real relationship. Of course I spent years thinking it was everything."

Steve shook his head at your words, brows furrowing. "It was everything. To me, too."

"Steve—"

"Hey, I’m just saying. I’m not liking how you’re talking like you’re the only one who cared. Like I didn’t."

"I didn’t say that."

"You kinda did." His hand was still on the booth behind you, fingers drumming absently. "I may have not always—well, treated you that way. But I just want you to know I did care." 

The air between you felt too thick now. You smiled tightly. "Yeah," you said, nodding. "I appreciate you saying that." 

You took a sip of your drink and he grabbed another fry. 

"So, you’re not going to avoid me at practice anymore?"

"I wasn’t avoiding you."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe a bit." You smiled. "It’s fine now."

"Good." His fingers brushed against your shoulder where his arm was draped, casual and easy. "Because I do like hanging out with you. Don’t want you disappearing on me."

You felt something lodge in your throat and tried to swallow it down. "Okay." 

"Good," he repeated, a the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, so much about who I’ve been with. What did you get up to?" He raised a brow. "Three years of college must’ve brought someone."

You laughed despite yourself, reaching for another fry. "You really want to know?"

"Fair’s fair, right?" He was watching you with an almost-curious expression.

"There was someone. For about a year and a half."

His hand stilled on your shoulder for a moment. "Year and a half’s pretty serious."

"It was." You chewed on the fry. "He was going to be an investment banker. You know, that type? Patagonia and a trust fund and all that."

Steve’s nose wrinkled. "Sounds like a catch." His thumb brushed against your shoulder. 

You continued, "He asked me to move to New York with him after graduation. That maybe I’d want to get a fresh slate in a ‘real’ city."

Steve hummed.

"So I ended it three months before I decided to come back here. He called me a quitter, but it was worth it." 

"I think that’s the last thing someone would call you." He took a sip of his drink.

The silence stretched for a moment too long. Somewhere around you, someone fed quarters into the jukebox and Tom Petty started playing. Steve finished his drink in two long swallows.

"You want to play?" He nodded toward the pool table where the couple was gathering their jackets. 

You looked at him and the way his fingers were drumming against the table. He needed to move. So did you.

"Pool?"

"Mhm. Unless you’re scared to lose."

You raised an eyebrow. "I’m definitely not scared."

"Prove it."

You slid out of the booth and he followed. His hand briefly touched the small of your back as you walked toward the pool table. The touch was light, and you were wearing a sweater, but it still made your skin warm through the touch.

The previous players had the courtesy to rack the balls. Steve grabbed two cues from the wall rack, testing the weight of each before handing you one. "You break."

"Trying to be a gentleman?"

Steve leaned on the edge of the table, grinning. "Trying to get a good look at your form. See if you’ve gotten rusty."

You lined up your shot, very aware of how he was watching you. The cue also felt familiar in your hands; you’d played enough in high school, usually at parties, and even more at college. 

The break was clean and solid cracks of ball scattered across the felt. Two stripes fell.

"Stripes," you said, straightening up.

"Good shit." He moved to stand closer, watching as you circled the table for your next shot. "Remember that time you beat Pat three games in a row and he tried to convince the entire party you were cheating?"

"All of you were such sore losers." You leaned down for your next shot, the 11 ball in the corner pocket. "He kept saying I was distracting him."

"Well." He clicked his tongue.

"I was just playing pool."

"You were wearing that—" He stopped himself and took a sip of his drink instead.

You missed your shot. "Wearing what?"

"My turn." But his ears had gone slightly pink.

He moved around the table, chalking his cue. You tried not to watch the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt as he lined up his shot. Tried and failed.

"The purple top," he said suddenly, not looking at you. "With the—the straps."

You remembered that top. Spaghetti straps, low-cut, the one your mom said was too revealing. You'd worn it specifically because Steve had mentioned he liked purple.

"You remember what I wore to a party five years ago?"

"I remember a lot of things about you." He sank the 3 ball, then moved to line up his next shot. "You used to bite your lips when you were concentrating. You’re doing it now."

You released your lip from between your teeth. "I don't—"

"You do." He missed his next shot, stepped back. "You also used to cheat."

"I did not cheat."

"You absolutely cheated. You'd lean over right in my line of sight and—"

"That’s not cheating, that’s being easily distracted."

"Same difference."

You moved to take your shot, very aware now of how you were standing, how he was watching. The 9 ball was an easy shot, straight line to the side pocket. But your hand was less steady than it should be.

"You're thinking about it now," he said from behind you. Close behind you. "About whether you're distracting me."

"I'm thinking about making this shot."

"You're thinking about both."

He wasn't wrong. You took the shot. Made it. Moved to find your next one.

The 10 ball was on the far end of the table. You had to lean across, stretching to line it up properly. You felt Steve move, sensed him coming closer even before you heard his footsteps.

"You're gonna scratch if you hit it that hard," he said, right behind you now.

"I'm not going to scratch."

"Your angle's off."

"It's not."

"It is. Here—" His hand covered yours on the cue, adjusting your grip. 

His hand covered yours on the cue before you could argue. His chest pressed against your back, and suddenly you couldn't remember the shot you were trying to make, couldn't remember anything except the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles as he adjusted your grip. He smelled like whiskey and the same detergent he'd used in high school, and you wondered if he knew that, if he'd chosen it deliberately or if it was just habit.

"See?" His breath stirred against your ear. "It’s more to the left."

You felt heavy all of a sudden and couldn’t breathe properly. "Got it?"

"Yeah?" His thumb pressed between the hollow of your knuckles. "You sure?"

Your heart was trying not to escape through your body out your throat. "Steve."

"Mm?"

"You’re not helping."

"I know."

"Let me make the shot, Steve," you said through a chuckle, slightly using your arm to push him off."

He laughed roughly before stepping back. 

You took the shot. Sank it. Barely.

"Lucky," he said.

"Skill."

You straightened up, turned to face him. He was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"Your turn," you said.

"Right." But he didn't move and kept looking at you.

The air between you felt electric. The bar noise faded into background static; someone's laughter, the clink of glasses, a song you didn't recognize playing from the jukebox. All of it distant and muffled compared to the sound of your own heartbeat.

"Steve—"

"Hm?"

"Hi," you said, tilting your head to the side.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hi."

His hand came up, and for a second you were bracing yourself for him to touch your face. But instead he plucked the pool cue from your grip and set it down on the table behind you without looking. His eyes remained on yours.

"I’m gonna kiss you now," he said.

"Okay."

His hand slid to your waist, and there was a pause—just a breath, maybe less— where his thumb hooking through your belt loop and just stayed there. Then, he pulled you in, and you went, the inch of space between you disappearing.

The kiss was soft at first—almost careful—his lips pressing against yours like he was relearning the shape of your mouth through the shape of muscle memory four years old. You felt him hesitate and question in the gentleness, and something in your chest cracked open.

You pressed your lips against his a little harder, just for a second, and then his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that almost made you lose your balance. The pool table bit into your lower back as you swayed, and you grabbed onto his shirt, fabric bunching in your fists, just to stay upright.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, nose brushing against yours, foreheads touching. His eyes were still closed. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

Then he was kissing you again, tilting your head back with his hands in your hair. He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you, and you let him. Let him kiss you like he'd been thinking about this for weeks, months, maybe years. Like he'd been holding back and had finally decided to stop. 

You remembered this even through the haze of the alcohol and him and the way the bar had gone blurry around the edges. How Steve kissed you, how he gave it his whole attention, his whole body, like both of you would die if you’d stopped. His hand on your waist slid around to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you were flush against him.

You broke away for air, dizzy, and he immediately redirected, pressing kisses along your jaw. Open-mouthed and deliberate, working his way down to the spot just below your ear that he definitely, definitely still remembered.

"Steve," you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Mm." The sound vibrated against your skin. His lips traveled lower, finding the spot just below your ear, and your breath caught audibly. His teeth grazed your pulse point and you gasped, the sound embarrassingly loud even though you could barely hear it over the noise around you. 

He smiled against your neck. You felt his lips curve. "Still sensitive there."

"We're—" You had to stop to breathe when he sucked lightly at the spot. "We're in public."

"I know." But he didn't stop. His hand had somehow worked its way under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your hip. "Should probably stop."

"Probably."

His mouth moved lower, to the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel him against your hip—hard and obvious—and the knowledge sent a jolt down your spine.

Someone laughed too loud at the bar. A glass broke. The song changed to something with a heavier bass line. None of it mattered.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard. His lips were red and slightly swollen, hair messed up from where your fingers had threaded through it without you realizing.

"Come home with me," he said. 

"Steve—"

"I don’t want this to end tonight." His hand flexed against your back.

You should say no and suggest coffee tomorrow, keeping this slow, not rushing into something that could blow up in both your faces. But this was what it was, casual. Something that was bound to happen. Something you had to get out of your system before it came out during unwanted times. 

But his forehead was pressed to yours again and you could feel his breath—quick and uneven—and his hand was still under your shirt, thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. And you'd spent four years trying to be smart, trying to make good decisions, trying to be the person you thought you were supposed to be. Maybe just for tonight, you could want something. Could take something. Could let yourself have this without overthinking it into nothing.

"Okay," you said.

His eyes searched yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You released your grip on his shirt, smoothed the wrinkles you'd created. Your hands were shaking slightly. "Let's go."

His whole face changed—relief and want and something softer you didn't want to name. He kissed you again, hard and quick, then grabbed your hand.

He doubled back without letting go, pulled out a bill, placed it on the table, grabbed his jacket, and you were moving again.

"Wait," you said as you hit the parking lot. The cool air was a shock after the warmth of the bar. "We can't drive. We're—we've had too much."

Steve stopped, turned to look at you. For a second you thought he might argue, but then he nodded. "You're right. Shit. Okay." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I only live like five minutes from here. We could walk?"

"You want to walk?"

"I want you to come home with me." He said it simply. "Walking, driving, fucking teleporting—I don't care. Just—" His thumb stroked your cheek. "Please don't change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind." You laughed slightly.

"Promise?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him there on the sidewalk in front of The Hideaway, and he made this sound—relief and surprise mixed together—and kissed you back.

When you pulled away, you were both smiling.

"Come on," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Show me where you live."

His grin was immediate, bright enough to compete with the streetlights. The air outside was sharp enough to clear your head a little, the in-between where the air was deciding whether it wanted it to be winter yet. Steve immediately laced his fingers through yours this time and started walking, pulling you along with him.

The streets were quiet. Hawkins on a Wednesday night never had much going on. A few cars passed, some porch lights were still on, but mostly it was just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps on pavement.

"This is weird, right?" you said after a minute. "Walking through Hawkins like this."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed, tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped his. "Remember when we used to walk home from parties?"

"You mean when you used to walk me home because I wasn't allowed to be out past midnight?"

"Your mom loved me. She never actually cared when you got home."

"She definitely cared. She just liked you too much to say anything."

"See? Loved me." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I used to take the long way on purpose. Make it last longer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I knew you were doing that."

"You did?"

"Steve, your house was in the opposite direction. You'd walk me home then walk like twenty minutes back to yours."

"Worth it," he said simply.

You passed under a streetlight and he tugged your hand, spinning you under his arm without warning. You stumbled, laughing, and he caught you around the waist.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Felt right." He was grinning down at you, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, how his hands fit perfectly on your waist. "You used to let me do that all the time."

"We were usually dancing."

"We're dancing now."

"We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."

"Same thing." He started swaying slightly, pulling you with him, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"There's no music."

"So? We don't need music." He spun you out again, this time humming something off-key that might have been nothing at all.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

You were. You were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, and when he pulled you back in and kissed you—soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey—you were still smiling against his mouth.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand again. "Before I decide to just keep you out here all night."

You walked for another minute in comfortable silence, your hand warm in his, before he spoke again.

"That's where you fell off your bike in eighth grade," he said, pointing to a spot near the Richardson’s driveway. "Busted your knee open. I had to walk you home."

"We weren't even dating yet."

"I know. I still carried your bike the whole way." He squeezed your hand. "And then your mom gave me cookies."

"She always gave you cookies."

"Best part of walking you home. That’s why I always did when we were together."

"The cookies?"

"Well—" He looked at you, something soft in his expression. "Second best part."

Your heart. Stupid, stupid heart. "Steve—"

"That's where Tommy tried to fight that guy from the baseball team," he interrupted, pointing to another corner. "Remember? You had to break it up."

"I didn't break it up. I threatened to call his mom."

"Same thing. You were terrifying." He pulled you closer, arm going around your shoulders now. "Still are, actually."

"I'm not terrifying."

"You made three teenagers cry during rehearsal last week."

"That was one kid. And she was crying because she finally got the turn sequence right."

"Still counts."

You elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet street. His arm tightened around you and yours went around his waist, and walking became this stumbling thing where you were too close together to move properly but neither of you cared.

"This is nice," he said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I missed this. Just—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Being with you. Feels right."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just pressed closer into his side. His apartment building was visible now, just up ahead, and you felt your stomach flip.

"That's me," he said, pointing to a brick building with external stairs. "Third floor."

"Nice."

"It's small. Nothing fancy." He was rambling now, nervous. "But it's clean. Usually. I mean, I didn't know you were coming over so I didn't—but it should be fine. Probably."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

You stopped walking, turned to face him. "It's fine. I don't care what your apartment looks like."

"No?"

"Nope." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "Not here for the apartment."

His tipped his head down to meet your eyes as he smiled slightly. "What are you here for?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of his building, and he made a small sound as he pulled you closer to him.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing hard again.

"Inside," he said roughly. "We should really—inside. Now."

"Yeah. Okay."

His hands were shaking as he tried to get his keys out of his pocket. 

"You're not helping," he muttered, finally getting the keys free from his pockets. One of them slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. He bent to grab it, and you pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist.

"I'm not trying to."

"Yeah, I’m getting that." He was smiling when he straightened, and his hands covered both of yours where they were linked at his stomach. His thumb traced over your knuckle once before he turned the key in the lock. 

The stairs were narrow—the kind where you had to go single-file or risk knocking into the railing—and Steve kept your hand in his the entire way up, pulling you behind him. Second floor, third door on the left. He fumbled with the keys again and you almost offered to do it for him, but then the door swung open and he was pulling you inside.

You had a split-second impression of the place—small, wood floors that needed refinishing, a couch that looked like it came from someone's basement, the smell of coffee and laundry detergent and something distinctly Steve that had no specific things you could point to—before he turned and his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different from the ones at the bar; it felt hungrier. His hands cupped your face and he walked you backward until your spine hit the door, and the sound of it closing was the click of the lock and your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor.

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.

Robin slams a stack of tapes onto the counter a little harder than necessary.

“Oh my god,” she mutters. “Do you two hear yourselves?”

Neither of them do.

Steve’s girl tilts her head. “Hear what?”

“The flirting,” Robin says flatly. “The constant flirting. I can practically hear the hearts beating from here.”

Steve straightens. “We’re not flirting.”

Robin gives him a look. A withering look.

“You’re smiling at her like she just invented oxygen.”

His girl bites her lip, trying not to smile too much.

Robin sighs dramatically and keeps sorting tapes. “I mean, really, Steve. I introduce you to my best friend and suddenly I’ve lost her. At this rate, you’ll be looking at wedding venues and talking baby names before spring.”

Steve chokes. His girl freezes.

She blinks. Steve makes a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a gasp.

Robin smirks. “Oh relax, it’s a joke!”

But it’s too late. The damage is done.

His girl taps her chin thoughtfully. “Well… names that go with Harrington are kind of tough.”

Steve’s eyes go cartoon-wide. “Y— you think so? I mean— yeah, maybe. Harrington is pretty… majestic.” He puffs his chest. Robin throws a VHS at his head.

"Guys, it was a joke!" they both ignore Robin.

Steve keeps on rubbing a hand up and down his neck as his girl perches up again. “Okay, but what about something traditional? Family names.”

“Sure!" he says "Yeah. Family names are cool. Traditional is cool. I love tradition. Tradition’s my favorite thing ever.”

Robin shakes her head looking at him. “Oh my God, he’s malfunctioning.”

His girl clears her throat, straight-faced.

“So… what would you say to the name Prudence Harrington?”

Steve’s smile twitches— JUST a bit. “Uh… yeah! Yeah, that’s really… old-fashioned.”

Robin covers her mouth to hide a snort.

His girl continues, sweetly: “Or maybe Patience Harrington.”

Steve blinks rapidly. “Patience is… definitely… a name.”

She goes on: “Or Constantine Harrington.”

“…for a girl?”

She shrugs innocently. “Or a boy. It runs in my family.”

Lying through his teeth but so desperately in love he would name his theoretical child ‘Avocado’ if she asked, Steve answers: “Yeah! No, that’s— it’s unique. It’s bold. I like bold.”

Robin clutches the shelf in front of her, wheezing.

Finally, his girl breaks. She bursts into laughter, grabbing his arm.

“I’m messing with you, Steve!"

He sags like someone cut the strings holding him upright.

“Oh THANK GOD.”

Robin is full on laughing now as well. “Wow, Dingus. You really were about to commit to Baby Constantine. Incredible.”

His girl just rolls her eyes affectionately and nudges Steve with her shoulder.

“Okay, no jokes. That was cute from you. But now seriously. Just... Hypothetically— HYPOTHETICALLY— if we ever had a kid someday… what names do you actually like?”

The air shifts. They tune everything else out. It gets soft. Warm. Dangerously real.

And they both know their thoughts are not so hypothetical at all.

Steve swallows, shy all of a sudden.

“Well… I always liked Florence. I dunno why. Sounds like someone who paints flowers or… lives in a pretty house or something.”

She melts. Full-body melt. “Florence Harrington… that’s beautiful.”

His girl bites her lip. “I always liked Josephine. Josie for short.”

Steve grins— that grin, the one that ruins her. “Josephine Harrington? Yeah. Yeah, that’s perfect.”