Kim !!

That’s why he’s so relaxed when he steps into the office – towel slung over his shoulder, sweat cooling on his skin, heart rate still humming pleasantly from drills. He’s already got a joke ready about how pathetic the other guy’s serve was, but then the door swings shut behind him, and his coach doesn’t sit down.

Instead, he leans against the desk, meets Patrick’s eyes, and sighs. “You’re failing your classes.”

Patrick blinks, smile still plastered to his face despite his confusion. “That’s dramatic.”

“Your GPA is below eligibility,” his coach replies, dragging a hand down his face. “If the semester ended today, you wouldn’t be allowed to play.”

Patrick laughs once, the sound echoing sharply in the office. “It’s March.”

“And you’re already behind.”

Silence settles, heavy and unfamiliar. Patrick shifts his weight, irritation prickling under his skin. “I’ll fix it,” he says, shrugging. “I always do.”

The coach finally looks at him then, disappointment in his eyes, and Patrick feels his mood sour. “You’ve missed half your classes.”

“I’m here to play tennis, not to listen to some old guy tell me about Hemingway–”

“You’re here to be a student-athlete.”

Patrick scoffs. “Semantics.”

His coach exhales, slow. “This isn’t a warning, Patrick. This is the line.” He taps a folder on his desk. “We’ve arranged a tutor for you. Mandatory. Once a week. You miss sessions, you don’t play. You fail, you don’t play. You don’t agree–” He shrugs. “You don’t play.”

Patrick feels it then – the tight, sick pull in his chest. Not out of fear of failure, or worry for his grades or future, but anger – at being cornered, at being told what to do. 

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” He snaps.

“No, you need to pass,” Coach says, crossing his arms. “So. Decide.”

Patrick stares at the folder like it’s an insult. He thinks about his parents, who threatened to cut him off if he didn’t go to college. He thinks about Art, effortlessly disciplined, happy to juggle both tennis and his classes, and about Tashi, always watching, always the best. 

About the court – the only place he’s ever felt untouchable. 

“Fine,” he huffs. “Whatever. When do we meet?”

The coach nods once. “Good choice. The first meeting is scheduled for tomorrow. And Patrick? Don’t fuck this up.”

Across campus, you sit in a large, oak-panelled office, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt as you wait for the two administrators across from you to speak. 

Correction – as you wait for them to revoke your scholarship and kick you out.

Your file rests between the two of them, thick with top-mark transcripts and glowing recommendations – and the one mistake you’ve ever made that’s going to haunt you for the rest of your life.

“Do you understand why you’re here?” The older woman asks, glasses perched low on the bridge of her nose, and you swallow thickly as she peers down through them at you.

“Yes.” You nod, knowing there’s no protesting the claim now.

They exchange a look. The younger man sighs, scanning one of the papers in front of him. “We have evidence that you’ve written academic papers on behalf of other students for compensation.”

You don’t bother to correct their wording, don’t try to explain the nuances – that it started small, that you never cheated on your own work, only did it for others when your account balance got really low or a student loan bill came in.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, any form of academic plagiarism is grounds for suspension,” the man continues. “Potentially expulsion.”

Your hands are steady where they lay in your lap, but your pulse isn’t. 

“But,” the older woman says, and you look up suddenly. “Considering that there were exceptions made for some of those that employed your services, we are willing to consider an alternative.”

You’d already heard that the students with recognizable last names and moneyed families had gotten off with basically a slap on the wrist, but with no rich angry parents of your own, or campus buildings named after your family, you’d already written off the chance of that happening for you.

“There’s a student-athlete whose academic performance has become… A concern,” the man starts, opening up a file and frowning down at it. “He’ll need a tutor to get him back on track.”

“Now, since you’ve always been at the top of your class, and you have previous tutoring experience, we’re prepared to make a deal with you.” The woman pushes her glasses to the top of her head, and folds her hands together on the table.

You’re already nodding, desperately grabbing at whatever lifeline they’re willing to throw at you. You can’t get kicked out, can’t let this one mistake ruin everything you’ve worked towards.

“If you agree to tutor him for the remainder of the semester,” she continues, “And his grades improve to acceptable standing, we’re prepared to overlook this violation.”

“Yeah– yes, I’ll do it.” You find your voice, nodding almost fervently. There’s a pause, before the burning question finally comes out. “And, um, if I can’t? Improve his grades, that is.”

The pause that follows feels heavy, deliberate, and the man looks at you with sympathy. “Then this incident will have to go on your record.”

You nod. Of course it will. It doesn’t matter – you can do this. You have to do this. It occurs to you to ask, “Who is he?” 

The woman pulls her glasses back on and peers down at the file. “Patrick Zweig.”

The name rings a faint bell – he plays tennis, you think. You’d heard girls from your philosophy seminar giggling about him and his ‘cute friend’ earlier in the semester.

You sit back, spine straight, already calculating schedules and syllabi and the thin margin for error. “Okay. When do we start?” You ask.

They look very relieved. It almost makes you feel sick.

As you leave the office, the weight of it presses in, equal parts relief and worry. It isn’t just the risk, but the unfairness of your future being balanced on the whim of a stranger – a stranger who, completely unbeknownst to you, is already deciding exactly how much of a nightmare he’s going to be.

One day later, you get to find out.

Patrick Zweig is late – not egregiously so, not enough to make you give up or go report him, but just enough to make a point.

When he finally shows up, twenty-three minutes into your scheduled hour-long session, he looks like he’s come straight from practice – his dark hair is damp, a loose sweatshirt thrown on over athletic shorts, tennis bag slung across his torso. 

He scans the room with a blasé expression, his eyes half-lidded yet sharp, and a smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth as he collapses into the chair across from you, dropping his bag at his feet. 

In another life, you could have found him attractive – probably could have swooned over him, like the other college girls who turn up to all the Stanford tennis matches with no real interest in the sport.

But this is not that life.

You straighten slightly, smoothing a hand over your notes, schooling your expression into something neutral. Professional.

“Hi,” you say. “Patrick, right?”

He hums, like he’s amused you asked. “That obvious?”

“You’re twenty-three minutes late,” you reply mildly, eyes sliding between him and the clock. “I assumed.”

That earns you a smirk – wider now, entertained. He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him like he’s settling in for a movie.

“So,” he says, eyes raking over you. “You’re the tutor.”

“Yes,” you say evenly. “I am. And we only have about half an hour left, so I’d like to get started.”

You glance down at the bag at his feet, then back up at him. “Did you bring your book? And your syllabus?”

He watches you for a long moment, taking in the display of neatly organized stationery and papers in front of you, smirk slowly spreading into a full grin. “You’re serious.” He observes, cocking his head at you like it amuses him.

“Yes,” you say, still trying to be polite, though something in your chest tightens. “I am.”

He shrugs, slow and unapologetic, leaning back into his seat and folding his hands behind his head. “I figured we’d ease into it,” he says, relaxed. “Get to know each other first. Feels rude not to know the name of the person I’m supposed to be spending so much one-on-one time with.”

You give it to him and exhale slowly through your nose, the patience you arrived with already thinning at the edges. “But I don’t really think we have time for easing into anything, Patrick. Your coach was very clear. We need to focus on your English Literature course–”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “He can be very dramatic.”

“This isn’t–” You inhale deeply, your tone sharpening just a fraction. “We need to make sure you actually pass your classes.”

That finally gets his attention – not concern, exactly, but interest. He sits forward just enough to show he’s listening.

“And if I don’t?” He asks lightly.

You ignore his question, infuriated by the easy smile that remains plastered to his face, and flip open your folder anyway, sliding him over the schedule for your sessions, explaining your course plan, attendance requirements, minimum GPA, etc. 

He nods along, but never once looks down at the paper, doesn’t ask anything, and when you finish speaking, he leans forward, braces his arms on the table, and jerks his head towards the big clock.

“How much longer do we have to sit here?”

You look up, patience evaporating as you flick the folder shut. “If you’re not going to take this seriously then there’s no point of me even being here.”

It’s all theatrics – you can’t afford to leave, to let this go. You need it, desperately, but you can’t admit that to him, can’t let on how much this matters to you.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that.” He pouts.

“Do you think I want to be sitting here, wasting my time babysitting you?”

Sharp eyes snap to yours, his attention caught, though not in the way you want – not scolded, or admonished into compliance, but challenged. “I don’t know, do you?”

You hold his gaze, unimpressed, and he rolls his eyes. You slide the paper you were given toward him. “You’re failing your English Literature requirement.”

He glances at the page, then back at you. “I read.”

“That’s not the same thing as doing the work for your class.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “Semantics.”

You ignore that, looking down at the sheet. “You completely missed the midterm. You failed the last quiz. You haven’t submitted a single response paper.”

“Those are a lot of words to say that the class is boring.”

You keep your voice even. “What are you reading right now?”

Patrick leans back, rocking the chair onto two legs. “The Sun Also Rises.”

“Okay,” you say. “Tell me what it’s about.”

He grins. “What, you didn’t get it? Should I tutor you?”

You wait him out, eyes narrowed. Eventually, he sighs like he’s indulging you. “A bunch of miserable rich people, drinking too much in Europe because they don’t know what to do with themselves after the war.”

You pause, brow lowering over your eyes. “So you did read it.” 

Patrick grins, immediate and unrepentant. “Never said I didn’t.”

“Then why aren’t you doing the work?”

He tilts his head. “Why would I?”

The bluntness of it irritates you more than if he’d lied. “Because you’re failing,” you say. “Because if you keep this up, you won’t be eligible to continue with your tennis.”

He scoffs. “Save it, okay, Coach already gave me the speech.”

“So…?” Your expression scrunches in confusion, glancing up at him and then back at your notes, entirely baffled.

“...So?” Patrick mimics you almost mockingly. 

“So, what the fuck is your deal?”

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. You clearly don’t need a tutor, so why are we both here pretending you’re incapable when you just need to get your head out of your ass?”

For the first time, something sharp flashes across his face – irritation, maybe. Or interest.

“You’re taking this way too personally, Professor.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, pushing back from the table a fraction. “Some of us take our jobs seriously.”

Patrick’s mouth twitches, like he’s deciding whether to laugh. “Relax,” he drawls. “You look like you’re about to have an aneurysm.”

“I look like someone who doesn’t want their academic record tied to a guy who’s had everything handed to him his entire life and is only now realizing there are consequences for his actions.” The words spill out of you, irritation provoking you. 

“Wow,” he says, infuriatingly unphased, looking almost impressed. “You always this intense?”

You don’t answer that. You flip another page in your folder instead, eyes glued to the table.

“Ooh,” he coos, leaning forward again, closer, elbows on the table, voice dropping into a dramatic hush. “Let me guess. Straight A’s, color-coded notes… You get a rush from being right.”

You don’t look up. “Let me guess – you think that’s supposed to bother me.”

That finally does it. He blinks. It’s quick, but it’s real – the brief stutter of surprise when his usual rhythm doesn’t find anything to hook into. “I’m just trying to make conversation.” He says, tone light, but there’s a new edge there now – he’s curious.

“This isn’t a social call.” 

He smiles charmingly anyway, raking his eyes over you. “Could be.”

You meet his gaze then, flat and unyielding. “It won’t be.”

For a moment, the room goes quiet. Patrick studies you, like he’s recalibrating, like he came in expecting you to fold, or quit, and is only now realizing you won’t. And that, more than anything else so far, seems to throw him.

“So,” he says instead, glancing down at your notes. “English Lit. What do you want from me? The themes? The symbols? Do I have to tell you all about the metaphors for masculinity or whatever?”

“Close,” you say coolly. “You have to do your work. On time. And go to class.”

He groans softly. “You’re killing me.”

“You’re killing your GPA.” You’re annoyed to find you suddenly have to suppress your own smile. 

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “You know, you could be a little nicer about it. Maybe you’ll even earn a tip.”

“I didn’t realize you needed me to coddle you through this.” You snap, irritated by the insinuation that this is about money for you, or that you should be any nicer to this man who’s done nothing so far but disrespect you and your time.

There’s another long pause where Patrick leans back, his eyes narrowing. He doesn’t seem annoyed, or amused, but interested. “Huh,” he murmurs. “You really don’t care.”

“No,” you say. “I do care. About your grades. Just not about you.”

That earns a low whistle. “Ouch.”

You slide a blank sheet of paper toward him. “Write a paragraph. Anything. One claim about the novel. I don’t care if you believe it, just give me something to show that you’re trying.”

He looks at the paper, then at you, then back at the paper.

“Or,” he says, grin lazy and unmistakably practiced. “I could take you out sometime and we call it even. Make it worth your while….” His tone suggests he already knows exactly how that usually goes.

You pause, clenching your jaw. “Not a chance.”

The words land clean. Final.

Patrick stares at you for a second, clearly waiting for the follow-up – the smile, the fluster, the softening that usually comes after.

It doesn’t.

“Pick up the pen or don’t, Patrick,” you huff a sigh, already turning back to your notes. “I don’t control you. But if you walk out of here without doing anything, I go right to your coach.”

Something shifts, his interest in you sharpening. He rolls the pen across the table, fidgeting with it, eyes still on you.

“You know, you keep threatening to walk.” He states mildly, and you can see him watching you in your peripheral.

You don’t look up. “Because I will.”

“No,” he says, almost conversationally, “You won’t.”

That makes you pause.

He gestures lazily toward the door. “I was late. You could’ve packed up. Written me off as a no-show.”

You lift your eyes to him, wary now. “I waited because it’s my job.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Or because you want the paycheck.”

You pause, taken about that that’s what he thinks this is about – that you’re putting up with him for money. While you don’t want to let on how critical this is for you, you still hate the implication that you’re just in it for a check. 

“That doesn’t mean you can just–”

He laughs softly. “Relax. I’ll show up, do the bare minimum, and you'll still get your paycheck. Everyone wins.”

The sudden ring of the bell marking the end of the hour is punctuated by his gleaming smile as he stands up, hooking a hand around his bag and slinging it over his shoulder and heading for the door.

He pauses just before leaving head poking back into the room with a cheeky grin. “See you next week, Professor.”

The door closes behind him, leaving you staring at the empty chair, irritated, unsettled, and uncomfortably aware that he just won whatever game the two of you were playing. And furious at yourself for your lack of a clever comeback.

Over the next week, you learn more about Patrick Zweig than you’d ever admit to wanting to know.

It starts innocently enough – a couple overheard conversations, his name dropped in passing, nothing more. 

You look him up on the Stanford tennis page once, purely for context, and then again to narrow your eyes at the photo they used. You ask around about him in what you hope is a casual way, like you’re just being thorough. Responsible. A good tutor.

The picture that forms is annoyingly consistent.

Patrick Zweig is talented, insufferable, and apparently incapable of celibacy. His reputation as a playboy precedes him, sometimes even eclipsing his skill on the court. He’s always mentioned in the same breath as his best friend, Art Donaldson, as well as Tashi Duncan – campus royalty, tennis prodigy, It Girl of Stanford.

You tell yourself that you’re just gathering useful information, knowledge that can help shape your tutoring sessions. You also tell yourself that’s why you refuse to go to the match that weekend. On principle.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop everyone else from talking about it. For days. Patrick won, apparently, not that you care.

By the time your next session rolls around, all the scattered details have condensed into one irritating, inescapable truth – Patrick Zweig is exactly the kind of person who has never had to want for anything, and somehow that makes the fact that he’s failing English Literature feel personal.

You gather your things and brace yourself as you head to the library to meet him, grimacing when you enter and realize just how quiet it is today.

Your usual room was in use, you couldn’t find a replacement in time, so the study section of the library it is – but you’d miscalculated just how empty it would be, how silent, how immediately tense it is between the two of you. 

Patrick is only fifteen minutes late this time, slouching into the chair across from you, chewing gum, eyes flicking over the spines of books with an air of amusement.

He spends the first ten minutes of your session asking stupid questions, telling you he didn’t bring his book, didn’t read the chapter, and trying to get under your skin. 

It works. You finally snap, telling him to cut it out, and he smirks as you finally engage with him. His eyes flick over your face, lingering just a beat too long. “But you look so good when you’re annoyed at me. Very serious. I’m into it.”

Heat licks up the back of your neck. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He asks, all mock innocence.

“This isn’t–” You stop yourself, glance around to check if anyone could possibly overhear him. You drop your voice further, just in case. “This is not the place for whatever game you think you’re playing.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re really tense.”

“Shocking.” You mutter, narrowing your eyes.

He hums, smirking. “I could help with that.”

You stare at him. “Patrick.”

He shrugs, like he hasn’t just crossed a line. “I’m just saying. You’re wound really tight, you probably just need to destress. Maybe then you’ll get off my dick about my grades.”

“That is not–” You cut yourself off, breath sharp. “This is about you passing your class.”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “And you getting paid.”

Your mouth thins. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Relax,” he murmurs. “I’m not judging. Everybody’s got a price.”

Something in you goes very still, and then snaps – not dramatically, just clean and final. This can’t be worth it. There has to be something else you can do, some other way you can plead with the administrators to let you stay at Stanford. But you can’t do this anymore. 

You close your notebook. “Okay,” you say, quietly. “We’re done.”

He blinks, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“I’m not doing this,” you say, already standing, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “You didn’t bring the book, you didn’t do the reading, you’re not putting in the work, and you clearly don’t intend to.”

“Come on,” he says, half-smiling like this is still a joke. “You’re really gonna leave?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you were a professional.”

You turn back to him, anger flaring hot and sharp. “I’m not going to sit here and let you waste my time or talk to me like that. I’ll tell the coordinator you’re not engaging and they can deal with it.”

That’s when rises to his feet and steps forward so your back hits the shelf behind you. It’s not aggressive, just calculated, inserting himself into your space. 

The shelves are narrow, and he angles his body between you and the exit, deliberately not touching you, but still close enough that you’re forced to lean back into the shelves, your eyes wide.

“Whoa,” Patrick says lightly, as if he’s not suddenly caging you in with his body. “That feels extreme.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, heat immediately blazing in your cheeks at the sudden proximity. 

“Move.” You manage to say, deliberately looking past him at the exit.

He doesn’t. He leans closer instead, hand braced on the shelf behind your ear, close enough that you can smell the mint on his breath as he hums.

“No,” his eyes flick over your face, a lazy smile spreading across his lips. “I think you like it.”

You swallow thickly, eyes darting down to his lips for the briefest moment, before your brain catches up to itself. “You’re disgusting.”

“Mmm… Maybe,” he tips his head to the side, smile widening as he considers you. “But then so are you.”

You balk at him. “I’m not the one–” 

“Staring at my lips?” He makes a ‘tsk’ sound, and you feel the surge of heat in your body at the absurdity of it all, definitely not feeling anything about the proximity of your skin to his, or how his eyes are raking over you, or how if you leant forwards just a little bit–

You blink, snapping yourself out of it. “Zweig, if you don’t step back in the next five seconds I’m actually going to hit you.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, but doesn’t move back. “Oh, c’mon, don’t be like that–”

“Three… Four…” You keep your voice even.

“Are you serious?”

“Five.”

Your palm comes up, fast, and makes contact with his cheek. It’s lighter than you could have done, but effective, the sound echoing sharply around the quiet library. Patrick’s head snaps to the side, and you step around him.

“I fucking warned you.” You huff, irritated to find that you actually feel a little bad for him, but that dissipates when you catch a glimpse of his expression as he turns to face you.

He’s fucking laughing. “Wow, Professor, I didn’t know you had that in you.”

You’re genuinely at a loss for words, just staring at him while your eyebrows pinch together.

He rubs a hand over his cheek, eyes bright and mouth split in a shining grin as he watches you. He holds his hands up in surrender, expression softening slightly. “Don’t go to the coordinator, alright? I’ll try.”

You realize that your mouth is hanging open, and you snap it closed as you try to come up with a response. “O–Okay.” You swallow, nodding, still stunned. 

“Okay.” He nods in return, still grinning as he grabs his bag. 

Your heart thunders in your chest, the whiplash of your anger and your shock making your head spin as you watch him gather his things.

As Patrick slides past you to leave, he leans close to your ear as he slips behind you and whispers under his breath, “That was hot.”

You spin around to scold him, brow furrowed, but he’s already disappeared into another row of shelves, leaving you alone and utterly confused in the study section.

Even as you leave, you’re not really thinking about the session – you’re too busy cataloguing the warmth in your face, the way your pulse sings under your skin, the way the skin of your palm tingles from the impact.

You’re still thinking about him, long after you’ve shoved your books into your bag with more force than necessary and left the library.

For the rest of the week, you very deliberately do not think about Patrick Zweig.

You absolutely don’t think about how close he’d stood, or how easily he’d unsettled you. You certainly don't replay the moment at all – not the way his hand brushed past your cheek, not the way his eyes darkened under the fluorescent lights. 

Mostly, you’re just pissed that he managed to get under your skin like that, as if that isn’t exactly what he wants.

By the time your next scheduled session rolls around, you’re fine. Completely fine. So fine, in fact, that you arrive ten minutes late – if he can make a habit of strolling in whenever he feels like it, you can afford to be a little careless too.

The door creaks loudly as you push it open, the sound echoing down the corridor, and you wince – and then freeze.

Patrick is already sitting at the desk, his book laid out in front of him, and at the sight of you he uses his foot to push the opposite chair out for you. 

“You’re late.” He points at you with a pen, accusingly. 

“You– What?” You can’t help the question, shock evident on your face, and he grins at your reaction as you move to put your bag down, brows still pulled together in confusion. 

“I’m not a complete asshole, you know.” He shrugs, watching you carefully as you move to sit.

Right before you make contact with the chair, he uses his foot to tug it toward him, pulling you into your seat at the table, and your eyes go wide at the sudden movement. 

Once you’re over your shock at the motion, you clear your throat and raise an eyebrow, schooling your face into a neutral expression. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Ouch.” He places a hand over his heart with a wounded expression. “You’re mean, you know that?”

You level him with a cool stare in response, tamping down the smile that threatens to tug at your lips, and he grins. “Yeah, exactly, just like that.” 

The rest of the session goes shockingly smoothly. He gives you his latest test, which is marked with a big fat FAIL in red ink across the top, but only because there’s nothing even written on the paper.

You go over the last few chapters of the book, and you’re stricken by how intelligent Patrick actually seems to be, underneath all the showy confidence and charm. 

It’s near the end of the session when he brings it up, casual as anything, leaning back in his chair as he glances over at you. “So… I need you to talk to my coach for me.”

You look up slowly, eyes already narrowed. Ah. The being on time and actually seeming to give a shit makes sense now. “No.”

“Oh, come on,” he exhales a laugh and leans forward, his chair making a clunk sound as the front legs make contact with the ground again. “You didn’t even ask why.”

“I don’t need to,” you say, closing your book. “I already know why.”

Patrick huffs a dramatic sigh, tipping his head back towards the ceiling. “He thinks I’m not taking this seriously.”

“...And?”

“And I am,” he says, glancing back at you. When your expression doesn’t change, he raises his eyebrows. “More than I was.”

You exhale through your nose. “That’s not the same as doing well.”

“It will be,” he says easily, shrugging. “I just need him off my back until then.”

Your gaze sharpens. “I’m not going to lie.”

“You won’t be.” Patrick shakes his head, leaning forwards on the desk and bracing on his forearms. The sudden proximity makes you blink, and you swallow thickly, immediately reminded of the library. “Come on. I am trying.”

You frown, cocking your head. “You want me to lie and tell him how great your grades are now? How dedicated of a student you’ve become?”

“I want you to confirm I’ve been showing up,” he corrects, leaning even closer. “That I’m reading. That I’m not blowing this whole thing off.”

You study him for a long moment. He meets your gaze without flinching, something uncharacteristically serious there.

“I’ll ace the next test,” he says, and somehow, you can tell that he means it. “Not just pass. Like–” he lifts a hand, palm flat, pushing it upward. “–Impressively.”

You snort despite yourself, thinking of the last few tests of his you’d seen. “You can’t promise that.”

He shrugs, confident. “Sure I can.”

You decide to entertain it. “And if you don’t?”

“Then you get to slap me again.” He smiles teasingly, and you scowl, though part of you relaxes at it being brought up so casually.

You weigh it – the risk, your own personal ties, the irritating sympathy you feel for him.

“…Fine,” you say after a long moment. “I’ll talk to him. That’s it.”

Patrick grins, leaning back. “Knew you’d come around, Prof.”

You roll your eyes dramatically, but can’t help the small smile that curls your lips after.

When his match that weekend rolls around, you make good on your promise, showing up to the tennis courts with only a little bit of apprehension, weaving through a sea of red Stanford t-shirts to get there. 

You find the coach near the benches and introduce yourself nervously. He listens carefully as you explain Patrick’s attendance, his engagement, the improvement you’ve observed – no embellishment, no lies, just… No mention of his less-than-favourable moments, either.

When you finish speaking, the coach nods, hands braced on his hips. “I’m glad to hear it,” he smiles at you, and then, after a beat, “Hey, you should stick around.”

You blink. “I’m sorry?”

“For the match,” he says, gesturing toward the court. “Context matters. You’ve put all this effort into making sure he gets to stay here and play for us, you might as well see what you’re working towards.”

“Oh– no, I really don’t need to–”

But he’s already turning away, conversation apparently over, hand hovering over your back as he guides you to the stands. You go with him, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do, all the way until he’s deposited you in a seat.

You don’t realize Patrick’s already on the court until you hear your name being called distantly, and it takes you a minute to place it and find him below. He’s staring up at you, racket hanging loose in his hand, eyebrows lifted like he’s caught you doing something embarrassing.

What are you doing? He mouths.

You lift one shoulder in a helpless shrug, jerking your chin toward his coach. His confusion melts into something bright and smug almost immediately. 

You flip him off without thinking. He laughs, the sound carrying all the way up to the stands, before he’s called away to the court, and you try to ignore the little flutter in your chest at the sound.

And that should be it. You should check out, stare at your shoes, take one of your textbooks out of your bag to do some reading.

Instead, the match starts, and your attention is caught.

Patrick serves, the ball cracking against his racket with a sound that carries across the court, and you feel it low in your chest.

Oh.

He’s good. Obviously. Precise, fast, ruthless, like the court belongs to him – controlled, almost cruel in how effortlessly he dismantles his opponent. You hate how compelling it is. 

Halfway through the set, he glances up again and finds you immediately. His grin widens, unmistakably pleased now that he knows you’re watching, and he plays the next point like he’s showing off on purpose, stretching for a shot he doesn’t need to chase, sending the ball down the line with unnecessary flair.

The crowd eats it up.

Oh, you are so not doing this. You are not going to sit here and think about how the sun drapes over his toned arms and legs, or how his jaw sets when he’s focusing, or the way his curls cling to his forehead as he begins to sweat.

He wins the point, and the crowd goes wild. Patrick looks up, his eyes finding you instantly. He grins victoriously, squinting through the sun, and then he winks.

You glare back, heat crawling up your neck, and tell yourself he’s being smug because this is just the deeply irritating reality that Patrick Zweig is talented, arrogant, and unfairly attractive when he’s doing the one thing he’s good at.

Still, your pulse doesn’t settle for the rest of the match, and by the time it ends (and Patrick wins, because of course he does), you’re no longer thinking about syllabi or response papers.

A weird sort of panic claws at your throat, and you don’t wait for the applause to die down. The moment the final point is called, you’re up, bag already on your shoulder, slipping sideways along the row like you might be able to vanish if you move fast enough. You refuse to give Patrick the satisfaction of catching you lingering.

You make it three steps down the aisle before a voice cuts in from your right side.

“Hey– Sorry, hi.”

You turn, half-expecting the coach again, and find yourself face-to-face with someone you recognize immediately from your internet stalking as Art Donaldson.

“I’m, uh, I’m Art,” he greets, offering his hand in an endearingly formal gesture. “You’re the tutor, right?”

You hesitate, then take it. “Unfortunately.”

Art laughs, loud and genuine. “Yeah, that checks out. You came to see him play?”

“Oh, no– I didn’t–” You say suddenly, because it feels important to clarify. “I just came to talk to his coach, who then insisted...”

“Of course he did,” Art’s lips curl into a wry smile, glancing toward the court almost shyly. “Coach loves showing off.”

There’s an awkward beat, where you’re very aware of Art’s eyes on you, as if he’s trying to figure you out. “Do you have a game soon?” You ask just to break the silence, readjusting your bag strap. 

“Uh…” Art’s brows pull together slightly and he huffs a half-laugh, ducking his head a little, and you realize your mistake.

“Fuck, sorry, a match. I’m sorry, I don’t– This isn’t normally my thing. Sorry.” You stumble over your own words as you try to apologize, grimacing.

“No, no, you’re fine. It’s honestly kind of refreshing.” Art shrugs slightly, and you smile.

Before he can say anything else, a voice cuts in from your other side. “You were in my seminar.”

You turn to find Tashi Duncan (the Tashi Duncan, the tennis prodigy from the Adidas posters you’ve seen everywhere, quite possibly the most beautiful girl on campus) watching you with frank curiosity, her head tilted slightly as she studies your face. 

“Comparative Lit,” she continues. “You argued with the professor about the unreliable narrator.”

You blink, both a little starstruck and also genuinely confused. “…I asked him a question.”

“You corrected him,” she pauses for a moment, before her lips curl. “I liked it.”

You feel heat creep up your neck despite yourself. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”

She hums, turning to scan the crowd before focusing on you again. “So, is Patrick going to get kicked out?”

“Oh, no, he’s– Well, I don’t–” Jesus Christ, get it together. “Not on my watch, at least.” You finally say, readjusting your bag again.

“Oh, so you’re a miracle worker.” Art laughs, sharing a knowing glance with Tashi, and you shrug, unsure how you could possibly explain the strange mutual understanding you’ve formed with Patrick.

Speak of the devil.

“You guys stealing my tutor from me?” He appears then, stepping into the loose circle like he belongs there, still flushed from the match, hair damp, energy crackling just under his skin.

He takes in the scene quickly – Art smiling at you, Tashi watching you almost hungrily – and something prickles at the back of his neck.

“What are you still doing here?” He asks, eyes slanting over to fix on you, pleased to find you already looking at him.

“I talked to your coach,” you say evenly. “Like you asked.”

“Yeah, and then you stuck around,” he adds, a cocky grin spreading across his face. “You wanted to watch me play.”

“I didn’t want to,” you say, folding your arms over your chest. “Your coach made me sit and practically blocked me in.”

Art’s eyebrows lift, smile tugging at his lips as he ducks his head shyly. “Oh.”

Patrick looks at him sharply. “What?”

“Finally found someone who you can’t charm into doing what you want, huh?” Art quips, still grinning, and Patrick shoves him gently. 

You watch in amusement as Art shoves Patrick back, and Patrick subsequently drops his stuff and fully tackles Art – there’s such a playful easiness between them, an almost childish side you haven’t yet seen in Patrick. 

Tashi scoffs beside you, watching the boys mock-wrestle on the ground, before she makes eye contact with you, making a face like ‘men, am I right?’. 

“There’s a sports mixer happening at one of the frats tonight,” she folds her arms elegantly in front of her chest, eyes narrowing slightly, almost like a challenge. “You should come.” 

You blink. “Oh, no, I’m not–”

Popping up beside you, Patrick scoffs as he helps Art stand up again. “Nice try. I’ve never seen Professor over here outside of a classroom or the library.”

A flash of irritation tugs in your chest at the dismissal.

“Oh, come on, you’ve gotta tell me how bad his grades are getting, I’m dying to know.” Art pipes up, smoothing his hair and putting his hat back on as he claps his friend on the back. “Just come for a little bit?”

You’re aware of the fact that a sports mixer at a frat house sounds like your actual worst nightmare, that you barely know these people and you’ll definitely end up feeling left out, but you’re also aware of Patrick’s eyes on you, and for some reason, you nod.

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Something flutters in your chest at the way Art’s face lights up at your answer. “But only for a little bit.”

Art is already pulling his phone out, enthusiasm bright and uncomplicated. “Awesome. I’ll text you the address.”

You hesitate, then take the phone when he hands it to you, thumbs hovering for a second before you type your name and number in, acutely aware of Patrick’s eyes on you.

You can feel the way his posture stiffens, the easy looseness bleeding out of him. When you glance up, you catch his expression mid-shift – mouth set in an easygoing smile, but his eyes are dark and fixed on Art’s screen like it’s done something personally offensive.

You finish typing and hand the phone back.

Art grins down at your number. “Alright. Nine o’clock. No pressure.”

“Just for a bit.” You reiterate, already regretting your decision.

“Of course.” He replies, sincere, and you narrow your eyes suspiciously. “Seriously. I’ll even walk you home myself.” He offers, and you smile. 

You don’t look at Patrick when you say your goodbyes and turn to leave, but you feel the weight of his gaze all the way as you walk away, aware – absurdly – of having crossed some invisible line.

When you finally do glance his way, his expression is unreadable, smoothed back into something careless.

But somehow you know the damage is already done.

The party is even worse than you expected it to be.

People spill out of the front of the frat house, all toned and lean and obviously athletic, and you stand at the edge of the lawn for longer than you’d care to admit, trying to psych yourself up enough to go inside. 

When you finally venture in, it’s loud, and packed, and you’re forced to squeeze past multiple couples eating each other’s faces before you even catch sight of Tashi – near the wall in the living room, hair draped loose over her bare shoulders, gaze sharp as she scans the room and a smile lighting up her face when she spots you.

“You came,” she rakes her eyes over you appraisingly, voice raised above the pounding music. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I almost didn’t.” You admit sheepishly, searching the crowd for a familiar head of dark curls.

She hums, considering you. “Because of Patrick?”

You frown, startled. “What? No, not– Why?”

“Nothing,” she narrows her dark eyes, shrugging nonchalantly. “It just seemed like he got under your skin earlier.”

“Oh, no– Well, maybe a little. I don’t know. He can just be an asshole sometimes.” You shake your head, stepping to the side to avoid the flailing arms of some guy ‘dancing’.

She studies you for a moment and you prickle slightly under the scrutiny before she leans in close, her voice raised to make sure you hear her. “He’s only acting like that because he wants you, you know.”

You choke a little, shaking your head. “Wh– No, he doesn’t.”

Tashi’s smile turns sharp and knowing. “He wouldn’t act like such a child if he didn’t.”

Before you can respond, Art appears, already mid-sentence. “–And I swear, the ref was blind, like fully blind– Oh!” His face lights up when he notices you. “You made it!”

“You’re here.” Patrick appears next to Art, glancing between you and Tashi with narrowed eyes, and you nod.

“Yep.” You smile despite yourself, Tashi words still worming their way under your skin.

“He said you wouldn’t come, but I had faith.” Art pipes up, taking a sip of his drink, and you arch an eyebrow.

“He did, did he?” You slide your gaze accusingly over to him, taking in the way the flashing neon lights paint his face in shades of purples and blues.

“Oh, like I had any reason to think you would show.” Patrick defends, and you make a humming sound, somewhat comforted by the routine back and forth.

“Ignore him!” Art shakes his head. “I usually do.” You hum, smiling, as Patrick scoffs and disappears back the way he came. 

Tashi gets called over by some friends and disappears as well, and then it's just you and Art, shifting closer to the kitchen so that you can actually hear each other. He asks you about your major, your interests, and the tutoring gig, only deflating ever so slightly when you refuse to tell him just how badly Patrick has been doing.

Someone appears and hands you both shots, which you take, and then another, and eventually, Art brings you a drink in a solo cup to sip on. 

Talking with him is… Nice. Easy. He asks you what you enjoy reading, not what you were assigned for class, and his expression lights up when you mention a book he likes. He listens to you, properly, and you find yourself laughing brightly more than a few times at his stories.

You don’t notice Patrick for a while, caught up in your conversation, but then you feel it – a little prickle at the back of your neck. 

When you glance through the crowd to the other side of the room, he’s leaning against the wall and watching you over the rim of his solo cup. Your heart stutters when you see him, your eyes meeting, but he looks away casually, smiling wide at something someone else says.

You tell yourself you imagined it and go back to your conversation. What you don’t see is that every time Art leans in to hear you better, or makes you laugh, Patrick looks away, then back again, like he can’t help himself, his jaw tightening.

Someone tops off your drink. Then again. And again. The room feels warmer, edges blurring just enough that your irritation floats closer to the surface, laughter coming easier, your words slipping out looser, less guarded.

Patrick finally drifts over, inserting himself into the space beside you without asking, and when you dimly note the smudge of white powder under his nose, you can’t help but scoff. Of course. 

“Having fun?” He asks loudly, tone casual but eyes sharp.

“It’s a party,” you shout back. “That’s usually the idea.”

Art grins, leaning closer to his friend. “I’m being schooled on 19th-century novels. Turns out I’ve been wrong about basically everything.”

Patrick snorts, rolling his eyes. “Wow, sounds riveting.”

You bristle. “You could try listening sometime.”

“You could try having fun sometime.” He retorts, eyes trained on you now.

Art senses the shift happening and glances between the two of you, his smile faltering. “Uh, I’m gonna grab another drink.” He glances at you to check in, but you don’t look at him, won’t take your eyes off Patrick.

As soon as he’s gone, the space feels too tight, the crowd around you pushing in, the alcohol in your system making your nerves thrum under your skin.

Patrick says something, but it’s right as the music swells, and you squint at him and lean closer. “What?”

He rolls his eyes, but leans in as well, his breath ghosting over your neck as he raises his voice over the crowd to speak. “If you want him, I could set you up. He’s pretty easy.”

You blink, pulling back. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs. “Seems like you’re into him.”

“Oh my god,” you laugh, incredulous, ignoring the weird ache in your chest at his words. “Is that what this is? You’re sulking?”

“I’m not sulking.” He scoffs.

“Yes, you are. Oh, my god, I can’t believe you.” You’re too caught up in the notion that he doesn’t like you talking to his friends, that it doesn’t even occur to you that he could be jealous.

He leans closer, raising his voice as the crowd begins to sing along to the song. “You don’t even like this sort of shit.”

“And you don’t even like our sessions,” you snap back. “Yet here we both are, showing up for things we don’t like.”

His smile sharpens. “Careful. I don’t have to keep showing up.”

“Why?” You cock your head, alcohol buzzing hot under your skin. “You gonna blow off another responsibility? Do another line of coke in the bathroom?”

That gets him – his easy smile falls away, jaw clenching. “You gonna keep acting like a fucking narc all night?” He snaps.

You stiffen. “Excuse me?”

He scoffs, irritation bleeding through now, smile turning mean. “You act like you’re so above it all, but I’ve heard some very interesting things about you recently.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“You little side business,” he says, casual, almost bored, and ice slides down your throat into your lungs. “Writing essays for cash – heard a couple guys from the rowing team talking about it the other night.”

“That’s not–” You falter, suddenly feeling cornered.

“So get off your high horse,” he cuts in. “Because you’re not exactly the morality police.”

Something cold settles in your chest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shrugs. “I know enough. I can’t believe you had me fooled this long, thinking you were all high and mighty about academic integrity.”

“I don’t–”

“You know, maybe I’ll just have you do my essays for me, skip the middle man.”

“Patrick.” You warn, panic clawing at your throat.

“Do the people who set up our tutoring sessions know?” He’s too caught up in it now, his words turning sharp and mean. “Because I’m sure they’d be very interested in your little side hustle if I told–”

“Fuck you.” You spit, anger and disappointment wrapping around your throat. He doesn’t actually have any leverage on you, but he doesn’t know that, and the idea that he would threaten you like this feels so wrong, so cruel, it catches you off guard.

You stumble back, knocking into someone, and shake your head, turning on your heel, desperate to find somewhere quiet, somewhere you can breathe. 

“Where the fuck are you going?” Patrick’s voice calls after you as you enter a hallway, and you resist the urge to groan out loud.

“Out. Away. I don’t know.” You fire back, not turning around, continuing to march forward, squinting at the bright overhead lights.

“Oh my god, relax, it isn’t even that serious–” 

The air shifts, something brittle snapping into place between you – and suddenly you’re not joking anymore, not teasing, not dancing around it.

“It is that serious, you fucking asshole, so stop acting like none of this matters,” you snap, spinning to face him, the words tumbling over each other now. “Like it’s not my ass on the line too.”

Patrick scoffs, sharp and reflexive. “Oh, please. Sorry I don’t give a shit if you get a slap on the wrist and a docked paycheck for not fixing your idiot student.”

Something in your chest twists hard. “A slap on the wrist?” You laugh, breathless and ugly. “You seriously think that’s all this is to me? If I can’t help you, they’ll–”

You cut yourself off, mouth snapping shut as the last of the alcohol-soaked courage drains away. Too far. You’ve gone too far, admitted too much.

Patrick catches it instantly. His expression shifts, the easy hostility faltering into something tighter, more focused. “They’ll what?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly. You turn your face away, heat crawling up your neck. “Whatever. Just stop being a fucking dick about it.”

“No.” He steps closer, and you’re suddenly aware of the distant noise of the party in contrast to the quiet that surrounds the two of you. “Not nothing. What the fuck is your stake in this?”

“Seriously, Patrick,” you mutter. “Leave it. I’m not in the mood–”

“What are you talking about?” His voice is lower now, no longer teasing, no longer amused.

You swallow, throat thick. “They’ll take away my scholarship,” you say, the words tasting bitter and final. “And I’ll get kicked out.”

Silence. Patrick stares at you like the ground just shifted under his feet, and whatever he had braced himself for, it wasn’t that.

“Happy now?” You snap, because the quiet feels unbearable, because standing there exposed feels worse than being cruel. “That enough pressure for you? Or do you want me to spell out exactly how badly you’re about to fuck my life up?”

For once, he doesn’t have anything clever to throw back. His jaw works as he searches for the right angle to come at this from, like he always does, and comes up empty.

“They didn’t tell me that,” he says finally, voice tight and clipped. “You never told me that.”

“No,” you reply, voice gone thin. “Because you’re the golden athlete, and I’m just… Leverage. And it wouldn’t have mattered, anyway, would it?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice climbing despite yourself. “Do you want fairness? Because I’ve been sitting in a library for months watching you blow off work you could do, knowing every missed assignment drags me closer to the edge.”

“You didn’t have to agree to tutor me.” He defends, slipping back into the familiar territory of the back and forth.

You flinch, and then bristle. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.” 

He pauses. “I didn’t think–”

You laugh again, bitter. “No. You don’t do that a lot.”

That lands harder than you expect it to. His mouth opens, then closes, something flickering across his face – not amusement this time, or deflection. Frustration. Guilt. Maybe both.

“Jesus,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. “You think I want this hanging over you?”

“I don’t know what you want,” you bite back, taken aback by his reaction. “You treat everything like a game.”

His eyes lock onto yours. “This isn’t a game to me.”

“Then stop acting like it doesn’t matter,” you snap. “Stop acting like you don’t care.”

The words hang there, raw and unguarded, and suddenly the air between you feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

You suddenly realize how close he is, though when that happened, you’re not sure, but Patrick’s close enough that you can smell the alcohol on his breath, his cologne, the cigarette he smoked earlier.

And then he kisses you.

It isn’t gentle, it’s abrupt and imperfect and messy, as if he decided a split second ago that this was the only way to shut both of you up. His hands come up, warm and steady as they slide into place at your jaw and the back of your neck.

You freeze for half a beat, and then you kiss him back.

It’s a bad idea. You know it is – even as your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, even as the anger in your chest melts into something dizzying and bright. He makes a surprised sound against your mouth as his back connects to the wall, like he didn’t expect you to meet him there, like that was never part of the plan.

Clarity dumps over you like a bucket of ice.

You pull away, shoving him against the wall again, your eyes wide as you reel back in shock, his hands falling away from you as you step back a full pace. 

Shock melts into anger. “What the fuck was that?” You demand, brows tugging together.

“What was what?” He blinks, and you could just about kill him.

“What was– you just kissed me!” 

Patrick scoffs. “You kissed me back!”

You sputter, unable to refute that one. “I didn’t–”

“Oh, okay, so I just pushed myself into the wall, I guess.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“You’re such a dick.” You spit, the alcohol in your system setting your rage alight.

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were such a prude–”

He catches your wrist right before your hand can make contact with his face, head cocked as he narrows his eyes at you, and that’s when Art chooses to reappear. 

“There you are–” Art takes in the scene in front of him. “…Am I interrupting?”

You tug your hand free, heat flooding your face so fast it’s almost painful. “No,” you say, chest still heaving. “I was just leaving.”

You don’t wait for a response, don’t look at Patrick again, you just turn and bolt, heart hammering, the ghost of his mouth still burning on yours.

You’re trying to find somewhere quiet when you stumble out onto the back porch, and you manage one deep inhale of clean air before you notice the other person out there. It’s Tashi, because of course it is, perched against the railing, red solo cup in hand. 

She looks up at you, her gaze sharpening, and you suddenly feel very scrutinised. 

“You okay?” She asks, eyes narrowed, and you nod, trying to shove the surge of emotions down as much as possible and act unbothered.

“Yeah.” You say immediately, too fast, then swallow and add, softer, “I just needed some air.”

Tashi hums, neither believing you nor calling you out on it. She takes a small sip of her drink, eyes flicking past you toward the glow of the house. “There’s too much testosterone in there.” She says mildly.

You nod, grateful for the out as you step up to the railing beside her and rest your forearms on it, letting the night air cool the heat in your face. Your pulse is still too fast, to the point where you can feel it in your throat, as well as the feeling of his hand on your neck, his lips on yours–

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable earlier,” you glance over sharply to find Tashi studying you from the corner of her eye as she speaks. “When I said that thing about Patrick.”

Your stomach drops, wondering briefly if you’re that transparent or if she can read minds.

“I saw him wink at you on the court, earlier. I just didn’t know if you knew what you were in for.” She continues.

You fix your gaze on the dark stretch of lawn beyond the porch, the scattered shapes of students cutting across campus in the distance, and force your voice to come out light and dismissive. “He’s like that with everyone.”

A small smile curves at the corner of Tashi’s mouth. “That’s true.” She tilts her head, considering. “He’s kind of a manwhore.”

The words land softly, casually, and somehow they still knock the air out of your chest. You swallow, forcing out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”

Tashi takes another sip, still not really looking at you. “I just mean – don’t read into it. Patrick will sleep with anything that moves. It’s kind of his whole thing. He’s been trying it on with me since last spring.”

Right. Of course he does. Something tightens low in your chest, sudden and sharp, like you’ve missed a step on a staircase. 

You nod, too quick. “Trust me,” you say, aiming for breezy and landing somewhere brittle. “I’m not.”

Tashi glances at you then, something curious flickering in her expression, and if she sees the way your shoulders have gone rigid, the way your fingers curl tighter around the railing, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sweeps her hair off her shoulder and shrugs.

“I mean,” she says lightly. “Do what you will, just don’t get attached. He’s pretty good in bed. But don’t ever tell him I said that, his ego’s too big already.”

Your stomach plummets then, the insinuation sharp and targeted. You suddenly get the sense this isn’t you being looked out for, this is Tashi staking her claim, making sure she’s still in control, in charge.

You manage a half-smile, even huff out a laugh that echoes wrongly in your ears. “Of course not.”

The music spills out into the night as someone behind you opens the door, sees that the porch is occupied, and slips back inside, shutting the sounds of the party out alongside them, leaving the two of you alone again.

You stand there for a little while, nodding along dutifully as Tashi starts saying something about the match earlier, how Patrick needs to work on his backhand, something about his opponent’s footwork. You tune out, responding when you’re supposed to, smiling in the right places, while all the while, your mind is busy rearranging the memory of the kiss as your stomach churns.

You tell yourself it was just drunken embarrassment, not some devastating thing. He’s a prick, you hate each other, you’re fine. Then why do you feel so hurt?

After a minute, you straighten. “I’m gonna head out,” you make the easy excuse, gesturing awkwardly towards the yard. “Early morning.”

Tashi nods, disinterested. “Okay.”

You step off the porch and into the dark, keenly aware of her eyes fixed on your back as you leave, your chest aching, your head swimming.

You don’t make it far before you smack into someone and reel back, head snapping up with an apology poised on your lips.

“Woah, woah,” the guy laughs, steadying himself – he’s tall, broad, unmistakably an athlete of some kind.  “What’s the rush?” 

“Hold on, do we know you?” The guy behind him asks, and it’s then that you notice there are three of them clustered together, jerseys abandoned but still draped in entitlement.

You shake your head weakly, desperate to just leave. “No, I just– I was just–”

“I just– I was just–” The second guy mimics mockingly. “You just what? Just thought you’d sneak in?” 

You’re already shaking your head, but then the third guy pitches in. “Who are you here with?”

“Tashi.” You frown, glancing back towards the house, to the porch, but it’s empty now. 

“Tashi Duncan?” The first guy repeats, snickering. “Yeah, right. And we’re on the badminton team.”

For all you know they could be, but you choose not to say that. You open your mouth to respond, but the third guy squints at you harder, head tipping. “Wait,” he says slowly. “I do know you.”

Your stomach drops.

“You write essays for people,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Right? You wrote that midterm for my roommate last month.”

“No, I–”

“Oh shit,” the second guy grins. “Yeah, it is you.”

“Well that explains it,” the first guy says, amused now. “You did our work for us and now you think you get to be one of us?”

“Admit it,” The second guy steps closer to you, cruel smile on his face, and your heart thuds in your chest. “You snuck in, thought it would be cool to hang out with the sports teams–”

Someone yells one of their names (of course it’s fucking Chad) and they all turn, and you seize your opportunity, pushing past them, the sound of their brash laughter echoing behind you as you all but flee the scene. 

Your heart hammers in your ribcage as you walk, a swirl of emotions choking thick in your throat. You just… You can’t believe you fell for it. Can’t believe you let them sway you into coming to this stupid party with these stupid athletes, can’t believe you told him about your scholarship, can’t believe you kissed him–

You stop when you realize you’ve made it all the way back to your dorm building, but you don’t want to go back inside, don’t want to go sit in your dorm alone, so you sit down on a low stone wall and rest your elbows on your knees, your head in your hands.

Fuck. You’re so stupid. You can’t believe you care. To top it all off, the voices of the Asshole Trio from earlier keep ringing in your ears – they were right, you didn’t belong there, you shouldn’t have even gone in the first place. 

Oh, God, no, you’re not going to cry over some idiot frat boys– but the tears come anyway, hot and humiliating. 

You’re scrubbing at your face when you hear footsteps pounding on the pavement, echoing against the buildings, and then a voice breaks the quiet. A very familiar voice, out of breath, like he’s been running.

“What the fuck?”

Oh, God. Like this isn’t already the most humiliating thing that’s ever happened to you.

You don’t even glance up, can’t, can’t let him see the shine of tears on your face. “Go away, Patrick.”

“No, seriously,” his voice sounds closer now. “What the fuck? I’ve been looking everywhere– What happened?”

You scoff down at the ground, grimacing at how wet it sounds. “I’m not in the mood to be made fun of any more, okay, so just–”

“Are you crying? Wait– Made fun of?”

There’s something in his tone that makes you look up.

He’s standing a few feet away, hands braced on his thighs as he catches his breath, brow furrowed more deeply than you’ve ever seen. His face is scrunched in confusion – and underneath it, unmistakably, anger. Not the performative kind he wears so easily, but something sharp and real.

It makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Who,” he says slowly, standing fully, “Was making fun of you?”

You laugh weakly, wiping at your cheeks. “It doesn’t even matter.”

“Yeah, it does.”

You shake your head. “It was just some guys. From some team... I don’t even know.” You scoff at how stupid it all is. “They asked who invited me, and then they didn’t believe me.”

Patrick frowns. “They didn’t believe you…?”

You shrug, miserable. “That you guys invited me.”

Something dark flickers across his face, interrupting his easy-going facade. His jaw tightens like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid.

“Were they assholes to you?” He asks quietly, looking down the road.

“That’s kind of their whole thing.” You mutter, swiping at your cheeks.

“Fucking Christ.” He exhales sharply through his nose, pacing like a caged animal before stopping in front of you again.

You swipe at your eyes again, exhausted now more than anything. “Can you just– Not make this worse?”

“I’m not,” he says immediately. “I’m–” He makes a face, visibly recalibrating. “I’m not trying to.”

You glance up at him, surprised despite yourself. For once, Patrick looks completely out of his depth. He frowns, glances down the street again, and winces.

“Look, I said a lot of stupid shit, earlier, and I just wanted to say that I’m sorry, or whatever. I didn’t mean anything by it, alright, I was just–” He makes a face, obviously not sure how to say what he wants to. 

“It’s fine, Patrick.” You shake your head, just wanting this night to be over.

“It’s not, but. Okay. If you’re sure,” he gives you an odd look, inhaling deeply. “I also just wanted to say–”

“Was this all just some game to you? See how long it takes to get into my pants?” The words bubble out of you before you can stop them.

His face goes slack, eyes wide and then narrow, nose crinkling in disgust as he digests your words. “Jesus, no, what the f–”

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have even said that,” you know you’re the one who brought it up, but you suddenly feel sick at the idea of discussing it right now, at having to listen to him justify it, at even reminding yourself of it. “Can we just not? Okay? I’m just– I just want to go to bed.”

“You just–!” Patrick blinks, mouth opening, then closing, still indignant but shockingly, he listens to you. “Yeah, we can– Okay. Sure. Yeah.” 

You stand, glancing towards the door of your dorm, sniffling slightly. “...Go home, Patrick. Goodnight.”

“Yeah. Uh.” He frowns, spins on his heel, and walks away, before pausing and turning back. “Night, Professor.”

That stupid fucking nickname nearly makes you smile at him. Nearly. You turn around and go to bed instead, trying not to cry as you lie in your darkened dorm room.

You wake up with embarrassment lodged in your throat and a dull, punishing throb behind your eyes, burying your face in your pillow for a moment and considering letting it suffocate you. It doesn’t, so you accept defeat and get up.

It’s late morning on a Sunday, so the dining hall is thankfully crowded with people who look just as wrecked as you feel. You grab the biggest coffee available, sit down, and immediately spot Tashi’s face blown up on a poster across the room.

You’re back outside in seconds.

The sun is warm on your face, at least, as you wander with your book and look for somewhere quiet to read. You don’t realize where you’ve walked to until the familiar thwack of tennis balls cuts through your thoughts. Of fucking course you’re here. 

You curse the sky as you spin around, heading literally anywhere else, and you’ve almost reached the edge of the tennis courts when you hear your name called, sharp and breathless.

You turn just in time to see Patrick jogging off the court, racket still in hand, shirt darkened with sweat and clinging to his chest. His dark curls are a mess, escaping everywhere, face flushed in that way that makes it obvious he’s been moving hard for hours. He looks unfairly good like this. 

“Hey,” he says, slowing to a stop in front of you, hands braced on his knees for a second before he straightens, and you get flashbacks of the night before. “What’re you doing here?”

“I was looking for somewhere to read,” you say, immediately defensive. “You’re practicing this early?”

“Uh… Yeah.” He says like it’s obvious, glancing back at the court, which is when you notice Art trying and failing to look like he’s not paying attention to your conversation. You offer him a small wave anyway, and he ducks his head with a thin smile, caught.

You look back to Patrick as he flips his friend off, then turns back to you, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I– uh. I’m glad I caught you.”

Something tightens in your chest and you fold your arms almost protectively. “Look, if this is about last night–”

“It is,” he cuts in quickly, then exhales, almost looking nervous. “But it’s not a big deal, relax.”

You find yourself smiling despite it all. “Okay, well, you’re the one who chased me down, so.”

That earns a crooked smile, and something in your chest loosens at the sight of it, your eyes tracing along the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Please, I didn’t chase, I just… Jogged a bit.”

You roll your eyes, but suddenly, you no longer feel like your heart is a lead weight in your chest. There’s a pause where Patrick rocks back on his heels, clearly searching for the right tone, and he lands, as always, on casual to the point of denial.

“So,” he says, narrowing his eyes at you. “We made out.”

You stiffen, the easygoing mood from before disappearing. “You kissed me.” You correct, because you can’t help it, but when he opens his mouth you hold up a hand. “It’s fine, Patrick. We were drunk,” you dismiss immediately, like you’ve rehearsed it. Which. Maybe you did. “It’s not like it meant anything.”

Patrick blinks once, watching you carefully as he quirks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, seriously. There was a lot going on last night, and– And tensions were high, so. It’s fine.”

“Tensions were high, huh?” He mimics, obviously mocking you, and you level him with a glare, to which he shrugs. “Yeah, okay, whatever. We were drunk. Didn’t mean anything.”

His tone makes you pause, your eyes raking over his face in an attempt to discern his expression. He shrugs, deliberately loose, twirling his racket in his hands. “I mean, you were yelling at me. I’m pretty sure that’s not how people usually flirt.”

You bristle, frowning. “You fucking started it, and then you kissed me–”

“You kissed me back. And pushed me against the wall.” He counters smugly, eyebrows raised.

You open your mouth, something sharp and indignant poised on the tip of your tongue, but at the sight of the glimmer in his eyes you take a deep breath instead and hold up a hand. “I’m so not taking the bait from you right now.”

He laughs, nodding, hands held up in surrender. “Yeah, okay, you got me. Sorry. Didn’t mean anything.”

You watch his face as he says it – the easy smile, the way his eyes slide away just slightly, like he doesn’t want to linger too long on the moment, and not for the first time this conversation, you feel like he’s putting on an act. 

“Okay. Good,” you nod, clearing your throat. “Because I don’t want this to get weird.”

He huffs a laugh. “Trust me, the last thing I need is my tutor falling in love with me.”

“Trust me, you do not have to worry about that.” You deadpan, rolling your eyes.

That gets a real laugh out of him, and something in your chest sings. “So we’re good?”

“We’re good.” You echo, though even as you mean the words, you can feel something shift irreparably between the two of you.

Another pause passes, the warm sun beating down on the back of your neck, his eyes on yours, the space between you humming with something.

Patrick’s eyes linger on yours for half a second too long. “Look, I’m not gonna– Just– After everything last night, uh, are you good?”

You hesitate for a split second, flashes of your conversations with Tashi, those guys last night, the feeling of his lips against yours– and then you nod. “‘Course.”

He studies you like he might call you on it, but doesn’t. “Whatever you say,” he says, stepping back. “See you on Tuesday.”

As he turns to leave, you call out, “Patrick.” He looks back, eyes wide and almost hopeful, and your stomach swoops. “Don’t be late.”

He grins, a sharp flash of white teeth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Professor.”

And then he’s gone, jogging back toward Art on the court like nothing happened, like he didn’t just knock your equilibrium sideways again.

You stand there for a moment longer than necessary, heart doing something stupid in your chest as you watch Art say something and Patrick smack him on the back of the head, and then you turn and walk away, telling yourself the knot in your stomach is relief.

Patrick is, predictably, late to your next session.

Twelve minutes this time – you’ve just about convinced yourself he’s not coming at all when the door swings open and he strolls in like he owns the place, hair still damp at the nape of his neck, tennis bag slung over one shoulder.

“Yeah, I know, sorry.” He says as he drops into the chair across from you.

You level him with a look. “You’re late.”

“I said I know,” he rolls his eyes, unbothered. “My fucking dad called.”

You pause, blinking at the mention. He’s never brought his family up before, never talked about his home life, but you can see the way his shoulders are curled inwards, the tension thrumming through his body, the pinch of his expression.

Whatever that phone call was, it left Patrick in a foul mood. You nearly ask about it, weirdly unsettled at seeing him so tense and upset, but delving into personal lives is a line you have yet to cross. 

You purse your lips together instead, watching him for a moment, before reaching for your notes, trying to switch tracks. “Did you get your last essay back?”

Instead of answering, he reaches into his bag. You’re bracing yourself for excuses when he slides the paper across the table toward you, and your eye immediately catches on the bright red handwriting in the corner. 

‘A+. 98%. Well done!’ Your stomach drops.

You flip through the pages, scanning the text, brow furrowing more and more as you read. It’s… Good. Sharp, focused on an issue, with supporting quotes and engagement with the text. Compared to the last essay, this is a miracle.

You look up at him sharply. “Patrick.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow, pleased smirk already tugging the corner of his mouth. 

“You got a ninety-eight.”

He scoffs. “Don’t look so shocked, Professor. I told you I’d ace it.”

You stare at him, something between disbelief and irritation bubbling up in your chest. “How?”

“I’m not completely hopeless.” He says lightly, shrugging as he pulls his book out of his bag.

You should be overjoyed, but something nags at you, something unsettling about how easily it had been for him to make the leap to such a perfect grade.

“I never said you were, I just– This is a crazy leap from your last essay.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m better than you think I am. You’re not the only smart person on campus, Professor.” The nickname comes out harsher, more pointed, and you frown, hurt now, confused as to why he’s acting like this.

“I’m sorry your dad pissed you off, but–” It was the wrong thing to say. You know that immediately, but before you get a chance to backtrack, Patrick’s expression has gone cold, smile turning into more of a sneer. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he says, voice flattening. “And I definitely don’t need someone who thinks I’m too stupid to figure it out.”

“I never said that.” You defend, holding a hand up. 

“You didn’t have to.” He scoffs, raking his eyes up and down you in a pointed way. “And I don’t need your help.”

“Then why was I hired to stop you from fucking failing?” It slips out, and you know you’ve gone too far.

“Okay.” His jaw clenches, a brief smile devoid of humour flicking across his face. “I think we should just call it.”

You frown. “Call what?”

“This. The sessions.” 

You laugh once, short. “What, because you wrote one decent essay?”

His mouth tightens. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” You lean back in your chair. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re finally starting to try – which is great, by the way – and now you want to quit.”

He shakes his head like you’re deliberately missing it. “That’s not why.”

“Then tell me why!”

He hesitates, and you see it flicker across his face – something uncertain, almost restless – and then it hardens, pushed away, expression slipping back into casual annoyed arrogance. 

“You’ve got other classes to worry about,” he says, almost casually. “You don’t need me wasting your time.”

Something about the phrasing sits wrong, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, exhausted by the sudden conflict. “You’re not wasting my time, Patrick, we just– We need to make sure you do well in the final.”

He gives you a pointed look, gesturing at the paper on the table. “I think I’ve got this.”

You squint, searching his face for humour, waiting for the punchline of the joke, but it isn’t there. He’s serious. “You did well on one essay, that doesn’t mean you’ve–”

“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “I know you want to fix me, but I’m serious, I–”

You scoff. “Fix you? What are you even talking about?”

He stands up abruptly, snatching the paper off the desk, and you gape up at him. “We can pretend we’re still meeting, they won’t kick you out and you’ll still get paid–”

“Are you fucking kidding me?“ you snap, heat flooding your face. “Do you seriously think that’s all this is?”

He pauses, watching you carefully, expression guarded, posture tight.

“Money?” You continue, standing up, planting yourself in front of him. “Or babysitting? Or whatever narrative makes you feel less guilty about bailing?”

“I’m not bailing,” he snaps. “I’m telling you I don’t need this anymore.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” You shake your head.

He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving. “Right. Of course it’s not.”

“You’re on probation,” you say, your voice rising despite yourself. “You don’t get to just decide you’re cured because you managed to string together a coherent paragraph.”

His eyes flash, and he steps back. “See? That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What?” 

“You don’t think I can do it.” He accuses, eyes dark and stormy.

Your jaw drops. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer, his face inches from yours. “You think if you’re not keeping watch over me, I’ll just fall apart.”

“I think,” you bite out, letting your eyes trace down his face, heat rising to your cheeks at the proximity. “That if you screw this up, I’m the one who gets screwed too.”

There it is. It lands between you, heavy and ugly.

“You know what?” He says, stepping back suddenly. “Forget it.”

“Patrick–” You find yourself reeling at the sudden space between you and his sudden coldness, trying desperately to stop this conversation from careening towards disaster.

“No, you’re right,” he cuts in, anger snapping back into place because it’s easier. “I don’t take things seriously. I don’t care. I’m just the idiot athlete you got stuck with, right?”

“That’s not true.” You can’t believe he would think something like that.

“Relax,” he says coldly. “You’re off the hook. I’ll pass. You’ll keep your scholarship. Everybody wins.”

“Can we just–”

“I said I’ve got it.” He repeats, eyes narrowed, lips curled, and something sinks in your chest.

“And I’m supposed to just trust that?” Your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to.

He gives you a hard look. “Yeah,” he says, darkened eyes flicking down to your lips, hesitating, and meeting your eyes again. “You are.”

You open your mouth – to throw an insult at him, to placate him, to stop him, you’re not even sure – but he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulder.

“We’re done,” he says flatly. “I’ve got it from here.”

And then he leaves, the door of the classroom slamming shut behind him harder than it needs to. You’re left in the empty classroom, reeling, staring at the door for longer than you mean to.

You don’t schedule the next session. He doesn’t either.

You log the last session as completed, add neutral notes to his file to pretend you had the meeting, and wait for him to schedule the next one.

He doesn’t.

At first, you tell yourself it’s temporary – you’re both upset, it’s a busy time on campus, he’s probably studying… He’ll cave. Right?

He doesn’t.

Finals week arrives before you know it, a sickening anxiety filling your chest as you attend your exams, agonized with the overarching worry of whether or not any of it will even matter in the end.  When grades are released, you don’t reach out to him – you’ll find out soon enough.

An hour after grades are released, your inbox pings with an email titled Academic Review Board – Mandatory Attendance.

Your stomach drops, and you just stare at the screen, pulse pounding. Of course. You close your laptop, already furious – at him, at yourself for trusting him even a little, at the fact that you left your future up to fate because you found yourself falling for your insufferable tutee.

You grab your bag and head for the administrative building. If he failed, after all that– You don’t let yourself finish that thought, pushing through the doors instead and bracing for impact.

The conference room is too bright.

Two of them sit on the other side of the table, files stacked, laptops open, polite, unattached smiles already in place.

You brace for reprimand.

“Thank you for coming in,” the department chair says, folding her hands neatly. “This won’t take long.”

That’s never a comforting sentence. You sit, your spine rigid, fingers laced in your lap to keep them from shaking.

The chair slides a folder across the table toward you. It’s thick. Heavier than it should be.

“You were assigned to Mr. Zweig at the start of term,” she says. “At that point, he was on academic probation.”

You swallow. “Yes.”

“We were very pleased to see,” the chair continues, and her tone becomes a little warmer, “That those concerns have been resolved.”

You blink. “Resolved?” 

She tilts the file toward you, and your breath catches in your throat. A. Across the board. You can see further comments written beneath, but your eyes are stuck on those grades.

“He demonstrated measurable growth across all written components,” the advisor says. “Particularly in the latter half of the semester.”

The latter half. Your fingers tighten against the edge of the folder, trying to make sense of it all.

“We attribute a great deal of that to your intervention,” the chair adds. “Your reports indicated steady engagement, even when progress seemed incremental.”

“I–” You clear your throat. “He did the work.”

“Yes,” she says. “But consistency doesn’t happen in a vacuum.” There’s a faint smile exchanged between them.

“And to think,” the advisor adds lightly, “His father was just calling, threatening to pull him out entirely.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m sorry?”

The chair waves a hand. “Just posturing. He was concerned about performance, I imagine. But clearly, Mr. Zweig made the decision to stay the course.”

You stare back down at the pages. He hadn’t scraped by – he’d crushed it. Without you. Or maybe because of you. You can’t tell which is worse.

“We consider this a success,” the advisor says gently. “You should be proud.”

Your throat feels tight. “So… I’m not–” You force the words out, almost lightheaded from the sudden relief and confusion. “There’s no issue with my position here?”

“On the contrary,” the chair says. “Your scholarship remains in excellent standing. We’ll be recommending you for advanced placements next year.”

“I see.” You manage, the pieces clicking together.

“If you have any questions–”

“I don’t,” you say quickly, standing before you quite mean to. The two of them blink at your abruptness. “Thank you,” you add, voice thinner than you’d like. “For… Everything.”

You gather the file without thinking, then realize it isn’t yours to take and set it back down awkwardly. They smile at you again, and your blood rushes in your ears.

You don’t even remember leaving the building.

One minute you’re listening to words like growth and intervention and improvement, and the next you’re pushing through glass doors into the afternoon sun with your pulse in your throat and your hands shaking.

Patrick Zweig, top marks across the board, and yet all you can think about is that motherfucker could have done this the whole time.

The courts are loud before you even see them, the rhythmic crack of a ball against a racket carrying across the quad, sharp and punishing, over and over again like someone trying to beat a thought out of their own head.

He’s alone when you find him, no coach, no Art, no cheering audience in the stands.

Just Patrick, moving through drills with brutal precision – serve, recover, sprint, return – sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, jaw clenched, focus so tight it looks like it hurts.

You don’t slow down, you don’t announce yourself, you simply walk straight onto the edge of the court and call out, loud enough to cut through the echo. “Patrick.”

He startles, the ball sailing wide as he turns, blinking like he’s been dragged back into his body.

“What the fu–” He squints at you. “Jesus. Do you ever pick a normal moment?”

You laugh, short and sharp. “I just came from my meeting.”

His shoulders tense immediately. He doesn’t bother asking which one.

“Congratulations,” you add. “You’re officially an academic miracle.”

He exhales through his nose, already defensive. “If you’re here to yell at me–”

You don’t let him finish, already crossing the remaining distance and shoving him. “You fucking asshole.”

“Okay– what the fuck?” He stares at you as he stumbles back a pace, genuinely bewildered now. 

“You got top marks, Patrick.”

“And?”

“And you don’t think that’s worth mentioning?” Your voice cracks on the edge of fury. “You don’t think maybe I deserved to know you were always capable of doing the work you spent months pretending was beneath you?”

His mouth opens, closes.

“You think this is funny?” You press. “You think I enjoyed sitting across from people today listening to them praise me for something you clearly could’ve done whenever you felt like it?”

“That’s not–”

“You know what?” You laugh again, ugly this time. “No. I don’t even want to hear it.”

Something in his face hardens. “Okay, you don’t get to come down here and–”

“I spent months terrified,” you cut in, stepping closer again, hands clenched. “I thought I was one bad grade away from losing everything, and you were fucking bored.”

He goes very still. “You want to know why I didn’t try before?” He asks quietly.

You narrow your eyes. “Enlighten me.”

“Because it didn’t fucking matter.”

You stare at him, chest tight as he speaks. 

“But it does now,” he adds immediately, sharper. “So don’t storm out here and look at me like that.”

“Why?” you demand. “Because someone finally threatened your tennis?”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “Because you came along.”

That knocks the air out of you.

He scoffs, trying to recover, rolling his shoulders like he can shake the moment loose, but your heartbeat is already thundering in your ears, his words echoing in your head as you gape at him.

“Fuck you, Patrick.” The words slip out of you, biting.

He grins, but there’s something sad there, defensive – like he’s baring his teeth, backed into a corner. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

You grab him by the front of his shirt and he flinches, expecting you to hit him. You close the distance and kiss him instead.

It’s hard, and messy, all frustration and instinct. His body locks up for a split second out of pure shock, and then instinct kicks in, and he leans in, hands coming up to your waist and digging in. 

You pull back just as suddenly, your heart slamming against your ribs. You just stand there, looking at him, watching as he blinks at you. 

“...Holy shit.” He mutters, licking his lips, and you can already see the smirk creasing the skin of his cheek.

You swallow, suddenly aware of his hands still on your waist, something like fear sitting high in your throat. “Don’t.”

The growing smirk drops. “What?”

“Don’t… Don’t make a joke,” you voice shakes slightly. “Just– Don’t.”

He shakes his head lightly, eyes narrowing as he searches your face, and for once, he listens to you, and doesn’t say anything. 

You grab him again, fingers fisting in his shirt as if you’re still angry, clutching desperately at the familiar emotion, unsure what to do without it. 

Patrick makes a small sound of surprise as you kiss him this time, rougher, mouths colliding instead of just meeting, teeth clicking before he adjusts, his hands coming up to cage your face as he slots himself against you. It’s all heat and breath and the sharp tang of adrenaline, and it feels less like a decision than a release, an inevitable collision. 

You walk him back without breaking the kiss, crowding him until his back hits the chainlink fence. The impact knocks the breath out of him, and it draws a lower, rougher sound from his throat – a laugh.

“Jesus–” he pulls back just enough to mutter against your mouth.

“Shut up.” You breathe, annoyed at how much you want him, annoyed that he’s letting you kiss him like this, but you realize with a jolt that you’re smiling, too. 

You kiss him harder for it, like you’re trying to make a point you can’t articulate, and he lets you, lets you crowd his space, lets you set the pace, before he pulls you firmer against his body and flips you so that your back is the one against the fence now, smirking at your surprised yelp that escapes against his lips.

His mouth softens even as the kiss stays hungry, like he’s trying to meet you where you are without overwhelming you, like he’s paying attention.

When you finally pull back, it’s only because you have to breathe.

You’re close enough that his forehead bumps yours, his breath warm and uneven against your cheek. His hands are still on you, not gripping, just there – present.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Then, quietly, like he’s afraid to spook the moment, Patrick says, “For the record, I meant it. About… It mattering now.”

Your chest tightens.

He swallows, thumb brushing your side in an unconscious, almost tender gesture. “I didn’t know how to say that without fucking it up.”

You sigh. “Yeah, well, you managed not to fuck both of our academic careers up, so you’ve got that going for you.”

“Couldn’t have done it without you, Professor.” Patrick muses teasingly, lips brushing against yours as he speaks, and you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, you could.”

He pauses, pulling away very slightly. “...Okay. Yeah, I could, but I wouldn’t have.” 

He kisses you again, gently, like he’s asking instead of taking something. It’s softer, careful in a way that feels more intimate after everything else. You don’t know what to do with that softness.

You pull away, expression twisted into another frown. “But seriously, you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier–”

“Oh my god, would you just shut up,” Patrick scoffs. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

Your eyes widen indignantly. “Oh, I’m the p–”

On the night this really started—the night that eventually led you to him—you found peace in an alley behind a liquor store with a knife in your hand and two men bleeding at your feet. You’d barely broken a sweat. The world had fallen into place with a satisfying click.

You remember leaning back against the graffiti-tagged brick wall, breathing in the metallic tang of wet asphalt and blood, when something flickered at the edge of the roof above.

A man staring down at you like Christmas came early.

Goddamn Vigilante.

He jumped down in a way that should’ve broken both his legs, landed in a crouch, and lifted his head.

“Hi!” He chirped.

You blinked. “What.”

“I’m Vigilante! I kill people too!”

You stared at him, then at the two bodies cooling in the winter air, then back at him.

“Yeah, no shit,” you deadpanned.

He had bounced on the balls of his feet. “Nice stabbing technique. I like the twist at the end! Very efficient. Also very aesthetic.”

“We’ve met before, asshole.”

“But we haven’t officially introduced ourselves. Apparently that’s important when making new friends!”

You had opened your mouth—maybe to say thank you, maybe to tell him to fuck off, maybe both—when sirens echoed in the distance.

He looked at you with something bright and conspiratorial.

Like you were part of a secret you hadn’t agreed to join.

“Wanna leave before the cops come? Together?”

You should’ve said no. Not because you feared him, but because you recognized something in him from the moment he tilted his head at you. Instead, you found yourself sprinting across rooftops with him, leaping from ledges, laughing breathlessly for reasons you didn’t understand yet.

You didn’t exchange real names that night. You didn’t need to. You’d know each other’s blood lust before you ever knew each other’s birthdays.

Weeks passed. Then months.

You tried working solo again, but it wasn’t the same. Everything felt too easy, too quiet, too slow.

Then Vigilante found your number—how, you still don’t know—and started sending messages like:

HEY REDLINE WANNA GO KILL A BUNCH OF CHILD TRAFFICKERS?? :D pretty please I’ll let you stab most of them if you want

or

I found where that arsonist guy from the north side lives btw his house is soooo flammable

or the infamous:

you up? (emotionally? physically? philosophically?) we could be awake together. just saying

You still ignore him sometimes. He still shows up.

You kicked him off a fire escape once. He landed on a dumpster and asked if you wanted tacos afterwards.

Somewhere in the blur of blood and blades and jokes that shouldn’t be funny but somehow were, the two of you slid into something more. Not romantic—not anything you could label without wanting to rip your own teeth out—but he’d text you at 1 a.m.; he’d show up to your window at midnight; he’d laugh too hard at your jokes, and you’d pretend you didn’t watch for the way his shoulders relaxed when you did.

Blood soaked alley make outs turned into blood soaked secret warehouse make outs, and eventually he fucked you absolutely stupid over the railing at the edge of the warehouse docks until your eyes crossed like some exaggerated porn actress. He left you shaking and incoherent enough that you kept coming back.

At some point, Vig had found you splayed out on the laminate flooring of kitchen after a particularly rough solo night out. He slipped in through the window you’d climbed in through and greeted you with a cheerful wave.

Your head snapped up too fast to keep up with the amount of blood loss you had incurred in a three hour window, and you’d barely snapped out, “how the fuck did you get here?” right as you started to lose consciousness.

“You left a footprint in blood three blocks away and there’s only one brand of boot that makes that tread pattern. It wasn’t hard!”

He looked around your apartment with that too-bright gaze and said:

“Oh my god. You live like I do.”

“Don’t insult me,” you replied, offended.

He beamed.

It was the closest you’d come to smiling in years.

Your head dropped to the floor and you passed out. You woke up a day later washed, in fresh clothes, in your bed, with Adrian scooping up your laundry pile while humming the FRIENDs theme song.

Eventually it became natural—inevitable—that you both knew where the other slept. Ate. Licked wounds. Sharpened steel.

The real turning point was the night he texted you something different. Something alarming, even for him.

COME HEL and a map with an address pinned to it.

You were already dressed before the full meaning hit you.

Your Redline gear slid on fast—Kevlar, gloves, mask, boots, blades, holsters. You grabbed four knives, three guns, one garrote wire, and the kind of righteous fury that only ignites with adrenaline and the threat of losing whatever the fuck Adrian was to you.

You ran across midtown rooftops so fast the cold winter air stung your eyes. You swung down the side of a building, crashed through an unlocked window, guns lifted—

And immediately wished you had stayed home.

Because instead of a kill room, you found:

—A blonde woman with a permanent scowl

—A fat guy with glasses typing with a speed unknown to mortal men into ten monitors

—Amanda Waller’s daughter, visibly stressed

—And fucking Peacemaker, helmet and ego both too shiny for your taste

And, in the middle of them all, Adrian Chase—mid-argument, waving his hands so dramatically you wondered how he hadn’t smacked someone yet.

You caught the tail end:

“—because spiders don’t have bones, Harcourt! They just don’t! They have… they have… bendy parts!”

Harcourt—the scowling blonde lady—pinched the bridge of her nose. “Exoskeletons. Adrian. They have exoskeletons.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes they do.”

You holstered your gun. “What the fuck am I looking at?”

Everyone turned.

Peacemaker squinted. “Who the hell is this, Vigilante? Your—uh—‘friend’? Or your… girlfriend?” He said the last word like it tasted rotten.

You snorted. “Not in my vocabulary.”

Adrian perked instantly. “Right? I said that too!”

Glasses Man looked relieved someone else was as deeply irritated as he always seemed to be.

Wallers’ daughter waved awkwardly. “Hi.”

You wanted to leave. But Adrian looked stupidly thrilled that you’d shown up, and for some reason that made you stay, even though you hated all of them instantly.

You learned their names by accident. Your tolerance for them grew slowly. Your tolerance for Adrian grew impossibly.

Chris mocked him constantly—especially about sex, which you didn’t acknowledge existed in your shared vocabulary.

Harcourt asked you once how the hell you put up with him.

You shrugged. “He’s useful.”

Adrian had actually lit up at that. Useful. A compliment, in your language.

And somewhere along the line, without your permission, your dynamic with him shifted into something sharper. Closer. More dangerous.

You both still called each other Redline and Vigilante when suited up, but it meant something different now, something almost intimate.

Which was stupid. You were both stupid. Whatever it was didn’t need a name.

It just needed blood.

The night of the warehouse mission starts like any other: irritating briefing, irritating banter, irritating Peacemaker breathing too loudly.

“Five warehouses,” Harcourt explains. “Four targets. Minor drug ring connected to a trafficking route. Minimal guard presence. Should be easy.”

You want to stab her for saying should be.

You hated when things were easy.

Adrian must’ve noticed, because he nudges you and whispers, “We can make it fun.”

You nearly smile.

But Chris doesn’t shut the hell up. Not in the truck

He walks beside Adrian during the gear check, leaning in with a shit-eating grin. “Hey V, how’s the thimble treating you lately?”

Adrian laughs—too loud, too fake. “HAHAHA very funny Chris!! Hahaha! Thimble! So original! Haha—” His hands tremble.

Your vision goes red.

You don’t even like calling Adrian your… whatever, but hearing someone else mock him? That absolutely isn’t happening.

Peacemaker keeps going.

“Can Redline even tell when you’re—”

You grab him by the front of his costume and slam him into the vehicle so hard that Harcourt has to physically shove you off.

“Call it that again,” you growl, “and I’ll replace your tongue with your kneecap.”

Chris, surprisingly enough, manages to shut up.

By the time you split into teams, everyone’s nerves are frayed.

Warehouse One: Chris + Harcourt. Warehouse Three: You + Adrian.

Which means an entire building for you and him to work out your collective homicidal tension on. And that would’ve been good—would’ve been fantastic—except Warehouse Three is too damn quiet. Too empty. Too easy.

Your knives are itching in your hands.

Underlying the static in your ears, your heart thundering with a rage that has nowhere to go, you distantly hear Adrian over comms nattering on.

“I mean, statistically, the average male spider—”

“Shut the fuck up, V,” you snarl, wiping your blade on the thigh of your suit. “Next word about statistics or spiders gets this knife parked in your eye socket.” You can almost hear his pout through the earpiece.

“Ooooh, she’s feisty tonight,” Peacemaker’s voice booms, intruding on your private channel. “You sure you can handle that, V? You know, with your little… thimble situation?”

You roll your eyes, stalking through the dimly lit corridor of the warehouse. This is why you usually work alone. The target—some human trafficking scumbag—is holed up in one of five warehouses, and the “elite” ARGUS squad decided splitting into pairs was the best approach. Which means you’re stuck with Adrian’s stream-of-consciousness nonsense and Chris’ relentless, juvenile harassment.

“It’s not a thimble, Chris! It’s… it’s a perfectly average, statistically common—”

“—thimble,” Chris finishes, snorting. “Can you even feel it when he pokes you, Redline? Gotta be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, right?”

A vein throbs in your temple. It’s not about defending Adrian’s honour—the concept is laughable. It’s the grating, constant noise. You came here for a fight, for the cathartic smash of bone and the hot spray of blood, not for this tedious commentary on a dick you have no intention of ever publicly validating.

You kick open a metal door, the bang echoing satisfyingly in the empty space. Finally, some quiet. This warehouse is cavernous, stacked high with anonymous crates. You let your senses expand, listening for the telltale shift of a hiding guard, the click of a safety.

You don’t hear the one behind the stack to your left.

The fist connects with your face with a wet, cracking thud. White-hot pain explodes behind your eyes as your head snaps back. Warmth instantly floods your upper lip, dripping down your chin—the coppery, metallic tang of your own blood flooding your mouth.

The pain doesn’t register as agony; it’s a trigger. A red film drops over your vision. A feral, guttural scream tears from your throat, raw and animalistic. You don’t think, you react. Your knife is a silver blur, plunging again and again and again into the softness of the man’s torso. Thirteen times. A wet, sucking sound accompanies each thrust. He slumps to the ground, his own shock etched permanently on his face. You stand over him, chest heaving, and spit a gob of bloodied saliva onto his lifeless form. That’s better.

There’s a pounding of boots. Adrian skids around the corner, his vigilante mask making him look like a wide-eyed, psychotic owl. His gaze darts from the dead man to you, to the blood streaming from your nose, dripping onto the leather of your suit.

The air in the warehouse shifts. The mission, the team, Chris’s voice in your ear—it all vanishes, sucked into the vacuum of the look that passes between you. It’s not concern in his eyes. It’s a mirror of your own raging, blood-spattered hunger. It’s a pure, undiluted lust that crackles in the dusty air, so thick you can almost taste it alongside the iron on your tongue.

Something in the tension between you snaps.

In two long strides, he’s on you. His gloved hand wraps around your wrist, his grip like iron, and he yanks you behind a towering column of crates, shoving you back firmly against the cold corrugated metal wall. The breath leaves your lungs in a rush. His other hand claws at his own mask, dragging the fabric up just enough to expose his mouth, a slash of desperate need in the shadow of the helmet. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t speak.

He crashes his lips onto yours.

This isn’t a kiss; it’s a collision. It’s spit-slick and feverish, all teeth and frantic pressure. The hard ridge of his mask grinds against the broken cartilage of your nose, sending a sharp, bright lance of pain straight through your skull. A jolt of pure, undiluted electricity arcs down your spine, coiling hot and urgent between your legs. You moan into his mouth, the sound lost in the savage meeting of lips.

You snarl, biting down on his lower lip, hard. You feel the skin break, the new flavour of his blood, dark and vital, mixing with your own.

“Really? That’s what you want?” He growls in response—a low, vibrating sound in his chest—and slams you back into the wall again, the impact shuddering through you.

“That was so, so hot. You have no idea—oh, fuck—I’m so hard whenever you kill one of those fuckers,” he whines out, his tongue dipping out to lick at his blood. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen though, what the fuck.” His hands are everywhere, frantic. He finds the zipper of your suit, yanking it down in one frantic motion, the material peeling away from your skin until it’s bunched around your thighs, leaving your chest bare to the cool, dusty air. Your nipples are already pebbled into tight, sensitive buds from the adrenaline and the raw energy of the fight.

He doesn’t pause to admire them. He devours.

His mouth is on you, hot and wet, his tongue laving over one peaked nipple in rough, circular motions before he draws it deep into his mouth. He’s muttering almost incoherent whispers into your skin, his voice almost reverent: “you always taste so good, how do you always taste this good? I feel like you’re a female black widow and one day you’ll actually kill me after you cum”, and that last bit has you choking out a noise in surprise, but he just shushes you and nibbles at the flesh of your breast. You swear you hear him say something like, “and I would let you too.”

He suckles at your nipples again, his eyes fluttering shut behind the mask with a soft groan of pleasure, a thin string of saliva webbing from his lip to your skin. The sensation is immediate and intense, the pull of his mouth syncing with the throbbing between your legs. Then, he bites down. Not hard enough to truly wound, but just enough to make you cry out; the sharp pinch of pain melts instantly into a wave of molten pleasure that makes your knees buckle.

His free hand is already between your legs, roughly tearing the thin fabric of your panties aside. You gasp as the cool air hits your damp, exposed flesh. His fingers, still clad in the rough material of his glove, find your soaking entrance.

He doesn’t tease.

One finger, then a second, pushes inside you without preamble. You’re soaked, aching; they slide in with a slick, easy glide, the slight abrasion of the glove fabric an exquisite, unexpected friction. He pumps his fingers into you in a rough, demanding rhythm, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust.

“Fuck, Adrian,” you breath, your head falling back against the wall. You can feel the tension coiling, tightening low in your belly.

“That’s it. You can take it.” His mouth moves to your other breast, repeating the torturous, wonderful attention, biting and sucking until you’re mindless, until the only things that exist are his mouth on your nipple, his fingers buried inside you, and the building, screaming pressure.

“Yeah, come on, Red. Cum on my fingers.” It’s not a request; it’s a demand.

Your hips buck wildly against his hand, meeting his relentless thrusts, chasing the feeling. The orgasm rips through you suddenly, violently; a silent scream is trapped in your throat as your inner muscles clench rhythmically around his invading fingers, your body pulsing around him.

He withdraws his fingers slowly, and you can hear how wet you are. Your own cum glistens on the black leather of his glove. He brings them to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste you, his eyes locked on yours, dark and blown wide with want. Adrian moans lowly, the noise catching somewhere between his chest and his throat.

A clatter of boots on concrete echoes from the entrance of the warehouse. Chris.

“V? Red? The hell was that scream? You guys got a situation?”

A wicked idea sparks. You lock eyes with Adrian, a feral smile touching your bloodied lips. You press your thumb hard into the shallow, still-weeping knife wound between his ribs—a souvenir from earlier.

He hisses, his pleasure-pained expression sharpening into something feral. His patience evaporates. He spins you around, bending you forward over a low, wooden crate. The splintered wood bites into your bare stomach. You hear the slick sound of him spitting into his palm, then the rustle of his suit pants being shoved down his thighs.

His cock springs free, and you crane your neck to see it. It’s thick and ruddy, the skin pulled taut, the head flushed a deep, angry purple. He’s slick, dripping pre-cum like a faucet. He guides himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging against your slick, swollen folds.

He doesn’t ease in. He drives forward, one single, powerful thrust that sheathes him to the hilt inside you.

You cry out, a raw, guttural sound torn from your chest at the sudden, breathtaking fullness. The stretch is immense, perfect, stealing the air from your lungs.

“The fuck is going on over there?” Chris’ voice is closer now, just around the corner of the crate stack.

Adrian doesn’t hear him—he’s lost, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh—as he sets a punishing, frantic pace. Each withdrawal is almost complete, each thrust a deep, piston-like drive that slams your hips into the crate.

“Take it—” He raises his palm off the fat at your hips and lands a sharp smack to your ass. You barely choke out a cry. “Shh, shhhhh, you can take it, baby.”

The crate creaks and sways with each brutal thrust. The wet, slapping sounds of skin on skin, of his body meeting yours, are obscenely loud in the vast space.

You turn your head, your cheek pressed against the rough wood. Chris chooses that exact moment to round the corner. He stops dead. His jaw goes slack. He takes in the scene: you, bent over, your suit down, your back bare, eyes heavy lidded; Adrian, pants around his thighs, fucking into you with a raw, animalistic desperation.

You lock eyes with Chris. A slow, wicked smile spreads across your face. You let your eyes flutter shut and moan, loud and theatrical, “Oh my god, Adrian! You’re so big, baby!”

Chris’ face floods with a deep, mortified red. He stumbles backward, his boot catching on a loose pallet, and he crashes into a stack of empty crates with a clatter. He doesn’t even try to play it cool; he just scrambles to his feet and practically runs back the way he came, his retreating footsteps echoing his panic.

The sight of his humiliation sends a fresh, vicious thrill through you. Adrian snarls at the sound of the crash, his focus snapping back. He seizes you by the nape of your neck, forcing your face down hard against the crate, his thrusts becoming even more frenzied, more possessive. You can’t see anything but the grain of the wood, can only feel the relentless drive of his hips, the building, coiling tension low in your belly.

“You wanted an audience?” Adrian snarls, his thrusts becoming even faster, even harder, each one punching a breathy moan from your lungs. “This is what you wanted, huh? Wanted someone watch you get fucked stupid, yeah?” He smacks you once more, right where he did before. You keen wildly under him.

You watch from your compromised position as Chris’ retreating figure disappears into the maze of shadows. The sight of his flight, combined with Adrian’s furious, possessive taking, pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

“No—” You sob out, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. “Wanted stupid, dumb Chris to watch you fuck me stupid.”

The wood scrapes your cheek. The pain is a bright counterpoint to the deep, internal friction. You can feel your second orgasm approaching—a tidal wave building from the very core of you, fed by the violence, the exhibitionism, and the tang of coppered blood in the air. Pleasure twists under your skin, coiling deep inside you where Adrian meets it, each muscle tighter than a bow line.

You’re clenching around him like a vise when, out of nowhere, your orgasm crashes over you; a silent, seizing convulsion that makes your vision bleach out. You slam a fist into the crate and hiss at the splinters that dig their way in at the impact.

You wail out, sharp and loud, snapping your head back to scream into the echoing cavern of the warehouse.

You feel the scream tear out of you more than you can hear it.

With a guttural groan that's ripped from the depths of him, he pulls out of you. Hot streaks of his cum paint your lower back, your ass, claiming you. Every muscle in his body seizes up, rendering him unable to do anything except let his hips jerk in helpless little motions.

You’re panting, slumped over the crate, boneless and spent. For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing. You turn your head to look back at Adrian with a fucked out smile on your lips and tears in your eyes. You watch as he straightens himself, his lips parted as he takes in deep drags of air, his cheeks flushed down to the collar of his suit.

One hand leaves your hip, unfurling his tight grip, and he trails his hand across the still bleeding wound across his ribs until it’s soaked in his own blood, before he then gathers his release from your skin, mixing it with his own blood, and begins to rub it into you. He drags a slow, deliberate, possessive circular motion on the small of your back, marking you with the proof of him.

“Mine.” Adrian growls.

“Yes. Yeah,” you mumble into the wood you’re still pressed face first into. “Now he knows it too.”

Adrian huffs out a laugh of disbelief. “Oh my God. What the fuck.” He brings a hand up to trace an old scar on your shoulder blade. “That’s what this was about?”

“No.” You turn your head back to Adrian and you let out a triumphant grin. “I wanted him to see how good your thimble fucks me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

In the months following the Earth splitting open, making a direct cavity into the parallel dimension known to some as the Upside Down, the entire town of Hawkins, Indiana went into an immediate quarantine with an active military presence, base, and twenty-four-seven surveillance. 

It only took a week for the fence to go up, it surrounded the entire town, forest, and all interstate entrances to Hawkins. Then the government and military started the efforts of closing the trench left behind from Vecna’s somewhat successful dimensional merge. They’d poured whatever materials they could find into the trench, in hopes of sealing it with the same methodology that gardeners and landscapers used to fill in mole holes.

They were unsuccessful, considering the trench was both incredibly long, and deep enough to merge two planetary scapes. So somehow, they settled on large metal plates that spanned the entire length of the trench. The effort did take some trial and error, different materials being tested for not only sturdiness but their ability to actually hold.

Eventually the government figured things out.

But that was just the beginning of things. 

Quarantine was officially mandatory, weekly food and supply deliveries had been organized and required constant authorization, the only ones that were frequently allowed in and out were government and military officials. 

The area surrounding Hawkins lab was also fenced off and guarded, whatever they were doing behind those gates and fences was highly confidential and could also be world-ending. The military’s main base was also located next to the lab. 

Hawkins, Indiana had gone from being a small ‘pit stop’ town to a national ‘landmark’ given their rapid increase in media coverage following the Earth practically splitting in two. Initially reporters and media fled to the scene, those brave enough to venture to the dust-filled disaster tried their best to get real footage of the disaster while the Hawkins residents that could evacuate, did.

Those that couldn’t, didn’t.

Some chose to stay, they were out of options, there wasn’t much else that they could do.

Then of course, there was the party.

The rag tag group of teens and adults that had been dealing with this issue and fighting interdimensional monsters for years. More than half of them were kids when it all began, the others were teens, and of course, the few adult parental figures that had been involved in everything.

They couldn’t just up and leave, not after everything that had happened. 

Not after Max Mayfield was still stuck in a coma. 

Not after Eddie Munson died in the Upside Down without getting the opportunity to truly clear his name. 

Especially not after everyone else they’d all lost along the ongoing battle. Friends, family, hell—even household pets.

There wasn’t much that they could do now though, not with the military and the quarantine, not to mention the fact that Jane ‘Eleven’ Hopper was wanted by the government after everything that occurred in the desert leading to, and following the death of Dr. Martin Brenner.

So everyone did their best to continue living life, pretending that things were alright. Although, there were a few hiccups, such as the weekly ‘crawls’ that were conducted under the cover of the military burns. 

On a weekly basis, the military sends a group of troops into the Upside Down armed with enough firepower to burn down an entire compound. It’s their version of a containment protocol, no one truly understood the extent of the Upside Down, it had to end at some point, and unfortunately for the unlucky burners, they were the ones who had to find that out.

Everything had changed, so while everyone tried to keep going as if nothing happened, some people just couldn’t.

Sure some things were consistent, but things were different, and that difference mattered.

It mattered the most to you. 

The girl that lost her best friend who decided it was a great idea to sacrifice himself to finally be the hero. 

The girl that was left to pick up the pieces of the few people that actually mourned Eddie. It was hard being the strong one, the one who had to smile and laugh and force herself to look fine when she wasn’t.

When she hadn’t been fine in a long time.

But before, you were okay with not being fine. You were okay with being one of the town pariahs that paraded around in a brown beat to shit van with her best friend that somehow couldn’t manage to graduate high school, blasting pop music despite his protests that it was ‘garbage’. You were okay with being the girl that worked at the Arcade next to the old Family Video, the one who sat behind the sticky, dingy counter and people-watched while mouthing half-assed statements to irritating kids and drunken teenagers.

Things were normal then, you were taking courses at the community college in the next town over, working half the week, and spending your free time doing whatever, whenever.

That was before Chrissy died. Before Eddie got framed, before you found him hiding out at Reefer Rick’s, and before you’d gotten dragged into what Dustin Henderson called ‘the party’. 

But now, now you were stuck working at the radio station that you hated, with people that you tolerated, outside of Robin—you were friends before everything happened—but you never wanted to work in radio, hell you wanted to go to law school, wanted to finish your community college degree and transfer to some four year that you’d barely be able to afford.

Then work your way up, get to law school, and eventually, eventually you’d be able to sit and fight the power or whatever the hell Eddie used to say.

That was just a fantasy now.

Most days were like today, where you found yourself sitting at Roane Hill Cemetery, or wherever the hell else you’d find a moment of peace, staring off into the distance, thinking about how things were before your best friend managed to drag you into something so fucked up that it could only be real in a Dungeons & Dragons campaign.

Sure, you were still grieving, but you knew how to handle grief, it wasn’t an unfamiliar emotion, and you knew that Eddie would’ve wanted you to do so much more than fall into a depression over his death. Besides, he died a hero, and you had to be there to clear his name, no matter how long it would take.

The only good thing about today is the fact that it’s sunny, not too cold, not too hot, the perfect in between, something that could’ve been the perfect Spring day. But it’s not the perfect spring day, instead it’s almost been an entire year since Eddie Munson died, and you’re stuck in a Quarantine zone, and you hate everyone.

Well, not everyone, but most people.

You’d spent the past half hour cleaning the tombstone, wiping away the spray paint that usually adorned Eddie’s grave with paint thinner, finding comfort in the smell. It brought back memories of having to scrub the side of the trailer after Wayne discovered the myriad of leftover spray paint following the making of the Corroded Coffin banners and flags.

The breeze felt nice against your bare skin, but you hated the feeling of grass against your upper thighs as you sat in front of the headstone. Wearing shorts sounded great in theory, but right now, it was just irritating you.

Speaking of irritation, the sound of several distinct footsteps caught your attention, an annoyed sigh slipping past your lips as you shifted slightly, now looking to the side, spotting Dustin, Robin, and Steve walking in unison. 

Robin must’ve told them where you were. Or maybe it was Dustin. 

All you know is that Steve Harrington wouldn’t have known where you were unless someone told him. You weren’t friends, you didn’t even like him. Sure, Robin told you to try giving him another chance, but you always declined with an eyeroll and a dramatic sigh.

Then Eddie told you, in his last moments before running out of the trailer to give him a shot. 

So maybe, part of you wanted to, just because Eddie told you to. But the majority of you couldn’t stand Steve Harrington. Not from the moment you met him in Elementary school when he was a year older than you and managed to steal your swing during recess.

Growing up it wasn’t exactly difficult to know who he was, not when everyone was fawning over him from middle school throughout high school, until his demise as ‘King Steve’, which you later found out correlated to Nancy Wheeler dumping him, and the whole parallel dimension disaster.

But something about him genuinely ticked you off. He was always obnoxious, but now, it was like things had gotten worse. Sure, quarantine sucked, everyone was miserable in one way, shape, or another. 

That’s just how things are now.

Steve though? Steve was the epitome of fucking annoying. You had to sit back and watch as he competed with his ex-girlfriend’s current (or ex?) boyfriend for her affection, trying to out machisimo him at any chance. Then there was his constant attitude, and the never-ending sass. 

You thought Eddie was bad? Steve Harrington was ten times worse.

He’s a walking primadonna. 

Instead of saying anything to them, or acknowledging Robin’s subtle nod and Dustin’s weary smile, you rolled your eyes and refocused on the headstone and messily arranged wildflowers in front of you. It quickly became your weekly tradition to bring some to his grave, sometimes you’d find them withered, other times they’d be covered in paint or stomped on. But that hasn't stopped you.

Besides, the jocks and idiots of Hawkins were too afraid that you’d summon Satan or stab them with a pocket knife to ever get too close to you. Plus you’d made a make-shift flamethrower the one time that they had tried to threaten you. That day you’d lit a cigarette between your teeth as you faced the highschoolers, then took out a travel-sized bottle of hairspray from your pocket and used it on the flame from your lighter.

They deserved the scare. Although you definitely signed off one of their eyelashes and brows.

You’d never really been the most approachable. Sure you hadn’t fully leaned into the metalhead aesthetic that Eddie and your former friends had, but you were standoffish. Upon first glance, you looked pretty normal, a bit alternative, but nothing too dramatic. Your hair was always braided, you wore jeans that were usually ripped, and had a few tattoos here and there, but most weren’t visible.

To everyone around you, you looked mostly normal, it was just the people that you associated with that made things harder for you. But you didn’t care, because caring was for losers.

When it came to people like Steve Harrington though? You weren’t just standoffish, no you were downright mean, and he deserved it.

“Thought we’d find you here, we’ve got good news, and bad news, bad news first?” 

You sighed at Robin’s voice, glancing back over, now slightly squinting as you looked up towards the sky to get a better view of her face and standing figure. She smiled nervously, fidgeting with her hands while Dustin sighed, moving away from Steve and making himself comfortable on the ground beside you.

You moved over without a second glance at the teen, making space for him on the plot while still waiting on Robin’s news. Steve’s brows knit together at the unconscious understanding between you and Dustin, his gaze moving from you, towards Dustin who now stared directly at the headstone. 

“Bad news is always first, Tweetie” she nodded, a small smile forming at the old nickname you’d given her in middle school. You two had been inseparable then, but following her parent’s divorce, you two had grown apart, still friends, but not as close. Then of course, the whole parallel dimension fiasco brought you two back together. 

“Well, bad news is Murray couldn’t get your peanut butter boppers…and we need your help fixing the sound board at the station again.” She flashed an awkward smile with two thumbs up, then elbowed Steve hard enough to elicit an ‘ow’ from him before giving him a pointed look.

He cleared his throat. “Also, our pay got cut again. Dunno why we even get paid, we live in a damn military hell hole—Robin ow!” Steve stopped talking the second Robin hit him again, groaning as she rolled her eyes.

You looked between them, then at Dustin, leaning into his space the slightest bit to whisper “why’d you bring that douchebag?”. He laughed in return, flashing his signature smile. 

“He gave us a ride. You know we can’t drive.” 

You nodded, then shook your head before standing up, brushing off the dirt from your thighs before adjusting your shorts that had ridden up. You were looking down, and facing slightly away from them, trying to focus on the task at hand before suffering through a car ride with Steve Harrington.

Meanwhile Steve stared at you with his brows slightly raised and lips parted the smallest amount. His gaze shifted along your figure, stopping at your plush thighs, down to the curve of your ass while you swatted at the denim-clad skin to clean the dirt and debris off of the scrunched up denim.

Then his eyes moved back up a bit, taking in the oversized black jacket you wore, half of it practically hanging from one of your bare shoulders, a thin white strap contrasting against your skin. As his eyes moved across your shoulders and the dingy sweater, he stopped at your very obvious cleavage that he hadn’t noticed before. What he assumed to be white lace was peaking out from below the hoodie.

Steve would be lying if he said he wasn’t staring directly at your ample cleavage. It was only showing because you were adjusting your clothes, shifting around until all of the dirt was off of your skin. Then you bent over a bit and he all but groaned, watching the hoodie slide along your curves, and your ass jutting out just enough to have his head spinning.

He felt the heat rising to his cheeks while he looked at you, then winced as Robin elbowed him particularly hard, directly in the ribs. He blinked then looked at her, brows now knit together and eyes squinted.

She mouthed ‘stop it’. Which had him rolling his eyes, crossing his arms in front of his chest and nodding like a child that was just lectured. Shifting awkwardly on his feet, while trying to will himself to think of anything that would stop his blood from rushing south.

Meanwhile you were focused on gathering all of your things, Dustin passing you a few of the items. Then you paused, now squatting down to rummage through your raggedy old white (well now grey) backpack that was covered in sharpie doodles. Then you pulled out a silver ring with a black square onyx stone on it.

“Wayne found it, gave it to me, but I figured you’d like it better.” Then you handed it to Dustin.

He smiled, pulling you into a hug that earned a shocked laugh, you smiled, hugging him back. You shared the same grief with Dustin, and out of everyone, it was widely known that you understood him the most.

Something Steve was a bit jealous of.

Eventually your moment ended, and you were up on your feet, backpack lazily slung over a shoulder, walking side-by-side with Robin, leaving Dustin and Steve a few feet behind.

“So what’s the good news?” 

She smiled “good news is I’ve got a date!”

You excitedly gasped, eyes wide, smile wider “No way! When?! I’m glad you finally asked them out! It’s only been like a year of you two being ‘just friends’ and y’know—” You used air quotes to emphasize your words while wiggling your brows up and down, she smiled and nodded her head, hair bouncing with movement.

“Tonight!” You blinked a few times, suddenly stopping in place, only to have someone walk right into you, which had you stumbling slightly, but a pair of strong hands on your waist stopped that, steadying you in place with a few mumbled apologies.

Your eyes widened at the realization that not only had Steve walked right into you, he was also strong enough to stop you from falling, and his chest was flush with your back. More importantly, your ass was flush with his crotch, and as you leaned into him to steady yourself, that became very evident. So evident that you practically screamed and shoved him away from you.

“Don’t fuckin touch me Harrington! Jesus! Watch where you’re walking” Your words were laced in venom, rolling your eyes before scoffing. 

Robin stared with her usual panicked expression, meanwhile Dustin tried to hold in his laugh at your blatant rejection and Steve’s slow blinks while he processed the sound of you yelling at him.

“Is now a bad time to say that you two are working together tonight? Jonathan will be there though! Since I won’t be!” you looked at Robin again, the same shock from earlier creeping back into your system. Then you slowly nodded your head, taking a deep breath as you pursed your lips together.

“Robin, I’m happy for you, I am, but I’m gonna go home now, before I murder that bimbo. Dustybun, I’ll pick you up tomorrow around 3ish.” Then you turned back around, now walking off towards the parking lot, mumbling a series of frustrated curse words under your breath, all while trying not to think about the feeling of Steve Harrington’s crotch against your ass. 

More importantly, Steve Harrington’s bulge against your ass.

You seriously needed to get laid. Blushing over a douchebag like Steve Harrington?! What would your old friends think! (To be fair, Eddie did call Steve dreamy in the week prior to his passing.)

As you stormed off, Steve blinked a few times, processing the fact that you’d called him a bimbo, while unabashedly checking you out again. This time his head tilted to the side just a bit while his eyes zoned in on your ass and hips switching as you walked. The slight jiggle of your thighs made him bite his bottom lip while he did his best to ignore the burning stares of Robin and Dustin.

Then Dustin was the one hitting him. “Dude! You might as well have your tongue sticking out like a dog! Jesus! She’s a person not a piece of meat! You need to get your little crush under control. It’s getting pathetic man.”

He scoffed at Dustin. “Aren’t you like sixteen? Don’t call me pathetic for looking at her, I mean come on! Have you seen her? And her little shorts, and bad attitude? I could fix that y’know—I could fix her. Or at the very least, I could y’know—”

Dustin audibly gagged, Robin joined him shortly after. 

Then Robin groaned, now looping an arm through Steve’s and practically dragging him along as Dustin walked on the other side of her. “She’s not something to be fixed! Besides! She hates you dingus, like really, really hates you. So tonight, at the station, please don’t piss her off before she throws another laugh track cassette at your head. We have limited supplies y’know.”

“Just don’t be a dick man.” Then Dustin and Robin were humming in unison.

A few hours had passed since Robin dropped the bomb that she was finally going on a date with Vicki, and that you’d be stuck working with Steve tonight, but at least Jonathan would be there! Besides, if Nancy wasn’t there then you wouldn’t have to be witness to their ‘manly man’ testosterone filled competition.

Then you walked into the station, brows knit together when Jonathan didn’t immediately come to the front of the building to greet you the way he always did. Maybe he was just busy, tonight was an organizational night. Everyone was supposed to work on cleaning up the place and fixing whatever was broken, then you’d have to be witness to Steve’s evening show.

He was so annoying during his evening show. Some nights he even took a few callers and flirted like an idiot.

It wasn’t until you’d made it into the actual sound booth area that you registered Jonathan wasn’t there. Instead, you were met with Steve’s surprised expression while he looked from the pile of old worn-out cassettes to you, standing in the doorway, staring at him like you wanted to stab him.

“Where’s Byers?”

Steve slowly nodded and shrugged. “Probably with Nance.” He internally cringed at the sound of his voice, it came off as if he was jealous that Jonathan was with Nancy, in all reality, he just wanted to keep the interaction with you as short as possible.

You were a ticking time bomb when it came to him and he knew that.

He watched as you rolled your eyes and walked into the room, dropping your bag onto one of the wheely chairs before moving to the sound board that Robin usually used during her Rockin’ Robin morning shows. The same sound board that always had issues.

You grabbed a pair of headphones, then turned everything on, playing whatever record happened to be left there, adjusting different metrics and volumes, doing your best to figure out what exactly was wrong this time.

Then the static started, on a loop. So you slowed things down, pressed a few buttons, flipped a few switches—or at least that’s all Steve knew you were doing. Sure he could navigate some things, but you were an expert on all things musical or broadcast related. 

While you focused on that, he took the time to check you out once again, now leaning against the back counter, his arms crossed in front of his chest again while his gaze trailed your body. It was clear you’d changed your clothes since the morning. Your legs were still on display though, except now you were in a denim skirt that barely covered anything—at least that’s how he felt.

The skirt wasn’t even a miniskirt, you’d just worn it a bit higher up on your waist to get the look you wanted with your old Metallica crewneck. But it was short enough to make Steve’s brain short circuit.

Plus the denim hugged your ass perfectly, the longer he looked at you, the more he imagined the feeling of your skin in his hands, it would probably be soft, it always looked soft.Then you leaned forward some, stretching and shifting on your feet, moving them apart just enough to force your skirt up higher, a sliver of skin now on full display for Steve. 

His jaw dropped and his skin was on fire.

In his head, he could imagine sliding the denim up, hands on the fat of your ass, rubbing into the skin, roughly smacking against it until you moaned his name. Sliding his hand between those plush thighs, in his head you’d be so warm, so wet, so willing. You’d probably moan his name like a prayer, and then the thought of having you bent over at his mercy? It drove him insane.

Don’t even get him started on your chest and stomach, he wanted to bite into the ample flesh, wanted to leave bruises along your skin, wanted to feel your pillowy soft skin molded against his rough hands.. 

It was something he’d told Robin once, not in full detail, but she was going on about how Vicki was insecure about her stomach, and how other girls she knew were always insecure about it, then he managed to word vomit that it gave more room to ‘hold onto’ things.

To say that somewhat mentally scarred Robin was an understatement, however it was advice that she would later put into application.

He blinked a few times, snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of you practically shouting his name.

Now, you’re looking over your shoulder at him with a deadly glare.

“Harrington! Fucking Christ are you slow?! play one of the sound effects already!” You were yelling at him, and now he was moving to angle his body away from you, fully facing the counter that held the cassette players and smaller radios, doing his best to ignore the tightness in his crotch while his hands shook as he played one of Robin’s reaction tracks.

You groaned, hearing the amplified static when he pressed the button, shaking your head before looking around, eyes tracing each wire, moving around the room until you stood next to Steve, practically shoving him out of the way with your shoulder. Then you were pulling the machine forward slightly, shoving it towards Steve, relying on his reflexes to actually catch it and hold it in place.

Somehow, in his embarrassed horny daze he managed to do so.

You worked in silence, fingers delicately tracing and moving the wires around, unplugging and replugging things in, re-aligning cords, and reorganizing everything based on how it was supposed to be done—not whatever this disaster was. 

Steve scoffed “those are all in the right spot, I would know, I put them there.”

You rolled your eyes without looking at him. “You’re technologically illiterate, Harrington. Meaning, all of this shit is a tangled up mess which explains the static, the delays, and most importantly, the lack of any real signal between track two and the actual broadcast. You’re a moron, once again. How you managed to get a job as a sound tech? Who knows.” 

As you spoke you finished plugging in the last few wires with a sigh. Now moving back towards where Robin usually sits to do the broadcast. Motioning with a hand for him to play the sound once you had the headset on.

He rolled his eyes, remembering exactly why he couldn’t stand you as he pressed the green button. 

“It’s fixed. Do me a favor and stop fucking with the wires. I’m tired of fixing your mistakes.”

His brows knit together, blinking slowly while he processed your words, but most importantly, he processed your tone. You usually spoke with venom, sometimes it was forced, sometimes it came naturally. But it was different now, you sounded tired, exhausted even.

The thing that worried Steve the most was the fact that you sounded sad. 

The last time you sounded sad when talking to him was around the time that Eddie died.

Steve was quiet as he watched you set the headphones down, turning off a few switches, powering things down, then you left the broadcasting booth, walking right past him as if he wasn’t even there.

Then he followed you. Watching as you pulled down a crate of records off of one of the shelves, everything inside disheveled, uneven, and most likely in the wrong spots. Then you started working, acting as if nothing was wrong and everything was normal. 

He was used to you ignoring him. Just like he was used to you being mean to him.

But not like this.

Steve watched you for a few minutes, watched as you meticulously organized every single vinyl in the crate, aligning each case evenly, then working on alphabetizing them—the way you’d always done it. Each crate or group of crates was assigned a genre, from there the crates would be color coded and alphabetized to show what started where. 

He hated it, and it was a large point of contention between you two in the beginning, you’d constantly scream at him about putting things where they belonged, and he would brush you off, some sarcastic remark falling from his lips while he rolled his eyes. 

Eventually he started half-ass organizing things. The vinyls were in the right crates and that was enough for you.

Steve watched you, this time he wasn’t checking you out like a horny douchebag, he was actually focusing on your movements, on the slow rise and fall of your chest, on the way you furrowed your brows. He took in each and every detail about you in this moment, from the way you swayed side to side, slowly, almost unconsciously to the way your eyes traced each vinyl, lips moving ever so slightly as you read the names on the records. 

You looked peaceful in a devastating way, the dim glow of the muted fluorescents emphasized your features in a way that made you look tragically beautiful. The few subtle reflections from the neon signs around the station danced along your cheeks. That’s when he noticed the way you scrunched your nose ever so slightly, as if something was bothering you.

“Are you okay?” His voice was low, quiet, and you knew he was being sincere.

You blinked a few times, freezing in place. Eyes slowly moving across the room to meet his. It’d been a long time since anyone had asked you if you were okay, not in a genuine way. Not the way that Steve Harrington of all people was currently asking you.

The way he was looking at you had your eyes welling with tears that you did your best to blink away, skepticism evident on your features while you shook your head. “You don’t get to ask me that.” Your voice wavered a bit, shaking slightly as you spoke.

He scoffed. “Oh because we’re not best friends connected at the hip I can’t ask if you’re okay? When you’re clearly not. I mean I wasn’t gonna say anything about the cemetery, but don’t you think it’s a little odd that you spend most of your free time at a grave? Then the ring thing, just giving Henderson one of your dead best friends rings. I’m not trying to be insensitive okay, I get it, you’re grieving, but you just—you’re you”

You shook your head, the tears now falling, gliding along your cheeks as he spoke. Except you didn’t look sad, no, in fact, you looked visibly angry. 

Steve just didn’t know if it was towards him, or towards the entire world.

“You don’t get to tell me how to live my life or whatever the hell is left of it Harrington.”

He shook his head. “I’m not telling you how to live your life, I’m telling you that you’re very clearly not fucking okay, and you’re not even living your life—you’re barely surviving. And I don’t know if anyone else has even realized that about you because you’re so good at pretending!”

“Yeah, because you know all about pretending to be someone you’re not huh?” 

Steve rolled his eyes “that’s a god damn low blow and you know it. I know who I am, and I know how shitty I was, I don’t need you to throw that in my face when I’m trying to show you that I care!” His voice got louder as he spoke, shouting at you as his hands moved frantically to emphasize the words slipping past his lips. Then he ran a hand through his hair, letting out a frustrated sigh.

“How the hell could you possibly care about me?! Harrington, be fucking honest, the only thing you wanna do is fuck me. You make it obvious enough you asshole. What got tired of staring at me like a fucking piece of meat and decided, hmm what a wonderful night to actually give a shit about someone?!” 

His mouth opened and closed rapidly, shock clear on his features while he tried to find a rebuttal, sure he knew you were sort of right—he definitely wanted to fuck you. There was no doubt about that in his head, but that wasn’t all he wanted.

“See, that right there just proves my point. You don’t give a shit about me Harrington, so don’t pretend you do. I’ve had enough of that from everyone over the past year. Every five minutes it’s some bullshit ‘I'm sorry for your loss’ followed by ‘but he was a murderous devil worshipper’. I don’t have time for the bullshit, so kindly, fuck off.”

“You’re so god damn cynical. Have you ever tried positivity? Jesus.”

Steve knew it was a shitty response, but he didn’t know how to articulate his feelings towards you, he knew they weren’t all negative, and they didn’t all revolve around having sex with you—but a lot of them did (he was working through that).

“Oh fuck you Steve. I’m perfectly fucking positive”

“You’re like the epitome of angry at the world. I get it, you have your reasons, but you aren’t the only one whos been fucked over and hurt, you’re not the only one grieving!” 

You scoffed again, nodding your head slowly, sucking on your teeth, eliciting a ‘tch’ sound. Sniffling slightly, wiping your tears away again. “I have every right to be angry at the world, I don’t even feel like myself anymore, nothings fucking normal—and guess what, we’re all fucked anyways. You don’t get it. I’m constantly on the fucking verge of a mental breakdown and I’m suffocating in stress all the time but I’m not allowed to be stressed!.”

You wiped away a few more stray tears while shaking your head. “Who’s gonna take care of my mom? Or my little brother? Or Dustin? Or Wayne?!”

He nodded a few times, unsure of what to do to say as he watched you wipe your tears away with the backs of your hands. Your eyes bloodshot and glossy, just staring at him, waiting for some shitty remark. 

“While you’re busy killing yourself taking care of everyone, who’s actually taking care of you?”

Then he surprised himself, taking a few long strides towards you, now standing toe-to-toe with you while you held eye contact with him—a silent challenge.

Steve knew you could see right through him, at least that's how it felt in the moment. Then one of his hands was caressing your jaw, thumb gliding against your tear stained cheek as you two held eye contact, standing in silence. 

This is the closest you’d ever been to him—willingly at least.

“Why the hell do you care?” 

He rolled his eyes at that, raising a single brow. “Because maybe, people are allowed to give a shit about you.”

Both of you stood in silence for a few seconds, neither looking away.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

Steve knew he moved first.

His lips were on yours, his hand still caressing your face, other hand now moving from where it’d been resting awkwardly at his side to grasping onto your waist, roughly holding onto you, the fabric of your crewneck bunched up acting as the only thin layer between his hand and your skin. He didn’t hesitate to pull you even closer to him, holding you flush against his body while kissing you.

Steve kissed you like he’d been waiting his entire life for this moment. 

You kissed Steve like you wanted to drown in him.

Your lips moved in sync, one of your hands found its way to the nape of his neck, fingers laced through his hair, your other hand resting on the hand he held on your hip, sliding along his warm skin, grasping onto his wrist as if you wanted to anchor yourself there. 

The kiss wasn’t too harsh, but it wasn’t soft and sweet either. It was the perfect mixture between the two, passionate enough to make your head spin, while still having a layer of anger and venom that was just so familiar to the both of you.

He bit your bottom lip, tongue slowly making its way between them. From there, Steve took full control of the kiss while simultaneously backing you up into one of the shelves against the wall. One of his legs situated between your own. His thigh resting against you, holding your legs apart—leading to your skirt riding up even further.

You pulled away first, lips parted, heavy breathing as you looked at Steve through your lashes. 

His face was flushed, lips swollen and kiss-bitten, eyes hooded and a bit hazy as he looked right at you. Your hand was still in his hair, but the hand he had on your jaw had moved down, now resting against your neck. 

“Let me take care of you tonight—tomorrow we can go back to fighting, I swear. Consider it a healthy distraction” 

Steve was desperate now, but he knew you needed this. He knew you needed something to distract you, and for once in his life, he was content with being just another distraction for someone.

You nodded your head. “Just for tonight right?”

“Promise, just for tonight.”

That was all the reassurance you needed.

Then his lips were back on yours again, desperation leaking into the kiss. His hands started to move, the one on your throat slid lower, gently grazing over your chest—testing the waters. You leaned into the kiss, tongue against his, your hand followed his, grasping it, letting him know it was okay to actually touch you.

Everything in Steve’s mind was telling him to be slow and gentle with you. But you—you were the exact opposite, hand now tugging at his hair, kissing him with more teeth than tongue, and your other hand moved from his, to his chest, sliding down along the fabric of his sweatshirt, then slipping below it, fingers grazing against his warm skin at his waist.

Steve groaned against your lips, pulling back the slightest bit, resting his forehead against yours while you toyed with his belt buckle.

“I’m trying to be sweet here—you’re really making it hard” his voice was strained.

You smirked, hand sliding down from his belt buckle, towards the evident bulge in his pants, clearly straining against the fitted denim. You shifted back the slightest bit and held eye contact with him while palming him through the layers of denim, eliciting a few breathy moans.

“Clearly not the only thing hard here—hmm?” 

“This is about you baby, however you want it, I’ll give it to you—or do my best to keep up” he bit his bottom lip, another deep breath slipping through his nostrils while he held in another moan. The hand that was on your chest was now focused on the bottom hem of your crewneck, toying with the fabric.

“Stop being sweet to me Harrington.” 

His brows raised at that, the same cocky smirk that you usually couldn’t stand ever-present on his features. 

Then he was dropping to his knees as if he was ready to worship an idol. 

You were in complete shock at the gesture as he pushed your thighs apart, slotting himself between them while shooting you a quick wink. He was quick to trail several kisses from your knee to your inner thigh, stopping to nip a few marks into your skin. 

Steve’s tongue against your clothed slit had you gasping in shock, looking down at him, one hand flying into his hair, the other gripping onto the counter behind you, doing your best to stand on wobbly knees. He held eye contact with you as he bunched up your skirt, holding the folded fabric against your hip while his tongue lapped at the wet spot over your panties, the thin layer of cotton and lace the only thing separating his tongue and your heat.

His other hand found purchase on your thigh, managing to maneuver it onto his shoulder, giving himself more room. The linoleum floors were harsh on his knees—but Steve didn’t care, not when his mouth was against your cunt and you were letting out breathy whimpers and gasps while he teased you through the fabric.

Eventually he slid them to the side, tongue now meeting your wet center, and he moaned against your slit before licking a stripe from your dripping entrance up towards your clit.

You’d always doubted that Steve was as good in bed as the rumors said, assuming girls just hyped him up for the minor recognition and praise they’d get for managing to sleep with the whore of Hawkins—or at least that’s what you referred to him as. 

Steve Harrington was proving you wrong with his tongue alone.

Your thighs were shaking already and he’d just begun, his tongue lapping at your clit, moaning against you as you tugged on his hair. He took his time with you, alternating between fast flicks of his tongue to slow circles against the swollen bundle of nerves. Each time you’d moan he’d groan, as if it was music to his ears.

Then his tongue moved from your clit back down to your entrance, tongue prodding against it, moaning at the taste of your slick. “You taste so good—fuck c’mere”. Then his hand on your waist was pulling you closer, pressing your lower body further against his face, earning another surprised gasp from you.

Steve didn’t hesitate to tongue fuck you, the slope of his nose firmly pressed against your clit while his tongue curled inside of you, darting in and out of your leaking hole, working at your cunt as if it was his last meal.

The worst part of it all though was the fact that he’d gone from looking up at you to closing his eyes, getting lost in the taste of your pussy, tongue fucking you for his own pleasure. The sight had your knees nearly buckling.

“St—Steve!” your moan caught the both of you off guard, both of your hands now in his hair, back arching slightly as you leaned back, head falling back while you moaned his name, now rolling your hips against his face—earning another muffled moan from him.

“Fuck—oh fuck” the words blended together and dragged simultaneously, you were too caught up in the pleasure shooting up your spine, alongside the warmth blooming throughout your entire body to care about how you sounded. You were on the edge, feeling as if you were wound so tight you were about to combust.

Then Steve moved again, tongue back on your clit, hand moving from your waist to between your thighs. Not one, but two of his fingers easily slid into your sopping cunt, the feeling sent a chill throughout your body, his fingers working into you, stretching you out in a way that had you feeling woozy.

The only reason he moved and adjusted himself was because truthfully, he was out of breath. Then he pulled back, focusing on fingering you, watching as you rolled your hips, practically fucking yourself against his thick digits. The sight too erotic to put into words.

“Just like that baby, just like that—keep going, wan’ you to cum like this, look so pretty riding my fingers.” His voice was deeper than usual, a little rough and breathy while he praised you. Licking his lips as he curled his fingers against that velvety spot that had you letting out a series of high pitched moans.

When you moaned his name again, he knew you were cumming, felt it in the way you squeezed against his fingers. So he started sucking on your clit again, eyes looking up at you as you tugged on his hair and whimpered his name like a prayer. He kept his motions up throughout your orgasm, pushing you higher and higher.

Well, at least until you pushed his head away. “Fuck—stop—it’s too much shit”

He sighed as he leaned back, two fingers in his mouth, sucking on them while he held eye contact with you. Smirking at the way you looked away from him.

“Stop being a freak Harrington” 

He laughed, popping his fingers out of his mouth with a shrug. “You feel better now?” His question was genuine, and even through your post orgasmic haze you knew that. 

The next few minutes were a bit of a whirlwind. First you finally looked at him again, making eye contact, then somehow, someway, he was up from the ground, lips back on yours, hands grasping the sides of your face as he passionately and roughly kissed you.

A few clumsy steps later you were in his lap on the old green sofa that was always a little too stiff for you. Your panties discarded somewhere in the room, Steve’s shirt and sweatshirt thrown elsewhere. Then he was tugging at your sweatshirt, pulling away for just a few seconds to toss it to the side.

Then your focus was on kissing Steve Harrington like your life depended on it. As if you were drowning and he was your last breath of air. Your hands were on his face, his on your waist, holding you closer, pulling you against him—swallowing all of your short whimpers.

You were grinding your hips against him, practically mewling at the friction from the bulge in his jeans against your bare cunt. The fabric caught against your sensitive pearl in a way that had your eyes practically rolling back.

Steve knew you were insatiable, it was clear that you needed this way more than he did. But admittedly, as you kissed him, tongue against his own, all he could think about was the fact that this was the best sex he’d had in months—and he hadn’t even been inside of you.

Then you were pulling back slowly, kissing along his jaw, teeth nipping against his earlobe before you were whispering “I wanna taste you too” into his ear. He audibly moaned at the request, hands gripping your waist even tighter.

You shifted back the slightest bit, just enough to give you the space to undo his belt, then the button and zipper of his Levis. He groaned at the feeling of your hand sliding beneath the denim and the fabric of his briefs, eyes squeezing shut as you slowly palmed him. 

He was thicker than you’d anticipated, but now you knew the rumors about ‘King Steve’ were real, and you wanted nothing more than to feel him in your mouth. You knew it was greedy, but you just wanted to shut your brain off for once, and just feel—so that’s exactly what you did. 

Steve’s eyes widened as you slowly slid off of his lap and onto the ground, his brows knit together when you looked up at him, and he lifted his hips to help you tug his jeans down just enough to free his cock from its constraints. The throaty moan that he elicited as his cock bobbed up and lightly smacked his lower abdomen had your eyes widening.

Well that and the size of his cock. 

“Holy shit—Steve—” 

He nodded, running a hand through his hair “you don’t have to do anyth—” his words slipped into a strained moan, he nearly doubled over at the feeling of your lips wrapping around the pink mushroom tip of his cock. He whimpered when you ran your tongue along it, then took the time to slip it through his leaking slit while looking up at him.

Steve Harrington’s cock was the prettiest shade of pink, while it was still tan, the tip of it was flushed, and the veins running along the underside of his cock were prominent, and all you wanted to do was see how much would fit down your throat.

His cock felt heavy against your tongue as you took more of him into your throat, inch by inch, until you were gagging—then you pulled off of him, a string of saliva dangling between your bottom lip and his flushed cock.

“Oh my god—no—fuck no, can’t do that again—I’ll cum—fuck” He whimpered when you licked the underside of it, one hand wrapped around the bottom half of his cock, slowly pumping his shaft, just enough to tease him while you lapped at his leaking precum. 

He pushed you off of him, earning a giggle from you.

Steve helped you off of the ground, and he also helped you lie back on the sofa, moving one of the decorative pillows to rest below your head. He slotted himself between your thighs—and it was a tight squeeze on the sofa, but somehow you both made it work.

Meaning one of your legs was lifted onto the back of the sofa, the other one was being pushed back by Steve’s hand, practically folding you in half. You were both laughing as the two of you got into the right position.

“That okay baby?” You nodded your head at him, looking at him with hooded eyes and a lazy smile.

His heart was racing—and it wasn’t because of the sex. But he chose to ignore that. Then his eyes widened. “I don’t have a condom.” You giggled at his panicked tone, then he groaned, shaking his head at you. 

“I’m on the pill, promise it’s okay—now Harrington do me a favor and fuck me”

He nodded at that, and Steve didn’t need any other encouragement. Taking a second to line himself up with your dripping cunt, biting his bottom lip at the sight of his cock catching on your entrance. Then he slowly started sinking into you, a throaty moan leaving his lips while he focused his gaze on the sight of you taking his cock.

“Fuck—just like that, take it just like that” 

Steve’s eyes hadn’t left your pussy, watching his cock slide deeper and deeper, feeling your tight warmth embrace him so well. “You’re so fuckin wet—fuck feels like you were made for me.”

You nodded, moaning, eyes squeezed shut, back arched slightly. “You’re so fuckin’ big—fuck Steve” your words were whimpered, slurring into a moan while you took everything he gave you, doing your best to relax into it, the mixture of pain and pleasure, alongside the overstimulation of it all was flooding your system.

Then he started rubbing half circles into your clit with his thumb, and that had you whining his name like a breathy prayer. 

“Doing so good for me, just like that, a little more—fuck—right there. Fuck, I might cum—shit” He bit his bottom lip, eyes now squeezed shut, one hand digging into your thigh, the other against the soft curve of your lower stomach while his thumb focused on your clit, doing his best to open you up for him. He was fully sheathed inside of you, and he was positive you’d ruined him for anyone else.

The two of you sat in a breathy silence for a few minutes, adjusting to one another, then you were the first to crack. “Steve—please—fuck me” 

He did his best to go slow with you, then he looked away from your cunt and towards you. You were already looking at him with hooded eyes and swollen lips, breathy moans and whimpers filling the air as his eyes met yours. As you moaned his name again, he lost any sense of composure, slow gradual thrusts getting rougher and faster until you were practically chanting his name in a prayer.

Then he moved the hand from your stomach, tugging on your bra just enough to expose your tits. A quiet ‘fuck’ leaving his lips at the sight of them bouncing with each thrust. It wasn’t long before he was leaning into your space, open mouthed kisses along the swell of your breasts, tongue tracing shapes into the skin, then licking and sucking marks against you.

He’d even toyed with your nipples, tongue lapping at the hardened peaks while he fucked into you like a man possessed.

Your hands were all over him, moving from his arms to his shoulders to his lower back, fingers sliding against his skin, nails leaving marks all over him while he pounded into you.

Your orgasm hit like a shockwave. 

His name left your lips in a high pitched moan bordering a scream while you were creaming on his cock, a few tears streaming down your face.

Steve kissed you through your orgasm, you could hardly kiss him back, struggling to keep up with him as you moaned and whined. Then his hips were tensing and he was moaning against your lips, pulling away only to ask “fuck—where do you want it—shit”

You were still whimpering, eyes fluttering open the slightest bit to look into his, then you moaned “Inside—fuck inside please”

That’s the last thing Steve registered before his body tensed and warmth filled you, the two of you moaning in unison, his lips lazily back on yours while he did his best to fuck you through all of it. Then he collapsed against your figure.

He rested his forehead against your bare shoulder, eyes shut as he tried to regain his composure and catch his breath. Your grip on his bare skin still evident, his lower back, shoulder blades, and biceps most likely covered in reddened raised lines and indents from your grip constantly slipping off of him as he fucked into you.

The station was quiet, the subtle hum and vibration of the machines all around still evident, alongside the minor buzzing from one of the few lamps that would most likely go out sometime soon. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat while you and Steve stayed in place.

His weight against your body was comforting in a way that you couldn’t really describe. 

The two of you laid in silence, heavy breathing still evident, and Steve hadn’t pulled out of you—not yet. His body still slotted between your thighs as the both of you remained on the old green sofa, your head resting against one of the random throw pillows that Robin had added a few weeks ago to ‘make the space more homey’—or whatever she was talking about while you were zoned out pretending to read some radio manual. 

One of your hands moved from his side to his hair, fingers toying with the strands on the back of his head, lightly grazing his scalp. 

When you tried to adjust yourself, he groaned. “Just give me a sec—gonna stay like this for another minute —okay?” His words were slightly muffled, breath warm against your damp skin, but you simply hummed, giving him time to recover. 

Although, admittedly, the sofa wasn’t the biggest, and now that you were experiencing a minor case of post-orgasm clarity, you knew that the both of you barely fit together. He was still technically resting on his knees, his upper body hunched over in what you suspected to be a very uncomfortable way—now that he wasn’t actively fucking you.

After another couple of minutes of silence, Steve groaned, now slowly pulling out of you, peppering light kisses against your neck and shoulder while you hissed due to your increased sensitivity. 

“Shit—’m sorry baby” 

His words were a soft whisper that had your skin flushing again, then Steve was fully off of you, taking his time to stand up, tugging his briefs and jeans back up over his hips. You hadn’t even realized he’d never fully taken them off—the sight had you giggling in a manner that sounded almost drunk.

Steve scoffed, shaking his head, his damp hair moving more than usual. “Don’t laugh at me right now, I just gave the performance of my life”

That had you laughing at him while he looked around, eyes searching for your lost clothing items before landing back on you. Then he took in your nearly bare figure, the only clothing items you had on being your hiked up skirt and your disheveled bra—you were quick to adjust the cups and straps, pulling them back up over your bare tits.

Tits that he would probably dream about for weeks.

Hell, Steve was most likely going to have this on repeat in his head for the next year.

“Pass me my shirt and my sweater—also where the hell are my panties?”

You two got dressed in silence, well, at least it was silent until you stood up, a bit wobbly on your feet as you shimmied to adjust your skirt, brows knit together as you looked around the room, eyes scanning the tiled floor. 

“No seriously, Harrington, where the fuck are my panties—don’t tell me you stole them to jack off with or something. That’s really perverted of you”

He rolled his eyes, now looking at you with his usual frustrated expression. “How is it that I literally had you crying on my dick less than ten minutes ago and now you’re back to being mean to me? Also I’m not a creep, I didn’t just steal your panties—I’d have the decency to ask first.”

Your eyes widened at his words, stepping a bit closer to him to roughly smack his arm, earning an ‘ow seriously?!’ from the brunette. “Don’t be a dick! Now help me find them—wait shit” your eyes widened at the feeling of warmth leaking along your inner thighs. Groaning again, immediately regretting your orgasmic haze and begging for him to cum inside of you.

You mentally cursed yourself for being a horny moron. Of course, you were grateful that the weekly deliveries did also include pharmacy and medical deliveries that contained birth control pills as well. Although, you always wondered how it was prioritized compared to medications like antibiotics and benzos.

Then again, you figured the government didn’t want people procreating in a potential apocalyptic war zone. Your mandatory health checkups also coincided with that theory—considering they always asked if you were sexually active.

Steve’s brows knit together as he watched you walk—or rather waddle—towards the restroom.

Then it dawned on him that he came inside of you. “Sorry about that—Uh the y’know? Cum? I know it's a lot sometimes—shit” 

You groaned, looking back at him over your shoulder “stop making it weird Steve! Just fucking find my underwear! Jesus!” 

Eventually when you finished cleaning yourself up, you both came to the realization that you had no idea where your panties actually were. You both just prayed one of you would find them before someone else did. 

The weeks that followed were normal, well as normal as they could be when you lived in a quarantine zone with a gateway to a literal hellscape. 

Things hadn’t changed much between you and Steve. 

Although, on multiple occasions you had woken up sweating, the image of Steve Harrington’s head between your thighs engrained in your memory permanently. Or rather the feeling of his tongue lapping against you like a mutt. You did your best to ignore the shiver that ran through your figure at the thought of everything you and Steve had done previously.

It was a one time thing.

That was that.

You weren’t going to sleep with him again. Even if he did make you feel the most normal you’ve felt in months. The distraction from real life was everything that you needed, you’d finally been able to just shut your brain off for a few hours and things were nice—well technically they were more than nice when Steve Harrington was pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you.

But that wouldn’t impact the way you treated him. You still didn’t like him, even if you knew exactly how his fingers felt inside of you—not to mention the weight of his cock against your tongue—but that wasn’t relevant! 

You still hate Steve Harrington.

Even if you did blush when he did occasionally call you baby, a knowing glance exchanged between the both of you. But that didn’t matter! You hate him!

Actually, you hate a lot of things. 

One thing you really hated though, was having to sit through one of the planning sessions for the next ‘the search for Vecna’ crawls. Sure, in theory they made sense but as of now, only one fourth of Hawkins had actually been ‘mapped out’ in reference to the Upside Down. 

It was obvious that the entirety of the town was reflected in the Upside Down, however, it was also incredibly difficult to map a place out that was swarming with dimensional beings that could sense you, the potential of a psychopath murderous monstrous sorcerer waiting on you, and of course, the military being everywhere. 

Everyone crawl consisted of several hours of nothing, the same operations, sending Hop into the Upside Down with one of Murray’s trackers, then sitting in the Squak van with Dustin and Steve tracking him, or staying with Robin at the station to end up not finding Vecna and narrowly avoiding the military.

Nancy’s plans were solid in theory, in execution they were repetitive and you were over it.

Not to mention the fact that no one would ever take your suggestions because ‘you were too new’ or whatever bullshit Nancy and Steve tried to shove down your throat when the crawls had first started. 

You’d gone into the Upside Down, you’d fought those god damn bats, dogs, and monsters. Vecna had possessed you briefly, showing you a vision of Hawkins burning, of everyone you loved dying. You knew how things worked, considering you were far from stupid, and the facts were facts. However, the major issue was that everyone was afraid of taking any risks, things were too calculated and too planned.

And unfortunately, too unsuccessful.

You’d lost your best friend there, and somehow, someway, in the time span of a year, you’d managed to do jack shit to clear his name or deal with the aftermath of everything that had occurred last spring.

The sound and sight of fingers snapping in your face caught your attention. You blinked several times before looking over at Robin who shot you an apologetic look. 

“Sorry Honeybun, but I said your name like five times, are you good with the plan?” 

You shrugged at Robin, she knew you hated doing the crawls, you’d complained to her multiple times about everything,  but you also knew there wasn’t a point in fighting with everyone. Not when you’d lose the argument either way. So for the most part, you always forced a tight lipped smile and nodded, going along with whatever plan Nancy made.

Because for some reason it was always Nancy Wheeler who called all of the shots.

Everything was always about Nancy Wheeler.

Now, you didn’t not like Nancy, you just weren’t close. Besides, even you could admit that she was pretty badass with her shotguns and pistols. However, you didn’t get along well, not when it came to your separate ideas of searching for Vecna. 

“Yeah, uh, sounds good.”

Steve scoffed, which earned a pointed glare from you.

“Oh come on, you weren’t even listening. You do realize you never listen right? I mean Nance spends all this time on these plans and explaining everything and you just sit there and zone out.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “Fuck off, Harrington.” 

Jonathan sighed. “I mean, he does have a point though. If you do have any input, we would really appreciate it, it’s been a while, and I think while things are solid, there’s no harm in tweaking things.”

Steve’s brows knit together “Why would we need to tweak a perfectly good plan?”

You groaned, crossing your arms in front of your chest, eyes moving across the dimly lit room towards Nancy who stood next to the projected town map. She rolled her eyes at Steve and Jonathan’s bickering. “You really want my input? You guys sure I’m not ‘too new’ to this shit?”

Steve paused in his bickering—bickering that you’d already drowned out as you looked over at Nancy, then up at the map—he knew that tone well. You were irritated, and the venom lacing your words was pointed and precise. You always knew when to strike, and everything you did was intentional.

“Don’t even try to pull that shit. We told you that several months ago—”

You cut him off “Oh fuck off Harrington. I’m not gonna let it go, don’t tell me too or I’ll kick your ass. Lord knows you can’t win a fight unless it’s against a god damn monster. You’re always telling me to let it go, as if that fucking freak wasn’t in my head too!” 

Robin’s eyes widened, she then looked over at Nancy who sighed and sat down, shaking her head. Jonathan moved, now walking around the room and sitting next to Robin, clearly removing himself from the splash zone, everyone practically feeling the shift in the air.

It’d been a while since you and Steve had a genuine argument, usually it was just little jabs here and there. But today? Today was clearly not a very good day for either of you. You’d walked into the station stressed, your usual neat braids were messy, looking as if they were slept in, your mascara was smudged under your bloodshot eyes, and while most would assume you were tired, it was obvious to Robin and Steve that you’d been crying.

Steve had been at the station since the morning with Robin, both of them cleaning things up and doing their morning broadcast about anything and everything. She put on her Rockin Robin persona and Steve did his best as her sound tech. But prior to arriving at the station, he’d gotten a call from his parents, one of their usual ‘check-ins’, considering the couple had been out of town when Hawkins went into lockdown.

Meaning they hadn’t been allowed back in. 

Everything wasn’t that bad with his parents being forced to stay in Indianapolis or whatever city they’d taken residency in. Steve had full independence and full freedom (within quarantine limits) to do the things he enjoyed. Although, truthfully, he just spent more time with Robin and let her crash at his place half of the week. He also tried to bond with Dustin again, but he just didn’t get why Dustin constantly pushed him away.

Following his talk with his parents, he tried to talk to Dustin, but once again, he was just shoved away and Dustin told him that he was too clingy and ‘needed to learn how to be alone for five seconds’. When he vented to Robin about it, she brushed him off, too caught up in her own thing about Vicki and her potential relationship.

So he’d been having a rough day emotionally.

Your morning consisted of arguing with your drunk mother about her irresponsibility and not taking your younger brother to school, and also not picking him up. She’d gone back and forth with you about how you needed to do more, and you needed to step up—the same bullshit she’d spew anytime she was drunk. 

Which was all the time now.

Then she brought up your father, and how disappointed he’d be in you for not doing enough. She even threw your grief into your face, saying that you needed to stop sulking over Eddie’s death and get your shit together.

Eventually she fell asleep on the sofa, and the first thing you did was cover her in a throw blanket and kiss the top of her head. It was a routine you’d gotten used to, but it always hurt. 

You talked to Dustin too, checked in with him, let him vent about how frustrated he was that Steve didn’t understand things and about how he didn’t know how to really grieve. So you let Dustin ditch and spent the afternoon with him. That conversation was also full of tears, but it was full of laughter as well.

“What the hell is your problem? What, Mommy’s little princess didn’t get what she wanted today and now she’s in a fucking mood?” 

You blinked several times, then in an instant you were standing up and throwing a stapler at him. He was lucky enough to dodge it. “Go fuck yourself Harrington. Actually, y’know what—no, go find some lonely girl that’s willing to drop her standards to hell and sleep with her instead. Maybe then you’ll be less of an asshole, or you’ll even stop competing with Jonathan over your ex-girlfriend who doesn’t even like you!”

Jonathan’s mumbled “oh my god” was missed by both you and Steve. But Nancy and Robin both nodded their heads in agreement.

“Jesus Christ, do you ever listen to yourself talk, you’re such a—fuck you’re such a—”

You cut him off, brows raised, a cynical laugh slipping past your lips “C’mon Steve, you’re a big boy—say it. You think I’m such a bitch right? Then say it you asshole”

Steve’s face was turning red as he glared at you, his jaw clenched and fists clenched at his side. Then he scoffed, shook his head, and turned around, storming up the stairs as fast as humanly possible.

Everyone else sat in silence while you stood there, fuming in place, watching him leave—then you followed him, storming right after him like a child. By the time you caught up with him, he was in the process of shutting the secret door to the basement. You grasped the metal bar on the door with two hands, holding it half-way open in place.

“You don’t get to start with me and run off you dickhead.” 

He scoffed “What? I’m not allowed to be the bigger fucking person and take a god damn breather?” Then he forced the door fully open, standing toe to toe with you. Both of you held eye contact, heavy breath hitting one another as you fumed in unison.

“You’re fucking insufferable, y’know that?”

“Wow, Steve, and you’re just the people’s fucking princess huh? Oh—I’m sorry, no you’re King Steve, the all mighty hero and savior huh?” 

You were both glaring at each other.

Steve wanted to kiss you. He wanted to kiss you until you felt like you couldn’t breathe. Until you were so lightheaded that you couldn’t focus on anything or anyone but him. The tension between you both was thick, so thick that it was suffocating. He almost kissed you, but then the sound of footsteps against the metal stairs stopped him.

“Please don’t freaking kill each other!” Robin’s voice filled the space. You rolled your eyes one last time before shoving past Steve with one hand on his chest, pushing against him until he moved back. Then you were storming towards the other set of stairs that led up to the rooftop.

Steve and Robin watched you leave, both quiet until they heard the door slam.

“Her mom drinks a lot.” 

Steve blinked a few times, turning to look at Robin with his brows knit together. “What?”

She sighed, shaking her head. “Her mom drinks a lot now, ever since her dad died when we were in middle school. It wasn’t ever this bad, but it is now. She’s not the same anymore. I remember when we were kids she was always at the PTA meetings, and she baked the best cookies for fundraisers, and she came to all of our plays. It’s different now, she doesn’t like to talk about it but I think you really hit a nerve today.”

Before Steve could respond, Robin lightly elbowed him. “I’m not saying you’re 110% wrong or she’s right, but I think that you need to cut her some slack sometimes. I mean she’s grieving, she’d been friends with Eddie for years, that was her best friend. But it’s not just Eddie, she’s grieving her life dude. She’s grieving her mom, her future, all of it.”

He paused, irritation and anger slowly slipping away from him, he knew you were in school, Eddie had told him that once, on the walk through the Upside Down after everyone followed Steve into Lover’s Lake. 

Eddie had gone on and on about how great you were, talking about how you were still taking your classes and how you almost had your associates degree. He’d gone on and on about how smart you were, and that you’d been thinking about applying to schools in Chicago and New York. 

Steve hadn’t really thought about how everything was actually affecting you. In his own head, he’d probably be stuck in Hawkins for the rest of his life, or he’d end up like his dad, who went to college and ran a business but chose to stay situated in his home town. He didn’t really dream big, or have big plans for the future.

“I know she can be really mean and rude and stuff, but she wasn’t always like this. She’s just going through a lot and she kinda clings onto the bad things people say about her and she wants to do so much more than she really can. I think that’s why she hasn’t let go of what you and Nance said a few months ago”

He nodded while Robin spoke, brows furrowed as he tried to put himself in your shoes, doing his best to understand you.

But truthfully? Steve didn’t understand you. 

He’d never really had a best friend like Eddie, he didn’t have long-term friends that knew him like the back of their hands. Sure, in the week that he actually managed to get to know Eddie Munson, Steve realized that he was actually nothing like the menace that Hawkins made him out to be, and honestly, Steve did miss Eddie in some way.

Steve also didn’t really have any major plans for his future, he didn’t have to grieve a life that was viewed as unattainable now. 

Then of course, his family life had always been pretty shitty. It wasn’t that his parents didn’t love him—well at least he thinks they love him in some weird way? But, they weren’t really around much after elementary school, business was booming and they were always traveling. Even then, the nannies and babysitters had always been a regular occurrence, even when his parents were around.

He didn’t understand you, not in the slightest. But he wanted to. He really, really wanted to.

Robin sighed, looking at Steve who was clearly lost in thought as she shook her head, patting him on the shoulder a few times. “Go talk to her, and actually talk, don’t yell and shout and be mean—even if she’s mean at first.”

He nodded at her before making his way towards the stairs that led to the rooftop.

You stood on the roof, looking towards the open fields that surrounded the WSQK radio station and tower. The sun would be setting soon, a golden hue covered everything, painting things in a warmth that you wished would envelop you, but instead, you felt cold and bitter.

Bitter about everything.

Then the door shut and you sighed, knowing that he’d followed you up here. “I don’t wanna argue with you right now so kindly leave me the fuck alone.”

You hadn’t even turned to look at him, that made Steve scoff, shaking his head as he walked across the roof towards where you stood. Then he stood right next to you, close to the roof’s ledge, overlooking the same view that you were currently glaring at. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You blinked a few times, now finally looking over at Steve, brows knit together, frustration and confusion evident on your features. “Excuse me?”

He rolled his eyes before turning to face you, hands shoved in his pockets while he tried to ignore the way that the sun’s golden rays sat along your skin, practically painting you in a radiance that had his heart racing. He wasn’t even angry anymore—not when you looked so tragically beautiful, as if you belonged in an art museum.

“I said, I’m sorry—about the comment about your Mom and just being a dick overall today. I guess I was just lashing out at you, then Robin told me about your mom and I’m just—I’m sorry okay.”

You scoffed, shaking your head while rolling your eyes. “No, you don’t get to fucking pity me because my moms a fucking alcholic mess. You don’t get to do that. You don’t know shit about me, and you’re not allowed to find out some shitty thing about me then pity me”

He craned his neck back slightly “are you serious? You think I’m apologizing because I pity you? What the fuck. Can’t I just be sorry for being a dick without you assuming that I’m like—looking down on you or something?!” As he spoke, he raised his voice at you, irritation slipping into frustration.

“You’ve never apologized to me, you douchebag. So what the hell am I supposed to think?”

He let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair before pinching his nose bridge. “You’re so god damn frustrating, y’know that? Not everyone’s out to get you! We always fight, we always argue, we always bicker—that’s just how it’s been for fucking ever.”

You nodded “so why change now? What's the point then, huh? The world's ending, we weren’t friends before, so we sure as hell don’t need to be friends now.”

Steve shook his head, hands now on his hips. “You just don’t get it do you? I’m not the same asshole that I used to be, and fuck, I’m sorry that I wanted you to know that okay? You drive me insane, I don’t understand you—I’ve tried to understand you but I just don’t. I don’t get what you’re going through, I don’t fucking pity you though! I just, sometimes I just wanna be there for you, but you make me so fucking angry all the time” 

His hands moved rapidly as he spoke, only emphasizing his words while you glared at him, jaw clenched and arms crossed in front of your chest.

“You’re the hardest person in the world to talk to, you’re worse than Henderson!” 

You scoffed, shoving him slightly, his eyes widening at the motion. “Don’t bring up Dustin! You don’t get to talk about him! I don’t care if you’re some pseudo-parental figure or whatever for him! He’s grieving damnit! Maybe he doesn’t wanna talk to you because you’re constantly dismissive! He lost someone who made him feel seen and made him want to just be himself all the time! Someone who was fucking proud of just being themself! Someone who cared—” Your voice cracked “—someone that mattered—”

When the first tear fell, Steve didn’t hesitate to pull you into a hug, holding you against him, letting you cry as you gripped onto his sweatshirt, tears staining the grey fabric. Your quiet sobs were muffled against his chest and shoulder as he rubbed small circles into your back, letting you cry.

It was the first time that you let yourself cry in a long time.

Maybe you needed that too, and maybe, just maybe, you needed Steve Harrington.

You two didn’t speak about what happened on the roof that night.

Something changed in your dynamic with Steve that night, and neither of you truly acknowledged it. But everyone noticed, it started with small things, minor incidents that would’ve typically led to a screaming match were just shrugged off, as if it wasn’t a big deal.

Granted, those incidents were never as big of a deal as either of you made them out to be, but the lack of reaction was shocking to say the least.

The next few weeks flew by, you decided to take a step back from the weekly crawls, the first time you left everyone with radio silence, eventually showing up and letting Nancy and Robin know why you’d decided to not go. You felt selfish to a certain extent, knowing how important this was to everyone, but you knew that you couldn’t keep this up, not when each dead end made you angrier and angrier.

You’d never been an angry person, at least before the world split open.

Eventually, you knew you’d go back to helping with the crawls, but for now, you needed your space.

Steve had to admit that he missed having you around. Usually the only times he’d see you was when you were working, outside of that, he had no idea what you spent your time doing. Prior to you deciding to not do the crawls, he would see you more often, hanging around Robin or the station, waiting until it was time to start another planning session or something of that nature.

It made him realize that he liked having you around, even if it was just to argue like immature children.

He also realized that he liked you a lot more than he let on. Little things reminded him of you, constantly. He’d go out to the stores and see your favorite candy, or he’d see someone in a sweater that he was positive you owned as well, Robin would play a specific song and the lyrics reminded him of you—or he’d think of you humming along to the tune.

The way you consumed his thoughts was maddening.

Prior to having sex with you, some things did remind him of you, but not like this. They’d bother him or irritate him, but now those things just made him miss you.

The worst was when he’d catch a whiff of your lingering perfume somewhere. It made him light headed in a way he couldn’t describe. Then of course, it brought back the images of you under him, moaning his name like a prayer—or worse, you on your knees staring up at him. 

It’d been about two and a half months since the night that you two had sex, and for two and a half months, Steve was waking up sweating with a wet, sticky mess to deal with. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, honestly, it happened the most when he’d spend all night thinking about you.

He wasn’t even thinking about having sex with you either! He’d just think about you, about the way your nose scrunched up when you laughed, or the way you rolled your eyes at him anytime he was in your way. Sometimes he’d catch himself thinking about the shy smile that would slip out whenever he called you baby—the same smile that would be quickly replaced with a forced frown and a scoff.

It was beyond aggravating, the way that you were constantly on his mind.

Today was no different. He saw you in the morning when you showed up for work, opting in as Robin’s morning show sound tech while Steve focused on organizing and setting up for Jonathan’s evening show. He only did the show twice a week, and usually it was just to relay other information back to Hopper, Joyce, and Murray. 

The only thing he could focus on during the morning squawk was you. His gaze kept finding your figure through the clear glass, watching as you moved from place to place, queuing Robin’s sound effects, adjusting volume levels, sorting through cassettes, using the keyboard to play different tunes and effects.

On occasion you’d catch him staring, raising a single brow at him before going back to your job.

What got him the most though, was when you laughed at Robin’s jokes when she was off-air during a song. The wide smile on your face at whatever she was saying made Steve’s heart race.

Then you were still smiling, following Robin’s gaze—and he realized that she was looking right at him as you turned around, smile dying down while you looked over at him, a bit confused, then whatever Robin said to you had you laughing again.

Steve was so fucked.

By the time the morning show wrapped up, you were bolting out of the door, muttering something about seeing Robin later that night, and to everyone’s shock, you’d even looked back over your shoulder and said bye to Steve without adding an insult in.

Once you’d left, Steve let out a sigh of relief, slumping down onto the green couch—the same couch that he had you practically folded in half on. He ran both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes for a few seconds while groaning.

“You’re in love again aren’t you?” 

He stilled, eyes widening as his hands dropped into his lap, looking over at Robin. Then he shook his head multiple times, panic lacing his features because even he knew that there was no point in lying. Not to Robin at least.

“I’m so fucked arent I?”

She sighed, arms crossed in front of her chest while she leaned against one of the station’s server boxes. “You’re beyond screwed, but I can’t say that I didn’t see this coming. I think even Eddie saw it coming—y’know he told me that he gave you his blessing, such a weird end-of-the-world thing to do—”

Steve blinked, brows furrowed “he gave me his blessing?” Then the memories hit him like a freight train.

One thing would always remain true, Steve Harrington has always found you to be beautiful, there was no doubt about it. Even when you were drifting through the halls, giving him and his friends dirty looks and shoving your way past them. You were always the pretty girl that smelled like spring with the horrible attitude.

But now, thinking back to the day that he walked into Reefer Rick’s and was pressed to the wall by Eddie Munson with a broken beer bottle—he remembered seeing you. Genuinely seeing you for who you actually were, not just the scorned girl that was angry at the world.

Dustin called you when he thought you’d know where Eddie might be, you told him where to meet you, and that Eddie was shaken up about something but wouldn’t tell you what had really happened. He kept saying you wouldn’t believe him, and that was concerning to Dustin.

When they got to Ricks you were already waiting outside for them, and Steve knew it was a bad time to check you out, like a really shitty time. But he couldn’t help himself, not when you had on a pair of jeans that hugged you perfectly, and with your arms crossed in front of your chest, your cleavage was practically screaming at him. He was beyond pathetic.

You warned everyone that Eddie was a bit antsy, he didn’t know you were coming back just yet, so they had to be careful.

Of course, Steve didn’t listen to you, and instead opted to start hitting and prodding things with a boat oar. 

It made sense that Eddie practically charged Steve into the side wall of the boathouse, a broken stella artois bottle in his hand, holding it against Steve’s throat, keeping him in place.

Everyone was screaming a chorus of ‘woah woah woah's' and ‘Eddie stop!’s. Dustin had to convince Eddie to back off, meanwhile you rolled your eyes, crossing your arms while walking up to him, placing a gentle hand on both of his shoulders, lightly pulling him back while shaking your head after everyone swore on Dustin’s mother that they were on his side.

When Eddie let Steve go, Steve doubled over, clearly out of breath. The sight made you snort, holding in a laugh while Dustin tried to take the bottle from Eddie. You shook your head at the freshman, gently nudging your way between him and Robin, grasping Eddie’s hand while mumbling “Hey—you’re okay—promise you’re okay”

You spoke so gently, carefully nudging the broken bottle out of his hands.

Then you looked at everyone, nodding your head slightly, a silent plea for them to move back, and oddly enough Robin, Dustin, and Max all understood the look. Steve kept his distance either way, especially after having the sharp edges of broken glass held against his throat.

“You’re not gonna believe me.”

You shook your head, now directly in front of Eddie, one hand on his shoulder, the other on the side of his face in a comforting manner. It was obvious that he was panicking, and your touch seemed to calm him down just enough. “We believe you Eddie, I promise but I need you to calm down, you can’t stab your way through things y’know”

He nodded and let out a soft laugh, you smiled at him, nodding your head enthusiastically before standing up, grasping his hand and pulling him with you. When Robin tried getting closer again, you held out a singular hand in her direction, stopping her movements completely.

Steve watched you with furrowed brows, glancing between your figure and Eddie’s, watching the way you picked up on his subtle ticks and minor flinches.

“Hey—hey, look at me. You’re okay Eddie. Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault, I know it wasn’t your fault okay?” Your voice sounded so soft and soothing, Eddie looked at you, nodding his head a few times, glossy eyes meeting yours on the verge of tears.

Then you glanced over at Dustin, now motioning him over. 

You’d made brief eye contact with Steve, rolling your eyes at his shocked expression.

He remembered the way you were so sweet, soft edges and wide smiles. Back then you didn’t have bags beneath your eyes and a never-ending air of pessimism. Sure you weren’t exactly nice to him, but you were to everyone else. You trusted a lot easier then too, and even at the worst times, you still had a solid head on your shoulders that wasn’t clouded by pain.

The week prior to the ‘final’ battle with Vecna was stressful and hectic to say the least. Things were moving rapidly, there was a never-ending panic floating through the group, but also strings of hope that maybe this was possible, and maybe they could finally win, once and for all.

The first time you’d been to the Upside Down, Steve remembered the way you were almost unbothered by everything. It was terrifying to him, the way that you could just adjust to things and give it your all—but at the same time, he admired that about you.

The five of you fought your asses off, killing multiple demo-bats and eventually seeking some form of shelter while you tried to come up with a plan. All of this was clearly a shock to both you and Eddie—hell even Robin was freaked out, but oddly enough, you were handling it the best.

Initially you were afraid, however, your fight or flight instinct kicked in alongside the rage that only an eldest daughter could possess—and the second Eddie’s oar snapped in two, you grasped one half and started knocking the bats to the ground, crushing them completely while trying to help Robin and Nancy—meanwhile Steve managed to get himself free as Eddie swatted away multiple bats.

Steve was feeling the adrenaline rush taking over, the pain from his bite marks and wounds wasn’t as severe, not until everyone managed to find cover in the woods, in some rubble that had formed a make-shift cave. 

You were the first to notice his limping as he held onto his wounded side. Then he was collapsing into one of the large stones, he was clearly bleeding too much, and you shook your head, watching as Nancy and Robin tried to do their best. Nancy tried wrapping his wounds, however you knew that the way she was doing things wouldn’t really hold—not the way everything needed to.

Eddie was the one to speak up, watching the conflict on your features with a loud sigh. “Nance—here—” then he pushed you towards her, earning a scoff from you while you glared at Eddie over your shoulder “Her dad’s a nurse.”

Her eyes widened as she nodded her head, practically dragging you even closer, motioning towards Steve’s bleeding abdomen. 

You sighed, reaching into your back pocket, pulling out Wayne’s old half-broken flask—thanking whatever God there was that it managed to stay on you the entire time. Form fitting denim really was your friend. Steve’s eyes widened as he watched you twist the cap off with your teeth, your other hand already undoing Nancy’s makeshift bandage.

Then you spit the cap out onto the ground. “This is gonna hurt like hell. Buckle up princess.”

He groaned as you shoved him back against the rock, then started pouring the clear liquor onto his wounds, he flinched back, head leaning against the rock, hands in his hair, pulling on it as he tried to ground himself. Then you were pulling the make-shift bandage back around him, tightening it a few times before ripping the hem off of your own shirt, using the smaller piece of fabric to tie along his waist, adding extra pressure to his bleeding wounds.

“Y-your dad’s a nurse huh?” you rolled your eyes at his question, he was breathing heavily while you worked, trying his best not to pass out from the pain.

“He was—he died when I was fourteen. Guess he taught me a few things.” Then you tightened the knot one last time.

When you tried to walk away, heading in the direction of Eddie, Robin, and Nancy, an earthquake started and you’d nearly fallen flat into the ground, however Steve was quick to grab you, leaning into the rock wall beside him, using it as leverage to hold the both of you upwards while Eddie held onto Nancy and Robin—who’d fallen into them both. You grasped onto his forearm, holding on for dear life, he could feel your heart racing in your chest at the sudden motion.

But once the quake ended, you were back on your feet.

Eddie noticed the longing look Steve gave you, at least that’s what Steve assumed when he was practically hit in the face by Eddie’s Dio denim vest. 

The time spent in the Upside Down was full of new things that you simply accepted as truth, shrugging your shoulders and listening to whatever Steve and Nancy were spewing. You’d whispered a few times to Eddie, he’d nod in return, then there was the chandelier with the glowing dust and light particles.

“Does anyone know morse code”

You blinked a few times, nodding your head, then you glanced at Eddie who shrugged. Steve was about to ask you something until Eddie asked if SOS counted, everyone except for you looked at him. You simply shook your head and sighed “yes Edward, SOS does count. Now get to work—hopefully if Harrington’s right then Henderson’ll get the message. Or the pretty boy over there’s just losing his shit over the bat bites.”

Eventually you all made it back into Nancy’s stuck-in-time bedroom, and were communicating through her little sister’s litebrite. She was focused on spelling out simple words in response to Dustin’s shouting while you just stared at the glowing particles with your brows furrowed as if you were trying to figure something out.

Steve stood to your left and lightly nudged you, catching your attention. You looked over at him, both brows raised, an expectant look on your face. When he didn’t say anything and just stared at you (like an idiot), you slowly nodded your head and looked back towards Nancy, writing a question mark. 

Even in the dingy, grey clouded Upside Down, you looked so pretty. Steve was caught off guard when you actually turned to look at him, he’d never really gotten the chance to actually look at you—not like this. He felt like a moron, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water and most likely weirding you out.

Then Dustin was shouting with his usual tone, and he and Eddie were agreeing that Dustin needed an ego check, the interaction earned a giggle from you.

The seven mile bike ride to Eddie’s trailer in an alternate hellscape was horrendous to say the least. But eventually all of you made it, and you discovered the portal to your dimension. It was also your suggestion that the kids use gravity to their advantage, clearly there was some wormhole situation—your words not Steve’s—that would allow them to toss a makeshift rope down for you all to climb up.

You couldn’t hold in your laugh at the sight of Eddie’s stained mattress, you knew there was a mixture of blood, beer, and god knows what on there—and as he tried to explain it, you were giggling at everyone’s reactions. That giggling also made Steve’s ears flush.

“Sure you don’t know what those stains are, Edward.”

He scoffed and shoved you slightly, both of you exchanging a look before breaking out into laughter. 

Then Robin went first, followed by Eddie who gave you a sailor’s salute and a wink. When Nancy went up, she’d been possessed by Vecna for a few moments, eventually the kids found something for her to listen to, bringing her back from Vecna’s possession. You all thought it was over when you finally made it to the other side, back to your dimension.

But it wasn’t. 

You’d gotten quiet as you all stood in Eddie’s trailer. Then suddenly, your eyes had gone grey. 

Everyone panicked, but especially Dustin and Eddie. Eddie held onto you, two hands on your face, shouting your name like a prayer, holding you in place—doing his best to keep you alive while shouting at Dustin about the tapes in his room, screaming about some tears for fears song and tape.

When they’d gotten the headset onto your ears, you gasped in a breath of air, practically collapsing into Eddie’s arms, he held you tightly against him, his eyes squeezed shut while you gripped onto his leather jacket like a lifeline.

Steve still didn’t know what you saw that night. You never told anyone. You choose to stay silent, shaking your head when they ask you questions. He remembered the tears streaming down your face, the look of distress on your face. It was horrific, it was something you’d never imagined could be real, sure you played dungeons and dragons, and knew enough about fantasy worlds—but those things weren’t real. Not like this.

Eddie had given Steve his blessing a few hours later, after you’d all stolen someone’s RV, managed to go on a supply run, and were in the process of making weapons.

You were sitting in the grass field away from everyone, legs criss-crossed, eyes held on the treeline. The sun was starting to set, everyone was doing something, some form of doomsday prepping or bonding with one another, but you—you were silent. Sitting alone while the golden rays of sunlight highlighted your figure as if you were an angel sent from above. 

He found his gaze drifting towards you as he tried to convince Robin that there was still some hope left for her lovelife, and the world not ending. But his words fell short, he was too distracted by you. By the pretty girl that had never given him the time of day, the girl that people called a freak by association because she chose her real friends over everyone else. The one that didn’t know him well and didn’t really want to—or at least that’s what he thought about you.

Eddie had paused his heartfelt moment with Dustin to trek towards Steve, leaving you to your own peace, maybe he knew that you needed some alone time to process things. All Steve knew was Eddie was waltzing over to him with his fists clenched as if he was about to get decked in the face.

Robin took that as her cue to leave.

Steve prepared himself for the worst. However, all he really got was a hard pat on the shoulder and a few head nods. “Listen Harrington, you’re different—a lot different than I thought. We’re not friends, not in the slightest, but I can say I trust you, and I see the way you keep looking at her. If all of this works out, or even if it doesn’t, just know that you have my blessing—formally that is. She’s a tough cookie to crack though, but I think you’ll do just fine. Just make sure to be patient with her, okay? She’s a little closed off and mean sometimes. Now go sit with her, don’t say anything, trust me, just be there for her.”

Steve nodded his head, and as he stood up and walked in your direction, Eddie roughly patted him on the back. 

When he sat next to you, you looked at him but didn’t say anything, teary-eyes meeting his with a short nod, something akin to a silent thank you. Then you leaned your head on his shoulder. 

At the time, Steve had no idea what Eddie was even talking about. All he’d done was look at you a few times and forget how to speak. It wasn’t like he was head over heels in love with you, he just found himself gravitating towards you. 

But now, looking back, each and every memory of that week was clouded with you. Initially he thought that maybe he wanted to get back together with Nancy, but now that feels more like an end of the world panic-mode option. Even as he thought about his interactions with Nancy, the thought of you just a few feet away surfaced, the way you would smile and laugh, the way your head tipped back just a bit, or even the way you’d shove both Dustin and Eddie, shaking your head at them.

Bits and pieces of who you used to be would always flood his mind because deep down, he knew you were still that person. Things were just different now, you just needed someone to be there for you, someone who cared—or rather, someone who made you feel cared for.

It killed Steve that he couldn’t be that person. 

He desperately wanted to be that person.

Robin’s brows knit together as she nodded her head. “Yes, he gave you his blessing, he told me that he knew you ‘had the hots for her’, then went on to say that she deserves the world, and something about how he figured you’d be able to give it to her, just based on the way you looked at her like she was—what’d he say—oh he said you looked at her like she was heaven on earth.”

She paused her rambling to nod her head. “Actually, that kinda tracks, even when you two are fighting, you stare at her like she’s an Angel or something. It’s kinda pathetic sometimes because she’s like really mean to you—I think you might be into being degraded.”

Steve ran his hands through his hair, then over his face all while shaking his head. 

“She wants to kill me and I’m over here falling in love with her—Jesus Rob, I’m pathetic.”

Robin nodded, plopping down on the sofa beside him. “If it makes you feel any better, I think I blew my date with Vicki.”

A week had passed since Steve came to the realization that he actually harbored genuine romantic feelings towards you. Within that week you’d had short, brief interactions with Steve at work. Outside of work, the two of you hadn’t seen much of each other, Robin told him it was because you’d been busy. Then she came up with an elaborate plan that would most likely blow up in Steve’s face—but he’d still give it a shot.

After leaving the station and saying goodbye to both Robin and Steve (which had become a somewhat regular occurrence), you’d driven across town, and pulled into your driveway, a wide smile on your face as your little brother opened the front door. The second you were out of the car, he was sprinting down the front porch steps towards you, laughing as he ran, then clinging to your figure.

“Shouldn’t you be at school kid?” You smiled as you looked at him, hugging him back while he shrugged, a toothy grin on his face—well minus his front right tooth that had fallen out a few days ago. The eight year old swayed back and forth too, gradually pulling you with him, clearly excited about something.

“Mom said you get to take me! And guess what Salmon! She made breakfast too, and she’s really happy today!” You smiled at that, letting him grasp your hand and pull you in the direction of the house. 

The minute you walked inside, you were hit with the smell of blueberry pancakes. The nostalgia brought tears to your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away, smiling at your brother as he looked back at you. 

“Sweetheart, do me a favor and take Chance to school? I know he’s late, but we just had to make breakfast today! Isn’t that right?” Your brother nodded while your mom spoke, a few giggles slipping past her lips between words. The second your eyes found her figure, your smile faltered.

She was drunk, beyond drunk, practically plastered as she waltzed around the kitchen on wobbly legs. Her hair was still in rollers, her pajamas a bit disheveled, eyes bloodshot and hooded, and the closer you got to her, the more you could smell the fruity liquor and wine. Then of course, she had a wine glass in her hand while the other held a spatula. 

You were quick to turn off the stove, forcing a smile at her drunken happiness, doing your best to avoid another fight. “Of course Mom, I’ll take him. You should go lay down okay? It’s still early.” 

The clock on the kitchen wall read 11:25am. It wasn’t early and your brother was about three hours late to school, almost four at this point. 

It took quite the bit of convincing to get your mother into bed, then you put all of the dishes into the sink, opting to cover them with some dish soap and water, rinsing them and making a mental note to wash them later. Then you focused on the counters and sweeping the floors, all while your brother talked and talked and talked about one of the shows he’d been watching. 

Every few minutes you offered a wide smile, an ‘oh really?’, and the classic ‘that’s so cool’, just so he knew you were listening.

Then the doorbell rang, which caught your attention, considering it was almost noon and no one should’ve been coming to your house. So you sighed, telling Chance to stay in the living room while you got the door. 

Coming face to face with Steve Harrington on your front porch wasn’t on your bingo card for the day. He also had a bouquet of flowers in his hand. To say you’re confused would be an understatement. It’s not like he had a bouquet of roses, that would’ve probably led to you slamming the door in his face, so the wildflower mix was a safe choice.

“Oh is that your boyfriend? The one you always talk about! He doesn’t look stupid!” 

You and Steve’s embarrassed expressions mirrored one another. Both of your eyes wide and cheeks a bit flushed, looking from one another to the eight year old a few feet behind you who stood and stared at you both before taking a large drink of his orange juice. He then shrugged and turned around, walking through the dining room and kitchen, towards the living room. 

You looked over your shoulder one more time before shoving Steve forward with one hand—he got the message, taking a step back as you stepped out onto the porch, leaving the front door cracked just enough to listen in on things. 

“Why are you here?” 

He sighed “y’know, you don’t have to sound so annoyed all the time.”

You sighed. “Listen, Steve, I really don’t have time for this today—” then you heard the sound of shattered glass, eyes widening while you cussed under your breath, rushing back into the house, leaving Steve in the doorway confused.

He watched as you practically sprinted through the kitchen of your house, disappearing behind a wall that he assumed led to the living room. Naturally, he decided to let himself in, placing the bouquet on the wooden shelf next to the door that held a key tray and a short stack of mail. Steve also made sure to shut and lock your front door before following your previous path.

You were squatting down in front of an older recliner, the leather on it clearly worn due to age, and your brother was sitting on top of it while you were focused on cleaning a cut on his left knee with a first aid kit to your side. That’s when Steve noticed the fallen glass decanter on the ground near the TV, broken into a few large pieces.

So, in true Steve Harrington nature, he searched around for a broom and dustpan, then started cleaning up.

Chance leaned closer to you, hands cupped around his mouth while he whispered in your ear. “Your boyfriends cleaning.” 

You sighed, shaking your head, now opening a few bandaids and applying them to his skin. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s Steve, uh—well he’s er—y’know we’ll just keep it as he’s Steve okay?” your brother nodded at your explanation. Then you were patting his leg, nodding your head at your handiwork “see, good as new! Kid you’ve gotta watch where you’re spinning—thankfully dad mounted the shelves a while ago.”

You spoke as you stood up, looking over at Steve who was now emptying the glass into your kitchen trashcan, then he proceeded to take the bag out of it, and you just stared at him. He managed to find the new trashbags and replaced it, then was walking back outside to take your trash out.

The sight was confusing you, meanwhile Chance was teasing you about your ‘boyfriend.’

“Okay—go get your bag. I’m taking you to school. That way you can still do your space club, otherwise you’re gonna miss it kiddo.”

His eyes widened, then the eight year old was running off to grab his bag. Around the same time, Steve walked back inside and started washing his hands in your kitchen sink as if it was just a normal, everyday thing.

“You sure know how to make yourself at home hmm?”

He shrugged “just thought I’d help you, looks like you needed it.”

“So why are you here again? Actually, y’know what Steve, just put a pin in this, I have to take him to school, otherwise he won’t get to do his weekly astronaut space club thing and he’ll be upset. Then I have a million things to do today, I have to go to the grocery store, I’m supposed to pick up something for Dustin, and I need to go to the cemetery and I just—y’know what this conversation is taking too long. Shit.” 

Steve watched you spin around like the tasmanian devil, running through the house, grabbing things, disappearing up the steps, coming back down with a basket of clothes, calling for your brother, rushing back up the steps, followed by your brother rushing down the steps, and then the sound of several doors opening and shutting.

Chance looked up at Steve. “So how long have you been in love with Salmon?” He made sure to emphasize the ‘sam’, purposefully pronouncing the word as ‘sam-unn’.

Steve blinked a few times, looking even more confused and flustered now. “Salmon? Who’s salmon? Also isn’t it Sal-mon?” 

The kid shook his head, raising a single brow. “No, it’s Sam-unn, and she’s uh, my sister? Eddie used to call her salmon so I call her salmon, I don’t think that’s important though. You’re like totally in love with her aren’t you? My mom said my dad used to bring her flowers a lot because he really loved her.”

Steve’s brows knit together, unsure of what to say in the moment, so he just shrugged and nodded, a confused expression on his features.

“Well, listen, Steve, don’t break Salmon’s heart like the last guy did. He was a douchebag”

The only part of the sentence that you caught was the sound of your little brother calling someone a douchebag, you scoffed, walking into the room with a different shirt on. “Chance! What’d I say about your language! Shit!” 

He shook his head, pointing a finger at you “Eddie told me I could say douchebag!” 

You craned your neck back slightly “I told you not to listen to Eddie! He wasn't in charge of you—I am! Now stop calling people douchebags and let's go!” You then grasped him by his backpack, pushing him to walk in front of you towards the door. 

Steve had never really seen you interact with your family, it was cute in a way he wasn’t expecting. Your brother was giggling the entire time while you tried to hide the smile on your face and Steve felt his heart racing and those god-awful butterflies erupting in his stomach. 

He’s so pathetic.

By the time all of you made it out of the house and into the driveway, Chance stopped in place, turning around to look at you, then Steve who was a few steps behind. “Salmon, can your boyfriend come, I think he’s kinda cool.”

You scoffed “you think Harrington’s cool?” 

Steve’s heart did a backflip when you didn’t deny the comment about him being your boyfriend. It was feeding directly into his own delusions and he couldn’t stop the dopey smile on his face.

“Yeah, he’s cool. I like him.”

You sighed, looking at Steve who simply shrugged, then you shook your head. “Fine, but he’s driving—and no you can’t sit in the front!” Chance groaned at that, pouting as he marched up to Steve’s burgundy beamer. 

Steve didn’t protest, not in the slightest bit when you walked up to the passenger side of his car, waiting for him to open the doors.

The drive to the elementary school was full of your little brother’s ten thousand questions. You’d also never been inside of Steve’s car, so it felt a little awkward, especially when the both of you noticed his hand unconsciously gravitating towards your thigh, fingers twitching slightly against the middle console, then he was pulling away while you tried to scoot away. 

But Steve answering every single question did make you smile—even if you did your best to hide it.

When you walked your brother inside, Steve took the time to run his hands through his hair and take several deep breaths. Robin told him to tell you how he felt, said that at the very least you’d just reject him so he’d be able to get over things. She also emphasized that having romantic feelings towards a girl that didn’t like him was a recipe for disaster—but something in the way you looked at him after the morning squawk had him convinced that the semblance of hope he had was worth it.

So he left the station, stopped by the florist, picked up a bouquet of wildflowers because he knew roses were too straight forward—he also didn’t have a good track record of showing up at girls houses with roses—and drove straight to your house.

It helped that you lived in Lucas’s neighborhood, so he knew the way there—mostly. Then he saw your car, the black jaguar easily recognizable—or maybe he’d just gotten used to seeing it all the time.

He angled the rear view mirror towards himself, a mental pep-talk happening while he waited on you. Well, he tried doing that, then you were opening the door and sliding back into the car, now staring right at him.

“Is there a reason you chose to come bug me today? I’m pretty sure tonight’s crawl night, don’t you have like things to do before that or something?” 

Steve started driving, shrugging his shoulders, unsure of what to say to you, or how to say things. There wasn’t exactly a good way to tell the girl that couldn’t stand you, that you were falling in love with her because she couldn’t stand you. Well technically, that wasn’t the reason that Steve was falling in love with you—but it was probably a part of it.

Once again, he felt pathetic.

“Okay, awkward silence it is.” Then you leaned forward and started switching between radio stations, moving from song to song, eventually finding a Metallica song—the guitar chords made you smile as you sat back, staring ahead at the road, zoning out while humming along to the tune.

“I wanted to check on you—uh see how you were feeling”

You glanced over at him, slowly nodding, eyes trailing his side profile. “Why? It’s not your job to be my therapist or whatever.” Your eyes paused on his lips, remembering the feeling of them against your own, that night felt so recent yet so far. It’d been a few months since then, and somehow, he was still haunting your dreams.

Steve sighed, tapping against the steering wheel with one hand as he drove, looking at you for a few seconds before his gaze found the road ahead. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this, but prior to contrary belief, I’m not just some asshole who doesn’t give a shit about you. I care about you—and I’m sorry that I feel the need to check in on you.”

You didn’t respond to that and it worried Steve. He felt your stare as he drove, turning onto your street. Your eyes widened as he pulled in, shaking your head slightly “wait—can we go anywhere else, just uh, not there, not right now. My mom—she doesn’t ever really sleep it off.”

You looked down at your hands as you spoke, fidgeting with the silver ring on your thumb, voice cracking slightly as you spoke. It wasn’t that tears were coming, it was just something you didn’t like to talk about and at this point, you knew that he knew the truth. You’d practically screamed it off of the side of the WSQK building.

He didn’t say anything, instead he pulled the most illegal U-turn possible and left the neighborhood. “Uh do you have anywhere you wanna go?”

You sighed. “Lover’s Lake, I’m sure you’re familiar with the place, considering you’re the former whore of Hawkins.” 

He scoffed at that, brows knit together, taken aback slightly by the insult. Then you let out a short laugh, and as he looked at you, he realized you were holding in your laughter. His jaw practically dropped, brows still furrowed while he shook his head. “Not cool! What the hell!”

Steve joined in on your laughter, the both of you eventually coming to a comfortable silence.

When he parked near the Lakes shoreline, you let out a sigh, getting out of the car. In seconds you leaned against the burgundy hood, eyes focused on the lake. 

Steve figured you wanted him to follow, it made sense—or at the very least, you wanted someone to be there with you. So he did just that, he stood beside you, leaning against the hood of his car while he glanced at you.

“I learned how to swim here. My dad taught me, Chance had barely turned two that year, I remember my mom being pissed about it. She was with him on the shore, couldn’t really afford to chase us down into the water. He used to love coming here, always complained about everyone using it as a makeout spot. But it’s where he proposed to my mom.”

Steve didn’t say anything as you spoke quietly, your eyes hadn’t left the lake. His followed the line of your side profile, admiring your features, practically committing them to memory, as if he’d never get the opportunity again.

“He died that year, not to sound all melancholy or depressed or whatever. I’m okay with it now, but that’s why my mom drinks—I think the whole world ending apocalypse thing is what pushed her over the edge. She started at his funeral. I remember that night because Chance was screaming and crying, I can’t remember why anymore, but when I got downstairs, she was passed out in Dad’s recliner with a bottle of whiskey dangling from her hand while he was on the carpet sobbing.”

He let you vent, he didn’t say anything, just listened attentively, afraid of pushing you away in your moment of vulnerability.

“She used to be sober enough to take care of him during the daytime, then I’d get back home and take over, that’s when she’d drink. Then the fucking world split open. Now it’s always a fight to get her to do little things like taking him to school. I drop him off early most days before my shift. He said Mom was happy today—turns out she was just fucking plastered enough to smile again.”

You sighed, sniffling and looking back down at your hands. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this—it’s not like you care. I just, I dunno, I used to talk to Eddie about everything, but I can’t anymore. I go to his grave to talk to him, but it’s not the same, I know in some weird extraterrestrial after-life way he can hear me, but there’s never really a response anymore.”

Then the tears started falling, you tried to blink them away, but you couldn’t, not when they were constantly streaming down your cheeks.

“Hey—I care okay, I promise, I care” he spoke so softly, watching as you shifted to meet his gaze, teary eyes looking into his. Then he moved, facing you now, a single hand caressing your face, thumb rubbing gentle half-circles along your cheek. “I care about you, and if you’ll let me, I want to be there for you—all the time. Not just when you’re on the verge of a meltdown.”

You bit your bottom lip, nodding your head at him, sniffling before leaning into his space, lips meeting his in a gentle kiss. 

The gesture was your way of thanking him, and he knew that. 

You both stayed just like that for what felt like forever, in all reality it’d only been a few minutes. Steve wiped your tears away the entire time.

Eventually you were both seated on the hood of his car, your head leaned against his shoulder, talking about anything and everything. He’d told you about his parents, opened up about how in-and-out they truly were. Going on a long-winded rant about how he hated who he used to be, especially after his relationship with Nancy.

He made sure to emphasize that he didn’t want to get back with Nancy when you asked about his competitiveness with Jonathan. He told you he thought she deserved better, but he knew that they weren’t meant to be. Steve told you that she was his first love, and in a way, he’d probably always feel love for her, but not in the romantic sense.

You told him about your ex-boyfriend. 

The asshole that broke your heart and treated you like shit. Steve’s eyes widened when he put two and two together, realizing that your ex was one of his former teammates, then he made sure to make a few jokes about how shitty he was at basketball. You laughed at his antics, shaking your head before mentioning that it was You and Eddie that fucked up his car, keying it then stealing his spark plugs and hub-caps in an act of drunken revenge.

“I have a question” 

Your eyes lifted slightly, looking up at him from your position against his shoulder. “I might have an answer”

He raised a brow at that, a short laugh leaving his lips, followed by “how come your brother calls you Salmon?” He sounded so curious, and that had you giggling, now sitting up straight and shaking your head.

“Eddie used to call me Salmon sometimes because when we were ten we went fishing with my Dad and Wayne and I managed to actually catch something—turns out it wasn’t a salmon, but in my know-it-all ten year old head, I was positive it was. I even bet him like a dollar over it. Then I was told that it wasn’t a salmon and was pissed.” You smiled and rolled your eyes at the memory before continuing on.

“Anyways, long story short, everytime I ever said anything wrong that I swore was right—which was a lot—he’d call me Salmon, and Chance started talking around two? Yeah so I think around three or four-ish he kinda just picked it up from being around us so much. He didn’t even know my real name until he was six, and it was a complete shock to him.”

You shrugged after finishing the explanation.

Meanwhile Steve was sorta listening, he caught the gist of the story, but he was also focused on the way you looked so beautiful in the midday sun, your figure illuminated by the light, the sun’s reflection against the lake bouncing across your features while the deep greens of the forest provided just enough contrast against your hair to paint you in a halo.

Then there was your smile, you looked brighter—happier, and he was seeing you for you—not the girl that pushed everyone away. 

His heart was racing and he felt a little light headed. 

When you looked at him, he blinked a few times. His brows still raised, lips still slightly parted—but now he was trying to recollect himself.

You grasped his wrist, looking down at the time, it’d been a few hours already, and it was nearly four. “Do me a solid Harrington?” He nodded. “Take me home, gotta grab my car.”

That day changed your relationship with Steve Harrington drastically. To the point that everyone around you started noticing the shift. You and Steve weren’t fighting anymore, there weren’t any screaming matches or petty arguments. Things were almost peaceful—hell, things were friendly.

The two of you worked in sync at the station, Robin was still trying to process the change. No one had to walk on eggshells anymore, the two of you could even sit together without swatting at one another like little kids. You even offered to be his sound tech when he had to fill in for Jonathan.

Then there was the shift outside of work, when everyone hung out, neither of you begrudgingly asked if the other would be there. No one had to brace themselves for any negative reactions at the sight of one another, and you two even shared quiet looks, a mutual understanding that typically led to shared laughter.

It was odd.

He’d even accompany you to pick up Chance from school, bonding with the eight year old and letting him talk his ear off about space and astronomy and this week's new fun fact. Steve even made the effort to have Murray smuggle in a few copies of the Air & Space magazines for Chance. 

Some days he even stuck around at your house, laughing with you while helping you make dinner, or rather watching you make dinner while bossing him around and calling him a terrible sous chef. 

The worst though, was when you and Steve would have full fledged conversations about anything and everything, going back and forth in a positive manner, even making plans to do things together.

He even brought you to work on multiple occasions. Then when everyone had plans, you two would show up together.

Not to mention the kissing. The kissing that was supposed to be a secret, however, thus far Nancy and Robin had walked in on you both at the station and in his kitchen.

Dustin also witnessed it in the freezer aisle of Bradley’s Big Buy. It was midday so the store was practically empty, however he’d skipped school that day. He dropped everything in his hands at the sight of Steve in front of you as you leaned against a freezer door, then he kissed you—and Dustin was positive both of you were grinning while kissing.

Sometimes it would just be short quick kisses, other times your hands would be in his hair and his would be on your waist, tongue melting against one another, bodies flush, and lip locking as if no one was there. Although, those kisses were usually reserved for when you thought no one would be there.

The sex was the biggest difference.

It was initially supposed to be a one time thing (or a second time thing? Following the first time?). It happened one week after you’d opened up to him at Lover’s Lake. 

Robin insisted that everyone needed to do some ‘relaxed bonding’ following the never ending stress of the potential apocalypse and military facilitated quarantine. 

That’s how the older half of the party ended up at Steve’s house, drinking, playing card games, and watching the few random movies that he’d forgotten to take back to Family Video before it burned down. Tensions weren’t high, although everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop when it came to you and Steve’s lack of fighting.

It never did, and eventually when everyone started calling it a night around two in the morning, Nancy and Jonathan left together, while Robin crashed directly on the living room sofa. You took the time to tuck her in, a crooked smile on your face as you tried to hold in your giggles at her flopping into place every time you had to shift one of her arms or legs.

Then it was just you and Steve. 

Initially, you’d just helped in cleaning up, mumbling some excuse about how it would sober you up. Thankfully your little brother was spending the night at his friend’s house so you weren’t in a rush to leave. 

Steve insisted that he help you wash the minimal dishes that were in the sink. You tried to brush him off a few times, but he didn’t let you, instead he opted to stand right beside you, drying the cups, plates, and bowls as you passed them to him.

Once the task was done you rinsed the sink and hummed, Steve took the time to put whatever food items that were left out inside of the pantry or fridge, and his heart was racing. Everything about this felt so domestic. He knew if he let himself, he’d have an entire fantasy in his head about you, him, and six little nuggets of your own.

Then you said his name, snapping him out of his daze. You leaned against the kitchen island, arms loosely crossed in front of your chest—bringing his attention from your pretty face, right to the valley of your breasts, pushed together by your arms. They were practically front and center in the black tank-top you wore, he’d been fighting to not stare directly at them all night.

Now? Now he was royally screwed. It’d also been a while since he found himself blatantly checking you out. He tried to tone it down after you’d yelled at him about it a few months ago. But the liquor in his system was clouding his better judgement. So, he stared with his lips slightly parted and eyes a little hooded.

“Steve—are you even listening to me?” You knew he was checking you out, a smirk on your face as his eyes widened and snapped up to your face.

He then tried leaning against the countertop, missed completely and stumbled for a few seconds before finding his footing. One hand gliding through his hair, the other on his waist. “Uh—yeah, I’m listening, you said uh you want a—uh ride?”

You blinked several times, pursing your lips inwards to hold in your laugh unsuccessfully. “I drove here.”

“Yeah, I knew that. Uh—then what’d you say?”

Now you were laughing at him, shaking your head. “I said, do you wanna go upstairs?”

Steve’s eyes practically popped out of his skull at the question, he didn’t hesitate to invade your space, pulling you in for a quick kiss, then grasping your hand and practically dragging you towards the stairs. 

It hadn’t taken long for the two of you to end up tangled in his sheets with his head between your thighs. Your clothes had been thrown all around the room, his shirt missing as well. 

“Steve!” His name rolled off of your tongue between breathy moans, one hand tugging at his chestnut strands, the other fisting the comforter below you. Your back arching from the pleasure flowing through your veins, shallow moans and whimpers leaving your lips.

He paused his motions, still holding onto both of your thighs, looking up at you with a lazy smirk. “Gotta be quiet baby, gonna wake up Robin.” Steve’s voice was deeper, raspier, and it drove you crazy.

Before you could respond his tongue was back on your clit, alternating between fast flicking motions and swirling his tongue around the pearl. You bit your bottom lip, doing your best to hold in any moans as he continued his assault. Then he moved lower, tongue sliding, practically dragging against your slit until he reached your sopping entrance.

He moaned against you as he started lapping at it, when you pulled his hair particularly hard he got the message, tongue sliding into your entrance. His eyes fluttered shut as he slowly tongue-fucked you.

The feeling of your fingers against his scalp and the constant shift of your hips had Steve on Cloud 9, he was losing himself in your cunt, tongue fucking into you faster, lapping at you like a man starved. His tongue darting into you, eliciting filthy wet sounds that had him grinding against his mattress and tightening his grip on your plush thighs. 

Steve was practically french kissing your cunt—the motion outright filthy. 

You moved your hand from the comforter, both hands now tangled in his thick hair, nails scratching along his scalp as you rutted your hips against his face—the slope of his nose providing the perfect amount of friction to your swollen clit as he worked his tongue inside of you, rolling it against your walls—letting you ride his face.

As your orgasm hit, your back arched even harder, a low whine leaving your lips while a white heat consumed you—Steve hadn’t let up his motions, instead it was as if he managed to fuck into your cunt even faster and harder, tongue moving inside of you with an expertise that you’d slut-shame him over later.

He trailed kisses along your inner thighs, then up the curve of your stomach, moving to your chest, then he paused at your neck, leaving a mark against your skin before his lips were back on yours. 

“You taste so good baby” he spoke against your lips, between kisses. You smiled a bit, one hand on his jaw as he peppered your lips in soft kisses, your other hand grazed his skin, moving along his chest to his abdomen, fingers pausing at the edge of his happy trail, just above the waistband of his sweats. He let out a throaty moan, resting his forehead against yours, eyes shut while you toyed with the band.

“If you keep teasing me, I’m gonna cum in my pants.”

You moved the hand on his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers in his hair still, leaning up the smallest bit just to connect your lips again. As you kissed him, your hand slid into his pants, palm and fingers trailing his thick shaft, grasping the base, slowly pumping along his warm skin—sending a shudder through Steve.

One thing led to another, things started off slow, romantic even as Steve eased into you, swallowing your moans and whimpers, but somehow, someway his hips ended up pistoning into yours while you did everything to keep quiet—letting Steve fuck you like a ragdoll.

He had a hand wrapped around your throat, his other hand on your thigh, pushing it, folding it against your figure—spreading you open nice and wide for him while he quietly praised you with each thrust. Mumbles of “Just like that baby—you’re so fuckin good for me” and “so, so pretty just like this, keep taking it, fuck—you were made for me” slipping past his lips.

Steve fucked you like a man possessed that night, pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you, covering your mouth with his hand—muffling your moans. At one point he had you on your hands and knees, face pressed against one of his pillows while he fucked into you from behind, smacking your ass, groaning at the sight of it jiggling with every rough thrust and harsh slap.

At one point he’d even called you a brat, going on a pussy-drunk tangent about how you were his brat, and he was the only one who knew how to take care of you.

Truthfully, when he thought about that night and the drunken spewl of praise he’d let out, he was a little bit embarrassed, but you clearly didn’t care. Not when you were below him, whimpering his name and arching into him.

That night changed a lot in your relationship with Steve. It was also most likely the reason that you two were so flirty and friendly now. It’s been nearly a month since then, and over the past almost-month, you two were having sex consistently. It wasn’t an everyday thing, but it was frequent enough that you two were practically glowing.

Plus, there were the hickies that always peaked out of Steve’s collars. The few red and purple marks that you’d leave along his skin, never on his neck directly, but always close enough. 

Your ‘one time thing’ quickly turned into a weekly routine, the two of you fucked like rabbits when you were alone. Whether it be at the station, in his car, in your car, or at his house—it was happening often.

So often that everyone was getting suspicious.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that Steve Harrington was absolutely, positively, irrevocably in love with you and he had no idea if you actually felt the same way.

Sure the sex was nice, but he loved spending time with you, he loved that you’d call him in the middle of the night, or spend your days off with him, talking about anything and everything all the time. You’d vent and he’d just listen, learning new things about you, offering a sense of comfort that you hadn’t experienced in months.

He eventually confessed to Robin that you two were having sex. She told him she could tell and it was obvious to anyone who actually paid any attention to the two of you. However, she also told him she was positive no one else knew, they hadn’t picked up on much, too caught up in their own things.

She told him to tell you the truth, that you probably felt the same way, or at least similarly, but he didn’t even know where to start. Hell, he felt like he was insane for even wanting to ask you to be his girlfriend.

That’s how he ended up at Roane Hill Cemetery on a Sunday morning, standing at Eddie Munson’s headstone, hands shoved in his pockets and brows knit together.

“This is so weird.” he spoke while kicking some of the dirt on the ground, lips pursed to the side while nodding his head. “Listen—I didn’t have anyone else to talk to about this and I dunno, we fought monsters and shit and if all of that’s real then maybe she’s right and you can actually hear me or send me some kinda sign that I’m not being an idiot about this.”

Then he sighed, looking around, running his hands through his hair and over his face. 

Steve felt like he was insane, standing at the grave of the girl he’s in love with’s best friend. Sure, Steve bonded with Eddie that week, but he wasn’t sure if Eddie even considered them friends, it felt wrong to assume that he was friends with a dead guy who hated him for a long time.

“I just, I guess, okay fuck—I’m in love with her man. Like I’m fully in love with her and I tried to deny it for a while, and I just—I can’t keep pretending I’m not in love with her when she kisses me and smiles at me and laughs at my stupid jokes. Or when she grabs me something because she thought of me—or christ when we’re in bed and she looks in my eyes like I can give her the fucking world.”

Steve shook his head, hands now on his hips while he sighed again. “Okay, maybe you don’t wanna hear about that part man—I’m just the idiot that’s liked this girl for so long—even when she hated me. God, I remember when we showed up at Ricks and I felt like I was really seeing her for the first time in my life. Like yeah she’s always been pretty—but fuck I never paid attention, I guess I was too caught up in my own shit y’know?” 

Then Steve squatted down, now face-to-face with the headstone. Seeing the traces of old paint that you’d worked hard to clean off. 

“And she kicks ass, and fuck sometimes she’s so mean, but I like it when she’s a little mean—and she cares so much about everyone in her life. Her mom’s whole situation is fucked up man, I’m sure she’s told you about it, God, but then she manages to find the positives in everything, as if optimism flows through her veins—which came as a shock to me because once again, mean as all hell.”

Steve sighed, now sitting down fully, arms resting on his bent knees, getting comfortable on the grass. “This is still so weird dude. I’ve never lost anyone y’know—not anyone that mattered. My grandpa died when I was like 4. Can’t remember him for shit, apparently my dad hated him—I guess that runs in my family. Grief is just a weird thing for me, I feel like a nutcase right now, talking to a piece of stone with your name carved on it as if it’s you—like you’re gonna come out of nowhere and pat me on the back, call me Big Boy or some shit.”

He shrugged “I’m really sorry man, sorry for how I treated you when I was in high school, God I was such a dick. That’s probably why she hated me for so long—also probably why I can’t man the hell up and tell her how I really feel. It’s honestly pathetic dude—I’m pathetic.”

“You’d probably be laughing at me right now, or maybe you are—I’d laugh at me too. I’m such a fucking moron too, God, this morning at work she kissed me while Robin wasn’t looking, then she winked and I just about imploded. I missed my cue and Robin wanted to behead me.” 

Steve scooted forward just enough to pat the headstone. “Damnit Munson, I’m an idiot and I’m desperately in love with your best friend. I’m in love with Salmon—which by the way man, weird ass nickname. I think I might be fueled by end-of-the-world delusion, but honestly, I’d marry her man. They always say when you know, you know, and fuck, I’m positive I know.”

Then the wind picked up, shifting from a light summer breeze, to a burst of air that practically knocked him backwards. He blinked several times, brows knit together, looking around after feeling like someone was shoving him. Then he felt a rough pat on the back—which was even weirder because no one was around him. 

The entire cemetery was empty outside of a grounds keeper and a family that was on the entire opposite side of the courtyard.

“Dude—I’m hoping that’s you. Not the ghost of her dad coming to kick my ass for saying I’d marry his daughter. Honestly Munson, I need you to do me a favor and talk to him for me, send me a sign that I’m not actually a moron. She says you do that for her, sending her little signs, things that make her know you’re still there—and thank you man. If that is you—or maybe she’s just nuts—”

He was cut off by another burst of wind. 

“Okay! Shit! I get it, my girl isn’t nuts. Damn—that sounds nice. My girl. God, I’m so stupid, I gotta tell her how I feel. She might kill me though—then she’s stressed about the Upside Down and Vecna shit, finally told me what she saw that day when we were all leaving through the gate. She cried for hours when she told me, I guess in a way it's nice to know she trusts me that much—but I’m also terrified y’know. Because what if everyone’s right? What if he really is still alive?”

He looked down at his hands now, shaking his head before looking back at the stone. “This shit really is weird, but I get why she comes and why Dustin does too, it’s comforting in a way. She even got me and Dustin back on better terms, she’s teaching me how to talk about grief or I guess talk to people that are grieving—she called me a tone deaf idiot a few times too. Guess you’d laugh at that.”

“I know it’s pathetic but I have dreams about a life with her, dreams where I tell her how I feel and then it all works out in the end—Jesus, I’m such a loser.”

Steve glanced at his watch, noticing the time, his shift was set to start soon, so he knew he had to leave, but he patted the headstone a few more times after standing back up.

“Thanks Munson, I appreciate the talk—and thanks for bringing her back into my life. In some odd way, I know you’re a big part of it, and I really appreciate it. I’ll be looking out for that sign—and in the meantime, I’ll try not to be an idiot.” 

He laughed to himself, smiling and nodding before walking towards the exit.

(The one thing that Steve couldn’t see though, was the wispy figure of Eddie Munson, standing beside his grave, a wide smile on the metalhead’s face while he nodded his head, mumbling to himself in the astral plane “I’m glad that idiot finally realized it.” Then he turned around and disappeared into thin air.)

It wasn’t until a little over a month later that Steve had gotten the sign he asked for.

You and him were sitting on the hood of his car, white cartons of chinese food between the two of you while he focused on trying to justify his lackluster taste in music. He spoke animatedly with his hands, looking right at you while you laughed at him.

“Please! Harrington! Your music taste is so general and sucky! You need to expand your horizons and stop bullshitting about how your taste is sooo niche—it’s not niche, it’s basic.”

He scoffed at that, a hand on his chest, feigning hurt for a few seconds before he started laughing with you. You shook your head at him again, rolling your eyes before grasping one of the few fortune cookies, tearing the wrapper open with your teeth then handing it to Steve.

Steve raised a brow, looking down at the yellow cookie in your hand. “You believe in this stuff?”

You shrugged “I mean, if the Upside Down is real, can’t a girl believe in something silly like fortune cookies?” 

He nodded, agreeing with you then taking the cookie from your hand, quickly breaking it in half and pulling the small roll of white paper out. Then he opened it, brows knitting together as he read it, once, then twice, then you were grasping it from his hand, snatching it away and reading it aloud.

“Everything that is was once a dream.” You raised a brow “been having any special dreams lately Steve?”

Steve’s jaw dropped at the fortune, brows knit together when it hit him like a freight train. This was his sign—this had to be his sign. Especially when you grabbed another cookie and read your fortune amidst his shock “To be loved is to be seen.”

“Huh, how lovey-dovey. Y’know Steve—can I tell you something? Promise me you won’t make fun of me either or I’ll drown you.”

He scoffed, still processing the fortunes. “Did you just threaten to drown me?” He sighed when you nodded.

“Anyways—I think you’re the only person who really makes me feel seen. Y’know? I guess this—” you held up the fortune paper “—Kinda emphasized that. I dunno, I just, after Eddie died and all this shit happened, I had people in my life that cared, like Rob and Dustin. But it wasn’t the same. I felt like I was just drifting through things, but I guess, you make me feel like I’m okay, like I’m not just floating anymore, I guess you kinda ground me—ew this is getting too sappy oh my god, ignore me, shit.”

Then Steve was blurting it out, before he could even psych himself out of it.

“I’m in love with you—Like I love you” 

You stared at him, eyes widening as you processed his words. Slowly nodding your head.

“Listen—I know we’ve only been close for a few months—or like five months—but I think I’ve always liked you, even when we fought all the time, and then I just, I asked Eddie for a sign which was so weird too—but you—you’re everything to me. I used to go to work knowing you’d glare at me and be fucking mean to me and I thought I hated it but everyday I still went, and I still poked the bear because even if you were fighting me, you were still talking to me.”

He paused, swallowing harshly before continuing his jumbled love confession.

“Then we had sex, and I just—I knew I needed to be there for you, like I knew in my heart and soul I needed to be there because you were just drifting around, pushing everyone away, and you didn’t let anyone in and I desperately needed to be the person you let in. Then you did, you let me in slowly and everytime I found out something new about you I committed it to memory because I wanted to—hell I want to—know everything about you.”

“I’m in love with you, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, but I needed to tell you, I love you, I love everything about you, every rough jagged edge, every soft smile, every curve, every scar, every ugly laugh—everything. I love you for you, and no, it’s not because we had sex or because we’re having sex—Like yeah, I love having sex with you especially when you do that thing with your tongue—but if you told me you never wanted to fuck me again I’d be 110% okay with it and I would still love you.”

He stared at you, chest rapidly rising and falling as if he was out of breath from his proclamation. You didn’t say anything, instead you kept nodding your head, blinking over and over again.

You didn’t know how to react. You knew you had feelings for Steve, you knew you had strong feelings for him—okay so maybe you loved him too—but you hadn’t expected him to give you a Shakespeare level love confession.

Steve awkwardly nodded. “Like I said, don’t feel like you need to tell me it back if you don’t feel the same way, I just couldn’t keep going on and spending time with you and kissing you and holding you and fuck—breathing your air—without telling you.”

“You really are a mouth breather sometimes, y’know that?”

He was in shock, that was the first thing you’d said to him after his confession. He slid off of the hood of the car, getting ready to start pacing back and forth, then you grasped his forearm, pulling him between your legs. You leaned forward, using your other hand to drag him into your space, your lips on his in seconds.

The kiss was everything and more, it was passionate and fueled with love and adoration. Everything left unsaid was bared in the kiss, and when you finally pulled apart, you were both out of breath.

You leaned your forehead against his, looking into his eyes. “I love you too, you moron.”

The sound of faint clapping could be heard, both of you looking around, only catching a glimpse of light, but no one was around. You laughed, shaking your head with a smile. “Y’know, going to Eddie was a crazy idea. He’s insane, even on the other side.”

Steve nodded his head “I needed help, Robin wasn’t exactly cutting it alright?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Thank you for being so persistent and annoying and forcing yourself into my life. Even if we are actively experiencing the end of days”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Besides, what’s the point of the world ending if you can’t find the love of your life?”

-