get back to your heart

But none of that explained why his heart beat a little faster when you were near, why he felt so desperately sad when you didn’t stay the night or why when he saw you talking to Ryan Williams at a party he wanted nothing more than to punch the nearest wall (or Ryan, whichever was more satisfying).

He was being stupid—he knew he was. You were technically not even friends. In fact, when you weren’t fucking each—you two were arguing. Not only that but you and Steve were not together and you were able to talk to any guy you wanted.

But it didn’t mean it didn’t kill him a little inside when you laugh at something Ryan had said while Steve watches from across the room.

Fucking Ryan.

Steve was deep in some sort of twisted daydream of socking Ryan in the face when someone taps his shoulder.

He turned around and was met with a pretty brunette who looked vaguely familiar. Amy something, or maybe it was Amanda, some girl who he had gone to high school with. Some girl who was fluttering her lashes at him and giving him every opportunity to be his distraction for the evening. He briefly considered it, knowing it would have certainly made him feel a little better about you and Ryan.

But he didn’t give in. Because despite the fact you annoyed the fuck out of him, he loved you. He knew it now he had seen you with someone else. He really fucking loved you. And he knew fucking someone else wasn’t going to stop that.

And so, instead of going upstairs with Amy or Amanda or whatever her name was, Steve went home. Trying not to think about you going home with Ryan, trying not to think about Ryan kissing you or fucking you or—

The sound of his phone ringing as he grabs a drink of water pulls him out of his thoughts. He didn’t know how but he knew almost instantly that it was you calling. And so, Steve answers. Because of course he does.

“Hi,” was the first thing he says when he answers the phone, trying to keep his voice casual, normal, like his heart wasn't beating out of his chest already. 

“Where—wherey’d you g-go?”

From the sound of your voice, Steve could instantly tell that you had been crying.

He felt his stomach drop instantly,

“Home,” he says, sitting upright instantly and straining to listen to the sounds of the party around you. But there was none. No music, no drunken yelling, no Ryan—

“Baby, where are you?”

The petname slips out before he could stop it. He only ever used it when he was feeling particularly needy—when you were on top of him, tits bouncing in his face and fucking yourself on his cock. When you would slowly roll your hips just as he was about to cum, making him lose his damn mind. That was the only time he called you baby.

Until now, that was.

“I-I left,” you tell him in a small voice. “I sa-saw you g-go and I—”

“Where?” Steve interjects, already standing up and grabbing his car keys that lay nearby. “Where are you? I’ll come and get you and I—”

“—I th-think I love y-you, Stevie.”

Everything stills. Time itself seems to slow down. Steve feels as though he has forgotten how to breathe. Because you felt the same, you felt the same.

But he couldn’t focus on that right now. Not when you were god knows where, sad and probably alone.

“I—I’m sorry I just—I saw you and Amanda and I—I—it felt like my whole world ended and then you were gone and I thought—”

“Tell me where you are,” Steve demands of you somewhat gently, jaw clenched as the words you had just uttered make him feel things he had been trying to ignore for months. “C’mon baby, I—I just need to see you so tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”

You’re quiet for a moment before you tell him you were at some payphone right outside of Melvald's and Steve tells you not to move, tells you to stay exactly where you were.

Steve drives to Melvald's, breaks a few traffic laws on the way that he wasn’t proud of but he makes it to the parking lot outside the store in less than five minutes. 

He spots you almost instantly, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk with your arms wrapped tightly around your legs as if it could protect you from the cold.

Steve practically stumbles out of his car in his haste to get to you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, taking off his jacket without even a second thought and dropping it over your shoulders. “What were you thinking? Walking home alone like this, why didn’t you—”

“—be-because I thought you l-left,” you say quietly, your eyes shining as you look back up at him. “A-and I th-thought you left wi-with Amanda and—”

“—no,” Steve says with a shake of his head, dropping down onto the sidewalk beside you so he could cup your face with one hand to wipe away a stray tear that had fallen. “No, I didn’t go home with her. I-I wouldn’t do that.”

You breath hitches, you try not to think too much about the implication of those words but it was impossible not to do that when he was so close to you.

“Why?” You ask him quietly, barely daring to look away from him for even a second. “Why wouldn’t you—”

“—because I—because I love you too.”

Your eyes widen, lips part and Steve looks momentarily terrified that he’s said something insanely stupid, that perhaps maybe he had misheard you over the phone when you had told him you loved him.

But then you’re leaning in, closing the gap between you and pressing your lips firmly against his.

The kiss was anything but romantic—it was desperate, your fingers running through his hair as his hands roam over your body, grabbing at your thighs, your ass, anywhere he could touch, as though he was trying to map it out. It was the sort of kiss that left your core aching, made you want to pull him into his beamer and let him fuck you until sunrise. 

You weren’t sure how long you made out with Steve Harrington on the sidewalk but you knew it was Steve who was the first to pull away. You let out a noise of protest, something between a whine and a whimper as your eyes flicker down to his lips that were swollen from your kiss and covered in a mix of your spit. 

“Why did you—”

Steve presses his finger against your lips, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Because my girl deserves the best,” he tells you simply, the words making something in your gut squirm, the look in his eyes making your cunt clench around nothing.

You feel one of his hands brush along the bare skin of your leg. The subtle touch starts a fire in your gut, your eyelids flutter as he slowly drags his fingers up to your thigh in a tantalising dance that makes your blood hum with need.

“So let me take you home and then—”, he murmurs, fingers disappearing beneath your skirt and pressing his fingertips firmly against the damp patch that had formed in your panties. The moan that leaves your lips as a result should be embarrassing but you found that you didn’t care all that much when Steve’s fingers were circling your clothed clit, when you could see the thick outline of his cock through his jeans, “—then I’ll take care of you. Give my girl what she needs, yeah?”

You couldn’t do anything but nod your head frantically. Because he had called you his girl, his girl, his girl.

Steve wastes no time before he leans to kiss you again—this kiss much softer, gentler, everything you and Steve had never got the chance to be. He can’t help but smile into the kiss because when it came to you? It was hard not to fall but you had been right there to catch him.

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Truthfully, you thought he was being a bit of a drama queen. But you weren’t going to tell him that when you were perched on his lap - curled up against him as he ranted on about how Keith was making his job at Family Video harder than it needed to be.

“He’s doing it on purpose too. The asshole wants to torture me into quitting,” Steve huffs.

“That’s so unfair,” you muse, shifting yourself closer to wrap your arms around his neck.

He continues to gripe about Keith being an asshole, Robin egging it on, and the never ending flow of customers who are rude to him.

And you’re trying to listen, really you are. But he’s looking particularly gorgeous today - clad in his light wash jeans that hug his thighs and the cute little polo shirt that peeks out from under his work vest. The first couple of buttons are popped open, exposing a small tuft of chest hair underneath that’s practically begging you to feel him up.

Your eyes wander to his lips as they move rapidly, then to his eyes that look dark brown in the moonlight and hazel in the shine of the daylight. You move on to tracking the unlimited amount of freckles and moles that dance across his skin, the same ones you swear you could count one day if he held still long enough.

God he’s a vision, and you just have to let him know.

“You’re so pretty, Stevie,” you grin, interrupting him mid rant.

Steve raises his eyebrows, “Oh you think so, honey?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pressing your lips along his jawline - giggling when you notice the kiss prints drenching his skin.

“Why’d you stop?” He frowns playfully, arms locking around your waist.

Your thumb rubs at the smudges littering along his jaw, “Lipstick’s getting on you.”

“Don’t wipe it off,” he complains, “I like being marked by you.”

The statement makes you bashful, and you can feel heat creeping up your cheeks.

“You blushing, baby?” He grins, which furthers the flush that you feel rushing to the tips of your ears.

“No,” you mutter, ducking your head.

He pouts, “Oh c’mon, sweet girl, don’t hide from me.”

Steve’s thumb and pointer finger hook under your chin, coaxing you to look at him.

But when you do, there’s something off about him. You can’t tell what it is, but it’s there - like a slight glimmer wavering around him, coating his being in something sickly that you don’t understand.

“Steve?” Your eyebrows furrow, trying to make sense of the image in front of you.

“Don’t hide from me,” his voice turns sour, becoming bitter and dark as it envelops you.

You try to move, desperate for answers, but something is tethering you to him - forcing you to stay still.

“It’s only a matter of time before I find you,” he sneers, face twisting and contorting - human flesh turning into grotesque veins.

You’re no longer in Steve’s living room, cozied up next to him while he frets about his day. Instead, you're in the lap of an all too familiar figure that you’ve been relentlessly trying to run from.

“Let me go!” You scream, fighting with every fiber to break away from his hold.

When it gives, you’re thrust backwards - landing in a puddle of remains, trying not to think too hard about whose they might be.

Your body is heavy, aching with exhaustion as you stare up into the abyss of the world you can’t comprehend, the one you’ve been trapped in since that fateful night Vecna consumed you.

You know you’re a target out in the open like this, a sitting duck for him to hunt down, but you’re tired of resisting - growing weary that you may never return to the physical realm.

And so you let yourself drift, succumbing to sleep from one world of nightmares to the next.

The combination of the bright fluorescent lights, low drum of machines whirring, and strong scent of disinfectant never failed to give Steve a headache.

It throbbed menacingly, a strong stinging sensation that felt like a bruise being poked over and over again - almost like it was warning him that each time he stepped into the miserable place of Hawkins Memorial, he’d be leaving disappointed.

But he would take a headache every damn day of his life if it meant you weren’t the one resting on the hospital bed in front of him.

“C’mon, honey. Need you to pull through this,” Steve mumbles, thumb stroking along the frigid skin of your hand that’s wrapped in his.

You’re unresponsive, as you have been for the past year and a half, and Steve’s never been more anguished than watching each day tick by without a sign that you could hear him.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this without you. Things are,” he sighs heavily, shaking his head, “not great.”

He grasps onto your hand more firmly, threading his fingers through yours and brings your arm to his lips. He tenderly presses kisses to your skin - careful to avoid the needle digging into the tissue underneath your forearm that's connected to an IV drip.

“This quarantine is driving people stir crazy. The crawls keep leading nowhere. And your brother,” he trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

Dustin had been a huge pain in his ass for the past few months. Steve knew the teenager was grieving - knew that he lost a piece of himself when he lost Eddie and couldn’t fathom the idea of having to live in a world without his older sister too. And he knew that Dustin also had far too much pressure thrust upon him than he should at his age.

But your brother was taking it out on Steve - constantly snapping, snarking, and throwing harsh quips his way.

Steve was nearing his boiling point over it - ready to open his mouth and release words of fire that he wouldn’t be able to take back. Each time he almost did so, he was reminded of you.

Reminded that he barely had time to say goodbye before you were ripped away from him, which ultimately always made Steve resist the urge to lob something hurtful back towards Dustin.

So instead of telling your motionless body that your little brother was being a raging prick to him, Steve simply says, “He needs you.”

Steve thinks about the night he lost you often, though it continues to rip open the wound in his heart again and again each time he replays it in his memories.

“You can’t,” Steve had protested.

“I can,” you replied firmly, thumb easing against the little wrinkle that formed over his brow bone.

Steve swallowed thickly, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because you have Nancy and Robin to fight with you. Dustin has Eddie to protect him. But Max and Lucas need one of us. I’m going with them, Steve,” you answered, set in your decision to not leave them behind.

“That wasn’t the plan,” he retorted, gripping your waist tightly.

“It wasn’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t let them go alone,” you countered.

Steve felt his throat tighten, felt the familiar sting of tears threatening to fill his eyes, “I don’t want you to leave me.”

“Steve,” you cupped his face, fingers splaying out gently along the expanse of his neck, “I need you to trust me.”

“I do trust you, but I’m scared. You said it yourself, this time is different. Heavier. One of us might not make it out of this, and it cannot be you,” he implored, reaching up to grasp lovingly at your wrists.

You took a deep breath, “Steve, I love you, and-.”

He shook his head, cutting you off, “No. No, don’t do that to me. Don’t act like this is goodbye.”

“But it could be,” you whispered, “and I need you to know that you’ll be fine without me if something does happen.”

Steve scoffed at the thought, “I would never be the same without you.”

“You’d have to try. For Dustin. For me,” you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

He closed his eyes, let his hands slide down to your elbows - tried to ground himself in the moment, because if it truly was the last time he touched you, then he wanted to soak in your presence - bathe himself in these tiny pieces of yourself you were giving him before you were gone.

And when Steve heard the four chimes of that fucking clock a couple hours later, he thought Max was a goner - didn’t realize he was the one that would be brought to his knees at the sight of you, broken and bloody in her arms.

Steve still can’t shake Dustin’s cries that night - had to watch him scream his lungs out over Eddie dying before he repeated the same devastating noise at the sight of you.

He hears it in his nightmares, hears the screeching of the demobats, hears the own strangled sound of despair he let out when he saw you lying lifelessly in the aftermath of the battle.

The steady beep of your heart monitor drags Steve out of the horrific things that plague his mind, trying to focus back in on the sight of you in front of him - not moving, but at least you’re breathing.

“I need you,” he admits brokenly, forehead dropping down to rest against your thigh.

His palm lands against your knee, thumb brushing lazily over the thin material of the white cotton blanket that covers you.

“Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me,” he begs, feeling an overwhelming amount of agony from the lack of your reply.

A light knock at the door makes him look up to see Robin poking her head in, lifting her fingers in a brief wave to announce her presence.

She tentatively walks across the room towards Steve, quietly taking a seat next to him. She knows better than to ask if anything has changed at this point, and Steve finds her silence sickening, because god when Robin is silent - it meant that she thought things were bad.

“Steve,” she eventually says, placing a hand on his back.

He makes a rapt noise of recognition for her, but doesn’t take his longing eyes off of you - admiring your beauty even in the dullness that’s taken over your features from being stagnant for so long.

“When was the last time you showered?” Robin probs, no judgment in her tone - just pure concern for the well being of her friend.

“Dunno,” he mumbles desolately.

“Go home,” she presses, “take care of yourself. You know she’d be heartbroken if she saw you wallowing like this.”

Steve hates that she’s right, but still doesn’t move from his spot, “I don’t wanna leave her alone.”

“She won’t be alone. I’ll stay with her. Plus, I brought another visitor,” Robin tilts her head to the hallway, silently insinuating whoever came with her is out there.

“Dustin?” He questions.

Robin nods softly, “Yeah. The little twerp insisted he come today. Said he had a feeling she might wake up soon.”

“God, I hope so,” Steve admits.

“Me too,” she agrees quietly.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before he sighs, untangling himself from you before standing up.

“Gonna go home and freshen up, then I’m coming right back,” Steve declares while heading for the door.

Dustin’s leaning against the wall when Steve exits, “No updates?”

Steve closes his eyes briefly, disappointment washing over him at the question, “No. You doing okay, man?”

Dustin shrugs noncommittedly, “Could be better.”

“Yeah, same,” Steve replies dully.

He misses his friendship with the boy, hates the strained riff that hangs over their heads.

And he misses you. Misses how you could mediate things between the two of them. He often finds himself wondering if you never come to, if things will ever return to the way they once were between himself and your brother.

He places a soothing hand on Dustin’s shoulder, “I’m stepping out for a bit. Call me if you need me.”

Dustin nods solemnly, not bothering to bid Steve goodbye before walking into your room.

You wake up to the sound of Steve begging, watching as he clings to your frail body.

Please, honey. If you can hear me at all, find a way to show me.

His voice rings in your ears, the statement a loud roar echoing through your brain, but the sound of it is ripped away when you see the clouds beginning to shift - covering the vision in the hazy red of the sky.

“Steve!” Your throat feels raw from screaming his name, pleading for him to return to you.

You’ve lost track of how many times reaching him has been at the tips of your fingers, only for the illusion to fade - like a carpet being yanked from under you with nowhere soft to land.

Tears stream down your face as you frantically spin around, praying that you could see him one more time.

“No, please, no,” you cry, stumbling over a gnarled root that sticks out from the ground.

You land harshly on your knees, hands cutting open from the fall - nauseated by the blood that starts to seep out.

You squeeze your eyes shut, “It’s not real. It’s not real.”

The phrase is what keeps you going - playing on repeat because you know that your physical body is intact, have seen it when that blissful image of Steve appears in the thunderous clouds above you.

You’ve watched him hopelessly for months now, maybe longer, but time has been too hard to keep track of in this prison world that Henry has locked you away in. You’ve been hiding from him - somehow finding holes in his mind, and he lets you linger in pockets of memories that he won’t enter.

It feels like he’s toying with you sometimes, willing to let you go if you can play his game and find the way out. But as each day passes, you find it harder to distinguish what’s tangible and what’s not - slowly dwindling into madness.

The only thing keeping you from spiraling completely has been the glimpses of moments with Steve that flash in brief seconds before withering away.

You can feel one starting to creep into the crevices of your brain; the time you admitted you saw a future with him.

You were at Lover's Lake, watching the sun set across the horizon - fading into faint pinks and oranges as it drifted down.

The two of you were lounging on the hood of Steve’s Beamer, basking in the warmth of the summer evening - listening to the chittering of nightlife taking over.

Steve was leaning backwards, extending his legs to let your head rest on his lap, and his hand was combing gently through your hair.

“You’ve been quiet for a while, Stevie,” you mumbled, eyes growing heavy in content from his fingers working at your scalp.

“Hmm,” he hummed softly, eyes flickering towards you.

“I wanna know what you’re thinking about,” you rolled over, allowing yourself to look up at him.

If you could burn the image of him behind your eyelids you would, because the look on his face was one of pure adoration - staring in awe of your radiance.

“When I was younger, my parents would take me here during the summer,” he moved his thumb to brush gingerly along your jaw.

“Yeah?” You prompted, curious to know where he was going with that lead.

“Yeah. They were always distracted though. They’d be giving each other the silent treatment after an argument, or they were too focused on worrying about appearances in front of other families. Forced me to get really good at being creative since I didn’t have anyone to play with,” he continued, letting his index finger skim over the delicate skin under your eyes.

“There had to have been other kids there,” you remarked.

He shrugged, “There were, but uh, if you can believe it, I was kind of shy back then.”

Your heart faltered at the thought of him being a child and feeling the weight of being left out, even if it wasn’t intentional.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, curling a hand into the fabric of his shirt.

“Don’t be. It made me realize that I won’t ever let my kids have to experience that,” he mused.

Your breath hitched, “Your kids?”

“Well, our kids. They’d have each other at least and-,” Steve cut himself off after realizing what he revealed.

His eyes squeezed shut, and he pinched the bridge of his nose in embarrassment, “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

You watched him internally panic for a second, before pushing yourself up so you could relieve the tension that you saw settling over his shoulders.

“Hey,” you started, pressing a reassuring hand against his thigh.

“That was stupid, forget it,” he groaned, dragging a hand roughly down his face.

“What if I don’t want to forget it?” You refuted.

“You mean it?” He asked timidly.

You crossed your legs underneath you and wrapped a hand around his bicep.

“I’ve thought about it too,” you admitted.

His eyes grew glassy as he let out a sharp breath of disbelief through his nose, “Seriously?”

You released a quiet laugh, “Of course. I know we’re young, but I see a future with you, Steve. And I can’t see myself having any of it - kids, marriage, whatever it may be - if you’re not there with me.”

“Fuck, I think I’m falling in love with you,” he confessed.

You let your eyelids flutter closed - nose nudging his, “It’s about time, Harrington. Because I know I’m falling in love with you.”

Steve slotted his lips with yours, no longer able to hold himself back from proving to you the unadulterated affection he has for you - capturing your mouth hungrily in swift, greedy presses to emphasize his appreciation.

You pulled back just a fraction, “Plus, we’ve got practice carting Dustin around. He’s kind of like our trial run, isn’t he?”

Steve laughed against your mouth, giddily pressing his lips against yours until you were light-headed with want.

The memory jolts something within you, like numb limbs gaining strength after falling asleep, and suddenly you can see it; the picture of yourself opening up in front of you, nearly paces away.

A sudden burst of sentences reverberates throughout the inner workings of your being.

Fight for Dustin. For me.

I need you, honey. We all need you.

I can’t do this without you, baby.

Please, come back to me.

It’s the last one, spoken so rawly by your lover that it spurs you on, forces you to move your feet from a trudge to a sprint - recognizing that this moment is critical, the one that could change the tides and tip the scale towards your loved ones victory against the sinister world you’ve been bound in.

There’s only one name that echoes inside of you as you get closer to a taste of the world - the real one, the one that you’ve been separated from for far too long - and it’s Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve.

Steve throws his keys on the kitchen counter, scrubbing his hands over his eyes, pressure building from yet another day without you waking up.

He leans against the cold surface, back digging into the granite as his eyes find the coffee cup that sits idle by the sink. It was your favorite to use when you spent the night at his place, and there’s a faint lipstick stain that’s wrapped around the rim - dust collecting inside the unwashed dish.

Steve can’t help but feel haunted by the ghost of you in his own home.

He lets himself pretend through the fragments of you he has left, because he’s starting to forget what your voice sounded like, what your touch felt like, what it felt like to be looked up and down by you when he wore your favorite yellow sweater of his. The same one he was wearing when you recognized that you were in love with him. Which was now gone, and yet another torturous reminder of his loss.

It’s why the coffee cup sits untouched, why he can’t sleep on your side of the bed, why he can’t bring himself to wash the last t-shirt you slept in. He swears there’s lingering traces of your perfume wafting through the air sometimes from it.

He imagines you dancing in the emptiness of his living room, twirling in his arms because if he lets himself sink into reality; he fears it means accepting that he’s lost you, that there’s no hope for you to return to him.

The first thing you notice when you come to is the darkness that reigns behind your eyelids. You can feel your muscles twitching, aching to move, but your body is not cooperating with the messages that your brain is signal firing.

You hear a sharp intake of breath, feel the warm press of someone’s hand slip into yours, the scrap of a chair indicating they’re moving closer.

The familiar rumble of your little brother’s voice infiltrates the room.

“Dusty?” You slur, tongue feeling heavy from not being used.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he squeezes your hand.

“Where, w-,?” You stutter, feeling an aggravating pain shoot through your vocal chords.

“Hey, take it slow. It’s been a while since you’ve talked,” Dustin reprimands.

“Steve,” you whisper, voice cracking - desperate to know where he is, eyes in a flurry of movement from trying to peel open.

Dustin slowly swims into your gaze, though it’s still blurry, and the intensity of the lights shining in your eyes causes streaks to glide across the room.

Another head comes into frame, and you recognize Robin’s voice before you can even see her clearly.

“Holy shit, Henderson. You’re awake,” she squeals, making your face pinch up in a wince.

“Robin,” Dustin seethes.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just so good to see you moving. Harrington’s going to be beside himself,” she says eagerly, voice lowering significantly.

At the mention of your boyfriend, you try to fight against the lethargy that’s taken over your body.

“Steve, I need Steve,” you croak, feeling like cotton’s been shoved in your mouth with how dry it is.

Robin jumps out of her seat, “I’ll call him.”

“Can you get the nurse after?” Dustin asks, and she nods her head before swiftly exiting the room.

You try to force yourself into a sitting position, wiggling around in frustration at the fact that you can’t seem to control your body.

Dustin places his hands on your shoulders, “You’ve been immobile for a long time. You need to stop before you hurt yourself.”

“Dustin, I need Steve,” you repeat, tears quickly filling your lash line.

“Wow, not even a hi for your favorite brother?” He jokes, reaching out to brush a stray tear of yours away with his knuckle.

“I’m so sorry, Dusty,” your head starts to clear, fog disappearing - realizing your only brother is the one here for you, and all you can think about is Steve.

“It’s okay. I just missed you, you know?” His throat constricts, leaning forward on his knees.

“I missed you too,” you utter, giving him a small smile.

Dustin catches you up to speed on the things you’ve missed - Eddie passing, Hawkins splitting open, El returning, searching for Vecna, and the list goes on.

“Steve brought me out of this. I don’t know how, but he did,” you murmur once he’s finished.

“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s been hovering over you nonstop. Usually isn’t gone for more than an hour at a time if he can help it,” Dustin grins.

“Really?” Your smile wobbles, heart swelling at the thought of him waiting for you.

“Yeah, he,” Dustin pauses, because it was once hard for him to believe his next words, “he really loves you.”

It’s then that the nurse comes in, paging for a doctor before hustling over towards you.

“It would be helpful if you stepped out so we could run some evaluations on her,” she instructs him politely.

“No way. I’m not leaving her,” Dustin scowls.

“It’s okay, Dusty. I’m okay. Just, get Steve for me, please?” You request weakly.

He sighs at your insistence, “If you need anything, have someone get me. Robin and I will be in the hallway.”

Robin frowns when she sees him step out of your room, “He’s not picking up.”

“He’s probably on his way back,” Dustin guesses.

The two of them sink into the chairs that line the hallway, feeling antsy at the span of time without being able to check in with you.

Finally the doctor leaves, sharing some brief updates about the stability of your condition - leaving to contact Claudia Henderson, who no doubt will be making her way to the hospital in record time when she hears the news.

Dustin stands, stretching out his arms, and Robin immediately seizes his hand - lugging him to crouch behind a medical cart that just happens to be big enough to hide them.

“Robin, what the hell?” Dustin yelps, and she swiftly covers his mouth with her hand.

She points down the hall towards Steve, who’s rounding the corner.

“Why are we hiding from Steve? We want him to know,” Dustin slaps her hand away.

“Because if we run into him, I’m gonna blabber about it and don’t you think it’ll be better for him to find out on his own?” She quips back, gesturing at the melancholy look on her best friend's face.

Dustin gives a hesitant pause, but ultimately concedes, “Yeah, guess you’re right. But I call spying on them from the doorway.”

Robin rolls her eyes, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Steve’s perfected the route to your room where he’ll avoid running into nurses that like to give him looks of pity each time he shows up.

He first stops by the vending machines to grab himself a shitty coffee and a snack for you. It’s a habit he can’t put down, buying something for you despite the fact that you can’t eat it right now.

There’s a whole box full of items that sits untouched in your hospital room - overflowing with expired food at this point, but Steve doesn’t have the heart to throw them out.

He trods up the back staircase, avoiding eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop him and ask where he was headed. Finally, he stops by your door which is now closed - probably Dustin’s doing he assumes, who likes to claim it keeps the noise level to a minimum. The walls are paper thin not matter what, but Steve doesn’t have the energy to debate him on it.

He swings the door open, and starts to chatter, which is his typical routine when he’s visiting you.

“Well, honey, I got you the regular M&M’s today. They were out of the peanut ones. Can you believe that shit? What kind of establishment runs out of the best type of-,” Steve’s rambling is cut off when he walks into your room and sees you, sitting up - on your own.

The coffee in Steve’s hands crashes to the floor, black liquid seeping across the vinyl flooring - soaking into the bottom of his jeans and coating his Nike shoes with the maroon swoops, arguably having just ruined his favorite pair, but it’s the least of his concerns.

His jaw drops in disbelief, blinking rapidly to decide if you were a figment of his imagination, wondering if his brain is making you up due to sleep deprivation.

“Hi Stevie,” you rasp, wishing you could throw yourself at him.

Steve’s frozen, planted on the spot he’s standing in, because hearing your voice - the same one that he swore he might’ve been forgetting - has just bloomed out of you, flooding his brain as it ricochets around the room.

“Steve,” you whimper, can’t help but let out a breathy sob at seeing him just a handful of feet in front of you.

The whine that escapes you knocks him back into motion, practically skidding through the spilled coffee and kneeling down by the edge of your bed - legs digging into the hard floor.

“Am I dreaming?” He asks, hands reaching out to you - stopping himself from touching you because he’ll surely be wrecked to find that none of this is real.

You smile faintly, “I don’t think so.”

Steve carefully lets his fingers glide across your palm, and when your fingers twitch - feebly curling around his own for the first time in ages, he can’t help but let the tears track down his face which sets off your own.

“God, I can’t believe you’re real. And here. How are you here?” His lips part, uncertainty still keeping him at bay.

You’re not ready to disclose the torture you’ve been through, so you simply lock your fingers through his and plead, “Hold me?”

Steve’s mouth flounders, letting himself finally believe he hasn’t somehow conjured up a replica of you, “Course I can, honey. C’mere.”

He scooches himself onto the bed, maneuvering your body to rest against him - back pressed to his chest, head tucked under his chin while his arms wrap tightly around you.

“I’m so sorry,” he groans, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up, honey.”

“It’s okay, Steve,” you try to reassure him.

“No, I knew not to leave you today. Dustin had a feeling you'd come back to us soon. Little shit is always right,” he grumbles, hating himself for not being there.

Fragile laughter bubbles up within you, “He always is, isn’t he?”

“I’m so sorry,” he cries, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Steve,” you tilt your head back just a fraction, the best you can do for now, “you have nothing to be sorry for, baby. I know you’ve been here every day.”

“Because I knew you’d come back to me,” he tenderly dots kisses to the back of your neck.

“And I knew you wouldn’t give up on me,” you murmur, sniffling as you feel the pressure behind your eyelids build again.

“Never,” his voice is warm, laid bare with honesty.

Steve continues to grace you with his devotion, mapping your body with his hands, and it’s intimate in a way you’ve never experienced with him before.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he repeats himself, letting the phrase hang between you two as he continues to lavish you - nose grazing your jawline, lips attaching sweetly under your ear before catching the corner of your mouth.

You suddenly feel the wet droplets that roll down his pretty face and land on the slope of your collarbone, making you itch to wipe his tears away. You try your best to shift, but no matter how much effort you put into it, you can’t get your body to move, which makes you grunt in irritation.

“What’s wrong? Does something hurt, honey?” He implores.

You bite your lip in annoyance at not being able to comfort him, “No. It’s just, I can’t move yet, and you're crying.”

Understanding ripples across his expression - knowing you're aching to provide him solace. He brings your hand up to his cheek, guiding your fingers to wipe swiftly under his eyes, along the highs of his cheekbones, before trailing down to catch the tears that puddle under his jaw.

It’s messy, but a reminder that you’re miraculously here in his arms.

“I love you,” he rasps, inhaling sharply - still in astonishment that you haven’t slipped away yet, that you haven't dissolved like ice melting under the ray of the burning sun.

And when Dustin and Robin sneakily slide in the room later, pretending like they weren’t on the verge of crying themselves, giving you the space to open up about what you’ve experienced, Steve continues to keep you grounded - unwilling to let you go, declining the notion of letting you go for even a moment, because he’ll be damned if he has to dance with the ghost of you again.

well, this started as a part two to they don’t know about us because i had some requests for that, but it just didn’t feel the same. hence why there’s hints of similarities if you’ve read that imagine!

Divider credits to @lobster-graphics

Main Masterlist If interested

JKC Taglist: @pepsipoet @pr33tygirlavenue @miahslt91 @sparklydelusionearthquake @cuddlyeren @beth-mirrorball @ann-aatn @oliviaharrington

Your face immediately lit up, leaning just a bit closer. “Stevie.”

You reached for his hand, but Steve instinctively pulled it back an inch, more confused than frightened. “…Do I know you?”

The room went silent, Robin who had been leaning against the wall with crossed arms let out a squeak. “Uh-oh.”

You stared at him for a second, before a laugh bubbled out of you. “Are you joking around with me?”

He frowned apologetically, everything in his mind just felt so fuzzy. “I’m sorry, I feel like I should know you.”

You shook your head, still smiling despite the slight concern sitting in your chest. “Obviously you know me, Stevie.”

He studied your face like he was trying to solve the worlds hardest puzzle. Your eyes that held something almost similar to affection, your contagious smile, the way you looked at him like you’ve known him forever.

Even after racking through his memories, the ones that still remained at least, nothing came up. Then his eyebrows slowly lifted. “Are you an angel?” He blurted.

You blinked, mouth agape. “What?”

“I mean,” his cheeks flushed, for a second he had thought he was dead, that was the only explanation as to why a beautiful girl like you was standing above him. “You’re really pretty.”

Robin groaned, this was a romantic movie she had not signed up for. “Oh god.”

Steve ignored her completely. “I think I’d remember someone as special as you.”

Your smile only grew, ducking your head shyly. “You think so?” You whispered.

“I know so.” He nodded seriously. “There’s absolutely no chance I’d forget a girl like you.”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing, Robin snorted so hard she nearly doubled over. Steve looked between you two confused. “What?” He still didn’t understand what was so funny.

You tilted your head at him mischievously. “So, what do you think we’re doing here?” You randomly asked.

He glanced around the hospital bed before turning back to you. “Are we on a date?” He guessed.

You couldn’t hold it back anymore, losing your cool as laughter flowed out of you. “It’s a…pretty weird place for a date though,” he mentioned.

You wiped a tear from your eye. “It’s not exactly romantic.” You added.

Steve smiled sheepishly. “But did it work?”

“Did what work?” Your brows pulled together.

“The flirting.” He finished like it was obvious. Even while concussed, he still fell back into his player ways.

He really was putting on a show for you. “Yeah, Stevie. You’ve still got it.” You reassured.

He quietly celebrated with a tiny fist pump against the blanket. “Nice,” he praised himself. You finally reached over and gently took his hand, this time, he only stared at you with wide brown eyes.

His fingers immediately curled around yours before he looked down at them. “So,” you started, knowing the reveal would send him into an absolute frenzy. “I’m your girlfriend.”

His mouth actually fell open, features frozen with shock. “No way.”

“Mhm,” you hummed back, not bothering to hide the amusement from your face.

“You mean to tell me,” Steve backtracked. “That I’m—” he pointed at himself. “Dating you?”

“Last I checked, you’re my boyfriend.” You shrugged.

Steve’s gaze studied your face, looking for any hints that you were fooling him, then landed on your joined hands again, then back to your face. “I’m your boyfriend.” He repeated. “I asked you out?”

“And you were very nervous in doing so.” You stated. “But I accepted anyway.”

Steve looked at you with an astonished smile. “I must’ve been the luckiest guy alive.” He shook his head.

“You still are.” He smiled so brightly at your words, it made your heart ache.

A minute later, after the nurse finished checking his pupils and stepped out again, Steve quietly scooted over in the small hospital bed, wincing only a little.

“What are you doing?” You asked.

“Making room for you.” He pointed out, peeling back the blanket.

“It won’t fit the two of us.” You sighed, even though you wanted nothing more than to cuddle up to him.

He patted the mattress, still not convinced. “I might not remember you.” His voice softened. “But I know I feel better when you’re close.”

There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his voice, only clear, honest certainty. You carefully climbed onto the edge of the bed beside him without another word, trying not to jostle his shoulder.

The second you settled, he made a happy noise of contentment. “Yup, this feels right.” He nodded.

You rested your head lightly against his shoulder. “It does?” You whispered.

Steve intertwined your hands again, the touch was more comforting this time than surprising. “I don’t remember loving you.” Your heart squeezed.

“But,” he murmured. “I remember what it feels like to love you.”

You looked up to find him smiling at you with the same hopelessly in love expression he’d always worn. Lifting yourself slightly, you press a gentle kiss against his forehead.

Dustin—who had stumbled into Family Video over half an hour ago alongside Max to try and convince Steve into letting them rent an R rated horror for the party’s weekly movie night—laughs loudly, causing Steve to groan into his hands before resting his head against the cool countertop in defeat.

“I’ll just go alone,” Steve grumbles against his arm. “I’ll just look like a sad, sad loser going to alone to a wedding and—”

“What about Max’s sister?”

Steve can’t help it. He lets out a snort of disbelief before standing up straight.

He doesn’t miss the look of annoyance Max shoots his way.

“What’s wrong with my sister, Harrington?” She asks pointedly and Steve’s ears turn red.

Of course, there was nothing wrong with you per se. In fact, Steve had very briefly considered asking you the moment that he had gotten off the phone with Juliet. But there was just one small problem—

“Nothing!” Steve says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Absolutely nothing! She just—”

“Hates his guts?” Dustin offers.

Max rolls her eyes in exasperation, folding her arms across her chest as she looks from Dustin to Steve.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Max insists. “She just—she just thinks you’re an asshole and would prefer not to be in the same room as you.”

Steve swallows. Something that felt like shame swirls in his gut. Of course, you had every reason to dislike him and Steve would be the first to put his hands up and say he probably deserved it. You two had very much gotten off on the wrong foot after you had overheard him call Billy’s family—and by extension your family—’trash’. It had been in the heat of the moment and he had only said it because Billy had been pushing his buttons all day. The moment he had realised that you were within earshoot, he had regretted saying it. But because he was stubborn and, at that point in time, cared more about what others thought of him than doing the right thing, and so he didn’t take them back. He didn’t apologise.

He later tried, after the first dance with the Upside Down together, after you had stopped Billy from almost killing him in Byers’ home with a syringe but you had scoffed and walked away like you didn’t buy it. You had made it very clear that you didn’t want to accept his apology, that you had made your mind up about him despite the fact your sister could not care less about the comment. He understood why—you were her big sister and you were protecting your family. Especially after Starcourt, especially after Billy died.

And so, Steve wasn’t exactly convinced by Max’s insistence that you didn’t hate him.

“There is no way she’ll go with me,” Steve says with a shake of his head, arms folded across his chest. “She hates—”

“—she will,” Max says with a knowing smile. “She owes me a favour.”

Steve blinks, looking from Max to Dustin and back again, as if waiting for one of them to shout ‘April Fools!’.

When neither of them does, Steve raises a brow at Max.

“What for?”

“She broke my skateboard,” Max explains. “I was gonna make her buy me a new one but making her go to a wedding with you sounds more interesting.”

Dustin laughs and the corner of Max’s mouth twitches but Steve looks thoroughly unconvinced.

“Gee, thanks Max,” Steve mutters, eyes shifting down to the pile of tapes stacked in front of him that he was meant to be rewinding. “But I really don’t think she’ll agree.”

And so, Steve spends the rest of his shift rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to his aunt when he called her to tell him he would be attending the wedding tomorrow, minus his plus one. 

Five minutes before his shift was due to end, Steve was carefully rearranging the candy selection just as the bell above the door sounded. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

Of course—it was just his luck that a customer had decided to waltz in five minutes before his shift ended. He would put money on the fact it was a group of teenagers who would refuse to leave, teenagers who would mess up the horror display he had spent forty five minutes rearranging, teenagers who pick up the tape for Body Heat to try and convince Steve that they weren’t fourteen.

“We’re closing in—”

“—in five minutes. I know. I can read a clock, Harrington.”

Steve’s stomach turns at the sound of your voice. His head whips around so quickly it was a wonder he didn’t hurt himself. He certainly dropped all of the bars of candy that he had been holding. 

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Steve asks, blinking as he watches you approach the counter with a schooled expression. “Robin has the flu if that’s what you—”

“—I’m here to see you,” you interrupt, eyes flicking down to the peanut butter bopper still clutched in Steve’s hand before you look back up at his face. “Max told me about your—your plus one situation.”

“Oh,” Steve says, the tips of his ears reddening as he looks down at all the candy bars he had dropped, the ones he had been lovingly arranging for the past ten minutes. “Yeah um, that Juliet cancelled on me. She’s cat sitting or something so can’t um, make it.”

You quirk a brow and Steve can tell by the look on your face that you want nothing more than to make a comment, to crack a joke, perhaps even tell him that he had very clearly been stood up, that there was no way Juliet had actually cancelled on him to cat sit. But you don’t, instead you seem to take a deep breath before you say. “I’ll do it.”

The bopper in Steve’s hand falls to the floor. He scrambles to pick it up before looking back ar you.

“Seriously?” He asks, his eyes wide as he tries his best not to look too hopeful. “You—you’re not—this isn’t a prank, right?”

You frown slightly. “Why would I do that?”

Steve blinks before he shakes his head because really, he knew you would never do anything like that to him. 

“I—I dunno—I just—you know this is a wedding, right?” Steve asks you. “Like I’ll be in a suit and you’d wear—”

“—a dress,” you finish. “I know, Max told me. I have a dress if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Steve swallows, the bopper that was back in his grip starting to melt in his sweaty grasp. “I’m not worried about that, it's just—are you sure? Like, are you sure about coming to this wedding—with me?”

You exhale, looking away from Steve momentarily to look around the store, almost as though you were bracing yourself for something big.

“Yes, Harrington,” you say finally. “As a favour to Max, I’ll go to this wedding with you.”

Steve looks back at you for a long, long moment, as if to make sure he wasn’t dreaming or that you weren’t going to tell him you were joking. When he realises that this wasn’t a dream and you say nothing, he starts to smile.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “Thank you so much. This means a lot. My family are—yeah—this is just, it’s really great of you to—”

“—but I’m not dancing with you,” you cut in quickly, fiddling with your hands as you look away from him. “Or doing anything remotely touchy feely. I’m just your plus one. That’s it. That’s all I’ll be.”

“That’s fine!” Steve says quickly, wiping his clammy hands over his jeans before setting down the bopper onto the countertop beside him, the wrapper crumpled and the chocolate inside a little gooey. “Makes sense. Yeah. Um, totally. No dancing. Limited touching. Ju—just my plus one.”

You look at him for a beat before finally, you nod. “Good. Glad we got that covered,” you say before you lean down to pick up one of the candy bars he had dropped and tear open the wrapper.

“You know you need to pay for th—”

“See you tomorrow, Harrington,” you say, smiling before taking a large bite from the chocolate bar and walking straight out of Family Video.

“Could you sit still? Just for two minutes?”

“Is this really necessary?”

Max looked back at you blankly in the mirror before shaking her head, returning her attention to your hair, ignoring you.

You huff but you don’t question her further.

You didn’t want to admit it to yourself but as it drew nearer to ten in the morning—the time that you agreed to be ready by with Steve late last night when he had called you in a slight panic, having forgotten to tell that the wedding was over an hour away—you found that you were starting to feel nervous. 

The pale green satin dress you were wearing—the one you had been saving for Max’s graduation—hugged your body in a way that you weren’t used to. Max and your mom insisted that you looked beautiful but you didn’t exactly know how to feel about that. Especially knowing you’d be spending the day and most of the evening on the arm of Steve Harrington.

“Is it too late to back out now?” You ask Max hopefully, setting down the blusher you had been applying while she was focused on your hair. “I mean—I could say I got the flu from Robin or—”

“—absolutely not,” Max snaps at you. “Just give him a chance? Alright? He’s not the asshole he was in high school.”

You hum in acknowledgement at her words but you don’t respond. You had heard that sentiment plenty of times before, you just couldn’t allow yourself to believe it.

By some miracle, you were ready just before ten o’clock. After slipping on some silver kitten heels, you stand up straight and catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror next to your bed. It was hard not to smile at how pretty you felt.

“Still wanna back out?” You hear Max ask from the door of your shared bedroom, one of your mom’s nice silver purses she only used for special occasions clutched in her hands.

You look over your shoulder at Max before your eyes flicker back to your reflection, at the hair Max had lovingly styled and the makeup you had delicately applied but mostly at the dress that gave you a fluttery feeling in your stomach. 

“No,” you say with a small shake of your head before you turn to look at your sister. “I made a promise so I should stick to it.”

Max looks at you before she smiles. “You look really pretty, by the way.”

Your face warms a little at the compliment but you try to hide it, walking over to Max to take your mom’s purse from her hands. “Not bad for a last minute wedding.”

The corner of Max’s mouth twitches before she walks over to you to carefully adjust one of your hair clips. “You promise to be nice to Steve? Give him a chance to prove himself?”

“Max—”

Max cuts you off with your name and you look back at her carefully. “I’m serious. I want you two to get along. You’re important to me, he’s important to me.”

You feel yourself soften, just a little. Because if something mattered to your little sister, it mattered to you too.

“Just don’t—don’t tell him I said that,” Max adds.

You fight back a smile. “I won’t.”

It was five minutes later when there was a knock at the front door. Your stomach turned nervously as Max ran to answer it.

“You look great,” your mom smiles reassuringly. You smile back—not entirely knowing why you felt so nervous. This was just Steve. Just Steve—the guy who just last week you had yelled at for breathing too loud. Just Steve—the guy you were now going to a damn wedding with.

You take a deep breath before bidding your mom goodbye and following the voices of Max and Steve out of your room.

“—is the tie the right colour?” You hear Steve ask Max, a nervous edge to his voice. “‘Pale green’ was right of vague, I had to—”

“—you don’t need to match with her dress, it’s not prom, Steve—”

“—but I thought—”

You walk into the open plan living room and suddenly, Steve stops talking.

In fact, Steve Harrington seems to stop breathing as he looks at you.

He was looking at you in a way that took your breath away for a few short seconds before you remember just how infuriating you thought he was. But for a brief moment, you allow yourself to look at Steve—really look at him—and admire just how nice he looked. He had always been good looking, even you could admit that, but right now with his wide hazel eyes, parted lips and the suit he was wearing—the tie of which almost perfectly matched your dress—he looked stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that made your stomach tighten.

The moment the thought enters your mind, heat spreads throughout your body. You determinedly ignore it.

“You’re late,” you say by way of a hello, hoping your voice doesn’t give any indication that you felt nothing but apathy for the man in front of you. “You know it’s rude to show up after the bride?”

Steve blinks, seeming to snap out of whatever momentary trance you had sent him in so that he could frown at your words.

“It was the tie! And there was some construction near the—”

“—still. You’re late.”

Steve seems to bite his tongue with whatever retort he had ready to go, his eyes flickering over to match who Max watches the exchange, thoroughly entertained. 

“Ready to go?” Steve asks you, choosing to ignore your remark as he steps towards the door.

You nod, opening your mom’s purse to check you had your lip gloss and some extra hair clips before looking back at Steve. “Yeah. Ready to—”

“—wait!” Max exclaims and you know what was coming before she even opens her mouth. “Let me just go grab the camera. I want this moment framed.”

Neither of you stop yourself from groaning loudly at that.

The drive to the wedding venue took a little over an hour and the car ride with Steve was almost completely silent, save for the radio that seemed to be the saving grace of the journey. 

It dawned on you that you hadn’t ever really spent one on one time with Steve before. Sure, you two had been through a lot together when it came to the upside down, but you had never hung out, not really. But now—you face the prospect of spending the entire day together. At a wedding, no less.

One thing you quickly learned about Steve was that he hummed while listening to music. A lot. Like it was beginning to grate on you kind of a lot.

“Do you have to hum while listening to music?” You ask him in a terse voice after almost thirty minutes of biting your tongue.

You watch Steve stiffen slightly out of the corner of your eye, watch the way his knuckles tighten around his steering wheel and you register the instant ceasing of his humming.

“It’s my car,” Steve points out. “I can hum in my car if I want.”

You open your mouth to snap at him, to tell him that his humming was incredibly annoying and to tell him to stop. But then you thought of Max, you thought of your promise to her that you’d try to be nice to Steve, that you would give him a chance. You find yourself pursing your lips, carefully considering your options before you decide to let this minor annoyance slip. 

Baby steps.

But when Steve pulls his Beamer into a church car park that was swarming with pastel coloured dresses, fascinators and expensive suits, it felt more like diving headfirst into cold water than tentative baby steps.

“Are you ready for this?” Steve asks you gently, sensing your apprehension as you make no move to leave the safety of his car.

You swallow nervously, soothing down your dress as you nod because suddenly, you were acutely aware of the fact that your dress cost less than thirty dollars and that your heels were scuffed, owing to the fact you had bought them secondhand from a thrift store.

“Yeah,” you lie because Hawkins was over an hour away and both you and Max had put too much effort in your appearance to turn back now. But as Steve’s hand moves to open the door, you add, “it’s just—I’m not—I’m not great with family.”

Steve’s hand stops mid-air, inches away from the door handle as he looks over at you carefully before the corners of his mouth lift into something akin to a smile. “That makes two of us,” Steve tells you. “So don’t worry. My parents hate everyone. Just don’t take it personally and you’ll be fine.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

To his credit, the moment that you finally stepped out of his car, Steve was right by your side. His hand, though tentative, rests on the small of your back as you walk towards the church, gravel crunching beneath your shoes. You were already regretting the heels.

As you walk by throngs of Steve’s relatives, he gives you a very quick run down of who’s who while you try to keep up.”

“That’s my uncle Simon,” Steve tells you, nodding to a man in a suit that looked so expensive that you briefly wondered if you were even allowed to look at it. “Been married like three times. Doesn’t seem to understand what monogamy is.”

You bit back a laugh.

“That’s my great aunt Sara—”

“—great aunt?” You repeat, looking at the women Steve had subtly pointed to who did not look old enough to even be considered a great aunt. “Are you sure she’s—”

“—she had a face lift,” Steve explains and you nod slowly. “Well, we all suspect she’s had a face lift. She’s never actually said. She just keeps saying it’s because slathers herself in honey or egg whites every morning.”

Another laugh you had to fight back.

Steve was just telling you about some falling out between his grandmother and cousin as someone calls his name. Steve stops talking mid-sentence to look over at who had called out his name and smiles.

“And this,” he murmurs to you as a woman with a kind, heart shaped face and bright smile approaches. “Is my aunt Edith. She’s a bit much but—”

“Stevie! Oh, look at you!”

You watch in fascination as Steve Harrington—the guy who had been known as King Steve, the guy who had once held a keg stand record for almost three years—turns bright red.

“Edith—”

“—what?” Edith beams at the sight of Steve, carefully adjusting his blazer and fusing over his tie. “Is it a crime now to say hello to my favourite nephew?”

Steve doesn’t respond as even the tips of his ears turn red but his aunt doesn’t tease him any further, instead her soft eyes shift over to you.

“And who is this beautiful young lady?” Edith asks, her gaze so warm and friendly that you couldn’t help but smile at her. “Steve, is this your—”

“—friend,” Steve says quickly and with a quick glance over at you. “Just a friend.”

In any other circumstances, you would have corrected Steve if he referred to you as a friend but you let it slide. Baby steps.

“And a friendship is a beautiful foundation for a relationship,” Edith says to a blushing Steve before she looks back at you. “I’m only teasing him, honey. Don’t look so worried.”

You let out a breathy laugh before shaking your head. “No, go ahead. Tease away. I didn’t know he could turn that shade of red.”

Edith laughs and despite Steve rolling his eyes, he lets out a reluctant chuckle. 

“Oh, I like her already.”

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches before he tells Edith your name and you can’t help but notice the flash of recognition in her eyes when she hears Steve reel off your last name. You can’t blame her. The surname Mayfield and the names of your family had been splashed all over the newspapers after Starcourt, Billy's death.

But Edith doesn’t say anything, which you appreciate.

“You two should probably head inside,” Edith tells you with a nod towards the church. “Or you might be in danger of being run over by the bride.”

You let Steve guide you inside, his hand still on your back as you enter the church.

“Sorry about Edith,” Steve says as you walk towards the church pews. “She’s really—”

“—she was lovely,” you tell Steve. “Really. She wasn’t too much at all.”

Steve nods but you can see the look of quiet gratitude in his eyes.

You sit down in the pews beside Steve, becoming acutely aware of his thigh pressing against yours, of the way he was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh as his eyes darted around the church. You knew without asking that he was looking for his parents.

“By the way,” Steve murmurs after a moment, his eyes shifting back to you. “I forgot to say earlier but you look—”

But Steve was cut off by a sudden swell of music that signalled the arrival of the bride and whatever he was about to say dies on his tongue.

As Daisy met her soon to be husband at the altar and the ceremony began, you tried your very best to remain present. But as your eyes flickered around the church, something swirled in your gut. The realisation that the last time you had been in a church—albiet, nowhere near as extravagant as this—had been at Billy’s funeral.  

Despite the fact you hadn’t been very close with Billy nor had you even remotely liked your step-brother, Billy’s death had affected you more than you cared to admit. It wasn’t just because of what had happened to your family in the immediate aftermath of Billy’s death, when your step-dad had left Hawkins and took every bit of stability you had left with him. It was also the immense guilt and complicated things that you found yourself feeling that had made Billy’s death difficult to navigate, guilt that you felt for surviving Starcourt when Billy didn’t, guilt for also feeling so much resentment towards Billy when he had been alive for making your and Max’s life miserable but deep down, desperately things had been different for him.

But most of all, the thing that had been the most difficult about Billy’s death? It was seeing how it had affected Max and the crushing realisation that came the moment you had heard her scream out Billy’s name—was that, try as you might, you couldn’t protect Max from everything.

And so, as you sat beside Steve Harrington in the pews you were barely listening to Daisy and her soon to be husband Dale exchange their vows. And you even miss Steve sniffling quietly beside you.

After the ceremony—of which, you remember very little—you and Steve make the short journey to the reception which would be held at a magnificent farmhouse outside of which there was a beautiful rose garden. You would have thought it a truly breathtaking sight if you still weren’t so in your own head, still thinking about Billy, of the funeral and Max.

Though he wasn’t saying anything, Steve could tell something was wrong. The small rapport you had built before the ceremony had vanished, you didn’t even complain when he had ordered you the wrong drink by accident.

“Okay,” Steve sighs, looking at your expression carefully after pulling you to the side of the bar. “You gonna tell me what’s up? Did I do something or—”

You blink, looking at Steve as though only just seeing him properly for the first time. 

“I haven’t—I haven’t been in a church since—” you stop yourself, averting your eyes in favour of watching a few of Steve’s smaller cousins running around to distract yourself from the slight burn you were feeling behind your eyes.

You miss how Steve’s eyes soften, how his expression shifts and how he half raises his hand as though he had to stop himself from reaching for you.

“Oh,” he says softly, so softly that you barely recognise his voice and you have to look at him just to be sure it was really Steve. “I didn’t—I didn’t even think. I’m sorry. I—”

“—it’s okay,” you say quickly, forcing a smile onto your face as you look back at Steve. “I’m okay. It was a really beautiful ceremony.”

Steve looks at you and there was a brief moment where you thought that he was just going to drop it. That he wasn’t going to push you to talk but he said your name in that new, soft voice and you knew you weren’t going to get away that easily.

“—I know I’m not your favourite person in the world but you know you can talk to me about—”

“—Steven! We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

You watch as Steve’s face almost completely drains of colour.

“Fuck,” Steve mutters to you as your peer over his shoulder to see a couple—who were undoubtedly his parents—striding towards to two of you. “Okay. It’s just my parent’s. It’s just my—”

“—oh, you must be Steven’s girlfriend!” Steve’s mother exclaims happily as both she and his father approach. You were so taken aback by the hug she pulled you into that you don’t even try to correct her on the fact you were not Steve’s girlfriend and Steve makes no attempt to correct her. Instead, his face reddens and he shoots you an apologetic smile.

That son of a—

“He had told us you were pretty but I don’t think you’d be—”

“—mom,” Steve mutters, his face now burning as he avoids direct eye contact with you, clearly not wanting to give away the fact that you definitely were not his girlfriend. But you didn’t care about it that much anymore, not when you had just learned that Steve Harrington had told his parents that you were pretty.

Steve introduces you to both his parents and, like Edith, you see the flash of recognition across their faces at your surname but unlike Edith, Steve’s parents didn’t let your name pass without acknowledgement.

“Oh dear,” his moms says kindly, placing a gentle hand on your arm that makes your stomach churn uncomfortably. “I thought I recognised your face. Billy Hagrove was your step-brother, right?”

You don’t trust yourself to talk and nor do you look at Steve as you nod.

“We’re terribly sorry for your loss,” his father says to you solemnly, though his expression does not change in the slightest. “Awful accident.”

You smile in acknowledgement but you aren’t quite sure what to say. Thank you? Everything you knew you should say when someone offered their condolences would sound insincere. Unnatural, even. But fortunately—or unfortunately—for you, Steve’s father continues talking.

“And for his father to leave the way he did, leaving your family, a single mother to struggle and live in a trailer park of all places—it must really be awful for your family. Being amongst drug dealers and god knows what else in that park!”

You swallow. It had been awful but you didn’t think much of Danny Harrington’s tone—of the fact he sounded more sorry that your family were living in a trailer park than grieving. You still had Max and your mom—even if she had started drinking to cope—and a roof over your heads. It was all you needed.

But before you could tell Steve’s father any of this, before you could even consider politely standing up for yourself, Steve Harrington got there first.

“Dad, let’s not—let’s not go there, okay?” Steve says, placing a hand on your back as if ready to steer you away from the conversation.

Danny Harrington, for a very brief moment, looks taken aback by his son’s words but had enough sense to understand the topic of Billy Hagrove and the Mayfield family was off limits.

“Very well,” he says with a small nod and a tight lipped smile. “Enjoy the evening, both of you.”

The moment his parents leave you and Steve standing at the side of the bar, you feel immense relief.

You breathe a sigh of relief, not even noticing how tense you had felt for the past two minutes as you turn towards Steve. “That was—”

“—I’m really sorry,” Steve cuts in, his hand leaving your back in order to scrub over his face. Before you could even ask what he was sorry for, he continues. “For making them think that you’re my girlfriend. I panicked a little and didn’t know what to say—”

“—Steve, it’s—”

“—and I’m sorry for butting in like that. I know you can stand up for yourself and you didn’t need me to—you know. I just—my dad he just—I couldn’t—I couldn’t just let him talk to you like that. Like he—”

“—Harrington.”

Steve swallows, looking back at you as though he was bracing himself, ready for you to yell at him for doing something for you that you were perfectly capable of doing yourself. But to his utter surprise, you start to smile at him.

“It’s okay,” you tell him gently. “I—I appreciate it. Really. It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

Steve looks at you as if to make sure that you weren’t lying, his eyes on you making your stomach turn in a way that you weren’t used to around him. 

“Okay,” Steve says with a grateful smile. “Okay. That—that’s good. I thought you were going to lose your shit at me for a second.”

“No,” you say, stopping yourself from smiling back at him. “But the girlfriend thing though, still undecided about that.”

Steve can’t help it, his face flushes a warm pink and before he knows it, he was laughing and you find yourself joining in.

Baby steps.

He says your name then and you look at him, the expression on his face as he looks at you makes the world around you feel a little fussy, makes your stomach flip and your cheeks grow hot.

“Yeah?” you reply in a voice that you hope doesn’t give away just how slightly flustered you were feeling.

“I wanted to—I forgot to say this earlier,” he begins, scratching the back of his neck as though he was nervous, despite the fact you didn’t think it at all possible for Steve Harrington to be nervous. “I think—you just—you look beautiful, Mayfield.”

You weren’t entirely sure why those words had such a monumental effect on you, but they did. Your breath hitches, your face feels ten times hotter and you were almost positive that Steve could hear your heart beating out of your chest because of those words.

“You look pretty good yourself, Steve,” you say with a small, barely there smile.

Steve blinks and then—

“You just called me Steve,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting.

You shrug, you pretend it wasn’t a big deal.

Baby steps.

It was hard not to smile watching Steve twirl not one but two of his little cousins around, especially when their laughter was full of unbridled joy as they begged him for just one more spin around the dancefloor.

You sat at the table you and Steve had been convening at for the past few hours. The table where you had sat for the reception dinner with a handful of his cousins, where you had struggled to hold back tears at the speech by the father of the bride and Steve had placed a warm, comforting hand on your arm. Your skin was still tingling from his touch.

“Please Steve!” the youngest of his cousins, maybe five or six, pouted up at him. “Just one more!”

“Later,” Steve promises with a quick glance over at you. “Later, I promise!”

You were fighting back yet another smile at their whines of protest, at Steve ruffling their hair to make them squeal before walking back over to your table.

“What are you smiling at?” He asks, sitting down in the chair beside yours before taking a long swig of his beer.

“Nothing,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth of your cheeks. “Just—you’re really good with kids.”

Even the colourful disco lights couldn’t conceal the impressive shade of red that Steve had turned at your words.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice,” Steve murmurs. “Kids are much easier when there’s no Upside Down involved.”

You laugh, which over a few courses of dinner had become something of a common occurrence with Steve. He had made you laugh a lot, more than you wanted to admit. You were beginning to think that Max was right, that perhaps you had been a little too harsh on Steve over the past few years and you even started to feel bad for not giving him a chance sooner. Not that you would ever admit that.

It’s quiet between the two of you then. You watch Steve’s fingers gently drum against the beer bottle in his hands and as he glances over at the dancefloor. You can’t help but look over too, remembering that you had told him no dancing. You found yourself suddenly regretting that part of the deal.

“You want another drink?” Steve asks you, setting down his now empty bottle of beer. “I can get you another—”

“—do you want to dance?”

The words slip out before you could second guess them and you feel your stomach tighten in apprehension. If Steve said no then you would surely have to move far, far away and—

“Yes,” Steve says quietly and with a nod. “I’d love to.”

You look at him to see he was smiling at you and you hate the fact his smile makes your stomach feel a little fussy inside.

“Just keep your hands to yourself,” you tell him with a faint smile as you stand up from your chair, Steve mirroring your action only a few seconds later.

“I’ll be a gentleman,” Steve tells you with a smile that makes you wonder why you had ever disliked him in the first place. “Promise.”

The moment you and Steve were finally on the dancefloor together, the rest of the wedding faded into nothing. From Cyndi Lauper, to a-ha to Elton John, you and Steve Harrington danced until your feet began to hurt. He spun you around, he laughed when you stumbled over your heels and you laughed when a drunken uncle of his had spilled whiskey all over his blazer. Your laughter quickly died when Steve had thrown his blazer aside, leaving him in his white shirt that he had unbuttoned while loosening his tie, giving you a peak at the hair that adorned his chest. Your throat felt a little try at the sight. 

“Do my eyes deceive me,” Steve begins, smiling at you as Heaven Is A Place On Earth fades into Come On Eileen, “or are you checking me out, Miss Mayfield?”

You laugh like it was funny despite the fact you definitely had been checking him out.

“No,” you deny it with a laugh that causes the corners of Steve’s mouth to twitch. “Course not, Harrington.”

“Oh? Are we back to Harrington, now?” Steve asks in a teasing voice that makes you feel so hot it feels as though your stomach was suddenly made from molten lava. “What did I do? I’ve been nothing but a gentleman to you, Mayfield.”

It took you a moment to realise that he was flirting with you and as soon as you did the heat in your gut began to burn. 

“Just keeping you on your toes,” you tell him, your eyes seeming to sparkle in the light as you look back at him. 

Steve hums, unable to stop the smile from spreading over his face as he looks at you. “Misson accomplished.”

There was something in his eyes that seemed to hold you captive, you couldn’t move, could barely breathe and in that second, his eyes dip down to your lips.

“Mayfield, I—”

“—Steve!”

It was the voice of his younger cousins’, the ones he had promised another dance with. You watch as he has to force himself to look away from you, his eyes flickering back for a brief moment to apologise.

“It’s okay,” you tell him with a smile, ignoring the pang of disappointment that had taken refuge in your gut. “I’ll um, I’ll go get another drink while you—”

You gesture towards his younger cousins’ who were both tugging on his arms impatiently, demanding Steve’s attention. He shoots you one last apologetic look before he bends down to pick both squealing girls up with one only arm. You couldn’t deny the way your heart doubled in size at the sight. 

You make your way over to the bar, passing by his parents who you avoid eye contact with while you order yourself another glass of wine and Steve another beer. You tap your nails against the wooden top of the bar, your eyes finding Steve dancing with his younger cousins’ easily. 

“He’s always been great like that with kids.”

The sound of Steve’s Aunt Edith’s voice makes you jump, very nearly spilling Steve’s beer.

“Sorry honey,” she chortles, steading the bottle as you look away from Steve and over at her. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a genuine smile because unlike Steve’s parents, Aunt Edith didn’t make you feel even remotely nervous. “Just took me by surprise, that’s all.”

“Becuase you were too busy staring at my nephew?” She offers with a wry smile.

Your face warms but you don’t even try to deny it.

“You know, I’ve seen my nephew with a fair few women over the years but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any who could make him blush like you have over the course of the evening,” she tells you.

You couldn’t stop the look of shock from passing over your face, your body buzzing with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I’m just saying,” she continues when you say nothing, your fingers still tapping nervously against the table, “that I think, as his favourite auntie, that you’d be pretty grear together.”

You weren’t quite sure what to say and perhaps Edith knew that because she smiled at you kindly before walking away.

Edith’s words play on your mind as you continue to watch Steve and his cousins. You couldn’t lie to yourself, couldn’t deny that the evening had made you see Steve in an entirely different light. It had also made you rethink the Steve you had been so rude to over the past few years; the Steve that always dropped Max back home without a second thought, the Steve that never drove off without ensuring she was safely back inside the trailer, the Steve that had some sort of stupid handshake with Dustin Henderson, the Steve that had brought you tea and made Max lumpy tomato soup after Billy’s funeral. Something inside you twisted as you remembered that fact you had never said thank you to him for doing that.

“You’re looking awfully pensive over here, Mayfield.”

The sound of Steve’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts but his presence does nothing to the swirl of emotions you were feeling.

“Just thinking,” you say finally, turning to face him with a small smile. “Here’s another beer, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Steve grins, taking the bottle from you. Your fingers brush against his and your body feels alive with something you had never had thought you would feel around Steve. “Need it after running around with those kids, I’m too old for this shit.”

You laugh and shake your head in amused disbelief. “You’re twenty one, Steve.”

“Twenty one going on seventy.”

You can barely contain your laughter at that and soon both you and Steve were laughing. You miss the way his eyes flicker down to your lips as you laugh, the way his cheeks flush a shade or so darker when you look over at him as the beginning notes of Heaven by Bryan Adams starts to play.

“I know you just got us some drinks,” Steve begins, setting his bottle down onto the bar and gently prying your own glass of wine from your hands. “But I really want to dance with my date.”

The way he said it, the look in his eyes, it was almost too much.

“Plus one,” you correct him, biting back a smile.

“Synmatics,” he says softly, smiling at you before he holds out a hand, palm up, for you to take. “Dance with me, Mayfield.”

There was no other answer but yes.

You let Steve pull you towards the dancefloor, the fluttering in your stomach making you feel almost dizzy as he wraps his arms around your waist while your arms loop around his neck. It was the closest you had ever been to Steve and all you could think about was how incredible he smelled, how you wanted to trace each and every mole that kissed his skin, how truly gorgeous he looked and how alive you suddenly felt in his presence.

“Ever thought that you’d be slow dancing with me?” He asks with a smile that very nearly takes your breath away. 

“Not even in my wildest dreams,” you tell him, trying to cover up the fact your heart was beating so loud you were beginning to suspect it was trying to escape from its home in your chest. “But—I think today may have helped me change my mind about you.”

“Yeah?” He asks with a hopeful smile. “Or maybe you just finally realised how irresistible I am?”

You laugh and Steve smiles so hard that you were surprised that it didn’t hurt. 

“Something like that.”

You and Steve didn’t leave the dancefloor for a long time after that. Even when the song changed to something more upbeat, you didn’t leave Steve’s arms. You slow danced to Madonna, Bruce Springsteen and Prince as guests left the wedding in their droves—the bride and groom sneaking away hours ago.

“You wanna head back?” Steve murmurs against your hair as you sway to Fleetwood Mac, the dancefloor around you significantly less busy as you pull back to look at him.

“Not really,” you admit quietly, trying to ignore how one of his large hands was resting on your lower back, how his touch had set your skin aflame. “But I think we’re about five minutes away from being kicked off the dancefloor.”

Steve chuckles, looking away from you for a moment to glance at the last few stranglers remaining with you two on the dancefloor. They were all incredibly drunk and you can see the amusement in Steve’s eyes as he looks back at you.

“C’mon,” he murmurs before he pulls himself away from you, though his hand remains on your back. “Let’s go for a walk.”

You follow him without hesitation, walking out of the farmhouse with Steve’s hand still on your back and your heart nearly beating out of your chest.

“I really thought you weren’t going to say yes, by the way,” Steve tells you as you walk over the path, between the red and yellow roses that were illuminated by the glittering lights strung up ahead. “To be my plus one, I mean.”

“I owed Max a favour,” you tell him. “Broke her skateboard. By accident.”

“She mentioned that,” Steve smiles fondly. “I think she thought going to a wedding with me was more tortuous for you.”

You shake your head as you stop in front of the soft pink roses to face him. “Twenty four hours ago, I might have agreed with her but, tonight—I have to admit, it’s been pretty good.”

“Just good?” Steve asks, head tilting to the side as he looks back at you with a smile. 

“No, much better than pretty good,” you say. “Maybe something closer to…pretty incredible.”

“What? Me or the wedding?” Steve asks with a hopeful look back at you.

“Undecided,” you tell with a whisper of a smile.

Silence falls as you continue through the rose garden, the colourful flowers catching your eye as you pass by. But Steve’s eyes remain on you, thought you don’t see it—on the dress that he was sure to dream about, of just how fucking beautiful you looked and how glad he was that you had broken Max’s skateboard.

“For the record, I’m really glad you said yes,” Steve tells you, the hand on your back dipping lower for just a moment and making your insides turn to goo.

“Me too,” you admit. “I um—it made me realise how silly I was—for um, not giving you a chance before. And for you know, not being all that friendly with you.”

Steve says your name and you know by the look on his face that he wanted to tell you that it was okay, that it didn’t matter but you continued talking before he could do so.

“I think I’ve realised that Max may have been right when she said you really were a good guy. I just—I’m her big sister, you know? And—I get my back up a little when people talk bad about my family and I just—I struggled to let go of what you said.”

“Because it was cruel what I said,” Steve begins, slowing down until he stops walking completely, his hand on your back making you do that same. “It was cruel and stupid and I’m sorry. Like, really fucking sorry.”

“I know and—”

“—and if after this you want us to go back to normal then I totally understand and—”

“—Steve!”

“Yeah?”

You smile, shake your head and say, “I don’t want to go back to ‘normal’ after this.”

“Then what do you want?” He asks, hazel eyes twinkling beneath the lights.

You tilt your head to the side, considering him before you say, “another dance?”

Despite the fact there was no music, despite the fact you were in the middle of a rose garden and it was fast approaching midnight, Steve does not deny your request. Instead, he pulls you into his arms like he had on the dancefloor, his body so close to yours that there was barely an inch of space between you and you were very aware of his hand resting on your lower back.

“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” Steve asks in a voice so soft and gentle that you had to lean in to hear him.

“You did,” you whisper back with a barely contained smile.

“Well, I wanna tell you again. You look fucking beautiful, Mayfield. The moment I saw you I thought—fuck, this wedding is gonna be torture.”

Your face warms and you laugh, leaning into Steve so you could feel his heart thumping loudly in his chest. 

“Because I’m annoying?” You offer with a teasing smile.

“No,” Steve says quietly, one of his hands reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear carefully. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you all day, Mayfield. That’s why.”

Everything seems to slow around you. Time, the roses gently dancing in the wind beside you. You can barely believe the words coming out of Steve’s mouth but the way he was looking at you told you that this wasn’t a dream—that Steve Harrington had really admitted to wanting to kiss you.

And it was crazy because twenty four hours ago, you were tossing and turning in your sleep over the idea of today, of the prospect of spending an entire day with Steve at a wedding. And now, you were desperate to feel his lips against yours.

“Then kiss me, before I change my mind.”

Steve blinks, as if to make sure that he had heard you correctly before he pulls you even closer with one arm around your waist. The proximity to Steve makes you feel almost lightheaded, his woodsy, vanillary scent filling your lungs and the hand now cupping your cheek making your body thrum with need.

“As you wish,” he murmurs before he leans in and presses his lips against yours. That first brush of his lips against yours was so inviting, so intoxicating that you felt almost every nerve in your body come alive from the feeling. His mouth was warm, his lips soft and he was kissing like there was nowhere else he would rather be than right here in the rose garden with you.

You kiss him back with no hesitation, warmth seeping through your veins as he gently tilts your head back, coaxing your lips apart with his tongue and making you forget how to breathe. You could have kissed him all night, until the early hours of the morning if you could. Especially when his tongue brushed against yours, making you whine against his lips and tug him even closer.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your lips, your mouths moving together in an almost desperate sort of way as your fingers curl into his shirt. “You’re gonna ruin me, Mayfield.”

You don’t know how long you stayed there, making out with Steve Harrington in the rose garden but all you knew as you finally pulled away from each other was that your lips were bee stung and his were wet and covered in your lip gloss. He had never looked so good.

“So much for keeping my hands to myself,” Steve grins as he reaches up to swipe his thumb across your swollen bottom lip. You roll your eyes and can’t help yourself—you pull him into another kiss that makes him groan against your mouth. The sound makes you feel incredibly glad that you had broken your sister’s skateboard.

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Deep and guttural, dragged up from somewhere starved. His hands clamp around your waist, fingers digging into your ass as he hauls you flush against him. Denim rasps against the inside of your thighs when he rolls his hips up, grinding into you.

That thick, heavy bulge makes itself known, humiliatingly honest.

Blood in his mouth. Dirt under his nails and the sour, rotten tang of that other place still caked in his hair. 

And he’s hard.

Something in him is broken that way.

Years of surviving by the skin of his teeth—beaten and concussed and tortured and choked and drowned and devoured—it’s fucked up the wiring in Steve Harrington’s brain.

Pain tolerance shot to hell. Fear braided with dopamine until his nervous system can’t tell the difference anymore.

Getting hurt no longer scares him.

Now, agony comes hardwired with clarity. That split second before impact, when adrenaline screams through his veins and he’s teetering on that razor-sharp edge of death, that’s when he feels most alive.

Your thumb presses into the fresh cut on his lip, smearing his blood back into it. His lashes flutter. His hips jerk up, rutting against you like you’re fucking him.

You grab his jaw, fingers digging into the sharp hinge to force his gaze down to yours. His pupils are blown impossibly wide; barely any color left, drowned beneath an endless wash of black.

“Yeah?” you whisper, venom-sweet. You drag your thumb down his throat, feel the jut of his Adam’s apple jump under your touch. “Does that feel good?”

He nods.

Doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed. Whatever scrap of self-preservation he’d once possessed hollowed out by hunger—by that sick, reckless void inside him that only ever seems to ignite after he’s survived something that should have killed him.

A cruel cosmic coin toss that keeps landing in his favor—and instead of gratitude, it leaves him burning for more.

You lift your knee and press your thigh into the seam of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath through blood-slick lips, head tipping back, throat bared.

You despise it.

You despise that this is the language his body understands. That he can shove you out of the way without a second thought—dangle over two hundred feet of empty air because he decided your life was worth more than his—and still get hard when you hurt him for it.

You drag your bloody thumb to your mouth and suck it clean, eyes never leaving his.

He watches you do it, watches your lips wrap around the pad of your finger to taste, to swallow—swallow his blood like it’s yours, like he’s yours, like the world could never take him from you.  

Like he hasn’t already tried to give himself away.

Only this time... it was for you, wasn’t it?

Hurled himself into the abyss without hesitation, fingers scraping at metal while the yawning darkness waited below.

One second slower. One fraction of a heartbeat, and—

Your palms slam into his shoulders.

Just like his had slammed into yours.

Bile surges up your throat as you claw at muscle and bone, shoving and shoving until his balance falters.

He stumbles back, heel catching on the edge of the bed. Momentum betrays him for a second time and he falls back onto the mattress with a startled grunt.  

Your stomach falls with him. Phantom vertigo clawing up your spine, even now.

And the moment you close your eyes—

You’re standing on top of that tower.

You remember the look on his face.

That awful, quiet resolve of someone who had already made peace with his fate.

You remember his hands on your shoulders. The firm press of his fingers, the way he held on just long enough to make sure you were steady, to make sure you were far enough away.

Far enough that you couldn’t reach him.

Far enough that you would live.

And then he let go.

You remember the force of it careening you backward, your boots scraping against the metal platform as you fought for balance. You remember the cold bite of the railing against your back. You remember watching him move in the opposite direction, his own momentum carrying him toward the open edge.

You remember his hand shooting out on instinct, searching for anything that would keep him there. His palm scraping against rusted steel, leaving streaks of red behind as his fingers curled desperately around the railing.

The same hands that had pushed you away.

The same hands that had held yours on the way up, guiding you over every rung of that ladder when the height made your stomach twist.

You remember his mouth opening like he might say something—your name, maybe—a goodbye, something he needed you to know—but all that came out was a broken, ragged breath.

You remember the color draining from his face as he looked down, the terrible understanding settling in his eyes.

You remember lunging for him without thought.

You remember Robin’s arms locking around your waist, holding you back so tightly it bruised, her grip the only thing keeping you from following him over the edge.

And then his fingers slipped.

You stalk toward him now, trying to outrun the memory, fists clenched so tight your nails carve crescents into your palms.

He’s sprawled across the sheets, chest heaving, arms flung wide in surrender.

“Why?” you demand, climbing over him, straddling him with an anger so raw it shakes your whole body. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

He lets out a quick breath through his nose, incredulous. Raises his brows like you’re the insane one.

“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that.”

He’s smiling.

A crooked, boyish thing, manic brightness behind the eyes, adrenaline still lighting him up from the inside out.  

It detonates something in you.

You slam your weight down on him, knees digging hard into his sides. The mattress groans, the air punching out of his lungs in a sharp grunt.

You fist the hem of his shirt and yank it up.

The sight underneath steals your air right back.

It never gets easier to see.

Bruises bloom fresh and vicious across his ribs, inky purples bleeding into sick reds. New hurt swallowed by old hurt, skin that never gets the chance to heal clean before something tears it open again.

Jagged crescents from teeth, ropes of pale, warped ridges that split the tan of his skin like fault lines, ready to crack him open. That chunk of puckered flesh on his right side that never healed right—and it never will.  

Your fingers drag down the center of his chest, shaking.

“What was the plan this time, hm?” you spit, nails scraping over the soft plane of his stomach, catching on one of the scars. “What was the fucking plan, Steve?”

You hook your fingers into his belt buckle and rip it loose, hard enough that the metal clangs against itself.

“Answer me. What would you have done if—if Jonathan didn’t catch you? If you slipped?”

His head falls back, exposing the flushed column of his throat, pulse hammering wild and alive under skin you’ve kissed a hundred times.

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” he pants. “Let you fall?”

“You didn’t know I was gonna fall!”

“Well I wasn’t gonna fucking wait to find out, alright?”  

The mattress groans when he pushes himself upright too fast, pain flashing across his face before he buries it immediately, one hand flying to his ribs on instinct.

“I can’t... I’m not gonna just stand there and wait for something to happen to you.”

Your body goes still.  

The bright sting behind your eyes arrives right on cue, the fury choking off in your throat until all that’s left is grief.

“You know,” you whisper, quieter now. “You know I’m not just talking about the tower.”

There’s a moment of recognition in his eyes as the words sink in, a flash of something that might be guilt if he ever let it sit long enough.

He knows exactly what you mean.

Then, just as fast, he shutters himself. Lets the feeling die before it can root.

His gaze slides away toward the ceiling.

“No, don’t... don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t make this into some... suicidal thing. It wasn’t.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

“But I didn’t.”

“That’s not the fucking point!”

“Well what do you want me to say?” he fires back suddenly, frustration cracking his voice. “That I’m sorry I stopped you from falling?”

“I want you to stop acting like your life means less than mine!”

He clamps his mouth shut, an audible click of his molars as he frowns, incredulity settling behind his wide eyes. His brows pulling together as he stares at you like he can’t understand why you could possibly be saying this.

Steve doesn’t consciously believe his life matters less.

He would never say that.

But somewhere deep down—in the ugly marrow of him, in the abandoned, lonely places built inside him when he was a kid—he believes it instinctively.

You’ve known that for a long time now.

Steve grew up starving.

Not for food.

For affection.   

A reason to believe he mattered even when there was nothing he could offer except himself.

Love, in the Harrington house, was conditional.

And at Hawkins High, he traded one kind of emptiness for another.

Built himself a throne out of borrowed attention and hollow praise.

Then the world ended, and suddenly everybody needed him.

Needed his fists, his strength. Needed the frightening way he could take hit after hit after hit and still stand back up bleeding.

Steve latched onto that feeling with both hands.

And his body became a type of offering.

A thing to spend.

You’ve lost count of how many nights ended exactly like this.

Both of you stumbling back home, adrenaline clawing through your veins, slick with sweat and blood—yours or his, it doesn’t matter anymore. Shaking so hard your teeth chatter while you scream at him, fists slamming into his chest.

Screaming and shoving and crying and kissing and begging—begging him to please, please stop being so fucking careless with your life. What’s the point of any of this shit if you’re dead, Steve?      

It always ends the same way. Your anger dissolving into something wetter as Steve reaches for your waist with bruised hands, dragging you against him, mouthing apologies into your throat he’ll never say aloud. Fucking you on top of bloodstained sheets while the smell of iron hangs thick in the room, face buried in your neck, every thrust a word he won't say.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

You stare at him now, chest heaving, lungs scraping for air that won’t come.

Then you reach down and pull his wrists together.

The leather creaks when you thread his belt around them.

Loop, thread, pull, cinch.

Survival knots perfected in the dead of night, in basements and back rooms, hands slick with sweat while you practiced until it stuck. So when the time came, you could hold down something thrashing and dangerous.

Because hesitation is what gets people killed.

It makes sickness crawl up your throat, how naturally your body remembers.

How this world has taught you to restrain someone you love—and taught you well.

You yank his arms above his head, the strap biting into his skin, pulling tight until the leather creaks and his skin pales underneath.

Steve doesn’t fight it, doesn’t even try. Just lets his head fall back against the pillows, wrists falling limp over dark linens.

Has the fucking audacity to smile.

“What,” he breathes, wrecked in an entirely different way now. “You gonna punish me?”

You yank the belt tighter.

He hisses softly through his teeth, brows creasing in a fake show of pain, hips stirring in anticipation.

“Okay, easy, easy,” he mutters breathlessly, grin crooked. “Jesus—easy, honey.”

“Oh, so now I’m honey?”

You shove his wrists harder into the pillow, then drop your hands to his pants, fingers rough and impatient. The button fights you before snapping loose, his zipper dragged down with a harsh metallic rasp. He sucks in a breath, back arching as the pressure eases off his swollen cock.

“Baby...” he tries, a soft laugh in his voice. “C’mon, you don’t have to, just—”

“Shut up.”

You shove him back into the mattress, gaze burning furiously through him.

He just stares back, that reckless, adrenaline-drunk smile still clinging to him like he hasn’t learned a single fucking thing.

So you wrap your hand around his throat.

Four fingers digging into warm, sweat-slick skin. Your thumb presses into the hollow beside his windpipe until you can feel it.

The frantic thump-thump-thump of life.

Life he throws around like loose change.

“S-shit, babe...” he chokes softly, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back, the fucked-up wires in his brain firing off all at once. He uses what little leverage he has to lift his hips, grinding against your ass until you tighten your grip, a crease of real strain forming between his brows as his breath snags under your palm.

But even then, he doesn’t push you away. His bound hands strain downward, fingers grasping uselessly at your wrist, tugging you forward so he can get you closer, grind up harder.

You hate him.

You love him so much it makes you violent.

And he’s still fucking bleeding.

Face covered all over in fresh cuts and bruises, illuminated by the soft blue glow of the dinosaur nightlight in the corner—same one he’s had since he was five.

This bed once held your first kiss.

Your first time.

Steve laughing breathlessly into your mouth at sixteen years old because he kept fumbling the condom wrapper with nervous hands.

Whispered promises under blankets about senior year and college.

A hundred different somedays and maybes.

About a future that didn’t look like this—didn’t include gates or monsters or watching the boy you love come within inches of disappearing, over and over again.

Now you’re choking him in it.  

Straddling him with your hand around his throat because you don’t know how else to make him understand that you cannot survive loving somebody who keeps choosing death.

It won’t leave you alone, the image of his face on top of that tower.

Not an inch of hesitation.

Like it wouldn’t have mattered, either way.

Your other hand comes up, circling his throat fully now, pressing in. 

Your eyes sting as you narrow them, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

Barely a whisper, the words cut you on their way out.

“Fuck you.”

Some days you think about killing him yourself.

Ending it before the world gets to.

Precipitate the inevitable doom that is loving a man who would bleed for you, break for you, die for you—

But won’t live for you.    

At least it would be quick, then.

At least you wouldn’t spend the rest of your life waiting for the inevitable moment where his luck finally runs out.

It’s unbearable.

Loving someone who would move mountains to keep you alive, but cannot understand why you’d want the same for him.

Calm in the face of oblivion, martyrdom fits him like a second skin. 

That’s what terrifies you most.

Because somewhere deep down, you know he doesn’t fear death the way he should. The way a normal person would.

Sometimes, you think a part of him finds peace in the idea of going out useful.

And it’s all so completely, irreparably fucked, because you don’t love him despite it.

You love him because of it.

Loving Steve Harrington feels like standing on a fault line, waiting for the ground to split wide and swallow you whole.

It’s a special, exquisite kind of torture, to be so in love with a man who throws himself at death like it’s a dare.  

And it is love, undeniably and irrevocably so.

You love him.

By god, you love him.  

Because his martyr complex is just a twisted language for devotion. When he throws himself into danger, you know it isn’t bravado—it’s instinct. A reflex burned into his bones, older than logic, older than fear.

Love is the only language Steve Harrington has ever been fluent in, and he speaks it with his whole body.  

It turns his skin into armor, his heart into a blade. Sharp enough to carve permanent lines inside you—wounds that might close, someday, but never fade.

And he really does believe it.

That this is what it looks like, loving somebody.

But what good is devotion if it buries you?

What good is love from someone six feet under?

Your hand loosens around his throat, just enough for him to drag in a ragged breath. His chest heaves under you, pulse still racing against your palm.

His Adam’s apple bobs, sending ripples of light over the pale rings circling his neck, thin and white against his flushed skin. Scars that still have him jerking awake some nights, clawing at his own throat, gasping like he’s still back there.

Nightmares that leave him staring at the ceiling until four in the morning because every time he closes his eyes, he sees vines threading around broken bodies. Migraines that get so bad after trips to the Upside Down he has to sit alone in dark bathrooms, forehead pressed against cool tile, breathing through the nausea until the room stops tilting.

His hands still reach for a nail bat when the house creaks at night, before he's even fully awake.

Fear has never made him run. It only ever taught him to step forward.

And the tear you've been holding back all night finally slips free, landing on his bare stomach with a soft, awful plop.

Steve flinches like it’s acid, muscles clenching underneath you.

“Baby...”

You let go of his neck fully as you sink back onto his thighs, fingers gone numb, teeth digging into your lip until copper floods your mouth.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

You watch as his expression immediately sobers, brows drawing together, eyes flicking between yours.

“Y-you never do. You never fucking hesitate,” your breath starts coming in tight hitches, catching in your chest. “And it’s like—it’s like—”

The rest of the words slip free, torn loose now that everything’s exposed, out there in the open, your handprint around his throat and his wrists bound in leather.    

“...It’s like you don’t even care if you leave me here.”

Steve goes silent for a moment, shoulders slumping with a quiet breath.    

You watch—eyes burning, body trembling—as he slowly reaches for you. The leather belt creaks as his wrists slide down until his fingers brush yours.  

You feel the metal burns on his palms against the back of your hand—his skin split from gripping the railing so hard he tore himself open just to keep from falling.   

He whispers your name on a soft breath.

“Baby, if I ever lost you?” He shakes his head faintly. “That’d be it for me.”

You sniff hard, refusing to blink.

“I mean it.” Light pools in his eyes, trembling along the lower lashes until they glimmer like wet glass. “I’d never… I’d never leave you behind. How could I?”

He closes his fingers gently around your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse.

“I love you. More than... more than anything. You know that.”

You lift your gaze slowly to meet his.

“Do I?”

Two words, but it’s the ugliest thing you’ve said all night.

It's suffocating, the silence that follows.

“Do you ever think about us? About me?”

Because that’s what this is really about, isn’t it?

For all the names you’ve thrown at him in your worst moments—reckless, stubborn, idiot, a selfish asshole with a death wish—

It’s you who feel selfish.

For wanting him to stay.

For wanting to keep him in a world that seems determined to take him first.

For wanting him to choose you over the next disaster that crawls out of the dark.

Because you’re terrified that when the moment comes, when it’s you or the world, he won’t have to think about it. That the world will always reach for him first—and that one day, it’ll win.

Or worse, that he’ll choose you instead.

That he’ll stop running toward danger because of you. That loving you will make him hesitate.

And you’ll be the reason he changes.  

The reason the world breaks.

Steve’s expression changes in a flash.

The belt creaks as he tries to sit up, a real wince cutting across his brow when his bruised ribs take the pressure. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth, dragging himself upright.

“Look at me.”

You turn your head instinctively, but he follows.

“Hey. C’mon. Look at me.”

Hazel burns molten in the dim light, the shine in them trembling.

“Of course I think about you,” he whispers, breathless. “You don’t think I think about you? Hey, hey, look at me—you’re all I think about. You’re in my head, all the time. Every fucking second.”

Your tears spill harder, falling freely now, dripping from your chin onto the dark brown fabric of his cargo pants, leaving small damp spots that bloom between you.

“Every time something goes wrong, or—or I’m thinking about doing something stupid, you’re there. First thing. Your face, your voice. Telling me to stop being an idiot, telling me to think—"

You shake your head, a broken sound catching in your throat.

“And if I just stood there tonight,” he presses on, eyes locked on yours, brimming with tears but never flinching, “If there was even a chance you could fall, and I didn’t do anything?”

He swallows.

“I couldn’t live with that. I mean it, honey. I couldn’t.”    

A tear slips loose and slides down his own cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“Baby, I... I wasn’t trying to die. I was trying to end this. All of it. So we don’t have to keep doing this forever.”

His mouth twitches faintly.

“You remember what we talked about? About college? That stupid road trip idea I had with the camper van?” He shakes his head, letting out a quiet laugh. “Six kids, right? Or... whatever insane number I said.”

His hands come up as much as the belt allows, clumsy from the strain in his shoulders, and cradle your face. His thumbs drag across the wet heat beneath your eyes, catching tears as fast as they fall, rubbing salt into flushed skin. 

“That’s the goal. That’s always been the goal.”

He leans forward until his forehead presses against yours.

For a long moment, he says nothing. His hands stay on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your skin, his breathing uneven in the small space between you.

Then, almost too quietly to hear:

“I would’ve jumped with you.”

You recoil immediately, shaking your head hard, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t. Don’t fucking say that.”

Steve pushes on, voice low and terrifyingly calm.

“If you’d fallen off that tower tonight, I would’ve followed you.”

His thumb brushes under your eye again, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw.

“Wouldn’t even think about it. I’d just go.”

“Steve—”

“I’d go.”

Your eyes snap open.

Those big, stupid hazel eyes bore into yours.

That stupid nose. Those stupid thick lashes and those stupid moles and those stupid lips.

And underneath all of it, that huge, catastrophic, stupid heart crammed inside a body that keeps throwing itself into danger like it doesn’t belong to him.

Your chest aches just looking at him.

You’ve spent countless nights staring at Steve Harrington while he slept beside you, wondering if loving him would always feel like standing barefoot on train tracks.

Waiting.

Feeling the vibrations underneath your feet before the impact ever comes. Knowing that something massive and merciless will come racing toward you and there won’t be a damn thing you can do to stop it. 

Sometimes you’d trace the slope of his nose with the back of your finger. Follow the shape of his eyebrows. The tiny scar under his chin from a T-ball game when he was six.

You’d study the dip of his cupid’s bow, the soft curve of his lips as he breathed into his pillow, completely unaware of how thoroughly he’d ruined your life for anyone else.

And you’d torture yourself with the same impossible question.

If someone had stopped you before all of this, taken your face in both hands and said:

Here, this boy is going to become the center of your entire world.

He's going to make you laugh so hard your ribs hurt.

He’s going to kiss you like you’re the last person on earth, and he's going to love you so completely you'll forget there was ever a version of yourself that existed before him.

He's going to look at you like you're the only thing worth finding at the end of the world.

Then one day, he’ll start throwing himself in front of monsters and nightmares beyond comprehension. 

He's going to throw himself off a tower without hesitating if it means you get to live.

Would you still choose him?

Would you still let him in, knowing one day he might not make it back?

Would you willingly hand your heart to someone who would protect it with his life—

But never his own?

And even in the quiet space of that hypothetical, the answer had never changed.

You would.

Every fucking time. 

“I love you,” the boy in front of you whispers.

The words slice straight through you, scraping against everything frayed raw inside your chest.

“Shut up,” you breathe, eyes squeezing shut.

Because if he loved you, wouldn’t he try?

Wouldn’t he try?

“I love you.”

“Steve, s-stop.”

“I love you. There’s nothing—nothing—that matters to me more than you.”

“Steve, I swear to god—”

“You’re it for me. And if it came down to it again—”

“Please, stop—”

“—I’d choose to jump. Every time.”

It feels like a seam is splitting inside your chest.

Your breath caves first—a sharp, stuttering inhale that catches in your lungs hard enough to hurt—before your body moves on instinct.

You surge forward, the mattress groaning beneath the force of it as you crash into him, fists tangling in the front of his shirt.

“Fuck you,” you sob.

Steve sucks in a breath as you pound weakly at his chest, his restrained hands jerking uselessly between your bodies.

He can’t hold you properly. Can’t wrap his arms around you the way he wants to.

Still, he tries.  

He shifts forward on the mattress, pulling you between his thighs. The leather around his wrists creaks when he strains to hook his arms around your waist.

You bury your face against his neck.

His entire body folds around yours, chest pressed flush against you so tightly you can feel the frantic hammer of his heartbeat through his sternum, the uneven rise and fall of his lungs where your bodies are crushed together. He presses his cheek against your temple, breathing hard through his nose.

“I know,” he murmurs hoarsely into your hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

“N-no, y-you don’t,” you choke out.

Your hands claw at his shoulders hard enough to bunch the fabric beneath your fists. You need him closer. Closer than skin, closer than bone. If you could unzip his ribs and crawl inside his chest just to keep his heart beating yourself, you would.

“You don’t know,” you sob against his throat. “You d-don’t know what it f-feels like—”

“Hey,” Steve whispers shakily. “Hey, c’mon. Breathe for me, baby. Please.”

You curl tighter against him, fists twisting in the soft cotton of his shirt until your knuckles throb from the effort. The tears don't stop. They soak into the warm skin at the base of his neck, your breath catching against him in broken, uneven pulls until your throat burns and your ribs ache with every desperate inhale.

Steve gathers you as close as his battered body will allow. Every so often, he presses another lingering kiss into your hairline, your temple, the crown of your head, each one quiet enough to say what words can't.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs into your hair. “M'right here, I got you. Not going anywhere.”  

You let his words settle over you, one shaky breath at a time. The sobs begin to lose their violence, splintering into uneven hiccups that leave your chest sore and hollow.

When you finally pull back, it's only far enough to see him. 

Your hand trembles when you lift it to his face.

Steve goes still as your fingertips ghost over the scrape on his cheek, tracing down the line of his jaw. He doesn’t so much as flinch when your thumb brushes over the split in his lip, featherlight over the broken skin there.

The first kiss is soft.

Nothing like the frantic, bruising collision from earlier.  

But it’s worse like this, somehow.

Wet with tears, with blood, salt and iron passed between soft, shaking kisses. Steve sighs into it, a trembling sound that vibrates against your lips as he tilts his head and follows you deeper. His nose nudges against your cheek, his kisses careful, almost hesitant in how tender he’s being with you.

And it’s funny, really.

How grief can change shape in the span of a heartbeat.

One moment it's lodged beneath your ribs like broken glass, your body still trapped on that radio tower, watching Steve disappear over the edge.

The next, it's here.

In the careful way he kisses you, the warmth of his breath against your mouth.

In the slow, wet drag of his tongue against yours, your fingers hooking into the open button of his pants. The zipper presses cold against the side of your hand before you push deeper, slipping beneath the elastic of his briefs.

He’s already half-hard. Heavy and thick and burning hot against your palm, velvety-soft skin twitching when you wrap your fingers around him. The soft curl of hair at his base brushes against your knuckles when you adjust your grip.

He pants openly into your mouth as you slide your other hand into his hair, gripping tight, yanking his head back at the angle you want it.  

Nose to nose, lips brushing even as you’re not kissing—only sharing air and spit, slick between swollen mouths.

And your eyes stay open, watching him.

Darkened hazels and helplessly fluttering lashes, his is a face that will haunt every version of your future. The one you almost lost, the one you’re still begging the universe to let you keep.

“Show me.”

He blinks at your words, lips parted in soft pants.

“Show me how much you love me.”

He swears under his breath, eyes clenching shut.  

“Fuck…” he groans, shaking his head slowly, side to side, grunting when you drag your thumb across the sensitive tip. “Baby, please... just untie me,” he pleads, straining against his binds again. “Please—fuck—let me touch you—”

“No.”

“Please, baby—”

“No,” you repeat, wrist rolling as you start to stroke him harder, feeling him swell fully in your grip.

He grunts, brows creased in pleasure as you continue to squeeze and glide your palm up and down his length, lips parted to keep kissing you in this obscene way, tongues sliding together in slow, wet strokes.

“God, you’re so... so pretty when you’re mad, you know that?” He huffs against your mouth, almost a laugh, throat gone hoarse and dry from how hard he’s been panting.

“You get this look like you’re—ah, fuck—like you might actually kill me.”

You squeeze your grip around his cock, dangerously tight.

“Maybe I should.”

Something catches in those soft hazel eyes, then.

Pinning you in place with nothing but their unblinking stare, almost unnervingly steady.

You watch, helpless, as he lifts his own hands up toward his mouth. He spits lewdly into the hollow of his right palm, shoving his waistband down just enough to free his cock, replacing your hand with his own.  

Wrists still bound, he slicks himself in slow, wet strokes, eyes never leaving yours.

"Yeah?" he asks quietly. "You gonna punish me?"

He tips his chin up toward you, lashes nearly brushing your skin when he blinks.

“You gonna use this cock, baby? Take it out on me?”

He uses what little range of motion he has to rub his tip up and down your glistening slit, obscene schlicks that fill the space between your breaths, spurred by the impatient grinds of your hips.

And the moment he pushes inside you, he breathes the words against your skin.

“I love you.”

His mouth swallowing your whimpers at the stretch of taking him this way—no prep, no lube, just spit—yours, his, it doesn’t matter anymore.

“I love you. I love you. We’re... we’re gonna be okay, baby, I promise. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your hands shake as you reach for the belt around his wrists, the buckle catching under your fingertips before releasing with a muted clink. He cups your cheeks as soon as it does, cradling your face, pressing his lips against yours. 

“I love you,” he repeats against your mouth, over and over. “I love you. I love you.”

Grief really is a funny thing.   

It burns until there's nothing left to consume

And the anger that had kept you upright for hours—the frantic, desperate need to make him understand how terrified you'd been—begins to crumble beneath the weight of what you almost lost.

Your strength gives out in increments. Your fingers slowly uncurl from his biceps, the crescents your nails pressed into his skin easing away. Your forehead finds the warm slope of his shoulder instead, eyes slipping shut as the last of the fight drains from your body.

You sag forward, soft whimpers and low groans exchanged between your lips as you rock back and forth on his cock, letting it fill up the hollowed-out places inside you.

And when you get too tired to do even that—when your strength gives out, thighs trembling with the effort of lifting yourself up and sinking back down—he’s there to catch you.

One arm sliding securely around you as he eases you onto your back, the muscles in his shoulders rippling under your fingertips as you wind your arms around his neck. You cling to him as he kisses you hard and deep, exchanging punched-out breaths as he starts up his thrusts with newfound fervor.

"Gonna marry you," he pants suddenly, stealing what little breath you have left.

You gasp against his mouth, caught between a disbelieving laugh and another sob. “Steve—”

“I mean it,” he insists, hips snapping into the mattress, barely pulling out before burying himself back in. “I-I want all of it. That house with the... the porch. That trip we keep talking about, in the camper van, and—”

His face screws up and he has to stop moving for a second, drawing in a shuddering breath.

“I’m gonna marry you and—fuck—gonna give you a baby.”   

You choke on the words, a helpless sound catching in your throat as you cling to him, bruisingly tight.

“Yeah?” He strokes your hair back, cupping the crown of your head with his palm. Smoothing the sweat-slick strands away from your face, thumb lingering at your temple as his eyes search yours. “You want me to give you a baby?”  

You nod into him, unable to find the words.

“How many?”

His pace is unrelenting—thrusts hard enough that the bedframe is thudding repeatedly against the wall, hard enough that you know the wallpaper’s going to show it tomorrow.  

“Tell me,” he grunts, voice rough with emotion, like he needs to hear you say it out loud. “How many?”

Sweat shining along his skin, hair a damp mess across his forehead, but he never once looks away.

“F-fuck, I don’t...” you break on another sob, eyes clenching shut. “Two. Maybe... maybe three.”

“Three,” he repeats to himself, and his hips snap a little sharper. “What about... what about four? Make it a—mm, fuck—make it an even number.”

And it’s hardly new—the kind of bullshit he spouts when you’re both this far gone, when adrenaline has burned through every last nerve and neither of you are thinking straight anymore. He’s always been prone to making wild promises in the heat of the moment—spinning out impossible futures and reckless dreams, building an entire lifetime in the space of a few breathless minutes—just to get you both off.     

But tonight, they don’t feel like a fantasy at all. 

“You’d look so... so fucking pretty,” he pants, voice breaking. “Pregnant with my kid. Jesus.”

“Mm, close...” you whisper weakly, face scrunched at the unbearably mounting pressure in your lower stomach.  

“Yeah? You’re close? You gonna come for me?”

You nod, burying yourself closer, clinging to him harder. “T-tell me again.”

“Tell you what, baby?”

“That you... that you love me.”

“Fuck,” he groans, thrusts turning sloppy as he buries a loud groan against your lips. “I love you. Love you so fucking much. I don’t even know what I’d do without you. I—shit, a-are you coming? Oh, fuck, that’s—that’s it. That’s my girl.”

Your orgasm hits hard and blinding. A broken groan ripping out of you as you clamp your thighs around his waist, mewling into his skin. You blink your eyes open just in time to see his gaze fixed on you—expression reverent, chest heaving as he watches you shake underneath him.

And as you go to kiss him, feeling the labored grunts of his mounting pleasure against your lips, the weight of his breaths and the slick drag of his cock against your heat—

When you press your lips to his and whisper for him to come inside you, make me yours Steve, get me pregnant, keep me, love me, stay with me, stay, stay, please fucking stay—

When he presses inside all the way to the hilt and lets his own pleasure overtake him—

You finally whisper the words back.

Three syllables against the enormity of what lives inside your chest.

Three syllables trying to hold every sleepless night and every quiet morning, every time you pressed your lips to the places on his body that hurt and wished that love alone could take his pain away.

They cannot carry it all.

They never could.

But when he closes his eyes and tips his forehead to yours—his weight melting against you as he presses an exhausted, dazed smile against your lips—you realize maybe the words don’t have to hold it all.

Maybe he can feel the rest.

· · ·

The seal breaks with a sharp snap, the plastic ring splitting loose and skittering across the bathroom floor.

You turn the bottle over in your hand, staring at it for a moment.

It’s the good kind—the expensive kind stored in heavy glass, the label still clean. You haven’t touched it since the day Steve brought it home months ago, back when you could still ask for things like Epsom salt and a box of chocolates at the general store without anyone looking at you like you’d lost your mind.

He’d shown up at your door that afternoon grinning like an idiot, grocery store roses tucked under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand that clinked when he lifted it.

“Thought we deserved something nice,” he’d said, holding up the bag with that stupid, proud little grin. “We haven’t done a proper date night in a while, right?”

But you hadn't used the bottle then.

You'd saved it.

For a night that felt right.

For a night where you weren’t just surviving long enough to see morning.

Your hands shake a little as you tip the bottle now.

Pouring more than you should, watching the pale liquid ribbon into the rushing stream of water, swallowed by the force of it before slowly blooming back to the surface in soft, frothy bubbles.

The smell hits a second later. Sweet, heavy lavender that clings to the back of your throat, swirling with the clean heat of the water.

For a moment, you let yourself go back.

Back to the day Steve bought this because he wanted to take care of you. Because he wanted one normal night where you could both pretend the world hadn’t changed.

A night where the biggest problem was what movie to put on.

Then, the sink creaks behind you.

You turn immediately, heart jumping.  

Steve’s reflection is blurred in the mirror—shoulders slumped, chin dipping toward his chest. He’s got one hand braced against the counter, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s holding on. The other fumbles with an orange pill bottle.

“You okay? You need help?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, I got it.”

The words are automatic. Steve’s favorite answer to anything that worries you.

He tips a couple pills into his palm, fills the glass beside the sink, and swallows them down.

You watch his face tighten afterward, eyes squeezing shut as he waits for it to pass. His throat works hard, his whole body briefly tensing, muscles bracing against something that should have been painless.

You step closer, hands settling carefully on his arms as you turn him toward you. 

He doesn’t argue when you crouch in front of him.

You start with his shoes.

Fingers working at the laces, easing them loose before pulling them off one at a time. They hit the tile with a quiet thud. His socks peel off next. Then his pants, the buttons still undone. His briefs.

He stays silent through all of it, one hand resting lightly on your shoulder.

It’s not much pressure, but you feel the way his weight leans into you, the slight sway when you shift back, like he’s having to constantly correct himself just to stay upright.

Helping him into the tub takes time. You stay close while he steps over the edge, one hand gripping your arm, the other braced against the wall.

Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself into the water.

The second it reaches his ribs, he hisses.

“Shit—”

His head falls back against the tile, eyes squeezing shut as a sharp breath slips between his teeth. His hand tightens reflexively around your wrist.

Foamy water laps against his chest, darkening the hair across his sternum, rising and falling with each careful breath.

“Too hot?” you ask quickly, already reaching for the faucet.

He cracks his eyes open, shaking his head.

“’S perfect.”

You keep watching him, searching his face for the slightest sign that he's only saying it to spare you.

Then, little by little, the strain begins to loosen its grip.

The hard line of his jaw softens first, his fingers easing around your wrist. His shoulders sink another inch beneath the warm water, the tension slowly melting out of them as the heat works its way into his muscles.

His next breath comes easier. Then another.

After a long moment, his eyes drift open again.

They're hazy with fatigue, heavy-lidded and unfocused, but they find you where you're perched beside the tub, knees tucked against your chest.

He squints, mouth twisting into a petulant frown.

“What?” he murmurs. “You’re not getting in?” 

A smile tugs at your lips. “You want me to?”

He gives you a slow, incredulous look—the classic Steve Harrington stare.

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbles, like it’s obvious. “How else am I supposed to feel better?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you stand.

Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like; you notice it more now, with nothing else to focus on.

You pull your shirt over your head, and immediately hear the quiet shift of water beside you, a soft slosh.

By the time you glance up, he’s already looking at you.

Sitting a little straighter than he was a moment ago, chin lifted despite the exhaustion pulling at him. Steam curls between you, softening the edges of his face, but his eyes never leave yours. They follow every movement with boyish concentration, fixed on you in a way that’s not even pretending to be subtle.

You huff a quiet breath through your nose, fighting a smile as you tug the rest of your clothes off.  

“Seriously?”

The corner of his mouth quirks, all innocence.

“What? Sue me.”  

He shifts deeper into the tub, water rolling around him as he eases back, making room between his legs before patting the space in front of him.

You step in carefully, goosebumps prickling as the heat climbs slowly over your ankles, your calves, your thighs. The water embraces you inch by inch until you're lowering yourself fully beneath the surface, warmth wrapping around you like a heavy blanket scented with lavender.

The moment your back brushes his chest, his arms find you.

They slide around your waist with familiar certainty, one settling securely across your middle to draw you closer.  Your hand rises on instinct, covering his forearm where it rests across your stomach. His skin is warm and damp beneath your fingertips, the fine hairs catching against your palm as your thumb strokes absent circles over his wrist.

His chin grazes your shoulder as he nestles closer, his next breath warming the side of your neck.

“This is nice,” he hums, body growing heavier where it rests against yours.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

You let your weight settle back into him completely. He answers by tightening his arm around your waist, one hand gliding up to squeeze your side as he draws you a fraction closer.

You take the other one for you to keep.

Turning it over slowly, relearning it by touch. The familiar roughness of his skin, the broad span of his palm, completely swallowing yours whenever he laces your fingers together. Your thumb glides over the callus at the base of his index finger, the thickened patch of skin from years of gripping weapons he never should have had to hold.

You rub over it absentmindedly, once, twice, then again.

“How do you know?”

The words come so quietly you're not even sure you've said them aloud.

“Hm? Know what?”

“How do you know...” You swallow, unable to lift your eyes from where the water laps gently over your joined hands, pale violet opalescence that ripples around you both. “How do you know this is real?”  

He goes still at that, the only sound between you the soft ripple of water and the rush of your own thoughts filling the space.

“We could still be down there,” you whisper, the words gathering speed the longer you speak.

“Maybe... maybe we never got out. Maybe Vecna just made us think we won by giving us...” You gesture around the room. “...this.”

The lavender.

The warm water.

Him.

“What if none of it's real? What if he just—what if he made us think we were safe because it'd hurt more when he took it away? I mean, how would we even know?”    

Your chest feels tighter with every word.

“What if we're still—"

“Hey.”

Steve's voice is so soft that you almost miss it.

“Hey. Look at me.”

His face is drawn with exhaustion, pain lingering in the tightness around his eyes, in the careful way he holds himself, like every breath reminds him of another bruise.

But they’re still his.

Still that same warm hazel you've spent so many nights memorizing, never daring to believe you'd get a lifetime of looking into them.

“You know how I know?”

Your throat goes tight. “How?”

“Because you’re scared.”

Your brows pull together, fingers tightening around his. He squeezes your hand back, gentle but certain.

“That’s how I know. Because you’re sitting here trying to figure out if this is real instead of just being happy that we’re okay.”

Steve watches you for a moment before looking down between you, at the lavender bubbles drifting around your joined hands.

A bead of water clings to his lashes before he blinks it away.

“I mean…” He draws out a slow breath. “I don’t know if I can prove it. How could anyone, right? After everything that happened? I don’t think any of us are supposed to just wake up the next day and be like, ‘Cool. Guess that’s over.’”

He pauses, a small smile pulling at his mouth.

“But then I look at you and… and I just see you doing that thing.”

You blink. “What thing?”

He lifts your joined hands from the water, droplets sliding down your wrists as the surface ripples around you.

“This.”

He gives your hand a little squeeze, lacing your fingers together more securely. 

“You always start messing with my hand when you’re freaking out.”

Your brows pull together. “What?”

He lets out a soft laugh, reaching up with his free hand to gently tuck a damp strand of hair away from your face.

“Yeah, you grab my hand and then you start doing this weird little... I don’t know. Thing. Like you’re inspecting it or something.”

Only then do you realize your thumb has been moving back and forth over the same callus on his palm, tracing the same small patch of rough skin.

“...Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s something teasing about his voice now, his smile.

The same Steve who’d make an absolute idiot of himself just to get you to roll your eyes. Who could make you laugh in the middle of the worst days of your life.

His smile softens as he looks down at the water, where your fingers are still tangled together.

His thumb brushes slowly over the back of your hand.

“I guess… I guess that’s how I know.”

The steam curls around you both, blurring the edges of the room until there’s nothing left but this.

His hand in yours.

His heartbeat steady against your back and his voice low and certain beside your ear.

“Because I know you.”

He tightens his fingers around yours.

“I know you.”

· · ·

Eventually, the warmth of the bath starts to fade.

The water isn’t quite as hot as it was when you first climbed in, the lavender bubbles breaking apart into a faint, delicate layer.

You’re still holding his hand.

Neither of you has let go.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, giving your fingers a small tug.

“Hm?”

He lifts your joined hands out of the water, turning his palm toward himself.

Then he starts tracing something, slow and awkward, brow furrowed as he studies the lines crossing his palm.

You can tell he’s searching for something—squinting at the grooves in his hand, trying to remember a detail you’ve explained to him once or twice before, maybe more.

You watch him for a second, then mumble:

“You’re doing it wrong.”

“I’m doing it wrong?”

“Yes.”

He turns to look at you, eyebrows raised, genuinely offended in that exaggerated way he does when he knows he’s being teased.

“How can I be doing it wrong? It’s my hand.”

You give him a look.

“Because you don’t know what you’re looking for.”

He glances back down at his palm, then back at you.

“Okay, fine, genius,” he huffs, holding his hand out toward you. “What’s this one mean?”

You smile faintly.

“You don’t remember?”  

“No, I do. Just... tell me again? I remember you said mine was good.”

You did. Sitting cross-legged on the couch years ago, his hand stretched across your lap while you traced the lines in his palm. You’d laughed the whole time because you didn’t actually believe in any of it. But Steve had listened like it mattered, eyes serious, hanging onto every word.

You adjust your grip now, turning his hand so you can see it properly. Then you take his index finger between yours and guide it slowly along the deepest line on his palm.

“Here,” you murmur.

His finger follows where you lead it, brushing over the groove that starts just beneath his pinky and curves upward across his hand.

“This is your heart line.”

Steve doesn’t look at his hand.

He looks at you.

“It’s deep, and it doesn’t break. That means you feel things deeply. You lead with your heart.”

He hums softly, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the top of your shoulder.

You keep tracing, guiding his finger toward the end of the line where it curves upward.

“And here, it turns up.”

You press lightly into the space beneath his index finger.

“See that spot?”

“Mm.”

“That’s called the Mount of Jupiter. And when your heart line curves up like that, it kinda means you’re... a hopeless romantic.”

You don’t even have to see his face to know he’s smiling. You feel it in the small twitch of his fingers around yours, in the quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

You follow the line with your own thumb, pretending to study the grooves of his skin like they might reveal something you don’t already know.

But the truth is, you're not really reading his hand.

“It also says you don’t know how to love halfway.” Your thumb follows the line one last time. “When you care about someone… you give them every part of yourself.”

When you glance back over your shoulder, he's already watching you.

Something achingly fragile settled over his expression, a quiet wonder in his eyes as though he's seeing himself the way you always have.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

You lean in to close the small space between you, brushing your lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth.

It’s a delicate thing, more of a press than a kiss.  

His fingers tighten around yours beneath the water.

“Tell me what else.”

You smile, looking back down at his palm.

“You want me to read everything?”

“Yeah. Obviously.”

You turn his hand back toward you, guiding his finger to another line.

“Okay. This one is your head line.”

Steve settles back against the tub, his arm tightening around you as you continue tracing the little grooves and curves in his palm, explaining what they’re supposed to mean.

The truth is, none of this is anything you don’t already know.

You don’t need the lines in his hand to tell you who he is. 

You’ve known for a long time.

So you tell him what you've been carrying in your heart for longer than you can remember.

That he’s stubborn.

That he’s brave.

That he loves harder than he knows what to do with.

That he’s always seen himself as ordinary when he’s anything but.

And Steve listens.

· · ·

You stay there together until the water goes cold around you.

And though the lavender fades from the bath, the scent still clings to your skin, lingering long after the warmth has left.

Outside this room, there will still be reminders.

Things neither of you can outrun.

Memories that return without warning, scars that ache long after the wounds have closed.

Maybe some things never fully leave.

Maybe they don’t have to.

Because the bad things are not the only things that get to stay.

And when the first light of dawn slips through the bedroom window the next morning, washing everything in soft gold, Steve is still there.

Beside you.

His hand wrapped around yours.

You laughed, passing him another bowl. “Poor us, slaving away as usual.”

“Our team work is incredible.” Steve declared dramatically.

You laughed again, shaking your head as you reached into the sink for another glass. Steve watched you for a second longer than he meant to, the way you smiled to yourself, how you tucked a loose strand behind your ear every time it got in the way, scrunching your nose slightly when you focused.

The thought escaped him before he could pause it. “You know, you’re really pretty.” He said quietly.

Your hand stopped halfway to the faucet, blinking up at him. “What?”

Oh no, had he offended you? He just wanted you to know how pretty you were, even in the least moments you expected.

“I just…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I said you’re really pretty.”

Your brain promptly stopped working, a heated blush rushed to your face that made your ears burn. “Oh,” you said breathlessly.

“Yeah.” Steve gave you a small smile.

The kitchen suddenly felt more cramped than it had a minute ago, you stared at each other in silence, your mouth parted.

You needed an escape, anything to ensure you wouldn’t make a fool of yourself right here in front of the pretty boy Steve Harrington. “I…” You took an unconscious step backwards.

“I think Nancy needs me.” You glanced back to the door, when she had in fact not called you at all.

“Oh, Nancy?” Steve raised a brow, but you only nodded rapidly.

Before Steve could question it further, you were already turning on your heel, and speed walking out of the kitchen.

He stared at the empty spot you had been standing in, with a look of utter confusion clouding his features. “…Huh,” he blinked.

The second time you ran away, was because Steve had made the mistake of holding your hand.

The annual Fourth of July Hawkins fair was, in your opinion, the worst place to have a crush. There were too many people crowding the area, which meant too many occurrences for you to accidentally bump into Steve.

He kept smiling at you in a way that made your stomach do flips, and unfortunately for your rapid beating heart, he hadn’t left your side all night.

“I’m pretty sure I could beat all those rigged carnival games, in the end it just comes down to probability.” Dustin announced through a mouthful of caramel apple.

Lucas snorted. “You have a better chance at finding a date than that.”

The group continued bricking as you wandered deeper into the fairgrounds, weaving between families and children darting from one side to the other.

The smell of kettle corn drifted through the warm summer air, music from the carousel echoed in the distance. Someone brushed past your shoulder, then another, leaving you having trouble to keep up.

“Guys, wait up!” Mike called from somewhere you couldn’t see ahead.

The rest of the party slipped through a gap in the crowd before it disappeared again. You hesitated for half a second, searching for a way through the sea of people, suddenly you felt warm fingers wrap gently around your hand.

“C’mon.” Steve called, glancing back at you with an easy smile. “Don’t wanna lose you.”

He gave your hand the tiniest tug, and you felt your heart completely stop. “Oh,” was all you could manage, but Steve didn’t seem to notice.

He simply lead you through the crowd, occasionally pausing to make sure you were still with him. The worst part, was how your hand fit perfectly in his, palm even softer than you’d imagined, his thumb brushing against yours as he adjusted his grip.

You were fairly certain you were dreaming. When the crowd finally thinned again, he still didn’t let go, your eyes darted down to your conjoined hands, then back up to him.

He was laughing at something Robin had said, not even realizing he was still touching you. The thought made your breathing slow, then quicken rapidly. You lasted less than thirty seconds before blurting. “I need a pretzel!”

Steve looked over, his brows furrowed. “I’ll—uh—meet you guys in a second!” He couldn’t even get a word out, and you were already gone.

“I wonder why she keeps running away?” He shook his head.

The third time you ran away was after your first kiss.

Steve had finally sucked up the courage to ask you, there wasn’t any pressure, or awkward expectations, only the two of you figuring things out.

He had taken you to a movie drive-in, where the two of you spent more time whispering to each other on the hood of car rather than watching the actual movie.

“I had fun tonight.” Steve muttered as he killed the engine, stopping in front of your house.

“So did I.” You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, instead of reaching for the door, you two stayed exactly where you were.

You glanced down at your hands folded in your lap. “What?” You laughed nervously when you caught him staring.

“Nothing.” He shrugged, but it was all too clear it was something.

“What are you thinking about?” You pressed softly, the curiosity getting the better of you.

Steve’s brown eyes twinkled in the pale moonlight. “You.”

Your breath caught, becoming very alert to the way he was subtly leaning closer. Steve stopped just an inch before your face, taking the opportunity, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed yours like he was afraid of scaring you away, the kiss short and sweet.

He pulled back, searching your face. “Was that okay?” He whispered.

You stared at him, your first kiss. Your first actual kiss with the boy who made you terribly shy, with Steve.

Your mind short circuited. “Yep,” you nodded way too enthusiastically.

“Just yep?” Steve laughed, his hand cupping your jaw, sending you further into your demise.

“Uh huh.” Your chest pounded so loudly you were convinced he could hear it. “I should—go.”

You reached for the door handle, Steve smiled. “See you tomorrow?”

“Mhm,” your throat closed up, he watched you through the windshield as you desperately fumbled around with your keys, then immediately slammed the door shut behind you.

The front curtain twitched, and you had completely forgotten he was still outside. The second your eyes met through the window, you let out a tiny squeak and closed the curtain shut again.

“She’s adorable.” Steve laughed to himself.

The fourth time you tried to run away, was because Steve told you he loved you.

The two of you were curled up on opposite ends of the couch, sharing a blanket as you listened to the soft patters of the rain contentedly.

He looked down at your knees touching, then took a deep silent breath. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.”

You turned to face him. “What is it?”

His warm brown eyes met yours, already crinkling at the corners with affection. “I love you.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, that had been the last thing you expected to leave his mouth. Steve was always good with showing his feelings, and even better at catching you off guard.

He watched your eyes flicker towards the bathroom, a grin slowly spread across his face when he pinched down on your sides. “Oh no you don’t.”

“What?” You asked nervously.

“I know that look, it means you’re about to run away from me.” Steve caged you in.

“Steve…” you sighed, face aflame.

“You’re not running away from me this time.” He shook his head adamantly.

You groaned, hiding your face in his chest embarrassed he had finally caught you.

“I can’t help it—my brain just—”

“I know.” He wrapped his arms around you tightly and kissed the top of your head. “My little rabbit.” He whispered teasingly.

When you glanced up at him, you were shocked to not find a hint of annoyance on his face, only a wide smile. “I love you too.” You replied honestly. “And I’ll try not to run away anymore.”

Thank God you’re all the way out instead of back at camp where your middle school-age campers are tucked away, sleeping in their cabins on the hill.

At Camp Woodwick, the last night of their month-long summer session always ends on the Fourth of July. Which is tonight. And on the last night, the counselors don’t have a curfew, so the whole lot of you can pitch tents down by the lake and watch the fireworks show. 

It was fun for awhile, but after a handful of lackluster campfire stories and couple burnt marshmallows, Steve announced he was going to bed. The guys complained, begging him to light some fireworks with them, but he said he was going to turn in anyway. 

Right after his eyes caught yours. 

You excused yourself shortly after him, not even really sure why. And as you changed into your sleep shorts and a t-shirt, and settled into your sleeping bag, you blamed your sour mood on the heat and the bugs.

Assuring yourself that it had nothing to do with the fact that you and Steve Harrington have been at each other’s throats for weeks.

Tonight is is counselor’s night out! It’s supposed to be a fun end-of-the-summer bash for all the adults who were paid a few grand to babysit. It’s the night everyone looks forward to the most. 

You should be having fun—being young. Whatever that means. 

At some point between the whole saving-the-world-and-barely-escaping-with-your-life-thing, you became somewhat of a stranger to that idea. Your life had been, for lack of a better term, flipped upside down. 

Steve groans again. Hot embers flare to life in your core, stirred up by the sound of his thready voice. So low and breathless. 

He has to shut up. What is he thinking, jerking off like this with people nearby?

Granted, your tents are the furthest away from everyone else’s, and no one has really gone to bed yet. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But between the sticky humid air clinging to your skin, and the sharp whistles from exploding fireworks, when Steve moans softly again you finally just…snap. 

Ripping the blankets off yourself, you rustle around your tent for your flashlight, grumbling and muttering in the dark.

God, you have to do everything yourself, don’t you? 

You wince as your tent opens with a loud zip that punctuates the darkness surrounding you. Peeking over your shoulder, you can see the smoke from the campfire in the distance, curling up towards the stars. A few of your fellow counselors are still lounging around the fire, but most of them are small shadows dotting the lake’s edge. 

Steve pitched his orange tent under a tree. 

Stupid. 

Doesn’t he know that the roots will mess the tent stakes up? You’re surprised he could even get them in the ground. Honestly, it will probably fall down on him tonight. 

You hope it does. 

His tent is dark and quiet, but you march over anyway, flashlight raised so the beam falls straight on him when you turn it on. 

You yank on his tent’s zipper. It gives easily. A muffled curse comes from inside, and you click on the flashlight to reveal Steve lying on his side, bare chest rising and falling as he squints into the bright beam.

“God, you never could stay quiet, could you?” You say, bullying your way through the tent flap and zipping it back up behind you. 

Steve scrambles to throw his sleeping bag over himself, but it does practically nothing to hide his raging boner underneath. 

“What the fuck do you want?” He snaps, glaring up at you. 

Despite yourself, your eyes catch on a delicious bicep, and his muscled shoulder in the shine of your flashlight. That chest hair has taunted you all summer long. It’s been torturous pretending you didn’t know what it felt like against your bare breasts, against your back...

You clear your throat. “I just thought I’d let you know the whole camp can hear you jerking off.”

“What? I’m not—Jesus.” His big hand drags down his face, even as he pulls the sleeping bag up higher. “Get out.”

Whoops, there you go again, getting distracted by his hands. 

Maybe you should close your eyes, or turn around—something—because looking at him stretched out in the dark like this is making you think wicked things.

Your lips twist in a mocking smirk, and you gesture down to the sleeping bag. “Oh, c’mon, Steve. Why are you so embarrassed? It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” 

Lots of times, actually. 

Through the years, you’d been there for everything—watched him get captured, tortured, and sacrificed for others. But after it was all over, and the dust settled, you fell into each other a different way. 

Because it wasn’t the days plagued with Demogorgons, evil Russians, or even Vecna that were the worst.

It was the days that followed.

The hollow darkness you experienced as the world kept moving on, oblivious to the memories that plagued you both. You had to learn how to live normally again, and something about that was both relieving and excruciatingly lonely at the same time.

The nightmares had a way of sticking to you like blood you couldn’t get off no matter how many times you scrubbed yourself raw in the shower. 

It was in those shaky, sweaty, middle-of-the-night fever dreams that you and Steve found solace in each other. Because when it all became a bit too much, you could dig your nails into someone else’s skin, feel a slick, hot mouth against yours—ground yourself in something intrinsically human just to prove that after everything, you still are.

But all that came to a screeching halt last summer. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, shifting a little and squinting up at you. “Let’s say that I was. You wanted to come over and…cockblock me? From myself? And turn that thing off unless you want everyone to see two silhouettes in here.”

You click the flashlight off immediately, plunging you both into darkness. 

Maybe you should rescind your previous statement. Because now, without being able to see him, his proximity is somehow affecting you even more. 

You can hear his soft breaths, smell the lake water on his skin. And underneath it all, the familiar sounds and scents of him that opens a gaping hole of nostalgia in the pit of your stomach. 

You try to laugh, but it comes out cold. “You think I give a fuck if you’re rubbing one out, Harrington? No. I came over here because you’re fucking whimpering and moaning—”

“—I was not whimpering.” 

“—and you’re incapable of keeping quiet—yes, you were, and I was getting sick of hearing it. So, either do it quieter, or find someone to cover your fucking mouth.”

As you were talking, your vision adjusted to the darkness. Which is a very bad thing, because now you can see him again. Specifically the outline of his mussed hair as he lifts his chin to meet your gaze. 

“You offering?”

Your breath catches.

You should say no. You should tell him to go fuck himself—literally— and leave right now. He can let the whole camp hear him for all you care. 

But instead, you hesitate. 

Now, Steve is smart. Smarter than he gives himself credit for, that’s for sure. And there are certain patterns he’s picked up on with you over the years. Like, when you pause like that, the answer is almost always a yes. 

Which is why the second you go quiet, and the distant laughter of the other counselors fills the space between you, he’s already batting the sleeping bag off his lap. 

“I knew it,” he says. The fabric slips off him just as a firework bursts overhead, and your eyes drag over his body. The lean, tan muscle from all his time outside this summer, down to his long, hard cock jerking against his happy trail. “You’re so busy acting like you hate me, wanting to play this game where we bitch at each other all summer, and now you’re making up excuses to come into my tent—”

“Oh, trust me,” you scoff, tearing your eyes away to meet his again. “It’s not an excuse.”

“No?” he says softly, leaning back on one arm and gesturing at his body with the other. “Then, prove it.”

“Fine, but I’m only staying to keep you quiet,” you warn him, pinning him with a harsh look. 

“Sure. Whatever,” Steve rasps, watching as you drop to your knees beside him. 

Your fingers curl into his sleeping bag beside his shoulder, but you’re careful not to touch him. 

He wishes you would. 

You gesture impatiently at him, your hand a shadowy blur in the dark. “Go ahead and get it over with. I’m not sitting here all night. God.”

Steve rushes to obey, and when wraps his hand around his cock again, the rush is so intense it’s almost painful. The way you’re sitting there just watching him is making his head feel fuzzy, and his dick swell.

And look at you—pretending to not be affected in the slightest watching the flushed head poke out of his fist over and over as he jerks off in front of you. God, you turn him on so fucking much. 

Steve heaves a stuttering breath, and his head drops back onto the ground as the pleasure pools in his gut. He thinks he’s doing a good job being quiet. But he can’t smother the moan that escapes him the second your warm hand brushes his shoulder.

“Steve,” you hiss, warning lacing your voice. 

“Shut me up, then. Goddamn.” He groans, his cock twitching in his palm. “What are you even here for? I could do this myself—” At that moment, your hand finds his chest and, well, your fingers might as well be a defibrillator. His hips jerk, mouth dropping open in pleasure. “—oh, fuck yeah.”

Your touch is heaven. His eyelids threaten to shut as your fingers brush through his chest hair, over his ribs— so sure, and steady, soothing and warm. Like his flesh and bone is a map you know by heart. 

He’s panting, desperate not to make a sound and give you a reason to take your hand away while your palm trails lower.

He raises his chin to catch a glimpse of your profile as the fireworks crack in the sky, raining down in bright fizzling pops that he feels in his chest. 

Honestly, he should’ve known this is how the summer would end with you. 

He’s known it, and yet, he’s run from it. 

Because the last time he had you…God, he’s been such an idiot. 

Last summer, when you came home from college for break, he’d been sitting on your doorstep. A silent understanding passed between you two, and then you’d grabbed his hand and taken him up to your room.

Afterwards, you were laying under him, sweaty and warm, eyes glowing with…with something that made his heart tug painfully. And suddenly, it all got to be too much. 

He’d been craving you all semester. As if you were a long drag from a cigarette. And that gnawing ache didn’t surface with anyone else. Only you. 

His chest swelled up tight, and the bridge of his nose started to burn, and he realized… he was scared. 

Terrified, actually. 

Because what if the both of you reaching out for each other was nothing but a trained response, like Pavlov’s dogs or some shit? What if you had built this trauma bond…thing? He wasn’t entirely sure what that even meant, but he knew that no one could know him so intrinsically, so deeply, so invasively and still want him anyway. 

So, Steve proceeded to do the stupidest thing possible by dropping a kiss to your forehead, pulling his clothes back on, and walking out the door. 

He told himself it was for the best. Months after, even though he thought of you constantly, and still woke up slicked in sweat, hands flying to his wounds in the dark, he never called you. 

But when you showed up at Camp Woodwick, looking to earn some cash over the summer, same as him, all the walls he’d built up between him and his past came crashing down. 

So, he pushed you away. For weeks. It was worse than he thought it would be, though. Because when he pushed, you pushed back harder. 

His head swims with the knowledge that after a whole year without you, you’re here. You’re the same. Familiar. The smell of your hair, down to the soft breaths escaping to ur lips. 

He’s still hard as a rock, but his hand isn’t cutting it. Not when what he really wants is right here in front of him.

Steve curses under his breath. “You wanna help me out, sweetheart? Give me that mouth?”

“W-what?” You snort. “You can hardly be quiet with your own hand, Harrington. You think you’re going to survive that?”

“Please? Just lick it. Just the tip.”

“Stop begging. Also, be qu—“

“Right. Right, I’ll be quiet,” Steve grumbles. “Just—if you’re gonna fucking march in here and tell me to do it faster, then the least you could do is help me out.” Another firework squeals, then pops, showering you in gold as you blink down at him.

Boisterous laughs drift over the water, and your eyes flick up instinctively to meet the tent wall before your bottom lip disappears between your teeth. His stomach flips in anticipation. He knows that look. 

“C’mon,” he urges, fighting back a smirk. “You know how I like it, baby.”

Shit. 

Steve knows that pet name has always been your weakness. You’re not sure exactly why. Maybe it’s because it reminded you that on the outside, you were just friends. But in bed…you were his.

You shouldn’t fall for a cheap trick like that. Look at him, biting the corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to smirk. Cocky bastard. 

But, even so, you make the mistake of glancing down his body.

His hand slips away in a silent invitation, revealing his heavy cock jutting out from his soft tummy and you lose the war.

Rocks dig into your knees under the tent floor but you hardly pay them any mind, your clit already throbbing in anticipation of touching him. 

“Fine. But only because it’s faster.” You say.

Your hand curls around him, reveling in the hot, velvety feel of him in your palm. A sound slips from his throat, sudden and unbidden. 

You jerk your head up, and he can’t see your face clearly in the dark, but he knows your body language. The message is solidified when you bring your other hand up to rake through the hair on his chest, digging into his pec in warning. 

Steve’s hand lands on yours, and the warmth seeping through his fingers doesn’t just make your pussy clench, it also makes your nose burn. 

You turn your attention back to stroking him, ignoring the tightness in your lungs. Ignoring the way you’re practically holding hands across his chest.

“God, you’ve been kind of a bitch to me all summer,” Steve grunts, thrusting up into your touch. “You know that?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see you. “Steve, you can’t call me a bitch at the same time you’re fucking my hand. Either we’re fighting or we’re fucking. Pick one. Jesus.”

“I don’t know.” His head falls back against the ground with a heavy thud. “We’re pretty good at both, apparently. God, your hand feel so g—”

“Shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

Another firework shrieks into the sky, exploding in a loud pop, and showering you both in a flash of red. It lights up Steve’s body, illuminating the scars along his side. Long jagged things, carved deep under his ribs.

You can’t help but remember the panic that seized you when the Demobats descended on him. You’ll never forget the sickening horror that coursed through your body when you looked over to see him pale and shaking, dripping in blood. 

You swallow hard. Then, as if pulled by some invisible string, you lower your head and brush your mouth against his skin. His core muscles flex at the soft glide of your tongue on his belly, but he tenses as your lips trace his scar line.

“Don’t—” he rasps. Suddenly, his hand flies down and tugs your chin away. 

“What?” You whisper against his skin, a little teasing. But when you flick your eyes up to his, he looks away, raking a hand through his hair. Your hand slows around his cock and you frown. A thread of anxiety coils in your gut. 

“What?” you repeat. “I was there, too, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” He lets out a short laugh, but the warmth is gone from his voice. “I just—really don’t want to be reminded of that right now.”

You pull back, hands falling away from him instantly. 

Another bottle rocket screams, punctuating the heavy beat of silence that follows. Steve notices the shift in you, the way your body locks up in hesitation. 

Sighing heavily, he raises his palms to his face and digs them into his eyes. 

“Sorry, I’m—that was fucked up. I’m sorry.”

You sit back on your heels, suddenly unsure, and your eyes drop to the ground. 

He combs through his hair again roughly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. I was just…there’s a kid here that reminds me of a little Eddie, and the scars—”

You smile softly. “Reed, right? I’ve been thinking the same thing all summer.”

“Every time I see those scars, I think about the bats, and then I think about losing Eddie, and then with you here—” He gestures towards you and he trails off. 

You don’t need him to finish the thought, though. You can see it in the way his chest heaves, and the slight crack in his voice. 

With a sigh, you settle down onto the ground beside him. He shuffles wordlessly, giving you room to lay on the other half of his sleeping bag. 

“It’s okay, Steve. This is how it always was for us. Just—two people trying to get through it, you know? To feel something again.” 

“Oh yeah? Is that all were?” His voice is deeper now. Huskier. It makes a lump build in your throat. “Was that all it was for you?”

You watch the light show fall across the tent ceiling together, muted little orbs glowing through the fabric. 

“No,” you say softly. “But everything hits me at once sometimes, too, you know. And when that happens...fuck, I just need you. And that feeling…” The words fizzle out and fall like the embers in the sky, and your hand reaches up to clutch at your chest—like it would be easier just to rip out your heart and show him.

Steve hesitates, swallowing hard. “It’s not…bad, right? That feeling?” 

“No, Steve. It’s not bad.” 

A quiet moment passes, then he blows out a breath. “At college, they have these therapists. Robin dragged me to a session once, so I went.” You turn your head to look at him, but he keeps his eyes above. “I was scared, like, what if they didn’t believe me, you know? And, well, I’m not sure if Dr. Treya really believes me, but that doesn’t seem to matter much. She treats it all like it’s true, anyway.”

There’s a loud squeal of a bottle rocket, then laughter somewhere in the distance. 

“I’m sorry we fought the last few weeks,” you whisper. “I was angry. But mostly just hurt. By last summer.”

Steve sits up a little at that, his strong arm bracing his torso as he looks down at you. “And you had every right to be,” he says. “I was a coward for leaving like I did. I got scared, I think. But, I’m getting better. At least, Robin says I am.”

You chuckle. “I’m sure she’s right.”

“But I am sorry, too. For that, and for…just for everything.”

You gaze up at him, and the urge to cup his face and bring his lips down to yours grips you by the spine. But Steve lays back down next to you before you can say anything. 

“I’m proud of you for going to see a counselor,” you say into the dark after a long moment. “Does it help?”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “But I wish there was something I could do, too, you know? Other than just talk about it.” 

He takes the world upon his shoulders, this boy.

He deserves to know that, at the end of the day, someone has him. Someone wants him. Not just for what he can give, but for who he is. He’s been pushing you away because you had that for him, and he didn’t know how to accept it. Until recently. 

You see that now. 

His bare arm is so warm against yours. You follow it down with your fingers until you find his hand, threading your fingers through his. 

“Steve, you’ve already done so much. For everyone.”

His hand practically swallows yours. Long fingers, with blunt tips. They just remind you of all the ways he’s used them to pull orgasms from your body, one after the other.

All he does is give, give, give. Even when you give him hell all summer, fuck, he gives that right back. 

Your hair whispers against the sleeping bag as you turn to look at him. His brown eyes meet yours, and his soft exhale ghosts across your cheek.

You search his face for permission, because he already knows what you’re asking. When his expression softens, just enough, you don’t hesitate. Hooking your leg around his waist, you roll on top of him and sit up. 

“Let me take care of you,” you say.

He sucks in a breath at the sight of you rising above him, his hand coming to land hot and heavy on your thigh. 

Scooting backwards, you lower your mouth to his torso. He hisses, his other hand flying to tangle in your hair. His cock has softened slightly against his hip, but you can fix that with your mouth in no time. 

His chest heaves with a shaky breath. “Wait, no. No, baby.” 

You suck a soft love bite on his hip before raising your eyes to his. “You don’t want it anymore?”

“No—shit, of course I want it, but—” He snorts, but his hand finds yours and he tries to pull you up. “If we’re going to do this, I want to do it for real. Not to distract each other. Not like we used to. Can…can you do that?”

You nod once. Then again. “Yes. Yes, of course, Steve. I wasn’t—I was just—” your heart slams into your throat. “I still love you.”

A slow, sweet smile spreads across Steve’s face. Your cheeks flush, and you try to squirm away, but Steve squeezes your thigh, urging you to find his eyes again. And when you do, you see that familiar heat is back. 

“Good,” he says. “Now we can get down to the real question of what the fuck do you think you’re doing barging into my tent when I’m masturbating, you little brat?”

Heat licks up your spine, and you bite back a grin. “I told you! You were being loud.”

“Yeah, sure, now tell me the real reason.”

“That is the real reason!”

“Don’t lie to me.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but his hands clamp down on your hips before you can, and in one smooth motion, he flips you so you’re on your back. Your heart slams against your ribs as he pulls you down under him, his chest rising and falling against yours. 

“Just admit it,” he says, a cocky grin twisting his lips right over yours. “You wanted me to lick that pretty pussy for you, didn’t you?”

Your panties dampen instantly, pulsing in anticipation of feeling his mouth on you after so long. 

You might have been at each other’s throats for weeks, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t like it. You saw it in his eyes by the campfire and by every rough two-hand touch football game. Every time your face went red and you mouthed off at him he’d just smile and lift his eyebrows as if to say, ‘is that all you got?’ Maybe crook two fingers at you with a cocky tilt of his head, urging you to ‘give me more.’ 

Well, you could definitely give him more. 

“I don’t know, Harrington,” you sigh, tilt your head against the tent floor in mock confusion. “I hardly remember what getting head from you is like.”

His grin turns wicked. Then suddenly, he’s moving—greedy hands tugging at your shorts. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice dripping in that mocking tone that always makes you wet. “I thought maybe you’d want me to do that thing my tongue that always—” A whimper escapes your throat and he breaks off mid-sentence with an openmouthed laugh. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He crawls down your body, taking your shorts and underwear with him, and you gasp when something hard and hot brushes your thigh. Glad to see he’s sporting that erection again. You feel a fleeting disappointment at the fact you haven’t gotten to suck him off yet, but it’s probably better this way, to be honest. 

It’s literally impossible to make Steve Harrington be quiet while getting a blowjob—

Without warning, he plunges two fingers deep into your slick channel. Your breath stutters, hips bucking into his palm on instinct. He groans out loud, but you’re too blissed out by the stretch that you can’t even get onto him for it. 

Lungs seizing, heart pounding, you squirm on the slippery fabric of his sleeping bag, trying to get even closer. Your nipples harden against your T-shirt, begging for his touch. For more of him.

You peek down your body just in time to see his head disappear between your thighs, and then his mouth is on you. God, his tongue is so warm and wet against your clit, and his skillful fingers stroke you just right. In and out, then curling into the spongey spot inside that has your mouth dropping open. 

“Missed those sounds you make,” he says, voice muffled against your pussy. 

Shit. 

You hadn’t even realized you were making noise. You dig your knee into his side in retaliation and he chuckles, squirming away before diving in again.

He licks messy, broad strokes, tasting you on purpose, getting you all over his tongue. When you grind up into his face he grabs you by the hips and moves with you, following your every wriggle and writhe. 

Yep, his mouth still makes the world feel dull, reducing your hearing to the whoosh of your heartbeat in your ears as everything else just fades away into mind numbing bliss—

“Shut up,” Steve says, pulls back from you with a wicked grin. His face is covered in your arousal, glinting in the firework light, and the sight makes you clench around his fingers. “Seriously, shut up if you don’t want them to hear you.” 

“Wha—Steve!” You whine, canting your hips up into his mouth again as he lowers himself back down to you. “H-help.”

He shrugs. “I’m not the one who gives a shit if they hear.”

The vibrations of his voice against your clit rips a moan from your throat, unbidden, and your lips cinch together. Your hand flies to your hip, finding his fingers there. You try to pull his hand up but he shakes off your touch, holding onto your waist and puling you roughly against his tongue. 

You whine in protest, and go to pull on his hand again, but that’s a mistake. 

He brings his palm down to your inner thigh with a sharp smack that has your back arching off the ground, your eyes narrowing in warning. 

“Cover your own mouth, sweetheart, fuck,” he chuckles, giving your clit a soothing series of licks. “I’m busy.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper, but it quickly turns into a needy whine when he sucks the swollen nub into his mouth. 

Steve continues to stretch you out on his fingers, murmuring dirty things into your pussy as he does. How sweet you taste. How tightly you’re squeezing his fingers. But you barely hear any of it. 

You’re so wet—both from his mouth and your arousal—that your inner thighs slick together when you try to squeeze them. He yanks your legs apart again, and you’re powerless to stop him because the pads of his fingers are dragging out tendrils of pleasure from your spine you haven’t felt in a year. 

Thankfully, the fireworks seem to be reaching a peak outside— loud bangs and pops going off every few seconds help drown out the sounds of your needy pussy and blissed-out sighs. Because frankly, you don’t have the brain power to think about anything except how desperately you need him inside you. 

You whimper again accidentally. “Steve—” 

“Okay, baby,” he replies instantly, knowing what you need by the tone in your voice alone. His fingers slip out and he rises up over you, your knees falling open eagerly as he lines himself up.

When he notches the tip of his cock at your entrance, your cunt greedily sucks him in. He gasps, hips bucking forward instinctively, and neither one of you are able to stop the mixed groans that ensue from finally, finally being connected like this again after so long. 

Big hands scramble for a hold on your waist, blunt nails pinching your skin as he drags himself back, then forth, slamming up into you with a depth that makes you sob.

“Still fuckin’ made for me,” he groans. “Goddamnit.”

You’re panting, arms wrapped around his shoulders, biting the skin of your forearm to keep from moaning as his hips roll slow and deliberate. 

“Good girl,” he praises, and you shudder, feeling the ache grow sharper. “Staying so quiet, look at you. You can’t ask me to be silent when you come around me, okay? Fuck—that’s like being tortured all over again.”

You shoot him a withering look even as you writhe underneath him. “That’s not funny.”

He laughs, and his silhouette shifts over you, his cock driving deeper and hitting that spot inside you that makes you see sparks that aren’t there. “Sorry, sweetheart. I just—oh yeah, grind that clit into me. That’s it.”

 Your hands rake through his hair, desperately trying to hold onto something. But the force behind his thrusts causes you to pull on the strands, and, well, that was a mistake. 

His teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder in order to stay somewhat quiet, and oh—fuck. How could you have forgotten what pulling his hair does to him? Stars burst behind your eyes as the fireworks crackle overhead, and the tension between your hips coils tighter. 

“Fuck—Steve,” you gush. “Please.”

“What do you need?” He rasps against your throat, sucking and biting. “I’m all yours.”

Little tremors course though your legs as your orgasm builds, the swollen head of his cock nudging those spots deep inside that ache for him. 

Only him.

“You need me to kiss you?” he says, breath hot in your ear. “Need me to shut you up?”

You nod frantically. 

“Go on, ask me for it.”

You whimper, too far gone to play the game anymore. “Kiss me, Stevie. Please, please—” 

“Fuck,” Steve groans at the nickname he hasn’t heard in so long, and instantly lowers his mouth to yours. 

The first brush of his lips against yours makes you want to cry. 

“Missed you, baby,” he says, then kisses you deeper, his tongue dipping into your mouth and swirling with yours. “So much. Missed kissing you. Missed talking with you.” He hesitates, pulling back slightly before planting one soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Missed loving you. But I guess I never really stopped, did I?”

Your eyes connect for one heartbreaking, devestatingly sweet second before you pull him back down, pouring your love for him into the gentle, yet desperate stroke of your tongue against his. 

Feeling you kiss him like that snaps something deep inside him. 

Your inner muscles clamps down around him as his thrusts turn messy and hard, and his hands run over your shoulders, your breasts, your hips, pulling your body back down to meet his every thrust. 

The pleasure builds to an insurmountable level as he rips your shirt up to capture your nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and making you want to scream. 

You flatten your palm over your lips, whimpering through the gaps in your fingers over and over, squeezing your eyes shut as Steve pushes you higher and higher until finally—you’re falling. 

Your teeth bite into your fingers hard to muffle your moans as your pussy clenches down like a vice on Steve’s cock rhythmically, your orgasm rushing through you. 

He lets out a choked sound above you, and with the way his chest falls in a sequence of familiar pants, you know he’s close. Through the pleasured haze, your other hand flies to cover his mouth just in time for his orgasm to hit. 

“Mmhmm, mhhhmm.” Steve whines loudly, as his body tenses, and his cock twitches inside you. And you have no choice but to shove your fingers inside his lips, forcing him to suck on them as he reaches his peak. His eyes roll back as he bullies his cock against your cervix, painting your walls with his come, even as his tongue strokes your knuckles tenderly and reverently.

It takes awhile for the both of you to come back down to earth, but eventually, you let your fingers fall from his mouth and he laughs breathlessly, dipping to give you one last slow kiss before slipping out of you. 

He fumbles around for his T-shirt in the darkness and then cleans you up with care, which makes your heart twist. Once he’s done, he settles on his side, and pulls you into him, your back pressed to his chest. You burrow into him, his arm settling around you, and it’s amazing how quickly your lashes start to fall, wrapped up in this familiar comfort. 

“So…truce?” Steve whispers into the crook of your shoulder. You laugh softly.

Even under a hazardously leaning tent, and a sky littered with mini explosions, the world seems a little less dark right now. The past, a little less heavy. 

Maybe it’s because neither of you are running away from it, anymore. But rather, facing it. Together.

And because you know, without a shadow of a doubt, Steve Harrington’s heartbeat will always be in your future.

“Truce.”

a/n: the tent definitely collapses on top of them five minutes later, by the way. also, my idea originally was not nearly as angsty, but don’t you just love it when characters highjack your story? god, the fics always turn out so much better that way.

You hoped that you could get away with just sitting at the lake’s edge, of maybe just dipping your toes in. But then the day came and the Indiana sun was sweltering. The heat was unforgiving as you sat on the small picnic blanket you had set out while the others had run straight to the lake.

Your thighs were already sticking together beneath your dress despite only arriving five minutes ago and you were trying not to think too much about it.

“You good?”

You jump a little at the sound of Steve’s voice, having not even realised he had not joined the others in the rush into the glistening water of Lover’s Lake.

“Yeah, I’m—” you turn to look at Steve and almost instantly regret it. Because Steve was wearing a backwards baseball cap and some red swimming trunks, standing right in front of you looking so gorgeous that suddenly, you had forgotten the entirety of the English language.

Because Steve may be one of your friends, but his presence always caused a fluttery feeling in your stomach. And the sight of his bare chest—of his broad shoulders, the various freckles and moles dotted over his skin, his soft belly and that generous smattering of hair over his chest—well, it made your mouth feel incredibly dry.

“You, what?” Steve asks, seemingly oblivious to you almost ogling him as he tilts his head to the side as though mildly concerned at your lack of response.

God—you wished that he wasn’t so lovely. That way, you might not have developed this stupid crush on him.

It happened gradually over the years. Steve had gone from being the guy you never spoke to in high school because he was popular and threw parties almost every weekend (ones that you had never been invited to) to the guy who bought you blueberry muffins when you were on the early shift at the pharmacy that sat next to Family Video just because. The guy who you now consider to be one of your best friends. The guy you were desperately in love with but didn’t stand a chance with.

“I’m good,” you tell him finally, forcing a smile despite the fact the heat from the sun was already getting to you. “Just a bit hot, that’s all.”

“Bit hot is an understatement,” Steve grins down at you. “A dip in the lake should cool you down though.”

You swallow at the suggestion, your skin prickling at the thought of taking off your dress in front of Steve, of all people. Steve—who was so gorgeous that it made you aware of the sweat gathering beneath your breasts, made you aware of the fact that your body didn’t look like any of the girls he had been with previously. You had thought about the latter a lot more than you cared to admit.

“I’m fine for now,” you tell him with what you hope was a convincing smile.

Steve nods and part of you hopes, as he looks away from you, that he’ll leave you there. That he’ll take your word for it, join the others in the lake and you could watch from your spot on the picnic blanket without needing to think of an excuse to not join him in the lake. But of course, Steve was too good of a friend to just leave you on your own.

He sits himself down on the blanket beside you, his thigh pressing against yours and making your stomach feel as though it was made out of goo. Because Steve Harrington had that effect on you.

“Well, I’m not going to just leave you out here by yourself,” Steve declares, leaning back on his hands and making all intelligent thoughts leave your brain at the sight of him lounging shirtless beside you.

Your face warms and for once, you’re grateful for the sweltering heat. “You don’t have to,” you tell him. “It’s fine. Really, it’s—”

But he shuts you up by carefully placing his baseball cap on top of your head.

“I’m good here,” he tells you with a smile that devastates you in the best way possible. “You’re way more fun than those losers anyway.”

It was hard not to react to that—the corners of your mouth twitch and your face now feels hot to the touch but thankfully, a yell from the lake saves you from responding.

“I heard that!” Dustin Henderson yells from the water.

The day only got hotter as the afternoon wore on. You made sure to keep hydrated, but you were still so hot and the lake was taunting you.

Steve had been dragged into the lake by Eddie some ten minutes after he had sat down beside you. Once again, you had politely declined the offer to join him and the others in the lake and it was something close to torture to watch Steve—skin wet, water dripping from the coarse hair over his chest, laughing loudly as Max cussed Lucas out for splashing her. 

“He looks like a wet dog,” Robin comments, a slight frown on her face as she drops a cold bottle of water from the ice cooler onto your lap, jolting you. “I seriously don’t know why you like him when he’s got all that on his chest.”

“Robin!” You yelp, eyes wide as she plops herself down next to you. You look over to where Eddie and Jonathan were arguing over the correct way to set up the barbeque nearby. “What if someone—”

“Relax,” Robin tells you, waving a hand as though it was nothing, as though your face wasn’t burning from her comment at the thought of anyone overhearing—of Steve overhearing. “I’m not going to scream it from the rooftops. I’m subtle,” you let out a small snort of laughter because nothing about Robin Buckley was subtle. “You however gawking at him like that—”

“—I was not gawking—”

“—you’re totally gawking. Like if you were in a cartoon, you’d just be drooling from your mouth and—”

“—okay, I get it,” you say, bringing your knees up to your chest and looking anywhere but down at the water where Steve’s back was on full display—muscles rippling as he stretched and looking so delectable and gorgeous and— “I can’t help it, okay? I just—”

“Really like him?” Robin offers with a small smile before nudging your arm. “Yeah, I know.”

You sigh before you uncap the bottle of water she had bought you, bringing the bottle to your lips and taking a long sip. The near ice cold water was heaven in your mouth, the liquid sliding down your throat and giving you some minor relief from the heat.

Robin doesn’t say anything, just watches you thoughtfully before she looks out over the lake—at the sun making the water sparkle, at the heatwaves making the trees on the other side of the lake move.

“I’m sorry that everyone else tagged along,” Robin murmurs, glancing at you. “You know I can’t say no to those kids. I mean, they’re little shits but—”

“—you don’t need to apologise Robin,” you tell her with a faint smile.

“But I feel bad,” she says, her eyes flickering down as though suddenly interested in the embroidery on the picnic blanket. “I mean—you haven’t been in the water yet.”

Your stomach turns, you shift on the blanket and you feel your calves sticking to the backs of your thighs from sweat. You didn’t want to have this conversation with Robin—not right now. You knew she would tell you that you didn’t have to feel uncomfortable, that the others didn’t care about the bit of extra weight you had put on. But the fact of the matter was—you cared, despite your best efforts not to. You cared.

“I’m fine,” you tell her with a slightly forced smile. “Really.”

Robin opens her mouth to respond, likely to call you out for your blatant lie but the sudden appearance of Nancy Wheeler shuts her up.

“Hey,” Nancy greets you both brightly, her eyes flickering over to Robin for a brief second before she sits herself down on the blanket directly opposite from you. 

“H-hi Nance,” Robin stutters a little and you have to fight the urge to tease her for it.

Nancy smiles at Robin before her eyes flit over to you. “Steve keeps asking if you’re okay.”

Your face burns at Nancy’s words but you try your best not to react. Not to show how her words had made your stomach turn and made you feel as though your entire world had turned on its axis.

“Oh,” was all you managed to say. “Yeah—I’m ok—”

“—I think he likes you back.”

It was quiet and then—

“Robin—”

“—I didn’t tell her!” Robin insists, her face paling as she looks from you to Nancy and back again. “I swear! I didn’t—”

Nancy laughs and all you wanted was for the ground to swallow you whole.

“I’m very observant,” Nancy explains. “And the way you’re looking at each other—it’s kind of obvious.”

You blink—not fully registering Nancy’s words because there was no way that Steve Harrington looked at you like anything more than just a friend. She had to be lying, she had to—

“I mean—I don’t know if you’ve noticed but he keeps looking over at you and he’s asked me and Robin like fifteen times since we got here if you were okay.”

“He has?” You ask, looking from Nancy to Robin and back again.

“Almost as much as you’ve been looking at him,” Robin tells you. “He’s probably just waiting until you take that dress off.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “Well, he’d be very disappointed if I did.”

The words slip out before you could stop them and you don’t miss the look on both Robin and Nancy’s faces. The way Robin’s face falls slightly and Nancy looks slightly taken aback.

You swallow, face warming as you nervously adjust Steve’s cap that was still perched on your head. “I just mean—”

“—don’t start,” Robin tells you in an almost serious voice. “If you say one bad thing about yourself, I will sell that signed Bonnie Tyler vinyl you have.”

“You dare—”

“—then be kind to yourself,” Nancy says with an encouraging smile. “Because trust me, Steve would not be disappointed by you. Not at all.”

You chew your bottom lip between your teeth, wanting to believe Nancy’s words but at the same time, that small bit of doubt that lives in your ribcage seemed to gnaw at your insides, reminding you of every horrible thought you had ever had about yourself. Thoughts that would probably make Robin slap you, ones that made you compare yourself to every woman you had ever seen him with—made you compare yourself to someone like Nancy.

As though being able to read your mind, Nancy gives you a look—not sympathy, not pity, just understanding.

“He never looked at me like that,” she tells you simply. “He never looked at me like there wasn’t a single thing about me he’d change.”

Something that felt dangerously like hope twisted in your gut, your eyes drifting back over to Steve to find him already looking over at you. When he catches your eye, you swear you see his cheeks flush just a little. You watch as a smile spreads across his face before he lifts a hand to wave at you. You can barely stop yourself from smiling as you wave back at him.

“You two are sickening,” Robin says affectionately, a small smile pulling at her lips despite herself.

“It’s sweet,” Nancy says fondly.

“He even gave you his hat. Protecting you from the sun and all,” Robin comments, nodding to Steve’s baseball cap still perched on your head. “Now that’s love.”

You snort with laughter, despite the fact your face was burning at her words. “It’s just a hat, Rob,” you tell her even though you knew deep down that it wasn’t just a hat—this particular baseball cap was the one that Steve had been given by one of his favourite baseball players when he was seven years old. The hat that he had once yelled at Dustin for daring to borrow. It was not just a hat and you knew that.

“Hmm,” Robin hums as she shares a look with Nancy. “Sure. Just a hat. Keep telling yourself that.”

You roll your eyes, ignoring the way your stomach was squirming, the way it was near impossible to not smile.

“Well, I need to cool down,” Nancy announces, standing up, slipping her top over her head before unbuttoning her denim shorts while Robin looks as though she had forgotten how to breathe. “Want to come with?” She asks you, holding out her hand for you to take.

You stare at her hand for a long moment, weighing up the options. You could refuse—you could spend the rest of the day in the near unbearable heat, chasing the shade and watching your friends have fun in the water without you. Or you could take the plunge, ignore the doubt and cool down in the glittering lake. Maybe see if Robin and Nancy were right about Steve.

You swallow before you take Nancy’s outstretched hand to allow her to pull you up to your feet.

“You got this,” she whispers encouragingly, taking Steve’s cap off your head and dropping it onto Robin’s lap.

You smile shyly back at her before glancing back over at Steve who was once again already looking over at you. The look on his face, the softness in his eyes and hopeful expression on his face makes your stomach turn. And it was the look on his face, along with the feeling burning in your lower stomach that you found the confidence to finally peel your dress from your body to reveal the cherry red bikini beneath that stood out against your skin.

And shockingly, the world did not come to an end at the sight of you in a bikini. Nothing really changed. The kids were still arguing over the rules of sharks and minnows, Jonathan and Eddie were debating over how long to cook the burgers.

The only thing that had changed was Steve’s face. Because suddenly, Steve Harrington was looking at you in a way that he never had before. It was the sort of look that you hoped you’d never forget. The kind of look you wanted to bottle and save for a rainy day, the look that made you forget all about the sweat that had built up in the valley of your breasts, of the softness of your stomach, of the fact the fat of your thighs jiggled as you follow Nancy towards the lake.

Steve’s honeyned brown eyes were wide, following every movement of yours with parted lips and not paying attention to the kids trying to kill each other in front of him.

“See?” Nancy whispers to you, nudging your arm with a wry smile playing across her lips. “He is anything but disappointed right now.”

The moment you slipped into the water right after Nancy, relief flooded through you. The heat that had been prickling your skin only moments before was replaced by the cold lake water. It lapped at your skin as the lower half of your body was submerged in the water, your stomach tightening at the cold before you waded further into the water behind Nancy.

Nancy turns around, smiling widely at you. “Not so bad, is it?”

You couldn’t deny that she was right because the thought of what could have happened was much worse than the reality. In reality, no one cared. No one thought less of you because you dared to show more skin. No one was cruel, no one laughed. In fact, Max and El smiled widely when they realised you were finally in the water, both girls rushing over to you to gush about how great you looked, how incredible you looked in a bikini. Their comments and kindness made your eyes sting in a way you would blame on forgetting your sunglasses on the picnic blanket.

“Red is so your colour,” Max tells you.

“It is,” El agrees with a nod.

“I think you’ve broken Harrington though,” Max says with a snort of laughter, nudging El’s arm and pointing towards Steve who was red in the face and trying his very best (and failing) to not stare at your cleavage. “Honestly, you’d think he’s never seen boobs before.”

“Max!” You try to scold her while your own face burns at her comment coupled with the feeling of Steve’s eyes on you. “He’s not looking at my—”

“—he is,” El tells you bluntly. “He’s not very subtle about it.”

You laugh, nerves bubbling in your stomach as you chance a glance over at Steve who had seemed finally able to drag his eyes away from you just in time for him to tell Dustin off for nearly drowning Will. Still, Steve’s eyes flicker back over to you and when he sees you looking at him he shoots you a devastatingly handsome smile.

“Go talk to her, idiot,” Dustin tells Steve in a carrying voice, whacking him on the arm. “You think gawking at her is gonna impress her? You know, with Suzie I—”

The rest of Dustin’s sentence was cut off by Lucas dunking his head beneath the water.

You bite back a laugh, trying to ignore the way your heart was thumping in your chest.

Steve did eventually drift over to you, after preventing yet another would-be drowning. Nancy, Max and El swim away with you with every intention of eavesdropping on yours and Steve's conversation as he treads water in front of you with a dopey smile on his face.

“You finally got in,” he says with a smile, eyes dipping to your chest for a brief second before forcing himself to look at your face, the tips of his ears turning pink. “To the lake I mean. ‘Cause you looked pretty hot out there earlier—I mean, um—because of the heat y’know. It’s really hot today so obviously you were hot too. Not that you don’t look hot um—”

In all the years you had known Steve Harrington, you had never known him to be nervous but right now, in front of you? The man was floundering.

“God, this is painful to watch,” Max comments from a few feet away, floating on her back alongside a giggling El.

“Tell me about it,” Steve mutters to himself, scratching the back of his neck and allowing you a glorious view of his biceps, still wet from lake water.

“You good?” You ask him with a bright laugh, one that makes him look over at you, makes his mouth twitch as though trying not to smile.

“Yeah, grand,” Steve replies. “Just um—you look good. Like really good. Not that you don’t always look good because you do. I mean, good is an understatement. You always look pretty. No, beautiful. You always look beautiful but right now you look—wow.”

His words tumble out so quickly that you barely have time to process them but when you finally do, something swoops low in your belly, making you feel hot in a way that has nothing to do with the sun still beating down on you and everything to do with the man standing in front of you.

When you say nothing, because you’re too busy trying to comprehend what had just come out of Steve’s mouth, he adds, “I uh—I used to be a lot smoother than this, I swear.”

The comment makes you laugh and your laugh makes Steve laugh, albeit a little nervous.

“What changed?” You ask him, a small smile playing on your lips as you tilt your head to the side to consider him.

Steve seems to bite the inside of his cheek, his eyes dancing over your face in a way that seems to steal the breath from your lungs, making you feel like you were the only two people in the lake, like you were the only two people for miles (despite in the back of your mind, knowing you had an audience).

“You,” Steve says simply in a low voice that makes you feel more alive than you had ever felt before.

And yet—there was still that small part of you that wondered if it was pity or if you were imagining things or—

A sudden splash of water to your right makes you yelp and Steve swear loudly.

“Henderson! You little shit—”

Steve goes to lunge for Dustin but Max gets there first, whacking Dustin on the back of the head with a loud smack!

“Ouch!” Dustin grumbles, glaring at Max. “What was that for—”

“—they were having a moment, moron!”

Steve looked as though he wanted nothing more than to submerge himself into the water and not resurface. While you were trying hard not to let self doubt creep in again but it was beginning to slip beneath the cracks.

“Hey,” Steve murmurs suddenly, stepping closer to you in the water and causing you to jump slightly, your arms wrapping around yourself as though wanting to cover the parts of you that left Steve’s mouth feeling dry.

And Steve—he can see right through you. Because he noticed everything about you and so, of course he had noticed the way you had been quiet after a shopping trip with Robin, how your face had once fallen when your thighs had clapped together in front of him and he had noticed how much you wanted to cover up, even in the summer months. He noticed all of this and god—it killed him.

Because to Steve, you were the most beautiful girl in the world. And it broke his heart to think that you wanted to hide from everyone, from him.

“Hi,” you whisper back. You smile back at him but your arms are still locked around your body, your stomach pressing against your forearm in a way it didn’t a few months ago. The contact makes your stomach churn because you hated the fact it bothered you, you hated the fact that you were beginning to measure your worth by your body.

Almost like he could read your thoughts, Steve stepped even closer, his large hands gently wrapping around your wrists. He doesn’t pull them away. Not yet. He just looks back at you with a soft, kind expression that makes your heart feel as though it had doubled in size.

“I can see right through you, you know that?” Steve tells you gently, dragging a thumb across your skin and making your arm erupt with goosebumps. The sight and the knowledge that he had that effect on you makes his mouth twitch, but he doesn’t comment on it.

“What are you thinking?” He asks gently, head tilting as he studies you. “Tell me. Please.”

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest as you lift your eyes to meet his. Under his gaze, you felt every nerve in your body, you felt your pulse beneath your skin and you felt his touch, like fire against you.

“I just—” you begin, your tongue darting out to lick the corner of your mouth as you consider your words carefully. “I want to be sure if—that this isn’t pity or—or you just being nice or—”

“—pity?” Steve repeats, eyes widening slightly, completely taken aback by your words. “You think—think that I pity you? Why would I?”

As soon as the words fall from his lips, you know how ridiculous you were for even thinking that Steve would pity you over the way you look. Because this was Steve and he was kind, honest and genuine.

“I just—I don’t feel great about myself right now and—I guess that find it hard to believe that you would—you know—”

“—like you?” Steve asks and your breath hitches as he tugs your arms away from your stomach so he could rest one hand on your hip. “Be attracted to you? Is that so hard to believe?”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, trying hard not to think about Steve touching you right now, trying not to think about the others who were pretending not to watch this exchange with baited breath.

“Not because I think you’re too shallow or anything I just—I just find it hard to believe anyone would—”

Something inside of Steve breaks at your admission because fuck, you were beautiful. And he hated—hated—that there was a part of you that couldn’t see what he did.

“Do you have any idea how fucking perfect you are?” He asks, fingers gliding across your skin, over the curve of your hip, your lower back (dangerously close to the top of your ass) and finally over your stomach. “I mean—shit—this bikini it—it’s killing me. You look—fuck—I can’t even really say or I’m going to embarrass myself but you’re gorgeous and I’m not just saying that to be nice. I’m saying it because it’s true. You. Are. Beautiful. And I hope to god that one day you’ll be able to see yourself from my point of view. See how fucking gorgeous you are.”

“But until then,” Steve murmurs, lifting a hand to gently cup your cheek, holding you as though you were something precious. “I don’t know how else to convince you other than—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence because before you could even begin to understand what was about to happen—he was tugging your body flush against his and leaning in to brush his lips against yours. His mouth was warm, soft and he was kissing you so gently that you were struggling to remember how to breathe, even your own name was a blur.

The sounds of Robin screaming in delight, of Eddie and Jonathan both cheering and Dustin pretending to gag all turned into nothing as you kissed Steve back. A warmth spreads through your stomach as he groans softly against your lips, tilting your head back just so to deepen the kiss. 

Truthfully, you could have kissed him for hours. Days, even. Especially when you parted your lips and his tongue eagerly licked into your mouth, brushing against yours and causing a fire in your gut that had you clinging to his biceps in order to keep yourself tethered to him.

“Keep it PG guys!” Eddie yells and you both finally pull away, breathless and struggling to form a coherent sentence. “There’s children present!”

“Sorry,” Steve grins, lips swollen and cheeks a little flushed as his fingers splay across your hip as though desperate to explore more of your curves, eager to touch every part of you that had kept him awake at night. “My girl’s just hard to resist.”

Heat blooms across your face as the girls squeal and Dustin groans in disgust.

“Your girl?” You whisper back to Steve with a small smile.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek—chaste but leaves your skin burning. “That okay?”

“More than okay,” you tell him with a smile that was almost painful to hold back.

“Food’s ready!” Jonathan calls out. The kids all race out of the water but you stay next to Steve, your body thrumming with want as his hand finally allows itself to dip to the swell of your ass beneath the water.

“You want to grab food?” You ask him, trying to keep a straight face as his fingers squeeze the globe of your ass.

“Think I need five minutes,” Steve says with a slightly sheepish expression, leaning in to press a kiss to your hairline. “Maybe ten. Blame the bikini.”

You laugh and Steve can’t help but join you, that doubt in your ribcage lessening just enough to not think twice as his hands continue to roam over your body.

“Hey Steve!” Robin calls out. “I um—I think I got mustard on your hat.”

“Son of a—”

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There was a time your designated spot was shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined, with Steve and now you stand on complete opposite sides of the room without a single second or eye contact – it almost felt like a piece of you had be taken away.

Actually, that’s how you felt ever since the breakup.

Your relationship with Steve came almost suddenly. You were in the same grade, you practically grew up together, but never actually interacted in school. Until senior year and he broke up with Nancy and the kid you babysat ran to you for help after his new pet alien ate his cat.

A strange friendship formed between you, Dustin and Steve but it was something real. Even when the younger kid wasn’t around, you and Steve became glued to each other. Where he went, you followed and when you moved, he moved.

What started as platonic quickly morphed into romantic.

He’d changed so much from the popular boy in high school and became someone softer. He still had that same charm and personality, but he tried to let go of all the superficial things he used to cling to.

A part of you felt like maybe he’d never get over Nancy but after those months together, everything else except you and him disappeared. The two of you were together for eight months before you both started working at Scoops and then you were thrown into a whirlwind of more aliens and evil Russian soldiers.

Fighting off Demodogs with Steve at the junkyard and in the tunnels was scary enough – more scary than either of you would actually admit – but watching Steve get nearly beaten half to death and taking a few blows of your own? That was different.

You still had a scar across your cheekbone from the back of a guard’s gun after you mouthed off one too many times.

What should’ve been a time when the two of you really leaned on each other, almost like a trauma bond, Steve vanished. It was small at first – he would cancel on plans, he started calling less and less, he’d give you vague excuses for his sudden absence. You could feel it in your bones, the way he was slowly pulling away.

At first, you thought maybe he was just having a tough time moving past things. After all, he’d gotten the brunt of the soldiers anger and he had the bruises to prove it. But it wasn’t just temporary space he wanted and two weeks after the Battle of Starcourt, Steve broke up with you. Over the phone.

Devastated couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt. You tried to reason with him, even begged him not to do it, but he was firm. He insisted you two weren’t right for each other and there was ‘no point in prolonging the inevitable.’ He was clear in what he didn’t say – he didn’t love you anymore and honestly, you weren’t sure he ever did.

Almost a year had passed since the breakup and Steve has made sure to stay no contact. The only time you’ve ever spoke after was when he returned your things from his house and asked for his own. The only thing you were left with was the heart shaped locket he gifted you for your birthday a few months after dating. 

Even though it tore you apart, you respected his decision and didn’t try to push him. You kept your distance from him but in turn, that meant distance from everyone.

Until a few days ago.

Max and Dustin showed up on your doorstep, scared and out of breath – rushing to beg for help about Eddie Munson and the newly deceased Chrissy Cunningham. There wasn’t a chance you could say no.

So you drove them to Family Video and for the first time in months, you were around Steve again. At the sight of him for the first time in months, your fingers clutched the locket still around your neck for some sort of comfort. But even in the same room, he wouldn’t look at you. He hardly acknowledged your presence. It cracked your already broken heart even more.

You guys have spent the last couple of days tracking Eddie down and then listening to his recount of Chrissy’s death. Your stomach turns at the confirmation that it wasn’t a regular run of the mill murder and instead, you’re all now sucked back into monsters and chaos.

Things began to feel really scary when Nancy’s assistant turned up dead in the same manner. Not only were you faced with some inter-dimensional psycho, but also had to deal with what looked like Steve having feelings for Nancy. You didn’t miss the way he tried to follow her on her lead or the disappointment he felt when Robin took his place instead. The locket around your neck felt like a weight around you instead of providing comfort.

Everything worsened when Max connected the dots between the latest victims and confessed she’s been dealing with her own symptoms. The already high stakes raised even higher at the risk of Max being in danger.

Now, the entire group gathers around the living room of the abandoned Creel home as everyone begins to split off into groups.

You’re standing off to the far side of the room. It feels weird being back here – everyone seems to have their own reason for being here. Nancy wants to find justice for her assistant, Dustin wants to clear Eddie’s name, Max needs to survive and Lucas is hellbent on making sure that happens, and Steve and Robin are here to protect their friends. You feel like the odd one out.  

Maybe it’s not the time to be worrying about that – it definitely isn’t – but the small reminders that you’re not really apart of the group stings.

Max and Lucas pair off together, Steve and Dustin together in the opposite direction and Nancy pulls Robin along with her. As scary as the run down house seems to be, trying to sneak into one of the pairs scares you more – so you go off alone without a hitch.

You do your best to inspect the house and every room you come across but it’s hard when you’re not even sure what you’re supposed to be looking for. You continue through the house for a few minutes until you make it upstairs. When your round the corner, you still.

Because a few feet in front of you, Steve and Nancy stand extremely close. They face each other, eyes locked and gentle smiles along their faces. You can’t hear exactly what they’re saying but Steve looks peaceful. Happy.

It makes your heart bleed and instinctively, your hand reaches for your heart locket again. You recognize that look in his eye, it’s the same way he used to look at you but hasn’t in so long. Seeing them like this feels like torture but you can’t seem to look away. And more than that, it feels like an extra confirmation that Steve broke off the relationship because he didn’t feel the same way anymore.

You’d heard the whispers and the rumors about how he never really got over her and maybe this just proves it.

Your silent pity party halts to an end when Robin makes her way up the stairs and easily slides into the conversation. Steve and Nancy share a look of exasperation and she gives his arm a gentle squeeze before walking away. It’s only then that Steve’s eyes trail from hers and flick up, locking with your own.

Something unreadable flashes in his eyes – surprise, maybe? Or possibly guilt. Whatever it is, it’s gone just as fast as it appeared and he follows the other girls down the hall without a word.

There’s a pang in your chest at his indifference. It’s hard to see him act so careless about everything but maybe you should have expected as much.

Suddenly, you hear Max’s voice coming from the other room and you’re reminded of the situation you’re actually in. If heartbreak was the worst thing you had to deal with then so be it – because the alternative is Max losing her life and you be damned if you let that happen.

The rest of the time spent in the house passes in a blur. You all came to the realization that whatever Vecna is doing, he has some sort of connection withlights and uses that to almost travel between dimensions.

It’s hours later when everyone gets back to the Wheeler home and Nancy decided on using the late hours to regroup and plan for the next few days. How to break the bad news to Eddie, how to successfully avoid Jason and the police, how to make sure Max stays safe by enforcing what Dustin coined as Max Watch.

The basement fills with overlapping chatter. Dustin and Nancy argue over which crisis is more important, Lucas is trying his best to comfort Max – who doesn’t seem to be all that interested in talking anymore – and Robin looks torn between staying silent and joining the argument.

Yet all you can focus on is Steve.

He’s let out his own fair share of input throughout the night and even made some arguably ill-timed jokes with Dustin. You’d like to be infuriated over the fact that he seems fine being around you and not talking but you’re not. You’re just.. hurt.

You’re sitting on a singular chair close to the stairs – the spot furthest from Steve. You’re trying to ignore the loud noises coming from everyone and before your mind catches up with your body, your hand reaches up for your locket.

Except your fingers grasp around air.

Your spine straightens in your seat and you glance down as your palm glides across the fabric of your shirt.

Nothing.

You swipe your hand across your neck, hoping it slipped under your shirt, except it’s not.

Nothing but bare skin.

Panic rises in your chest almost immediately. Every sound coming from the others drowns out of your ears as you shove your jacket off, shaking it erratically in front of you in case it tangled itself there.

Nothing.

You jump to your feet in the blink of an eye and pull the cushions from the small seat – fingers gliding across every inch of fabric in case it slipped through.

Nothing.

This cannot be happening. You couldn’t have lost it. You just had it.

Your stomach twists with anxiety as you search for it. Robin is the first one to notice the change in your behavior.

She calls your name gently. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a lump in your throat that makes it hard to respond. You drop to your knees, snatching your purse from where it sat on the floor. Without a second thought, you dump everything out and onto the floor.

“My necklace – it’s gone,” You respond quietly. There’s a waver in your voice and you know it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Your fingers push apart every item from your bag. Your wallet, your keys, useless receipts, loose change.

No locket.  

Your heart is hammering in your chest and there’s a burning feeling coursing through your veins.

“What necklace?” Robin asks and without looking back, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you. It’s embarrassing but the fear of having lost one of the most important things to you overpowers that.

“My locket. It was just here, I just had it,” You explain. She approaches you and offers a small smile.

“It’s okay, we’ll find it. Where was the last place you had it?”

“I don’t – I don’t know. I felt it at the Creel house and that’s.. that’s the last time I can remember,” Your voice is quiet and broken but you keep sifting through the pile of useless things from your purse.

It’s not there. It’s not in your pocket. It’s not around your neck. It’s gone.

Nancy speaks up from behind you next. “Look I’m sorry about your necklace but that’s not really important right now.”

Her tone isn’t unkind but it is impatient. She’s not wrong but the reminder hits a nerve inside you.

“It’s my necklace,” Your response is curt but she doesn’t let it bother her.

“We have to focus on saving lives right now. It’s just a necklace – you can always get another one,” Nancy says.

“No it’s not just a necklace,” You snap, your fingers shake as you shove everything back into your bag and your voice trembles. “It’s from St –“

You freeze before you can finish saying his name. Everything around you feels too small and suffocating. Knowing how much the breakup has been affecting you is different from admitting it to everyone around you.

The hard truth is you’ve been holding onto this single piece of jewelry like it was still a piece of him – but it’s not and it never will be. There was no relationship with him anymore and whether you lost the necklace or not, there never would be again.

Your eyes burn with tears as you kneel against the hardwood floor, sitting over the messy pile that’s your purse. Your shoulders drop and curl into yourself – every ounce of fight drains from you and you finally accept what’s been right in front of you.

The necklace won’t bring him back.

You quietly clean up the mess you made and Robin gives your shoulder a soft squeeze.

“We’ll look more tomorrow, yeah?” She assures but you both know it’s futile. Tomorrow, things with Eddie and Max could worsen. Vecna could make a real appearance. Or Jason and his wild pack of goons could become really dangerous.

You give her a small nod and then the moment passes.

Nancy insists everyone gets rest, saying tomorrow (and however long after that) will be a long day. Everyone does their best to get comfortable in the small space and without a word, you set off upstairs to find a bathroom.

As soon as the door clicks shut, your back leans against the door and tears fall freely against your cheek. They’re thick and hot against your skin and your shoulders rack with sobs.

Your nails dig into the bare skin where the locket used to lay as you let yourself feel it all. The heartbreak of it all and the pain of feeling like it’s happening all over it.

It’s stupid. It’s a single piece of metal. There’s a million other things for you to be worrying about right now but it’s also not just a necklace. It’s that beautiful loving moment you and Steve shared when he gave it to you. It’s his nervous hands shaking as he clasped the chain around your neck. It’s the way his eyes landed on the pendant everyday after. It’s the comfort it’s given you. It’s the last piece of proof that love between you two truly existed.

And now it’s gone.

Steve Harrington feels like the shittiest guy on the planet.

Not only has he spent the last few days acting like he didn’t care about you, he also had to watch you panic over losing the necklace and not comfort you.

Except that was nobody’s fault but his own.

He’s been the most miserable he’s been over the past few months after breaking up with you but he truly felt like it was the right thing to do. He watched you get hurt and face danger head on all because of him and his connections to the Upside Down.

It was his last straw when he woke up in the underground bunker, vision blurred from his swollen eye, and saw the deep cut across your cheekbone. It was still gushing blood but you didn’t even care – you were fussing over him instead of yourself.

That’s when he knew he couldn’t be with you anymore. Because you cared more about his wellbeing instead of your own and he’d be damned if he let you get hurt to save him.

He knew it was cruel doing it over the phone and his ‘reasons’ were even more cruel but selfishly, he couldn’t stand to see the look of agony that would wash over your face if he did it in person.

His fingers gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white and when he heard the trembles in your voice as you begged him not to, he had to slam it onto the receiver before you could hear him cry.  

Everyday since then has been hell on earth for him – but he told himself it was worth it if it kept you safe.

And then suddenly, and without him with you, you were in it all over again. Only this time he couldn’t comfort you. He couldn’t hold your hand or kiss your forehead. He gave all that up.

Steve didn’t think you’d still wear the necklace he bought you but his happiness from the confirmation was short lived once you began to panic over losing it.

He came to a realization he subconsciously already knew was true. That breaking up with you didn’t make things easier for you or keep you safe – it just hurt you emotionally instead of physically and he’s made you suffer for months.

He glances down at where you lay across the floor. You’re curled into a ball, knees tucked tight to your chest and one arm bent under your head. You seem to be asleep but you still look restless. He can still see the tear stains on your cheeks and his heart cracks.

He can’t fix what he did months ago, but he can fix this.

Steve stands quietly and his eyes dart across the room to make sure everyone is asleep. Everyone but Lucas is, he jumped for first shift of Max Watch, and he doesn’t seem to be at all interested in what Steve is doing.

He quietly gathers his things and makes his way to his car.

The Creel house is even more intimidating at night. It was once a beautiful home, there’s no denying that, but now it’s covered in boarded up windows and vines growing across every inch. The air around the house is eerily quiet – not even crickets chirp nearby.

Steve stands on the porch – not a single street light offering him any comfort – as he calms himself down enough to enter alone. It’s probably a dumb decision, no definitively a dumb decision, but the memory of your tear stained face, kneeling defeated on the floor is enough to make him move.

He wanders through the house with his flashlight. The floorboards creek beneath his feet and the tall grandfather clock almost mocks him. He fights every instinct to turn tail and run, and moves further into the house.

He retraces your steps the best he can. He looks through the main hallway, spends minutes at every single step of the staircase, he makes his way to the second story and examines every inch of the floor.

He makes it to the end of the hall – the same place you stood frozen at the sight of him and Nancy. He feels guilt settle heavy in his chest. It wasn’t what you were thinking but at the time, he thought it was best to let you believe that. He was so stupid.

Steve swallows down his regret and continues moving.

He spent an hour at the house, rummaging through every corner of the rooms you stepped even a foot in and can’t find it. He’s on his last leg of hope when he enters the attic. He wanders the room, flashlight beaming across the floor as he looks for it.

He’s just about to give up when the light catches something. The reflection bounces off the metal, glaring into his eye, and before he knows it, he rushes to it.

It’s a metal chain hanging from a broken floorboard and he can’t see if there’s a pendant attached to it. He drops to his knees, careful not to shake the broken wood, and holds the flashlight over it.

His fingers gently wrap around the metal and with a little tug, he pulls the metal free. Hanging from the bottom of the chain, is the heart shaped locket. It’s a scratched now and tiny pieces of splintered wood are stuck in the clasp but he found it.

He found it.

Steve breathes out a heavy breath of relief and squeezes the jewelry in his palm. He doesn’t spend another second inside the house and rushes outside – back to his car and back to you.  

By the time Steve makes it back to the Wheelers house, it’s almost three AM. He knew you’d still be asleep and he’d spent the whole car ride back debating if he should wake you up to give it to you, or wait till morning.

His debate solves itself when he steps out of his car, the locket still clutched tight in his fist, and sees you sitting on the front porch of the house.    

He freezes at the sight of you so close to him. It’s the first time you were alone and without distance in months. Everything he thought about saying flies out the window and all he can do is look at you.

You look up when you hear him approaching and surprise flashes in your eyes. He’s not sure what you thought when you saw he was gone – if anything at all – but it’s clear you weren’t expecting to see him like this.

Your hands fidget with the hem of your shirt and he can tell you’re uncomfortable. He never thought he’d see you like that because of him. He hates it.

Your mouth parts like you’re about to say something but he beats you to it.

“I have something for you,” He says.

His voice fills the tense air but the sound of it is like music to your ears. It’s soft and cautious – a hint of exhaustion blanketing it. You blink up at him from where you still sit on the porch step.

“For me?” Your brows furrow. He takes a step closer to you and holds his hand out.

Sitting in the center of his palm is a necklace. Your necklace.

You jump to your feet once recognition hits. A relieved gasp slips past your lips and you rush towards him, fingers tenderly cradling the metal.

“You found it?” You breathe out and hold the necklace in your own hands. Your voice is thick and tears line your eyes again. “I don’t – I don’t understand, how did you find it?”

Steve feels his heart pound when you look up at him with shiny eyes.

“It was at the Creel house, stuck in the attic.” He explains quietly. He’s almost too lost in the way you look right now. Undoubtedly exhausted and heartbroken over the necklace but still so fucking beautiful.

“You went back?”

He nods and watches the way your eyes glance down, taking in the state of him. He almost feels subconscious.

“Why would you do that?” Your voice rises with concern and it takes him aback. “Steve, you could’ve been hurt! We have no idea what’s going on and Robin created the whole no-going-off-alone thing for a reason. Why would you do that just for a necklace?” You chastise him.

It’s ironic that you’re saying it’s just a necklace now when a few hours ago, you were ready to bite Nancy’s head off for saying the same thing.

But this time Steve risked his life for it and that was stupid.

“Because it’s important to you.” Steve says easily. Your breath hitches as he stares down at you. There’s a finality in his voice that makes your heart ache. He says it like it’s obvious – only it’s not obvious and it hasn’t been for a long time.

You shake your head and inhale shakily. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you squeeze the necklace in your palm. You have no idea how to respond and nothing feels adequate anymore.

“Steve..” Your shaky voice trails off but he fills the silence.

“You have a scar,” Steve nearly blurts out.

Confusion flashes across your face but he raises his hand to stroke against your cheek. His fingers trace the raised scar across your skin and you fight the instinct to lean into his hold.

You know without more explanation that whatever his reason is for mentioning the scar, it has to do with the breakup.

“So what,” Your eyes searched his as you spoke. “You’re – you’re grossed out because of my scar?”

Insecurity fills your chest and you move to pull away from his hold. It almost feel like it burns now. His eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head.

“No! No – no that’s not what I mean,” He raises both hands to grab your hands and hold you in place across from him. He says your name gently and you can see his hazel brown eyes swirl with so many emotions. “What I meant is you have a scar because of me,”

You faltered for a moment. “Steve, I got it from the blunt end of a pistol,”

“Exactly!” He exclaims and your brows pinch together. “You literally got pistol whipped because you were trying to protect me. You got hurt because of me,”

It slowly begins to dawn on you what he’s saying but he doesn’t let you offer any defense before he continues.

“Baby, you have no idea what it felt like to see you hurt like that and how it felt to know it was because of me,” You barely have a chance to bask in the slip of a pet name because he keeps going. “I thought I was doing the right thing back then. I thought I was keeping you safe by walking away – that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, because I’d rather live in a life time of agony alone than drag you into danger. I can’t do that – I won’t do that.” Steve’s voice cracks and your chest tightens. “But you got dragged into it anyway and this time, you’ve been alone and that’s my fault. I hurt you worse than you’ve ever been hurt before and I’m sorry, baby – I’m so fucking sorry,”

By the time Steve finishes, his palms have somehow found home holding your face. The tears that threatened to fall have spilled down your skin and wet his hands. Unaware to himself, his own eyes gloss over with tears.

It’s a terrible reason to have broken up with you and a deep part of you is angry that he didn’t just have a conversation with you but the biggest part of you is so fucking relieved to hear those words come out of his mouth.

Because it’s not that he didn’t love you anymore, it was that he loved you too much.

You breathe in a shaky breath and bring your freehand up to grip his wrist. “Steve..”

He leans his forehead against your own and his eyes flutter shut – a few stray tears slide down his cheeks and your heart shatters at the sight. You’ve spent so much time thinking he didn’t care but in reality, he was living the same hell you were.

You whisper his name but when he doesn’t move, you gently pull yourself away from him to bring the locket up to view. “Steve, look at me,” You murmur. He doesn’t take his hands off your face but he obliges. “You didn’t open it, did you?”

His eyes glance at the chain in your hand. “The necklace? No,” He shakes his head.

You give him a tearful smile and nudge it towards him. He doesn’t seem to get the hint. “Open it,”

He looks hesitant to let you go but when you give him another gentle encouragement, his hands move from your skin to hold the locket. He sniffles as he opens the metal.

His fingers still once it’s laid open in front of him.

Tucked inside the hearts are two pictures – one of the two of you on a date and the other of just him smiling softly into the camera.

His heart constricts in his chest at the sight of it. It wasn’t just that you still wore the necklace – you still carried him with you. Everyday since he gave it to you.

You let the silence sit for a moment before speaking up.

“Steve, it never mattered if we were together or not. I would follow you into danger every time. You could’ve been dragged to hell right now and I would still jump in after you because I love you, Steve. So mu –“

You’re suddenly cut off when he slams his lips against yours. The feeling of his lips fitting perfectly with yours is dizzying relief and your hands cling to his shoulders. You hold onto him so tight, like you’re afraid he’s about to slip away, and his hands cradle your face just as tight.

Steve is overwhelmed with every ounce of love he’s ever felt for you and you feel just the same.

His mouth slots against yours as he pours everything into this one kiss. He feels warm and fuzzy against you and it’s like all the torturous moments away from him completely fade away.

“I love you so – so fucking much,” Steve whispers against your lips, careful not to break contact, and you don’t even pretend to fight the smile that breaks out on your face. “So much baby, so so much,”

He continues to repeat it even as his lips travel from your lips and across your skin. He leaves messy kisses to your cheek, along your jaw, even over your eyelids until he lands back on your lips.

You hold each other close and breathe in each others air for as long as you can until he finally breaks apart from you – but he still doesn’t go far and rests his forehead against yours. You both nearly struggle to catch your breath but you’re both smiling wide.

It all feels right again. Perfect.

You carefully pull the necklace from his hand and hold it up again. “Will you put it on me?”

Steve nods without hesitation and carefully turns your hips to face away from him. Your pull your hair over one shoulder as he pulls the chain around your neck. His warm finger tips brush against your skin and tiny goosebumps erupt over you. The metal is cool against the warmth of your body – right where it belongs – and Steve’s hands glide across your shoulders after he clasps it in place.

You turn in his hold and wrap your arms around his middle. You look up at his beautiful eyes and he stares back down at yours. “I missed you,” You confess softly.

He nods above you and his thumb glides across your cheek. “I’ve missed you even more, sweet girl.”

There’s a million and one things to worry about tomorrow. The state of the world, Max’s safety, Eddie’s freedom and so much more but there’s not a sliver of doubt inside you that you can’t deal with it if he’s by your side.

·✶· Teacake whose technique is pure chaotic filth: messy, spit-heavy laps all over your pussy, rapid swirling circles on your clit, then suddenly stiffening his tongue to thrust deep inside you while his nose grinds against your swollen nub. He adds three fingers fast and scissoring, stretching you open.

·✶· Teacake who gets loud and sloppy, sucking noisily, humming vibrations against your clit, and occasionally pulling back just to slap your wet pussy lightly before diving back in even hungrier.

·✶· Steve who refuses to stay idle when it’s Teacake’s turn. He chokes your throat gently, kisses you deep, pinches your nipples, and trash-talks right in your ear: “He’s too messy, baby. You need me to make you cum properly.”

·✶· Teacake who gets even filthier when Steve is eating you: slapping your tits, biting your inner thighs, and whispering “Listen to how loud he’s making you… but I can make you louder.” Steve who smirks mid-lick and taunts, “Hear how she’s moaning for me, bleach boy? That’s how you eat pussy properly.” Teacake who fires back with his face still buried, voice muffled and cocky: “She’s dripping down my chin, Harrington. Keep coping while I make her squirt.”

·✶· Steve trash-talking while Teacake eats you: “Too sloppy, man. You’re just making her messy for me. Let a real man finish the job.” Teacake taunting Steve during his turn: “Look at you being all gentle. She needs it rough — move over and watch how it’s done.”

·✶· Steve who gets stupidly competitive but melts the second he’s between your legs. The moment you spread open for him he’s latched on like he’s starving, arms wrapped tight around your thighs, face buried so deep he can barely breathe. He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters, moaning desperately into your pussy every time you tug his perfect hair.

·✶· Teacake who turns into an absolute mess the second he gets a taste. Bleach-blonde hair wild as he buries his face in you, licking and sucking like he’ll die if he stops. He gets so desperate he’s grinding his hard cock against the bed while devouring you, moaning and talking filth the whole time.

·✶· Teaeve who lose all control when you tell them to work together. They press their faces in at the same time, tongues tangling and making out sloppily right on your clit and dripping hole, both of them moaning into each other’s mouths while tasting you.

·✶· Teaeve who start getting dangerously into each other the second their faces are pressed together between your thighs. Their tongues aren’t just on you anymore , they’re actively seeking each other out, sliding and licking along one another while they devour your pussy.

·✶· Steve who, mid-suction on your clit, turns his head just enough to catch Teacake’s tongue in a filthy open-mouthed kiss right over your swollen nub. He moans into it, the vibration shooting straight through you as he starts getting hard for both you and the man sharing your taste.

·✶· Teacake who gets visibly excited when Steve’s tongue brushes his. He leans in harder, making out sloppily with Steve while still sucking your clit, their lips and tongues tangling messily, trading your wetness back and forth like they can’t decide who they want more in that moment.

·✶· Steve whose competitive edge melts into desperate hunger. While his fingers are buried deep inside you, curling against your g-spot, he’s also licking along Teacake’s tongue and lips, groaning low every time they kiss deeper.

·✶· Teacake who starts grinding his throbbing cock against the bed harder the more he makes out with Steve on your pussy. He whimpers into the kiss, voice broken: “Fuck… you taste good mixed with her.”

·✶· Teaeve whose hands start wandering while they eat you. Fingers brushing against each other as they spread your thighs wider, occasionally gripping each other’s wrists or hair, pulling the other closer so they can kiss filthier on your clit.

·✶· Steve who breaks the kiss with Teacake just to look up at you with glassy eyes, lips shiny, and rasps, “He’s getting me so fucking hard right now, baby… but your pussy is still the main course.”

·✶· Teacake who gets bolder, sucking Steve’s tongue into his mouth while his own tongue is still flicking your clit, moaning loudly like tasting both of you at once is driving him insane.

·✶· Teaeve during the final team-up who press their faces together between your spread legs, cheeks touching, both tongues sliding and tangling right on your clit in a wet, open-mouthed kiss while they make out with your pussy in the middle. Steve in the team-up who focuses on your clit with that perfect suction and flicks while Teacake tongues your entrance, their lips brushing constantly as they switch and share every inch of your soaked folds. Teacake who goes feral, sucking your clit hard while Steve’s tongue joins his, both of them licking and kissing each other through your juices, fingers from both of them stretching and pumping inside you at the same time.

·✶· Teaeve who turn the team-up into the sloppiest, wettest make-out session on your pussy: tongues wrestling, lips sucking your clit together, moaning into each other’s mouths as you drip and gush all over them.

·✶· Teaeve together who become completely feral when you tell them to finish you at the same time. Both faces buried between your spread legs, tongues fighting and kissing each other on your clit, fingers stretching you open while they moan and whimper into your soaked pussy. They’re leaking in their jeans, hips rutting desperately against nothing, completely lost in making you cum.

·✶· Teaeve still throwing shade between moans. Steve: “Fuck… she clenches harder when I suck her clit. Teacake: “That’s because my tongue’s inside her. Keep up, King Steve.”

·✶· Steve who holds you down and keeps sucking through your orgasm, eyes glassy, face drenched in your squirt while he kisses Teacake through it, both of them greedily licking up every drop like they can’t get enough of you.

·✶· Teacake after you squirt all over both of them, grinning with a drenched face: “Told you I’d make her gush harder. You just helped me out, pretty boy.”

·✶· Steve who keeps licking you through the aftershocks, face shiny and dripping, eyes glassy with lust while he kisses Teacake lazily, sharing the taste of your cum between them.

·✶· Teacake after you squirt, still pressed close to Steve, licking the mess off the other man’s lips and chin before grinning: “Didn’t expect to like kissing you this much, Harrington…”

·✶· Steve who’s breathing hard, cock leaking in his jeans, and replies with a dark little laugh while still gently licking your oversensitive pussy: “Yeah… same. But we’re not done with her yet.”

·✶· Teacake who gets even whinier after you cum, face shiny and messy, pressing desperate kisses to your thighs and stomach while mumbling “Please… let us do it again. I need to taste you more. We’ll be so good for you, honey.”

·✶· Steve who pulls you into his chest after, stroking your hair and whispering praises while still half-hard and leaking, quietly plotting how he’s going to win the next round alone.

·✶· Teacake who cuddles up on your other side, face still messy, grinding his hard cock against your thigh and begging in that raspy voice: “I was better, right? Tell me I made you cum harder…”

·✶· Teaeve who stay hard and leaking for you long after, cocks throbbing and staining their boxers, both of them cuddling into your body, kissing your skin, quietly (and not so quietly) competing over who gets to rest their head closest to your pussy for round two.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

ຣ bnd!steve who still invites you to his birthday parties even though his friends think you’re weird (you kind of are, because you are a horse girl).

there’s probably a year where he does this to explicitly be a little mean bc he is a teenage boy.

he’s turning 14, you’re 13, and he the invitation he sends you says that the party starts at 6PM. when you arrive, you’re very obviously late, and he and his other friends snicker a little while steve says, loudly in front of everyone, that the party started at 3, and you live right next door, how could you get it so messed up?

ຣ bnd!steve, who invites you to his family parties from there on out, because he’s known you so long that it just makes more sense for you to celebrate with his cousins than his friends, who don’t understand you or his friendship with you anyway. he pulls you aside and apologizes for the previous year, and even though it’s a whole year late, you just shrug it off. you get him back at your birthday party anyway by making him comply with the theme (still horses, because your mom kind of can’t take a hint that you’ve outgrown that kind of thing).

ຣ goddamn fucking bnd!steve inviting his girlfriend(s) over to his house to go swimming when it’s hot enough (and even when it’s not, because nothing is more conducive to misbehavior than teenagers off from school and home alone while their parents are at work). watching him from the too-hot, still air of your bedroom, your fan barely making a dent in the heat while they splash around in the water. her pushing steve off the diving board, steve splashing her in retribution. her untying her bikini top and tossing it out of the pool, and steve crowding her against the wall of the deep end, his face pressed to her neck while you try and try to just read your honors english assignment you were given to do over break.

ຣ bnd!steve whose bedroom is directly across from yours, and it was never a problem until he was 18 and you were 17 and the day comes when you accidentally see into steve’s room when he brings a girl in there, post-pool antics. after that you always keep your curtains drawn. because you didn’t see anyone’s parts but well, you sure were about to.

ຣ bnd!steve who agrees to go to your prom with you when your mom asks, but you freak OUT about it bc you did NOT want to ask him. you definitely don’t even like him! not like that!

your mom going behind your back to ask steve to your prom for you on your behalf is mortifying. you refuse to let him take you so you do go alone with your friends, but when you leave and need a ride home bc you’re the Only one who went stag, you discover steve was there the whole time in the parking lot waiting, just in case.

ຣ bnd!steve not coming over the day in late summer when you’re leaving for college but just stepping out onto the porch to casually give you a wave as your dad’s car starts driving off with you and all your crap in the backseat. he doesn’t go back inside until your dad turns at the end of the block, and you keep looking out the side window at him until you can’t anymore.

ຣ bnd!steve who, in the only way he can get your attention through the closed window with your curtains drawn, starts shining a flashlight at the side of your house. it’s late, christmas eve, but he knows you’re in your room because he saw the light turn on and then off a few minutes later.

tentatively, you peel the drapes back and see him there, window open, half hanging out of it with the flashlight waving in your face.

you push up the glass pane and lean your hands on the sill.

“what?” you ask, half annoyed and half endeared. you guys haven’t talked much since you started keeping your window all buttoned up.

“just wanted to say merry christmas,” steve calls back, and you soften.

you pause just a beat. “merry christmas,” you say back, and he smiles at you, then nods and waves and you both retreat into your bedrooms.

ຣ bnd!steve who comes thisclose to asking your mom for your school address so he can write you a letter when you head back to college in the spring.

ຣ bnd!steve who never realized or considered he may have had a crush on you until he sees you with some other guy, your boyfriend who comes to visit you over summer break after your freshman year.

it just leads to steve coming to terms with the fact that he may have always considered you a sure thing or “his” because you were always there, always at his beck and call, always around for him. he decides to just take the L because you seem happy with your college bf.

ຣ bnd!steve who overhears you on the phone with your best friend talking about how you wanted to try sex when your boyfriend was there that summer, but it was seriously underwhelming. your bedrooms still face each other after all, it’s not his fault your window is open and the drapes you have handing over your VERY OPEN window don’t do much to smother the sound of your voice, which maybe he’s been attuned to for longer than he realizes.

and steve goes from “i shouldn’t be listening to this” to “what an asshole” to “i can do BETTER” to “wait i shouldn’t be thinking that”

because you’re telling your girlfriend about how he made you feel really comfortable and excited and then once he got on top of you, he just turned into this selfish lump of a guy who only got himself off, asked “you finished too, right?” and then when you told him no, just barely fingered you and you had just told him you came because it was so pathetically bad that you didn’t even want to anymore.

ຣ bnd!steve seeing you out by the fire pit alone toasting a marshmallow on the hazy early august evening, that’s basically burnt to a crisp bc you’re zoned out bc your bf just dumped you. over the phone. because you didn’t want to sleep with him anymore. (he’d been visiting for a week! how did he expect to have sex in your parents’ house without getting caught? yes, he overheard that conversation too.)

ຣ bnd!steve meandering over into your backyard like it isn’t past midnight and sitting next to you without saying a word. just staying silent as you murmur a shaky “hey” and just finally toss the stupid marshmallow and stick into the fire and ask what he’s doing there, it’s late.

“looked like you could use an old friend, maybe” is the answer he gives you, and when you just huff he starts to tell you a story about a time you forgot: when he was 8 and you were 7 and he caught a frog in his yard. how it wriggled out of his hold and escaped into your yard. how you captured it again and handed it to him through the hole in the fence and ever since then he’s owed you, and so he’s finally paying you back.

like he didn’t embarrass himself at your horse-themed birthday party.

like he didn’t show up to your prom even though you didn’t want him to.

like he didn’t stop bringing girls over to his room once he realized that was probably why you’d started to keep your curtains firmly closed.

and this frog story. it’s really stupid and doesn’t help but it does remind you of all the history you have with him and when you get up from your lawn chair after a few minutes of contemplative silence and move it closer to his, he just lets you hold his hand and watch the fire until it burns down to embers.

you’re half asleep on his shoulder, his face buried in your hair until you sit up and look at him in the moonlight. he squeezes your hand but doesn’t move, because as much as he wants it he doesn’t expect anything.

nor should he. you’ve been his girl forever, but never really his girl.

ຣ bnd!steve’s breath catching in his throat when you tip your chin up and kiss him. soft, featherlight.

ຣ bnd!steve kissing you easy and slow by the smoldering fire, the stick you were using to try and roast your marshmallow little more than ash now. the bag of the rest of them is still off to the side somewhere, forgotten—tomorrow, your mother will ask how you forgot an entire bag of marshmallows outside, all stuck together, partially melted from the dew and then the sun beaming down on them in the heat of late summer, and you’ll have to lie and tell her you were just tired.

because you are. you stay outside with steve until the sun starts coming up over the horizon, the deep blue sky turning pink and then white right before the blue lightens.

he tugs you closer by your hoodie pouch, hands curling into it as he guides you from your lawn chair to his, settling you onto his lap. it isn’t too much. it isn’t an attempt to seduce you or entice you or anything. he just tucks his hands into your pocket and when yours join them in there, you lace your fingers with his as you straddle him, and he doesn’t let you move close, instead keeping the distance between you even as you let him kiss you over and over, everywhere he can reach.

“it’s—weird?” he asked you.

“no,” you say. “is it?”

“maybe,” he answers, and you laugh together, silencing him with a kiss because your parents’ bedroom window is open and they have no idea you’re outside, much less outside with a boy.

“we stayed up all night,” you tell him, unnecessarily.

“duty called,” steve says.

“i’m your duty now?” you ask.

but he only smiles, to himself, you think. “something like that.”

ຣ bnd!steve waiting on his back deck until he sees your curtains flick to the side, your face peeking out of the darkness down at him. you wave, he waves, and then he disappears through the sliding glass door. what he doesn’t expect, what you didn’t make a conscious decision to even do, is when he looks out his window at yours, you’re still standing there, peeking around the the jamb with your curtains pulled open for the first time in months. and even though he’s startled at your presence, you share a secret little smile before you both turn in for the night. well, morning.

because he’s been your boy forever, but never really your boy.

until now.

&&

you were dustin henderson’s old sister.

the one who spent most of her time trying to study or trying to stop your little brother from blowing up the basement.

you weren’t unpopular, exactly, but you weren’t part of the spotlight either. you kept your head down. got good grades. and tried to survive without drawing too much attention.

steve harrington was the opposite.

king steve. 

the guy who ruled the school.

he had everything — looks, money, status, and a different girl on his arm every other week. 

and you had never been on his radar.

until tommy hagan started loudly crushing on you.

tommy had clearly not gotten that memo. 

and for weeks, he had been bothering you.

every morning he’d lean against your locker like he owned it. flashing what he probably thought was a charming grin. making lame jokes. trying way too hard to flirt. he wasn’t subtle at all. 

he told anyone who would listen that he was going to ‘’bag henderson’s sister’’. it was embarrassing and annoying, especially because you had zero interest in him.

you turned him down politely the first few times. then less politely. but tommy was nothing if not persistent. 

and then steve harrington noticed. his best friend. 

one afternoon after the final bell, you were at your locker switching out books when you overheard them. steve was walking down the hallway with tommy, carol, and a couple of the other guys. tommy was being loud and obnoxious as usual.

“i’m telling you, man, i’m gonna ask her out this weekend,” tommy bragged loudly. “she’s fucking hot. she keeps playing hard to get but i know she wants it. i’m wearing her down.”

steve stopped walking.

“you’re serious?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “dustin henderson’s sister?”

“yeah, dude,” tommy laughed, puffing out his chest. “she’s quiet, but i bet she’s a freak once you get her alone.”

something shifted in steve’s expression. 

he didn’t laugh along like he normally would. 

instead, his eyes narrowed slightly, almost like he had just decided something.

then, steve started paying attention to you.

it began small.

he nodded at you in the hallway. then he started saying “hey” when he passed by. soon he was waiting by your locker in the mornings, leaning against it with that famous king smirk.

“you know tommy’s got a massive crush on you, right?” he said one morning, arms crossed.you rolled your eyes, shoving books into your locker. 

“yeah. he’s not exactly subtle.” steve chuckled, low and warm. 

“he’s an idiot. you deserve way better than that tool.”

from that day on, steve turned up the charm.

he started walking with you between classes, even when it took him out of his way. 

he teased you about the stack of books you always carried. 

he made sure to sit near you at lunch sometimes, right next to him, much to tommy’s visible annoyance. 

carol was catty at first, throwing little comments your way, but steve shut her down every single time with just a look.

tommy’s dirty looks became more frequent. steve seemed to enjoy it. 

every time tommy tried to talk to you, steve would appear out of nowhere, sling an arm around your shoulders, and pull you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

what started as steve stepping in to shut tommy down quickly turned into something else. 

but he never asked you to be his girlfriend. 

he never took you on official dates. 

it was a fling. a messy, heated situationship that neither of you defined. you would make out in empty classrooms, in his car after school, and sometimes in the bathrooms.

and you? you felt completely out of your depth.

you kissed a couple of boys before, but never like this. 

you always felt awkward, unsure, like you didn’t know how to kiss properly. you never took control. you just followed steve’s lead, hoping you weren’t doing it wrong.

it happened again during lunch.

steve found you in the hallway, didn’t say a word, just grabbed your hand and pulled you into the male’s bathroom near the gym. 

“steve—” you started, heart racing.

the second the door was locked, he pushed you against the sink and kissed you hard.

his mouth was hungry, tongue sliding against yours as he pressed his body into you. 

you tried to kiss him back, but you felt clumsy, unsure. you never quite knew what to do with your tongue or how much pressure to use.

steve didn’t seem to mind. he kissed you deeper, tilting your head the way he wanted, dominating the kiss completely.

steve pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark.

you moaned softly into the kiss, your hands gripping his polo shirt. 

then steve didn’t waste time. he lifted you onto the sink, stepping between your legs, his hands sliding under your sweater.

“fuck, i’ve been thinking about this all morning,” he muttered against your lips.

you let out a soft sound when his lips moved to your neck, kissing and sucking lightly on your skin. 

his body was warm and solid against yours, and for a moment you forgot where you were.

just as steve’s hand started sliding higher up your side, the door handle rattled.

“steve…” you breathed, fingers threading into his hair.

he smiled against you and sucked your upper lip while one hand squeezed your thigh under your skirt.

just as his fingers started sliding higher, a loud knock came from the door.

“harrington! you in there, man?” tommy’s voice called out. “we’re gonna be late for that thing with carol. hurry the fuck up!”

steve groaned against your chest, clearly frustrated.

“shit,” he muttered.

he lifted his head and looked at you, eyes dark with want, lips slightly swollen. He gave you one last slow kiss, deep and lingering, before pulling back.

“i gotta go,” he whispered, regret heavy in his voice. “i told tommy i was going to the bathroom and that i’d meet him and carol after lunch. if i don’t show up he’ll come looking.”

you nodded, still breathless, cheeks flushed and lips tingling. steve helped you down from the sink, fixing your sweater and skirt with surprisingly gentle hands.

he cupped your face and kissed you once more, softer this time.

“i’ll make it up to you later, okay?” he said, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “promise.”

then he unlocked the door and slipped out, giving you one last smirk before disappearing down the hallway to meet tommy.

you stayed there for a moment, with your heart still pounding, legs a little shaky and trying to process what had just happened.

later that same day, carol pulled you aside during the last period and dragged you out to the bleachers behind the school. she looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

‘’so,’’ carol started, smirking. ‘’you and steve were getting nasty in the bathroom? bold move, girl.’’

you felt your face heat up instantly.

“it wasn’t… we didn’t—” you tried, but carol cut you off with a laugh.

“relax. i’m not judging. just surprised you let him drag you in there during lunch. tommy’s been sulking all week because steve basically stole you from under his nose.”

you sighed and sat down on the cold metal bleacher. carol sat beside you, crossing her legs.

“i don’t know what i’m doing, carol,” you admitted quietly. “every time steve kisses me, i feel like i’m doing it wrong. i just stood there and let him lead. i never know what to do with my hands or my tongue. i feel so awkward and inexperienced.”

carol looked at you for a second, then let out a short laugh, blowing smoke from the corner of her mouth.

“oh honey, you really are a baby at this, aren’t you?” 

she said it not unkindly. 

“steve’s used to girls who know how to kiss back. but he also likes the whole innocent thing you’ve got going on. still… you can’t just be a passive doll forever.”

carol continued, more direct this time.

“next time he kisses you, don’t just open your mouth and wait for him to do everything. bite his bottom lip gently. grab the back of his neck or pull his hair. press your body against him. guys go fucking crazy when you do that.”

you listened carefully with your cheeks burning.

“and if he puts his hand between your legs,” carol continued, smirking, “don’t just let him touch you. push against his fingers. show him you’re enjoying it. whisper shit in his ear too. steve acts cool but he’s easy when you talk dirty.”

then you stayed quiet for a moment, processing everything she said. carol glanced at you, almost gentle for once.

“i just don’t want to look stupid,” you said softly. “i feel like he knows so much more than me.”

“you are inexperienced. own it. steve clearly likes you exactly like this or he wouldn’t keep chasing you.”

you touched your neck self-consciously and stood up, walking beside her back toward the school building.

even though carol could be sharp and mean, her advice felt strangely useful. maybe you really did need to stop overthinking and just try taking control for once.

then two days later, you were at steve’s house after school.

his parents were out of town again, so the big empty house felt even quieter than usual. 

you went under the excuse of ‘’studying together,’’ but now you were both in his room, sitting on his bed and supposedly watching movies. 

the movie was playing on the tv across the room, some action flick with loud explosions, but neither of you were paying attention for a while.

now steve was half on top of you, kissing you slowly and deeply. his body was warm and heavy in the best way, and one of his hands was resting on your waist. the other cupped the side of the side of your face. 

his kisses were confident, smooth. he tilted your head exactly how he wanted. his tongue brushed against yours in that rhythm that made your stomach flutter.

then you remembered carol’s words.

you wanted to try. you really did. you wanted to be better for him.

so when steve kissed you again, you gathered all your courage. 

you slid both hands into his hair and pulled him closer, kissing him a little harder than usual. you sucked gently on his bottom lip, then brushed your tongue against his more confidently.

for a few seconds it felt good.

steve made a low sound on his throat, almost surprised,and his hand tightened on your waist.

you tried to take more control. 

you deepened the kiss, moving your tongue against his, pressing your chest closer to his body. you even tugged lightly on his hair the way carol said guys liked.

but then the thoughts crashed in.

is this too much? am i being too aggressive? what if he thinks i’m bad at this? what if he’s just pretending to like it?

your confidence vanished in an instant.

your movements became hesitant and stiff. you didn’t know what to do with your tongue anymore. 

you pulled back slightly, breathing faster. cheeks burning with embarrassment and frustration.

steve noticed right away.

he lifted his head and looked down at you, his hazel eyes were soft but concerned. his thumb gently stroked your cheek.

“hey… you okay?” he asked quietly, voice low and careful.

you forced a small smile and nodded quickly.

“yeah… i’m fine,” you whispered.

“we can slow down if you want,” he said gently. “or stop. you know that, right?”

“no, it’s okay,” you replied, shaking your head. you didn’t want to explain how nervous and insecure you felt. you didn’t want him to know you were overthinking everything. “let’s just… watch the movie.”

steve hesitated for a second, searching your eyes, but eventually nodded.

“alright,” he said softly.

he shifted beside you, lying on his back and pulling you against his chest. 

his arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close as he turned his attention back to the television. 

the movie continued playing — loud gunshots and dramatic music filling the room — but your mind was somewhere else completely.

you lay there with your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, pretending to watch the screen. inside, you felt stupid and frustrated with yourself.

carol’s advice had sounded so easy when she said it, but when you actually tried, your brain had sabotaged everything. 

you kept replaying the kiss in your head, wondering what you did wrong, why you couldn’t just relax and enjoy it like other girls seemed to.

steve’s fingers traced slow patterns on your arm. 

every now and then he would press a soft kiss to the top of your head, completely unaware of the storm happening inside you.

after a few minutes, he spoke casually, trying to include you.

“this part’s supposed to be cool,” he murmured with relaxed voice. “you like action movies, right?”

you nodded against his chest.

“yeah… it’s good,” you whispered, even though you had no idea what was happening on screen.

steve squeezed your shoulder lightly and continued watching, his hand still gently stroking your arm. 

he seemed good just holding you, completely happy with the simple closeness.

but you couldn’t stop the quiet voice in your head. you stayed quiet, curled up against him, pretending everything was fine while your mind kept spinning.

days passed after that afternoon at steve’s house. 

you tried to act normal around him, but the insecurity still lingered in the back of your mind. you kept overthinking every kiss, every touch, wondering if you were doing enough or if you looked inexperienced. 

steve noticed you were a little quieter than usual, but he didn’t push. 

he just kept being sweet and patient with you.

one afternoon after school, steve was leaning against his car in the parking lot with carol. 

tommy wandered off somewhere, leaving the two of them alone. steve pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a slow drag, exhaling the smoke toward the sky.

carol leaned beside him, arms crossed.

“so,” she said, smirking slightly. “how’s it going with henderson’s sister? you two are still sneaking around like horny teenagers?”

steve let out a small laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. he took another drag from his cigarette before answering.