Em

June was scorching, and your thighs stuck so badly to the leather that you started laying out one of Steve’s old sweatshirts to sit on instead. Luckily, it was dark blue, and you could not make out the obvious butt sweat you probably left on it.

Your shoe prints on the dash. Your many Coke cans are crushed on the floorboards. Your hair ties are littering his ashtray. There were more remnants of you in the car than of Steve himself.

His car was like your second home. You spent more time in his passenger seat than you did at your summer job at the Gap.

The moment you dropped into that seat, you felt an ease you had not experienced since you were a kid in the front seat of your grandfather’s pickup. 

Safety. Familiarity. Warmth. 

Steve was a great driver. A bit fast, but not to a dangerous degree. He was a pretty great navigator, too, which was good for you and all your half-assed attempts to read maps out loud to him. 

It was a random Saturday in June, and somehow, you and Steve’s work schedules synced perfectly. You both got off at 4 o’clock and had planned to go drive out to a lake house party outside of town. 

Steve had beat you outside to the parked beamer, and as you got closer, you noticed him throwing shit around the backseat. His bright Scoops uniform was hard to miss, and the sailor hat flattened his hair a bit on the top. Something you always teased him about. 

You skip up to him, smacking his butt to catch him off guard and maybe scare him. He jerks upward, slamming the back of his head on the emergency handles that are mounted on the roof of the car. The groan he lets out tells you all you need to know about the type of day he’s having.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” 

You smirk as he stands up, his hazel eyes squinting at you with discontent. “Wanted to scare you.”

“Well, I’m not,” he bites, rubbing the back of his head with a hiss, “You just hurt me instead.”

You pull his arm down, using the leverage to turn him around and check the back of his head. You don’t even attempt to get a good look, because you know he’s fine. “You look fine, sailor. Don’t think you’ll need surgery.”

He jerks away from you, snatching up a pile of clothes in the backseat. As he holds the shirt up, he groans like it just called him ugly or something. “You are such a pain in my ass.”

You cross your arms over your chest, moving around the car to get in your assigned spot, “What crawled up your ass and died, huh?”

Then the rambling starts. You know Steve is bent out of shape pretty bad when the words are just gushing out of him, “Bad day at work. It’s hot. You made me slam my head on my car. My stupid car doesn’t have any A/C, so it’s not like I can get cooled down. And I forgot my goddamn good polo, so I’m going to look like an idiot-”

Steve has been your best friend since middle school. You know that if you let him continue down this route, he’s going to cancel the plans you two had and sit alone in his bedroom. There are only so many nights he can count the squares on his wallpaper.

So you interrupt him as firmly as you can, “Steve.”​

But the rambling goes over your almost-plea, “And this girl I thought I had a good riff with last week came in with her boyfriend and-”

“Steve!” You raise your voice, waving your hand as if to cut short his rant, “Halt. Stop. Pause.”

His offended expression morphs into confusion, “What?”

Steve would find a reason to continue venting if you did not interject your own opinions. Usually, reeling him in meant joking or teasing him, just to remind him that what he’s saying is so minute and not important. All of these things he’s all hung up about are not that big of a deal, but when his mentality can be so absolute sometimes. 

So you wrack your brain for a silly slight that would reel him in. 

“Your hair is also flat.”

His jaw ticks, but the quick nodding and sucking in the cheeks right after is a good sign that you read him completely right. You always did. Best friends, that’s what they did for each other. 

He points to you, a tight and calculated gesture, “And you. You’re a pain in my fuckin’ ass.”

You smile at him with the confidence of a million men, “Are you changing or what?”

“In the parking lot?” He gestures to the half-empty lot around you. He always parked so far out and away from the entrance of the mall, “No, no, of course not.”

You pull your door open, a hint that you are ready to get moving. “Are we stopping back at your house then?”

“Yeah, yeah, I need to get another shirt.”​

You both drop into your seats and start on the 10 minute drive from Starcourt to Steve’s house. 

The windows being down are a requirement, of course. The wind feels good on your face, even if it’s still hot air. You feel like a dog holding your head close to the window as the radio blasts something from Top 40 radio. 

And even though you two had a tense exchange minutes before, you are more than comfortable to sing along to the song with Steve. He has his Raybans propped up on the bridge of his nose due to the unbelievable brightness of the sun dropping in the sky. The swoop of his hair keeps whipping back and forth over his glistening forehead, and you swear it’s almost in unison with the synth of the song playing. 

Steve was handsome. Duh. 

In moments like this, you wish that you could tell him that out loud without it sounding like a joke. Every time you two have complimented each other like that, it usually ended with a fit of laughter. It was an unnatural thing to say to your best friend, sure, but you felt the need to say it pretty often when you caught a glimpse of him when he drove. 

His jaw has finally relaxed. His eyebrows were still slightly scrunched, like the sunglasses did not help that much with the shining sun. He had a very pronounced and masculine nose, which you found super fitting for his higher cheekbones. And you don’t want to admit the number of times you tried to count those freckles on his cheeks. You never want to seem creepy, so you always stop counting after ten. 

You silently ponder if he has ever looked at you that long, like ever. Probably not. 

-

Steve throws his car into park when he gets in his empty driveway. “You staying in here or comin’ in?”

“I’ll get a taste of the A/C. I also think I may steal a t-shirt or something from you.”

You both walk up the sidewalk to his front door, and as he fiddles with his keys, you scope out the back of his head. You carefully push up some of his wild hair, and he flinches away from you. 

“What are you-”

“Actually checking on your big head,” You mumble as he shoves the key into the front door’s handle, “Hold still.”

He does what you say, holding his wrong change of clothes against his hip. You push up more hair, getting closer to his back as you investigate his scalp. You do notice a small blossoming bruise in the familiar shape of the hook on the emergency handle. You also notice the beads of sweat dripping from his hairline and catch a slight whiff of his fruity smelling shampoo. 

“You got a bruise,” You say simply, gently letting his hair rest back down, “No blood though.”

With a head shake, he pushes the door open. “I need a beer.”

-

You don’t expect him to actually start pregaming. He immediately goes walking into his garage and grabs three beers, onefor you, and two for himself. He pounds the first one like he was racing against time, but there’s no actual reward for him, just a bubbly burp and an instant buzz. 

You sip on your beer slowly, watching him carefully as he paces his living room and ducks down to peer out the windows. He seems on edge, but the more he moves and sips on the cheap can of alcohol, his shoulders relax. 

“Go get changed,” You mutter, slipping onto some bar chairs that are tucked a very specific way under the island. Steve’s parents were weird and a bit high strung, so you made a mental note to put the chair back in the exact way you found it. 

He slams the rest of his beer down before heading up the staircase a couple of rooms over. You decide the beer is too piss-adjacent and pour it down the sink. You hardly felt a buzz from the few sips you took, but your face already feels hot. 

It takes him no time at all to find a new outfit. You do not expect him to come downstairs shirtless, though. He’s wearing a pair of shorter hemmed shorts, too, which is equally offensive.

He has his shirt in his hand, so you don’t know why he needs to show off his awfully tanned, hairy, and beautiful chest to the entire empty house and you. You steal a Coke from the fridge, mentioning in passing that you finished off your beer. You are really just trying to act like your eyes didn’t almost bulge out of your head when he stormed around the corner to the kitchen. 

“Is that what you’re wearing?” He asks, looking at some random pieces of mail on his counter. You look down at the current state of your outfit, not seeing a huge reason to change into something else. You could change your shirt for one of Steve’s, but you weren’t sure you wanted to smell like his laundry detergent. It would make you not want to ever return it. 

“This is a new skirt,” you mutter, popping the top of the can, “I sold like 7 of these today to a bunch of teenage girls. And I think the shirt matches just fine.”

You finally face him completely, and he still doesn’t have a shirt on. 

“No, yeah, it’s cute,” He nods, walking around the counter and straight to the fridge behind you, “Just didn’t know if you wanted to wear your work clothes to this party.”​

Why did you feel self-conscious all of a sudden? 

Your eyes turn to slits as Steve opens another, more expensive-looking beer and chugs a bit. “I’m fine, but it seems like you’re waiting for a goddamn invitation to put on some clothes.”

His Adam’s apple bobs too prominently as he swallows a gulp of golden liquid.

“I’m sweating from the beer. Plus, you’ve seen a shirtless man before.”

“Yeah, but shirtless boys make me uncomfortable.”

“Ah, I see what you did there,” he nods, his lips in a straight line to show how unimpressed he is, “You weren’t saying that when you asked if I was going to get naked in the parking lot earlier.”

You wave your hand sharply through the air, cutting him off, “Wow! Way out of context and so not what I was saying.”

Steve snatches up his shirt, throwing it over his messy hair. His movements are somewhat uncoordinated, which makes you think the beer is getting to him rather quickly. He is usually pretty anal about how his hair looked, but with the alcohol flowing through him, he couldn't care less. The messier, the better.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

You step closer to him, almost like you are going to size him up. You and Steve have banter, always, but this tone seems a bit more directed. Cold. “Why are you trying to get under my skin now?”

“It’s fun,” He responds, simply. 

“Not for me.”

“You’re so right, you know what I should do instead?” He walks around the counter, pocketing his wallet as he pauses for you to respond, but you don’t. “Why don’t I just randomly walk up behind you and smack your ass all in the name of ‘scaring’ you?”

You cannot stop your jaw from dropping at his words. This is a Steve you have not seen before. He’s almost too quick with his words, and while he’s always been slick, he’s never been this flirty with you. Especially not when he’s tipsy and off his game like this. 

This Steve is dangerous.

“Touche,” You mutter, bringing your Coke up to your lips to contemplate your next words carefully. You really don’t know if you should entertain the teasing by teasing back this time. It seems this situation is way more of a grey area than what you were dealing with before. 

“You could if you wanted to. But better not do it in front of people, they may think you are in love with me or something.”

He tilts his head towards you, snatching his keys from the counter. “Exactly why I ain’t doing it, bug.”

That fucking nickname. You thought it was a past time, but on rare occasions, he would bring you back to a traumatizing time in middle school for fun. You had a phobia of bugs, and your peers teased you by trying to throw grasshoppers at you during gym class. Steve was not one who did, of course; he was pretty sweet back then. But he did find another way to pick on you, which was to just call you bug. 

You thought that nickname got left behind in 9th grade, but on the off time, Steve would be annoyed by you; he’d bring it out.

The reminder only adds a spring to your step when it comes to rebuttals. You stomp over to him, getting close enough that a whisper to him would not be that hard to hear, “Is that why? Or is it because you’re afraid copping a feel may alter your bitchless brain and you may like it?”

His face is blank, unwavering. “Damn, you’re so mean today.”

“You’re talking about spanking me,” You say a bit louder, now only about 10 inches from his face. His lips look even pinker in the overhead lighting and way more glossy than usual. 

“Well, you did spank me,” He reminds you. As his lips move, you realize you aren’t looking him in the eyes anymore. You were locked in on his mouth. “Didn’t even give me the grace of discussing it first.”

You hum, slightly stepping back and pressing your hip into the kitchen island. It was cold against your skin, catching the only sliver of skin that is exposed to the world. “Are you ready to go, or are we just going to harp on the hitting of butts?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to change?”

Your eyes search his deadpanned expression, offended that he would not let this go. You mentioned possibly stealing something from him, but it was more of a passive comment to get inside his house and steal some cold air and a Coke. 

“Are you fucking with me, Harrington?”

Finally, a smile with crinkled eyes. “It’s hot in the car remember? And you are wearing a half-sleeved shirt.”

“So it’s about the car now?”

“No A/C, bug,” He mutters, his eyes now drooping down to your mouth. 

You realize then that this conversation is not what you think it is, and now you two are just talking around something. What it is, you have no real clue. But the tension in the air indicates that Steve wants you to change your clothes for some other reason.

“What is this really about?”

“Nothing. Just want to make sure you're comfortable for the long trek to the lake in my car with no A/C.”

He is making his voice sound intentionally earnest now, which you never ever fall for, but especially not when it’s half-slurred. You know better than to let Steve Harrington get off on something like this. 

“Stop bullshitting me. Seriously.”

He grabs your shoulder with his free hand, dropping it after he gives you a tight squeeze, “When have I ever lied to you?”

“Right now,” You reply, too quickly. 

“Nope, not lying,” He smirks, stepping back and creating more distance between the two of you, “Fine. Wear the shirt you will sweat in on the way, and when none of the guys want to talk to you because you have stains in your pits, don’t come running to me about it.”

You push him out of your way, heading straight for the stairs, “You’re pissing me off.”

You storm up the stairs and push open his door. You had been in Steve’s room countless times, but he was the one always leading the way in. You had never been in there all by yourself, so when you get inside, you take in the slight darkness due to the sun setting and half-opened mini blinds. 

He moved the furniture around since the last time you were in here. 

You spot the dresser in the corner this time, and as you’re waltzing over, Steve slams the door open. “What are you-”

“I’m finding something to wear.” You pull open the dresser drawer, immediately getting an eyeful of boxers and briefs. Even one pair of tightie whities. “Oop, wrong drawer.”

When his hands slip around your waist, you feel like your heart may beat out of your chest. He practically manhandles you out of the way, slamming the drawer closed.  “Let me find you something.”

You try to pry his hands off you, but you only manage to get one hand off you, and it’s the one he’s now using to rifle through his drawers. The other one is locked onto your hip. “You’ve done enough.”

“This is my dresser, my clothes.”​

You are in his space, literally and figuratively. You are inches from his face when you shoot him an annoyed eye, and you realize he’s already looking at you and not the clothes. The air shifts again and in that nanosecond of eye contact, you reach the conclusion that this friction between you two is actually hedonistic and not actual aggression. 

His eyes are almost shining like newly cleaned windows, completely unshadowed. “Why do I let you get under my skin like this?”

“Because you are my best friend. And I’m yours.”

His Adam’s apple bobs for the millionth time, like he’s suppressing something. “Right, yeah. Best friend.”

You feel the hairs all over your body stand up as you sway closer to him, taking in his cologne and the bitter scent of beer. That musk and sandalwood scent is undeniably Steve.  

You don’t know why, but you wet your lips, maintaining the same eye contact. “We need to leave. I don’t want to be the last person to arrive-”

He’s looking at you as you looked at him in the car. There’s no other way to say it. You may not have known fully how you were looking at him, but this is adornation. The sparkle of his hazel eyes and slight crooked smile is how you pictured yourself when you were gazing at him in the sunlight earlier. 

“Okay, let’s find you a shirt, then.”

His voice is so deep and raspy, like he’s trying on a new persona to persuade you to lean in closer to him. You don’t, knowing damn well that if you caved into your own delusions, you would lose his friendship. 

He has to be fucking with you. That’s all this is. Not admiration, just teasing. 

Just drunken teasing.

“Yeah, yeah, just find me something I won’t sweat in and won’t look completely stupid.”

He pulls open another drawer, removes his hand from your body, and picks out a white see-through wife beater. Your eyes practically bug out of your head.

“This will match the denim skirt you have on perfectly.”

“And put my entire bra on display! I can’t wear that, Steve.”

He smirks and throws it over your head, effectively covering your entire face. “Put it on, bug. You’ll look hot.”​

You pull the fabric down, inhaling the scent. Fresh linen. Fuck. 

“Don’t want to be hot,” You grumble, tossing the tank top on the bed so you can peel off the sticky and borderline stinky shirt you had on. You did not realize how much you smelled like the inside of the Gap store. 

“What do you wanna be then?”

The question was not supposed to have a double meaning. 

Steve was your friend. Nothing more. So why was this happening? Why does your mind immediately go there?

You turn around to face him. He’s got his hands on his hips, the way he stood when he was scolding Dustin or any of the many other kids you two had the pleasure of knowing. 

But his expression isn’t peeved. It’s like he’s trying to subtly hint to read his mind. 

“What do you mean?” You ask quietly, holding the bottom hem of your shirt hesitantly. His hands drop to his sides as he slowly approaches you, his balance waning a bit. 

“If you don’t want to be my hot arm candy for the night, what do you wanna be then?”

Your mind goes completely blank. Because what is he talking about? Hot arm candy? You and Steve have only gone places together as obvious friends. You mingled with other people and never felt an obligation to be near one another. You two were overly sociable people and never met a stranger. So why is he suddenly acting like you would be something more tonight? 

“You’ve had too much to drink,” Is all you can say. 

And that’s when his brows narrow and his mouth droops downward. “I don’t think so.”

“I know so, Steven. Sit down and take a breather.”

You using his government name makes him tense, and suddenly everything shifts to a bit too awkward and too real. He drops down onto his mattress, folding his hands into his lap. 

“Yeah, I don’t know why I said that. About the arm candy. And the wanting to be something tonight… I…”

“It’s fine. Just… let me change, and we can go?” 

He nods vigorously, adding a clipped sentence, “Yeah, sure, sorry.”

You manage a half smile, deciding that the pressure in the room needed to be relieved because, for a second there, you almost believed Steve wanted you or something. So you do what you do best. 

“I’ll wear the shirt but only if you promise not to spank me or make your ‘arm candy’ again,” You joke, facing away from him and pulling your shirt up to reveal your back and the straps of your bra. You had changed in front of Steve before. You’ve worn countless bathing suits in front of him, too. But the moment you toss your shirt on your bed, you realize this is probably only going to add to the awkwardness and off-putting tone between you two.

He chuckles from behind you. A breathy laugh that he’s used when he complimented your dress at prom years before. Another instance where you almost thought Steve, your best friend Steve, was flirting with you.  

“Deal, bug.”

-

Once back outside, you rush behind Steve and pluck his keys from his shorts’ pocket. As you try to speed past him to the driver’s side, he’s grabbing your bicep and yanking you backward. 

“What are you doing?”

You cock your head, scanning him up and down. With the dusk taking over the day, the shadows from the trees only make his eyes look darker. “I am not letting you drive drunk.”

“’M not drunk. Just a buzz.”

You roll your eyes, pulling him along as you open the car door. He surprisingly is not pushing the subject further; he just holds onto your arm like his life depends on it. As you try to drop down into the BMW, he uses his other hand to grab onto your waist. Again. 

“You’re not driving,” You state firmly. 

“That’s fine, but you’re not driving my car.”

You gawk at him, unsure what he’s insinuating. After all this, now he doesn’t want to go?

“Then how are we getting there?”

He shrugs, poking his bottom lip out as if he couldn't care less, “I guess we just stay in.”

You make an effort to yank yourself away from his grip, to no avail. You jingle his keys dramatically, pulling at his fingers. “You made me change for this. Let’s just go! I promise I’ll be a good driver.”

Another shake of his head. It makes you want to scream how annoying and controlling he’s being. 

“You’re not driving down those winding roads in the dark. Not in my car.”

“Fine, we can take the highway.”

“Nope. Still not safe at night.”

He’s now prying you away from the vehicle, holding onto you so tightly that you know you could not escape if you tried. 

You slam the car door, making a point that you were annoyed. 

“Steve, come on! I wanted to hang out with that guy from a couple of weeks ago. He was going to be there.”

Truthfully, you just wanted to get out of Hawkins and feel the warm summer night air in your hair as Steve toted you around. Using this guy you didn’t even like all that much was a hopeless cause. Steve was not buying it, yanking you back towards the front door. 

“The guy that smelled like pacouli and BO?”

You pull on his wrist, trying to get him off of you. How was he this drunk and strong at the same time? “He did not smell like that!”

“Not letting you hook up that weird hippie. Let’s just go inside and rewatch Footloose or something.”

​You groan loudly and lock your knees, halting him from moving forward anymore. You were not letting him get away with taking your night drive away. You needed to be blasting some music with your best friend as the tepid wind whips around you. You did not care who was driving, but you did want to get there alive. In Steve’s state, he could get you there, but there’s a forty percent chance you may end up stuck in a ditch somewhere, too. 

You take a chance. “Fine, you drive.”

“No, you said I’m too drunk.”

You exhale sharply, finally managing to get out of his grip as it loosens. “You are, but we can risk it.”

He stares at you for a second, like he’s trying to figure out a mathematical equation. When Steve thought too hard, he always breathed slowly out of his mouth and squinted his big hazel eyes. 

He shakes his head again, “Nah, not worth it. Let’s stay home!”

“My god, please!”

“Come on, I’ll make popcorn and rub your back.”

You did love it when he rubbed your back. You always joked that his fingers and hands were so good at getting the knots in your back because of how much ice cream he scooped in a day. They worked like magic. 

You cross your arms, displaying your pure dismay at losing out on a night in the car with Steve. 

A night out you were not even sure you wanted, if Steve was not a part of the equation. 

If someone else could have come by to get you and take you out there, you would probably decline the invitation anyway. You mainly wanted to be there because your best friend would be there. Not some guy. Just Steve.

“Fine, but next time don’t pregame the party.”

He smiles, snatching his keys, “Fine, but next time don’t make me have to drink beforehand because your smartass had to assault me.”

“Oh! Here we go again!”

As you walk in front of him, you hear his hand whip through the air. The moment it impacts your ass cheek, you scream out like you’ve been shot. 

He laughs immediately, “Yeah! Here we go again!”

-

It’s why you begged Max over the phone earlier this week to watch the kids for you and Steve. She eagerly accepted, because while she and Lucas still lived nearby, it was rare that sleepovers for the cousins would work out - and the Sinclair kids were ecstatic at the fact that the Harrington army could come stay the night for once.

It’s been quite a bit since you and Steve could be intimate with each other - the cost of your babes constantly running around. And while you wouldn’t change a thing about that, the pent up frustration was getting worse by the day. Max told you she didn’t need the details - was happy to take her nieces and nephews off your hands.

Of course, convincing your eldest girl and boy was a bit more tricky. They were significantly older than the rest of the kids in the family, and while they loved their Aunt and Uncle, they didn’t want to feel like they were being babysat.

“Your father and I could use a date night,” you told them honestly, but left out the fact that you really just needed the house empty.

“Can’t you go out somewhere then?” Your girl had asked.

“We plan to, but it’d be nice to have the house quiet for a little bit too,” you explained.

Your oldest boy was more understanding, as he always was, and had nodded along easily - said he’d drive your girl to a shared friend’s house of theirs and hang there for the night.

They didn’t really question it, because while they knew what sex was, knew that their parents had to have done it at some point to have their six kids - you and Steve kept that part of your relationship significantly private, making sure you were careful to be subtle and quiet about it.

It’s why all hell breaks loose when they nearly catch you and Steve in the act.

You and Steve had just made it back home from a nice dinner out, and the minute you walked through the threshold of the door, Steve’s scooping you up in his arms - hauling you to the bedroom.

“Eager tonight, aren’t we?” You laugh, as he stumbles up the stairs, slams your room door shut, before lowering you onto the bed.

“Missed you,” Steve gets out breathlessly, getting down on his knees to undo the straps on your high heels - once they’re undone you kick them off, and they land somewhere across the room.

Steve’s lips are on you instantly, trailing kisses along your bare legs - and you help him shimmy off the dress you’re wearing.

When stripped down to your underwear, Steve leans back and takes you in - significantly appreciating the view since it doesn’t happen as often without the fear of being interrupted.

“Damn, honey. Have I told you I’m the luckiest guy in the world?” He whispers, tugging his own clothes off - leaving him in those tight boxer briefs that outline every part of him.

“I don’t know, you might have to remind me,” you smile - biting your lip in anticipation. He complies - uttering the words tenderly as he mouths at any part of your exposed skin that he can get to.

You whine as you feel him press against you, palming at his backside - desperate to get him fully undressed when you hear the front door close loudly.

Steve pauses - lips still hovering over your own, “Was that?”

He trails off - straining to listen to the sound coming from downstairs.

“I don’t-,” you break off when there’s thudding up the stairs - panicking when your girl calls out for you.

“Mom? Dad?,” she yells, voice getting closer by the second.

“Maybe they’re not back yet,” you hear your boy following after her.

“Dad’s truck is in the driveway,” she deadpans.

“Shit, Steve, you don’t think they’d-,” you start, but you were sorely mistaken about your kids having common curtesy.

“Mom, I’m starving. You’ll never guess the night we had, and oh, oh my god, oh my god!” she squeals, because she barged through your bedroom door with your boy at her heels - effectively seeing the two of you tangled up together.

Steve was quick enough to get the comforter over the two of you, but the damage was already done.

“My eyes!” Your girl cries, covering them - turning around and ramming into her brother - who’s clearly shell shocked, looking anywhere around the room, purposefully avoiding you and Steve.

“Get out,” Steve states firmly, not needing to tell them twice.

“On it,” your boy chokes, steering his sister out - fumbling with the door because he’s trying to shut it now with his own eyes being closed.

The silence the follows is suffocating - you can hear the tick of the clock on the wall, the dull footsteps of your kids going back downstairs, the heavy breathing from Steve above you.

“Steve, please tell me I’m asleep and that was a nightmare,” you nervously remark against his neck.

“Unfortunately, you’re wide awake, babe,” he grits out, rolling off of you to stare at the ceiling in defeat.

You both remain quiet, in disbelief that that actually just happened.

“I don’t think I can face them, Steve,” you mumble, embarrassment for yourself and your kids washing over you.

Steve barks out a laugh, a loud snort coming from him, and you look at him in bewilderment.

“Steve, this is so not funny,” you complain, slapping his chest.

When you go to pull your hand away, he holds onto it - bringing the back of your hand to his lips and kissing it.

“Sorry, honey. It’s not funny, I just,” he chuckles, “I can’t believe the ridiculousness of this situation.”

“Babe, they’re going to be traumatized,” you sit up, putting your free hand to your forehead in distress.

Steve brings your hand back to his chest, letting it rest in the dark, coarse hair there - you can feel the steady thump of his heart tucked behind his sternum.

“They’ll be fine. You know I once walked in on my parents doing it - and shit I was a lot younger than they are - and I turned out okay,” he grins, throwing his arms out, trying to make light of the situation.

You make a displeased noise from the back of your throat, and he sits up - arms slipping around your waist to drag you to him.

“I promise, they’ll eventually forget about it, baby,” he can feel the stress radiating off of you, presses a delicate kiss to your cheek.

You cave, letting yourself melt back into his arms and hide your face in the junction of his shoulder.

“We have to talk to them - we can’t ignore this or pretend like it didn’t happen,” you murmur.

Steve coaxes you to look at him - running his fingers through your locks and says, “Let’s go get it over with then, together.”

“I’m so sorry,” you start, not sure how to approach the elephant in the room.

You had forced your teens to sit down on the couch in front of you and Steve after they tried scrambling back out the front door.

“I’m not,” Steve grumbles, a little pissed that his children are teenagers and haven’t learned to knock yet.

It was one of the first things you started training your children on - to knock on everyone’s door, unless it was a true emergency, as privacy was essential in a household as large as yours.

Your kids visibly wince at the comment, and you elbow Steve - shooting him a dark look.

“What? I’m not sorry - we are two consenting adults, in our own home by the way. We asked you to be out for just one night, and you didn’t even have the basic decency to knock on your parent’s door,” Steve looks pointedly at your kids.

“Dad, I’m begging you. Stop talking,” your girl says, hands covering her ears.

“Look, this is awkward for all of us, okay?” Steve huffs out with his hands on his hips, annoyed at the dramatics of your girl - though she clearly picked them up from him.

“I can promise you, it’s much, much worse for us,” she argues back, gesturing between herself and your boy - who has still yet to say anything.

“We weren’t actually-,” Steve starts, but is quickly cut off.

“Oh my god, Dad. Please don’t,” your girl groans, leaning back into the couch as if that will make her dissolve into it.

Steve sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, “It’s natural and a part of life, and it’s not like you two didn’t know that we love each other.”

“Dad, we get it. Really, you don’t have to explain,” your boy speaks up, looking just as mortified as you feel.

Steve glances at you, clearly not sure what to say next.

You take a deep breath, “We just, want you to understand that we know you didn’t want or plan to see that, and can recognize any feelings you’re having about it - but in the future, we would appreciate if you could respect the boundaries that we’ve set.”

They’re silent after that, refusing to make eye contact - but the tension seems to thaw ever so slightly.

“Uh,” your boy starts, scratching his neck anxiously - another tick he’s picked up from Steve, “I’m not going to lie, it was weird. But we should’ve knocked. I’m sorry.”

He looks over at his sister, who rolls her eyes and mutters out, “I may be scarred for the rest of my life, but I’m sorry too.”

“Thank you,” you nod, looking over at Steve - can tell he’s still frustrated, but acknowledges the apologies.

“What made the two of you come back early anyways?” Steve questions them tentatively, not wanting to harp on it, but realizing you two still don’t know why they’re home.

Your girl looks down at her lap, twiddling her fingers, and your boy speaks up for her.

“Their parents left, and there was drinking going on,” he says with a tone of finality, because he doesn’t need to explain anymore.

Hanging around underage teenagers drinking had almost cost your girl her life, and you and Steve were incredibly grateful that she realized it before it was too late.

“We’re glad you decided to come home then,” you encourage.

“Maybe next time, when we think you’re going to be out longer, just uh, call to give us a heads up,” Steve clears his throat.

“Believe me, we won’t be making this mistake twice,” your girl confirms, and Steve looks satisfied with her answer.

“Anyone still hungry?” He asks, ready to move on.

You can tell your girl wants to say something snarky - probably about how seeing her parents like that made her lose her appetite.

She doesn’t though, instead she looks a little guilty as she says, “Please? Mom makes the best grilled cheese.”

The four of you move to the kitchen, previous topic evaporating the minute your kids get food in their systems.

Eventually they bid you goodnight, heading upstairs to settle in for the evening.

When they’re gone, Steve clicks on the radio - a 90s station starts crooning softly.

“I love this song,” you gasp.

“I know, we danced to it at Dustin’s wedding, remember?” Steve smiles, extending his hand towards you.

Your oldest two, had been stopped in their tracks by the noise of the music. They leant over the banister, which allowed them a direct look into the kitchen to see their parents dancing. Steve twirls you around, and you giggle at the movement.

Your girl swallows hard, “They’re disgusting.”

Your boy laughs, “Would you really rather them not be in love, though?”

She watches you and Steve move effortlessly around the kitchen - like you’ve spent years practicing together, and she realizes you probably have.

She looks at the messy living room, it’s clean - but clearly lived in and loved. She looks at the family photos that cover every inch around the house, before trailing her eyes to the refrigerator door that’s littered with drawings from each of her siblings - her own from when she was younger still hanging up.

She thinks about her grandparents on both sides, how she doesn’t get to see them often because of the miserable childhoods they made for her parents.

Her parents may be disgustingly in love, but they’re breaking generational trauma - making a better home for their kids, and she knows she’s luckier than most.

“No, I love that we have parents who love each other, but next time - you’re walking in first,” she quips, patting his shoulder.

A few weeks later, your family is spread out across the living room, watching a DVD of a popular movie release.

When you and Steve were first planning for a family, he was committed to requiring at least one day a month where everyone had to do something together - no matter how busy schedules were.

Your legs are pulled up, tucked in next to Steve. Your toddler is napping on his chest, lips pursed in a pout and your ten year old boy is curled up next to you.

His twin sister is in the lone recliner - feet kicked up like she owns the place and your four year old boy has wormed his way in next to her.

The older two have claimed the permanent stack of blankets that rest on the floor in front of the coffee table - it’s a cozy, makeshift pad that they all usually like to fight over until you invest in another couch; the last one needed to be thrown out because it was ruined by juice stains and years of wear and tear.

“Hey, Mom?” your boy asks from your side.

“Yeah, baby?” You turn towards him.

“Why do you call Dad ‘Daddy’ if he’s not your dad?” He inquires, the question probably jogged by the kid in the movie saying it.

“Well, he’s that to all of you, and it just happens naturally when I’m talking to you,” you share, smoothing some of his unruly hair back.

“Yeah, but I heard you say it to him in your bedroom last night,” he insists.

You tense, not sure where he’s headed. Steve jumps in, cringing slightly because of the activities the two of you were up to yesterday, “You didn’t knock to come in and see us, bud.”

You’d gone over the knocking rule again with all of them but your toddler - separately of course - not willing to have to relive the moment with your oldest two.

“You sounded busy. There was a lot of noise, so I decided to just head back to bed,” he shrugs indifferently.

You freeze - horrified that he heard something meant to just be between you and your husband. Steve’s mouth drops open, looking like he’s about to catch flies.

Your boy rambles on, none the wiser, “I don’t get why you called him Daddy, like multiple times.”

Your face burns - because Steve does have a serious breeding kink with you; you don’t have six kids for just no reason - but never thought you’d be outed like that by your own child.

Your oldest two immediately abandon the ship.

“And I’m out,” your eldest girl yells, jumps up like she’s been burned and runs out of the room.

Your oldest boy coughs uncomfortably, moving a bit slower but still hightailing it, “Same.”

Your boy looks quizzical, “What’s their problem?”

Steve’s baffled, ears a dark red hue, and the rest of the littles look at you both with confusion.

Obviously, for the sanity of all of you - you’ll need to invent a ‘no eavesdropping’ outside of bedroom doors rule too.

“Fuck.” The word punched out of him and he pressed his hips forward, letting out a low groan as he said, Been thinkin’ about this all night.

“Just tonight?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and you could feel strands of his hair—softer than it used to be, less product—brushing against your forehead as he lowered his head. His pupils were blown so wide you could hardly see the hazel. His expression was so open it made your chest ache. “Longer.”

Your breath caught. For a second neither of you moved, and you let his eyes bore into your own. “Steve—” 

“Since you showed up again.” His thumb found the sliver of skin where your jeans, the Levi’s you’d found in a thrift store near college, sat low on your hip. “Maybe longer. Maybe I never really stopped.” 

You should probably tell him not to say things like that. Yes, you should remind him—so you can remind yourself—that this was just scratching an itch, just getting it out of your system. But his forehead was pressed to yours and his hands were warm and solid on your hips and you couldn’t get yourself to care about should. 

“Kiss me again,” you said instead.

He wasted no time. His tongue slid against yours and you made a sound you’d be embarrassed about later, pulling him closer by the shirt. The fabric bunched in your fists and you could feel his heart beating against your palms. 

“Bed?” you managed to say when you pulled for air. 

He kissed along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot below your ear that made you gasp. "Just give me a second."

"We're still by the door."

“‘m aware.” His hands were pulling your sweater up, impatient in a way that made you smile against his mouth because that was familiar; Steve wanting too much too fast, Steve getting ahead of himself. You lifted your arms to help him and the sweater caught on your necklace—the delicate gold chain with your initial you never took off, the one your mom gave you for graduation —before it came free and dropped to the floor next to your bag. Your keys were probably tangled in the strap and your lip gloss was definitely getting crushed.

Then his hands were on your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. 

You pulled at his shirt and he helped you, yanking it over his head in one motion that messed his hair up even more. And then you were both breathing hard, pressed against the door, and you couldn't remember why you'd wanted to move in the first place.

Your eyes traced over him in the dim light from the window. He really had filled out, shoulders broader, arms more defined, the suggestion of actual muscle instead of the lanky basketball-player frame he'd had earlier. 

“Hey,” he said, softer this time. His hands cupped your face again as he stroked your cheekbones. 

"Hi." You traced the line of his collarbone with your finger, watching goosebumps rise in its wake. "You got broader."

He laughed, surprised. "What?"

“Your shoulders. They’re—” You ran your hands over them, feeling the muscle there. “You filled out.”

"Four years of actually working out instead of just pretending to for basketball will do that." His hands slid down your sides, settling on your waist. "You got—"

"Careful how you finish that sentence."

"—even prettier." He said it simply, like it was obvious. Like there was no other possible word. "I was going to say even prettier."

Something in your chest cracked wide open. "Steve—"

"This is new." He mused as he hummed while his thumb traced the outline of the black lace. "Pretty girl,” he murmured.

“You don’t know that.” 

His eyes flicked up, dark and a little smug. “Yeah. I do. I remember all of them.” His thumb dipped beneath the lace, brushing bare skin, and he kept his eyes on your face. “The pink one. The white one with the flowers. The red one you wore for—”

“Okay, okay,” you cut him off, face heating. “Point made.”

“Just saying,” he said, tilting his head as he grinned, that cocky smile that used to drive you crazy. “I paid attention.”

“Clearly.”

“Had to.” He hummed as his fingers came up and around your neck, warm and possessive. “You were my girl.”

Were. God. The word hung between you for a second before he was kissing you again, erasing it, swallowing it, taking it back. His tongue slid against yours and you forgot what you were thinking about, forgot everything except the way his hands were moving you, confident now. Like he was more sure.

“Bedroom,” you said against his mouth. “Steve, we gotta—”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.” But his hand was already sliding higher, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasped. “Fuck, you sound—”

“Steve.” Your voice was firmer now. 

“Bossy,” he said, smirking as he pulled away from you. 

He grabbed your thighs and lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically and his hands gripped you tight, fingers digging into your ass as he he walked off. “Show off,” you murmured against his neck.

“You love it.”

“Maybe.”

He let out a throaty laugh. “Definitely.” He squeezed and you bit his shoulder in retaliation, which only made him laugh harder. “Careful. Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“Who says I can’t finish it?”

His laugh was cut off by a groan you felt vibrate through his chest. “Okay, yeah. We’re—let’s go, before I drop you.”

"I might." But his grip tightened, hands flexing against your thighs as he navigated through his apartment. You could feel every step, the way his muscles shifted, the controlled strength in how he held you. He'd always been strong—basketball had seen to that—but this was different. Deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel exactly how easily he could carry you.

You kissed along his jaw, his neck, finding that spot behind his ear that used to make him crazy. Still did, apparently, because he stumbled slightly, shoulder hitting the doorframe.

"Jesus—" He course-corrected, finally making it through the doorway. "You're the worst."

"You love it."

"Maybe," he said, throwing your words back at you, and then he was setting you down on the bed. Not gently—with enough force that you bounced once, twice, and had to catch yourself on your elbows.

"Smooth," you said, grinning up at him.

"Shut up." But he was grinning too as he braced his hands on either side of you, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. Close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his pupils were blown wide. "Hi."

"Hi."

His knee pressed between your thighs, and the grin faded into something more serious and intense. "You good?"

"Yeah." Your hands found his shoulders, sliding down to his chest. You could feel his heart racing under your palm. "You?"

“Yeah. Really good. Just—” He stopped, and something flickered across his face, something more vulnerable. “Can’t believe you’re really here.”

“Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere but here.” He said it like he’d truly thought you’d change your mind somewhere between the bar and his bedroom. “With me.”

Your throat felt tight. “Steve—”

He kissed you before you could finish. His knee pressed between your thighs and you gasped into his mouth. He shifted his weight, pressing closer, and the friction made you both groan. His hand found the button of your jeans. "Can I?"

"If you don't, I'm doing it myself."

He laughed, pleased. "Bossy girl." He was already working the button open, sliding the zipper down with maddening slowness. His knuckles brushed your stomach and you sucked in a breath.

"So sensitive everywhere," he said, more to himself than to you. He traced the path his knuckles had made, watching your face. "I remember that. How you'd get goosebumps when I—" He did it again, firmer this time, and you shivered.

"Steve—"

"Yeah, baby?"

The endearment made your stomach flip. "Keep going."

"So demanding," he said, but hooking his fingers in your jeans, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted to help and they joined the growing pile on his floor. He sat back on his heels, just looking, and you fought the urge to cover yourself.

“What?” you asked when the silence stretched on.

“Nothing. Just—” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this. I mean—” His hands slid higher, fingers running over the edge of the lace of your underwear. “So pretty,” he murmured, this time more to himself. His touch went from teasing to reverent. “Can I take these off?” 

He pulled them down slowly, pressing kisses to your hip, your thigh, the inside of your knee. By the time they were gone, you were breathing so hard you felt dizzy.

"Okay?" he asked, settling between your legs again.

"Yeah. Yes. Very okay." You reached for his belt. "Your turn."

"Impatient."

"You're one to talk."

He helped you with his belt, both of you fumbling with the buckle until it came free. Then his jeans were open and you could feel him, hard and hot against your hip through his boxers.

"Fuck," you breathed.

"Yeah." He kicked his jeans off the rest of the way. "That's—yeah."

You laughed despite yourself. "Eloquent."

“Shut up.” He smiled as he kissed you and his hand slid up your ribs, as his thumb found your nipple through the lace and you arched into the touch. “You make me stupid.”

"Pretty sure you were stupid before me."

"Definitely." His mouth found your neck, that spot below your ear. "But you make it worse."His words were muffled against your skin. 

His hand moved lower, between your legs, and you stopped caring about conversation entirely. His fingers found you and you gasped. 

A corner of his lips kicked up at your sound. “That good?”

“Yeah.” 

“Tell me.” His fingers moved in slow circles. “C’mon, baby. I wanna hear you say it.”

“It’s—good—” His fingers kicked up the speed a notch. “Good. Fuck, Steve—”

“That’s my girl.” His voice had gone rough. “Let me make you feel good. That’s all I want.”

His fingers moved faster and you grabbed his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. The tension was building low in your stomach, and you shifted your hips but he held you down with one of his palms.

"Steve—"

"I know. I've got you." His mouth was on your neck, your collarbone, your chest. "Just let me take care of you, baby. I've got you."

Your eyes squeezed shut and your head tilted back and—

And that's when you saw it.

Your eyes had drifted in a haze without meaning to, unfocused, looking for something to ground yourself, and there it was. On the dresser, three feet away. A picture frame catching the amber streetlight that filtered through the closed blinds. There were five people, but the only one who you could focus on was Steve, with his arms around Nancy Wheeler. Nancy was laughing at something, head tilted back, looking carefree and perfect right next to Steve. Nancy, who belonged in that picture. Nancy, who belonged in Steve’s life, on a picture he wakes up to every morning—

Your body went rigid without meaning to. Every muscle locked; your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. The heat that had been building in your stomach—the want, the need, the almost—all of it just stopped, went cold. Like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over your entire body. 

Steve noticed. Of course he did, the switch was so crystal clear he couldn’t have ignored it even if he wanted to. His hands stilled between your legs and he looked up at you, breathing hard. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him. Your eyes were still fixed on the dresser. Or maybe they weren’t, you couldn’t really process the information from your eyes to your mind all that well. 

It’s fine, you told yourself desperately. It’s just a picture. A picture that tells you nothing about yourself. This is casual anyway. This doesn’t matter. It doesn’t— But your throat was getting tight and your eyes were burning. 

“Baby?” Steve’s voice had changed, gone from rough and wanting to worried. “Did I hurt you? Was it too much?”

You shook your head but still couldn't speak. Couldn't look away from the picture.

Just close your eyes. Just ignore it. Just let him keep going. You can do this. You can be normal about this.

But you couldn't. Because Nancy was right there. Nancy who he'd chosen. Nancy who'd been worth leaving you for. Nancy who was still here, in his bedroom, in his life, looking perfect and happy while you were—

“Talk to me.” You didn’t know when he’d retracted his fingers, but his hand was on your face, trying to turn your head towards him. “Please, baby. You’re scaring me.”

The concern in his voice—the genuine fear—was what broke you. A full-body sob came from somewhere deep in your chest, and it sounded like you’d been holding it for four years. The kind that made your shoulders shake and breath come in gasps. 

“Shit.” Steve pulled back slightly. “What did I do? What do I do? What happened?”

You pressed your palms to your eyes but the tears kept coming, hot and fast and unending. “I’m sorry,” you choked out between sobs. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry—”

"Why are you apologizing?" He was hovering over you now, hands fluttering near your arms, your face, like he wanted to touch but didn't know if he was allowed. "Just tell me what's wrong. Please. Did I do something? Did I hurt you?"

"No." You shook your head frantically. "No, you didn't—"

"Then what?" His voice cracked. "What happened? Two seconds ago we were—and now you're—"

You tried to stop crying. You tried to get control of yourself. But every time you almost had it, you'd think about Steve's arm in that picture, about how easy they looked together, and the sobs would start again.

"I'm sorry." You couldn't stop saying it. "I'm sorry. I thought I could do this. I thought—"

"Do what?" He was sitting back now, running his hands through his hair. "I don't understand what's happening."

"This." You gestured between you with shaking hands. "I thought I could—I told myself I could just hook up casually. Just get it out of my system but I—" Your voice broke completely. "I can't. I can't do this."

Steve went very still. "What?"

“I can’t.” You were trying to clutch your face and cover your eyes again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wanted—we were supposed to—and I messed it up by getting emotional—I feel crazy—”

“You’re not crazy—”

“I am.” You finally looked at him and his face was stricken and pale, like you’d said the worst things he could imagine. “I’m crying in your bed about something that happened four years ago and that’s crazy.”

“What—” His voice broke. “What—what are you saying?” he asked carefully, like he was afraid of the answer. 

You looked back at the dresser, at the picture. And even through the blur of tears, you could see it perfectly. Nancy's smile. His arm around her. The way they fit together. You’d seen it everyday at school, and now…

Steve followed your gaze. You watched him see it. And you watched understanding start to dawn on his face.

"That's—" He stopped. "That's from Robin's birthday. Last summer. It's everyone."

“Okay.” Your voice was barely a whisper.

“So what’s—” He stopped, then dug his teeth into his lower lip. “It’s Nancy?”

You nodded slowly, fresh tears slipping over. 

“We’re friends,” he said slowly. “We’ve been friends for years. That picture is just—it’s all of us. I don’t even really look at it anymore. It’s just there, it’s just been there so long—”

“I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to cover your body as much as possible. “You don’t have to explain. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

“Hey, what—” His face changed. “What does that mean?”

You couldn't answer because you couldn't tell him that you'd been lying to yourself all night. That nothing about this felt casual. That being in his bed, under his hands, hearing him call you baby, it all felt like falling back in time. Like being seventeen and in love and believing in forevers.

"Look at me." His voice was gentle but insistent. "Please."

You lifted your head and he was right there, close enough to touch. His eyes were red now too. Wet.

“I didn’t think this was casual,” he said quietly, his head tilted down to look at his bedspread, as he shook his head. “Why would it be?”

“Because—” you started, voice rising. “Because it can’t be anything but casual. It can’t mean anything—”

“Why?” he asked, like there was a point he knew he was completely blind to.

“Because I fucking can’t—” Your breath hitched. “Everytime I close my fucking eyes I see you choosing her. And I know it was so long ago and I should be over it but I’m not.” Fresh tears spilled over. “I’m still the girl who wasn’t enough for you to stay.”

Steve was shaking his head the entire time as you spoke, and you barely caught all the emotions that ran through his features. The pain, the realization, the grief. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He just stared at you and you watched something crack behind his eyes as they glazed over with dampness. 

“Stop saying things like that.” Steve parted his lips, staring at you with unguarded hurt covering his face. “Please.”

“I won’t because I know I wasn’t.” You wiped at your face with the back of your hand. “I know I wasn’t, and I know it now, too.”

"That's not—" His voice broke completely. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest like something hurt there. "That's not true. That's not what happened."

“Then what did happen” Your voice came out desperate and sharp. “Because from where I’m standing, Steve, you met Nancy Wheeler in AP English and suddenly I wasn’t—”

He was quiet for a moment, and you watched him struggle with something. His jaw worked, his hands flexed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was different. Smaller. “I don’t know.”

You stared at him.

“I don’t—” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “I’ve spent all this time trying to figure it out and I still don’t know. I just—one day, I was with you and everything was good. And then I—” He dropped his hands. His eyes were red. “I started thinking about her. And what it would be like. And I couldn’t stop.”

The honesty of it was worse than any excuse he could’ve given you. Isn’t this what you wanted?

"I tried," he continued, voice cracking. "I tried to stop. To just—focus on us. But it was like—I don't know. Like I'd already fucked it up just by thinking about someone else. And I felt so guilty and I thought maybe—maybe if I just ended things it would be cleaner. Better for both of us."

"Better for both of us," you repeated flatly.

"I know how that sounds—"

"Do you?" Your voice was shaking. "Because it sounds like you got bored. Like you wanted something new and exciting and I was just—what? Comfortable?"

"No—"

"Then what?" You were crying harder now. "What was it about her? What did she have that I didn't?"

"Nothing." He shook his head frantically. "It wasn't about you not having something. It was—I don't know. She was different. New. And I was seventeen and stupid and I thought—" He stopped. "I thought maybe I didn’t need to decide forever. Nobody was—" His voice broke. “And that’s so fucked up. I know that’s fucked up. But that’s what I was thinking.”

The words hit like a physical blow. You couldn’t process what he was saying. You didn’t fucking want to. You couldn’t breathe.

“I know I made the biggest mistake I could’ve,” he said, and he had his hands in the air gripping on nothing as he spoke.

“The only mistake was me loving you too much, Steve,” you said quietly. He opened his mouth to respond, but you continued, “Don’t say it isn’t true. I loved you so much I couldn’t see you didn’t—that you weren’t—” You stopped, trying to hold back another embarrassing sob building up in your chest. Then, you breathed in, then out. “I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it coming earlier.”

“There was nothing to see,” he said, shaking his head frantically. “I loved you. I did. I just—” 

“Just not enough to say,” you said through a bitter, final laugh. 

He parted his lips, breaths growing faster, and you could see his chest going up, down. Up. Down. He looked like he was running through everything he could say, but nothing came out. “Please.”

The corners of your lips curved downwards, frowning. “It’s okay, Steve,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. You stood up, grabbing your underwear off the bed, putting them on, then standing up to pick up the jeans in the pile on the floor. You moved around without meeting Steve’s face. 

As you were buttoning up your jeans, you looked at him from the corner of your eye. There was a single tear running down his cheek and he was frozen to the spot on the bed. 

You clipped on your bra quickly. Your sweater was by the door outside, so you’d have to grab that. 

You cleared your throat, then turned to look at Steve finally, an arm hugging your torso because you felt just too exposed. “It’s okay, Steve,” you repeated, voice cracking. 

“Please don’t go,” Steve said, voice cracking completely. “Don’t—leave like this.” He stood up, hands shaking. “I’ll do anything. I’ll—tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

“Steve,” you said, and this time there may have been something in your voice that reached all his neurons because he walked closer to you immediately, hurried. 

His palms closed over your shoulders as he tipped his head down to look at you. “Hey, hey. Please. Just not tonight. Not right now. It’s late, I don’t want you walking out of here like this.”

You looked up at him and his face was so close. Close enough that you could see every tear track, every red rim around his eyes, the way his bottom lip was trembling slightly like he was trying to hold back more tears.

"I can't stay here." Your voice came out broken. "I can't—I can't be in your bed and pretend this doesn't—"

“I know.” His thumb pressed into your shoulder, grounding. “I know it hurts. But it's—" He glanced toward the window where the darkness pressed against the glass. "It's late and you've been drinking and you're upset and I just—" His voice cracked. "I can't watch you leave like this. I can't."

"Steve—"

"Please." The word came out desperate. "Just—just until morning. That's all I'm asking. Just stay until morning and if you want to leave then, I won't—I won't stop you. I promise."

You wanted to argue. Wanted to push his hands off and walk out anyway because staying felt dangerous. It felt like crossing a line you couldn't uncross.

But you were exhausted. Your whole body ached—from crying, from tension, from holding yourself together when all you wanted to do was fall apart. And the thought of getting dressed, walking home, facing your sister's questions—

"Okay." It came out barely above a whisper.

His eyes closed briefly and you watched relief flood his features. His shoulders sagged and his grip on you tightened for just a second before he seemed to catch himself. "Yeah?"

"Just tonight." You had to make that clear. Had to protect yourself somehow. "And you're—you're sleeping on the couch or something."

"Yeah. Yes. Of course." He was nodding quickly, hands still on your shoulders like he was afraid if he let go you'd change your mind. "Whatever you need. I'll sleep on the couch. You take the bed."

You looked down at yourself. At the bra and jeans that suddenly felt too tight, too constricting. "Can I—" You gestured vaguely. "The sweater?"

"Yeah. Here." He finally let go of you, moved at lightning speed grab the t-shirt from earlier off the floor in the hallway. He held it out. "Take whatever you need."

You took it, pulled it over your head. You were suddenly hyperaware that Steve was still standing there. Watching you with red eyes and shaking hands.

"I'll just—" He seemed to realize the same thing. "Let me grab some stuff and I'll give you privacy."

Steve had stopped at the doorway, pillow and blanket clutched to his chest. He was looking at you with this expression you couldn't quite read. Something between grief and longing and regret.

"Bathroom's right there if you need it," he said, nodding to a door you hadn't noticed. "And uh—there's a spare toothbrush in the drawer under the sink. Never been used."

"Okay."

He stood there for another moment, like he was waiting for something. Or maybe working up the courage to say something else.

"I'm sorry," he finally said. "I know that doesn't—I know it doesn't fix anything. But I'm sorry. For tonight. For all of it."

Your throat felt too tight to respond. You just nodded.

He nodded back, wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to leave.

"Steve?" The word came out before you could stop it.

He froze in the doorway, turned back immediately. "Yeah?"

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Just that him leaving felt wrong somehow. That the thought of being alone in his bed while he was on the couch felt—

"Nothing," you said finally. "Never mind."

His face fell slightly but he nodded. "Okay. Well—I'll be right out there. If you need anything. Anything at all."

The door closed softly behind him.

Steve hadn’t been sleeping. Not really. The couch was comfortable enough. The only thing uncomfortable about it was knowing that you were only a few footsteps away, in his bed, and he could do nothing about it. It felt worse from when you were hundreds of miles away for some fucked up reason. It made it impossible for him to relax. Every creak of the floorboards, every shift of the mattress springs through the wall, he heard it all. He was hyper-aware of your presence in a way that made his chest ache.

He’d been staring at the ceiling for hours, watching the shadows shift as maybe three or four cars passed outside. Replaying everything. The picture. Your face when you saw it. The way you’d looked at him like he’d destroyed you all over again. 

But he hadn’t, had he? All over again. No, he’d made you hold onto it and carry it for four years like some fucked up souvenier of his cowardice. And tonight, he’d just reopened the wound. He had reminded you exactly why you’d left, why you had to leave this place, why you’d spent four years becoming someone who didn’t need him.

Except you’d come back. You’d walked into the baseball field all those months ago and his entire world had flipped all the way fucking sideways. He’d been picking up bases and thinking about what to make for dinner, and then he’d looked up and there you were. Steve’s brain had entirely stopped working.

You’d looked the same. Different. The same. Your hair was longer, falling past your shoulders instead of the collarbone length you’d had junior year. You held yourself with your shoulders back and chin up. But your eyes were the same. They were the specific shade of colour he’d tried and failed to describe to Nancy once, back when he’d been stupid enough to think talking about you would make it hurt less. It hadn’t worked. Nothing had.

And tonight it happened. Tonight, when you showed up to the bar in that sweater, the cropped one that showed just a sliver of skin when you moved, he’d known that the careful restraint he’d been practicing would dissolve the second you looked at him like you did at the pool table. Like you still wanted him.

And then everything had fallen apart. Because of course it had. Because he’d been living in his apartment for one year and he saw that picture every single day and it had never occurred to him—not once—that you might see it too. That you might see his arm around Nancy’s shoulder and remember. 

He pressed the heels of his hand to his eyes until he saw stars. 

A sound from his bedroom made him freeze. Soft footsteps and the quiet creak of his bedroom door opening. 

His heart jumped like it had its own silly, uncontrollable mind. Maybe you couldn’t sleep either. Maybe you’d come out here to, what? Talk? Yell at him? But the footsteps weren’t heading toward the living room where he laid, they were heading towards the door.

You were leaving.

The realization hit him like a punch. Of course you were leaving. Of course you couldn't even wait until morning like you'd said. Why would you stay with the guy who'd—

His throat felt tight. His chest felt like something was sitting on it.

You'd promised. You'd said you'd stay until morning and you were leaving anyway and he was going to lose you all over again and this time he couldn't even blame you because he'd done this, he'd caused this, he'd—

“You just gonna sneak out?”

You froze by the door, and Steve realized just how naive he’d been all this time. What had he expected? For you to wake up the next morning and have breakfast with him? For you to sleep on it all and come out on the other side forgiving?

You cleared your throat as your palms settled flat against your upper thigh. “I think—” You stopped yourself, letting out a small exhale he could hear from his spot on the couch. “We should pretend like tonight didn’t happen.”

And Steve had faced consequences in life, so much that after skating half his life without them, he was bombarded with a slew of the aftermath of his decisions that were sure to haunt him till time. But this, you. God, Steve had never felt anything that cut through him quite like this did. 

“Pretend,” he echoed, like the word was foreign to him. 

“Yeah.” You still weren't looking at him, and your hands had moved to grip the doorknob now like it was the only thing keeping you standing and reminding you of your decision. “We just… We forget about it. Move on.”

“Move on.” His voice sounded so hollow. “How—how am I supposed to do that?” His voice cracked. “It was all going so well. We were—”

“I know,” you said, cutting him off, as your voice shook. “I know. That’s why we need to forget about it.”

“I can’t do that,” he said, voice going softer now, as he pushed himself off the couch. You gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve spent so long trying to forget you and I can’t. I can’t fuckin’ do it. So how am I supposed to forget tonight?”

“Well, that’s how it works, Steve,” you said, the sharpness of your voice cutting through the thickening air instantly. You turned to look at him, the streetlight from outside catching your face, and he could see the fresh tracks of tears on your cheeks and he just wanted to—he just wanted to fucking help. Do something. But your voice held him back. “That’s how it works. If you could throw away three—three years so quickly, then you can forget about one night now.”

The words hit him like a ton of bricks. He staggered back a step, feeling something twist inside his chest.

“That’s not fair,” he said quietly, shaking his head.

“Fair?” You laughed, and it was the worst sound he’d ever heard, all bitter and broken. “You wanna talk about fair? Was it fair when you left me for someone else? Was it fair when I had to see you everyday after with someone else? Was it fair I had to spend years thinking I wasn’t—” Your voice cracked completely, like the sorrow had manifested into a physical thing and swallowed your words whole. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” 

“You’re right.” He held up his hands. 

“Stop—stop looking at me like you’re the one this is hurting.” He opened his mouth, hands shaking beside him, but you continued, “Don’t act like I’m breaking your heart when you—when you—”

You couldn’t finish, only stood there swallowing back sobs, shoulders shaking. Steve had never felt more helpless in his entire life. 

He shook his head, lips trembling. “I just want you to know how I feel.”

You dropped your hand. “I don’t want to know how you feel. I don’t want to hear about how you missed me or how sorry you are. Or how tonight meant so much to you. None of it matters because you left. You still chose her. And I—” Your voice broke. “I can’t unhear that. I can’t fucking unknow that.”

Steve raised his arms, then dropped them to his sides. You tracked his movement and your palm turned the doorknob. It was like he’d blinked once and you were gone, the door closing softly behind you.

March. Junior year. His BMW was in the parking lot behind the football field.

You’d known something was wrong for weeks, maybe longer. He’d started saying “I’m tired” when you asked him to come over. His hand felt looser in yours when you walked through the hallways. He’d stopped calling the phone in your room before bed. He’d stopped showing up to your locker between classes with a stolen cookie from the cafeteria because he knew you always woke up too late to eat your full breakfast.

Small and tiny things. All things you told yourself you were imagining because Steve loved you and you loved him and that was enough. That had to be enough. 

But then he’d asked you to meet him after school in between classes and his voice had been so careful when he said it, like he was testing each word before saying it.

You’d gotten into his car and the heat was too high. It was always too high because Steve ran cold and you ran warm, and usually you’d reach over and turn it down while he protested and you’d compromise on a temperature that made neither of you happy but at least you were together. But that day you just sat there and let the heat blast your face until your eyes watered. 

You’d sat in his passenger seat hundreds of times. There were dents left in the leather from the studded jeans you wore. Your perfume was embedded in the fabric. There was a scrunchie of yours in the cupholder. A study guide you’d left in the backseat last week. Evidence of you, it was everywhere. 

What confirmed it was him not looking at you. Steve looked at people when he talked to them. It was one of the first things you’d noticed about him, back in eighth grade when he’d asked to borrow a pencil and actually looked you in the eyes. That was probably the first example that stopped translating eye contact as a concept in your mind. But now his hands were on the steering wheel even though the car was stationary, and he was staring at the brick wall of the gym.

There was a coffee stain on his jeans. The dark roast you'd bought him that morning because you'd gotten to school early and wanted to surprise him. You'd drawn a terrible heart on the cup in Sharpie and he'd laughed, real and bright, and kissed you in front of his locker. That had been six hours ago. It felt like a different lifetime.

“Steve,” you said, and your voice came out steady even though your hands were shaking in your lap. You pressed them flat against your thighs. “Just say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever you asked me here to say.” You were still looking at him even though he wouldn’t look at you, or couldn’t look at you? “Come on, Steve,” you urged, but your voice was hollow, probably because you didn’t want to hear it. “We’ve been together for three years. You owe me a clean break, at least.”

Steve flinched like you’d hit him. “I don’t—” He breathed through his nose. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Then don’t leave me.”

God. It came out before you could stop it. It was desperate and completely raw. It wasn’t how you’d practiced it. You’d meant to be collected and easy, make this easy for him so he wouldn’t call you dramatic. But your voice betrayed you, cracked right down the middle, and now he was finally looking at you. His eyes were red.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your chest felt like something was sitting on it. You pressed your palms flat against your sternum and felt your heart racing underneath. The heating vents were blasting recycled air. 

“Is it Nancy?”

You shouldn’t have asked. You shouldn’t have said her name. But it had been sitting in your throat for three weeks, choking you, and now it was out. 

His face almost looked relieved and guilty, like you’d said it before he could, taking the weight off his shoulders. That was answer enough, wasn’t it? But he still said it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it’s—I met someone.”

Your body knew before you brain caught up; your stomach dropped, your hands went numb, your vision went blurry until you could only see his profile, not facing you. Your hand pressed to your chest and you realized you were trying to hold yourself together physically. If you pressed hard enough, you could keep from falling apart. 

“How long?” Your voice came out steadier than you expected.

“We haven’t—nothing’s happened—” he said quickly and desperately. “I wouldn’t do that to you. We’ve just been working on this project and talking and I—”

His jaw worked. You watched a muscle jump in his cheek, watched him dig his teeth into his bottom lip the way he did when he was working up the courage for something. You'd seen him do it before free throws, before asking his dad for the car keys, before telling you he loved you for the first time at the quarry with the radio playing and his hands shaking worse than yours were now. 

“You what?” You needed him to say it.

“I think I like her.” He said it so quietly, like if he whispered it, it wouldn’t hurt as much. “I didn’t mean to. I swear, I didn’t mean to. It just—happened. I tried to ignore it. I tried to just focus on us, but I can’t—” His voice cracked. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You were nodding. Why were you nodding? Maybe because your body needed something to do to process what was happening. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He finally turned to look at you, confusion cutting through the guilt on his face.

“What should I say, Steve?” You were surprised by how calm your voice sounded. “Should I ask why? Because I know why. She’s smart and pretty and she probably makes you feel different than I do. Should I ask when you realized? Because I felt it weeks ago. I just hoped I was wrong. Do you want me to ask what she has that I don’t? Because I don’t want to know the answer to that”

“You didn’t do anything wrong—this isn’t about you being—”

“Enough,” you finished for him. “Everyone says that. ‘It’s not you it’s me.’ But it is me, isn’t it? Something about me—” Your voice wavered, and you pressed your lips together for a moment. “Something about me made you look somewhere else.”

“No—” He reached for you, like his palms were going to cup your face, and you pulled back. His hand hung in the air for a moment before dropping. “No. That’s not—you’re perfect. You’ve been perfect. That’s almost what’s—” He stopped himself, physically reeling back as he ran his hand through his hair. He pressed his head against the headrest, eyes focused on the roof of the car. “That’s almost the problem.”

“I don’t understand,” you said quietly, shaking your head.

“I don’t understand either.” He pressed his palms against his eyes. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know what I want. And I thought I did. I thought—” He looked at you, and the small crinkle between his brows and the desperation in his eyes made your chest tight. “I thought I wanted forever with you. I really did. But then I met—” He skipped over saying her name. “—I don’t know anymore. And it’s not fair to you. To keep dating you when I don’t know.”

“So you’re breaking up with me because you’re confused,” you said flatly.

"I'm breaking up with you because you deserve someone who's sure." His voice broke completely. "You deserve someone who doesn't have doubts. And I—" The words seemed to cost him something. “I’m not sure anymore.”

You never thought you could do the same things as someone, be in the same position as someone, but be so far apart in your minds. He genuinely thought he was doing you a favor. Thought he was being noble by letting you go instead of stringing you along.

“We had plans,” you said quietly. “We were gonna—we circled schools together. We talked about getting an apartment in a few years.”

“I know—”

“We picked out colors, Steve.” Your voice cracked on his name. “We have a whole folder of apartment listings I printed at the library. You organized them by price.” You breathed through your nose because your chest was getting tight. “You said you wanted to wake up next to me every morning. You said that. Do you remember?”

His face crumpled. “I remember.”

“Then what changed?” You weren’t crying but your eyes were burning. “What changed between then and now? Between you saying you couldn't wait for our future and you not being sure you want one with me?”

“I don’t know—”

You twisted to face him fully. The seatbelt dug into your shoulder but you couldn’t care about it. “Are you scared? It sounds like it all got too real and now you’re looking for an exit.”

“Maybe I am scared!” His voice rose to match yours. “Maybe I am. We’re fucking seventeen. We’re seventeen and you’re talking about apartments and forever and—and you expect me to marry you!” 

The words hung in the air like something sharp and jagged that cut both ways. 

You stared at him, chest rising and falling through your top. “What?”

He pressed his palms against his eyes again. “I didn’t mean—”

“You expect me to marry you,” you repeated his words slowly. “Like—like that’s a bad thing?” 

“That is not what I meant—”

“No.” Your voice had gone quiet. “You said it like it’s some sort of—what? Burden? Like I’ve been forcing you? Trapping you?”

“No—”

“I never asked you to marry me, Steve.” You were shaking now. You could feel it in your hands, legs, voice. “You’re the one who gave me this.” Your index brushed over the promise ring on your left hand as you raised it. It caught the light, the tiny diamond chip throwing a rainbow across the dash. “You’re the one who gave me this eight months ago in front of everyone we know. Your family. My family. You said you’ll replace it with a real one. Not me.”

His face had gone pale as you talked. “I know.”

You were twisting the ring around your finger now, yanking it. It caught on your knuckle. You’d worn it every single day since he’d given it to you and your finger had slightly swelled around it. “Do you know what you did? You made a promise. You looked me in my eyes and you promised me a future. And now you’re acting like I’m the one who made it all up in my head?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“Then what are you saying?” The ring came free suddenly, painfully. You gasped and something lodged in your throat at the empty finger, but you just held it in your palm. This tiny piece of silver and stone that had meant everything. The thing freshman girls would look at and swoon over. “Was I not supposed to expect all of it?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. 

“You know what?” you said, sweat prickling through your skin. “Take it.” You held it out to him. It sat there between you for a moment, tiny and meaningless. Just a piece of jewelry. 

“I can’t.” He shook his head, eyes focused on the logo on the steering wheel.

“Take the ring, Steve.” Your voice was steady now. “You’re giving back the promise. So, take the ring.”

“Please—” His voice cracked, shaking his head more forcefully. “Just keep it. Please.”

“I don’t want it.” You pushed your palm toward him, and your arm was starting to feel heavy now. He turned his neck to look at the ring in your palm. “Take it. Take it or I’m throwing it out the window. It’s your choice.”

His hand shook as he reached for it. The movement was so slow and so reluctant, like he was hoping you’d change your mind. But it was happening. His fingers closed around the ring. When his skin brushed yours, you felt nothing. No spark. No electricity. Not even a ghost of what his touch made your whole body light up. The only thing you could feel was the absence of what used to be there. 

He pulled his hand back and stared at the ring in his palm. Small compared to his hand. His shoulders were shaking like he was trying to hold something back, and you almost wanted to reach out to comfort him and make this easier. 

But you didn’t because he’d done this. He’d chosen this. 

“I should go,” you said quietly.

“Wait—” he said as your fingers curled around the door handle. “I—I really hope you find someone. I know you will.”

You smiled bitterly. By tomorrow, everyone would know. By Monday, you’d walk through the hallways and feel their eyes on you filled with pity and curiosity. You didn’t want to tell Steve you weren’t sure you’d ever find anyone again, not when right now, it seemed all the love you had, you’d already given to him. He had become the only person you knew how to love, and that had never, ever been a problem before because you never thought it would be. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice hollow. “Sure.”

You pushed the door open. The cold March air rushed in and hit your overheated face like a slap. You could hear the squeak of sneakers from basketball practice, the distant sound of someone's car stereo playing too loud, the ordinary sounds of an ordinary day where your entire world had just ended.

You stepped out. Your legs were shaking so badly you had to grip the car door to stay upright. Through the window you could see Steve still sitting there, the ring clutched in his fist, his shoulders shaking with sobs he was trying to hold back. His other hand was pressed against his mouth like he was trying to keep something in.

You wanted to say something else. Something cutting or final or profound. But there was nothing left to say. He'd made his choice. It was over. So you just slammed the door.

You showed up late on purpose. The plan had been to arrive right as practice ended—5:45 PM—grab Carter, and leave before Steve could do more than wave across the lot. Clean and simple with no prolonged interaction required. Except you’d forgotten how Steve always ran practice five minutes over because the kids never wanted to leave, and he was too nice to cut them off mid-enthusiasm. 

So when you pulled into the parking lot, practice was still very much happening.

You could see them on the field, a cluster of middle schoolers in various states of athletic coordination, and Steve in the middle of them with a baseball bat, demonstrating something. His backwards cap was crooked. His coaching jacket had dirt smudged across the shoulder. He was laughing at something one of the kids said, head thrown back, completely unguarded.

Your hands tightened on the steering wheel. You could leave and come back in ten minutes. You could pretend your shift had run late or traffic had been bad or literally any excuse that didn't involve admitting you'd timed this specifically to avoid him.

But Carter had already spotted your car. You watched him point, say something to Steve, and start jogging toward the parking lot.

Steve's head turned. His eyes found your car.

Even from this distance, you saw it happen. The way his whole face lit up for half a second—hope, raw and unguarded—before reality crashed back in and the light died. His expression smoothed out into something carefully neutral. Carefully friendly.

You got out of the car because there was no choice now. Your legs felt unsteady. You'd slept maybe three hours last night, kept waking up with your hand pressed to your chest, trying to breathe through the tightness there.

Carter reached you first, sweaty and grass-stained and completely oblivious to the fact that your entire world had imploded five days ago. “Can I get ice cream? Please? I've been so good and I haven't asked all week—”

“We'll see.” You ruffled his hair, grateful for something to do with your hands. “Go grab your stuff. We gotta get home for dinner.”

“But ice cream could be dinner—”

"Carter." Please.

Fine." He groaned dramatically and jogged back toward the dugout where his water bottle was probably lying abandoned in the dirt.

Which left you standing by your car, very aware that Steve was walking over.

He'd taken his cap off and was holding it in both hands, turning it over and over like he needed something to do. His hair was a mess from the hat, sticking up at odd angles the way it always did. You used to fix it for him. Would reach up without thinking and smooth it down while he smiled at you like you'd done something miraculous instead of just touching his hair.

Your hands stayed firmly at your sides.

"Hey," Steve said when he got close enough. His voice was careful.

"Hey."

The silence stretched out. Two syllables and you'd already run out of words. Four years of not seeing each other, then months of cautious rebuild, then one night that had blown it all apart, and now you were back to hey.

Carter was taking his time gathering his things. Probably trying to negotiate five more minutes of playing catch with another kid.

“How was your day?” you asked, because someone had to say something.

“Good. Yeah. Good. Everyone’s really excited for the game soon.” Steve turned the cap over in his hands. “Think Carter might start that game.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

Another stretch of no words. Another silence. You could hear everything else. the other kids shouting, a car door slamming in the parking lot, a bird making some kind of aggressive territorial call from a nearby tree. All of it too loud in the space between you and Steve.

“Work?” It sounded like he pushed out the word.

“Fine.” You shifted your weight and crossed your arms, then uncrossed them because that looked defensive. “Benny Ward’s mom came in today, so that was—” You let out a forced laugh at the mention of the boy from your high school year.

Steve sucked in a breath, pressing his lips into a thin line as he shook his head. “Must’ve been a blast.”

“Mhm.” You nodded slowly. “A real ball.”

Carter was finally heading back over, water bottle in hand, chattering with another kid about something. You had maybe thirty seconds before he reached you.

"I should—" you started.

"Yeah, of course—" Steve said at the same time.

You both stopped. The silence was worse now because you'd spoken over each other, created a weird overlap that felt like a physical thing between you.

"You go ahead," Steve said quietly.

"I was just gonna say I should get him home. Devon's probably wondering where we are."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." Steve took a step back. Then another. Creating distance that felt both necessary and completely wrong. "I'll see you Thursday?"

It was framed as a question. Like you might say no. Like you might decide that picking up Carter wasn't worth this—standing in a parking lot making painful small talk with your ex-boyfriend who you'd almost slept with five days ago before having a complete breakdown in his bedroom.

"Yeah," you said. "Thursday."

"Cool. That's—yeah. Cool."

Carter crashed into your side, immediately launching into a detailed play-by-play of every single thing that had happened during practice. You made appropriate noises, nodded in the right places, let him talk while you very deliberately did not look at Steve.

Emily was the only one who'd stayed late.

Most of the kids had filtered out twenty minutes ago, grabbed by parents or older siblings or carpools, chattering about homework and dinner plans. But Emily had asked—voice tentative, hopeful—if she could stay and practice the turn sequence one more time. She almost had it, she'd said. She just needed like fifteen more minutes.

You'd said yes because of course you had. Because she reminded you of yourself at that age, determined and perfectionist and so afraid of letting anyone down.

So now it was just you and Emily in the gym at 6:15 on a Wednesday, the overhead lights humming, the sound system playing the same eight bars of music on repeat while Emily turned and turned, trying to nail the timing. 

When the gym doors opened, you expected it to be Mrs. Stone coming back for something she’d forgotten. Instead, it was Steve. He stopped just inside the doorway, one hand still on the handle, like he was already second-guessing this decision. “Mrs. Stone asked if I could move these tomorrow before the assembly. But if you’re still—I can come back—?” 

“It’s fine,” you said even though your stomach dropped at the sight of him even though everything had been going perfectly normal between the two of you for the past week. Back to square one, yeah, but normal. “We’re almost done anyway.” 

“Cool. Yeah.” He walked in and let the door close behind him. The sound echoed. 

Emily had stopped mid-turn, was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed interest. You could practically see the wheels turning in her head. She'd definitely heard things. The whole school had heard things. Everyone know everyone, and someone’s someone must’ve known you and Steve way back when. 

“Keep going, Em,” you said firmly. “Show me what you’ve got so far.”

She spun back, but you caught her eyes flickering to Steve. 

The music kept playing. Emily turned. You called out corrections—"Spot! Hold your core! Good!"—while Steve very deliberately started moving gym mats across the gym.

It shouldn't have been weird. It was a big space. Plenty of room for both of you to exist in it without interacting. Except you were aware of exactly where he was at all times. You could track his movement in your peripheral vision; lifting a mat, carrying it across the gym, stacking it by the door. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexing under his t-shirt. The way he'd push his hair back when it fell into his eyes.

"I think I got it!" Emily's voice broke through your spiral. She was grinning, slightly out of breath. "Can I show you one more time? For real?"

"Yeah, of course." You reset the music. "From the top."

Emily took her position. The music started.

And she did it, the full turn sequence, properly spotted, held through the end without wobbling. When she finished, she looked at you with this expression of pure joy, the kind that made your chest ache because you remembered exactly what that felt like. The first time you'd nailed something you'd been working on forever.

"That was perfect," you said, and meant it. "Em, that was so good. You've been working so hard on this."

"Really?" She was bouncing on her toes now. "It felt good but I wasn't sure if—"

"Really. I'm proud of you."

Her whole face lit up.

The gym doors opened again.

A man in scrubs walked in, looking apologetic and slightly harried. He was tall, athletic build, probably mid-twenties. He had the same nose as Emily.

“Hey, Em. So sorry—” He stopped when he saw you. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Is practice still?—”

“We’re done,” you said quickly. “You’re good.”

Emily grabbed her bag and was shoving her water bottle into the side pocket. “I finally got it,” she said to him. 

“That’s awesome.” He smiled at her, then looked at you and extended his hand. “Tyler Bennett. I’m Emily’s brother. Sorry I’m late—we had this thing at the hospital that ran over and traffic was—anyway. Sorry.” 

You shook his hand. His grip was firm and warm. “It’s okay. She did great today.”

“She can’t stop talking about this.” He ruffled her hair and she swatted him away. “I think I’ve heard the soundtrack approximately nine hundred times.”

“It’s good.” 

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. I said I’ve heard it too much. There’s a difference.” 

You laughed slightly, eyes bouncing between them. Behind Tyler, you could see Steve. He'd stopped moving gym mats. He was standing there holding one, just watching. His face was very carefully neutral but his knuckles were white where he gripped the mat.

"Well, we're all done for today," you said, forcing your attention back to Tyler and Emily. "Same time Friday, Em. Don't forget to practice at home."

"I won't!" She was already heading toward the door.

Tyler lingered for a second, that apologetic smile still in place. "Thanks for staying late with her. I know she’s a bit of a… perfectionist?”

You smiled slightly, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s a hard worker. Makes my job easier, honestly.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” He shifted his weight, hands going to his pockets. “I’m Tyler, by the way. I don’t think I said—I mean, I did—” He laughed slightly, self-deprecating, and shook his head before meeting your eyes again. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it before. I’m a receptionist at the dental office.”

He quirked up a brow. “Yeah? Which one?”

“Dr. Feldman’s. Over on—”

“Tyler!” Emily’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Come on, I’m starving.”

“I’m coming!” He turned back to you, still smiling. “Sorry. High schoolers. You know how it is. Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

He started toward the door. Emily was already halfway down the hallway, her voice carrying back as she launched into a detailed explanation of her entire day.

Tyler paused at the door and turned back.

"This is—god, Em's gonna kill me for this, but—” He laughed and ran a hand through his hair. “You seem really nice and I just got out of this thing and I’m apparently horrible at this now, but—would you maybe want to get coffee sometime? Or dinner? Or literally anything that doesn’t involve being at a high school?”

You froze in your spot. You were aware of several things happening at once, from Tyler’s hopeful expression to Emily’s delighted gasp from the hallway, and also the sound of something hitting the floor across the gym. 

You looked over and pursed your lips. Steve had dropped the gym mat and it had landed directly on his foot. 

“Shit—” He stumbled back, hand shooting down to grab his foot. “Fuck.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at the sight. His face was bright red. He was looking at everything else but you. 

Tyler turned at the noise. “You okay, man?”

“Fine.” Steve’s voice came out strangled. He was bent slightly, hands still gripping his foot through his sneaker. “Just wasn’t paying attention.”

Emily’s voice broke the silence from the hallway as she sauntered back in and looked at you mischeviously. “You should totally say yes. Tyler’s like, super nice. He volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends and makes oreo pancakes and he’s been single for like six months, so he’s definitely ready to date—”

“Emily.” Tyler’s ears started turning red. “Oh, my god.”

“What? I’m helping.” She raised her brows like she was confused. “You’re always saying you wanna meet someone who’s not from work—”

“We’re leaving,” Tyler said, grabbing her arm and steering her toward the door. “Right now.”

“But—”

“Now, Em.”

“Fine, but just think about it!” Emily called back to you as Tyler physically dragged her toward the door down the hallway. “He’s got good insurance, too.”

"Emily, I swear to god—"

Their voices faded as they disappeared around the corner, leaving behind a silence so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin.

You were still standing in the middle of the gym. Steve was still standing by the pile of gym mats, favoring his left foot, not looking at you.

“Is your foot okay?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

Steve bent down to pick up the gym mat, moving carefully. When he straightened, you could see him testing his weight on it. Trying not to limp. "Heavy mat. Should've been paying attention."

"Steve—"

"You should say yes." He said it to the gym mat in his hands, not to you. Then, he started walking it over to the pile by the door, that slight hitch in his step that he was trying to hide. "He seems like a good guy."

You watched him stack the mat with the others. Watched the way his shoulders were tight, the way he was moving with too much precision, like if he focused hard enough on the task he could ignore everything else.

"I didn't say yes," you said.

Steve's hands stilled on the mat. "You didn't say no either,” he said quietly, eyes looking down at the ground. 

You swallowed harshly, shaking your head. “He asked me out in front of you,” you said softly. “And his sister. I wasn’t going to—”

"You can go out with him." Steve turned around finally, and his face was doing that thing again. He looked carefully neutral and blank. Except his eyes were too bright and his jaw was too tight. "You don't need my permission or whatever. I'm not—we're not—" He stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You should go out with him."

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"Because it's true." His voice was firm now. Almost too firm. "He's probably a good guy. He seems to have his shit together. He’s not—”

He stopped himself but you knew what he was saying. Not like me. Not complicated. Not carrying three years of history and a picture of his ex-girlfriend on his dresser.

You nodded because he was right.

The applause was almost deafening. You stood in the wings with your hand pressed to your mouth, watching the kids take their bows. Sarah’s ponytail had come half undone; Marcus was grinning so wide his face had to hurt; Emily was actually crying, actual tears streaming down her face as she held hands with the freshman next to her, both of them shaking with relief and joy and the adrenaline crash that came after six weeks of work culminating this. 

They had been perfect. Almost flawless—Sarah had still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count during the opening, and one of the boys been half a beat behind in the bridge—but they had been together. They’d moved as one organism and told the story exactly how you’d imagined it in your head at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep, scribbling formations in your sketchbook. You’d done it. You’d actually done it.

Mrs. Stone materialized beside you, her hand warm and gentle on your shoulder. “Get out there, sweetie,” she said, giving you a gentle push toward stage left. “They want you.”

“I can’t—God, I’m not—” you tried to say through a choked up laugh.

“Yes, you can. Go.” 

Before you could form another protest, Sarah had spotted you in the wings. She was waving frantically, mascara smudged under her eyes, and then she was shouting your name. Suddenly, all fifteen of them were turning, reaching for you, and Emily was yelling, “Get out here!” and running into the wings.

“Come on,” Emily said, grabbing your hand with both of hers, tugging you hard enough that you stumbled forward. “You have to come out.”

“Em, I don’t think—”

But she was dragging you onto the stage and the lights were too bright, washing everything in white-hot brilliance that made you squint. You couldn't see the audience clearly—just dark shapes and the occasional pinprick flash of a phone camera, the red glow of EXIT signs at the back—but you could hear them. Still clapping, some standing now, and the sound was so big it felt physical.

The kids surrounded you immediately. Sarah crashed into your left side, Marcus your right, and then they were all there, arms around your shoulders and waist, a tangle of sweaty teenagers who smelled like hairspray and stage makeup and pure, undiluted joy.

"You did it!" someone was saying, maybe the freshman who'd been so scared of it all she cried on the first week. "We actually did it!"

“You did it,” you corrected, trying to hug all of them at once, voice thick. “You all worked so hard. I’m so—I’m so proud of you guys—”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You were crying now, too. Couldn’t help it, not a smidge. It was the kind of crying that came from somewhere deep in your chest where you’d been holding tension for years straight. 

When they finally released you—when the applause started to fade and the curtain began rolling down—you just stood there for a moment, center stage, trying to catch your breath, trying to hold onto this feeling before it slipped away. You gasped and hiccuped as you wiped your face slightly. 

You'd forgotten what this felt like. What it was like to work toward something and have it actually pan out. To put in the hours and the effort and have it mean something tangible, something you could point to and say I did that.

The kids were filing offstage now, high-fiving each other, already dissecting every moment in rapid-fire teenage chatter. You could hear them behind you—"Did you see when I almost fell?" "That was so good!" "My mom is going to freak out—"

Parents were starting to congregate near the front of the stage. Your eyes were scanning the auditorium, searching through the crowd filtering back toward the lobby.

Fourth row. Aisle seat.

Steve.

He was standing, hands in his pockets, and the second your eyes found him, his whole face transformed. The smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed all teeth graced his face. The same smile he wore when he used to wait for you after practice, a cookie and juicebox in hand. The smile that said he was so proud of you, so proud he couldn’t contain it. It was a release from the careful one he’d been giving you for weeks, the one that never quite reached his eyes.

And something in your chest cracked wide open. Your feet were moving before you could make a conscious decision, down the stage steps—you nearly tripped on the second one but caught yourself on the railing—and through the small cluster of parents already making their way forward. Someone had touched your elbow, a congratulations you barely registered, and you mumbled thank you without stopping, without looking away from where Steve was standing. 

He'd taken his hands out of his pockets now. His expression had shifted from proud to confused, eyebrows drawing together as you got closer, weaving between seats.

"Hey, that was—" he started.

You crashed into him.

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything in you, so tight you could feel his surprise in the way his body went stiff and rigid, his breath catching sharply. For half a second, he just stood there, frozen, and your brain caught up with what you were—

Then his arms came up to your waist, pulling you closer, one hand splaying across your back and the other curling around your ribs, and he was solid and warm and completely real. You felt your feet lose hold of the ground as he tightened his arms around you, slightly lifting you in the air and rocking you back and forth for a couple seconds. 

Your face buried into his chest, the almost-dried tears probably leaving a stain on the baby blue sweater he was wearing. “Thank you,” you said, words muffled against his body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Hey,” he said, voice rough and barely a whisper—you almost forgot there were people surrounding you—and his arms tightened around you even more like he was trying to hold you together. “You don’t have to thank me. You did all the—”

“You made this happen for me.” You pulled back just enough to look at him but didn’t let go, couldn’t let go yet. Your hands were still on his shoulders, his were still on your waist. “You told Mrs. Stone about me. You gave me this. And I just—” Your voice cracked as something lodged in your throat. “Thank you, Steve. For believing I could do it.”

Steve’s eyes had gone too bright, like he was fighting to keep his own composure. His smile had gone softer now, more gentle, and his thumb was moving in tiny circles on your waist, barely perceptible. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. One of his hands moved up to the back of your head and he pulled your face closer to his chest and pressed his lips against your hair, lingering for a moment.

“You earned it,” he said quietly against your head. “I knew you’d be incredible at it. I knew the second I remembered you in high school and when I saw you with Carter, breaking down the cartwheel for him, I just—” He stopped and swallowed hard, and you felt his body move with it. “I’m really proud of you.”

The words shouldn't have hit as hard as they did. Shouldn't have made your eyes burn all over again, shouldn't have made your chest feel so full it hurt.

"Steve—" You pulled your head back to meet his eyes. 

He smiled softly, hands shaking slightly as they ran over your hair. “You looked so happy up there,” he said, his voice going thick. His hand came to cup your jaw, a ghost of a touch, as his thumb brushed just under your cheekbone. “I remember you tapping your fingers on the desk doing counts. I remember you making me watch you run through combinations in the backyard even though I had no idea what I was looking at or how I could help. I remember—” His hand was still on your face, fingers gentle against your skin like you were something precious he was afraid of breaking. “I remember thinking you were going to do amazing things with it someday. And you did. You are.”

The observation was too much. It was too raw. It was too honest what the two of you were supposed to be now. You stood there for a moment that stretched too long, his hands on your face, your hands on his shoulders, too close and not close enough all at once. People were definitely watching now. You could feel their eyes like a physical weight, hear the whispers starting to ripple through the crowd still lingering near the stage.

But Steve was looking at you like nothing else existed. Like the auditorium had emptied and it was just the two of you in this bubble where history didn't matter and broken promises could be forgotten and four years hadn't passed since the last time he'd held you like this. Since before the breakup and college and all the ways you'd both tried and failed to move on.

“Auntie!” 

Carter’s voice cut through whatever moment you were having. You dropped your hands quickly, and his fell from your face and got shoved in his pockets, and the both of you looked to see your nephew barreling toward you through the crowd. 

He crashed into your side with enough force to make you stumble. Steve's hand shot out automatically to steady you, brief contact on your elbow before he pulled away. 

"That was so cool!" Carter was bouncing on his toes, words coming out in a rush. "All the dancing and all and the girl was so good and there was this part where everyone spun at the same time and it looked like—like a kaleidoscope or something—"

"A kaleidoscope?" You laughed, ruffling his hair even though you were still trying to catch your breath, still feeling the ghost of Steve's hands on your face. "That's a big word."

"We learned it in science. But seriously, that was awesome. Can you teach me how to do that? The spinning thing?"

"You want to learn that?"

"I want to learn how to spin without falling over. That seems useful."

“Hey, kiddo,” Steve said, voice warm and still a little rough from whatever emotion he’d been holding back moments ago. He'd taken a step back to give you space, hands still firmly in his pockets, but he was smiling at your nephew with affection. "Pretty cool what your aunt pulled off, huh?"

"So cool! Did you see it, Coach Steve? Did you see the part where they all jumped at the same time? How do they do that without crashing into each other?"

"That's what she does," Steve said, and you could hear the smile in his voice even though you weren't looking at him. You were very deliberately not looking at him. "Your aunt spent weeks teaching them how to move together like that. It takes a lot of patience."

"Weeks?" Carter's eyes went wide. "That's so long. I get bored after like five minutes of practice."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Steve's tone was teasing, affectionate in that coach way he'd perfected.

Behind Carter, your family was approaching. Devon with her knowing smirk already firmly in place, your mom dabbing at her eyes with a tissue that was definitely beyond salvageable at this point, your dad looking proud in that uncomfortable way he got when emotions were involved and he didn't know what to do with his hands.

But they all stopped short when they saw Steve standing there and noticed the careful distance you'd put between yourselves that somehow still felt too close. They saw the way you were both flushed, eyes too bright, like you'd been caught doing something you shouldn't.

Devon's smirk widened into something absolutely dangerous. "Steve Harrington. Been a minute."

"Hey," Steve's smile was polite, careful, but you could see the tension creeping into his shoulders, the way he straightened his posture like he was bracing for impact. "Good to see you."

"Is it?" Devon's eyes were doing that thing where they cataloged every detail with surgical precision. The way Steve's hair was slightly messed up on one side, from your hands, oh god. The way his sweater had a wet spot on the chest from your tears. The way you were both standing too carefully, maintaining distance that felt deliberate and obvious. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks pretty complicated."

"Dev," you warned, voice low.

"What?" She raised her eyebrows in mock innocence. "I'm just making an observation. The show was great, by the way. Really great." She turned back to Steve, and her smile had teeth now. "My little sister's talented. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

The emphasis on already made your face burn hotter.

"She is," Steve agreed, and his voice was steady but you could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, the tell he'd had since high school when he was uncomfortable but trying not to show it. "The kids were really lucky to have her. Mrs. Stone made a great choice."

"Oh my goodness." Your mom had finally found her voice, and when she spoke it was thick with too many emotions to name. She was staring at Steve like she was seeing a ghost. "Steve? Steve Harrington? Is that really you?"

And here it was. The moment you'd been dreading since you'd thrown yourself at him in front of half the town.

Steve's smile shifted when he saw your mom, became something more genuine despite the clear discomfort radiating off him. “Hi,” he said, addressing your mom. "It's really good to see you."

“I had no idea you were—” Your mom’s eyes were bouncing between you and Steve like she was watching a tennis match. “Are you two?—”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, Mom. Steve teaches at the high school and he coaches Carter’s baseball team.”

“Coach Steve is the best!” Carter interjected, still bouncing with leftover excitement from the show. “He taught me how to slide into base without getting hurt and he always brings orange slices even though they're kind of a pain to peel and he lets us have extra practice if we want and he doesn't even get mad when Toby throws his glove because Toby’s working through some stuff with his parents' divorce—”

"That's great, bud," Devon said, but she wasn't looking at Carter. She was still watching you and Steve with that expression that meant you were in for a very long, very uncomfortable conversation later. Probably in the car on the way home. Probably with her asking pointed questions while you stared out the window and pretended not to hear her.

Your mom stepped closer, and you watched recognition and memory and something complicated flash across her face. She'd liked Steve, back then. She’d invited him to family dinners every Sunday and asked about his college applications and genuinely believed you two were going to make it. She had bought into the fairy tale the same way you had. And then the breakup happened, and graduation, and you'd left for college six hours away, and your mom had spent the first month calling you every night to make sure you were eating and sleeping and not completely falling apart.

You'd lied every time. Said you were fine. Said you were adjusting. Said the breakup was for the best.She'd known you were lying but had let you pretend anyway because that's what mothers did.

Steve cleared his throat, eyes darting to you, wide. “Health,” he squeaked out. His hands were buried in his pockets. You could see him curling them into fists, then relaxing, then curling again. “Also some P.E. classes when the coach needs me to cover. And yeah, I coach middle school baseball.”

“That’s wonderful,” your mom said, smiling brightly. “That’s so different from—” So different from the basketball scholarship you used to talk about. So different from the party boy we all thought you’d be forever. 

"Yeah," Steve said simply, and he didn't elaborate. 

"And you recommended our daughter for this position?" Your mom's eyes were sharp now, focused. 

"I did." Steve glanced at you, and something in his expression softened despite the careful neutrality he was trying to maintain like he couldn't help it. As though his face just did that automatically when he looked at you. "Mrs. Stone was looking for someone to choreograph the musical and I remembered—" He stopped, corrected himself. "I knew she'd be perfect for it. And she was. The kids were really lucky."

Your mom’s face softened and hardened at the same time, if that was possible. She remembered, too. She was remembering Steve picking you up for your dates, promising your dad to have you home by 10:30 on the dot, Steve talking about apartment-hunting. And also the Steve at graduation who could hardly meet her eyes when she hugged him goodbye. 

Carter was looking between all the adults like he was trying to figure out why everyone was being weird. Devon was openly enjoying your discomfort now, smirking like this was the best entertainment she'd had in months. Your dad had appeared from somewhere—probably the bathroom, he always disappeared during emotional moments—and was now standing slightly behind your mom, looking uncomfortable and ready to escape.

"Well." Your dad clapped Steve on the shoulder, one of those firm pats that was borderline aggressive, the kind men did when they didn't know how else to communicate. "Good to see you, son. You look well. More grown up than last time."

Last time was graduation. Steve surprising your parents with a different girlfriend. You, with your college decision six hours away, like a lifeline. Your dad had shaken Steve’s hand and said, “Good luck with everything,” in a tone that meant do not ever come near my daughter again, even though the damage was catastrophically done. 

Your mom was still doing that thing where she looked between you and Steve, and you could practically see her mental notebook filling with observations.

She was your mother. She'd changed your diapers and taught you to read and held you while you cried over this exact boy four years ago. She knew.

"I should—" Steve gestured vaguely toward the exit, already taking a step back. "Let you guys celebrate. This is a family moment. Congratulations again. The show was—" He stopped, looked at you directly for the first time since your family had arrived. "You were incredible."

You smiled softly as you watched him retreat slowly, with all eyes on him. 

“So,” Devon said into the silence. “That was subtle.”

“Dev, I swear to god—”

“What? I’m just saying if you wanted to keep whatever this was a secret, maybe don’t do it in front of a crowded auditorium.” She was grinning now. “Pretty sure half the PTA saw you two basically—”

"We weren't doing anything," you cut her off, face burning so hot you probably looked sunburned.

"Mmhmm. Why your lipstick is smudged?"

“Whaaa—” Your hand flew to your mouth automatically. Devon laughed.

"Got you. Your lipstick is fine. But you should see your face right now."

"I hate you."

"No you don't." She slung an arm around your shoulders, still grinning. "But we are definitely talking about this later. In detail. With wine."

"There's nothing to talk about—"

"Honey." Your mom's voice cut through your protests, gentle but firm. "Can we not do this right now? Not here?"

You looked at her and saw understanding in her eyes. There was just concern. The same concern she'd had four years ago when you'd come home from college for Thanksgiving break and she'd found you crying in your childhood bedroom at two AM.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Yeah. Okay."

She squeezed your arm. "We'll talk tomorrow. Lunch. Just you and me."

"Mom—"

"Tomorrow," she said firmly, but kindly. "Tonight, we celebrate. You did something amazing today. You should be proud."

"I am," you said, and meant it. "I really am."

Carter tugged on your sleeve. "Can we get ice cream? I feel like this deserves ice cream. That was way cooler than my baseball games."

"Hey," your dad protested mildly.

"It was! There was dancing and costumes and the person sitting next to us cried real tears! When's the last time someone cried at one of my games?"

"Last week when you got hit in the face with the ball," Devon pointed out. “I cried because I thought your nose was messed up forever.”

"That doesn't count!"

“Hi, Steve,” you said as the door opened, hands flexing and unflexing by your sides. 

He looked like he’d been crying. His eyes were dry and his face was composed, but there was a redness around his eyes and a rawness to his expression that made your chest ache. He was still in the same sweater from the show. His hair was a mess, like he’d been running his hands through it over and over. There was a beer bottle in his hand, barely touched by the looks of it, condensation dripping down the glass.

He stared at you for a long moment, like you were a hallucination. “Hi,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. 

You'd left dinner early and told your family you were tired, that the adrenaline crash was hitting you hard and you needed to sleep. Devon had given you a look that said she knew exactly where you were going, but she hadn't stopped you. Your mom had hugged you and told you to call her about tomorrow. Carter had made you promise to teach him the spinning thing next week.

And then you'd driven here—to Steve's apartment—without letting yourself think about it too hard because if you thought about it, you'd talk yourself out of it.

You'd sat in your car in the parking lot for fifteen minutes, engine off, hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what you were doing. What you were going to say. Why you'd come here instead of going home to decompress in your own bed like a normal person.

“Can I come in?” you asked and your voice came out smaller than you’d intended.

Steve stepped back immediately, opening the door wider. “Yeah. Yeah. Of course—yeah.”

You walked past him into the apartment and it looked different than it had a few weeks ago. Or maybe you were just seeing it differently now. The picture was gone from the dresser in the bedroom, you could see through the open door that the surface was bare except for a lamp and some spare change. There was a stack of graded papers on the coffee table, red pen marks visible from here. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. The TV was on but muted, some late-night show with a laugh track you couldn't hear.

It looked like he'd been sitting here alone, grading papers and not eating. 

Steve closed the door behind you but stayed rooted in his spot, watching you.

“Sorry for just showing up,” you said, turning to face him. “I know it’s late. I should’ve called—”

"Don't apologize." He set the beer down on the side table with more force than necessary. "You can show up here whenever you want. I mean—not that you'd want to, I just—" He stopped and ran a hand through his hair which made it worse. "I'm glad you're here."

"Your family. They must be so proud. You should be celebrating with them."

"I was." You shoved your hands in your jacket pockets because you didn't know what to do with them. "We went to dinner. Got ice cream. Carter talked for forty-five minutes straight about the show. My mom cried three more times.”

“Good,” Steve said, nodding. “That’s good.”

"I kept thinking about—about you. About how you were the one who made tonight possible. How you believed in me when I didn't even believe in myself. How you've been showing up even though you didn't have to. How—"

You stopped because your voice was breaking and you weren't sure you could finish the sentence without falling apart.

Steve was staring at you with an expression that looked like hope and pain and disbelief all tangled together.

“I should’ve been there,” he said quietly. “With you guys. I should’ve—” He laughed, all bitter and self-depracating. “But I can’t be there. Because I’m not—we’re not—” He gestured helplessly between the two of you. “I fucked that up four years ago and I keep fucking it up.”

“Steve,” you said, voice trailing. 

He shook his head, more to himself than you. “Your dad looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he should punch me.” Steve’s voice was getting louder now, more emotion bleeding through. “Your mom looked sad and it was—like she barely knew me.” He stopped and pressed his palms into his eyes. 

You’d never seen Steve like this. Even at seventeen, when he broke up with you, he held it together. Even the night at his apartment, he hadn’t let this much show. 

"I sat here after the show," Steve continued, hands dropping from his face. His eyes were red now, wet. “And I thought about everything I missed. You going to college. Your sister’s anniversaries. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and every birthday party. All those moments where I would’ve been there if I hadn’t just—” He stopped. “And I thought about the life we were going to have that I threw away because I was a stupid kid who didn’t realize how good he had it.”

“Steve—” You took a step toward him. 

“No, let—let me—” He held up a hand. “I—when you saw the picture that night, I should’ve told you that it didn’t work out between me and her. It never could. With her or anybody else.” He met your eyes, and your vision was beginning to get foggy. “Nobody I’ve met can be you,” he said quietly. “And I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself it was for the best. That you were better off without me.”

He laughed, and it almost sounded broken.

“But then you came back,” he continued. “And you were just, exactly the same and completely different all at once. And I thought maybe I could handle it all. Maybe I could be a friend. But tonight—when you hugged me—” His voice cracked as he went to lean against the wall. “I can’t be normal about you. I don’t know how to be normal about you.” 

You were crying now. You couldn't help it. The tears were hot on your cheeks and you didn't bother wiping them away.

“If I could go back,” he started, neck craning to look at the ceiling as he rubbed a palm over his neck, throat bobbing. “If I could go back, I would do everything we planned. I would follow you wherever you went. I would’ve—”

His voice broke completely and he stopped, hand still on his neck like he was trying to physically hold himself together. You watched his chest rise and fall too fast, watched him try to get control of his breathing.

Steve looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were devastated. "I would've packed up my car and driven to whatever college you got into. Would've gotten some shitty apartment nearby and worked whatever jobs I could find just to—just to be close to you.” He pushed off the wall and started pacing. “I think about it sometimes, about what our apartment would’ve looked like. We probably would’ve gotten that place on Maple Street, no? The one we circled on the map, remember?”

You did remember. You'd circled it together during lunch senior year, sitting in his car, planning a future that felt so real you could taste it.

"I remember," you said.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I thought you were living a whole life without me. I thought you’d done everything you’d wanted and living and doing exactly what you dreamed about. And I was—” He laughed shortly. “I was so happy for you. Even though it killed me.”

He moved toward you and his fingers clasped around your wrist as he meekly gestured to the living room. You followed him in as he walked, completely in a trance from everything that was coming out of his mouth. 

You sat on the couch, a short distance away from him, and watched his head lean back as he stared at the ceiling again. “I feel so stupid,” he said into the air. 

“Don’t,” you said, trying to get your voice out. “Don’t feel stupid. You—well, you weren’t wrong when you said it was all too much we were planning.” He turned his neck to look at you then, brows furrowing. “I was stupid to think it all could be a fairytale like we planned. It wouldn’t have worked, probably.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve said, voice so broken like you’d just slapped him in the face. “Don’t make what we had smaller just because I fucked it up. It would’ve worked.”

“We were seventeen—”

“I don’t care,” he said, shaking his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t care that we were young and that people say high school relationships don’t last. I don’t care about the odds or anything. It would’ve worked because we would’ve made it work. Because we loved each other enough to—” He stopped abruptly, like something was caught in his throat. 

Your mouth was parted, staring at him because you had no idea how to respond.

“I would’ve married you.” The words came out so raw, so desperate, and his eyes were locked on yours now like he needed you to hear the words completely. Your breath caught. “I would’ve married you and stood in front of everyone and promised to love you for the rest of my life. And I would’ve meant it. Every fucking word.”

Your chest felt like it was caving in, and you could feel seventeen-year-old you crawling through your body, shaking and letting the tears fall down your cheeks. 

“I know I said—I said it like it was a bad thing when I was breaking up with you but I didn’t mean it. I swear, I didn’t mean it. I’ve spent years wishing I could take it back and said what I actually meant instead of—instead of making you feel like loving me was too much. Like wanting to be with me was something to be ashamed of.”

You were crying now, full-on crying, tears streaming down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

"You made me feel like I was crazy," you said, and your voice was shaking with anger and grief and four years of hurt. "Like I was this—this desperate girl who was trying to trap you into something you didn't want. And I—" Your voice broke. "I spent so long trying to figure out why I was so afraid of wanting things. Of planning for the future. Of—of expecting anything from anyone. Because you made me feel like expectations were a burden.”

"I know." Steve's voice was wrecked. "I know and I'm—I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined that for you.And I—" He stopped, hand coming up to cover his mouth for a second. "I hate myself for that. For making you feel like you were crazy for wanting what we both wanted. For making you doubt yourself when you were—you were right. About all of it. About us. About forever."

"Steve—"

"I would've married you," he said again, and this time his voice was steady. "Fuck, I would've married you right out of high school and I would've been terrified and I probably would've fucked up a thousand different ways but I would've—I would've shown up. Every single day. I would've chosen you. And I'm so sorry I didn't."

Something in you broke completely. Four years of holding yourself together, of telling yourself you were fine, of pretending the breakup hadn't fundamentally changed who you were, all of it shattered.

You were sobbing now, the kind of crying that made your whole body shake, the kind you'd been holding back since the moment you'd seen him at baseball practice for the first time.

Steve moved closer, hesitant, like he wasn't sure if he was allowed. "Can I—?"

You didn't let him finish. You just collapsed against him, face pressed into his chest, hands fisted in his sweater. And he held you, arms tight around you, one hand in your hair and the other splayed across your back, holding you together while you fell apart.

“I’m sorry,” he said against your hair. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, baby.”

"I would've married you," Steve said again, and you could feel his tears in your hair now. "I would've married you and I would've been so fucking proud to call you my wife. And I threw that away because I was seventeen and stupid and scared. And I've regretted it every single day since."

You pulled back just enough to look at him, and his face was wrecked. Tears streaming down his cheeks, eyes red and swollen, expression raw and open in a way you'd never seen before.

“You really hurt me,” you said, your voice coming out broken and accusatory. 

"I know." He was crying harder now too. "I know. And I don't—I don't know how to fix that. I don't know how to give you back what I took. But I—" He stopped, hands coming up to cup your face, thumbs brushing away tears that just kept coming. "I want to try. If you'll let me. I want to spend however long it takes proving to you that I'm not going anywhere this time. That when I say forever, I mean it. That you can trust me again."

"I don't know if I can," you whispered.

"I know." His forehead pressed against yours. "I know. But can I—can I at least try?"

"I would've said yes," you said quietly.

Steve's breath caught. "What?"

"If you'd asked me to marry you. At graduation. Or after. Or—or anytime. I would've said yes." Your voice was shaking. "I would've married you in a heartbeat and I wouldn't have cared if we were too young or if everyone said it wouldn't work. I would've—" You stopped. "I would've chosen you. Every time."

Steve made a sound that was half-sob, half-something else, as he pressed his eyes closed. His arms tightened around you.

"I'm so sorry," he said again. "I'm so sorry I didn't give you that chance. I'm so sorry I made you feel like wanting that was wrong. I'm so sorry I—"

You kissed him.

Cut him off mid-apology because you couldn't hear him say sorry one more time, couldn't handle the weight of his regret on top of your own grief. You kissed him and he kissed you back desperately, like you were oxygen and he'd been suffocating.

It was messy and wet with tears and tasted like salt. His hands were in your hair and yours were fisted in his sweater and you were both crying and kissing and trying to get closer even though there was no space left between you.

When you finally pulled apart, you were both gasping for air.

"I don't know how to do this," you admitted. "I don't know how to trust this again."

"We'll figure it out," Steve said, and he sounded more certain than you'd heard him all night. "Together. We'll figure it out together. No more running. No more making decisions alone. We'll—"

"Actually talk to each other like adults?" you suggested, voice watery.

"Yeah." He laughed, and it sounded lighter now, almost hopeful. "That. We'll do that."

You sat there on his couch, wrapped in his arms, both of you crying, both of you acknowledging that this was going to be hard and messy and complicated.

But for the first time in four years, you felt like maybe—maybe—you could find your way back to each other.

“I love you so much,” he said, breaking the silence the two of you had build like a cocoon around you. His voice was soft, barely there. 

And your shoulders shook as you realized this was the first time you’d heard him say the words in so long. Because Steve Harrington was saying everything you'd needed to hear four years ago. Everything you'd needed to hear to know you weren't crazy for wanting forever with him. That your expectations hadn't been too much. That loving him the way you had wasn't something to be ashamed of.

You cried against his chest and he held you through it, murmuring apologies and promises and I love yous into your hair until the tears finally slowed, until you could breathe again, until you felt like maybe you could start to believe him.