laura

But you hadn’t seen him.

Not in real life.

Not close enough to remember the shape of his smile or the way his eyes softened before he laughed.

That was probably why you convinced yourself you were fine.

It was easy to be fine when he was just a name you avoided, a memory you kept folded up somewhere quiet. It was easy to tell people you were happy for him, that things ended naturally, that sometimes two people loved each other and still lost the timing.

That was what everyone said, wasn’t it?

Bad timing.

You hated that phrase.

It made heartbreak sound polite.

The party was smaller than you expected, tucked inside a friend’s apartment with warm lighting, half-empty wine glasses, and people sitting on the arms of couches because there weren’t enough seats. It was the kind of gathering you usually liked. Familiar faces. Music low enough to talk over. Someone in the kitchen making everyone try a dip they were very proud of.

You should’ve been comfortable.

Instead, from the second you walked in, you felt like you were waiting for something.

Or someone.

You knew Joe might be there. Your friend had mentioned it so casually that it almost made you laugh.

“Joe said he might stop by.”

As if that sentence didn’t still have the power to ruin your evening.

You’d nodded like it meant nothing.

“Cool.”

Cool.

Pathetic.

So, you did what you always did when you were trying not to care. You became too normal. Too cheerful. You laughed a little too quickly, asked people too many questions, kept your hands busy with a drink you barely touched.

For almost an hour, it worked.

Then the front door opened.

You didn’t turn around at first.

There were voices in the hallway, a burst of cold air, someone saying, “Finally, dude,” and then a laugh.

His laugh.

Your body knew before your brain did.

It was awful, really, how quickly it all came back. How one sound could reach across months and pull you straight back into every version of yourself that had ever loved him.

You stood near the window, your fingers tightening around your glass.

Don’t turn around, you told yourself.

Then you did.

Joe was standing in the doorway, half-lit by the warm yellow light from the hall. He was wearing a dark jacket, his hair slightly messy from outside, cheeks pink from the cold. Someone was talking to him, but he wasn’t fully listening anymore.

Because he’d seen you too.

For a second, the whole apartment seemed to fall away.

The music, the voices, the clinking glasses. All of it blurred around the edges until there was only him, standing there in the light of the window across from you, wearing that same smile.

Not a big one.

Not the kind he gave cameras or strangers.

It was smaller than that. Softer.

The smile that used to appear when he came home and found you asleep on the couch. The smile he gave you when you’d say something stupid and then immediately pretend you hadn’t. The smile you never realised you’d missed so much until it was right in front of you again.

And just like that, you remembered.

You remembered you loved him.

Not in some dramatic, movie kind of way. Not like lightning. More like breathing in after holding your breath for too long.

You remembered slowly and then all at once.

You remembered his hands on your waist in crowded kitchens. His voice in the morning, rough with sleep. The way he used to press his cold nose against your neck just to annoy you. The way he’d always say your name gently, even when you were arguing.

You remembered how safe he used to feel.

How much you had missed being known by him.

Joe looked at you like he was having the exact same realisation.

That made it worse.

Or better.

You weren’t sure yet.

He started making his way over, stopping when people greeted him, hugging someone quickly, answering a question with a distracted nod. His eyes kept coming back to you like he was checking you were still there.

By the time he reached you, your heart was beating so hard it felt embarrassing.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You swallowed.

“Hi.”

That was it.

Months of silence, and all you had was hi.

Joe smiled, but his eyes looked a little sad.

“Man,” he said, letting out a quiet breath. “It’s been a while.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out thinner than you wanted.

“Yeah. It has.”

He looked at you for a moment, properly looked at you, and you forgot how to stand normally.

“You look…” He paused, like he was trying to choose a word that wouldn’t give too much away. Then he shook his head a little. “You look really good.”

You smiled down at your drink.

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know.”

You looked back up.

Joe’s expression was open. Nervous, almost. Like he wasn’t hiding behind charm tonight.

“That’s why I said it,” he added.

You hated how easily that got to you.

There was a pause between you, full of every unsaid thing.

Then he nodded toward the window behind you.

“You still do that.”

“What?”

“Stand by windows at parties.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I do not.”

“You do.” His smile grew. “You say it’s because you like the view, but really it’s because you want to be near an escape route.”

Your mouth fell open slightly.

“That is not true.”

“It’s completely true.”

You wanted to argue, but the familiar warmth of it hit you too hard. The fact he remembered something so small. The fact he said it like no time had passed, like he still had a drawer full of tiny details about you in his head.

Your smile faded before you could stop it.

Joe noticed.

Of course he did.

His face softened.

“Sorry,” he said quietly.

You shook your head.

“No. It’s okay.”

But your voice had changed.

Both of you heard it.

Joe’s hand shifted at his side, like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t know if he was allowed.

“You okay?” he asked.

You looked at him and almost laughed.

Because what a question.

Were you okay?

You were standing in front of the person you had spent almost a year trying to unlove, and he still knew where you stood at parties. He still looked at you like that. He still made the room feel smaller just by being in it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

Joe nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me neither.”

The honesty of it made your throat tighten.

Someone behind him called his name, but he didn’t turn around. He stayed exactly where he was, looking at you with that careful, familiar softness.

“Do you want to get some air?” he asked.

You let out a tiny laugh.

“I’m already by the window.”

“I mean outside.”

“It’s freezing.”

“I’ll give you my jacket.”

“You always do that.”

His smile flickered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

And that was enough to make your eyes sting.

You looked away quickly, blinking at the lights outside.

Joe’s voice dropped.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You still say that when you’re not.”

You looked back at him.

His eyes were gentle, but there was sadness there now too. The kind that came from knowing someone well enough to hurt them without meaning to.

You held his gaze for a second, then sighed.

“Air would be good.”

The two of you slipped out onto the fire escape through the window. It was clumsy and awkward, especially when your shoe caught slightly and Joe instinctively reached out to steady you.

His hand landed at your waist.

Just for a second.

Both of you froze.

His touch was warm through your clothes, familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

“Sorry,” he said, pulling back quickly.

“It’s okay,” you said.

You wished he hadn’t moved.

You hated that you wished that.

Outside, the air was cold enough to make you shiver almost immediately. Joe noticed within seconds and took off his jacket without a word.

“Joe.”

“What?”

“You’ll be cold.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re shivering.”

“I’m barely shivering.”

“You’re aggressively shivering.”

You rolled your eyes, but you let him drape the jacket around your shoulders. His fingers brushed your collarbone lightly as he fixed it, careful and gentle.

“There,” he said.

You pulled the jacket closer around you.

It smelled like him.

That was unfair.

You stared out at the street below, blinking harder than necessary.

For a few moments, neither of you said anything.

The party carried on behind you, muffled through the window. Laughter. Music. The kind of life you were meant to go back to once this strange little moment ended.

Joe leaned beside you, elbows on the railing.

“I thought seeing you would be easier,” he said.

You looked at him.

He let out a breath, smiling faintly but not happily.

“I don’t know why. That sounds stupid now.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does a little.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Maybe a little.”

He laughed quietly, and the sound settled something in you.

Then he looked at you again.

“I missed you.”

The words were simple.

That was what made them hurt.

You pressed your lips together, looking down at your hands inside his sleeves.

“I missed you too.”

Joe looked like he’d been holding his breath and had only just remembered how to let it out.

“Yeah?”

You nodded.

“Yeah.”

His eyes moved over your face, soft and almost disbelieving.

“I didn’t know if you did.”

You laughed once, but it came out shaky.

“Joe.”

“I know,” he said. “I know. I just…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I thought maybe you were better off. And I didn’t want to be selfish.”

You looked at him for a long moment.

“You were always too good at deciding things for me.”

His face changed.

Not defensive. Just guilty.

“You’re right.”

That surprised you.

He looked out over the street.

“I told myself leaving you alone was the decent thing to do,” he said. “That if I really loved you, I’d let you move on without dragging you back into all of it.”

Your chest tightened.

“And did you?”

He looked at you.

“Did I what?”

“Let me move on?”

Joe’s eyes softened painfully.

“I tried.”

The cold air slipped between you.

You nodded slowly.

“I tried too.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Did it work?”

You looked at him, and that was answer enough.

Joe’s expression crumpled slightly, like he wished it didn’t make him happy to hear that.

You looked away first because your eyes were burning again.

“It’s so annoying,” you said, wiping quickly under one eye.

“What is?”

“You.”

He let out a surprised laugh.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” You laughed too, even though you were crying now. “You come back with your stupid hair and your stupid jacket and your stupid face, and I’m supposed to act normal?”

Joe’s smile broke through, soft and helpless.

“My stupid face?”

“Don’t make me say nice things right now.”

“I would never.”

“You would absolutely.”

He looked at you for a second, then his smile faded into something gentler.

“I saw you by the window,” he said, “and I just…”

You waited.

He looked down at the railing, almost embarrassed.

“I remembered.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

Joe’s thumb rubbed against the side of his own hand, nervous.

“I remembered loving you,” he said. “Not that I forgot. I didn’t. But I think I got used to missing you in this quiet way, and then I saw you standing there, and it wasn’t quiet anymore.”

You couldn’t speak.

He looked at you then, eyes shining slightly.

“It was just there again. All of it.”

Your face crumpled before you could stop it.

Joe’s expression softened instantly.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” you admitted, laughing through the tears. “I’m really not.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that you could move away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

“I knew it,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him.

“I knew I missed you. I knew I still looked for you in every room. I knew I wasn’t over it.” His voice softened even more. “But then I saw you tonight, and I knew you. I remembered how it felt to know you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek.

Joe lifted his hand, then stopped.

“Can I?”

You nodded.

His thumb brushed the tear away so gently it made you want to cry harder.

“You still ask,” you whispered.

“Of course I do.”

That was it.

That was the thing that broke you a little.

Not a grand speech. Not a dramatic confession. Just the way he still treated your heart like something he was lucky to be near.

You leaned forward before you could overthink it, resting your forehead against his chest.

Joe froze for half a second.

Then his arms wrapped around you.

Carefully at first.

Then tighter.

Like he’d been waiting months to hold you and was trying not to make it too obvious.

You closed your eyes as his chin rested lightly on top of your head.

“I missed this,” you whispered.

His hand moved slowly over your back.

“Me too.”

“I missed you being annoying.”

“I can be more annoying. Really easily.”

You laughed into his shirt, and you felt him laugh too.

“I missed that,” he said.

“What?”

“You laughing at me.”

“I’m laughing with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”

His arms tightened around you for a second, and somehow that made everything feel lighter.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His face was close now. Too close to pretend this was casual. His eyes moved over yours, down to your mouth, then back up again.

But he didn’t rush.

He never did when it mattered.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he said.

You swallowed.

“Then don’t.”

He nodded, serious.

“I won’t.”

“You can’t just say things like that because it’s a nice moment.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Joe.”

“I know,” he said again. “I’m not saying I have everything figured out. I’m not saying we just go back like nothing happened.” He paused. “But I know I don’t want to walk back inside and pretend this didn’t mean something.”

Your eyes searched his face.

“And what does it mean?”

He smiled faintly.

“I think it means I’m still in love with you.”

Your breath caught.

There it was.

So simple.

So awful.

So perfect.

You looked down, overwhelmed, and Joe immediately panicked.

“Sorry. Was that too much? That was probably too much. I can take like, twenty percent of it back if you want.”

A laugh burst out of you through the tears.

“You can’t take twenty percent of being in love back.”

“I could try.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But I’m your idiot, historically.”

You looked up at him.

He looked nervous now, like he realised he’d said too much again.

You smiled, small and teary.

“Historically.”

Joe’s face warmed.

“I’ll take historically.”

You shook your head, but you were still smiling.

Then, because you were tired of pretending and tired of waiting and tired of acting like loving him was something you had grown out of, you reached for his hand.

His fingers closed around yours immediately.

Like muscle memory.

Like home.

“I think I’m still in love with you too,” you said.

Joe stared at you.

For once, he had no joke ready.

His eyes went glassy, and he looked away for a second, laughing softly under his breath like he needed somewhere to put the feeling.

“Don’t cry,” you said, even though you were crying.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m emotionally sweating.”

You laughed again, and he looked back at you with that same smile.

The one from the doorway.

The one from before.

The one you knew.

He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

It was so gentle that it hurt.

Not badly.

Just deeply.

Like something in you had been waiting for it.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he said. “I don’t want to assume anything. I just… I’d really like to see you again. Properly.”

“You’re seeing me now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

He smiled.

“Dinner?”

You pretended to think about it.

“With you?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Hmm.”

“Wow. I pour my heart out and get hmm.”

You smiled wider.

“I’m considering.”

“Take your time. I’m only freezing.”

You looked down at his thin shirt and finally laughed properly.

“Oh my God. Joe, take your jacket back.”

“No.”

“You’re literally shaking.”

“I’m being romantic.”

“You’re being stupid.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

You rolled your eyes but stepped closer, wrapping the jacket around both of you as best you could. It didn’t really work, but Joe seemed pleased anyway, pulling you back into him with a smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“I know.”

His cheek rested lightly against your hair.

You stood there together, half-wrapped in his jacket, the city glowing beneath you and the party humming behind you.

Nothing was fully solved.

There would be things to talk about. Real things. The kind that didn’t fit neatly into a cute moment on a fire escape. You both knew that.

But his hand was warm in yours.

His smile was the same.

And when you looked up at him, you didn’t feel like you were going backward.

You felt like something had come back when it mattered.

Joe looked down at you.

“What?” you asked.

He smiled, soft and teary and familiar.

“Nothing.”

“You always say nothing when it’s something.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You know me.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I knew it.”

His smile grew.

“I knew you.”

And there it was.

The thing you’d both been pretending not to know.

That sometimes love left quietly, not because it was gone, but because it was waiting for the right moment to come home.

Even after a year of dating Steve Harrington, you were still discovering new things about him.

Like how he took his coffee with way too much sugar, three big scoops to be exact. Or how he was getting fidgety when he wanted to ask you something. Or even the way he would get pouty when he was getting tired.

But a thing you discovered recently was that Steve Harrington couldn't stop frowning when he was kissing you.

You weren't the one to even come upon that information. It was during Nancy's birthday, you both went in a corner to exchange some kisses when you were interrupted by the flash of a camera.

You remember the embarrassed smile Jonathan flashed you, saying that he wanted to make a small album of the party to give to Nancy later, so seeing you two kissing was a good photo opportunity for him knowing that Nancy was one of your relationship's biggest supporters.

But you mostly remember the way Robin couldn't stop laughing as she looked at the photo Jonathan took.

At first you had thought that she was laughing at the both of you, that maybe you were kissing weirdly.

You had been so wrong, because not even a second after, Robin showed you the photo, pointing at Steve's face as she laughed.

"Dude, why are you frowning like that?"

You don't remember much of the conversation after that. You just know that trying to take a look while he's kissing you has became your favourite hobby for the last few weeks.

Like right now for example.

You had been making out since he came home from work, his body on top of yours, pinning you to the bed, his forearms caging your head while his hands were gently cupping your cheeks, feeling how warm they were.

What once started as just some kisses between questions about each other's day quickly became more kisses and touches and fewer words.

Steve's lips were soft against yours, sucking lightly on your bottom lip while his hands were roaming over you. At first cupping your cheeks before trailing up to brush his thumbs on the shell of your ears to finally travel down, big and warm hands cupping your thighs, coaxing your legs open to make room for him to slide between them, hips fitting together.

The only sounds filling your room were your heavy breathing taking over the sound of the vinyl you put on while waiting for Steve, playing Dress You Up by Madonna, and the rustling of your clothes and the sheets beneath you as you kept moving around, trying your best to be closer to each other than you already were.

But you couldn't help opening your eyes from time to time to only be met by the sight of Steve's closed eyes and furrowed brow.

A laugh escaped your lips, making Steve hum. "What's so funny, baby?" He asked, his lips brushing yours with every word.

"Nothing, nothing, come here." You said with a big smile as you pulled him closer for another kiss.

But that kiss never came, because the moment you pulled him closer, he immediately closed his eyes, puckered his lips and, obviously, frowned.

And the moment you saw that, you couldn't contain your laugh, a giggle escaping you as you put your hand on your mouth, trying your best to stop laughing at your frowny boyfriend.

"What? Did I do something?" Steve was starting to pout, frowning even more as he looked at you with a confused face.

Not that he wasn't happy you were laughing. It was probably one of his favourite sounds ever. But when he wasn't sure why you were laughing, and when he had a feeling it was because of him, he didn't really know what to do.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. It's just... your face, Stevie." You tried to say between laugther.

"My face? What about it? Baby, you're confusing me here." His knuckles were brushing your cheek as he leaned closer, his nose bumping yours.

"You're getting all frowny when you're kissing me." You said with a big smile on your lips.

Steve just sighed and hid his face in the crook of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin.

"Oh my god... you're never going to let that go?" Steve asked, and you could feel him getting pouty, his lips brushing your skin at each word leaving his kiss-swollen lips.

"Never." You hummed softly while cupping his cheeks so you could make him look at you.

His cheeks were a baby pink, making his big brown eyes look even prettier with that soft colour spreading on his face. You just wanted to eat him alive. He was the cutest when he was embarrassed.

Steve just rolled his eyes before diving back for another kiss, not caring if he was making the most embarrassing face while doing it.

And if he needed to kiss you harder to make your mind dizzy so you would forget to laugh about that fact, he would do it without thinking.

Like right now.

Your laughter died in your throat, the sound being swallowed by Steve's lips. His hands slid down to go beneath your shirt, his rough fingertips meeting the softness of your skin, tracing small circles on your stomach. He couldn't help but smile into the kiss as he felt you shiver at the contact.

His mouth was starting to leave your lips to go kiss other places, going from the corner of them to your cheek before finally meeting the skin connecting your shoulder and neck.

You felt his teeth grazing lightly the skin there as one of his hands crept up, thumb brushing lightly your nipple, coaxing a soft sigh out of you.

His tongue was sliding over your skin in a way that made you tug on his already messy hair, leaving soft marks on your neck, before soothing them with soft kisses.

"Can I take this off, baby?" You heard Steve ask, voice muffled against your neck as he tugged on your top with the hand that wasn't occupied with playing with your nipple, rolling it against his fingers.

You just nodded at his question, too focused on the feeling of his fingers to be able to form a word.

Without further words, your shirt was on the floor, his shirt following shortly after.

Your fingers were travelling from his messy hair to his chest, digging into the hair covering the skin there, smiling lightly at the feeling of it beneath your fingertips.

You loved how your boyfriend looked shirtless, between the softness of his stomach, his chest covered in black hair and the happy trail that made you way too desperate at the sight of it. You were down bad for him and it wasn't new.

Steve couldn't wait any longer, so he started pressing kisses all over the skin he could reach, from soft kisses on your collarbone to sloppy ones on your stomach while taking your hand in his, lacing your fingers together and squeezing them each time he was kissing another area of your body.

He was still frowning, brows furrowed as he concentrated on making you feel good.

But you were too lost in pleasure to even attempt to tease him. Especially when he was working his way lower, hands already unzipping your jeans as he continued to kiss your lower stomach, lips dangerously close to where you needed him the most.

and right now, sitting in the middle of family video while robin and dustin argued over which movie to put on for movie night, steve was laughing exactly like that.

“i’m just saying,” dustin said, throwing his hands up dramatically, “nobody wants to watch some three-hour romance where people stare at each other in the rain.”

“it’s not a romance,” you cut in from beside the counter. “it’s literally a political thriller.”

dustin squinted. “there’s kissing in the trailer.”

“there’s one kiss.”

“yeah, and that’s enough.”

steve snorted beside you, leaning back against the shelves. “he’s got a point.”

you looked at him flatly. “you haven’t even seen it.”

“yeah, but i mean it is three hours long..”

robin groaned loudly. “maybe if your attention span wasn’t like one of a goldfish.”

“thank you,” steve said automatically.

“that wasn’t a compliment.”

normally, this was easy. effortless. the four of you slipping around each other in familiar rhythm, arguing over stupid things until someone laughed hard enough to kill the tension.

but today had already been bad before any of them got there.

you’d had a horrible shift at work. your manager had snapped at you in front of customers, your feet hurt, and somewhere between trying not to cry in the employee bathroom and driving over to family video, you’d lost your patience entirely.

so when dustin rolled his eyes and muttered, “your taste in movies is actually insane,” something in you snapped.

“god, why is everyone being such an asshole today?”

the store went quiet.

not silent exactly — the fluorescent lights still buzzed overhead, the rewinder clicked somewhere behind the counter — but the kind of quiet where everyone suddenly becomes aware that something shifted.

dustin blinked. “i was joking.”

“well, maybe i’m not in the mood for jokes.”

“okay,” he said slowly, defensive already. “sorry?”

you exhaled sharply, rubbing your forehead. “forget it.”

but dustin, being dustin, couldn’t let things go.

“seriously, what’s your problem?”

robin immediately winced while steve straightened beside you.

“nothing’s my problem,” you shot back.

“you’re literally biting everyone’s head off.”

“because everyone keeps pushing me!”

“we were talking about movies!”

“dustin,” robin warned quietly.

“no, because she does this sometimes,” he continued, frustration creeping into his voice now. “she gets in a bad mood and suddenly everybody else has to deal with it.”

the words hit harder than they should’ve. mostly because they were true.

your face burned instantly. embarrassment curling hot in your stomach.

“okay,” you said quietly. “cool.”

dustin crossed his arms, clearly still annoyed, but before he could say another word, steve stepped forward.

“alright, enough.”

It wasn’t loud.

that was the thing about steve when he was serious — he almost never raised his voice. he just changed completely. shoulders squared. expression flattening. suddenly impossible to ignore.

dustin looked thrown off immediately. “i’m just saying—”

“yeah, and now you can stop saying it.”

“steve—”

“no.” steve pointed toward the front counter. “she’s had a shitty day, and you’re piling onto her over a movie nobody actually cares about.”

“i care about it!”

“dustin.”

there was warning in his tone now.

real warning.

the kind steve rarely used.

dustin scoffed. “you always do this.”

steve frowned. “do what?”

“take her side even when she’s wrong.”

and there it was.

you felt your stomach twist.

because that was the part that always scared you — not the arguments themselves, but the possibility that eventually people would get tired of you. tired of your moods. tired of needing reassurance. tired of handling you carefully.

you opened your mouth before steve could respond.

“he’s right, actually.”

steve looked at you immediately. “what?”

“i was being a dick.”

“baby—”

“i was.” your voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word. “he didn’t do anything.”

the frustration drained from steve’s face instantly, replaced by something softer. concerned.

you hated that look sometimes. hated how easily he could see through you.

dustin shifted awkwardly now, guilt finally catching up to him. “i mean… i wasn’t trying to make you feel bad.”

“it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine,” steve said.

you looked away.

and then, because the universe apparently enjoyed humiliating you, your eyes started burning.

oh, perfect.

perfect timing.

“okay,” you laughed weakly, grabbing your bag off the counter. “i’m actually gonna go before i make this worse.”

“hey.” steve reached for your wrist immediately. “where are you going?”

“home.”

“no, you’re not.”

you stared at him. “steve—”

“you don’t get to run away every time you’re upset.”

“i’m not running away.”

“yes, you are.”

the store felt too bright suddenly.

robin was pretending very hard not to listen while organizing tapes that definitely did not need organizing. dustin looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

you pulled your wrist gently from steve’s hand. “i just don’t wanna do this in front of everyone.”

that softened him instantly.

his expression changed in that small, heartbreaking way it always did with you — like every sharp edge in him collapsed at once.

“okay,” he said quietly.

then he looked at robin.

“can you close tonight?”

robin blinked. “seriously?”

“please.”

she took one look at your face and sighed. “yeah. obviously.”

steve grabbed his keys off the counter without another word.

the drive was quiet.

not angry quiet but careful. the kind where both people are thinking too much.

streetlights blurred gold across the windshield while steve drove one-handed, the other resting near the gearshift like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

finally, halfway to your apartment, he spoke.

“you wanna tell me what happened today?”

you swallowed hard. “not really.”

“okay.”

another pause.

then softly, “but you’re crying, so i’m gonna need a little more than that eventually.”

you turned toward the window immediately.

damn him for noticing everything.

“my manager yelled at me in front of customers,” you admitted quietly. “and i already felt stupid all day, and then dustin kept poking at me and i just—”

your voice broke again.

“i don’t know.”

steve’s jaw tightened.

not at you.

never at you.

“that’s what this is about?”

“it’s dumb.”

“it’s not dumb.”

“i overreacted.”

“maybe,” he said gently. “but that doesn’t mean you deserve to get ganged up on.”

you laughed bitterly. “dustin wasn’t ganging up on me.”

“he kinda was.”

“steve.”

“what?”

you finally looked at him. “you don’t always have to defend me.”

his eyes flicked toward you immediately.

serious.

almost offended.

“yes, i do.”

your chest tightened painfully.

“even when i’m wrong?”

“especially then.”

you frowned slightly. “that makes no sense.”

steve pulled up outside your apartment building, putting the car in park before turning fully toward you.

“listen to me,” he said quietly. “i’m not defending every bad mood or every shitty thing either of us says. that’s not what this is.”

“then what is it?”

his expression softened.

“it’s making sure nobody makes you feel alone while you’re already hurting.”

that hit you square in the chest.

hard enough to steal your breath for a second.

because steve loved loudly in private ways.

not grand speeches. not dramatic gestures.

it was in the way he always reached for your hand under tables when he noticed you getting overwhelmed. the way he remembered which jokes crossed lines when you were insecure. the way he instinctively moved closer whenever someone spoke to you too harshly.

he stood beside you.

every single time.

even when you didn’t deserve it.

you looked down at your lap, blinking quickly. “i still made things worse.”

“yeah,” he said honestly. “you did.”

you huffed out a watery laugh. “thanks.”

“but that doesn’t mean you deserved to sit there while everybody picked you apart.”

“everybody meaning dustin.”

“dustin can be everybody when he gets going.”

another reluctant laugh escaped you.

steve smiled a little at that.

then quieter, “you know i’ll tell you when you’re wrong, right?”

you nodded slowly.

because he would. that was the thing.

people assumed steve defended you blindly because he loved you, but they didn’t see the private conversations afterward. the gentle honesty. the way he’d sit on the edge of your bed and say, hey, i get why you reacted like that, but maybe next time don’t bite somebody’s head off.

he never humiliated you to prove a point.

never chose other people over you for the sake of appearances.

he protected your dignity first.

always.

you stared at him for a long moment before whispering, “why are you so good to me?”

steve looked genuinely confused.

“because you’re mine.”

the words settled warm and aching somewhere beneath your ribs.

not possessive.

certain.

like loving you was the easiest thing he’d ever done.

he reached over finally, brushing his thumb beneath your eye.

“c’mere.”

you leaned across the console immediately, and steve pulled you into him with a soft exhale like he’d been waiting to do it the entire drive.

his hand slid into your hair.

“i’m sorry,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

“i know.”

“i’ll apologize to dustin.”

“probably a good idea.”

you smiled weakly against his jacket.

then steve tilted his head slightly, lips brushing your temple.

“but for the record?”

“what?”

“if anybody’s making you cry, i’m gonna be on your side first and ask questions later.”

you laughed quietly. “that’s quite unhealthy.”

“probably.”

“steve.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand still warm against your cheek.

“you never have to earn me standing up for you,” he said softly. “that’s part of the deal.”

The job wasn't glamorous. You spent most mornings answering phones, sorting papers, filing reports, and occasionally being sent to pick up lunch for people who treated interns like an exotic species that existed solely to fetch things, especially if the lowly interns had a perky chest and bouncy hair.

Still, you loved parts of it. Maybe you secretly seethed in the bathroom after each snide remark about your blouse, or after each aggravated chuckle from your bosses who, for some reason, believed they would always be much more capable than you. But it paid, and after rejection after rejection, the steady flow was like hose water on a blistered summer day. Soothing and relaxing. That and you enjoyed how it got you out of the house.

Still, summer in Hawkins felt endless. It was the kind of summer that baked sidewalks until the air shimmered above them, the kind that left skin sticky with humidity before noon. You recalled most summers growing up being this way, but something about the late June heat was creeping up the back of your neck differently, sweat beading between your meticulously styled curls.

Most of your friends spent their days at the community pool, or the brand new mall making eyes at Steve Harrington, the resident pretty boy who’d fallen far fast, all gathered to waste entire afternoons in luscious air conditioned ice cream parlors.

You did those things too, just not every day.

You liked having somewhere to be, something to do, a reason to wake up before ten.

Which was exactly why you were sitting behind the reception desk on a Wednesday morning while everyone else your age was probably sleeping, tights pulled flat beneath your long purple skirt, and heals just a half size too big covering your feet.

You twirled a pen between your fingers. The clock ticked. A phone rang somewhere in the building. Someone yelled for coffee.

Normal.

Boring.

Predictable.

Until the front door opened, and the bell overhead jingled.

You glanced up automatically. A boy stepped inside carrying a camera bag, shoulders raised awkwardly beside a slightly shorter girl with a shoulder length perm. Nancy Wheeler. You recognized her from the school papers your younger brother brought home sometimes.

Still, your eyes flickered back over to the boy. He was familiar in a way that you couldn’t seem to place.

Tall.

Thin.

Dark hair.

Flannel shirt despite the heat.

The second he entered the building, he looked like he regretted it.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

He moved through the newsroom without saying much, and a few people greeted him. He nodded.

One reporter asked him a question, he answered with exactly three words, then he disappeared toward the photography department. You watched him go.

"Him?"

You nearly jumped.

The receptionist beside you smirked.

"What?"

"You're staring." She clicked her freshly manicured nails against the thick keyboard. Secretly, you thought the mustard yellow color was an insult to her hands.

"I wasn't." You scoffed, already focused back on your work.

"You were."

You rolled your eyes. "I was observing."

"Sure." She laughed.

"That's Jonathan."

Jonathan.

The name settled somewhere in your brain. You didn't think much of it, not yet. Still, the name sounded familiar. You’d only just graduated high school, not yet even committed to a college, though secretly you knew you’d end up at your local community school, and yet you found the many names that once filled the background were already slipping from you.

Jonathan…Jonathan….had he gone by Johnny maybe?

It wouldn’t be until later that night you finally came to. Zombie boy, Will Byers. You recalled the way he pinned up the flyers all those years ago, and at the time, while you’d given him a few sympathetic looks, you’d always just been…you.

Standing confidently on the other side of the hallway, not quite close with Carol and Tommy, but familiar with the faces that roamed the halls enough to earn friendly smiles.

You wondered secretly if he had placed you yet, or if, like him, you had just been another girl to slip into the background noise while he navigated high school.

The second time you noticed Jonathan Byers happened three days later.

Over a cup of coffee.

Technically, because of a spilled cup of coffee. Specifically, yours.

The morning had already been terrible, clouds overcast and dripping with rain that refused to fall. A thick haze covered Hawkins, leaving surfaces damp and akin sticky.

You'd slept through your alarm, burnt your toast, forgotten your purse, and worst of all, arrived to work exactly three minutes late. That was the part that unsettled you the most.

Most days, you showed up over fifteen minutes earlier, and even then, sometimes your boss would heckle you while strolling in just before he was on the clock. Mentally, you were already scratching off a list of insults you would mutter at him in the cramped bathroom stall.

You’d barely had time to pull yourself together that morning, hair a little out of place, and wrinkles still littering your shirt. Your heels tapped against the tiled floors with a new found urgency, your body weaving through the newsroom with a practiced ease, a cup of hot coffee, black as requested, balanced precariously in one hand and a stack of folders in the other, neat and organized. You nearly made it, an excuse building when disaster struck.

One collision.

One surprised noise.

One catastrophic splash.

Coffee everywhere.

All over the floor.

All over your shoes.

All over someone's flannel sleeve.

"Oh my God." You looked up. Jonathan stared back.

For a moment neither of you spoke, and you felt horror spreading through every inch of your body.

"I am so sorry."

Jonathan looked down at his sleeve, then at you, then back at his sleeve. Annoyance flickered across his face, then, between the furrow of his brows down to the pull of his lips, he took a second to study the situation, and his frustration resolved itself quietly.

"It's okay."

"It is absolutely not okay." You spoke all too fast, already moving around frantically.

"It's fine."

"It's all over you."

"It's coffee." His voice was impossibly flat.

"I know it's coffee."

You sounded increasingly distressed, Jonathan seemed increasingly confused, which somehow made everything worse.

"I'm really sorry." You couldn’t seem to stress it enough.

"It's okay." He nearly laughed, choking on a breath when your fingers pressed against the fabric, dabbing at the ruined material with thin napkins.

"I'm buying you a new shirt."

"What?" He scoffed.

"A new shirt." You were dead serious.

"No." He shook his head.

"Yes."

"No."

"Jonathan—" You huffed. He hesitated, stepping back defensively.

"How do you know my name?"

You stopped, blinking slowly. The question caught you so off guard that you forgot about the coffee entirely. "What?"

"How do you know my name?" His expression wasn't suspicious, just curious, genuinely curious, like the possibility had never occurred to him.

You stared, then laughed, actually laughed.

"Jonathan." You said it more matter-of-factly.

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

"You work here."

"Yeah." He shrugged.

"People say your name." You mirrored his movement.

"Oh."

You laughed harder.

For some reason, he looked embarrassed, you noticed that first, how easily he got flustered. Not necessarily because of attraction, but because maybe it had been conditioned. The second thing you noticed was the tips of his ears turning faintly pink.

Cute.

The thought arrived suddenly, unexpectedly, pressed tightly beside the dull ache of wanting to notice more about the walking mystery of a boy in front of you.

You ignored it immediately, or tried to, and somehow, he had made it impossibly easy to do.

With another soft mumble, he was gone, barely brushing past with an apologetic expression. Red light illuminated from the cracked door, liquid moving slowly from the bins.

The door clicked, and in the absence of him came the boisterous shout of your boss in the other room.

—

After that, you saw Jonathan less, or, you saw less opportunity to talk to Jonathan. He was always weaving in and out of conference rooms, well liked enough by the staff there to get away with minimal conversation before he disappeared with his camera slung around his neck, skin bathed in a sliver of red light before the door would once again click.

The thing about Jonathan was that he didn't fit, not in the way people usually meant anyway.

He simply felt disconnected from everything around him, and for a while, that had been the problem.

The newsroom buzzed with conversations, always busy, always shifting and changing and taking and taking.

Deadlines.

Arguments.

Laughter.

Jonathan existed just outside all of it, like someone standing behind glass. Never unfriendly, just separate. Most people accepted it.

You found it fascinating.

Because you couldn't imagine living that way, you talked to everyone! Cashiers, neighbors, teachers, random strangers in line at the grocery store. Anyone who’d ever known you would cling to your side in awkward moments because in a world of extended pauses and the unsure atmospheres, you always seemed to have an answer.

Silence made you nervous, to put in plainly.

Jonathan seemed comfortable inside it, maybe even preferred it.

You wanted to know why. Why in a world full of conversation and knowing people that revolved around small talk, he would rather sit in silence and simply not know.

The opportunity arrived two weeks later entirely by accident, as most of your interactions occurred.

You were sorting photographs in one of the back rooms when you heard music.

Not loud. Just enough to drift through an open doorway.

Curious, you followed the sound, abandoning the small shiny paper somewhere on a nearby counter. You didn’t even bother to clip it up, which you knew if Jonathan, or god forbid, your boss were to stumble across it, you’d never hear the end. But if curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction had always brought it back.

The darkroom sat partially open, and inside, Jonathan stood alone developing photographs. The red safety light cast strange shadows across the room, and for a perfect moment, he didn't notice you.

His attention remained fixed on the image slowly appearing in a tray of chemicals, and for the first time in a while, you watched from the doorway, completely silent.

Something about the scene felt private, not secret, just...personal.

It felt like catching someone in the middle of a conversation with themselves, mumbling senselessly in a way that made sense in their head, but sounded crazy when out in the open.

Jonathan finally looked up, and his expression shifted immediately. At first, he had been annoyed, a soft huff about the light ruining the photos on the tip on his tongue, then, he softened, and there was a flicker of uncertainty. Then that familiar awkwardness.

"Sorry." You leaned against the doorframe. "I was curious."

"Oh." Even now, he didn’t say much.

You pointed toward the tray.

"Can I see?"

He hesitated. Not because he didn't want to, more like he wasn't used to people asking. That was another thing you began to notice. Jonathan was built off of conditioning. Each action and every conversation, or lack of, seemed to be a direct result of how he’d been molded growing up. The ache returned.

Finally he stepped aside, and you moved closer.

A photograph emerged from the chemicals in black and white. It was downtown Hawkins in late afternoon sunlight. There were people crossing the street, cars parked along the curb. Nothing special, and yet, you stared.

Not with a fake smile or faux interest, but with a small furrow between your brows like you were trying to figure something out.

"It's pretty."

Jonathan looked down.

"It's just downtown."

"No." You shook your head. "It's..." You searched for the right word. Different, important, alive?

"It's nice." Brilliant observation.

Jonathan's mouth twitched, almost a smile.

Almost.

"You can say if it sucks."

"It doesn't suck."

"Most people think it's boring."

You looked at the photograph again, then at him.

"Most people are boring." That earned an actual smile.

Small.

Brief.

But painfully real, and for some reason, seeing it felt weirdly rewarding, like winning something.

You left the darkroom smiling.

Jonathan spent the next ten minutes staring at the doorway after you disappeared.

Though neither of you would admit that later.

…

The rides home started in August, because your car decided to betray you.

The engine had made a noise that sounded suspiciously expensive, and when you got the estimate, it was far too much for your shitty job to cover.

Your father refused to let you drive it, but still refused to drive you, and suddenly, where you stood halfway across town, transportation became a problem.

You were complaining about it in the newsroom one afternoon with a boy a year younger. He had an awful bowl cut and far too much ambition for a small town. You’d learned his name was David, but the older receptionist called him Davie, which always made him blush. David didn’t necessarily care about your complaints, but he always responded.

You had been halfway through your ramble when a voice spoke from behind you.

"I can drive you."

The room went silent, scarily so.

You turned around.

Jonathan immediately looked like he wanted to disappear.

"What?"

His expression suggested he regretted speaking immediately.

"Oh."

You smiled. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?" You blinked.

"Yeah."

"You don't mind?"

"No." He sighed, taking a step back despite the gaping distance already settled between the two of you.

"Because I talk a lot."

A pause.

"I know."

You laughed, and Jonathan looked away, but not before you noticed the smallest hint of amusement in his eyes, and maybe beneath it all, a hint of relief. As if he had been working up the courage to find a reason to talk to you for a while now. Somehow that made your stomach flutter. Just a little, only a little.

Nothing serious. Nothing worth thinking about. Nothing worth lying awake later that night replaying repeatedly.

Absolutely nothing, you told yourself, though in the back of your mind you were certain the smell of the old leather in his beat up car would linger in your mind for a few hours long after he’d drop you back at home that evening.

That first ride home had been awkward.

Not painfully awkward, not the kind where silence stretched so long it became suffocating. Just...different. Different in the way where both people itched to know more, but somehow neither of them knew how to search for what they wanted. Hands twitched, and fingers tapped lightly against the wheel, and between shaky breaths, small conversations swirled.

Jonathan's car smelled faintly like film chemicals, old leather, and something woodsy that clung to the flannel hanging from the backseat. The radio barely worked, one speaker crackled whenever he hit a bump, which was often considering Hawkins seemed determined to preserve every pothole in existence.

You filled the silence immediately, automatically. Of course you did.

"So."

Jonathan glanced over briefly.

"So," he repeated.

You smiled.

"I've never actually been in your car before." It was an obvious fact, and even more so, an overly obvious olive branch. An invitation for him to speak more.

Instead, he looked genuinely unsure how to respond to that.

"Okay."

You laughed. "You are terrible at conversations."

"I know."

"No, seriously."

"I know." His hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel.

You couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or amused. Maybe both.

The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windshield, washing everything gold. Outside, Hawkins rolled past slowly. Inside, you talked. About work, about customers, about the community pool, about the mall, about how your friend Denise had nearly broken her ankle attempting to flirt with a lifeguard. Most of it was stupid, small things that meant nothing and in the grand scheme of things, were useless.

But Jonathan listened, mostly. Occasionally he offered a quiet comment. Sometimes single sentence, sometimes only a word. But he listened, really listened.

You could tell.

Most people waited for their turn to speak.

Jonathan actually paid attention.

The realization settled somewhere unexpectedly deep and by the time he pulled into your driveway twenty minutes later, you felt oddly disappointed.

"Thanks."

He nodded.

"No problem."

You opened the door, then paused.

"You know."

Jonathan looked over.

"You could tell me something."

His brow furrowed.

"About what?"

You thought earnestly for a moment. You’d spent nearly the entire ride telling him all about your life, and still, you were groveling for just the small details of his life.

"Anything."

The confusion on his face was almost adorable.

"What do you wanna know?"

Everything.

The answer arrived immediately.

You swallowed it.

Instead you smiled.

"Never mind." This time, embarrassment flushed across your skin like red hot shame. You swallowed it down with a sweet smile.

His eyes lingered on you for half a second longer than normal, then you climbed out.

Neither of you noticed him watching until you reached the front porch.

You’d only turned to be polite and wave, half expecting him to already be peeling out of your driveway. But instead, he sat there, an unreadable expression on his face, soft and hard all at once.

It was somewhere between that prolonged silence and the softness of his gaze that the rides became routine, and in that routine, they had become your favorite part of the day.

Neither happened intentionally.

One morning had become three, three had become a week, a week turned into nearly every shift.

Just quiet offers when the day neared the end, just before he knew you’d go out to stand and wait for the bus that was always fifteen minutes early or nearly an hour late.

You didn’t mind the wait, often familiarizing yourself with the people who rode it consistently. You’d made friends with an older lady, who had even dropped off some cookies once for you at lunch time, and a younger boy who spoke more than you somehow. But nothing was ever the same as the way Jonathan spoke to you. It never was.

At first it was practical, then it wasn't.

You both knew it. Neither of you acknowledged it.

Every afternoon, around five o'clock, Jonathan would appear near the front desk, never announcing himself, never asking, just appearing, like a ghost who knew he was always welcome. He was, most certainly and without a doubt, always welcome in your bubble, and in the new dance you learned, you hoped he knew that.

You'd gather your purse, and he'd grab his camera bag, and somewhere in that lazy shuffling you'd end up together.

Again, and again, and again.

The conversations grew longer.

Stranger.

More personal.

You learned he loved music.

Not normal music, at least not by your standards.

One afternoon he nearly drove off the road when you admitted you liked Madonna.

"Don’t scoff at me Byers! You act like its a crime to like Madonna."

He glanced over.

"It's not a crime."

"You’re looking at me like I committed a felony."

He shrugged. "I just don't understand it." He spoke almost uninterestedly. But you knew him better now, and beneath that indifference sat excitement.

"Oh?"

"No offense." He added, it didn’t offer much.

"Already offended."

"Okay."

You laughed.

“Well you must like one Madonna song?” You pried, and he only responded with a sweet, tight lipped grin that he wore so proudly. It was moments alone that his confidence became unearthed, and each time his charm caught you off guard.

"What do you listen to then?"

His fingers tapped against the steering wheel.

"The Clash."

You stared.

"The what?”

His expression immediately flattened.

"Oh my God."

"No." You bit back a laugh. "No, seriously."

He fought off his own, though while yours was pure amusement, his felt more incredulous.

"What is that? Seriously, it sounds angry."

Jonathan groaned.

Actually groaned.

You laughed so hard your stomach hurt.

“All that pop music is rotting your brain, I swear.” He claimed, hands tightening around the cracked leather of his steering wheel ever so slightly.

You rolled your eyes playfully, then, let out your own scoff.

“Just because you listen to the Clang—“

“The Clash!” He huffed.

“The Clash, doesn’t make you more well rounded, you know. Madonnas not even my favorite musician, and still I can accept that her perspective on modern art is just as important and impactful as what you enjoy.” You spoke proudly.

“Sure, so what? You’re saying you’re different? That I read you wrong?” He snickered, and his eyes flickered towards you for a moment before they settled back on the road stretching ahead.

He had taken the long way. Funny.

“No, I’m saying I have depth.” You had argued. “Liking popular things doesn’t make me some zombie of societal conformity, you know. And even if it did—things are popular for a reason.” You rambled, hands moving wildly in the small space between the two of you.

“Because they’re safe?”

There was a pause, and for a second, Jonathan had almost looked embarrassed for his joke. Truly, it wasn’t like him to just shut people down and not hear them out. But still, you had smiled at him. Softer this time, but just as sweet.

“Because they’re not.” You had argued calmly. “Sure, maybe the last decade has been a build up to something more eccentric, and yes, on their own, these artists hold their own right, but would Madonna be half as enticing if not for the costumes and the glitz, and the glam? Shes a performer, and she does it well, and thats why people love her. Just because the crowds are too big for you, doesn’t make her talent any smaller.” You huffed finally, and your shoulders sunk back into the passenger seat comfortably.

There was a proud pause. Jonathan pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, you had noticed that first, then, the playful banter continued, the old routine falling back into a steady place.

“So who is it then?Whitney? Or Michael Jackson?” He teased, and for some reason, his assumption that his taste in music made him deeper than you pulled at something deeply rooted inside of you. In a vision of perfect man, his only unredeemable flaw was the way his awkwardness often brushed over your opinions. Sometimes, it didn’t matter, but this? This felt like he hadn’t truly listened to you, and if he did, he couldn’t care less. An argument stirred, but instead, it came out as a strained laugh.

“Just because they’re popular doesn’t make them soulless.” You shot him a look, and your brows had furrowed more deeply across your face. He had simply shrugged.

There was a pause, the car filled with nothing more than the crunching of gravel and synched breaths.

“And for your information my favorite musicians are The Beatles.”

The silence broke instantly with heavy laughter and groans.

“Oh my god, the tip of the ice burg!” He joked, and in that moment, the defensiveness slipped away into a fit of giggles.

“Shut up!” You swatted at his arm. He shifted away before pushing back.

This time, a comfortable silence took over, calm smiles stuck on both of your faces.

Then, “And Ringo is my favorite so!” Jonathan nearly crashed the car then with the way laughter tore through his ribs.

“Nobody’s favorite is Ringo!” He argued, and your hand struck his shoulder light.

“Well he’s mine! Yeah, the others are talented, but without Ringo, the tracks wouldn’t be the same!”

He didn’t argue that time, just sat back and smiled to himself like a dork. Maybe that was your redeeming quality. How you found the importance of everything.

“Like a Virgin.” He finally confessed, and you had gasped so loud, it hurt your throat.

“I knew you liked Madonna! everyone likes Madonna!”

…

The car ride didn’t last much longer after that. Somewhere between the arguing, and the banter, and the uncontrollable laughter, Jonathan caught himself looping around your neighborhood endlessly. You thanked him quietly, slipping back into that polite voice reserved for him, and he shot back that bashful wave that was made just for you. Things fell back into a casual place, but still, for the next week he made you listen to cassette tapes every afternoon.

You thought you’d hate most of them, confidently so. The truth was more complicated, because once you stopped expecting something upbeat and popular, stopped expecting songs you could dance to, you started noticing things, things you liked, things you brought up to Jonathan in passing that made his ears perk up with excitement.

Lyrics.

Stories.

Feelings.

Rawness.

There was something honest about the music Jonathan liked. Something unpolished. The songs sounded like they had scraped knees.

You secretly liked that.

You never told him, not directly anyway.

Not yet.

But he could see it, the quiet admiration in your eyes, and the bubbling excitement when he offered another tape for you to borrow. He wasn’t entirely used to it, to people wanting to explore his interests, and even more, someone enjoying them.

That had been the problem with Nancy. He loved her, and he knew she loved him, but they were always at odds. It began to feel more like the love had become desperation, and the thread had long weathered away.

Maybe that should have scared him, and in a way it had. He still had a lot of love for Nancy. She knew things you would never, and he would make sure of that. His secrets were dangerous, and he found with unwavering certainty that you needed to stay away.

August melted onward, and the blistering Indiana heat refused to break.

The town felt suspended in syrup, and everything moved slower, everything felt softer, and somehow, despite being complete opposites, you and Jonathan kept drifting closer.

Nobody understood it. Not even you. Especially not you.

You were sunshine.

Jonathan was cloudy days.

You loved shopping, Jonathan spent his money on film. You liked crowded parties, Jonathan looked physically uncomfortable whenever more than four people occupied the same room and yet, you found yourself seeking him out constantly.

The darkroom.

The newsroom.

Lunch breaks.

Coffee runs.

Anywhere.

Every interaction became easier, more natural, like two balls looped around the same rope, smashing together no matter how high they were pulled apart.

It was friendship, a solid base that formed over months of quiet conversation. It was steady, warm, and something that molded perfectly into your life.

It wasn’t until one afternoon you found yourself sitting beside him on the curb outside the Hawkins Post eating melting ice cream. He had vanilla in a cup while you licked at the sweet strawberry in a cone. Teeth marks scraped against the other side. You’d given Jonathan a bite. He pretended not to like it, you knew he did.

You found your eyes glued to the marks, the conversation fading in and out of your ears, tucked behind the dull ringing. At some point, Jonathans hand cupped your shoulder, and beneath his touch, your muscles relaxed.

The realization struck suddenly.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt nervous around him.

Comfortable. That was the word. Dangerously comfortable. The kind that sneaks up on you, the kind that settles into your bones before you realize what's happening.

Jonathan sat beside you quietly.

You talked.

He listened.

Occasionally smiling, always fighting it, and always losing immediately. The sight still felt rare enough to make your chest tighten.

You looked over after having lost yourself in your ice cream for a minute too long, but for once, Jonathans eyes weren’t looking at you.

Often, you caught him tracing the slope of your nose down to the freckles that dotted your skin. But his eyes weren’t emptier now, distant.

He was staring across the street, lost somewhere, as if he himself was coming to some kind of revelation.

You recognized the expression immediately.

Sadness.

Not overwhelming sadness, just lingering swell.

Old sadness, the kind that never fully leaves.

Your smile faded, because you knew the feeling. Once, that look had been pressed deep into your face, etched into the worry lines of your forehead. Tommy Hagen, freshman year.

He was a sophomore, and oh so charming. Naturally, you clung to him, fell for him deeply. He was soft with you in ways he refused to be with others. Then came Carol, and the softness turned to stone. He was relentless, his sweet words suddenly sharp and cold. The small group that had formed around you in that time shot sympathetic looks until you couldn’t take it anymore.

It had been for the best, you knew that, you saw it every day in the way he and Caroline teased the less fortunate in the halls, Steve trailing behind like a morally correct puppy dog. But still, the hurt sunk deep, and sometimes, in the quiet, you missed the feeling of him silently.

"Nancy?" The reaction was immediate.

Jonathan blinked. His jaw tightened slightly.

You regretted asking almost instantly, the cone crunching slightly beneath your firm grip. The edges broke into sharp pieces. For a moment you thought he wouldn't answer.

Then, "Yeah."

Simple. Quiet. Honest.

You looked down at your ice cream.

"Oh."

A breeze drifted between you, as if it knew what to do with the heaviness and you didn’t.

The silence felt different this time. Not uncomfortable, just careful.

"Do you miss her?"

The question slipped out before you could stop it. Maybe it was because you wanted to know, or maybe it was because you were scared not to.

Jonathan stared at the pavement for a while, long enough that you thought maybe he hadn't heard. Then, "Sometimes."

Something inside you twisted.

Small. Sharp. Unexpected.

You hated it immediately because you had no right to hate it. None. Nancy Wheeler had been part of his life long before you appeared. Long before you’d opened that dark room door and his eyes met yours.

She was smart, pretty, ambitious, outrageously beautiful, honestly.

Everyone knew it.

But beneath it all, she was tough. Stronger than anyone you’d ever met, not afraid to fight, not like you anyway. The comparison made your cheeks hot, and suddenly you became aware of your own pink skirt.

Your curled hair.

Your glossy lips.

Everything that made people assume they knew who you were, everything that made people underestimate you.

You looked away. The ice cream suddenly tasted too sweet.

Jonathan noticed. Of course he noticed.

"What?"

You forced a smile. "Nothing."

He studied you. You hated how observant he was, even if it was one of his most admirable qualities. Sometimes you wished he would just ignore you like Tommy.

"You got quiet."

"No I didn't." You argued softly.

"You did."

You rolled your eyes.

He almost smiled.

Almost.

The bastard.

…

The first time jealousy appeared, you didn't recognize it. Not immediately. You only knew you hated the feeling. Twisting deep inside like something truly ugly.

A week later you arrived at work carrying coffee.

Your usual. One for yourself, one for Jonathan. One sugar for you, and almond milk for him. Somewhere along the habit that had somehow developed, you learned how he liked his coffee, and that made your chest jump.

You found him near the photography department, talking casually, talking closely to another girl.

She wasn't even doing anything wrong, that was the worst part.

She was pretty.

Tall.

Confident.

Laughing at something he'd said. Something he'd actually said, and for some ridiculous reason, your stomach dropped.

Dropped at how casually he seemed to fall into place with her. Maybe it had been work conversation, and maybe he was just being polite, but it stung. Stung because it took you weeks to break down his walls enough to let you in, and here he was laughing so easily with a stranger.

Jonathan looked up then, maybe at the sound of your feet scuffing the carpet, saw you, and immediately smiled. A real smile.

Small.

But real, and somehow that made everything worse.

Because it meant the smile wasn't yours anymore, and a sick thought crossed your mind. Was all the closeness just niceties? Did he care the way you did? Would he ever?

The realization lingered long after the girl walked away, long after Jonathan thanked you for the coffee, long after the conversation ended and the girl disappeared through the glass double doors, slipping snuggly into the side of another man in the conference room.

Oh.

It didn’t make it better, if anything, it made it worse.

That night you lay awake staring at your ceiling.

Thinking.

Thinking.

Thinking.

Jonathan.

Nancy.

The girl from work.

Jonathan.

Jonathan.

Jonathan.

Then the horrifying truth finally arrived. Not softly, not gentle, like getting hit by a truck.

You liked him. Not casually. Not a little. Not maybe. You liked him.

A lot.

The realization should have felt exciting.

Instead it felt terrible.

Because Jonathan Byers had just spent the last month slowly stitching himself into every corner of your life, and worse? You weren't entirely sure he noticed, and if he did? You weren't sure it mattered.

Because every now and then, when he thought nobody was paying attention, you'd still catch him looking sad, looking distant, looking somewhere far beyond Hawkins. Far beyond you.

It was like a piece of him was still standing beside Nancy Wheeler.

Still hoping.

Still hurting.

The worst part was how you couldn’t even be mad at him. You’d been there once too. Because sometimes, when the sting fades, letting someone else in is the very thing that brings it back.

The pain that settled between your ribs made your heart flutter. It was like suddenly the words of every ridiculous love song you'd ever listened to felt painfully true.

Because no matter how much you smiled, no matter how much you talked, no matter how much time you spent together, you couldn't compete with a ghost.

It hit somewhere deep, twisting into something ugly before shattering completely because the first time all summer, you found yourself wondering if Jonathan Byers would ever see you the way you saw him.

All the almosts, all the longing stares, all the soft touches he held for just too long, all the what ifs. You replayed each moment tenderly, and in a painful epiphany, you sighed. You were completely smitten, and completely his.

If he were to kiss you now, you might just drop dead.

…

The next morning felt wrong, not bad, in fact, your hair had curled perfectly, and your lipstick felt smooth against your lips. If anything, the morning should have felt perfect. Instead it was heavy with something unspoken.

Just... wrong.

Like something had shifted overnight, and you hadn't quite figured out how to stand on the new ground beneath your feet.

You sat behind the reception desk at the Hawkins Post, staring at a stack of papers you hadn't actually read in almost ten minutes.

Outside, the summer heat was already beginning to settle over Hawkins, making the pavement shimmer beyond the windows. Inside, typewriters clacked away and phones rang and reporters shouted to one another across the room. The day had barely begun, and yet, while you caught up, the world was already buzzing. The world kept spinning, and you were in love.

Everything was exactly the same, but somehow, it wasn't, because yesterday had happened. Yesterday, you'd sat in your bedroom and finally admitted something you'd spent months trying not to think about.

You loved Jonathan Byers.

Not a little, not a crush, not something fleeting, or stupid and childish like the crushes the blossomed in elementary school when a classmate lended you his crayon, but something real. You loved him, and now that you'd finally allowed yourself to say it, even if nobody else knew, you couldn't stop thinking about it, which was unfortunate because Jonathan Byers worked approximately thirty feet away from you.

You glanced up before you could stop yourself, lip drawn between your teeth so hard you nearly drew blood. His desk sat near the photography department.

Empty.

Your stomach sank, and you immediately felt stupid for letting him hold that power over you. Of course his desk was empty. It wasn't even eight-thirty yet.

You looked back down at the papers, then back up.

Still empty.

"Get a grip," you muttered.

The words earned a strange look from one of the reporters passing by.

You pretended to be very interested in organizing paper clips.

A few minutes later the front door opened, you looked up automatically, shoulders draw tight and brows raised. You had been on edge, silently praying that the bell that chimed softly wasn’t another coworker you barely knew the name of.

But it wasn’t, because there he was.

Jonathan stepped inside carrying his camera bag, his hair a little messy, and his spare hand already carding through the strands in a lazy tug.

Your heart immediately forgot how to function, which felt odd in itself.

He looked tired, which wasn’t unusual. Jonathan always looked a little tired.

His hair was still messy from the humidity after his fingers pulled at the flat brown strands, and his sleeves were rolled up to the point where the thin fabric was beginning to crease. Across his body, his camera bag was slung over one shoulder, pressing down against his tie.

Normal. Entirely normal. Yet somehow seeing him made every thought you'd spent all morning trying to suppress come rushing back.

Because you knew the shape of his smile, you knew the sound of his laugh, you knew how he took his coffee, you knew which songs he listened to when he thought nobody was paying attention, you knew how he got quiet when something was bothering him.

You knew him, and that was the problem.

Because loving someone was one thing, you’d loved your parents, you loved your friends, you had even loved Tommy, your insignificant boyfriend who had once been the center of your world.

But the thing was, all of the people you had given your love to, had loved you just as fiercely back. They had chased after you in a way that made you hungry for it. This wasn’t that. This was loving someone who didn't love you back.

Jonathan glanced toward the reception desk, and your eyes met. No one said anything, and for a moment, you wondered if you were even breathing.

For a second, neither of you looked away, then Jonathan smiled. A small one, the kind that was only ever reserved for you. No— the kind one you had once thought was reserved for you.

Your stomach flipped.

Great.

Fantastic.

You were doomed.

You offered a smile back before looking down at your papers again, because apparently eye contact had become dangerous.

The morning dragged. Every minute seemed longer than the last.

You answered calls, filed paperwork, pretended to listen to conversations, and spent most of the day trying not to look at Jonathan.

Which only made you more aware of him.

You noticed every time he walked across the room, every time he laughed at something another photographer said, every time he disappeared into the darkroom, and even more, every time he came back out.

It was exhausting.

Around lunchtime, you were attempting to alphabetize a stack of folders when a shadow appeared beside your desk. You didn’t have to look up, you knew who it was from the woodsy scent of the cologne alone. You knew him.

You looked up anyway, unable to help yourself, and there he stood, crooked smile and sweet eyes as always.

Jonathan.

Immediately, every coherent thought vanished.

"Oh." Brilliant. Fantastic response.

"Oh." Jonathan smiled nervously, and that was strange, because Jonathan was usually calm around you.

Quiet, slightly reserved, but calm.

Now he looked...terrified.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Neither of you said anything and the silence stretched again, wearing thin over time. Still, the clock ticked on in the distance almost as if it was baiting a conversation.

Jonathan shifted his weight uncomfortably, then looked away, then back. His fingers tightened around the strap of his camera bag.

You frowned.

Why was he being so odd? You couldn’t place him, and that scared you. Scared you because for one horrible second, you thought maybe he could read you. Maybe he knew about your revelation the second he saw you, and maybe he hated it.

"Everything okay?"

He laughed once, a nervous little sound, strained around the edges.

"Yeah." There was a pause. "Maybe."

He wasn't very reassuring, and the way he twisted his thumb around in his palm made your stomach twist.

"Jonathan?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. You'd seen him do that a thousand times, usually when he was uncomfortable, sometimes when he was embarrassed, or trying to find the right words.

His face was flushed, the tips of his ears a little pink like he was completely overwhelmed but pushing himself to speak. His tongue didn’t seem to work, all words falling flat, dying before he could form a real sentence. His awkward shift sent a jolt of uncertainty down your spine, and the shock rippled up quickly when your eyes flickered over his again. Suddenly you realized something.

Jonathan looked exactly the way you felt, which made absolutely no sense.

"Can we talk?" he asked quietly.

Your heart jumped.

"Sure."

He glanced around the newsroom. Too crowded, too hot, too many prying eyes and loose lips.

"Outside?"

You swallowed.

"Okay."

The walk outside felt impossibly long, the summer air thick with humidity and something heavier neither of you could name. The wall of moisture hit immediately, warm and bright and even more uncomfortable. It was fitting really.

Traffic drifted down the street, a dog barked somewhere nearby, and somewhere around the corner a mother was dragging her toddler along the sidewalk impatiently.

Jonathan led you around the side of the building where it was quieter, then stopped and stared at the ground as if he was expecting you to speak first.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, you broke. "You're kind of freaking me out."

Jonathan laughed, a real laugh this time, not some soft, pity laugh to fill the space.

"I know."

Another silence.

Then he took a breath, the kind people took before jumping off cliffs, before doing something that was impossible to undo or take back. For a moment, Jonathans face paled, and you thought he might just drop dead right in front of you.

"I've been trying to ask you something."

Your pulse immediately sped up. "Oh."

He nodded.

"For a while, actually."

You blinked.

"A while?"

Jonathan laughed softly.

"Months."

Months.

Your brain stopped working.

Months? "What?"

He looked embarrassed. "Yeah."

"Months?"

"Yeah."

You stared.

Jonathan looked away. A faint blush appeared on his face, and somehow that made it feel even more real.

"I just..." He sighed. "Every time I thought about doing it, I'd convince myself not to."

"Why?"

The question escaped before you could stop it.

Jonathan hesitated. For a moment he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, biting his lip, smoothing it over with his tongue, then pulling it back again. He always was a little indecisive when he was nervous. He lacked a steadiness in his composure.

"When things ended with Nancy..." He trailed off, but not because he was still in love with her, you realized that immediately.

This wasn't longing, this wasn’t him dancing with a ghost that he clung to for warmth, it was hurt. Old hurt. The kind that lingered long after everything else faded.

Jonathan looked down.

"I think I got scared." The admission came quietly, honestly.

"I cared about her a lot. And when it ended..." He shrugged. "I don't know. It made me feel like maybe I wasn't very good at this."

Your chest tightened.

Jonathan gave a small laugh.

"I kept thinking if I asked you out and things went wrong, I'd lose my favorite person here."

Your breath caught.

Favorite person.

The words settled somewhere deep inside you, sending a pulsing warmth down your neck to your toes. You felt your sun-warmed cheeks blossom into something more red.

Jonathan looked up then, meeting your eyes, as if he was finally convincing himself to not be afraid. This was real, and fear couldn’t chase that away.

"I didn't want that." He confessed, and just like the minutes that had stretched on before, everything hit deeper.

Every conversation was played back, every touch, every breath, every compliment that tip toed the line between friendly and more. Always genuine, and always searching for more. You replayed it all, dissecting the places you could have read him wrong.

Somewhere in the distance, a car honked loudly at another, and hot rubber skid across the pavement. Neither of you moved because despite it all, the world felt impossibly still.

Then he smiled. Small, nervous, hopeful.

"So." His voice cracked slightly, which was adorable, and apparently terrifying for him.

"So..."

You couldn't stop smiling. Jonathan noticed immediately. The corners of his mouth twitched.

"Would you maybe want to go out with me?"

The question hung between you.

Months of late-night drives. Months of conversations. Months of stolen glances. Months of wondering, all leading here. Sweat stains dark in dripping splotches under his dress shirt arms, his toe wrinkled and shirt ruined. Your hair slightly frizzy now and lipstick bitten into a mess.

You laughed softly, not because it was funny, but because you genuinely couldn't believe this was happening.

Jonathan's face immediately fell.

"Oh my God, that was a bad sign—"

"Jonathan."

He stopped, shoulders tensing before dropping quietly. You stepped closer, still smiling.

"Yes."

His eyes widened.

"What?"

"Yes." The grin that spread across his face was unlike anything you'd ever seen.

Bright. Unrestrained. Happy. Completely happy, and for the first time since you'd met him, Jonathan Byers looked lighter.

Like he'd finally put something down he'd been carrying for a very long time.

"Really?"

You laughed. "Really."

His smile grew even wider somehow, and suddenly you understood something, another realization piled on top of all your others.

All those months you'd spent worrying you were the only one falling, you hadn't been. Not even close.

Jonathan had just been standing on the other side of the same fear, trying to find the courage to cross it, and now he had.

Finally.

At the same time, your future felt wonderfully, terrifyingly uncertain. But when Jonathan reached for your hand, his fingers brushing yours carefully like he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed to, one thing felt certain.

Whatever happened next?

"Sit still, or I'm not taking your picture," Jonathan huffed, clutching his brand new camera in his hands, watching you run circles around him. "You're making me dizzy, you're gonna make me drop it."

"Oh, fine, killjoy," You pouted, finally parking yourself on an overturned trunk in the treeline behind his house.

"Say chese," He chuckled, his hair falling into his face, still blonde from young age.

"Cheese!" You beamed in return. He focused the camera just right, hands still a bit too clumsy to remmeber where the trigger was. Finally, he snapped the picture.

"Lemme see, lemme see!" You squealed with joy, all but tackling him to the grass.

"It's not a Polaroid, dummy," He scoffed, concealing a smile. "My mom has to take the film to the store and get it developed."

"Awe," You sighed with disappointment. "You better let me see it when you get it back."

"Obviously, like I'd wanna keep a dumb picture of your ugly face," He snickered, shoving you playfully.

-----

Eight years later, he sits on the edge of his bed, pulling out shoeboxes of old photos to sort through them. He'd decided he'd lighten his load before going off to college- he didn't want to move to New York with a billion boxes, after all. He'd planned to compile a portfolio of his best shots and throw some of the lesser ones away, but his mom insisted on keeping the majority of them.

Opening another box with a heavy sigh, he began digging through, grimacing at the poor quality of the shots. Too dark, too bright, too blurry- it was obviously his first camera that wasn't a Polaroid. The one he learned to trust himself with, knowing he couldn't just print out the photo, dislike it, and try again after.

Unfocused photos of Will, of his mom, even of his dad. He tossed those and set the 'good' ones in a pile for his mom. Finally, he pause, finding a blurry, poorly lit photo of his childhood best friend, beaming so hard he was sure her cheeks ached. His 'best friend', who he hadn't spoken to in nearly a year, that he hadn't had a conversation consisting of any substance with in... several years. Had it been that long? Now that he thought about it, yeah, it had been. He hadn't spent any time with her since...since he started dating Nancy.

He set the photo to the side for safe keeping, swallowing hard as he continued, trying to shake off the guilt settling in his throat. After a bit, his mom came in to check his progress. He greeted her warmly, trying to mask the sudden emotion in his eyes. But Joyce had gotten better about noticing Jonathan's particular brand of melancholy now that she didn't have to worry so much for Will.

"What's the matter, pal?" She asked, walking over to him, brushing his hair from his forehead affectionately.

"Nothing, mom," He muttered, drawing a guarded breath through his teeth. "Just... sorting through some of my old photos. Want these?" He offered her the growing stack of amatuer shots.

"Of course I do," She sighed softly, taking them and holding them to her chest. "Oh, my little photographer's all grown up and gradutating to film director."

"Don't give me too much credit," Jonathan laughed wetly. "I might flunk out and-"

"You hush, right now, young man." Joyce shushed him playfully. "My smart boy, there's no way you could." Her eyes drifted to the seperated photo as she leaned down to press a kiss to his hairline. "Oh, I remember this one..."

"Oh, no, mom-" He stammered, his collar baking under his embarrassment. "No, I'm tossing that one."

"What? You are not," She agued softly, holding it behind her back. "Why would you ever get rid of it?"

"Mom, it sucks," He complained. And he wasn't wrong. It was an objectively horrible photograph. But it was you and he couldn't bare to part with it until now. "The lighting's all wrong, it's out of focus, I was too close-"

"You are your own worst enemy, you know that?" Joyce mused. "You know, that girl was so excited to get this photo back, she pestered me about it for weeks. And you never even gave it to her."

"It wasn't good enough," He shrugged curtly. "Plus, I've given her a million better photos..."

"Whatever happened to you two, huh?" His mother finally asked, which he knew she would, he just had hoped she wouldn't. "You guys used to be inseperable. I really thought you'd grow up to get married one day."

"I don't know," Jonathan muttered honestly. "Things just... got weird after I started dating Nancy. It felt wrong hanging out with another girl after I had a girlfriend..."

Joyce watched her son, studied the ever present somber touch to his eyes that seemed particularly deep today. "But, son... you and Nancy broke up ten months ago and you two still haven't talked. So... it's probably not Nancy's fault, is it?"

"I didn't say it was Nancy's fault," He huffed, standing up abuptly, running his hands through his hair. "She just... doesn't talk to me anymore."

"When was the last time you talked to her?" Joyce pried cautiously, knowing her son inherited her short fuse.

"Ten months ago," He mumbled, practically wincing in preperation for his mother to scold him. When she didn't he continued. "We talked about the break up a little bit. But she said she didn't think we could be friends again."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry..." She sighed sympathetically, standing with him to lay a comforting head on his shoulder.

"No, don't be," Jonathan sighed "It's my fault. I deserved it."

"Well..." Joyce smiled hopefully, taking the photo and handing it to him again. "I think she deserves the picture she's been waiting for. It's been what- eight years?"

"I guess, but I don't think she wants to see me." He sighed, staring at the silly face from years past.

"You're both leaving for college this month, you'll probably never see her again unless you both make the effort." His mother pointed out gently. "I think a little closure would do you both some good." He didn't reply, not with words. But the way his eyes trailed the too-soft lines of the photo told her he was considering it. "Just... give it some thought, sleep on it."

"Okay," He relented, settling the photo down again, finding a lump forming in his throat that would evolve if he continued to stare at it.

-----

After a week of overthinking, Jonathan found himself at your doorstep, the photograph crinkling in his nervous grasp as he knocked gently on the door. Despite his default cynicsm, he found himself oddly hopeful. Maybe enough time had elapsed that the two of you could start fresh. Maybe you'd be so touched by the gesture- nevermind.

Nothing couldv'e prepared Jonathan to come face to face with another man at your front door. No amount of wishful thinking could convince him this was a brother or cousin, and he was definately too young to be a father or uncle. A friend then, perhaps. But then again, what kind of friend hangs out at a girl's house in nothing but low sweatpants.

"H-Hey-" Jonathan mumbled, throat suddenly dry. "U-Uhm-"

"Can I help you, man?" He guy tilted his head, unnerved.

Before he could even gather the thoughts required to string words together, you appeared in the doorway, hair wet from a recent shower, long legs bare to the high thigh where the hem of your shorts fell. And a tshirt slipping off your bruise bitten shoulder that was so clearly not yours. "Jonathan...?" You asked softly, equal parts surprised, sympathetic, and uncomfortable.

"Know the guy?" He man asked with a gentle concern that Jonathan once used with you ever chance he got.

"Yeah, it's fine," You dismissed and he stepped away, trusting you to handle yourself with this oddly jerky, stuttering stranger on the porch. Not before pressing a kiss to your temple. "Love you, call if you need me."

Jonathan shook in place, feeling as if he had to physically hold his every mollecule in tact, lest they drift apart. "So..." You mumbled, crossing your arms defensively. "Did you need something?"

"N-No," He answered too quickly, too sharply, hating himself when you recoiled. "N-No, I mean... I- yes." He finished lamely. You lifted a brow. "I-I was going through some old photos to make a portfolio for school and uh..." He swallowed hard, handing you the photograph- or more shoving it into your hands. "I-I found this, thought you might want it."

You stared down at the picture, head tilting in confusion. "You remember when I got my first real camera?" He asked sheepishly. "Y-You asked me to take your picture, b-but I never... I never gave it to you. Here it is. Better late than never, right?"

"Right..." You mumbled, shifting uncomfortably. You glanced up at him, expecting to see a man of nineteen in a 'The Cure' shirt and a granny sweater, with a face older than his years. Instead, you were met with a little blonde boy with tired eyes and bruised cheek, smiling shyly at the doorjam. After a blink, he was an anxiety riddled teenager with his darkened hair obstructing his eyes, and enough layers of clothes to hold him over for the Arctic winter. Suddenly, he wasn't the somewhat self assured soon to be film student. He was boyish, shy, and no less sweet than he ever was, even for what the last few years had done to him.

"Jonathan..." You finally whispered, softening a bit, knowing you were going to have to break his tender heart. Again. "This-" A frog lept into your throat, surprising even you. "This is really sweet..." You paused, fighting back tears. "But... I've moved on, I'm sorry."

Oddly enough, his expression didn't sour at the confirmation that the mysterious man in your house belonged there. It just... softened in a somber way. "I know you have," He confessed quietly, voice cracking in a way it hadn't since the last time he told Nancy he loved her. In a way that proved he meant it. His voice always cracked when he was sincere, and you knew that too. "Are..." A sob bubbled up his throat which he laughed off wetly. "Are you happy?"

"I am," You sighed, finally letting your eyes wet. "I really am."

"That's great," He whispered, probably for the first time in his life where it wasn't laced with bitterness. You noticed that and culcn't decide if it meant the world to you, or if you hated it. Probably a mix of both. "Really, I swear. I'm happy for you."

"Jonathan, don't cry," You sniffled, having never been able to handle his tears without offering my own. "If you cry, I'll cry."

"Don't cry," He joked with a weak smile. "You look ugly when you cry," That was a lie, and he knew it. He often found himself wondering how someone could make tearstains look so pretty. "Not really, but still..."

Without thought of the consequences, you stepped forward and pressed your face into his chest and he was sure you were made of magma; that you'd burn right through him and take comfort directly from his bleeding heart. His arms were instantly banded like steel around you, nearly lifting you off your feet. "I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry." He whispered into your hair. "It was always you, you know that right?" You shook your head into his sternum. "I loved Nancy," He confessed. "So, so, so much. But she wasn't worth losing you."

"Hindsight is twnety twenty," You mumbled curtly into his collarbone.

"I know, I know," He chuckled, devestated at the circumstances. "I know I pushed you away, it was all my fault, I deserve all your anger. And... I know you've moved on, that you're happy..." You peeked up at him, dreading what he was going to say. "But... I couldn't leave without telling you that... I've been in love with you since middle school."

"Jonathan, no," You whimpered, halfheartedly trying to pull away, but his deserate grip persisted.

"Shh, hey, no," He hushed gently like he'd do when you'd sleep over with him and cry at your fear of the dark. "I'm not asking for anything, I swear. I just... want you to take this photo and do whatever you want with it. And... just let me tell you that I love you, and that I'm sorry."

He finally let you go, though if it were his own choice, he would have held you like that until the overcast clouds wept for what could have been. And probably even after that. You stared down at the photo, smoothing out the wrinkles his nervous grip created, fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

"And... listen," He whispered warmly, brushing your cheeks with his thumbs. "Don't ever think I don't wanna see you, okay? I won't bother you again after this, but for the love of God, don't think you can't come to me."

"T-Thank you," You sniffled, nose reddening with repressed emotion. "Thank you, Jonathan..."

"Don't thank me, it's the least I could do..." He took a deep breath and forced himself to step back. "Seriously, if that guy in here hurts you, you tell me, okay?" You nodded, swallowing hard, refusing to give in to the urge to reach for him. "I mean it, though," He sighed, stepping back again, at the edge of the porch now. "Just call me, I'll drop everything, you know I will."

"I-I know," You admitted softly, holding the photo to your chest. "Goodbye, pumpkin,"

His heart melted so entirely at that, he was sure the resulting sinue would stain the concrete of your porch. He remembered now, how could he forget? You were 'peach' and he was 'pumpkin', so named for you respective favorite flavor of pie. It was something his mother inspired after telling him that if he had one more slice of pumpkin pie, he'd turn into a big orange gourd.

Jonathan opend his mouth to speak but fell short the first time. Against his better judgement, he stepped forward- only on one foot, as if that ensured that he'd be able to walk away after- and pressed a long, tender kiss to your forehead. Then he stepped back again, and off the porch entirely.

"Goodbye, peach."

"You're wearing the lice beanie again?"

"Lice beanie?" Joe asks with furrowed eyebrows

"Yeah, the uh the fans started calling it your lice beanie. I don't exactly get it myself but I guess the name has rubbed off on me." You giggle

"It's my favorite. The yearn is perfect. It's not to heavy which helps with the heat but if it gets colder I can pull it down to warm my ears."

"Plus it's the first good beanie I made"

"No, it's not. All your beanies are good."

You raise an eyebrow at him

"I love all your beanies, even the ones that were first tries and a little rough around the edges."

-------

"What time do we leave for the airport?" You ask

"We have a little over an hour til the car picks us up. We pick the rest of the boys than it's off to the airport and Hola Mexico." Joe smiles "Why?"

"No reason. I'm going through my checklist and I wanted to know how much time I have in case I forgot something."

"Oh ok."

---

"What's in the bag?" Joe asks, pointing to the bag that was by your feet

"Oh, it's just your beanies"

"My beanies?"

"Yeah, all the good beanies I've made you. I keep the ones I know are your favorites in here too. Call it the beanie bag."

"The beanie bag? That's so cute. Wait why would I need all my beanies?"

"In case the weather changes, or you want to mix and match them with your outfit, or you want to wear them the whole tour." You smile

"Better safe then sorry."

"Exactly! And it's just one more bag"

"That I have to carry" Joe teases

"Hey, I've always offered to carry my own bags. You're the one who doesn't let me."

-------

"At least now you know the hair is a thing," The interviewer says with a giggle

The second those words leave her mouth, you see red. All niceties and professionalism left your body like that sentence was your trigger words. Your mood a mix of overprotectiveness and aggravation. All Joe had to do was give you one word or look, and you'd go off on her.

Or at least that's what's happening in your head right now. In reality, you're pulled a Joe. Offering him the biggest smile you could before mouthing "Don't listen to her," and glaring at the interviewer

"What do you mean?" He asks, his calm personality dropping a bit

"Your hair is a thing. Everybody talks about it."

"Sure, yeah."

You understood that she is just trying to do her job, get the best answers for the fans and the interview, but she was pushing her luck with you.

"Did you - have you read all the comments? The other day, I just got Andrew Garfield because he's got the same haircut as you."

The look on Joe's face only pushed you closer to exploding. The way he kept looking down at his shoes or the couch. The continuous blinking broke your heart.

"I know what you're thinking and don't," Javi says, pulling you out of your thoughts and walking you to a more private area.

"You don't know what I was thinking, and I was just trying to support my boyfriend."

He laughs, even now, he can see you keeping Joe in your sights and glaring at the interviewer.

"You're thinking how Joe won't technically get in trouble if you go up there and lose it for him."

"I-"

"And yeah, you're right, he technically won't get in trouble, but you really think we want to bail you out?"

"I wasn't gonna go that crazy, ok? At least not yet."

"Joe's fine. Well, not fine, but he needs us, needs you in his corner, reminding him he's more than just his hair."

"Thanks for talking me off a ledge. 'M glad you were here."

"Me too. As funny as it would have been to see your bail being translated, I don't think the stress would've been worth it."

---

"Everything ok? I saw you two walk off." Joe asks.

"Yeah, we're ok, baby. Are you ok?" You ask as you wrap your arms around his neck, keeping him grounded to you.

"I'm not important right now. I just need to know everything's ok."

"Everything's ok. I was just talking her off a ledge."

"A ledge?!"

"Her words, not mine."

"Not helping Javi."

"Maybe not, but I'm being honest." He laughs

"What ledge was he talking you down from?" Joe's eyes met yours.

"I was just about ready to lose it on her when I saw she was getting to you. You were looking at the fucking couch or your shoes that should've been clue enough to just drop the subject, and if it wasn't, the constant blinking should've been."

"Imagine if I hadn't talked her down."

Joe shakes his head, laughing.

"You know you're more than just your hair. I mean, you're a sweet and kind soul, you're a gentleman, you're an amazing musician, you're a talented songwriter, an amazing brother, and to any of the true fans, you're more than just your hair. I mean you're -"

"Absolutely and totally head over heels in love with you." Joe places a kiss on the top of your head, then your forehead, embracing you in a tight hug

-------

"What's going on in here? I've never seen our hotel room this unmessy unless we've" You wiggle your eyebrows playfully

"I'm looking for a beanie"

"All this mess for a beanie? Is it the lice beanie? I think that one might be in one of my bags"

"No, no, not that beanie. I know where that one is. I always keep it in my carry one."

"What beanie are we looking for then?"

"You know the knitted doll a fan threw on stage last night?"

"Yeah"

"Ok. Do we have the beanie that the doll is wearing? I wanna wear it to the interview"

"Give me a minute. I think I know where it is" You say reaching for one of your bags in the closet. Laying it on the bed so you can look through it.

Joe face palms, still stressed

"The beanie bag" he runs a hand through his hair "How did I not think to look there."

"Ah hah, found it!" You cheer victoriously, holding up the beanie in the air before walking over to him. You run a hand through his hair before placing it on

"Now let's get going. We don't wanna be late." Joe smiles

"We? Baby, I gotta clean up this mess but I promise I'll be here when you're done." You kiss his cheek.

Joe pouts

when you met joe during the first table read for season one, it was easy. that was the thing that made everything after hurt so much, none of it had ever been difficult before.

you’d both been nervous, fresh-faced in that weird way young actors always are, pretending you weren’t intimidated while secretly overthinking every little thing. the cast was loud and chaotic already, kids running around, producers talking over each other, makeup artists trying to keep schedules together. and somehow in the middle of all that, joe had sat next to you like he’d known you already.

“you look terrified” he’d whispered while everyone introduced themselves.

you looked over at him. “i am terrified.”

“cool. me too.”

that was pretty much it.

after that, everyone just sort of attached you together naturally. you had scenes together all the time, interviews together, press days together. if one of you was there, the other usually was too. in behind the scenes clips there was always joe somewhere in the background making you laugh while you were trying to stay serious. during filming breaks you’d sit in each other’s trailers or wander around set annoying everyone else.

people noticed fast, fans especially.

at first it was harmless. edits online. compilations of you two looking at each other too long during interviews. comments about your chemistry. people clipping together moments that meant absolutely nothing to either of you but apparently looked like everything to everyone else.

“they think we’re secretly in love” joe told you once, holding up his phone while hair and makeup fixed his stupidly perfect hair.

you leaned over to read the tweet.

joe keery looks at her like she invented breathing.

you snorted. “they’re insane.”

“right?” he said.

then he smiled at the tweet again.

you noticed that but didn’t say anything.

honestly, you got used to it. the shipping. people making up entire relationships out of blurry photos and twenty second interview clips. it came with the show getting bigger. people wanted onscreen chemistry to be real offscreen too.

and maybe yours with joe looked a little too real sometimes.

because it kind of was.

not dating, not technically anything, but there were moments.

late night drives after filming, falling asleep against him on flights, his hand on the small of your back guiding you through crowds without even thinking about it, inside jokes nobody else understood, the fact he called you whenever literally anything happened to him first.

you tried not to think too hard about what it meant.

then season one ended and instead of drifting apart like most casts did, you stayed close.

he’d text you constantly. random thoughts. playlists he made at three in the morning. sometimes you’d facetime for hours without even realising it.

everyone around you just assumed you were together at that point.

you weren’t.

which honestly made it worse.

because there was never anything to lose exactly. nothing official. no breakup. no conversation about feelings.

just a friendship that slowly got strangled until there was barely anything left of it.

season two started filming almost a year later.

and joe had a girlfriend.

you met her once at first and honestly tried really hard to like her. because she mattered to him, so obviously you wanted it to work. and at first she was nice enough. quiet. pretty. a little cold maybe, but not openly rude.

until she saw what you and joe were like together.

you noticed the shift almost immediately.

the way her expression changed whenever you touched his arm while talking. or when he walked straight toward you between takes without even thinking about it. the way crew members joked about you two being “work married.”

one day you overheard someone from wardrobe laughing about another viral edit of you and joe.

“people genuinely think they’re soulmates” they said.

his girlfriend was standing right there when they said it.

after that, things got weird.

small at first.

joe stopped staying in your trailer between scenes, then he stopped inviting you out with everyone after filming.

texts got shorter. slower.

eventually he sent you one at nearly two in the morning.

sorry. things are just a little complicated and i want to focus on my relationship.

you stared at that message for ages because complicated how?

you never crossed a line, you never tried to make him choose.

even the tiny jealous part of you, the ugly hidden part you never admitted existed, knew she had a right to be uncomfortable. you got it. honestly you did. if you had a boyfriend who looked at another girl the way joe sometimes looked at you, maybe you’d hate it too.

but still.

after everything?

after years of being each other’s person?

you thought maybe you deserved more than a vague apology text.

the worst part was how natural joe made the distance seem.

he just.. did it.

like cutting you out was painful maybe, but manageable.

he started bringing her to set constantly after that. she’d sit beside the monitors or wait in his trailer during breaks. and every time you approached him, you could feel her watching.

not glaring exactly, just aware. like she was waiting for proof that everyone online had been right about you.

so eventually you stopped trying.

because there’s only so many times someone can make you feel unwanted before embarrassment starts replacing hurt.

the change between you and joe became obvious to everyone else too.

interviews got awkward, behind the scenes clips stopped showing you together nearly as much.

fans noticed immediately, making compilations about how “different” you two were now. people online blamed you, blamed him, blamed the girlfriend. conspiracy theories everywhere.

you ignored all of it.

or tried to.

but sometimes late at night you’d still end up reading comments.

he used to look at her like she hung the moon.

what happened to them?

and that one hurt most because you wondered the same thing.

during filming, you and joe only really talked when scenes required it.

“you good with this blocking?”

“yeah.”

“cool.”

that was basically the extent of it now.

sometimes you’d catch him almost saying something else before stopping himself, sometimes you did the same.

the silence between you became so normal it started feeling impossible to break.

season three was worse somehow because by then everyone had adjusted except you.

joe looked tired all the time.

not unhappy exactly. just off.

but you stopped trying to figure him out because it wasn’t your business anymore.

you missed him in stupid ways. not dramatic ways, just little things.

sending him songs when you couldn’t sleep, looking beside you during lunch breaks before remembering he wouldn’t be there anymore, wanting to tell him things and realising halfway through reaching for your phone that you couldn’t anymore.

and the annoying thing was that despite everything, despite how badly he handled it, part of you still understood him.

joe hated disappointing people. hated conflict. if his girlfriend felt threatened by your friendship, of course he’d try fixing it. he probably convinced himself distance was temporary at first.

then too much time passed and suddenly you were strangers pretending not to notice.

the hardest day was probably a press interview during season three.

the interviewer smiled at both of you and went “fans really miss your friendship.”

the room got quiet after that.

you laughed awkwardly. “people online are dramatic" but you didn’t look at joe when you said it.

he looked at you though, you felt it.

“yeah,” he said quietly after a second. “i guess they are.”

and for some reason that almost made you cry.

-

by the end of season three, joe and his girlfriend broke up.

you found out the same way everyone else did, ndirectly, through other people talking on set like it was old news already.

“they split a few weeks ago, i think.”

that was it.

no dramatic announcement. no messy public fallout. just over.

and honestly, for one stupid second, your heart lifted. which made you feel horrible immediately after.

because it wasn’t like things between you and joe were suddenly going to fix themselves now. if anything, it made everything more awkward. you couldn’t exactly go running back to him the second he became single again. people already spent years convinced you were secretly in love with each other. if you suddenly slipped back into old habits now, it would just prove everybody right.

so you didn’t, and neither did he.

you stayed in that weird in-between stage where you were polite but distant. not strangers exactly, but definitely not what you used to be either.

sometimes he’d linger near you like he wanted to say something, sometimes you caught yourself almost texting him before stopping.

but too much time had passed. there was too much history sitting between you now, heavy and embarrassing and unresolved.

the thing nobody talked about was how grief could become routine if you let it.

eventually missing someone stopped feeling sharp and started feeling dull instead. manageable. like an old ache you adjusted to carrying.

that’s what it became with joe.

until season four started filming.

then suddenly you were around him constantly again and it was awful.

not in a dramatic screaming-match way, honestly it would’ve been easier if you hated each other, instead it was just painfully obvious that both of you remembered exactly how things used to be.

you fell into old rhythms by accident sometimes.

talking over each other during interviews, laughing at the same thing before catching yourselves, standing too close out of habit.

and every single time, there’d be this weird pause after. like both of you realised it at once and didn’t know what to do with it.

joe was trying. you could tell.

he’d wait for you after scenes now, he’d ask you questions that weren’t strictly work related, he started texting again too. little things at first.

you still listening to that band you liked?

did you steal my coffee or am i losing my mind?

normal things, careful things, and you answered because ignoring him completely felt cruel after a while. you knew he wasn’t evil. you knew he hadn’t cut you off because he stopped caring about you.

if anything, that was what made it harder.

because if he’d just been an asshole, you could’ve hated him and moved on.

instead you understood him too much.

then halfway through filming, joe released a new song.

he’d released music before, so at first you didn’t think much of it. people on set mentioned it casually the morning it came out. someone played it from their phone in hair and makeup.

you barely listened until the lyrics hit.

your stomach dropped so fast it actually made you feel sick.

because chicago, because everyone knew you were from chicago, because the whole song sounded like regret wrapped up in nostalgia and things left unfinished.

and apparently you weren’t the only person who noticed.

within hours the internet lost its mind.

fans dissected every lyric. every old interview clip. every timeline. edits started appearing again, except this time they felt different somehow. less playful. people weren’t joking anymore, they sounded convinced.

you tried not to read it.

you failed completely.

late at night in your hotel room you listened to the song again with your headphones on, staring at the ceiling while your brain spiraled itself into knots.

another version of me, i was in it.

what the hell was that supposed to mean?

because part of you wanted to laugh at yourself. maybe everyone online was being dramatic like always. maybe it wasn’t about you at all and you were just self-absorbed enough to think it could be.

but another part of you knew joe.

you knew the way he wrote things without fully saying them. you knew how sentimental he secretly was beneath all the sarcasm and jokes.

and the worst part?

it sounded like mourning, like missing someone. like regret.

after that, filming went on a short break for a couple weeks.

and when everyone came back, you avoided joe completely.

not intentionally at first.

okay maybe intentionally. a little.

but what were you supposed to do? walk up to him and casually mention the fact the entire internet thought he wrote a song about losing you?

hey joe! cool song by the way. quick question, were you devastated over me this whole time or what?

absolutely not.

so instead you started disappearing whenever he was around.

you left set quickly, you stayed in your trailer longer, during group lunches you sat with other people.

and joe noticed immediately, of course he did.

you used to be the first thing he noticed in every room.

at first he thought maybe you were busy then he realised you genuinely wouldn’t look at him anymore unless you had to. it killed him, because he knew exactly why.

one afternoon during filming he caught sight of you laughing with natalia near craft services and for a second instinct almost took over. he almost walked over automatically like he used to.

then he watched your face change the second you spotted him approaching.

you looked away immediately and he stopped walking. that hurt more than he expected it to.

the truth was joe had hated every second of this for years now.

even during the relationship, even while he was choosing distance and convincing himself it was the right thing to do, he missed you constantly.

everything reminded him of you because for a while you’d been stitched into almost every part of his life without him realising it. music, movies, random streets in atlanta, dumb inside jokes nobody else understood.

he’d done what he thought he was supposed to do. tried to be respectful. tried to be loyal. tried to make his girlfriend feel secure.

and in the process he lost the person he actually wanted beside him.

the breakup had been horrible too. ugly in that exhausting drawn-out way where nobody was really innocent anymore. fights about trust. fights about you. eventually fights about the fact he clearly wasn’t over whatever existed between you and him.

she’d said it during their final argument.

“you never looked at me the way you looked at her.”

and joe hated himself because he couldn’t even deny it properly.

because selfishly, privately, he loved you. he probably always had.

not all at once, it happened slowly.

through years of choosing you first in his head without noticing. through wanting to tell you everything before anyone else. through every almost moment he buried because timing was bad or complicated or inconvenient.

and now he’d ruined it.

he’d finally written a song honest enough that people could see straight through him, and instead of bringing you back, it only pushed you further away.

one night after filming wrapped, joe sat alone in his trailer staring at his phone for almost twenty minutes before finally typing out a message.

i think you know the song is about you.

he stared at it then deleted it immediately.

because what right did he have to say that now?

-

by the time the song had been picked apart online for the third or fourth time, you were exhausted by it.

every interview seemed to circle back to the same thing, every comment section had decided it knew more about joe than joe ever said out loud and every time you saw his name next to yours your stomach did that awful little drop like your body was reacting before your mind could catch up.

you kept avoiding him.

you were suddenly always somewhere else when he walked in. always a little slower to answer if he spoke to you. always a little too busy, a little too tired, a little too focused on anything that did not involve joe keery standing six feet away with that look on his face like he had something to say and didn’t know how to start.

-

it happened after a long day of filming, when everyone was tired and half the crew had already cleared out. you were heading toward your trailer with your bag over one shoulder, eyes fixed on the ground because you could feel him behind you before you even turned around.

“hey.”

you stopped.

his voice was quiet, almost cautious.

you looked back and there he was, standing a little too close already, hands shoved into his pockets like he was trying to keep himself from doing something impulsive.

“can we talk?”

your mouth opened, then closed again. for a second your brain just lagged, trying to catch up with the fact that he was actually asking. actually standing there. actually looking at you like it mattered if you said yes.

“please” he added, softer this time.

that was the part that got you.

not the song, not the internet, not even the way your entire body had been bracing itself for this conversation for weeks, just the please.

so you nodded once, because that was easier than trusting your voice.

he let out a breath like he had been holding it for days.

you both sat on the steps outside your trailer because somehow that felt easier than being trapped inside a room. the air was cool, the kind of late-night quiet that made everything sound louder. somewhere farther down the lot, somebody was laughing. a door slammed. someone called for a wrap on another set. life kept moving around you like it always did, completely indifferent to the fact that your world had shrunk down to this one awkward stretch of silence between you and him.

for a while neither of you said anything.

you picked at the sleeve of your hoodie, joe stared out into the dark and then back at you and then away again like he was trying to find the right first sentence and none of them were good enough.

“this has been awful” he said finally.

you gave a short, humorless laugh. “yeah.”

he nodded slowly. “i know i probably made it worse.”

you looked at him then, really looked at him, and saw that he meant it. no excuse in his face. no defensiveness. just tired honesty.

“a little” you said.

his mouth twitched, almost a smile, except there was too much regret in his eyes for it to fully land.

“that’s fair.”

another pause, then, because he had always been better at saying things once he got started, he went on.

“i didn’t mean to shut you out the way i did. i know that doesn’t change it, but i need you to know that.”

your throat tightened a little. you didn’t speak, so he kept going.

“i kept telling myself i was doing the right thing. for her, for me, whatever. i thought if i made enough space it would eventually stop being weird. and then it just… became normal. that’s the stupid part.” he let out a breath and dropped his head for a second. “it got normal before i realised i was losing you.”

that hit harder than you expected because that was exactly what it had felt like from your side too. not one huge disaster. just a slow, quiet disappearance.

you folded your arms over your chest. “i understood why you did it.”

he looked at you immediately.

“that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt,” you said, voice lower now. “it felt like i mattered so little to you when i only got a text.”

his face changed at that. not in a dramatic way, just enough to show he heard it properly.

“i know,” he said. “i know. and i hate that i made you feel that way.”

you stared at the ground, blinking hard once. you had not expected this part to be easy. you just hadn’t expected it to feel so bare either, like both of you had spent years carrying around the same ache and pretending the weight was lighter than it was.

he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“i missed you” he said.

the words were simple. that was what made them dangerous.

you looked at him again. “joe-”

“no, seriously.” his voice was steadier now, like he had decided to stop backing away from it. “i missed talking to you, i missed you being around, i missed all of it. and i know i acted like i didn’t, but i did. every day.”

something in your chest pulled tight.

you swallowed. “i missed you too.”

that did it. the wall between you shifted, just a little.

joe exhaled like he had been waiting to hear that for a very long time.

then he glanced at you, almost nervous again, and said, “there’s something else i need to tell you.”

you already knew, or thought you did, but hearing it from him still made your stomach flip.

he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the steps for a second before looking back at you.

“the song was about you.”

you were quiet.

not because you were surprised that it was about you. part of you had known. maybe all of you had. the surprise was hearing him say it with no room left for interpretation.

“i wrote it after everything started feeling like it had gone wrong,” he said. “and when i was writing it, i kept thinking about how different i felt when i was with you. like…” he stopped, searching for the right words. “like i was a better version of myself. less in my own head. less fake. more like me.”

you stared at him, suddenly aware of your heartbeat.

he kept going, voice low and honest now in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“and that line about chicago was never just about a place. it was about you. about going back and still feeling all of it. about realising that saying goodbye to you felt like saying goodbye to something that might’ve actually mattered. a beginning i never really let happen.”

your breath caught a little.

“joe.”

he looked at you carefully, like he was bracing for you to pull away.

you didn’t.

you were just shocked. not because you had never suspected there was something there, but because hearing him say it out loud changed the shape of everything. it made it real in a way the internet never could. more intimate. more painful. more hopeful, maybe, in the most terrifying way.

you laughed once, quietly, in disbelief. “that is insane.”

he let out a tiny laugh too, relieved by it.

“yeah,” he said. “kind of.”

after that, the conversation stopped being about damage control and started being about everything else.

you talked about the weirdness of the last few years. about how strange it was that you could know everything about someone’s schedule, their favorite coffee, the way they acted when they were tired, and still end up feeling like a stranger. you talked about set memories and dumb moments and how much had changed without either of you meaning for it to.

he told you things you hadn’t known. how miserable he had been pretending he was fine, how often he had almost reached out and then convinced himself it would only make things worse, how he had read your messages from years ago more than once and hated how easy it had become to miss you.

you told him about the moments you had almost broken and texted him first.

the nights you’d seen something and thought, he’d get this. the times you’d laughed at something and then immediately felt stupid because there was no one left to explain it to. the way it had always been easier to be angry with him than to admit how deeply you’d missed him.

and the more you talked, the more familiar it all became.

not exactly the same, not yet, but enough.

joe started laughing again the way he used to, with his whole face, like he couldn’t help it once he got going. you rolled your eyes at him the way you always had. he teased you about one of your old habits and you threw a crumpled napkin at his chest. he caught it, grinning, and for a second it felt like the years between you had folded in on themselves.

you stayed out there for hours.

by the time the lot had gone almost completely quiet, your shoulders had stopped being so tense. the conversation had drifted into smaller things, then into more serious ones again, then back to stupid stories and shared jokes. it felt less like catching up and more like rediscovering a language you had once spoken fluently and had somehow not forgotten after all.

when he smiled at you, it reached his eyes again.

when you laughed, it came easier.

something in the air between you changed that night, not all at once, but enough that you both felt it.

after that, joe started finding his way back into your life in the smallest ways first.

a text about nothing, a joke during a long shoot day, a coffee left near your chair without a word, a quiet question after wrap.

you answered.

not immediately. not perfectly. but enough.

and slowly, without either of you forcing it, the old rhythm began returning in fragments. not the exact same friendship you had before, because that belonged to another version of both of you. but something older and newer at once, built on honesty this time instead of assumption.

you started choosing each other again in all the small ways that mattered.

and eventually, that turned into something else too.

not a declaration just a look that lasted too long. a hand brushed against yours and stayed there. a night that ended with him walking you back and neither of you wanting it to end.

then another.

then another.

until it was no longer pretend, no longer vague, no longer hidden behind what-ifs and bad timing and old hurt.

it wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t announced, it just happened the way real things sometimes do. quietly and all at once.

and being with joe again, for real this time, felt nothing like starting over.

it felt like finally getting to begin.

-

joe has always been busy. even before the acting jobs started becoming bigger and the crowds outside bars started getting larger, he was always moving, always chasing something. recording audition tapes at three in the morning in your shared, shabby apartment while trying not to wake you, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by notebooks full of lyrics and half-finished ideas, running from one tiny gig to another right after work with a coffee in one hand and his guitar case in the other.

and you loved that about him — you loved how badly he wanted things.

even back then, before everything became so public, joe had ambition stitched into him so deeply it practically bled through his skin. you remembered sitting on your tiny kitchen counter while he paced around the apartment rehearsing lines for some ad under his breath, stopping every few minutes to ask, “does that sound natural or do i sound like a boring salesman?”

you’d giggle every time. “i mean, you always sound a little like a mid age man.”

“cool,” he’d sigh dramatically, running a hand through his hair. “that’s exactly what casting directors want.”

and then ten minutes later he’d crawl into bed exhausted, burying himself against your chest like the entire world stopped mattering the second he touched you.

but no matter how busy he got, no matter how many jobs or rehearsals or shows he had lined up, joe always came back to you.

he’d stumble through the apartment door past midnight smelling like cigarette smoke and cold air and cheap beer from whatever tiny bar he’d been performing at, kicking his shoes off halfway across the room before immediately finding you.

sometimes he’d barely even say hello.

he’d just collapse onto the couch beside you with a long groan, shoving his face into your neck while mumbling something incoherent.

“hi to you too,” you’d laugh softly, fingers slipping into his hair while you put your book down.

“missed you,” he’d murmur against your skin.

“you were gone for like four hours.”

“terrible experience. hated every second.”

and he’d say it so seriously too, voice muffled against your throat while his arms tightened around your waist dramatically until you were laughing harder.

back then, nights used to feel warm and endless. you’d stay up with him while he talked about everything that came up in his mind — music, movies, auditions, stupid customers from the restaurant he worked at for three months before quitting.

sometimes he’d pull you into his lap while talking, absentmindedly playing with your fingers while rambling on and on about whatever new song he and his friends were working on.

and every single time, it ended the same way.

him stopping mid sentence just to stare at you with a soft adoration behind his eyes.

“what?” you’d mumble eventually, smiling shyly under the attention.

“nothing,” he’d say quietly. “just like looking at you.”

from the very first months of you dating, you knew you’d love him forever, even when things started changing. even when his name started spreading across the globe on tv screens.

it wasn’t like joe was unknown before everything happened. he already had people recognizing him occasionally, already had small crowds after shows, already had fans waiting outside venues asking for pictures while he stood there awkwardly blushing through every interaction.

but then stranger things happened and nothing was really ‘small’ or intimate anymore, everyone knew him.

excluding all the social media notifications that would blow up joes phone during dinner together, the first time you actually realized things were changing was after one of his shows.

for some reason, joe had especially wanted you to come to this one, saying something about how, “this venues the biggest one we’ve been invited to.”

so you called off work and showed up — that’s just what you did for each other.

the venue was tiny meaning people were packed shoulder-to-shoulder and incredibly sweaty, mumbling lyrics they thought they knew while colored lights flashed across his face. you stood near the side of the stage watching him perform, smiling every time his eyes found yours in the crowd because somehow, they always did.

and later, after the show ended, you were waiting near the side exit while joe packed up backstage, absentmindedly scrolling through your phone while muffled voices echoed through the hallway.

you looked up at the sound of feet shuffling thinking it was joe, but instead you saw a girl around your age stood frozen a few feet away staring toward the backstage door with wide eyes and both hands covering her mouth.

“holy shit,” she whispered to her friend. “that’s literally steve harrington.”

you brows lifted immediately and you couldn’t help but immediately put your phone away to listen in more.

before you could even shuffle closer, joe walked out carrying his guitar case over one shoulder, still flushed from performing.

the second the girl made eye contact with him, she looked seconds away from exploding.

“i’m so sorry,” she blurted out instantly. “i just, oh my god, i loved you in stranger things.”

joe immediately froze and stopped walking, knowing him, his heart was probably doing a marathon.

his eyes widened almost comically. “wait, really?”

at the time, the expression on his face had you cheesing bad. every time he was in pure disbelief, his big eyes widened and became even more cuter.

the girl nodded rapidly. “yeah! me and my friends watched it together and we literally freaked out when we saw you were playing here.”

joe blinked once like his brain genuinely couldn’t process the sentence.

“that’s really cool,” he said honestly, rubbing the back of his neck with this shy little smile that immediately made your chest ache. “seriously, thank you.”

you could see it happening in real time. the realization settling over him slowly that people knew him.

not just from local shows or auditions or just because he was “that guitarist from that one band.”

they knew him.

the girl asked nervously if she could take a picture with him and joe looked genuinely honored by the request.

“yeah,” he answered immediately. “of course.”

he nearly dropped his guitar trying to set it down fast enough.

you had to bite back a laugh while watching him smooth down his big and messy hair quickly beforehand like he suddenly remembered he existed physically.

afterward, once the girl finally left practically glowing from excitement, joe just stood there staring after her for a second before he turned toward you.

at the time, you genuinely thought he was going to start crying.

“did that just happen?” he asked quietly.

you smiled so hard your face hurt. “mhm.”

“she knew who i was.”

there was something so vulnerable about the way he said it like he was shocked that he was out there and people actually liked him.

your chest tightened immediately.

“baby,” you laughed softly, raising your hand to settle it on top of his own.

joe looked at you with this overwhelmed expression before suddenly grabbing your face with both hands.

“she knew me.”

“i gathered that, yeah.”

“holy shit.” then he kissed you hard, his sweaty hands planted onto your face and eyes squeezed shut because he was trying not to cry … seriously.

for a while after that, everything felt good. like life had finally cracked open for him the way he always dreamed about.

joe started getting booked for bigger, more serious auditions. he’d walk around the apartment trying to act casual even though you both knew he was probably freaking out with butterfliesbswarming his insides.

and joe was a stress cleaner, so during this time especially, the house was spotless.

sometimes you’d walk into the kitchen at midnight and find him aggressively wiping down counters that were already clean while muttering lines under his breath.

“you’re doing the thing again,” you’d yawn one night, shuffling into the kitchen wearing one of his old shirts.

joe looked up immediately. “what thing?”

“stress cleaning.”

“i’m not stress cleaning.”

you stared pointedly at the spotless counter in front of him.

“…okay maybe a little.”

you laughed softly, walking over until your arms slid around his waist from behind. instantly, his shoulders relaxed.

“you’re gonna do good tomorrow,” you murmured against his back.

joe sighed dramatically. “what if i bomb so hard they blacklist me from hollywood forever?”

“baby, it’s an audition for a toothpaste commercial.”

“exactly.” he turned in your arms suddenly, grabbing your face with both hands. “oral hygiene is important.”

you couldn’t help but let out a snort before laughing regularly after.

you didn’t realize it, never did, but every time you laughed, joe would look at you with this stupidly soft expression, like your laughter alone could keep him alive.

“there she is,” he’d mumble quietly whenever you laughed really hard. “pretty girl.”

moments like these back then are what made you so adamant on the belief that nothing could ever get between the two of you.

even as stranger things started pulling joe further into the spotlight, even as his music started gaining more traction and interviews slowly became a regular part of his life instead of a rare exciting occurrence, he still came home to you the exact same way he always had.

stumbling into your guys’ apartment after long days looking completely exhausted with messy hair and sleepy eyes, tossing his bag onto the floor before immediately searching for you.

sometimes you’d barely get a “hi” before he was collapsing onto the couch beside you, wrapping himself around your body dramatically while groaning into your shoulder.

“missed you,” he’d mumble, warms lips pressing into your freshly lotioned skin.

you’d laugh softly every single time because he always sounded so serious about it.

“you know you saw me this morning.”

“that was years ago.”

“joe, it was eight hours.”

“exactly,” he’d sigh. “horrible. traumatic experience.”

maybe that’s also why the loneliness has been hitting you hard recently.

joe still loves you the same way he did back then.

nothing about him has actually changed at his core. he’s still affectionate to the point of ridiculousness, still reaches for your hand absentmindedly whenever he’s near you, still looks for you first in crowded rooms like it’s instinct instead of thought.

even now, after exhausting press days and flights and interviews and recording sessions that leave him barely functioning, he still comes home and immediately folds himself into you like his body only fully relaxes once he’s touching you again.

but lately, every time he “comes home”, it barely lasts long enough to make it actually feel real. he just feels like a guest now.

as stranger things keeps getting bigger and joe starts building more for himself outside of it with his music, his life starts moving at a speed neither of you really know how to keep up with.

you try so hard to be the “supporting and understanding” girlfriend. you tell yourself this is temporary. that this is what happens when someone’s dreams are finally coming true. you remind yourself that years ago the two of you used to lay awake in your tiny apartment talking about this exact future, joe rambling excitedly about wanting to act more seriously, wanting to make music people actually cared about, wanting to create something meaningful enough to leave behind.

and now he’s actually doing it, so why does it hurt you so much?

the distance never even feels dramatic enough to actually justify your sadness. it’s more of the little things that come with it.

the little absences or moments where you reach for him in bed before realizing he’s off sleeping in a hotel somewhere.

you start noticing how often you eat dinner alone now. how many nights end with you curled up in bed staring at the ceiling while his side stays cold for another week. how conversations slowly start revolving around his schedule instead of your silly little conversations.

you remember all the same apologies:

“i land thursday.”

“i leave again monday.”

“studio ran late.”

“baby, i’m sorry, i completely lost track of time.”

every time you think about cutting off the supportive girlfriend act, you remind yourself that none of this is even on purpose.

you can hear it in his voice during late night facetime calls when he’s sitting in some hotel room halfway across the world, curls damp from a rushed shower while exhaustion hangs visibly beneath his eyes.

“talk to me,” he murmurs one night, laying back against stiff white pillows while the dim hotel lamp casts shadows across his face.

you smile softly. “about what?”

“anything.” his eyes stay fixed on you through the screen. “just miss hearing your voice.”

your chest aches so bad every time that you have to take a breather for a second.

you miss him too, constantly.

you miss him while grocery shopping because you pass snacks he likes and instinctively reach for them before remembering he won’t even be home to eat them on time.

you miss him when you wake up from a bad dream in the middle of the night and your hand lands on cold sheets instead of his chest.

you miss him during stupid insignificant moments that shouldn’t matter as much as they do.

sometimes the missing starts turning into resentment before you can stop it.

not towards him though, but more towards the situation itself — that random strangers get to see your husband (a/n: see how i incorporated that ayooo 👀) more than you do.

every time the feeling appears, you feel a rush of guilt afterwards because you are so unbelievably proud of him and how far he’s come.

you still remember the first time someone recognized him after a show and the way his entire face lit up afterward like he couldn’t fully believe people cared.

you remember how hard he worked for this and how badly he wanted it.

so every time loneliness creeps into your chest, guilt follows right behind it.

which means you stop thinking about it entirely. what are you even supposed to say? “hey, i know your career is finally taking off and your dreams are coming true, but i’m starting to feel lonely enough to cry over your side of the bed smelling like you?”

it was just pathetic.

so instead, you adapt.

you start pretending facetime is enough intimacy to survive on.

you start memorizing time zones.

you start measuring relationships through flight schedules and countdowns and “only two more weeks” instead of actual time spent together.

the scary part is how normal it starts feeling.

until one night you’re sitting alone in your apartment at nearly three in the morning waiting for a phone call that was supposed to happen hours ago.

until one day you look around and realize you’ve been missing someone who’s technically still yours the entire time.

today, joe’s coming home.

and that thought alone has you up before the world even remembers how to breathe, staring at the ceiling while pale morning light leaks through the curtains in thin, trembling stripes across the bed—his side still untouched, still perfectly made the way it’s been for three months, like the mattress itself has been holding its breath.

your alarm goes off and you kill it instantly, sitting up slow, rubbing at your face like you can physically erase the anticipation buzzing under your skin. the apartment is too quiet in that way that makes your ears ring, and you hate how normal that silence has become.

all you can think about right now is how joe’s finally coming home.

it’s been three months. ninety-something days of facetime calls freezing mid-laugh, of falling asleep to the noise outside because silence got too loud, of reaching across cold sheets half-asleep and remembering, over and over, that no one is there. you stopped cooking proper meals somewhere along the way because it felt absurd feeding just yourself when your brain still expected two forks, you started sleeping on his side of the bed because his pillow still faintly remembered him if you pressed close enough, like memory had a scent.

you spend the morning finding something to do with your hands. cleaning the kitchen twice, changing the sheets, scrubbing down every surface in the already clean bathroom — the house is spotless but you keep going and going, not knowing what else to do.

by two-thirty, you’re outside the airport, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm against the steering wheel while people spill in and out in waves.

after a while of waiting with your cheek pressed against the rim of the steering wheel, you see him.

he’s there walking out the airport, messy curls shoved under a beanie, jacket slipping off one shoulder from the weight of his bag, post airplane exhaustion carved into his face. his eyes scan the crowd of cars and the second they land on you sitting in the car, his chest moves out like he’s exhaling a deep breath.

“pretty girl,” he breathes.

you’re out of the car before your brain can stop you and remind you you’re in public, crashing into him hard enough that he stumbles back a step before catching you instantly, arms locking around your waist like muscle memory, lifting you slightly like he can’t believe you’re actually here.

“you smell like sweat,” you mumble into his neck, voice already shaking.

he laughs into your hair, tired and warm and alive. “i missed you too, baby.”

and it hits you then, sharp and clean in your chest, that he is real, that this is not a screen or a frozen voice or a delayed signal, but warmth and rings pressing against your back like proof.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes softer than anything you’ve known in months. “hi.”

your throat tightens. “hi.”

then he’s pulling you in again like letting go before burned him. “missed you so bad,” he whispers, and you almost laugh because you want to make a funny comment that you talked six hours ago, but you were too focused on relishing in his touch.

-

the first week feels okay, normal even.

joe still leaves his hoodie on chairs without thinking, still eats off your plate without asking, still falls asleep on the couch and wakes up reaching for you immediately like it’s instinct.

you laugh and breathe easier than you used to when he was gone, and for a little while it worked. everything felt kinda like how it used to.

well, until the small changes you’d grown accustomed to started popping up.

it’s around three in the morning when joe wakes up to movement beside him, sleep still heavy in his bones, only to find you already halfway out of bed.

“baby?” his voice is rough, confused.

you pause at the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyes barely open. “sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“where’re you going?”

“couch.” you reply simply, as if this was not something you’d only do if you two were in a bad fight.

joe’s chest tightens immediately. “what?”

you blink at him slowly. “i had a nightmare. didn’t wanna wake you.”

there’s a silence that feels too long, too sharp. like he’s waiting for the rest of you to show up in the sentence. it doesn’t.

so he sits up fully, pushing the blanket off. “c’mere.”

“joe, it’s okay-”

“baby.” he says softer now, but not asking anymore.

you hesitate, then climb back in, and the second you’re near him he pulls you into his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear mid-breath, one hand in your hair, the other dragging slow circles down your back.

“you can wake me up,” he murmurs.

you nod against him, already drifting. “i know.”

but he stays awake long after, staring at the ceiling, thinking about what could’ve brought this up.

-

another night, rain is tapping softly against glass while joe sits on the couch with his guitar half-forgotten in his lap when he hears you in the kitchen.

he looks over to see you’re making tea, wrapped up in one of his hoodies.

he watches without saying anything at first, mostly because he’s missed this view, just following the rhythm of you — kettle, mug, spoon, honey, steam rising like a thought you don’t notice you’re having.

then he sees it. there’s only one mug, not two.

his fingers stop on the strings. this probably doesn’t seem like an anomaly to an outsider, but it is to joe. you guys always have tea together, he doesn’t even think there’s been a single time you haven’t. before the big gaps of distance, there were always two.

“baby?” he says softly.

you glance over. “hm?”

“you didn’t make mine.”

you look down like you’re surprised there’s only one in your hands. “oh. i didn’t know if you wanted any.”

and something in him just…sinks, a heavy realization settling into his bones.

he sets the guitar down carefully. “c’mere.”

you come over slowly, sitting beside him. he takes your hand immediately, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s trying to memorize what’s changed.

“what?” you laugh nervously.

he doesn’t answer right away. just studies you like he’s reading a version of you he doesn’t recognize but desperately wants to understand.

he takes a shaky breath in then carefully asks, “did something happen while i was gone?”

your smile falters. “what do you mean?”

“you just seem…different.”

“i’m not.” you defend, a bit too fast.

“baby, you’ve been sleeping on my side of the bed,” he says quietly.

your eyes flick up.

“you don’t wake me up anymore when you have bad dreams. you just leave.” his voice cracks a little. “you apologized for being in the kitchen yesterday.”

you go still because you don’t remember that at all, even the part where you sleep on his side of the bed.

your eyes flick up immediately. “i don’t remember that.”

that’s the moment his expression shifts slightly because that’s not something you should be forgetting.

“you seem different,” he says more quietly now.

you force a small breath out. “i’m fine.”

he shakes his head once. “no, you’re not really answering me.”

you look away. “i just got used to being alone.”

the admission slips out before you can stop it and the second it does, joe goes completely still.

“what do you mean you got used to being alone?” he asks, softer now, but there’s tension underneath it.

you swallow hard, trying to keep your voice steady, trying not to let anything show. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“then explain it,” he says gently.

you try. you really do. but it comes out uneven, messy, like your brain can’t organize it fast enough. “it just… felt like i was by myself most of the time and i didn’t want to keep telling you that when you were working and you sounded happy and i didn’t want to make you feel bad for something you‘be worked years for”

your voice starts to crack at the end of it, and you immediately try to push it down, inhale sharper, blink faster, like you can force it back into place.

joe’s face drops completely. “baby…”

you shake your head quickly, already trying to stop it before it fully happens. “i didn’t mean- i didn’t want to make it weird, i just-”

you’re trying to keep your voice steady, but your voice breaks anyway.

your eyes immediately glass over and you look down like that will fix it, jaw tightening like you’re physically holding yourself together, shoulders stiff like if you move wrong you’ll fall apart completely.

joe is already moving.

“hey,” he says immediately, voice low and urgent but careful, like he’s approaching something fragile. “hey, look at me.”

you try to answer but it comes out uneven. “i’m fine, i’m fine, i just-”

another crack in your form, but now it’s worse because you’re actively trying not to cry, which makes your breathing worse, which makes everything worse.

joe gently reaches for your face, both hands cupping your cheeks, forcing you to look at him but not in a harsh way—just steady.

“you don’t have to hold it in right now, baby,” he says quietly.

your breath shakes and you turn your face slightly like you’re trying to hide it but it’s already happening, tears spilling over despite how hard you’re trying not to let them.

“i didn’t want to make it your problem,” you say, voice cracking completely now.

joe shakes his head immediately. “no. don’t do that.”

you try to speak again but it falls apart halfway through and he pulls you in before you can finish it, arms tight around you, one hand at the back of your head, the other pressing you into his chest like he’s trying to make sure there’s no space left for you to pull away.

you break fully against him now, quiet sobs that you clearly tried to hold back for too long, shoulders shaking as you finally let yourself lean into him completely.

joe doesn’t move away even a little.

“i’ve got you,” he keeps saying under his breath, over and over, like he’s trying to overwrite every second you were alone. “i’ve got you, i’ve got you.”

you clutch his shirt like you’re afraid you’ll slip back into that version of being alone if you let go.

he holds you tighter. “i’m sorry,” he says quietly into your hair.

you shake your head against him. “don’t be.”

“i should’ve seen it,” he says, voice rough now, less steady. “i should’ve noticed sooner.”

you try to pull back slightly but he keeps you close, just enough space to see your face, and he wipes your tears with his thumbs like it’s the only thing he can focus on.

“you don’t have to disappear when i’m gone,” he says softly, firm but not angry. “you don’t have to shrink yourself into something smaller just because i’m busy.”

you breathe unevenly, still trying to stop crying even though it’s already happening.

“i didn’t want to ruin your work,” you whisper.

joe shakes his head immediately. “listen to me.” he pauses, forehead almost touching yours again. “you’re not something i fit into my life. you’re part of it. you’re the part i come back to. you’re the point.”

you stare at him, still shaking slightly, still trying to steady yourself.

he presses a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, then one to your cheek, lingering each time like he’s making sure you feel it instead of just hearing it.