laura

You freeze. 

What the—

He must not register the utter shock on your face, because he’s already moving towards you. The silky tie snaps through the air as he rips it from his neck. God, he must really be wound up. He didn’t even take his shoes off at the door. 

“Excuse me?” You manage to choke out. 

“Don’t freak out, I just really need to try something,” he grunts, rounding the couch. “Just for a second.”

The moment his knees hit the carpet in front of you, your jaw goes slack.  

“Harrington!” You scramble back into your mountain of pillows, nearly knocking your mug off the side table. You reach out and steady it with one hand, suddenly very aware of how your tank top has ridden up with the movement. “What the hell are you—?”

“…can’t believe she said that,” he mutters, ripping back the blanket thrown over your lap. 

“Who said what?”

He doesn’t respond, eyes locked on your short sleep shorts. They’re a cute set you picked up recently at the mall. Navy blue with white flowers. Innocent-looking. Sweet. 

But he’s staring at them like he’s going to rip them off with his teeth. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. 

While you can’t deny what that look is doing to you, there’s something else trapped in his gaze. Sadness? Not quite. Disappointment, maybe? You’ve only been roommates for six months, but you already know him well enough to know when he’s upset. 

Reaching down, you grab a fistful of his hair and tip his head back. His eyes snap to yours. 

“What did she say?” you ask again, firmer this time. 

Steve’s lips form a thin line before he sighs heavily. You drop his hair. 

“She said I was bad at sex. Specifically, bad at...this.” He gestures unhelpfully between your legs and your stomach swoops as his finger almost brushes the seam of your shorts. 

It takes you a second, but then your brows pull together. “She actually said that?”

“Not exactly,” he groans. “The date was fine. It was our third, so when she invited me upstairs, I figured…well, you know. And then we got to making out and it was hot. I guess…”

You swallow hard and gesture for him to continue, even if the thought of his lips trailing down some other girl’s neck feels like a knife in your side. 

“And then I went down on her and she said—” He cuts himself off with a miserable little huff before resuming. “She said it wasn’t doing anything for her. At all. Like it wasn’t good enough or something. Can you believe that? I could’ve lived if she said my thrust game needed work or something, if we had even gotten to that point, but this? This is, like, my thing.”

Oh. Okay. 

Yeah, you could’ve gone the rest of your lease without knowing that eating pussy is your hot roommate’s thing. 

That is not good for your little crush you have going on that you refuse to talk about. Or think about. Ever. 

You nod quickly and clear your throat. “S-so, what exactly does this have to do with me?” 

Steve just shrugs. “We’re friends, right?”

“Right.”

“Right.” He levels your gaze, brown eyes soft and playful in the lamplight. “So…”

The moment stretches between you, an invitation, an ask, and a dare all rolled into one. 

“So, because we’re such good friends, we just…give each other oral sex?”

Steve sighs. “Look. I just want a second opinion, okay? I mean, this is bad. Really bad. If Cindy didn’t like it, then what if other girls didn’t either? Then I’ve just been lied to all this time—”

Your gaze drops to his fingers digging into the couch cushion beneath you, and despite yourself, a smile creeps across your lips. “Oh my God, this really got to you, didn’t it?” 

“What?” He balks. “No! It’s just…I need to set the record straight.” He taps your knees with a knuckle, playful but firm. “Spread ‘em.”

You bark an unbelieving laugh that ends in a sound too close to a whimper when his hands come down on your thighs. 

You cannot let him do this to you. If you do, you’ll never be able to get over your secret-no-good-very-bad-crush on your roommate. 

You force yourself to breathe. “I…I don’t want thinks to get weird.”

 His eyes flick up to yours. “Weird?”

“Between us.”

Steve seems to take a second to understand what you’re saying, and you watch as an emotion you can’t place crosses his face. 

Suddenly, he moves to stand. “You’re right. Sorry. God, I’m an idiot. What am I thinking, I just—”

Panic spikes and you snatch his wrist before you even really know what you’re doing, cutting him off. “No, wait. It’s like you said. We’re…friends, right?”

He nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yeah.”

“So, we don’t let it get weird.” The words spill out of you before you can take them back. But you don’t want to. “I’ll give you an unbiased review. A one time thing.”

You watch as his lashes drop again to your legs, and his pupils widen as your knees fall apart a little on instinct. 

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice thick. 

In an effort to appear nonchalant, you shrug. But you’re salivating when his tongue darts over his bottom lip. 

 “Yes,” you breathe. 

He doesn’t waste a second dropping back down to his knees, and your legs widen immediately to give him space. 

“So, you’ll tell me the truth, right?” he rasps, eyes jumping between your face and your hips. “Be honest. I can take it.”

“Honest,” you agree, but the word comes out in a whisper as his fingers slip under your waistband. 

Your face burns as he pulls down your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, baring you to him. His hands gently ease your thighs farther apart, and you fight the urge to squirm under his gaze. 

“Steve! Stop looking at it like that,” you gasp.

“Why?” he asks without glancing up. “It’s pretty.”

Shit. 

You’re not strong enough for this. 

But when he finally looks up, you recognize the silent question in his eyes. He’s asking for permission. You could stop this right now, and he would let you easily. He’s probably never even bring it up again. No harm done. 

And you should. 

God, you should. 

But you don’t want to. 

So instead, you just nod, not trusting your voice to speak. 

As he leans in, you brace for the feeling of his tongue, but you’re surprised when he starts by just…kissing you. 

His lips are soft against your folds, and your breath catches at the tenderness there. His eyes find yours before he goes lower, and the moment his nose bumps your clit, your body jolts in his hold. 

He makes a muffled sound and his eyes drift shut, large palms moving to your hips, pinning them to the cloth couch beneath you.

 Then there’s that wet heat. 

His tongue slides over you with just enough pressure, starting slow and exploring your entrance. 

“Oh, God,” you whimper. 

His hair is so soft against your inner thighs, and when he makes a sound of encouragement against you, and his tongue swirls higher, catching the underside of your clit, your mouth drops open in a silent moan. 

He’s hardly done anything yet, but the way he’s doing it, so confident, and steady, it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

“See? Good, right?” he mutters, the words muffled and slick against your core. “I know what I’m—mmm, fuck, you taste good.”

Before you can respond, his hands wrap up and around your thighs, and he hauls you closer. Your tank top rides up even higher as you slide down into the cushions, but you don’t reach up to fix it. 

Mostly because Steve Harrington is going down on you, and that thought alone is nearly making you lose your fucking mind. 

His lashes flutter shut as he makes out with your dripping cunt, his throat bobbing as sucks gently, swallows, and goes back for more. 

You’re surprised to find there’s no performance to his actions, but more of a genuine enjoyment. 

Steve eats pussy like he wants to. 

You watch, transfixed, and you can’t help but roll your hips once against his mouth, smearing your slick all over his pretty fucking face. 

Too pretty for his own good.

A sound escapes his chest, something caught between a moan and a whine, and he nods against you, peeking up from beneath his lashes. 

The carpet whispers as rises higher on his knees, mouth traveling up your mound and over the soft, sensitive skin below your belly button. 

But you whimper at the loss, pushing his head back down. 

His throat vibrates against you with a chuckle, but he follows you obediently. “Oh, yeah? So definitely doing something for you then.”

“Shut up,” you groan, but the sound dies out harshly when his mouth latches to your clit and sucks. 

Hard. 

You gasp, back arching as your core clenches instinctively. 

Then, without warning, he pulls back. 

You look at each other, chests heaving. Suddenly, you’re afraid he’s done. That you now have to give a report based on that. 

“Is that it?” You squeak. 

“What? God, you think I would just leave you like that? No, I was just thinking—” He draws in a breath, like he needs to physically rearrange his thoughts. “Well, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

You just stare down at him, chest heaving, bare and slick from the waist down. 

He takes one look at your face and clears his throat. “Right. Later.” He leans in again, but pauses before glancing up at you one more time. “Yes?”

“Yes, Harrington, I will kiss you, later,” you whine pitifully, canting your hips into his hands. 

He seems pleased, and wastes no time picking up where he left off. 

And this time, he doesn’t tease you. 

Your head hips back, a moan tearing from your throat as two of his fingers spear deep inside and his mouth closes over your clit.

As you threaten to fall apart beneath him, Steve just watches. 

Every little whine and whimper. Every jerk and arch of your back. Every wriggle of your hips and curl of your toes. 

He studies you like a map, surveying everything that makes you soak his face, everything that makes you clench hard around his fingers, his tongue, and finding new routes to all those destinations. 

The tension between your hips pulls tighter, and when he reaches up to palm your breast, slipping his hand underneath your tank top, you wonder if he can feel it. 

The way your heart slams against your ribs. 

A silent, helpless confession. A call for him to see that this will not, in fact, be a one-time thing. 

That you’ve been thinking about this—about him—ever since the day you moved in. 

That ache builds like a tidal wave, threatening to break, and your fingers fly to his arms for stability. He’s warm, and strong, and his muscles shift under his dress shirt. 

It’s honestly impressive how quickly he responds, how easily he reads every subconscious signal your body gives him. Because when that breathy, urgent whine starts to leave your lips, his thumb replaces his mouth on your clit, rubbing firm, perfect circles that drive you higher. And then he dips lower, tonguing your entrance, devouring you in thick, broad strokes, pushing you to the fucking brink. 

“Yeah, you gonna come for me?” He slurs against your aching cunt. “Just like that. That’s it. I’ve got you—mmhm—”

The second his tongue spears deep inside, the tidal wave breaks. 

Your moan fills your quiet apartment, and you nearly come off the couch with the intensity of it. The rush is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You have no option but to surrender fully to it as it pulls you under, shamelessly riding your orgasm out on Steve’s tongue.

Steve’s ready for it though. He goes with you easily as your hips rise and fall, strong hands holding you to his mouth, unwilling to let you slide away. 

When the pulsing eventually fades to shuttering jolts, he pulls back, but his hands stay on your hips, caressing you softly, bringing you back down to earth. 

You bite your lip, looking down at him panting between your knees. Your body aches, but in a good way. Like you need more, but somehow, it still won’t ever be enough. 

“God, Steve—” you whine, but you’re cut off by him lunging up across your body and pressing his lips to yours. 

You laugh into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue as he kisses you eagerly. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that.” He murmurs, pulling back a little.

Something catches in your chest at his confession, and you thread your fingers through his hair, pulling him back down for another kiss. 

This one is different. 

Deeper, and softer, and…meaningful. 

He sinks back down onto his knees, squeezing your thigh, your waist, like you’re something precious. 

“So, tell me , honestly, was it good?” He urged, gazing up at you.

You blink dumbly, throughly flushed. “Yeah, uh…no notes.”

He smirks. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Five out of five stars.”

“I don’t know, Harrington. That literally means no room for improvement.” You’re not sure his ego is ready for that. 

“Oh?” His lips tilt in a crooked smile that makes you want to kiss him again. “What would you have me do to earn that fifth star, huh?”

His lids go heavy as you tighten your hold on his hair and urge his mouth back down where you want it. 

“You could do it again.”

a/n: It's my canon that his date, Cindy, was just hung up on her ex, and Steve was the unlucky rebound that night. Plus, Steve wasn't that into it. Because he was thinking about you, obviously. Also, here is the fluffy version sister fic if you care lol

He had to make it known, even if it was in a nonverbal, dramatic way. You had to understand that he was pissed. That he had been pissed since this entire argument started. It had been tens of minutes of incessant back and forth with you that led nowhere. Bobby barely remembers where it all started, but definitely feels where it ended.

With the distance between the two of you, even on the bed you shared every night. The warm, cozy sanctuary that was meant to be enjoyed and cherished rather than... whatever it felt like right now. He did not want to look to the side at you. Knew that if he did, he might falter. And he did not want to falter, as stubborn as that sounded. Childish, even for an adult man with all his wits about him, looking more like a sulking child than anything, arms braced in front of his chest like a shield. Against you. His girlfriend.

You will say something first, he was sure. That's how things went between the two of you.

You fight and squabble, then you reach out and coax him into understanding. It was simple, and it worked. It always worked.

Except now, it's been... a while. More than usual. And you were quiet. Not even trying to get closer to him. Bobby would even go further, as if to think you had moved away from him, but that couldn't be, right?

Sneaking a glance to his right, his breath hitched.

Your back was to him, your body curled onto the bed, arms tucked to your chest, the duvet barely up to your waist to cover you.

His first reaction was to let his earlier frustration mount again, redirecting it, but this time at the nerve you had. The nerve to put so much distance between the two of you in a place where your bodies should be as close as possible, no matter the fight, no matter the slight.

You were not even looking at him; the view of your back suddenly becoming one of the worst things he had ever seen in his life. Even worse than Clark's awful pirate sultan disguise or that one time his beloved Harley got scratched by some punk ass kids.

It didn't even come close to this. To you distancing yourself from him.

His chest tightened, and he hated it. Hated how easily you could affect him, even when he was supposed to be mad at you. At the whole argument you just had. Why were you just sitting there and not saying anything to him? Why were you not turning to look at him, as you always did?

For a moment, he thought about turning back to the TV and ignoring you, ignoring the way his chest hurt at the sight of you, the girl he loved, curled up in a ball, looking smaller than he'd ever seen you. As if what you fought about wasn't just another stupid dispute, and it actually hurt you. Made you want to put space between the two of you.

Bobby saw you draw a line in the sand and wanted nothing more than to stomp on it like a toddler until it disappeared. To kick and fuss until there was no sight of it left.

It was pathetic. This is what you were doing to him. You, with your back turned to him and your hands folded against your cheek, and—

He was moving before he could talk himself out of it, swallowing hard.

Slowly, ever so slowly, like approaching a skittish animal, not wanting to spook it into retreating further, he shuffled closer onto the bed until he was behind you, bare chest brushing your clothed back. Bobby did not utter a single word. No biting remark, no teasing, no grumbled words under his breath about how you were still not looking at him. No. This time, he felt like things were better if he just shut the fuck up for once.

He was gentle as he curled an arm around your waist, not bringing you closer, because disturbing you felt fragile right now, but pulling himself near until his chest pressed against your back, warm and solid, tucking you close. His hold wasn't tight, just in case you would reject his attempt at proximity and pull away. He was giving you a choice, not wanting to crowd you, realizing that this time things needed a different approach than usual. And it needed to come from him, not you, which was... uncomfortable. But not because he did not want to do it, but because he was not sure what had to be done, or how, for things to go back to how they were.

Bobby dipped his head, face pressing against the back of your head, nuzzling lightly at the warm skin of your nape where he usually kissed you goodnight before falling asleep.

He felt you tense up at his closeness, like a reflex, as if you weren't sure if you wanted him this near yet. His heart squeezed, but he remained silent. He could've started apologizing right away, just to get rid of the awkward atmosphere, the way his breath felt stuck in his throat, and the way you were still not looking at him, even as he tried to extend an olive branch.

Instead, he remained close, holding you, letting you feel his warmth, knowing the flimsy blanket you had tucked up to your waist was not enough to keep you as toasty as you probably wanted. He tucked his nose against your nape, breathing in your scent—shampoo, laundry soap, and you. The mix of scents made him feel at home and eased the tightness in his chest that had been there since you turned away from him.

Minutes passed like that. It was quiet. The awkward kind. The slightly tense kind. The I-don't-know-what-the-fuck-to-do-now kind. The kind that Bobby knew too well, as shameful as that was to admit. It was heavy with regret and reluctant affection from a man who wanted to fix something he didn't know he had broken before it was too late. Before his girlfriend built an invisible wall between them, which he was now ineptly trying to climb.

Bobby felt like every muscle in his body was tight against the onslaught of uncomfortable feelings swirling in his chest. He was about to either open his mouth and say something stupid that'll probably ruin the mood even more, or draw back in fear of inadequacy in the face of this predicament.

But then he felt you relax into him. It stalled him. He barely felt himself exhale.

First came the slight lean back against his chest, almost imperceptible, if he hadn't been attuned to every minute move of your body, but then came the full surrender as you steadily melted into Bobby's arms, sinking deeper into his embrace until your bodies pressed together from knees to shoulders, as they had countless nights before this.

Bobby stood immobile for a moment, not knowing if he was also allowed to melt into the familiarity of your body yielding to him, especially after the tense atmosphere still lingering in the air. Then, he exhaled, shaky and relieved. You were in his arms again. Not just physically, but emotionally, too, now. You wouldn't have allowed him the warmth of your surrender if it didn't mean you were no longer upset with him, right?

The tension had bled from your shoulders, no longer shrouded by that small, fragile shadow that made his jaw clench and chest hurt. Now it was softening, mellowing under his clumsy, awkward attempt to bridge this chasm between you two.

Being as careful as possible, Bobby let his lips brush just below your ear, feather-light and tender, just like the kisses he would give you when you fell asleep onto his shoulder during movie nights or were cuddled close in his lap on the couch after grueling workdays. Another one on your shoulder through the thin fabric of your—his—shirt, this one lingering, like a wordless apology. He wouldn't verbalize it yet, thought it was burning in his chest to say it, but instead replaced that with small, gentle kisses scattered over whatever part of you he could reach without moving too much, not wanting to jostle you, fearful of risking the peace that had settled over you both.

One palm was pressed to your stomach, moving in soft, circular motions, patting it softly from time to time, a habit he had whenever he had you tucked to his chest, liking to feel the warmth there; his hand raising and falling in sync with your breathing.

He was reluctant to do too much, but couldn't help brushing a kiss on the crook of your neck, where he knew you'd melt further, feeling emboldened enough by the lax feel of your body next to his to finally talk.

"Missed you," he whispered, voice croaky, reluctant. Bobby didn't know if you were ready to hear anything from him yet.

You huffed, a small breath, but didn't pull away. "We spent the whole evening together," you said, and it sounded like a deflection, like he had no reason to miss you while you were practically glued to his side; have been for a better quarter of an hour now, probably.

He knew that tone; knew why you did it, too, after years of being together and seeing every quirk of one another. You were still upset with him, but missed him, too. Just didn't want to give him an out yet, which he understood, even if it made his chest hurt again. And even so, a small smile tugged at his lips. You talked to him. That meant you couldn't be that upset still, right? He was definitely in the green.

Bobby kissed the crook of your neck again, lingering and soft, nuzzling the spot afterward as he mumbled against your skin. "Maybe," he said, continuing to pepper kisses. "But you were mad," his tone was hushed, almost uneasy, not knowing what would be the best thing to say now that a conversation was happening. "We were mad. Didn't feel right."

You didn't respond for a few moments, and he almost panicked, thinking he had said the wrong thing, willing himself to continue. "I was next to you, but... I missed you, you know."

Bobby knew he was fumbling with his words. Knew they probably did not make sense, probably didn't scratch the surface of the frustration or hurt you were still feeling after the fight. But even so, there was no sarcasm in his tone, not this time. Just clumsy affection and regret wrapped around three simple words.

And yet, you remained silent, which only made his trepidation grow, his heart beating faster in his chest, his hands growing clammy where they held you.

He was about to mumble again, hoping to coax something, anything, out of you, when you spoke.

"Do you not love me anymore, Bobby?"

What?

For a moment, he couldn't believe the words that had just come out of your mouth. His entire body froze, not just from the shock, but from pure, unadulterated horror.

How could you even ask such a thing? Why the fuck would you ever even think to say those words to him, of all people? What was wrong with you?

Bobby remembered how to breathe, ragged puffs from his lips, not being able to comprehend how the fight from tonight, the stupid, useless squabble they had, made you doubt something as important as his love for you.

He did not move for a long, tense moment, then his body kicked into motion, fast and frantic. Without warning, his palms moved to your hips, turning you towards him, settling you on your back so he could get a good look at your face, at the expression that you were wearing while asking the stupidest question in all existence. His hands cradled your face, thumbs brushing over the softness there, fingers trembling, from fear or disbelief, he didn't know yet, as if checking to make sure she hadn't lost it in the time they had been at odds with each other.

Bobby felt lost and scared and angry and—

He hadn't known where the spur came from, but he was dipping down and pressing their lips together, almost missing in his haste, eyes squeezing shut, not wanting to see the expression on your face right now; too terrified to. The kiss was not soft nor sweet, but deep, desperate, like he needed to prove every ounce of love that ran through his veins into this very moment, this very press of lips, as uncoordinated as it was. It was messy and warm and full of all the things he didn't know how to say in that moment; things he usually had trouble saying.

I love you.

You're it for me.

Nothing will ever change the way I feel about you.

I'm not the same without your love.

But kissing you desperately now seemed the only option when his heart was beating out of his chest, and his hands were shaking as they held your face. And God, it broke him, because you weren't kissing back. He could feel it. You were not responding to the touch of his lips, and it terrified him, the fear settling in the marrow of his bones, making him pull back, blue eyes wide and frenzied as they met yours when he felt your palms press against his chest to push him away.

You were creating space again, rejecting his kisses, his affection, his—

"N—no, Bobby," you whispered, voice almost cracking around the vowels, chin wobbling as if holding back tears, and the fear in his chest almost tore it open. "You always do this." Your hands pressed again, keeping him further from you, no longer able to dive back in for a kiss if he wished, but he wouldn't, not when you sounded tired, defeated, like it was the last thing you wanted. "You never talk, you always just—"

He felt a lump in his throat, almost choking him. The push to his chest stung worse than he would like to admit, the words after making it even worse on his already caving chest. Bobby looked at you, looking so tired and hurt and, God, you were so close to fucking crying. You looked devastated, like he had failed you in a way he hadn't even realized.

You weren't screaming, weren't snapping, weren't even angry. Your tone was just exhausted, like you'd thought about this before, like maybe there had been other times when things had been wrong, and Bobby had done the same thing, only to fail yet again in your eyes.

His stomach dropped, feeling an emptiness settling there like never before, crawling upwards like bile. He hated it.

You never talk, you had said, and he would be the biggest hypocrite on the planet to refute your words. He knew he defaulted to touch. Touch was easy, touch was safe, touch was what he knew best. What he was good at.

Talking? That scared him, even with you. Even after years together, talking about his feelings made him clammy, uncomfortable, and awkward, especially when emotions were of the negative kind: sad, messy, and ugly.

But right now? His fear didn't feel like enough of an excuse to not try to fix this. To try to keep you from pushing him away again.

So instead of getting closer or making any sort of intimate contact, Bobby swallowed hard, trying not to let his chin wobble, still too stubborn to show that much weakness, even now, and drew back, sitting next to you on the bed, but not touching anymore. His hands were pressed onto his lap, fingers trembling as he fumbled with the laces of his pajama pants, trying to ignore how the space between them felt bigger than ever before; an uncrossable chasm.

His jaw tightened so hard he swore his molars creaked, trying in vain to find the right words to patch up his mistake. He couldn't look at you, but he could feel you sitting there, watching him, more patient than he deserved you to be, but silently grateful that you were giving him this grace. This wasn't easy for him, and not because he didn't feel things deeply. No, he felt so, so much at times it was enough to choke him, just like now.

This wasn't easy because putting emotions into sentences took effort, tact, and vulnerability. Especially when it came to something messy like this.

But you deserved that effort. You always did. He was just too much of a fucking idiot to get his head out of his ass and start doing instead of chickening out.

So this time, he turned his head slowly towards you, trying not to shy away from eye contact, feeling the lump in his throat get bigger when he took in how vulnerable you looked too, in the low light of the bedside lamp, sitting now, just as he was, almost mirroring his position. God, he could cry just at the sight of you alone in this moment, and maybe he would, but first he had to try to make things right.

"I'm sorry."

Soft, croaky, and wobbly. But with no excuses attached, no deflection or sarcasm or whatever joke would throw in, along with apologies to soften how it made him feel to admit fault.

Just 'I'm sorry'.

Sorry for not talking more earlier when it mattered. Sorry for assuming that a desperate kiss could fix everything. Sorry for making you, the fucking love of his life and the sweetest girl in the world, feel unloved enough to ask for proof of his affections.

He swallowed loudly and added, feeling more lost but more determined than he had ever been before. "I shouldn't have kissed you just now," Bobby said, fidgeting with the laces again. "It wasn't right."

Your expression didn't change, but he could hear the hitch in your breath before you spoke, your voice still shaky. "Mhm," you said, "you shouldn't have."

Bobby's chest tightened further at the wobble in your tone; so sad, so small, so unlike your usual one. You weren't even yelling at him, probably weren't mad anymore. Just tired; disappointed in him for failing again at something that he probably should've realized and known by now. And somehow, it felt worse. For Bobby, anger meant there was still fire kindling, still enough daring in you to fight back.

But the way you sounded now? Sad and exhausted and defeated? It felt like a door shutting softly in his face, and it made him sick.

He didn't move closer, not yet anyway, because he had a feeling that pushing right now would only make things worse, and he couldn't have that. Wouldn't risk it for the world.

The silence stretched between the two of you, heavy with everything that he was not saying out loud, everything that you were still waiting for him to verbalize.

I messed up.

I didn't handle things right.

I don't know how to do this.

I'm scared of losing you.

He took a deep, trembling breath before speaking again, curling just a bit into himself, as if already shielding for your reaction. "Can I say more?"

It sounded weak and weird and awkward, and he hated every second of it, but you blinked at him, as if surprised he was willing to speak or want to, and nodded before you whispered. "Okay."

Bobby felt like something was clawing at his throat, but he had to push through. He was a fucking man, wasn't he? Why would this bring him down, of all things?

He took a slow, steadying breath. There was no more hiding now, no more dodging or deflecting or whatever bullshit he had tried in the past years of being together just to not have to be vulnerable in front of you.

Rubbing his palms over his pants once, twice, a nervous habit, as he kept his gaze on hers, as unwavering as possible. This was not a movie or camera footage he could film and then edit to his liking, or cut the parts he found lame out of. There was nothing else but him trying his damn hardest not to screw things up again, or worse.

"I'm really sorry, sweetheart," he started, voice softer, almost tentative, no longer as shaky or weak, just mellower. "For how I acted earlier... before the kiss. And after." He took another breath, hands smoothing down his pants again. "I don't remember what the fight was about," he shamefully admitted before continuing. "All I remember was you pulling further and further away from me and—"

And I thought you were going to leave, he wanted to say, but it sounded too stupid and dramatic, so he didn't.

"And instead of asking what was wrong, I made everything worse by getting louder and being an idiot."

Bobby felt like his heart was beating a thousand miles per second, picking up when he saw you frown at his words, immediately thinking he had done something wrong, but your voice was soft and nervous as you responded, head tilting to the side, a little confused.

"I... wasn't pulling away from you on purpose," you said, sounding almost apologetic. "I just felt like things were getting heated, and my body just moved," and you were shuffling a bit on the bed, as if saying this out loud made you a little bit more vulnerable. "I'm sorry it felt like I was doing it on purpose."

Oh.

Bobby's breath hitched, as if her words had eased an ugly, tangled mess in his chest, now unfurling as his gaze was trained on your face. Sweet, pretty face. Prettiest face he's ever fucking seen.

He's been so convinced that you had done it on purpose, shutting him out and keeping him there. The tone, the avoidance of eye contact during and after the argument, and the silence that followed? He had believed it all to be deliberate, a punishment for something he hadn't even realized he was doing wrong yet.

Looking back at it now, he felt ashamed for assuming the worst of the person he loved the most. His fears got the better of him, and he jumped to the conclusion that fueled his fallacies the most.

But no. You had been upset, too, just as he was. Hurt by his tone, by how fast things escalated, and you hadn't meant to push him away or make it worse. You just naturally curled into yourself and created distance, like any normal person would when their boyfriend is losing his temper more than he should have.

And Bobby hadn't noticed it, being too consumed by his own irritation and frustration, and need to be right.

Guilt crashed over him in waves, thick and suffocating for a moment, shoulders slumping forward as if physically weighted down by his own assumptions; his wrongs piling up and dragging him down yet again.

"I didn't mean to accuse you," he said, way too quickly, as if desperation would absolve him of the things he did. "I thought... I thought you were too mad at me and—," a loud swallow, before he continued, feeling pinpricks behind his eyes, but he refused to let his eyes water, blinking back any moisture. "And I thought you wanted nothing to do with me anymore."

He could see your expression softening, which only made him blink back wetness again as you spoke, soft and careful, as if not to spook some cornered animal.

"No, not really," you said, shaking your head. "I was just frustrated, like you were."

Bobby exhaled, long and slow, like he had forgotten to breathe while you spoke.

Not really, you said. Just frustrated. And the distinction mattered to him more than you could know in that moment. Because frustration wasn't necessarily personal, not directed only at him, not a rejection of their relationship or love. It just meant misunderstandings, life being annoying, or Bobby being a stupid idiot, coupled with all the other reasons.

And he knew your frustration wasn't loud and boisterous like his was. Yours was quiet but, in a way, resonating even more than his, only getting better when he noticed the weight in your chest and making it go away slowly so you could breathe unburdened.

He wanted to try that again, now, reaching out slowly, not like before; not pulling or grabbing you with desperation born out of fear and insecurity, but to carefully rest his hand on top of where yours sat on your lap. Just a small touch for now, a question disguised as a touch.

May I?

Can I?

Do you want this?

Want me still?

Bobby blinked back another wave of moisture from his eyes when he felt your fingers twitch under his, as if you wanted to touch him too, as if it was instinct for you to reciprocate his touch when you felt it. Just not yet. He didn't push, not this time.

You let out a small sigh before speaking. "I didn't understand why you were getting so worked up about such small things."

He winced internally at your words, knowing you were right, in a way. Even if he didn't remember why the argument started, he knew it had been masked as something else. Some stupid, nonsensical thing from the start that blew way out of proportion.

But under that?

"It wasn't small," he corrected, more like admitted, maybe both. Not in a defensive way, God knows he had no right to get defensive now, but trying to explain himself now that he had enough balls to speak for the first time in forever. "I mean, it should have been small," a half-laugh fell from his lips, more bitter than anything else before he continued. "But I think I got overwhelmed earlier today?" He posed it as a question, as if unsure his feelings made sense, or that they had any foundation on which his actions were built. "And then we started fighting, and you pulled away, and my brain went: She's sick of this. Sick of me. She wants... out." He took a shaky breath, shrugging, trying to ease the weight of his confession somehow. "Like all these little things piled up and... yeah."

Bobby saw you trying to process what he said, blinking for a moment before nodding, a sheepish look crossing your face as you spoke. "Okay. It wasn't small," you offered; "Sorry I said that."

And he felt a tiny swell of relief when you apologized, even if he thought he had no right still. Not because he needed an apology per se, but because it meant you were listening to him. Seeing him fumble and stumble around his words like a fucking teenager, and still willing to hear him out. Really hear him. Not shutting down or pulling away anymore.

The sheepish look on your face, like you really regretted dismissing his feelings earlier, without realizing how big they've gotten for him or for how long he's been guarding them like a rabid dog, close to his heart, too ashamed to let them spill out.

He hesitated for a moment, two, before slowly sliding his hand under yours so he could lace your fingers together and squeeze, as if reassuring you in return; warmth finding its way between them after this whole mess.

"No, no," he said quickly, maybe a bit too quickly, as if ashamed still that you had to apologize when it came to his tangled, messy feelings. "Don't be sorry. I shouldn't have exploded like that either," Bobby took a soft breath, filling his lungs, as if being truthful about his struggles was something you had to prepare for. "But... I've been stressed lately," he started, trying to find the right words again. This kind of confession didn't come easily to him. "Work's been crazy with Clark's filming schedule, and editing the footage after is so fucking tedious."

You nodded slowly along, listening, and it made his heart thud in his chest hard enough to steal the breath out of his lungs. Even more so when he felt you squeezing his hand. God, he loved you so much it hurt.

"You've been doing a lot, baby," you affirmed, soft and gentle. So fucking sweet, like you always were.

And calling him baby? Bobby reigned himself in so hard not to steal that word right from your lips and taste it for himself. Not yet.

His throat tightened. You recognized his struggle. Empathizing with what he went through. Not shunning him, not making him feel like he was letting himself get too affected by his fucking job. No, you seemed to know that he was carrying more than he let on, as you always did. His sweet girl. His sweetest, loveliest girl. Always caring, always there for him.

You probably noticed things he would've rather you not, but secretly hoped you would. The late nights when his camera was still open and running, the way he kept rubbing at his eyes while editing for hours on end, how even some of his spark had dimmed nowadays since the gig started being more demanding.

So hearing you say that, hearing you acknowledge the work he put in and how it affected him, cracked something open inside his chest.

His shoulders slumped forward further, not from weight this time, but from relief.

Without thinking too much, overwhelmed by the feelings spreading through him and mellowing his senses, Bobby lifted their entwined hands and pressed a soft kiss to the back of your knuckles, lingering, firm, and lasting.

And this time it wasn't desperate or frantic, or born of a need to fix, mend, or sweep everything under the rug with affection again. Just gratitude. Love. A quiet thank you for seeing him, even when he was being stupid, even when he was being irrational, even when he was being scared shitless of being vulnerable with the only girl he would ever allow himself to be seen this way.

Then, he exhaled shakily, pressing their tangled hands onto his lap, and leaning closer, resting his forehead onto your shoulder, nuzzling there like a cat seeking pets, or like a man who'd carried too much for too long and finally found somewhere safe to put it down.

Finally, he allowed himself to place it in your safe, loving hands, where he knew it would be safe.

"Thank you, sweetheart," he whispered against your shoulder, feeling his eyes getting watery again, but not blinking it away this time, sniffling once, twice, before he spoke again, voice a little croaky. "I love you so much."

He felt your breath hitch, and a sniffle mirroring his followed, which made his mouth curl into a small, overly fond smile. His sensitive girl. His precious girl.

One of your hands lifted to curl at his nape, petting at the soft hairs there, offering touch, affection, love in return.

Bobby almost let out a sob at the feeling. After so many thoughts swirled into his mind, of you rejecting him, of you leaving, of you not wanting him anymore, this felt like a benediction. He leaned into your touch like a man starved, a soft sound falling from his lips, like a whine and a sob alike, nuzzling further into your shoulder, leaning as close as he could.

"I love you, too, baby," you whispered, and he could feel the truth in it. The genuine tenderness you had for him poured and weaved into those words, making him press his face further into you, hiding the tears he was sure were sliding down his cheeks now, nodding against your shoulder, letting you know he heard you.

That night, as he held you tightly against his chest, lips pressed to your forehead, murmuring sweet nothings to lull you into sleep, he silently swore he would try to be better for you.

For his sweet girl.

His forever girl.

God, his best girl.

How much he loved his best girl.

The silence that shrouds the store would be unnerving if it weren’t like it all the time, the buzz of electricity becoming a monotonous hum you learnt to drown out after your first week here. The place is practically desolate, too large for how little furniture you actually sell, and for once Clark isn’t around. 

Rain thunders against the windows outside, the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the street before thunder rattles the walls, making your heart skip once, your nerves already on edge. Bobby is seated beside you, twirling a pen absently between his fingers, the clicking of the plastic only adding to the few sounds breaking the silence.

“You could go home, you know.” You glance up from the list in front of you, the endless sprawl of words that make no sense, with check marks you’ve learnt mean nothing. Clark doesn’t check inventory and it seemingly hasn’t changed in months: no deliveries, no sales. 

Bobby meets your gaze quickly, eyes darting away almost immediately. “Yeah.” 

Your brows raise. “Then why are you still here?” 

For a moment, he’s quiet. He spins the pen again but fumbles halfway through, and it clatters to the ground, rolling beneath the desk, forgotten. He makes no move to pick it up, simply cursing under his breath and slumping back further in his chair. His shirt pulls up just enough to flash a line of tanned stomach before he tugs it back down again, so quickly that you’re almost sure it never happened. “I don’t know.”  

“Then go home.” You huff, laughter seeping into the words as you finally cap your pen and let it drop into the otherwise empty pot occupying the desk. The same row of ticks remain on the paper and you clip it back onto the board behind you, marvelling at it for a fleeting moment.

Perhaps, marvelling is generous—your job isn’t amazing. Nobody comes in, and even if they do, they don’t buy anything. The pay isn’t great, and your boss is always cooped up in his office or making Bobby film him as he hobbles around in a pirate suit, a futile attempt at an ad in hopes of drawing more customers in. 

It’s yet to work. 

Bobby clears his throat from where he’s still slumped, straightening immediately once your attention turns back to him. He drags a hand through his blonde locks, making a few strands stick up in every which direction, eyes meeting your own. They’re a piercing blue beneath the sickly lighting and another flash of lightning reveals gold flecks hidden beneath, catching the light just right before disappearing once again. 

“You leaving now?” 

“Are you?” You counter, reaching for your jacket on the back of your chair and shrugging it on. It isn’t waterproof at all, and you don’t doubt that the rain will soak through it by the time you reach the bus stop. 

“No point in hanging around on my own.” He shrugs, standing too. You note that he was wiser than you, pulling on a thin coat that at least has a hood, though he doesn’t pull it up just yet, instead glancing briefly at the clock hanging precariously on the otherwise bare wall. “What time is your bus?” 

“Eight-fifteen.” You follow his gaze. 8:05 pm. “I’ve got ten minutes.” 

Bobby frowns, gaze shifting to the rain still hammering down outside, back to the clock, and then to the watch on his wrist. “You sure?” 

You fix him with a look, tucking your hair behind your ears in a weak attempt to preserve it from the rain. “I think I can read a clock, Bobby.” 

“Oh, yeah, sure.” He nods, following after you. “Except… Well, that clocks fifteen minutes behind. It’s eight-twenty.” And as if to prove his point, he flashes his watchface at you, the hands glaring beneath the flickering lights, pointing in completely the right directions, vastly different to the clock on the wall. The harrowing reality dawns over you in a rush of panic. 

“No.” You glance up at him, half expecting him to smile and laugh, but he expression remains unchanging, mildly apologetic. “No, no. That’s the last bus and it’s an hour walk from here–” 

“Oh.” 

The silence seems to return between you, the rain outside growing louder and louder by the second, another rumble of thunder passing through the building. Bobby shifts on the balls of his feet, changing his weight like he isn’t sure what else to do, as though moving too much might disturb something else. He rubs the back of his neck, attention firmly on the ground, as though the sterile, cool tile is suddenly the most interesting part of his day. 

“I mean. I’m heading that way. I could drop you off at home.” You glance up sharply, hope overriding your disappointment, and he quickly adds. “If you want. I’m not gonna force you but–” 

“Are you sure?”  

He lapses into silence, his rambling cutting off and he gives a firm nod. “Yeah.” 

Everything after that seems to pass in a blur; he heads downstairs to switch off the lights, bathing you in darkness, leaving you with only the dim shine of the streetlamp outside and the more frequent flash of lightning. The overhang beyond the door isn’t exactly big enough for the both of you, and you huddle together awkwardly as he locks up the door, checking it one before turning to the empty expanse of parking lot, his car far out in the middle. 

He turns to you, giving you a once over, before gesturing to your jacket, which is now pulled tightly around you, blocking out the chill. “That thing isn’t waterproof.” 

You huff a weak laugh. “Clearly.” 

Bobby rolls his eyes at the comment and before you can say anymore, he’s taken off his own and is handing it out to you like some sort of peace offering, like he isn’t standing there in a tshirt, jeans and nothing else. 

“Take it.” 

“No.” You push it back. “You’ll get soaked.” 

“I’ll be fine.” he insists, and the words don’t waver. “My hair won't take ages to dry.” 

Reluctantly, you wrap his coat around yourself, trying not to focus on the way his cologne envelops you, the hood shielding you from the rain still pelting down from above. You both hurry across the empty lot, and you don’t let yourself breathe until you're safely in the passenger's seat, droplets hammering on the tin roof in a deafening cadence. 

His door slams shut and he starts the engine, hot air immediately filtering in through the vents and banishing the chill that had begun to creep into your bones. His coat is drenched and you place it apologetically in the back footwell, careful not to drip water all over the seats. 

“Thanks.” You mutter eventually, voice strangely quiet. 

Bobby looks over as he checks over his shoulder, a useless action considering no one is around at all, before backing out of the car space. “What for?” 

“The coat. Taking me home.”

“Oh.” He nods once, attention fixed firmly on the road ahead, though you’re almost certain his cheeks tinge a faint shade of pink as he merges into traffic, finally joining the rest of civilization. “It’s nothing. Really.” 

Yet, beneath his tone, there’s a tacit understanding that it means far more than he lets on. 

Cars pass around you, everyone going on with their own lives, and you watch headlights dance amongst the haze of the rainfall, glittering in puddles, the occasional horn cutting through the quiet. Bobby remains silent, though it isn’t uncomfortable as much as it is grounding, finally giving you a moment to settle with your thoughts. The store might be empty, but the consistent buzz of the lights and unease that courses through you the moment you step inside seems to block out any rational thought. 

Sparing a glance to the backseat, you notice a camcorder and a few tapes scattered around as well as a crumpled script. Your brow furrows in curiosity as you reach back for the camera, letting it settle in your lap. 

“I didn’t know you were a film student?” 

Bobby clears his throat, a quiet laugh escaping him that sounds more like a rumble in his chest. “I’m not… I mean, not properly. I’d like to be…” 

“Then why aren’t you?” 

“Money.” He takes the turn onto your street; you didn’t realise he remembered where you live and you’d only mentioned it once, yet there's something almost endearing about it. “Which numbers yours?” 

“The third one.” 

He pulls up on the curb outside, finally killing the engine, leaving only the patter of rain on the room and the silence that hangs suspended between you. Carefully, he takes the camera from your hands, his fingers brushing your own. The touch is fleeting, lasting only a second before you can think too much about it. 

“I’m not that good. But everyone has something they wanna do, right?” 

You offer him a weak smile. “Yeah. I guess so.” 

He nods, swallowing thickly, fingers tapping against the side of the camcorder. He clears his throat once, a habit you’ve to notice he does when the quiet lingers a few moments too long. 

“Thank you.” You smile, genuine this time, not so tight. The tension in his shoulders loosens as he returns it, and you can’t help but notice the way his eyes seem to light up. “I really appreciate this. You didn’t have too—” 

“I wasn’t gonna let you walk home.” He cuts in, catching himself quickly. “I mean… You don’t know who's hanging around at this time. Would’ve felt bad.” 

You tilt your head, smile still tugging at the corners of your lips. “You would've felt bad?” 

Bobby nods earnestly. “Yeah.” 

“You worry too much.” 

His expression tightens slightly, as though you’ve hit something far deeper than he intended to make obvious, but he corrects it quickly, schooling the twitch in his brows into something more unreadable. “Probably.” 

“You’re a good guy, Bobby.” The confession slips free before you can think about what you’re saying, and his eyes widen slightly, lips parting just enough that he looks like a fish dragged from water. 

“You think?” 

You nod, the motion causing a strand of hair to flop in front of your eyes. His hand reaches out instinctively, brushing it back behind your ear, the touch lingering longer than necessary. The space between you both suddenly feels impossibly small and you find yourself gravitating closer, as though pulled by some mystery force.

His eyes search yours for permission, for any sign of wariness—when he finds none, he closes the distance, lips meeting yours in a kiss so featherlight and tender that it's no more than a brush. It doesn't last long, and the quiet that returns when you both pull away is heavier than before, though this time with something you hadn’t realised was simmering between you both. 

Bobby blinks once. “Sorry.” 

The laugh that bubbles out of you happens before you can stop it, abrupt and seraphic, the kind that fills the space and drags a smile out of him despite his nerves. 

“For what?” 

He shakes his head, his own laugh escaping until you’re both practically boneless. “I don’t know.” 

You’re not sure how long the two of you sit there, giggling like children until you’re red in the face. When you finally glance at your house, the windows dark, the reflection of the car looking back through the blur of rain, you take a long breath. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Bobby nods, suddenly sobering up as though you’d just asked the easiest question. “Yeah.” 

You reach for the door handle, pushing it open, legs already soaked by the rain. However, now, you find you don’t mind. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing is the whole world that matters. 

“Thanks again.” 

He grins. “Anytime.” 

And as you hurry inside, you notice he stays parked at the curb until you’re safely inside. Only then, does the engine grumble to life once more and he drives to his own home with a lovesick grin. 

For your first proper photoshoot for a couple that were genuinely interested in your work, it went better than you could’ve expected. They even loved the original photos, without any editing or adjustments, and that alone was one of the best compliments.

As that had gone well, the only worry was getting around and back to your hotel in shape. You weren’t particularly in a rush, because you had a few weeks to edit the photos to the perfect standard, but the crowds were something you weren’t looking forward to getting used to.

Coming into a city as someone who has lived in the suburbs for your whole life was exactly how people described it. There was music coming from every angle as people did street performances, people lining up to take photos, and overall, it was insanely busy. There was never an empty space.

You’re trying to find a quiet route so that you’re not bumping shoulders with others and having to quickly choke out a ‘sorry’. Your camera is pressed to your chest, trying to hold it close to you so that you don’t drop it, and to prevent people from trying to grab it from you, because you’ve heard countless stories about what people are like in cities.

You take a sharp turn around a corner, clutching your camera against your chest with one arm as you look down at your phone, following the map. You’re met with a rough chest against yours seconds after, slamming into you hard enough that your camera gets pushed from your grip, shattering on the floor, completely breaking the screen.

A voice immediately cuts in, panicked, his movements rushed as he glances between you and your camera that’s now on the floor. “Shit. I am so sorry.” He gasped out, crouching down to pick up the camera that’s just barely intact. “Fuck.”

He straightens himself up, inspecting the camera, trying to turn it on, but the screen stays black, pulling a groan from him. Once he looks at you, you pause, your blinks are quick as you stare at him, immediately recognising who he is.

It was impossible to not recognise him, he wasn’t anything like other celebrities that put-on disguises to avoid fans and paparazzi, he was himself. Same glasses pushing his hair back to keep his fringe out of his eyes, blue pair of jeans and a simple, beige jumper. Almost like he’s trying to blend into the crowds, smart.

He’s still panicking, unsure of what to do with himself other than to apologise until he couldn’t speak anymore. “I’m so sorry. God, I feel awful. We can get it repaired.”

Most people would probably glance at you, shrug, and move forward with their day, not bothered as it doesn’t affect them, but he’s in front of you, panicking as if this is his problem to sort. You can’t help but notice how he says ‘we’, like you’re not some stranger that he accidentally bumped into.

Processing thoughts and words was something that you couldn’t do right now, because Joe Keery was stood right in front of you, and you weren’t sure whether you should let it slide or keep staring into his eyes. The more you stay quiet, the more he freaks out.

“Hey, say anything, please. I understand you’re going to be really mad. I get it, I really do. I’m so incredibly sorry.” He says, apologising again, holding the camera in his palm.

You clear your throat, glancing down at the camera in his hands. “It happens, don’t stress it.” You say, unsure whether you should be freaking out over him being stood in front of you, or your broken camera. “Should’ve invested in a camera strap.” You mumble more to yourself.

“I broke your camera.” He sighs.

“Well.” You pause, eyes drifting over him. “It wasn’t intentional. You didn’t really break it. I’m not going to blame you, because I should’ve been looking where I was going.”

It goes quiet for a moment, and he glances down at your phone in your hand. “Were you trying to get somewhere?” He asks, the most obvious question with the most obvious answer.

“Yeah, I’m not from around here. I’m trying to use a map, but I wouldn’t say I’m amazing at following directions.” You say with a small smile, making light of your situation.

He nods, glancing around at the crowd trying to fit on the sidewalk, pushing and shoving at each other. Names are being called, people are shouting, and you’re glad that you’ve had the sweetest interaction.

“I could help you get to wherever you need to go. I wouldn’t suggest following a map whilst you’re walking in the busiest area.” He says with an amused grin.

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother. Are you sure?” You ask.

How you aren’t panicking in front of him was something you couldn’t answer yourself. People were glancing at him as they walked by, quickly patting their friend’s shoulders, angling their phones up high to take photos. A picture of you was going to be plastered somewhere in the media with Joe in front of you.

He flashes you a sweet smile and nods. “Positive. It’s really the least that I can do for you, because, well, you know.” He points down to the broken camera in his hand.

“Okay, yes. That would be nice.” You nod.

He glances around at the crowds. “Where are we headed?”

“The Hilton hotel.” You say, and his hand gently comes up to your upper back, guiding you through the lines and crowds of people to a quieter street.

The walk is a little quiet to the hotel for a while, it’s not kicked in that your camera is broken, but it has kicked in that Joe is walking beside you, helping you find your hotel.

He clears his throat. “Why are you here in LA then?”

“I do photography, and I had a couple contact me to do a photoshoot for them, except they live here, so I had to travel to come see them. I usually do photoshoots in my hometown. I wouldn’t say that I’m well known anywhere.” You reply, keeping up with his pace.

“That’s sweet.” He pauses for a moment, turning to look at you. “How long ago did you do this photoshoot?” He asks, the worry completely written all over his face.

“Oh, like, maybe an hour ago.” You say with a sweet smile.

He nods once, looking unsure. “Please tell me you’ll be able to access those photos still.”

An amused laugh leaves your lips. “Don’t worry, you haven’t completely ruined my career. All the photos are stored on a memory card, so they’re safe in there. It’s just the camera that’s damaged.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, good. I didn’t want to find out that I completely ruined all your progress. I’ll make sure that you get this fixed. If it’s not fixable, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“No, you’re not.” You say, completely in disbelief, assuming that he’s joking.

“I was the cause of it breaking, so I’m going to make sure you either get it repaired, or you get a new one.” He says seriously, and you blink at him.

“I bumped into you too.” You shrug.

He sighs. “Okay, half of the cause, then, but still, I’d like for you to be able to take photos on something.” He pauses again. “Shit. I’m Joe, by the way. I can’t believe I’ve just gone around talking about your camera and I never introduced myself.”

You laugh, shaking your head. This feels surprisingly normal, and he isn’t introducing himself as who he is known for, but who he really is. You introduce yourself too, earning a small smile from him.

“Do you do this often then?” You raise your eyebrows with an amused smile.

“Do what often?” He asks, adjusting his glasses in his hair.

You tilt your head a little. “Walking around with someone you don’t know, considering this because my camera got broken.”

“No, not really.” He laughs.

He leads you up to the hotel entrance and pauses his movements, standing to the side so he doesn’t block anyone’s way. His eyes flick over you once more before he speaks. “Well, here we are.”

“Thank you, Joe. You’ve done a better job than the map.” You grin.

He smiles at your response, quietly staring at you. “Would we be able to exchange our numbers, in a normal way? I’d like to make sure that your camera comes back to you, new or repaired, either way.”

Your heart missed a beat, even though this was simply so he could pay you back for the damage, but you had no idea how you were meant to be normal about this,

“Yeah.” You replied. “We can.”

Joe slips his hand into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, tapping on a new contact and placing his phone in your hands. You type your number into the contact and pass it back with a sweet smile.

“Thank you. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.” He says, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“I’m expecting a response, Joe, so I’m holding you to that.” You laugh. “No running from it now.”

“Don’t worry, once you get the camera, it will be like nothing ever happened.” He grins, awkwardly resting his hands in front of him.

You glance down at the time on your phone to check the time, then glance back up at him. “Better get in there, they’ll be opening up the doors for food in a few minutes.”

He nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Enjoy. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, Joe.” You say with a sweet smile before turning on your heel, walking through the revolving door.

Everything that has happened settles in fully when you’re sat at a table on your own, playing around with your food. It somehow felt like the most normal interaction, despite him being a well-known person. You didn’t panic when he was in front of you, you spoke to him like anyone else should be spoken to, and that’s most likely what made him feel comfortable enough to keep talking.

Once you finish up with your dinner, you wipe your mouth with a tissue and your phone buzzes against the table, slightly muffled from the cloth. You pick it up, already grinning like an idiot at the message.

It’s Joe. I haven’t left your camera to rot, I promise. When would you like to meet?

His message is simple, something nice that he’s doing for you that any other person wouldn’t do.

I’m glad. Would Friday be a good day?

You type, waiting for his response. The chat bubble pops up almost immediately after.

Sounds perfect to me. I’ll see you then.

You make your way back up to your hotel room, his conversation with you flowing freely in your mind, pushing away any other thought. The buzz in your body was lively, and getting to sleep was suddenly hard.

Friday comes along quicker than expected, mostly spending your week on the bed in the hotel, laptop on your lap as you edited through the couple’s photos, texting Joe in between when you were having breaks. It was simple talk, asking what each other were doing, sending photos of your work, and having general chats about life.

He had asked you to meet him outside of your hotel, to save you from the troubles of getting lost whilst following a map and possibly never being found. It was a sweet gesture, small, but noticeable enough for you to smile at his message.

You had been changing your outfits all morning, trying to work out what’s casual enough for a simple meet-up. Nothing felt right, it felt like you were either overdressing or underdressing with a hoodie and joggers. You wanted to look presentable for him, like you could get something out of this, something that would bring you closer.

You settled on a simple outfit, a blue button up blouse, dark washed jeans, and a small bag, simply for decoration. Choosing an outfit most likely wasn’t a thought on his mind, and you knew that you were thinking too deeply into it.

At midday, you made your way down the stairs and out of the hotel through the revolving door, already met with Joe’s eyes on yours. He stops fidgeting with his watch and walks towards you with a warm smile, standing in front of you.

“Hey.” He says warmly.

“Hi.” You replied with a sweet smile. “You turned up. I was almost expecting to step outside to silence.”

He laughs, shaking his head with an amused look, gently patting your shoulder like he has no idea what to do with his hands. “I may have broken your camera, but I’m not cruel, that’s a promise. You got the camera?” He asks.

Your hand reaches into your small bag, pulling out the shattered camera. “Yep. She looks brand new, look at her.” You say sarcastically.

“Her?” He asks.

“You’ve never gendered an object before?” You ask, raising your eyebrows.

“Good point. I can’t talk.” He grins, turning on his foot and leading you down the streets.

The conversation was an exchange of whatever comes to your head, talking about your hometown, why you decided to become a photographer, your least favourite type of cereal. It could’ve been awkward, but it was far from it. He made it seem like you had been close friends since birth, and it was way easier to talk to him that way.

He turns into a repair service shop, the chimes jingling as he pushes the door open, letting you step in first. You glance around the shop, filled with rows upon rows with different electronics and boxes scattered everywhere. He comes in front of you, walking up to the counter and glancing at you, quiet instruction to place it down.

The man behind the counter inspects the camera, trying the buttons before glancing up at you and Joe.

“Got some pretty bad damage to this. What happened?” The man asks, raising his eyebrows.

You glance at Joe, letting him speak.

“Accidental.” He replies awkwardly. “Bumped into her, and she dropped it.”

Joe’s awkward tone almost pulls a laugh from you, but you keep yourself settled for the sake of not receiving glances from anyone in the shop. The man sucks in a breath, his teeth pressed together.

“Well, unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll be able to put much use to this. Too much damage done.” The man trailed off, tapping the pads of his fingers against the counter. “You can always look around in here. We have brand new cameras that you can take a look at.”

Joe nods before you can say anything, like he’s been waiting for that response. “Perfect, thank you.”

He’s already walking down the aisles, and you jog over to him to catch up, searching beside him. He pauses in front of the camera aisle, brushing his fingers over the boxes as he reads the labels and general sections.

“Joe.” You say simply.

He hums, not taking his eyes away from the boxes. “Yeah? Talk to me.”

“I feel bad.” You whisper, looking down at your shoes.

His head props up and he straightens himself. “Why is that?”

“You’re spending money on me.” You reply.

“For good reason.” He reassures. “I’m more than happy to do this. It’s not like I feel like I’m being held hostage or anything.” He laughs.

You sigh. “If you’re sure.”

He nods and then points towards a camera. “What do you think of that one?”

You follow where his finger points to and you crouch down slightly in front of the box, reading the description. “Looks pretty nice.”

“Would you like it?” He asks, and you go quiet. He notices your hesitation. “Okay, let me rephrase that. Do you like the camera? Does it look good quality to you?” He asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Perfect.” He says, picking up the box and taking it over to the counter without any more thought into it.

The man behind the counter scans the box, typing into the machine and looks back at Joe, telling him the price. Your heart misses a beat hearing the price, but Joe presses his card on the reader, and it accepts, printing out the receipt. He mutters a polite ‘thank you’ to the guy, and turns back to you, carrying the box in his hands.

“You’re insane.” You shake your head, earning a grin from him.

“Yeah, well, brand spanking new camera for you.” He hums, effortlessly carrying the box under one arm, walking beside you.

This isn’t something that strangers go out and do, not that you’re necessarily strangers at all anymore. It didn’t take long for you both to get used to each other, and now he was buying you a new camera, something that he wasn’t at all required to do for you.

He continued to meet up with you, just ‘casual hangouts’, going out for coffee, walking around the park, even going over to his apartment because he claimed that you were going to have to get used to his place at some point.

A broken camera turned into apologies, and that turned into being around him full time as if you didn’t meet in the most random way possible. Sometimes he would invite you to his apartment, and you would sit in silence for hours, watching random shit that he liked on TV, simply enjoying each other’s company.

Between photoshoots with different families, friends, couples, and even at weddings, you were somewhere with Joe.

He had gotten so used to you, that making jokes was a frequent thing, even if his jokes didn’t land in the way he wanted, which was to make you laugh. Still, he managed to pull laughs from you, mostly because his jokes were so unfunny that it was hilarious.

You were curled up on his sofa, completely flat out after a day of doing multiple shoots, which was a new thing to you. Once one photoshoot happened, you were being contacted more frequently, and your social media had a huge boost.

He walked into the room, pausing in the middle as he looked down at you. “Well, don’t you look tired.” He grins.

“I feel like my eyes are melting.” You mumble, pressing your cheek further against the arm of the sofa.

“All these photoshoots are getting to you, huh?” He asks, settling down on the sofa beside you, moving your legs to rest on top of his.

You sigh, closing your eyes. “Three shoots today. I’ve only ever done one per week, lucky if it was per day.”

“You’re in demand. That’s amazing.” He says with a sweet smile, resting his hand on your knee. “Just think about it, you’re getting way more recognition than you got months ago.”

“I am.” You nod.

“You know.” He trails off, waiting for your answer.

You peek an eye open, glancing at him. “Don’t do that thing.”

“What?” He asks.

A dramatic huff leaves your lips. “Just tell me what you were going to say.”

“Since you’re in demand at the moment, would you be open to doing some shoots with me? Completely fine if not, by the way. Don’t feel obligated to do so.” He asks, eyes flicking over you.

“Well, you did buy me a whole ass camera, so.” You whisper.

He rolls his eyes. “I said don’t feel obligated.”

“I’m not, but I feel like I should do something for you in return.” You reply. “Kind of like we’re just constantly offering and returning things for each other.”

“It would be great to see you and Caity collaborate.” He whispers.

“I think that would be the best honour.” You say with a sweet smile.

Silence drags out for a while, and his hand brushes over your leg, not putting much thought into it. The TV plays some cartoon show that Joe likes in the background, but you’re not paying attention to it, it just acts as some sort of noise to fill the quiet.

Then you whisper after a few minutes. “It would be amazing to join you on tour.”

“I’d love for you to come along, not just for taking photos, but to just be there with me.” He says quietly. “I’d also love to bring some attention to you.”

“I think you’re too sweet.” You huff out a laugh.

“Like you said, we give things for each other, that’s our thing now.” He grins, patting your leg gently.

You hum. “You know, I think this has been one of the first times that you’ve properly brought up about your career. It’s like you’ve been avoiding it, but I like that. I like that you’ve showed me who you are, and not who people see you as.”

“I mean, I already assumed that you knew who I was when I first met you, and I didn’t want to bring all the attention to myself. There’s not much that you need to know about me, everything online for people to see.” He mumbles.

“I appreciate you for yourself, not for your career. If I had mentioned it to you when you met me, we probably wouldn’t have talked at all after that.” You laugh.

“Why, were you suddenly going to start asking for a photo or something?” He asks with a grin.

You shake your head. “No, no. My initial reaction was like, woah, you’re in front of me right now, what on Earth do I say to you, but it helped that you spoke first.”

“I’m glad you don’t see me as my job, that’s really special to me.” He whispers.

“You’re human too. I see you as Joe.” You reply. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

He hums at that, continuing to brush his hand over your leg.

That conversation changed something in him, he felt a flicker of something different, but it was something that he wanted to get used to.

It had been a few days since that conversation, and he decided to do something that was more productive for the both of you, something that wasn’t just being lazy and laying down on the sofa, binging shows and movies that you both recommended. They were equally as shitty as each other, and that’s what brought in the laughter and the conversations.

This time, it was a café, a smaller one at the edge of the city, away from the business that could potentially be distracting and chaotic. It was hard to go out with him sometimes, because people would run over and take photos of him. Not with him, but simply of him, and that felt offensive to him.

He had talked to you about what fans and paparazzi could be like, and it wasn’t a shock because you’d heard about it time and time again, but it wasn’t the most comfortable situation to be in. You just had to sit back and try to ignore the lights flashing and the gasps around the room.

The café was quieter than the others you had gone to before, free of chaos or paparazzi swarming outside the window. You were sat in a booth, side by side, not making much use of the opposite side. His leg was lightly touching yours as he read through the menu, brushing his finger under what he wanted.

“I think I’m going to get a coffee and a millionaire shortbread.” He says, turning to you.

“Oh, a millionaire shortbread sounds perfect right now. I’ll get an iced caramel frappe with a millionaire shortbread.”

He nods, repeating your words. “Okay, two millionaire shortbreads, a coffee, and an iced caramel frappe. Sounds good. I’ll be back.” He says, shifting out the booth and walking up to the counter.

His eyes glance over to you a few times, and it’s incredibly obvious, he does nothing to hide it. The coffee machines buzz, and the faint sound of plates stacking fills your ears. It’s a perfect amount of noise for you, slight chatter, but you can hear over it easily. He walks back towards you with the tray, settling it down on the table and sliding beside you.

He places your drink in front of you, and the small plate with the millionaire shortbread, shoving the tray to the side.

You take a sip from the straw and hum. “I can’t believe we’ve never been here before, it’s perfect in here.”

He nods with a small smile, his voice muffled as he eats his millionaire shortbread. “We can come back whenever.”

“Repeat that again, but after you’ve swallowed.” You laugh, sipping your drink.

Joe rolls his eyes, quickly chewing and swallowing. “I said, we can come back here whenever.”

“Thank you.” You reply. “They have better options than most places have, and it’s not as busy. Win, win if you ask me.”

“I will definitely keep that in mind.” He whispers, leaning back against the plush booth.

You kept your eyes on him as you sipped the drink, and you noticed his gaze drift from you to his empty plate. Without thinking, you shuffle a little closer to him, enough for your shoulders to press together.

He slightly turns his head to look at you, his gaze dropping a few times. “I’m glad that this all went the way it did.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask.

“Just how we met, really.” He whispers.

“What, by me completely breaking my camera?” You laugh.

He huffs out a laugh. “Well, that part was very clearly devastating, but I’m glad that I decided to keep talking to you, even though I did break it.”

“How many times do I need to remind you that you didn’t break it.” You shake your head with an amused smile.

“Still.” He replies, going silent for a moment. “Most people meet through work or parties and whatever else, but I think we met in possibly the weirdest and most random way.”

You grin, looking up into his eyes. “Thanks for being apart of breaking my camera, then.”

“Seriously though.” He sighs. “I don’t think I’ve ever gotten close to someone so quickly. It’s like I’ve known you for my whole life, and I love that. You make me feel like I’m something that’s not just my career. You see me as myself.”

“Well, yeah. Of course I’m going to treat you like yourself. Just because we have two different jobs, doesn’t mean I’ll treat you any different.” You shrug.

“I don’t think you know how rare that is.” He mutters.

Your face completely softens, and your eyes flick over him. “I’m very glad I can be that person for you.” You whisper.

He goes quiet again, but he doesn’t take his eyes off you once.

“Am I reading this wrong? Please tell me.” He asks quietly, almost looking nervous.

“Reading what wrong?” You ask, wanting him to say it instead of making you think too much about it.

He groans, pulling his hand down his face. “This. Us. Am I reading us wrong?”

“Well, that depends. How are you reading us?” You ask, giving him no room for quiet answers.

His fingers drum against the edge of the counter. “I don’t know. Well, no, I do know.” He pauses. “I think this is getting past the friendly point.” He admits.

“Yeah?” You ask.

“Yeah.” He says quietly, nodding.

You make a quiet sound and slowly nod back. “Well, what are you going to do about it then?” You ask.

Joe freezes for a second, blinking at you like he’s trying to work you out on his own instead of asking. His fingers brush against your upper thigh, testing to see what will happen. You don’t say anything, you simply look down at his hand, then look back at him with a sweet smile.

He takes this as his opportunity to lean in, slowly, hesitantly. His lips brush against yours slowly, and you can feel how his breathing shudders. Your hands slowly slide into his hair, pulling him closer into the kiss, trying to make this more comfortable for the both of you.

His breathing is rapid, and you slowly pull back.

“Breathe for a moment.” You laugh. “Don’t pass out on me.”

He grins, shuddering before he takes it slowly, leaning back in and pressing his lips to yours, more confident this time, guiding you.

When you pull back again, he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Whoa. Okay.” He mutters.

“Does that give you a rough answer to your question then?” You ask, gently brushing your fingers up and down his neck.

“Very clear answer.” He nods with a grin, lightly resting his hand on your hip. “I was freaking out, honestly. I didn’t want to take any of this the wrong way.”

“You definitely haven’t taken this the wrong way, I’ve been the same.” You admit quietly. “I wanted to be careful.”

His lips brush against your forehead. “You don’t need to be careful.”

“So, was this a date?” You ask with a sweet smile.

“Well, you figured that out.” He laughs.

“You made it too obvious. It’s not often you invite me to come to a few small, not very well-known café.” You whisper, raising your eyebrows.

“It’s the thought that counts.” He shrugs.

You met through the most random way possible, and still, it brought you closer than most people could get with anyone. From the very start, his presence was something that you had gotten used to quickly, it felt normal with him, like you didn’t have to hide who you really were from each other.

The comparisons against other competitors never got better, despite how much you pushed yourself to prove that you could be good too.

Sometimes you thought about how much easier it would be to be a man, because they get away with a lot more than you do. To be a man meant being more than someone’s boyfriend, fiancé, husband. They were known by their names, their efforts, whilst you were someone’s girlfriend.

You had to push to get to where you were, whilst a lot of men got in with low effort, or no effort at all.

Any movement you make is observed in fine details, people pointing out things about you that they wouldn’t point out about a man, things you wouldn’t notice about yourself.

There was a time during practice that you had a small slip up, and you watched as people rolled their eyes and commented on what you did wrong, but when a man slipped up, they cheered him on for effort as if he was flawless. Double standards were going to be the thing that took you down.

A few months ago, after you had stepped on the podium to receive your gold medal, you were pulled into an interview, giving you no time to go celebrate with Joe or your family.

She pulled you into a smaller area away from the business and the screaming, and even though you’d love to be anywhere but there, you still put on a sweet smile. Cameras were on you in an instant, and you were passed a microphone. There was no simple conversation before the interview, it was a rush of trying to get you on live.

“Here we have our gold medal winner.” The lady said proudly with a warm smile. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but this would be your seventh gold medal?” She asked.

You nodded quickly, your brain in a rush of millions of thoughts. “Yes, this is my seventh.”

“We are lucky to have you representing our country. What do you think Joe is thinking right now?” She asked in a serious tone, and for a moment you thought you were going to have a conversation about your win.

There it was, already bringing in his name not even a minute into the interview. At that point, it shouldn’t have been a shock, because they always find a way to include him in the conversation.

A quiet hum left your lips, smiling despite how much you wanted to be recognised for yourself. “I’d think that he’s probably waiting for me to get to him. He’ll be very excited for me.”

“Does he tend to be your hype person before the games?” She asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Yeah, he supports me through any worry I have.” You replied. “He’s my number one supported throughout everything, I’m very lucky.”

She flashed you a small smile. “That’s incredible. Well, I shall leave you to go celebrate with him and your family.”

You nodded with an awkward laugh. “Yeah, thank you.”

They take the microphone away from you, already directing their cameras to the next person. It seemed like they weren’t too bothered about your win, they mostly cared about getting people interviewed for the sake of the money. An easy day for them.

On your way out of the room, your manager walks beside you as he led you up the steps and out of the area. People are screaming your name, pushing their phones up in the air, but some aren’t there for the sake of you.

The gasps as people point you out, shouting out how you’re Joe Keery’s girlfriend, asking you to say hi to him from them. It seemed like something that was never ending, and that’s what you were known for. Joe never received this from people, he was known as himself most of the time, occasionally Steve, which did irritate him, but he was never titled as your boyfriend.

He was a lot more than your boyfriend, but it seemed like you were narrowed down to simply being his girlfriend, nothing more.

You’re curled up on the sofa, doing your morning scroll on social media before you get up and do something productive. The soft clank of pans stacking in the kitchen fills your ears for a while as Joe tidies up after breakfast. It’s that time in the morning where you enjoy each other’s presence, even though you’re in complete silence.

A notification comes up on your phone, and you swipe down, seeing Joe plastered on the front with a sweet smile. You clicked on the video and settled yourself down to get comfortable, resting your cheek on the arm of the sofa. Watching Joe’s interviews was something that you were genuinely interested in, even though he got flushed when he would walk into the room and seeing you watching one of his interviews.

His voice is gentle throughout the interview, answering questions about himself, his music, acting, and dodging questions with a small laugh. The man asks him a question about you in the interview, and he straightened his position with a quiet sigh.

“Your girlfriend won a gold medal a few months back, I think many people are waiting to hear your own response about that.” The man said, straightening his papers in front of himself.

Hearing you being referred to as his girlfriend instead of your name didn’t fail to make your stomach twist.

You watch as Joe’s eyebrows furrow, and his smile turns into something fainter. “Honestly, I think it’s her place to talk about it, not mine. It is her own achievement.”

The interviewer nods slowly, still seemingly not getting the point. “How did you feel about it though?”

Joe sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I’m very proud of her.” He replies, the room going silent for a moment. “You know, I have to say, I think mine and her achievements should be separated when being discussed. I’m not bothered as such bringing up things about her in my own interview, but she’s more than just my girlfriend, a whole lot more.”

Your chest starts to feel warmer hearing his words, and it’s clear that it’s gotten so frustrating that he’s had to say something.

“She deals with a lot from the media, and it’s really frustrating to see. She is her own person, just like I am my own person. I’m tired of seeing people talking to her about me. The conversations should be about her, especially at her own event.” He adds.

“How long has this been happening for?” The interviewer asks, going off the initial interview plan.

“Since the very start when people found out we’re together.” He pauses. “So around six years.”

The interview carries on as normal, changing into a topic about himself and you sit up, switching your phone off.

For a moment you sit in silence, going through everything Joe said in the interview, then you call his name out. “Joe?”

“Yeah?” He calls out from the kitchen, walking into the living room as he dries a fork with a tea towel. “What is it, baby?” He says more gently.

“Are you almost done tidying? Want to sit and talk.” You say, shifting your legs under yourself and leaning back against the sofa.

He nods quickly. “Yeah, of course. Give me a sec.” He rushes into the kitchen and places the cutlery back in the drawers.

Once he walks back in, you pat the space on the sofa beside you, and he settles down beside you, slowly pulling you into his arms. “I’m all ears now. Talk away.” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, gliding his fingers through your hair.

Your body presses further into his, hitching your leg up onto his thigh. “I just watched the new interview you did.”

His hand stills in your hair, pulling a small laugh from you.

“Go on.” He says, a little unsure.

“The guy brought me up in the interview, and you told him how you felt about people labelling me down to being your girlfriend.” You reply, pausing. “That was really sweet of you.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell people that, though. I’m tired of people narrowing you down to simply being my girlfriend, and God, don’t get me wrong, I love you so much, but there’s more to you than being my girlfriend. You’re an Olympic champion for fucks sake.” He shakes his head in disbelief, brushing his thumb absentmindedly over your shoulder.

You sigh, leaning further into him. “It’s a lot when I’m also being compared to others that are competing at the same time. I don’t think I’ve completed an interview without your name being brought up.”

His hand tangles into your hair, guiding your head to his chest. “I want people to know your name, and they should by now.”

“I’m constantly being commented on, how I do certain things, how I train, how I talk, how I act, the outfits I wear to games. It’s exhausting. I’m never credited for the effort, always my mistakes.” You huff out a breath, finally opening up about how you feel. “It feels like I’m winning these awards for being your girlfriend, not for anything else.”

“I hate this. I hate that you’re feeling this way.” He mumbles, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “You’re so much more than the comments and the labelling, I need people to see that.”

You nod slowly. “I know I don’t tell you much about practice because I’m exhausted when I get back home, but the comments are relentless, Joe.” Your voice cracks.

He tightens his grip on you, immediately feeling a sense of protectiveness. “Tell me more, baby. Please.”

“There are a few girls that I practice with along side the male team, and it’s horrific. It’s not just me that deals with the comments, but the rest of the girls in the team too.” You start, taking a moment to breathe. “If we make one mistake, suddenly it’s the end of the world, and we’re being scolded because we’re slacking. Oh, but for the men, they get cheered on, because at least they’re putting effort in.” You mock their voice, rolling your eyes.

“Double standards.” Joe mutters.

“Yeah.” You nod. “I hate every second of practice. As soon as I step in, I’m counting down the minutes till I leave.”

Concern washes over his face, and you slowly look up at him, seeing how worried he looks for you.

“You deserve so much better than this, baby. All the treatment you get from the media, your team, the crowd, it’s awful.” He whispers, looking down at you with his big, brown eyes. “You’re my winner, no matter if you get a gold medal, or no medal at all.”

You laugh, blinking your tears away. “I’ll be in a puddle of tears in a minute.”

He grins, leaning down and pressing his forehead to yours. “Your efforts aren’t appreciated enough. These people have no idea how hard you worked to get to where you are now. I’ve seen you go through hell and back to get all these awards, and still, they aren’t enough.”

“I wish that my coach could see that I really care for this. I try so hard every day, and even if he’s trying to push me, I’m getting different treatment. Pulling out of the team sounds really good to me right now, but I can’t afford to lose something that I was so excited to get into.” You sigh, trailing off.

“I’d say, bring it up to your coach, push for better treatment. Don’t do it alone either, have the girls in your team say something too. If your coach doesn’t budge, leave. It’s not worth being exhausted and burnt out just to be on a team.” He suggests.

“I’ll see how it goes. I just need one more thing off my plate.” You hum.

Joe leans down, gently lifting your face up by your jaw, his lips almost brushing against yours. “I’m hoping that my interview sends a message to people.”

“They’ll probably listen, because y’know, you’re my boyfriend and all.” You joke with a shrug.

He rolls his eyes, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “More than my girlfriend. My winner.” He whispers.

He tucks you close to his chest, combing his hands through your hair whilst you let the conversation settle down.

Maybe it’s a side effect of your insecurity, or of being raised in a small, conservative-leaning town stuck in its purity culture ways, but the thought of intimacy terrifies you. Letting your guard down and being that vulnerable with another human being feels like the sword of Damocles swinging above your head, ready to chop you in two.

In the summer of 1985, a few weeks after high school graduation, you’re at the Holloway house for a spa night (i.e., painting your nails and drinking wine you pilfered from Mrs. Holloway’s wine fridge). Heather asks you if you really want to be a virgin before college. 

“Virginity is a construct,” you reply, quoting something you read in a zine you bought from a bookstore in Indianapolis. 

“Right, sure,” Heather says flippantly. She shakes one hand, trying to air-dry her Passionate Plum manicure. “But don’t you want to have at least some experience? Because you don’t want your first sexual encounter to be with some drunk frat bro who can’t find the clit.”

“Ohmigod Heather,” you say, embarrassment and anxiety washing over you at her crass words.

“What?! I’m just saying! We should hook you up with someone before we leave in the fall.”

“Leave” was a strong word. You and Heather were going to Cartersville University for college, barely 30 minutes away.

“Ooh, you know what I heard,” Heather says, leaning in conspiratorially. You can smell the Pinot Grigio on her breath. “Steve Harrington is, like, desperate for a date. He asks out every girl our age who comes into Scoops. You should go after him.”

“I don’t really want to ‘go after’ a guy who asks out everyone,” you say, fidgeting with your fingers and already wanting to chip off the baby blue nail polish you haphazardly applied.

Heather shrugs. “Suit yourself. You might regret that, though, because everyone says he’s like…you know.”

She makes some sort of motion with her hands. You’re not sure if you don’t understand it because of your lack of sexual experience or because she’s not adequately expressing whatever she’s trying to. You blink, and Heather huffs. “He’s hung, Y/N. All the girls at school say so.” 

You aren’t sure if this conversation makes you want to laugh or cry, so you change the subject by picking up the half-empty bottle and gesturing to Heather’s plastic cup. “Want more wine?” 

💋💋💋

Less than a week later, Heather calls you in a panic.

“Please,” she begs. “Something’s wrong with my mom! She passed out after dinner. My dad took her to the hospital but I’m really, really scared…I don’t want to be alone!” 

Your parents are out of town caring for a sick relative, so you have no curfew to adhere to and book it to her house on your bike. But after you ring the doorbell and she lets you inside, you instantly get the feeling something is wrong.

“Why is it so cold?” you ask, a shiver involuntarily running through you. Goosebumps raise on your arms and legs, and you don’t understand how Heather is comfortable in a tank top and shorts when it can’t be more than 60 degrees inside her house.

Heather doesn’t respond. Instead, she almost robotically sits on the couch and puts her head in her hands. You take a seat next to her and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” you soothe. “Your mom is going to be all right.”

“No, she isn’t!” Heather says, voice muffled in her hands. 

“She will! You just have to be positive. The doctors will figure out what’s wrong with her.”

Still with her face covered, Heather says, “Do you think they’ll figure out what’s wrong with you?”

You frown, brows pulling together. “W-what?”

In one swift motion, she pulls a rag out from a couch cushion and covers your mouth with it. You try and fight back, but you feel the pull of sleep calling you.

Her expression is devoid of emotion. “Sorry, Y/N,” she says, as your consciousness wanes. “But He told me He needs more.”

💋💋💋

For the next few days, you become Billy Hargrove’s second-in-command. The creature possessing you seems to like that you’re mousy and insecure. You’re easier to break. Easier to control.

When you’re under the Mind Flayer’s influence, you feel like you’re watching yourself through a pane of glass. Your mind screams at your body to Stop it! Stop! as you knock Mike Wheeler unconscious in the back hallways of the mall. But it’s no use. As long as the Mind Flayer has its hooks in you, you’re forced to be a bystander to your own life.

It changes when you get to the mall’s main atrium: Billy has Eleven in his clutches, and you’re standing nearby in case he needs backup. The fireworks are burning your skin from the inside out, and your ears are ringing, so you don’t hear what El says to Billy. But something in his expression shifts. You watch the darkened veins on his face and arms fade. 

He looks up at you, and sees your skin still covered in those veins.

“What are you waiting for?” you hear yourself ask. “Give her to Him!”

Don’t! you scream inside your mind. God, please, don’t do it Billy.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, remorse flashing on his face when he realizes what he’s done under the influence of a monster—not just to you, but to El, to Heather, to everyone else making up the Mind Flayer’s physical form. “I’m so, so sorry Y/N.”

You blink, surprised, even more so when he turns toward the creature that’s been controlling you two for days. He grapples with one of its tentacles, and then the creature impales him with another. You scream in pain and fall onto your back a few feet away, the pesky hive mind keeping you connected. His pain is very much yours.

“You have to fight it!” someone shouts, from somewhere in this godforsaken mall. Easier said than done.

You close your eyes and try to force the Mind Flayer out of your head. He’d been feeding on your darkest memories to keep you in control, so maybe you could take back over by focusing on happier ones: Meeting Heather in 3rd grade and making a best friend for the first time in your life. Riding bikes through town. Swimming at the pool every summer. Dancing wildly at the Snow Ball. Weekend trips to Indianapolis with your family. Cheering Heather on as she won prom queen, just a few weeks ago.

You focus on the good, and the bad sloughs itself out of you in a big rush. Just in the nick of time, too. You sit up, feeling woozy, and watch as the Mind Flayer falls to the ground, very much dead. 

A few feet away, you watch Billy’s stepsister, Max Mayfield, cry for him. Eleven comforts her. You stagger to your feet, unsure of what to do or where to go. 

You fail to blink back tears, and they roll down your face when the gravity of what’s happened sinks over you.

“H-Heather,” you sob. “No! No!” 

You fall to your knees in front of the corpse of the Mind Flayer, sobbing into your hands.

“It isn’t your fault.”

You whip your head to the side, where Will Byers stands. He’s looking at you with empathy, and is treating you more kindly than you expected this crew to after everything that happened.

“What he did to you,” Will says, nodding toward the monster. “And what he made you do, it is not your fault. Trust me, I understand that more than anyone else here.”

You aren’t sure what he means by that, but you simply offer a hoarse, “Thank you.” 

Steve Harrington, whose face is bloodied and bruised in a way that makes you feel sick, walks up to you next.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s a trace of urgency laced in his words. “We should get out of here before these fires spread. Can you stand?”

You nod shakily, though you stumble a bit, feeling weary. Steve reaches to balance you and you flinch away from him. “Sorry!” he says, and backs up, tucking his hands in his pockets as if to assure you he wouldn’t try and touch you again.

As you walk toward the exit, you feel numb. You profusely apologize to Eleven, Max, and the others, but like Will, they don’t hold it against you. (Well, Mike Wheeler grumbles something about having a concussion, but when he sees how upset you are, he walks it back.)

“It was the hive mind,” he says. “Not you.” 

Right. Not you. It was an external force invading your mind and body. A hostile takeover. The sword of Damocles inches ever-closer to your skull in your mind.

That night, Robin Buckley’s parents drive you and Steve home as well. Steve offers to stay with you, but you want to be alone. You want to crawl into your bed, in the body you don’t trust anymore, and cry yourself to sleep. So that’s exactly what you do.

💋💋💋

You defer your enrollment to Cartersville U, wanting to take a gap year to deal with the grief and pain. Your parents understand, showering you with gifts and attention to make up for the fact that they weren’t there the night of the “mall fire” that killed your best friend and so many others.

You make new friends in Steve and Robin, getting a job at the Family Video with them. However, one gap year turns to two, and then three, when an earthquake hits and the military sets up a barricade. No one in or out, except for extenuating circumstances.

Steve reads you in on the truth: it wasn’t a simple earthquake. It was another monster from the Mind Flayer’s domain opening portals to another dimension, called Gates. The uneasy feeling you’d had all week starts to make sense when you realize the hive mind was active again.

“We’re going to kill him,” Steve tells you quietly as you two sit in Max’s hospital room to keep her company. When you heard about her coma, your heart just broke.

“I want to help,” you say.

“No way,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You’ve been tortured enough by this fucker.”

“Everyone has!” you say. “Let me help, Steve.”

He does, even if he doesn’t seem happy about it. You help the group plan Crawls into the Upside Down, where the “resurrected” Chief Hopper searches for Henry Creel/Vecna/One. The way you understand it, Vecna and the Mind Flayer are partners in crime. So while you were connected to the hive mind in 1985, you were technically connected to Vecna too. The thought makes you sick.

And in fall 1987, after 30-some Crawls, you and Will are dragged back into the hive mind’s orbit. It’s painful, seeing from the vision of a monster—at least it’s not your body carrying out the acts this time.

In the downtime before your plan at the Turnbow’s house, Steve finds you crying in the storage closet at the WSQK station.

“What’s wrong?!” he says, sitting on the floor beside you, but leaving some space. After two years of friendship, he knows better than to reach for you—you don’t love physical touch.

You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You screw your eyes shut, deciding to just be honest. “I hate being so close to the hive mind,” you say quietly. “I hate being back there, like I’m out of control of my body again. It’s…violating.” 

You don’t say more, but you could. You could talk about how you still haven’t had sex, kissed anyone, or really dated at all, because your fear of sex and intimacy and vulnerability was ratcheted up after you were flayed. You have this compulsive need to be in control of your body at all times, and sex seems like a surefire way to lose that control. You don’t want to lose yourself to someone else. Ever again.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Steve says. If he can tell you’re not telling the full truth, he doesn’t bring it up. “Listen, we’re going to kill Vecna once and for all. And then he, and the Mind Flayer, and the whole hive mind will be gone.”

You appreciate his positivity, even if you don’t feel so optimistic. “Thank you,” you say. You hesitate, before asking, “Could I get a hug?” 

Steve had secretly hoped you would ask. When you occasionally ask for a hug is the only time you let him close to you.

“Of course,” he says, opening his arms for you. You hug him tightly, but only for a few seconds, before you’re pulling away. Steve stands and offers you a hand. You murmur, “Thanks,” and take it, but let go as soon as you’re on your feet. Steve doesn’t take offense—he’s not that insecure. But he does find his arms and hands feeling a bit warm where he was just holding you…

Steve squashes that instantly. Whatever he’s feeling is a bad idea. Besides, you all have a world to save.

💋💋💋

You do save the world, shockingly. Somehow, your team of quasi-heroes pulls it off, and then you’re all expected to go about life as normal.

Eleven is finally able to get some semblance of a normal life, after the military is exposed for their clandestine experiments. She even gets a hefty payout from the government, which Hopper commands cannot be used on a lifetime supply of Eggos, to her chagrin.

Max re-enrolls in school, hoping to catch up, with Lucas, Mike, Will, and Dustin offering to be her personal tutors. 

Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all go far from Hawkins for college in fall 1988. You still end up only 30 minutes away, at Cartersville University. You’re a bit surprised when Steve tells you he’s enrolled as well.

“I think I want to be a teacher,” he says, while the two of you are attending a new student mixer during orientation week (and glomming onto each other so you don’t need to talk to any strangers).

“That’s amazing, Steve!” you say. “You’re great with kids. You’re going to do really, really well.”

He smiles, a bit bashful. “Thanks, Y/N. What do you think you want to study?”

You don’t get the chance to respond before a pretty girl is sidling up to him. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You bite back the urge to make a sarcastic remark about how you’re all new, so of course she hasn’t seen Steve before. As Steve begins to flirt back, you quietly excuse yourself for more punch. Oh, brother.

💋💋💋

Your roommate is the most insatiable human being to exist.

You think she and her boyfriend have sex four times a week, maybe five. Good lord.

Coming home from a long day of one lab, two lectures, and an exam, you scowl at the sight of a bright pink sock with yellow daisies stitched on it resting on the doorknob of your dorm. 

You know your roommate’s boyfriend lives off-campus, so it’s easier for their post-class romps to be in the dorm. But your stomach squeezes and twists, and the fact that she can so easily engage in intimacy while you’re still terrified of your own naked reflection sometimes angers you. You meet Steve in the dining hall for dinner and lament about it, stabbing at your salad with a fork.

“It’s just so goddamn inconsiderate that she’s fucking in our shared room all the time,” you say hotly, spearing a cherry tomato and biting into it. 

“That really sucks,” Steve says, genuinely upset on your behalf. His empathy is one of his best qualities. “I mean, she should at least give you a heads-up or something.” 

“Or something,” you grumble. “I hope she gets a UTI.”

Steve nearly chokes on his grilled cheese sandwich.

You feel a bit ashamed. “Sorry. Was that, like, totally evil of me to wish on another person?”

“Not evil,” Steve says. “A little twisted, maybe.” 

You cover your face with your hands, embarrassed. Steve just laughs.

“I kind of like this side of you,” he muses. 

“Shut up.” You flick a craisin at him. It lands in his perfect hair. It’s your turn to laugh, and his turn to blush as he brushes it away.

“But seriously,” you add, shaking your head. “I just don’t get how they even have the energy to do it so often.”

Now that you’ve successfully vented your frustration, you’re ready to change the subject. You’re about to ask Steve how his club baseball team is going when he says, “I mean, the few weeks I dated that girl I met at the orientation mixer, that was about how often we’d hook up.” 

Suddenly, you’re very invested in your salad once more. 

Steve frowns at the sudden chill in your demeanor. 

“Sorry,” he says, wondering if he overshared. “You probably didn’t need to know that.”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice tight.

Steve furrows his brow. “Really? Because I’ve never seen someone inspect ranch dressing that closely.”

“I said it’s fine,” you say, anger creeping in again. You seal up the to-go container holding your half-finished dinner and add, “I’m going to the library. Hopefully Sierra’s boyfriend is long gone by the time I’m done studying.” 

You storm off, leaving a bewildered Steve behind.

💋💋💋

You think you might be sexually frustrated. 

You don’t know what that feels like, exactly. You’re pretty certain in your 20-some years of life, you’ve never felt it before.

But you’re still scared of sex, so the feeling is confounding. Why does your traitorous body want the thing your brain has convinced you is terribly dangerous?

You don’t like masturbating because you can never get yourself off, but your roommate is staying with her boyfriend for the weekend and you have a dorm to yourself, and you might as well try to do something to stave off the burning under your skin. If you don’t, you’ll probably go into some sort of hysteria. Is this when women in the 1800s would’ve been sent to the seaside?

You eye the poster hanging on Sierra’s side of the dorm room, of some hunky male musician you’re certain is popular though you can’t name a single one of his songs, and hope it’ll spark something in you. You fumble around with your hand shoved down the front of your jeans, but your clumsy strokes combined with the swoonworthy stare of Hunky Musician does not make you come.

Could this be something behavioral science can solve? You head to the library, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your eyes as if it could disguise you, wondering if there’s some kind of psychology textbook titled “Handbook For Adult Women Who Are Scared Of Sex But Really Want To Get Off.”

You don’t find that in a shadowy corner of the nonfiction section with the books on sex and relationships, but you do find a rather interesting-looking tome titled “Tending To Her Garden of Pleasure: The Complete Guide To A Woman’s Orgasm.” Close enough.

“Hey, Y/N!” 

You have a small cardiac event when Steve calls your name, dropping the book on the carpeted floor. You burn with embarrassment, shame, and regret, mortified that the book fell cover-side up.

You can’t even bring yourself to say anything, or even put the book back on the shelf. You blink back tears and speedwalk past Steve, ignoring him calling after you.

You sit on a bench by the vending machines outside the library, hugging your backpack to your chest. You should just head back to your dorm, but the thought of being alone in that room again makes you want to peel your own skin off. 

Minutes tick by, and you notice Steve out of the corner of your eye, heading your way. You aren’t sure what to expect as he gingerly takes a seat on the bench next to you, but it’s definitely not a soft, “I think you forgot something.”

He holds the book out to you, cover-side down this time. Your eyes widen. “You checked it out?”

“In case you still wanted it,” Steve said. And he’s not teasing you. He’s being 100% genuine. Though he can’t resist and adds, “But if you don’t, maybe I should study up.”

You snort and shake your head. “I’m sure the librarian got a kick out of that.”

“She’s stone cold,” Steve said. “Didn’t even react. I’m probably not the only desperate schmuck who’s taken this thing home.” He screws his face up with disgust. “Eugh, they like, disinfect the books each time they’re returned, right?”

But you don’t play along. The words “desperate schmuck” rattle around in your head. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shuddery breath.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, suddenly serious again, misinterpreting what’s making you upset and tucking the book in his backpack. “I promise I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know,” you say. You sniffle. “I just…Steve, I think I’m broken.” 

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?” 

You consider just walking away, but he sounds so concerned, and it might be nice to open up about this to someone you know and trust.

“I can’t have sex,” you say, voice cracking on the last word, “because the thought of it scares me so badly. And all my hang-ups make it hard to get myself off, too.” You huff out a hollow laugh. “Which makes me sound so babyish, because we’re in college now, and it seems like everyone else is screwing someone or jerking off all the time.”

You slouch in your seat. “And I’ve never even been kissed,” you murmur, so quiet you aren’t sure if Steve can even hear you anymore. “The longer I go without it, the more scary intimacy gets in my head, and I—hell, we’ve fought monsters, I know what real terror feels like, so why do I feel that way about something other people can do every single day?! It’s like I said. I’m broken!”

“No,” Steve says, voice gentle but firm. “You aren’t.”

“Says the guy who’s probably bedded every girl our age in Hawkins!” you fire back, before immediately feeling guilty for snapping at him.

“‘Bedded’?” Steve says. “What is this, a Shakespeare play?”

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Steve waves it off. “It’s fine. You’re upset. And I guess I do have something of a track record…but I’m serious. You aren’t broken, Y/N.” He shrugs. “Sure, dating and sex can be fun. But it does mean you might get your heart stomped on in the end. Trust me, I know all about that.”

He gets a far-off look in his eye, and you know he’s thinking about Nancy. The one that got away.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking your time,” Steve adds. 

“When does it stop being scary?” you ask quietly. “Putting yourself out there, and…and giving up control to someone else?” 

“‘Control’?” Steve asks, confusion flashing on his features. “Sex doesn’t have to be about control. I mean, it can, if you’re into heavier stuff, but—did someone tell you that?” 

“No,” you say. “But I have firsthand experience with feeling like your body doesn’t belong to you.”

It takes a minute for the dots to connect. When they do, Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh. This is because of…”

“Yeah. Well, I was always a bit freaked out by sex, but it just kind of got worse after…all that.”

“Geez,” Steve huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Henry Creel really did a number on us. The fucker.” 

You look down at your feet, unsure of what else to say.

“Listen,” Steve says. “You don’t have to have sex with anyone if you don’t want to. Ever, no matter what someone says.”

You want to articulate that there is a part of you, deep down, that does want sex. You just feel like you can’t have it, because it feels like the most dangerous thing in the world. But that’s more than you’re willing to share at present, so you thank Steve for the support.

“Um, I don’t think I’m ready for the book,” you add, standing from the bench. “So you can return it.”

“Are you kidding?” Steve says, with a smirk. “I’m reading this thing cover to cover. I’m going to become a master of female pleasure by the end of the week.”

You burn again, but not from embarrassment this time. From something else that you aren’t ready to identify. 

But whatever it is, it sure helps you get off for the very first time mere hours later.

💋💋💋

The following spring, you and Steve complete your first year of college. You decide to move into an off-campus apartment together. Before the summer semester begins (because after starting school later than normal because of the quarantine, you both feel like you’re playing catch-up), you return to Hawkins to celebrate the Class of 1989.

Sitting in the bleachers with Steve and Robin, you cheer extra loud when Will, Dustin, Max, Lucas, and Mike walk the stage—though no one cheers louder for Mike than Eleven. Dustin’s valedictorian speech has the whole crowd going nuts.

On the WSQK rooftop after the festivities, you share a drink with your friends. You all agree to meet up every few months at Robin’s uncle’s house to socialize, and also because Jonathan is going to need some major help on his student film.

You laugh, talk, and drink, and it’s nice, for a while. However, after Robin starts teasing Steve for getting dumped by a classmate in Spanish during their Spanish class oral exam, she turns to you.

“Please tell us your love life is going better than Steve’s,” Robin says. “We need a story about Cartersville that won’t depress us.”

An icy panic spreads itself through your body. You force a laugh and shake your head. “No love life to speak of,” you say lightly. “I’m just studying a lot.”

“Oh, come on!” Robin says. “There has to be someone you’re at least crushing on.”

You shake your head and take a long sip of your beer. It’s mostly warm by now, due to the heat. “No one.”

That’s mostly true. Sure, you’ve noticed over the last few months that you find Steve…attractive. Very much so. But he’s your friend. And he knows you’re not ready for a relationship that involves sex, and he has sex all the time. Well, you don’t think he’s hooked up with anyone since you two moved in together. But still. You two would never work.

Nancy scans the twist of your mouth and rescues you. “So, Steve, what exactly did your professor say when you got broken up with during the test?”

Steve groans and shakes his head. “Not you two, Wheeler. I swear, you all relish in my misfortune.” 

But he’s a good sport, and he recounts every detail of the situation that he hadn’t already shared. You force a few more laughs, but deep down, you find yourself feeling anxious. Everyone on this rooftop has fallen in love before. They’ve all had sex before. They probably can tell that you haven’t. Do they think you’re a prude? Or that something’s wrong with you? Something is wrong with you. Fear essentially runs your life. But you don’t want your friends to know that. 

A few hours later, when Steve drives you two back to Cartersville in his truck, he says, “Hey, you’re pretty quiet. All good?”

“Mm-hm,” you say with a weak smile. “My stomach just, uh, hurts a little. So I’m ready to get home.”

“Sorry about that,” Steve says. He glances at you at a red light. “And sorry about Robin. She shouldn’t have been so nosy.”

“It’s fine,” you say. It’s not. Steve can tell it’s not. But the light turns green, and you angle your face away from his to watch the trees whiz by, so he doesn’t press.

💋💋💋

Steve is an adequate roommate.

He does his half of the chores in a (mostly) timely manner. He doesn’t leave dishes in the sink or hair in the drain. But he does bring a lot of girls home.

However, he’s respectful about it. Every time he has a date, he gives you a heads-up that they might be coming home with him at the end of the night. Sometimes, he’ll even borrow the phone in whatever restaurant they were just dining at to tell you an exact ETA.

You think that he thinks this is what you want, after your roommate experience from last year; a warning in advance that Sex Is Going To Be Happening, since he knows it makes you uncomfortable. While you appreciate what you assume is meant to be a nice sentiment, all it does is make you frustrated, sexually and otherwise. It’s not fun to get constant reminders that Other People Are Fucking And You Are Not (And It’s Kind Of Your Fault But Also Sort Of The Mind Flayer’s So Who’s To Say?).

You realize that something has to change when you come downstairs one early morning in August and catch Steve feeding his date from the night before, Renee, a strawberry. People actually do that shit? You were certain that couples-feeding-each-other-fruit was made up for Hollywood.

“Oh, hey,” Steve says in greeting when you shuffle into the kitchen. You are wearing a pair of Hawkins High gym shorts and a T-shirt with ALF on it. Renee is wearing one of Steve’s button-up shirts and presumably nothing else.

“Good morning!!!” you say, accidentally too chipper. You flash a smile at Renee. She looks at you like she wishes you were dead. Cool.

“Any fun plans for the day?” you offer weakly, after you throw a waffle in the toaster.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Renee wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek. His face flushes as Renee says, “We’ll probably just go back to bed.”

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. She seems to be trying to mark her territory on Steve, as if she can tell that you’ve been harboring the tiniest, centimeter-sized crush on him for the past few months (that you know better than to act on).

Steve extricates himself from Renee and stands from his seat at the counter. “What are you going to do today, Y/N?”

You appreciate that he’s trying to cut back on the PDA while you’re in there. But Renee has no qualms about it. She stands and hugs Steve from behind while you stammer through some explanation of the portfolio you’re putting together for your summer poetry workshop. While you’re halfway through raving about how “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver really inspired your work, Renee starts kissing Steve’s neck.

“That’s really cool,” Steve says, though you know he stopped listening as soon as Renee got her hands on him. 

“Thanks,” you say. You put your waffle on a plate and say, “I’ll just, uh, eat in my room.”

You scurry out before either of them can say anything else. As soon as you get to your room and close the door, all the tension in your body dissipates. 

Shit, for the very first time in your life, you think you need a date of your own.

💋💋💋

Steve is worried that you’re upset with him.

Ever since Renee tried to pounce on in him the kitchen, you’ve been avoiding him. You spend the last few days of the summer semester locked away in a library study room, leaving before he wakes up and coming home after he’s gone to bed.

After the third day of avoidance, while he assumes you’re out at the library again, he tries to explain to Renee why they shouldn’t engage in PDA in front of you (without blabbing all about your fear and trauma). Renee doesn’t get it.

“What, is she like, in love with you or something?” Renee huffs, as the two of them sit on the couch.

“No!” Steve says, though his heart kicks up a bit at the thought. You’re wonderful, in every way, and if Steve thought you had feelings for him, he would pursue you—at whatever speed you’re comfortable with, whatever that looks like. But you’ve never made any indication that you see him as more than a friend, even when he privately took a vow of celibacy for the first month in the new apartment to prove to you that he’s not just some horndog. “Not at all. She’s just…”

“Lonely?” Renee offers. “Desperate because she doesn’t have what we do?”

She surges forward, keen to end this conversation and start making out, but Steve leans away from her with a frown. “Don’t talk about her like that.” 

Renee rolls her eyes. Steve’s blood boils.

“Whatever,” Renee says. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t really see why you two are friends. Like, you’re you, and she’s less of a person and more of a skittish cartoon mouse.”

Steve is baffled. Has Renee always been casually cruel like this? Truth be told, most of the time they’ve spent together has been in his bedroom, or the backseat of his car, or her bedroom, and none of those times involved a lot of talking.

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he stands from the couch and says, “I think you should probably leave.”

Renee scoffs. “Seriously?” 

Steve walks to the door and opens it. Renee snatches up her purse and storms out. Steve slams it shut, before leaning his forehead on the cool wood.

Later, he wanders into the kitchen and makes a pitiful excuse for a dinner (mac & cheese with pieces of hot dog inside—not very nutritious, but delicious), and he wonders if this is a cosmic sign that he should ask you out. He’s assuming that you don’t feel the same, but he could be dead wrong.

He mulls it over in his mind as he eats. He could profess his feelings and promise that you would set the pace, if you’re interested in him too. This all sounds great, and Steve is actually feeling pretty confident, and he brews himself a cup of coffee (or three) to stay awake tonight.

He’s wired on caffeine when he hears your key click in the lock at 12:08 a.m.

“Oh!” you say, when you enter the apartment and see him sitting on the couch in the low lamplight. “Hi, Steve.” You clear your throat and close the door behind you. “I’m sorry I’ve been so M.I.A. I finally turned in my poetry portfolio after a pretty stressful few days.”

“That’s great!” Steve says. He offers to carry your backpack for you. You thank him and hand it off, heading into the kitchen for a midnight snack before bed.

Steve hangs your bag on its hook and hovers in the kitchen doorway, wondering if the speech he has prepared is a good idea or not. He’s about to just bite the bullet when you turn to him with a shy smile and say, “I have good news.”

“About your poetry portfolio?” 

You shake your head, your grin widening. “Nope. I’ve got a date. For the first time! Ever!!!”

Steve’s eyes widen. He tries to arrange his shocked expression into something that resembles joy, while his heart is withering away inside his chest. “Whoa! That’s g-great! With who?” 

“His name is Gary,” you say as you reheat some leftover pizza.

“Gary,” Steve repeats.

“My friend Judy set it up,” you continue, blissfully unaware of the crisis Steve is currently going through. “She was in my summer poetry workshop. She’s a writing major, and Gary was her math tutor last semester. She said he’s super cool.”

“Super cool,” Steve echoes again. He can’t seem to form any coherent thoughts, except, IDIOT!!! WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG?!?!?! WHY DID YOU WASTE TIME WITH RENEE?!?!?!?!

You seem to pick up on the tension radiating off Steve. Your bright expression falters. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Steve assures you. Because the last thing he wants to do is ruin something that could be good for you, just because he holds a candle for you and continually talked himself out of acting on it. “I’m really happy for you. This is big!” 

You nod and smile again, but it looks a little weaker this time. “Thank you, Steve.”

He excuses himself to bed. As soon as he gets in his room, he picks up the phone on his nightstand and calls Robin.

“Hello?” she murmurs sleepily.

“Robin, I fucked up,” Steve whispers into the receiver.

A pause, and then: “Did you somehow bring the Upside Down back?”

Steve frowns. “Uh, no?”

“Get a girl pregnant?”

“No!” Steve huffs, aghast. “I always have safe sex, Rob, and I’m frankly offended that you’d assume otherwise.”

“Okay, King Condom,” Robin snorts. “Then what the hell are you calling me so late for? What could be so bad?” 

Steve’s quiet for a moment. And then, barely audible, he says, “I have feelings for someone that I probably shouldn’t, but think I missed my chance to act on them.”

“Oh, I see,” Robin muses. “This is about Y/N.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m not an idiot, Steve,” Robin says. “I saw the way you looked at her when we were at WSQK together. I could always tell there was something there, simmering below the surface. Simmering? Boiling? What’s the difference, anyway?”

“Can we get back on track, please?” Steve asks, rubbing his forehead. “What do I do? Is it selfish if I beg her not to date this other guy?” 

“I don’t know about selfish,” Robin says. “But if you ask her out now, it is kind of going to look like you only want to date her because she’s unavailable. And that’s shitty.”

Steve agrees that it might not be a good look. So he swallows down his feelings for you, hoping they’ll fade like a bruise before long.

💋💋💋

Your first date with Gary is at a nice buffet in Cartersville. He pays for you, and he’s nice, if a little self-absorbed. 

When he drops you off at your apartment complex after, he doesn’t walk you up to the door. That’s how you always pictured your first date would end: your prince charming walks you to your door and kisses you sweetly. 

Instead, Gary haphazardly parks in the fire lane and leans across the center console, practically mashing his teeth against yours for a first kiss that leaves something to be desired. You aren’t sure what you’re supposed to feel afterward, but it’s not the butterflies you envisioned. It’s just…fine.

As summer slowly turns to autumn and another semester begins, you agree to a second date, then a third. Each ends with a similar attack of a kiss. After the fourth, Gary tries to invite himself up.

“My roommate is home,” you say in lieu of giving him a “yes” or “no.”

“So?” Gary asks. He flashes you an impish grin. “I can be quiet. Don’t know if you’ll be able to, once I get my hands on you…”

You suppress a shiver. You don’t feel any more ready for sex than you did before you started this thing with Gary. But maybe it’s something you just have to do once, and then it’ll feel fine and normal. You fidget with the hem of your skirt and say, “Do you want to come over tomorrow evening? My roommate has a teaching lab that doesn’t end until 9:00.” 

Gary agrees. This time, when he kisses you goodbye, he shoves his tongue in your mouth unexpectedly. Eugh. 

As you ascend the steps toward your and Steve’s apartment, you try to focus on the positives, to avoid drowning in dread: a man is interested in you! He’s taken you on many nice dates, to restaurants and movies! He likes kissing you, and tomorrow, he is going to have sex with you!

Your knees nearly buckle once you walk into the apartment, when the reality of what you’ve just promised hits you. Apprehension clings to you like cheap fabric, and you wonder if you should change your mind. Call Gary and end whatever this is before you have to give him the part of yourself you’re terrified to share. 

As you kick your shoes off by the door, you feel mentally transported to summer 1985. To that feeling of the Mind Flayer invading every one of your senses. The part of your brain that’s so afraid of so many things assumes sex will feel like that too: an invasion. You start to breathe a little harder.

“You okay?” 

You curse and flinch at the sight of your roommate popping in the kitchen doorway, hand on your chest. “Jesus, Steve! I’m putting a goddamn bell on you.”

He gives you an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I heard you come in, but you didn’t say anything.” He scans your face, brow furrowed. “You look pretty freaked. Did Gary cross a line? Do I need to run him over with my truck?” 

“You have your lab tomorrow, right?” you ask, ignoring his question. “The three-hour night class?” 

Steve nods slowly. “Uh, yeah…why?”

“Gary’s going to come over so we can have sex while you’re in class,” you blurt out. You probably should be mortified by your brutal honesty, but you suddenly don’t feel well and can’t stop yourself.

Steve’s jaw drops. Then, he closes his mouth and nods. “Okay.” A pause, and then, “And you’re sure you want to?”

Fuck. He can read you like a book. “Yes,” you say. You breeze past him, heading into your bedroom.

You think he’ll leave it at that, but he follows you in as you toss your purse on your desk. “Forgive me if I’m not convinced,” Steve says dryly. He leans against your doorframe and crosses his arms. He adds, softer, “Y/N, don’t force yourself to do something you’re not ready for.”

“But that’s just the thing!” you say, barking out a hollow laugh. “At this rate, I feel like I’ll never be ready!” You jab a finger at your temple. “I have to just do it to prove to my fucked-up mind that it’s fine.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I see where you’re coming from, but c’mon. This is different than, like, getting over a fear of heights by rock climbing, or something. This is sex. And it should be special.” 

That grates your nerves. You scoff and yank open a dresser drawer, pulling out your pajamas and throwing them on your bed. “Oh, and is it special with every girl you bring home?”

“Yes!” Steve says, though there’s an edge to his voice now. “Just because I date around doesn’t mean the sex is meaningless!”

“And that’s what I’m trying to do too!” you fire back. “Date around, and make a meaningful connection. So I don’t get why you’re being so weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird!” Steve protests.

“Yes!” you shout, unable to tamp down the fear and dread turning into anger. “You are! You’re acting this is some kind of afterschool special!”

“Because I know you, Y/N!” Steve says, voice breaking a bit on your name. “The look on your face is the same look you had when we were riding into the Upside Down in the back of a refrigerated truck to kill Vecna. You’re scared. It’s not worth pushing yourself into having sex when you’re this freaked out.”

You look away. He’s got you dead to rights. He continues, “Don’t have sex with Gary just to check it off a checklist. There’s nothing wrong with taking your time. With being patient until…until the right person comes along.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s convinced you. Then, you narrow your eyes and say, “Is that what you tell the girls you date?”

“Huh?”

“That you’ll be patient,” you continue, stepping a bit closer. You see Steve swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What would you do if, say, the woman you were going out with told you she wasn’t ready to have sex. Would you wait until she was, or dump her for someone who wants to jump your bones?”

“I’d wait,” Steve says, jaw tense. “Of course I would.”

“Really? Even if she wasn’t ready to sleep with you after three dates? Or three months—hell, three years of dating?” you continue. Tears build up on your lashline. “Would you be able to wait that long?”

You aren’t sure if this is a hypothetical question anymore. 

“I would wait,” Steve repeats, voice low. “However long until she’s ready.”

You want to believe him. Every fiber of your being wants to believe him. Because he’s looking at you in a way that makes you feel like you mean something to him. Like you really are worth waiting for. 

But your insecurity overtakes you and convinces you he’s just being nice, and a protective friend. You aren’t like the women he dates. You aren’t vivacious, and conventionally beautiful, and confident in your body.

“Liar,” you say, not much louder than a whisper. 

Steve frown deepens. “No, I—”

“Will you definitely be gone tomorrow night?” you ask.

Steve sighs and closes his eyes. He nods once, a curt motion.

“Okay. Good. Goodnight, Steve.”

You go to close your door. Steve steps back just as it slams in his face. He’s left standing in the hall alone, with mounting regret, marveling at how he never has the capacity to say what he really wants to.

💋💋💋

Steve’s teaching lab is from 6-9 on Wednesday nights. It usually involves learning classroom management strategies. Steve knows he won’t be paying a lick of attention to any of that today.

Before he leaves for campus, he hesitates, but knocks on your bedroom door. “Hey,” he says, with a soft call of your name. “Uh, can we talk?”

A few seconds later, the door swings open. Steve’s heart stutters at the sight of you. You’re wearing a pale blue dress and matching eyeshadow. You look stunning, even more than you usually do, if that’s possible.

“Whoa,” he breathes out. He clears his throat. “You look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you say coolly. You cross your arms. “You heading out?” 

“Yep.”

“And you won’t be back—”

“Until 10:30,” Steve promises. “I’m going to hit the library after class.” He pauses, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. “Hey, have fun tonight, okay?”

Maybe that was a weird thing to say. But sex is supposed to be fun. Steve hopes you remember that—your expression looks as though you’re preparing for your last rites.

“Thanks,” you say, forcing a smile. Steve awkwardly hovers in the hallway, so you add, “Did you…need something else?”

“Just remember to be safe,” Steve says, his protective side showing. His voice drops in volume, even though there’s no one else around to hear it, and continues, “You have condoms, right?”

Your eyes wide, deer-in-the-headlights style. “Don’t guys usually have those?” 

“I mean, sometimes,” Steve says. “But not always. Hold it right there.” 

He ducks back into his room and returns with a box of condoms. You try not to pass away from embarrassment when he hands it to you.

“Just in case,” he says. “Do not let Gary convince you they won’t fit. You can pull one of those things over your arm up to your elbow.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

“I’m serious,” Steve says. He places his hand on your shoulder with a feather-light touch. For once, the unplanned physical contact doesn’t make you flinch or cause your stomach to roil. “And if at any point you’ve changed your mind, say so. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You nod. “Right. I won’t. Thank you. Seriously.” 

Steve squeezes your shoulder gently before dropping his arm. “Go get ’em, tiger.” With those words of wisdom, he leaves.

💋💋💋

Gary is prompt. You two had agreed he’d come over at 7. At 6:59, he’s knocking on the front door.

At 7:02, you’re pouring him a glass of wine.

At 7:05, he’s kissing you on your couch. It feels weird to you, still, and you aren’t sure if that’s because of your lack of experience or because Gary is a bad kisser. You don’t dwell on that fact, trying to shut down the part of your brain that is freaking out about all this physical touch. 

And, oh boy, Gary is touching you all over. Your shoulders, your back, your chest, your hips. But he’s moving his hands so fast, it almost feels like a pat down. Is he doing this right? Is it rude if you ask him to slow down, to savor you a bit more? What’s the protocol here?!

“We should go to your room,” Gary murmurs against your lips.

You nod, before you can talk yourself out of this. “Y-yeah. Yes. Let’s go.”

And so you find yourself in your bed with him, and the pat down continues over your dress. Gary is whispering something in your ear. You think it’s supposed to be sexy, but you’re too busy trying to keep your brain focused on the task at hand to even comprehend the words.

“Nice rack,” he murmurs in a tone that he seems to assume is seductive, fondling your breasts over the bodice of your dress. 

What am I, a rack of ribs? you think.

“What did you say?” Gary says, continuing his ministrations as he nips your earlobe.

Shit, did you say that out loud? You screw your eyes shut. “Uh, just that I want you to keep going,” you say quickly.

He accepts that without issue, and begins kissing your neck. He slows his hands over your chest, and you believe he’s finally going to take his time with you, and then—

Rrrrrrrip!!!! The sound of tearing fabric has your eyes popping open. You gasp and, with anger coursing through you, shove Gary’s chest with all your might. He tumbles off you, landing with an “Ooph!” on the mattress next to you.

Heartbeat pounding in your ears, you scramble off the bed and look at the mirror hanging on the back of your closet door. 

“You tore my dress!” you say, horrified at the big gash down its bodice, now exposing the white lace bra you spent too much money on for this shitshow.

Gary is two parts confused, one part annoyed. “So?” he says. “There were too many buttons.”

You whirl around to where he sits against your headboard and glare. “This was my favorite dress.”

“Just buy another!” Gary says. He stands from the bed and saunters over to you, giving you a sly look. “Maybe we can go to the mall and I can pick out something for—”

“I can’t buy another one just like this,” you interrupt hotly. Your brain is firing on all cylinders. You aren’t sure if you even understand why you’re so upset, but you don’t stop yourself from saying, “This was from the JC Penney Summer 1985 collection. They don’t make it anymore!” 

Gary stares at you and blinks once, twice. “Okay? Uh, sorry, I guess. I mean, I don’t see what the big deal is, but—can we get back to having sex now?”

You shake your head. “No. I want you to leave.” You wave your hand between the two of you. “Whatever this was? It’s over now.”

Gary’s disposition sours. His lip curls. “Are you serious?”

“As a funeral,” you snap. “Now, please, get the fuck out of my house.”

Gary gives you a long, hard look. He huffs in disbelief with an eye roll. “Frigid bitch.”

He storms out of your room, grabbing his shoes without even putting them back on, and slams the door to your apartment.

As soon as he’s gone, you sink to the edge of your bed and put your hands on your knees. You try to control your breathing, to relax, to think whatever happy thoughts you need to so you can put this shitty night behind you.

But when you glance up again and see your ruined dress in the reflection of the mirror, you begin to cry. The sword of Damocles falls, slicing your skull in two.

💋💋💋

Steve parks his truck outside the apartment complex at 10:40.

He gave you an extra 10 minutes. Not that he feels like Gary the math major has enough stamina for 3 hours and 40 minutes of lovemaking, but still. Better safe than sorry.

Steve figures he’ll nurse his broken heart with a beer and then head to bed. Maybe he’ll run into you in the kitchen and casually ask how the night went. (Despite his unrequited feelings for you, he hopes it went well.) But when he enters the apartment, it’s eerily quiet, in a way that sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

Why is it so dark in here? The only light is coming from the crack under your bedroom door. Shit, is Gary still here?

Steve leaves his shoes and backpack by the door and tiptoes down the hall toward his room. He hears a whimper from your room and freezes. One whimper turns into another, which turns into what sounds like a sob.

Panic rises in Steve and he barges the rest of the way down the hall, banging on your door. If Gary is still there and the reason you’re crying right now, Steve is going to jail for first-degree murder. At least his uncle is a pretty good lawyer.

Steve calls your name. “Hey! What’s wrong?”

He hears you sniffle through the door. “Go away!” you shout, though your voice is hoarse, as if you’ve been crying for a while.

“Not until I know you’re okay,” Steve says. “Can I come in?” 

“No!” 

Steve feels helpless on the wrong side of the door. He felt this way countless times in the fight against forces of evil, most notably when he was hanging by one hand off a radio tower in the Upside Down.

“Please,” Steve begs. “I just want to make sure you’re all right. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you are.”

For a few aching seconds, you don’t respond. But then: “F-fine. Come in.”

Steve pushes the door open. You’re seated on your bed, wearing your favorite ALF shirt and flannel pajama pants. Your face is a teary-eyed mess as you sew something blue. Wait a minute. 

“Is that your dress?” Steve asks, sitting on the bed next to you (but leaving you a wide berth of space, as usual). You nod shakily. This doesn’t lessen his panic. “What happened?” Steve says.

“Nothing,” you mutter. You refuse to look at him as you work, though your hands are trembling so badly, your stitches are all crooked. 

Steve covers your hands with one of his. You still, finally looking up at him. “Tell me what happened,” he says quietly.

You suck in a rattling breath and try to get yourself together to recount the events of the night. “He ripped my dress before we even got past second base,” you say. “He didn’t even care that it made me upset! I kicked him out and he called me a—a—a frigid bitch!” 

You cry harder, throwing the ruined dress on the floor, needle and thread still attached. 

Steve’s seeing red. Maybe he’ll do the first-degree murder anyway. “That’s so fucked. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You sniffle again. “Heather and I picked that dress together. For high school graduation. I—I only wear it for special occasions because I want it to last as long as possible and…fuck!” You cover your face with your hands.

Steve isn’t sure what to do or say in this moment to make you feel better. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?” he asks quietly, because it’s all he can think to offer. Without responding, your throw your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. 

“We’ll get the dress fixed,” Steve promises, rubbing your back gently while you cry. “Mrs. Henderson has a really swanky sewing machine, and she can mend anything. I’ll call her tomorrow to ask her about it, and can drive down to Hawkins over the weekend to drop it off.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Steve says firmly.

This is the longest you’ve touched him—hell, the longest you’ve touched anyone—since…maybe ever. It feels nice. Surprisingly.

Eventually, you feel like you’ve used up all your tears and pull away. “Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say. “Even when I freak out over small things.”

“This isn’t small,” Steve says. “Gary’s a disrespectful prick. Seriously, don’t even give him another thought.”

You nod, and then sigh. “He’s probably already called Judy and told her how neurotic I am.”

“If Judy’s not a shitty person, she’ll be on your side,” Steve says firmly. 

You fidget with your fingers, quiet for a few moments. Then, you whisper, “I really wanted tonight to go well.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be ready to try this again,” you admit. “Like, dating, and sex, and all that stuff.”

An opportunistic asshole would use this moment to confess their feelings, but Steve’s not that guy. “That’s completely fine,” he says. “When the time’s right, you’ll know.”

You aren’t sure if that’s true, but you like his optimism.

💋💋💋

You mope around for the next few weeks. All you do is go to class, study, and sleep. One morning in mid-October, Steve decides to get you out of this funk by inviting you to a Halloween party one of his teammates on the club baseball team is throwing.

“It’ll be the perfect thing for you,” Steve says, when you initially don’t look to enthused about the idea, frowning over your bowl of Cheerios. “We can drink, dance, and forget about shitty people like Larry.”

“Gary,” you correct.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Steve asks innocently. He takes a bite of toast and shoots you a closed-mouth smile, his cheeks puffy and round like a chipmunk. It makes you laugh and roll your eyes. He’s good at that—at disarming you when you feel stress start building. How is he so good at that? 

You stir your now-soggy cereal absentmindedly. “Wouldn’t you rather bring a date to the party?” you say. “I noticed you haven’t really been going out.” You clear your throat. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t date or bring people over just because I don’t.”

You’re secretly happy that he’s not dating a lot anymore. Your centimeter-sized crush on Steve has grown exponentially, ever since he had Mrs. Henderson fix your dress and hunted for the same dress at all the thrift stores from here to Indianapolis, somehow procuring one in green. You just don’t know if that’s the kind of thing a friend does for a friend, or a friend does for someone they’re also harboring a crush on.

Steve’s poker face is too good. You aren’t able to glean anything from his casual expression and even tone as he says, “I know. It’s just not a priority right now.” He sips orange juice and adds, “So. Party?” 

You agree to go, and, to Steve’s immense satisfaction, agree to do a “Return of the Jedi”-themed duo costume. You have the idea to both go as Han Solo, before and after being freed from carbonite. You wear matching outfits with water guns painted to look like blasters, except everything you’re wearing is slate gray. You add some silver glitter to your makeup and hair as well, though you don’t paint your face fully silver to avoid looking like the Tin Man.

“Hey, Han Solo and the Tin Man!” one of Steve’s baseball buddies says as soon as you two enter the party. Well, it was worth a try.

Surprisingly, the party is fun. You and Steve do drink and dance, and the tipsier you get, the more you find your mind wandering to places it shouldn’t. Like how good Steve looks in his Han Solo costume, how good he probably looks out of it, and did he ever read that library book on female pleasure? You drink some more to try and drown out your dirty, disgusting, shameful thoughts.

But are they really all that shameful? You’re human, after all, and Steve’s a good-looking guy. If you weren’t so afraid of intimacy with another person, or of ruining your friendship, you might’ve tried to seduce him years ago. Maybe even back before the Mind Flayer, when Heather told you to ask him out at Scoops Ahoy.

“You okay?” Steve asks, leaning close so he can be heard over the music. You nod and take another sip, trying not to think about your dead best friend saying, “He’s hung, Y/N.” 

“I just need to run to the bathroom,” you say. “Be right back.”

You navigate through the throng of dancing, sweaty college students and—after too many tries—finally find a bathroom upstairs that isn’t occupied by an amorous couple. When you make your way back downstairs, you no longer see Steve on the dance floor. Your brow furrows as you scan the crowd for him, finally catching a glimpse of his infamous hair ducking into the kitchen. 

You make your way there, but once you walk inside, you stop short. Steve is across the way chatting with a girl. She’s wearing a white minidress with feathery wings, and a headband with a halo attached via white pipe cleaner. She reminds you of Nancy Wheeler, with her delicate features and bright eyes. Your heart sinks. Of course Steve wants to talk to her. Not his roommate, who’s probably leaking silver glitter everywhere she goes.

You awkwardly shuffle through the crowd of partygoers and, once you’re a bit closer, overhear the angel practically purr, “You know, Han Solo was my sexual awakening.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Was he now?” 

“We should get out of here,” Angel says, reaching up to brush a stray curl off of Steve’s forehead. Steve smiles politely and, to your utter surprise, says, “Sorry, I’m not interested.” 

Huh? Angel is exactly his type: pretty, available, and unabashedly horny. And Steve’s turning down the chance to take her home? 

To her credit, Angel accepts the declined invitation with grace. “Suit yourself,” she says. “I think I saw an Indiana Jones around here anyway.”

As she leaves, you approach Steve. His face splits into a grin when he sees you. “Hey! I was just looking for you. I requested the DJ play that Duran Duran song you like. Hopefully it’s coming up soon.” 

You consider moving on from what you overheard, but you can’t stop yourself from ignoring his statement and asking, “Why did you shoot down the angel girl?” 

Steve’s smile falters. “You heard that?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say. You force a chuckle. “I mean, what gives? She was perfect for you.”

“No,” Steve says. “She wasn’t.”

You’re confused. He almost sounds dejected. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing!” Steve says, exasperation leaching into his tone. He nods toward the living room. “C’mon, let’s go dance.”

You shake your head. You’re probably jumping to conclusions, but you have to know if there’s any validity to your hunch. “No. I want you to tell me why you aren’t dating anymore. And if it’s my fault.”

Steve’s expression is pained. “Don’t make me answer that,” he murmurs. He turns on his heel and charges out to the back porch for some air. You follow, guilt gnawing at you as the cool air of the October night hits you. That was practically a “Yes.”

“Steve, don’t stop dating on my account,” you say, assuming that’s what this all is: him trying not to make you feel left out of the Dating and Relationships part of life that you just don’t feel equipped for. “Go hook up with Ms. Angel if you want to.”

“I don’t want to hook up with her!” Steve says. He’s agitated, rubbing his nose in a way he only does when he’s upset.

“But why—”

“Because I like someone else!” Steve explodes. “But if I tell her, it might ruin our friendship, or…” He swallows hard. “Or our living situation.”

His words wash over you, and realization dawns. Part of you is thrilled. The other part of you is terrified, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. “Oh.”

“The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable,” Steve says quickly, sensing your unease. “I know that dating and stuff isn’t, like, easy for you. And if you don’t feel the same way, I won’t be offended. If you want me to move out, I will, and—”

“Steve?”

“...Yeah?”

You can’t believe you’re about to say this, but: “May I kiss you?” 

Steve freezes. After a few seconds, he sounds wrecked and says, “Y-yeah. Yes.”

You inch closer to him, cupping his face in your hands gently. His skin his warm, despite the mid-autumn chill. He hesitates before softly placing his hands on your waist. “Is this okay?” he asks. You nod, before softly pressing your lips to his.

Kissing Steve is nothing like you thought it would be. It’s 1,000% better. Whatever the fuck Gary was doing was obviously, categorically incorrect. Because Gary didn’t kiss you soft and slow, like he was revering the taste of you. He didn’t move his hands from your waist to your back, pulling you in ever-so-much closer. He didn’t make you feel like you were floating.

You’re so overwhelmed with an emotion you can’t quite describe that you pull away. Steve’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong?” he asks, worry radiating off him in waves.

You surprise him by kissing his cheek. He looks a little dazed, touching his cheek in the very same spot. “Nothing’s wrong,” you promise. “I just—I’m sorry, I’m messing this up.”

You start to back away, but before you get very far, Steve intertwines one of his hands with yours. “No, no,” he says. He runs his thumb over your knuckles, and you’re surprised at how nice it feels. “You’re not messing anything up. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

You take a few deep breaths and try to collect yourself. “I—I like you too,” you say, after a beat. “I have, for a while. But I just figured you didn’t feel the same. Because you knew about all my…hang-ups.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner,” Steve says. You can see that he means it by the expression on his face—regret, with a splash of longing and earnestness. “I hate that you wasted time with Harry.”

“Gary.”

“That’s what I said. Jerry.” 

You wonder if he needs to get his hearing checked, but then notice his sly grin. You shake your head and playfully swat his shoulder. “You’re goofy.”

“You just said you like me,” Steve taunts, looking awfully proud of himself. “So you like goofy.”

“Yeah. I really, really do.” 

Steve hesitates, before bringing a hand up to brush a stray lock of hair out of your face. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks. 

You want to say yes, but there’s a part of your brain that still panics at the thought. A lot has happened in the past seven minutes, and you feel a tad in over your head.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Steve promises. “We don’t have to rush. Patience is my middle name. Steve ‘Patience’ Harrington.” 

It’s not. It’s Daniel. But instead of reminding him of that fact, you ask, “Can I have a hug instead?” 

“Of course you can,” Steve says, his voice low and fond as he opens his arms for you. The two of you hold each other outside while the party rages on indoors, and it just feels right. 

💋💋💋

Dating Steve is strange at first. You struggle to adjust to the change from friends to more, feeling a little caught off guard with the displays of affection that you aren’t used to.

But Steve never pressures you into anything. He asks every time he wants to hug or kiss you. He even asks if it’s all right to hold your hand. You’re sure that to some other girls, such constant check-ins would be annoying. But for you, it’s a saving grace. You’re able to ease into physical intimacy in a way that feels comfortable to you. It no longer feels like the terrifying beast that you’d been so afraid of for years. Instead, it’s warm and comforting, because you’re with Steve, and he always makes you feel safe. 

However, the metaphorical sword of Damocles has been re-hung, because there’s still something hanging over your head: sex. You and Steve have kissed quite a lot, but that’s about it. He’s true to his word from the Halloween party and makes it clear there’s no rush to do anything more, but sometimes you two will be kissing, and he’ll suddenly pull away and ask if you want to watch a really serious documentary about how paint is mixed, or a sad movie. And then he’ll sit on the opposite side of the sofa from you with a pillow on his lap.

You almost feel bad, like you’re torturing the guy. One day when you try to apologize for still not being ready for that next step, Steve waves away your concerns.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. “Really. Let me just, uh, go take a cold shower real quick.”

One day in December, after finals week but before the holidays, you two are watching that paint documentary for the fifth time, and you decide that enough’s enough. You trust Steve. (Hell, you might even love him, even if it’s probably too soon to make such a declaration.) If you’re going to have sex with anyone, you want it to be with him.

You broach the subject, rather bluntly, as the credits roll. “Do you want to have sex with me?” 

Steve almost trips and falls on his way to eject the VHS from your VCR. “Huh? What? Sorry, I thought you just said—”

“I asked if you wanted to have sex with me,” you repeat. “Now. Well, not now now. Maybe give me a few minutes to put on a nicer bra or something.” 

Steve frowns. “You’re talking…weirdly.”

“I am not!”

“You are. Using your professional voice. Like this is a business transaction. I don’t want us talking about sex to feel like hashing out a contract.” He pops the VHS back in its case and returns to the sofa, sitting closer to you this time. He covers one of your hands with his, his touch grounding you. “I promise you, I’m okay waiting.” 

“But you shouldn’t have to wait,” you say. And, to your utter embarrassment, you feel tears welling up in your eyes. “If I was normal, we could’ve done it by now.”

“Screw normal,” Steve says. “We’ve fought monsters, Y/N. We’re the furthest from normal on the planet.” He wipes a stray tear off your cheek. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s really all right.” 

Sweetheart. The pet name has you feeling warm all over. But you agree that maybe now’s not the time. Your hands are shaking, and your throat is tight, and as much as you love him, you feel sort of nauseous about being in bed with Steve.

“Whenever you’re really ready,” Steve says, “you’ll know. Trust me.”

You do. More than anyone else on the planet. 

💋💋💋

There’s a blizzard in mid-January. A total white-out that has classes canceled too soon after the semester began. You and Steve are holed up in your apartment, and he’s kissing you on the couch, and when he stops and asks, “Hey, can we watch that documentary again?” in a pained sort of voice, a realization crashes over you like a tsunami wave: 

You’re horny. 

Like, horrendously horny. Very much so. Sure, you’ve felt this way from kissing Steve before, but it feels more visceral now. Like, it won’t be enough this time to go into your room under the guise of studying and touch yourself thinking about your boyfriend.

You shake your head. “No. Steve, I’m ready. Like, actually this time.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” you say, before kissing him again.

The two of you clumsily stand, barely coming up for air as you kiss and stumble down the hall. You end up in Steve’s room, and in his bed, in record time.

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” Steve murmurs as he hovers above you, pressing kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh as he moves lower, kissing your sternum and your stomach over your sweater. “Can I take this off?” he asks.

You nod, and he pulls your top off gently. You’re not in a particularly nice bra today—it’s an odd shade of orange that you bought on clearance—but Steve drinks in the sight with hungry eyes.

“You next,” you say, tugging at the hem of his Cartersville U sweatshirt. As soon as it’s off, you feel your heart race. You run a hand over his chest hair and try not to swoon.

“Like what you see?” Steve teases. 

You nod, before pulling him in for another kiss.

Your jeans get tossed next, and then Steve’s. But as his fingers graze the waistband of your panties, you feel it: panic, crawling its way through your mind and body.

Not now, you think, kissing Steve a little harder to try and push the feeling away. Please, no, not now.

Steve’s hand moves a centimeter lower, and you subtly flinch. You don’t even have to ask Steve to stop. He notices, pulls his hand away, and moves so he’s laying on his side next to you.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, before you can apologize. “We can stop.”

You cover your face with your hands, mortified. “I thought I could do it,” you say, voice muffled through your hands. “But there’s something in my messed-up head that just stops me. I trust you. I want this with you so much. But I just hate feeling like I’m out of control.”

Steve’s mind flashes back to that day from last spring semester, when he found you in the library looking at a book on sex. Outside, on the bench, you’d described sex as “giving up control to someone else.” An idea forms in his head.

“If you want to be in control, take it,” Steve says.

You peek out from your hands. “Huh?” 

Steve leans against the headboard and folds his hands on his stomach, above the waistband of his black boxers. “Have your way with me, Y/N,” he says, in a half-teasing voice.

The words send desire coursing through you, from your head to your toes. “Are you serious?” you ask.

Steve nods. “I trust you too,” he says. “And I want this to be comfortable for you. If you want to stop, we can stop. But if you want to keep going…” He trails off, but the message is loud and clear.

You think about it for a moment. Then, you make your way over to him, straddling his lap. You rest your hands on his shoulders, and he places his on your waist. You roll your hips experimentally, punching out a groan from him and a gasp from you. 

“Is that okay?” you ask, breathless.

“More than okay,” Steve says, voice a bit rough. So you repeat the motion again, again, and again. Steve bucks up his hips to meet yours, and you gasp again. 

The two of you move in tandem, bodies pulsing with need, sighs and moans falling from your lips. You kiss Steve again, with a renewed sense of fervor. You feel too good to be afraid.

💋💋💋

Afterward, while you and Steve are curled up in his bed, you feel your eyes start to water. You quickly wipe the tears away, but Steve notices. His blissful expression is replaced with a furrowed brow and a frown. “What‘s wrong? Are you all right?”

He relaxes when your face splits into a smile. “More than all right. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”

You wrap your arms around him for a tight hug. He returns the embrace, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hair.

There’s so much you want to say. You want to tell Steve how you never thought you could have this kind of intimacy with anyone. You want to thank him for being so kind and attentive, and for letting you take the lead. You want to kiss him some more, for hours. 

You want to explain that something has shifted inside you, and your body feels like your own again for the first time in a long time. 

But instead of saying all that, you hold your boyfriend close, feeling the heaviness you've carried for years loosen its grip with every passing second.

💋💋💋

You were there, he knew you existed, but there were so many other planets that revolved around him. Ones that he gladly gave attention to, and because all you’ve ever known how to do was orbit Steve, you continue to sit at the lunch table and give him a pencil during Algebra only wishing you could be more like Mercury, wishing to be so close to him that it burned. 

And you had become accustomed to that for so long that you had convinced yourself that this was all you were ever going to get from Steve. Fingertips that brushed as you passed him a pencil. The smell of his cologne as you stood next to him in front of Lisa Keller’s house for homecoming pictures with his hands on Mercury’s waist. His laughter at the lunch table, that brief moment of eye contact when he catches you laughing too, and the smile he shoots your way that makes your heart do a traitorous thing. 

You think how lucky Mercury must be to have him like that all the time and you wonder if maybe one day once you’re out of Hawkins and no longer confined by his gravitational pull, that you’ll find a new star to orbit. One that would love you even if you are Pluto. 

That all changes though on a chilly November night in 1983 when Will Byers goes missing and you find out that Hawkins is not what it seems and that your orbit is not as far away from the sun as you thought. 

As the months and years pass and with each new battle Hawkins seems to find itself in Steve and you only grow closer. So close in fact that you don’t know where he ends and you begin and it becomes obvious that you’ve lost your original orbit. The thing about your orbit was that it kept you steady, kept you from becoming all consumed, but god if you didn’t love the feeling of hurling through space. 

For the longest time you’d imagined what it would be like– to be Steve’s. In December of 1985 during a closing shift at Family Video he let’s you know he also wonders what it would be like to be yours. 

It’s a Tuesday night, an hour before closing, and the bell that hangs above the entrance hasn’t chimed in the last two hours. There’s still a substantial amount of snow blanketing the ground and roads from the storm that rolled through Sunday and that only added to your usual lack of business after the sun set in the winter time. If it was up to you this place would close at eight, but you weren’t the boss, and admittingly you did like having the alone time with Steve. Even if you were sorting through old tapes and reshelving the horror section per Keith’s request. 

“Maybe horror for our movie night this week?” you suggest, holding up a copy of Amityville. 

Fifteen year old you would have died knowing that only three years later you’d be having weekly movie nights with Steve. That the King Steve, whose fall from grace was anything but graceful, was your person. Granted King Steve had been long gone for some time now and sometimes it’s hard to believe that the boy who stands in front of you with a green Family Video vest and a crooked name tag adorned on the front of it is the same untouchable boy from those years ago. 

Steve looks up from the stack he’d been kind of going through on the cart and flashes you that smile that still makes you feel like you're that fifteen year old girl. “If you want to cuddle with me you don’t have to use the excuse of some lame horror movie to do it.” 

That teasing, flirting, the sly smirk on his face, it’s times like now where you realize his old habits do die hard and that there are parts of King Steve that still live in him, but it’s the good parts. The parts that make you giddy and the butterflies in your stomach to kick with such force you feel your stomach flip. The boy that stands in front of you is the same person as the older version you knew of him, but just more himself in the best way possible. And everyday you thank your lucky stars that you’re able to have Steve in your life like this. 

“Right so when I have to turn on the lamp again because you thought you saw something in the corner of the room I’ll be sure to hold you extra tight,” you tease, slotting the movie into its correct place onto the shelf. 

“It was one time!” 

Your soft laughter eventually dies down until all that fills the void is the buzz from the overhead lights and the ticking of the clock on the wall. The two of you work in silence, wanting to actually get this done before you have to leave, not wanting to hear Keith complaining about you two being lazy while he’s got cheese ball dust caked under his fingernails. 

The clock ticks louder on the wall, like a constant reminder that your time with Steve for the day is running out, and you think that you’ll never get enough of Steve. That he could crawl under your skin and live there and you’d still want more of him. Especially when you can feel his eyes flickering over at you every so often, lingering long enough for you to feel it, but not long enough for you to catch him in the act. It’s embarrassing to say that it’s making you blush slightly, but you quite literally used to look forward to Steve asking you for a pencil during class just so you could feel the slight brush of his fingers against yours and then savored that feeling until the next time. So, blushing over him playing eye tag with you was not the most embarrassing thing you’ve done when it came to Steve. 

About ten minutes before close Steve mumbles something about being right back. When the bell above the entrance rings you know exactly what he’s doing and a few seconds later you hear your car start out front. You focus on transferring the last few tapes from the cart and back onto the shelves, trying to ignore how the blush on your cheeks has now spread throughout your body. 

The bell rings again and you can feel the cold air rush in just as fast as him, like he doesn’t want you to know what he’s done, doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Steve just does things like that so effortlessly– without a second thought. You notice very early on in whatever you want to call your relationship with him that he only does stuff like that for you. Even in school when you hyperfocused on every little thing he did with Mercury he was never as attentive with her as he is with you and it makes your head spin. 

Eventually the clock strikes eleven and the neon light in the window fades to black as Steve locks the doors behind you. The cold winter air bites at the apples of your cheeks and the snow crunches beneath your feet as you walk at what could be considered a snail’s pace to your car, with Steve alongside you of course. He was adamant about walking you to your car when you two closed together, even though you two literally parked not even ten feet away from the store. You clearly didn’t mind it, greedily taking advantage of every second you could get with him. 

“You know you don’t have to do this for me,” you say softly as the two of you linger by your car. 

“Do what?” Steve questions with that sly smirk on his face that you love more than you should. 

“Oh right sorry– I keep forgetting that my car magically starts on its own.” 

“That’s a real fancy car you got. Don’t know how you can afford it on $3.25 an hour.” 

You roll your eyes at him, but there’s no real malice behind it, if anything it’s fondness. “Thank you Steve– for real.” 

He shrugs his shoulders, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. “It’s no big deal, but you’re welcome.” 

On any other night this would be the moment that you would tell him that you’d see him tomorrow, get in your car, and drive home. Your hand is already on the door handle, the cold metal doing nothing to help your already freezing fingers, but something in you is telling you to stay for another minute. To turn around and stay out in the cold for just a little bit longer. Maybe it’s a sign from above protecting you from a horrible car wreck or maybe it’s the feeling of Steve’s eyes burning into the back of your head, like he’s trying to tell you to stay without really saying it, but either way you turn on your heel, the snow crunching underneath your sneakers, and come face to face with Steve. 

Wind whips through the barren parking lot making the cold settle deeper into your bones and you can see that it's already turned the tip of Steve’s nose and the tops of his cheeks red. He lets out a long exhale once the two of you make eye contact, like he’d been waiting for you to turn around, hoping that you wouldn’t get in your car and leave him standing here. 

Steve can’t believe he’s about ready to ask you this in the middle of the Family Video parking lot, but you've turned around and willed his thoughts to come true, so now he has to follow through with it. He’s chickened out one too many times before and god help him if this was where he was supposed to finally work up the courage to ask you, then so be it. 

He’s rehearsed this a million times, thought about it at night until his alarm clock read an obscenely late time, and now that the time has come everything he’s wanted to say goes right out the window and is reduced to six words. 

“Have you ever thought about us?” 

His question hits you like a tidal wave and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears makes you feel like you’re caught in that wave, constantly being held under by the rip current, your chest burning from having to hold your breath. The feeling sits there for an uncomfortable amount of time and it’s not until you see Steve start to turn in on himself, embarrassment written all over his face at your lack of reply, that your head finally breaks through to the surface gasping for air. 

“Have you?” 

You’re turning the question back on him, but you can’t help it. Even though you know Steve isn’t the same golden boy you shamelessly fawned over for years, the boy who you never thought would give you the time of day, there is still that part of you that fears this is all too good to be true. That there’s no way Steve could ever feel the same way you do about him. So, instead of making a fool of yourself when it turns out his words didn’t hold the same meaning you thought they did– you force him to answer first. 

“Yes,” he answers simply and then with an airy laugh continues. “All the time actually. Can’t get you out of my head.”

You find yourself leaning against your car, not trusting yourself to be able to stand on your own. At fifteen you had convinced yourself that you were fine with admiring Steve from a distance, that as long as you could have those small interactions with him you were content. At sixteen you convinced yourself that you were fine with just being best friends with Steve, that as long as you could have him close you didn’t need to actually have him to be happy. Now at seventeen you’re trying to convince yourself that Steve Harrington does in fact feel the same way you do about him and when you continue your questionnaire everything you thought you knew blows up in your face. 

“How long?” you ask quietly, like you two are in a crowded room and not in the middle of an empty parking lot. “How long Steve?” 

“Are you asking how long you’ve been consuming my mind? Or are you asking how long I’ve thought about what it would be like to be yours?” 

He asks it so casually, like this confession isn’t changing things forever between the two of you. 

“Both.” 

He inches closer to you, close enough that he can reach out and take his warm hand in your freezing one. The feeling of his hand in yours, the way his big hazel eyes seemingly stare straight into your soul– it makes your head spin.

“I’ve always noticed you Y/N. I’ve always thought you were so pretty and funny in a way not many people appreciated. That day your freshman year when Heather invited you to sit at our lunch table was a day I’ll never forget. And everyday since then when I would I catch your eye or heard your laugh it put such a funny feeling in my chest.”

Steve shakes his head, pausing for a moment as laughs to himself slightly, like he can’t believe that he’s admitting all of this right now.

You sure as hell can’t believe he’s admitting it either.

He takes a deep breath, squeezes your hands in his again and then continues.

“I mean fuck did you really think I didn’t have a pencil on me almost every single Algebra class for that year? I was just using it as an excuse to have any little bit of interaction with you, but I never specifically seeked you out because I didn’t think you were interested in me. Didn’t think you’d like the kind of guy I was back then. But then all the shit with the Upside Down happened and we got thrown into the mess together and now I can’t imagine my life without you in it. If I thought my thoughts about you before were all consuming then I don’t even want to know what they’d be considered now.”

Steve realizes he’s rambling and reels himself back in with a sheepish smile.

“I just– what I’m trying to say is that I’m an idiot who’s had feelings for you for way too long and I’m finally admitting it because I can’t stand to just have you as a best friend when I want you as something much more than that.” 

It’s not just the cold air that you’re breathing in that is making your lungs burn– it’s you realizing that you never needed to be more like Mercury. The Sun saw you even when you felt like you were the furthest you could be from him. 

“I was going through an astronomical amount of pencils that year, but I’d say it was worth it,” you reply with a big grin stretching across your face. 

Steve mirrors your expression, the weight on his chest lifting when he sees you smiling. “Yeah?” 

“The amount of times I went into Melvalds for pencils was a little concerning. At one point Joyce asked me why I was going through so many and I lied and told her I was writing a novel.” 

The laughter that ripples through Steve’s chest is like music to your ears and a little part of you still wants to pinch yourself to see if this is real. 

“Is that so?” Steve questions. 

“I couldn’t let her know that I was buying them out of pencils because the boy I had a massive crush on would ask for one like every day and I never wanted to not have an extra on me.” 

Steve’s heart swells and he wants to punch himself for waiting so long to do this. 

“Well how could I ever repay you for all those pencils?” his tone is slightly teasing as his hands rest on your hips, gently caging you against your car. 

“Hmmm. I think I might have an idea.” 

You kiss Steve Harrington for the first time in the middle of the Family Video parking lot. There’s snow on the ground and your fingertips are freezing, but the fire that ignites in you when you feel his lips on yours has you feeling like it's the middle of July. 

And you realize that this is what it finally feels like to be close to the Sun. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Being with Steve is everything you could have imagined and more. He’s attentive and caring and honestly everything you could have ever asked for in a boyfriend. He makes life easier and when shit hits the fan again in Hawkins he’s right there beside you the whole time.

And you don’t know if it’s because you two are faced with what is the most challenging fight you’ve had yet or the fact that Steve suffered his worst injury and you’re both a little scared that maybe you won’t make it out of this one alive. But the topic of your future together gets brought up and when Steve mentions something about having a brood of children the idea doesn’t scare you. Alright, maybe his idea of six is a little extreme, but you could see yourself in the future having little versions of him and you running around. You in a white dress with a shiny ring on your finger, the people you love most bearing witness to such a sacred ceremony of true love. 

In a stolen RV on the way to what might be your inevitable death you come to the conclusion that doing those things with Steve– getting married and having kids. It is something you would want with him. 

But then Hawkins gets put in lockdown and well your future is stuck in limbo. College is put on hold for the foreseeable future and you think that maybe it was a blessing in disguise because even though you had been accepted into Indiana University and had plans of getting into their school of medicine– those plans were never really yours. It’s always what your parents had wanted for you and you’d never been one to really know what you wanted in life, so you went along with it, wanting to make them happy. But as the years in high school passed and the idea of what you were getting yourself into became more of a reality, well you felt like a rat in a cage. The lockdown helped ease the panic for a little bit, but the thing about a caged rat is that it never stops feeling caged and the walls built around Hawkins weren’t big enough for what you realized you wanted for yourself. 

The crawls, smuggling in contraband, relaying secret messages through the radio station that Steve and you seemed to live at– this wasn’t how you imagined your early adulthood to look like. Sure you loved playing apocalyptic house with Steve and in the grand scheme of things you two had only grown closer over those eight months, to the point where once all of this was over he’d thought about just renting that RV he talked about and getting a head start on your future together. 

But when it’s all said and done and Vecna and the Upside Down are gone and real life quickly funnels its way back in you realize that Steve and you are in two very different stages of life.

It starts as pillow talk and before you know it there’s tears streaming down your face and a horrible feeling in your gut that maybe what you thought would be forever with Steve would only turn out to be a chapter. When you tell him that in six months you’re planning on going to NYU instead of IU you should have known he wouldn’t take it very well, in fact you knew he wouldn’t take it well, and you’d prepared yourself for it. You just hadn’t prepared yourself for the inevitable realization that your orbit around the sun might have swung too far out and there’s nothing there to pull you back in. 

All you’ve ever known is Hawkins and for the longest time all you’ve ever known is Steve. He’s your safe space, the person you love and trust the most. You two have been through hell and back multiple times and you think maybe that’s why this hurts more than it would if it was some other boy you met in high school. Because you two have a bond that goes deeper than anyone could imagine. 

At the end of the day it’s put in front of you very clearly. 

You want to find out who you are outside of Hawkins, want to make a life for yourself that isn’t your parents dream, and you still love Steve. 

Steve hates the idea of leaving Hawkins permanently because it’s all he’s ever known, he’s more than content with living the life he’s imagined for himself (and you) in the fixer upper on the corner of Sycamore and Vine that he’s been eyeing since December, and he still loves you. 

And because Steve loves you he’s never going to hold you back from doing what you want to do. So, you two try to make long distance work. It’s hard, even with your parents funding your flights home the distance takes its toll, and when you come home for Christmas break you two break up. 

You saw it coming, knew it was inevitable, and honestly it wasn’t just the miles between you that contributed to the breakup, it was feeling like you two were on different paths, and maybe some other things you weren’t ready to address yet internally. It hurt more than you could ever describe because even if you two didn’t want the same things– you still loved him. 

You’ll never not love Steve Harrington. 

And even when Pluto is casted out as a dwarf planet and no longer considered a major planet– she still orbits the sun anyways.

That following spring you don’t come home for the kid’s graduation and when your Mom calls you that following morning to check in like she always does on Sundays she of course lets it slip that she ran into Steve at graduation. She claimed he was doing well and that he even got a job at the school. You tell her that’s great through gritted teeth and a searing pain through the still fresh wound on your heart. She asks when you’ll be home, you say you don’t know and that’s the whole conversation. You put the phone back on the receiver and wish that the universe in your heart would be swallowed by a black hole. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

On August 3rd, 1993 Steve walks to his mailbox like he does every morning and retrieves his mail. He mindlessly sorts through it– junk mail, his outrageous electric bill, his neighbors water bill, coupons for Bradley’s, and then his eyes land on a crisp white envelope. He nearly does a double take, confused as to who is sending him something so official and fancy. 

Mr. Steven Harrington 

465 Park Street

Hawkins, IN 46952 

There’s no return address, but something in him already knows who this is from, and part of him has the nerve to not even open it and just throw it in the trash. He doesn’t though, he slowly walks back up his driveway, back into his house, and it’s not until he’s safely sat at the kitchen table that he opens the envelope.

PLEASE JOIN US IN CELEBRATING THE WEDDING OF 

CHRISTOPHER CARTER

&

Y/N Y/L/N

Saturday October 17th, 1993

At 3 o’clock

Laurel Hill 

5395 Emerson Way

Indianapolis, IN 46226

There’s a ringing in Steve’s ears that resembles all the times he’d taken a particularly hard blow to the head during his years of trying to save Hawkins, but he thinks another beating from Billy Hargrove would hurt less than how he feels right now. The news shouldn’t come as a surprise to him, he’d heard from Robin a couple years ago that you were seeing someone and then that you were engaged and well that was a rough pill to swallow. And of course in true Robin fashion she always gave out more information than Steve would have cared to know.

This guy– he’s everything your parents would have wanted for you and more. Comes from money, majored in political science at Columbia, also from Indiana which explains the wedding being back home, and to top it all off Robin claimed he was really nice. Which made Steve feel even worse because Robin just didn’t go around saying that about every person she met.

The fact that everyone else in your ragtag group of friends had met and apparently approved of this Chris didn’t help the ache in Steve’s chest either. Robin, Nancy, Jonathan, and you all being a couple hours from each other kept you all close, while Steve felt like the outcast of the group back in Hawkins. And yes he knows life happens, people move on and grow up, but the fact that all four of you still kept in touch and the only one he talked to was Robin hurt more than he’d like to admit. 

In fact Steve hasn’t talked to you in five years. 

Five years of failed relationships, meaningless hookups, and looking for you in every girl he sees. You’d left such a lasting mark on him that it was starting to get pathetic and you’d clearly moved on– so why couldn’t he? 

The proof of your heart belonging to another man was in his shaking hands and he still couldn’t help but think about what life could have been like if he hadn’t let you go, if he tried to make things work when you came home that Christmas. 

He’d like to think it would be his name next to yours on that invitation, but that’s a dream that’s already been tarnished. 

The clock on the wall reads 10:02 a.m. 

Robin picks up the phone at 10:03 a.m. 

“I need you to tell me this isn’t real. Tell me she’s not getting married.” 

It’s real. He knows it is. He knew you were engaged, but holy fuck if he wasn’t holding on to the smallest bit of hope that it would fall through. 

“Steve….” 

“Robin.” 

There’s static on her end, a sigh, and then. “It’s real Steve. She’s getting married to Chris. I’m sorry.” 

The old wooden dining chair creaks under Steve as he slumps against the back of it, the invitation still gripped tightly in his other hand. “Why did she invite me?” 

“Believe it or not she still cares about you. Still asks how you’re doing from time to time. When she asked me whether or not she should invite you– I told her yes.” 

“And why the hell would you do that?” he bites back at her. 

“You don’t have to come, but I honestly think she’d like to see you. It’s been five years Steve.” 

It’s been five years but Steve swears sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday. 

His eyes glance back down at the invitation in his hand as his finger traces the embossed lettering of your name. All he ever wanted was for you to be happy and he always thought he’d be a part of that happiness, but he’d let you go. He let you go find yourself and in the process you found someone else that made you feel the same way he used to.

“Does he make her happy?” 

Robin doesn’t respond for what starts to be an uncomfortable amount of time and then finally with a sigh she tells Steve what he does and doesn’t want to hear. 

“Yeah he does. He makes her happy.” 

Something twists in Steve’s chest– sharp and painful. The invitation gets tossed onto the table with the rest of the mail and he gets up from the creaking chair with an urgency he hasn’t had since he was fighting demogorgons.

“Glad to hear. I’ll talk to you later. Gotta get to work.” 

It’s August 3rd. School doesn’t start for another couple weeks and it’s also ten in the morning meaning Steve would have been extremely late for work. All things Robin knows but doesn’t get the chance to comment on because Steve’s slamming the phone back on the receiver so hard that it nearly comes off the kitchen wall. 

Steve’s not mad. He's upset. He’s got five years of unresolved feelings bubbling to the surface over a fancily addressed envelope and seeing your name next to another man’s– inviting him to come bare witness to your eternal love. 

His hands haven’t stopped shaking and he finds himself rummaging through the cabinet for that dark amber liquid that could numb the feelings he didn’t have the capacity to handle right now. He doesn’t even bother grabbing a glass. If he was going to drink at ten in the morning then he might as well be as uncouth as he can– choosing to bring the bottle straight to his lips and letting his chosen vice begin to work its magic. 

Steve eventually finds himself in his room. One hand still has an iron grip on the neck of the whiskey bottle while the other haphazardly shuffles through the clothes once neatly hung in his closet. He lets out something that resembles more of a grunt than a hum once he finds what he’s looking for and then tosses it onto his bed. 

The formal suit stares back at him, taunting him in ways only he could understand. He isn’t drunk enough to talk back to it yet. So, he brings the bottle back up to his lips and takes a long swig while his eyes are still locked onto the article of clothing. 

He mumbles something incoherent at it, something he isn’t even sure he understands, and then sits down on the bed next to it. Which is where he spends the rest of his day drowning his sorrows. 

The next morning he mails back the RSVP with a splitting headache. 

Please Respond

RSVP by September 1st, 1993

Steven Harrington 

  X   accepts with pleasure         declines with regret 

Plus one?       YES    X    NO

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It was easier to blame the pit in your stomach and the crushing weight sitting on your chest on the flower fiasco (because the florist arriving with red roses instead of white would ruin everything at least in your Mom’s eyes) instead of addressing the real reasons. 

Today was your big day. The day that you’d been planning meticulously for the last year– the color of the napkins, if you should have chicken or fish, red velvet or vanilla cake, what font should be used on the name placards and if they should coincide with the color of the table cloths they will sit on.

Everything was planned out down to the tiniest detail and save for the flowers, which were not the massive deal your Mom had made it out to be, everything else had gone off without a hitch. It looked beautiful, like something you could only dream of. 

And that should help calm your nerves at least a little. 

Right? 

You were marrying a good man. Chris made you happy, your friends liked him, and your parents loved him. He made you feel safe and a future with someone like him was something girls were more than envious of. 

So the fact that you were on the verge of a breakdown with less than an hour left until you were set to walk down the aisle was a little concerning. 

Your dress– the one that had been hand designed by some French lady who flew into New York courtesy of Chris’s Mom– felt like it was two sizes too small and every time you tried to take a breath it kept getting tighter. Your bridesmaids had left you alone in the dressing room not even ten minutes ago and in those minutes you’d worked yourself up into a panic attack. 

These feelings though hadn’t just popped up suddenly. They’d been bubbling under the surface for weeks now— ever since you got a certain RSVP back in the mail. You thought that inviting him might tie up some loose ends you still have internally, but receiving his response had only unraveled them. It had been five years since you spoke to Steve and now the first time you were going to see him since you had broken up was going to be on your wedding day. 

The day you’d once hoped to share with him. 

No. You can’t think about that right now. You can’t think about how you’ve only ever imagined marrying one man and that it wasn’t the one on the opposite end of the building getting ready right now. 

You smooth the front of your dress with your sweaty palms for the hundredth time and try to take a deep breath, try to talk yourself off this very dangerous ledge to be dangling from right now. You don’t dare catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, knowing the moment you see yourself trying to keep it together, the less than thrilled look on your face on what is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, it will break the dam of tears you’ve so tactfully held back. 

This was something every bride went through, it was just a little bit of cold feet, at least that’s what you keep telling yourself. 

There’s a soft knock on the door and it makes you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this, but then you see your Mom peek her head in and the breath you’ve been holding in shakily comes out. 

“Hi honey,” she says softly as she closes the door behind her. “How’s my girl? Feeling a little nervous?” 

You were far from nervous. The incessant pounding of your heart against your ribcage and the heavy feeling of impending regret that floods your nervous system was not just you feeling nervous. 

“Mom I don’t–” 

Your dress is suffocating you and you’re to the point where you reach behind you and start clawing at the corset Robin had so expertly laced up earlier. Your perfectly manicured fingers slip past the silk each time you grab at it, unable to free yourself from the rib crushing material. 

It’s a sight to see– you panicking like a rat stuck in a hot cage whose only way out is to dig through your metaphorical stomach while your Mom stands there watching you. 

A cry of defeat slips past your lips once you finally give up, your arms aching and sweat beading at your brow. 

“Mom,” your voice cracks something awful and the realization hits you like a ton of bricks. “I can’t do this. I can’t marry him.” 

“Yes you can,” her reply is instant and sure, like there’s no other option that could have crossed her mind. “This is all just some wedding day jitters. You just need to take a deep breath, maybe have a little drink. You want some wine? I can get you a glass of wine and it will take the edge off real quick.” 

She’s already turning back towards the door and it makes you even more manic. 

“I don’t want wine!” 

If you needed alcohol to get you through what is supposed to be the happiest day of your life, well then that’s a sign right there that you shouldn’t be doing this. 

She stops dead in her tracks at the sharpness of your voice, but doesn’t turn back towards you yet, she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I want to take this dress off. I need to take this dress off because I’m not getting married today.” 

You watch as she turns toward you slowly and the look in her eye is something you’ve seen one too many times before. It makes your already rolling stomach flip in ways you’ve never felt and her gentle touch on your arms does nothing to bring you back from the ledge. 

“Honey, you’re going to get married today. You’re going to take some deep breaths, have a little wine, and I promise you’ll feel so much better.” 

You can feel your bottom lip starting to tremble as you shake your head in defiance at her. 

“You love him Y/N. I’ve never seen you happier than when you’re with him. He’s good to you and he can provide for you. I’m not going to let you regret ruining your future again over such a rash decision– over feeling a little nervous. This is what you’ve been planning for the past year, what you’ve been looking forward to, what Chris has been looking forward to.” 

Her hands fidget with your hair for a moment, always making sure you look your best, before they intertwine with yours. “Trust me baby,” she squeezes your hands like she’s really trying to get you to listen to her. “You want this–you just have to get out of your head.” 

The first tear falls from your eye and drags a path through your once flawless makeup. 

This was never what you wanted. This was what she wanted– what your parents wanted. 

For someone who had left all they’ve ever known to escape the crushing weight of feeling like you needed to live the life your parents had planned for you. It’s quite ironic that you’ve landed yourself back under their thumb. You guess moving seven hundred miles away will never get rid of the little girl who always wanted to make them happy, who wanted to trust that they always had her best interest in mind. 

It’s funny that you’d thought you were a rat in a cage all those years ago back in Hawkins, because that was a cardboard box compared to how you feel now. 

This wasn’t college, this was a commitment to another person, and as lovely as Chris was– you could not spend the rest of your life with him. As horrible as it sounds, you don’t think you’ve ever really loved him. Not in the way you should. Chris was good to you, really good to you, he was the kind of guy that would rent out the fanciest restaurant in New York on a Friday night for your one year anniversary kind of good. The let’s fly out to Paris for the weekend kind of good and the you’ll never have to work another day for the rest of your life kind of good. 

The lavishness of everything was amazing, but you’d found yourself getting wrapped up in it, choosing to forget that marrying a man like Chris came with obligations. Ones that you know would slowly wear you down until you were a shell of a human, a ghost of your prior self. Chris may have been born in Indiana, but he hadn’t grown up the way you had, barely spent three years of his life in the Hoosier state before moving to New York, and sometimes it’s glaringly obvious that you two come from very different worlds. 

Yet even with your differences Chris had never given you a reason to doubt his love for you and his family was so welcoming, claiming they were glad Chris had settled down with a girl like you. Even going as far as paying for the wedding and your dress wanting your special day to be everything you could have ever dreamed of. 

Except this is nothing you’ve dreamed of. 

When you accepted Chris’s proposal you’d thought that maybe this was the moment that you’d stop orbiting the sun. That the part of your heart that was still reserved for that hazel eyed boy who you fell in love with all those years ago would unlock itself and let Chris fully in– let him be the new sun you’d orbit– and for the longest time you’d convinced yourself that it had happened. You hadn’t seen Steve since you two broke up– five years to be exact. So, finally fully moving on, creating this life with Chris should have been the final nail in the coffin for whatever you felt towards Steve right? 

Wrong. 

If anything, getting engaged to Chris had only made you think more about Steve. 

You’d thought more about Steve during this past year of being engaged than you had the first year after your breakup. He always seemed to be in the back of your mind and you’d find yourself asking Robin about how he was doing, breaking the cycle of Robin being the one to mention him every time you asked how things were at home because even after all these years you still associated him with home and Robin could always tell when you were homesick. 

You thought about Steve when Chris’s Mom was helping you decide if you wanted a live string quartet or when his sister helped you pick out the Swarovski toasting flutes that cost more than you could ever imagine something you drink out of costing. It was all so out of your depth and fancy and all you could think of when you were choosing between one extravagant thing or another was that this was not what you’d ever imagined your wedding looking like. 

In fact you know if Steve was still in your life he would have been poking fun at you, telling you that this wasn’t anything close to what you wanted– that it wasn’t you. And he would have been right because you never wanted anything extravagant. A late night pillow talk session back when your future was up in the air had revealed that all you had ever wanted was a simple wedding, one where your love was the main attraction and not an ice sculpture of a swan. 

It makes your stomach twist to think that you’d left Hawkins– left Steve– for the sole purpose of wanting to find out who you were outside of all you’ve ever known and in the end you’d found yourself living a life that half the time didn’t feel like yours. 

Like you were an imposter– living the life of some NYC socialite when all you were at your core was a girl from Indiana that loved sunsets and driving backroads in a maroon BMW with the only boy you’ve ever truly loved. 

The same boy you’d invited to your wedding. Telling yourself that he more than likely won’t come as you drop his invitation off at the post office, but you should have known that Steve of all people would be one to attend. Because he’d only ever wanted you to be happy and what better display of happiness could be shown than marrying someone? You tell yourself that it doesn’t mean anything, that it had been five years, he’s surely moved on, but the NO that he’d marked on his RSVP for a plus one made your heart do a traitorous thing.  

You’re marrying another man and yet your orbit still hasn’t strayed from your sun. It may have been weaker over the years, but the proof of your eternal love for Steve Harrington was here on your wedding day, wishing he’d show up after five years of no contact and tell you that you didn’t have to do this. 

“Mom, I don't want this. Chris is a good guy, but this isn’t the life I want for myself. Please don’t make me do this.” 

You’re pleading, tears streaming down your face as your Mom stares back at you with such a stoic expression that it makes you panic even more. There’s no remorse or motherly love staring back at you, just a face that tells you exactly what’s going to happen and it’s not what you want. 

It’s sad that even at twenty five you still feel like you have no control over your life– that you can’t work up the nerve to walk out that door yourself. The part of you that your parents have tainted with the idea that this is your only option and that you’ll never live a life better than this tries to reason with the other part of you when you realize that the one person that was supposed to protect you is not on your side in this.

It’s a back and forth battle in your brain and you know that if you do walk out of this venue right now that you’ll be on your own. Your parents will cut you off and you’ll probably end up sleeping on Robin’s couch, which isn’t the worst thing ever, but it’s also not just you that will be affected by this choice. 

Chris will be too. 

He didn’t deserve this, his family didn’t deserve this, especially after the astronomical amount of money they’d spent on everything. You know you wouldn’t want to be left at the altar on your wedding day, but you also don’t want to marry a man you know you don’t love like you should. It’s a double edged sword and unfortunately your hands are gripped tightly onto it. 

“This feeling will pass. A couple months from now you’re gonna be able to look back on this and laugh, knowing that you were just overreacting. You’re going to be living the life that woman would die for darling, be greatful, especially since you’re getting it with such a handsome and nice man like Chris.” 

Her touch is cold as she wipes away your tears and you know she’s thinking of what excuse she can tell everyone as to why you’re going to be late walking down the aisle, you can see the gears turning in her head. It’s all methodical with her, always has been, and when she presses a chaste kiss to your forehead you know you’re marrying Chris today whether you want to or not. 

“I’ll be right back,” she whispers before quickly turning on her heel and exiting your dressing room with urgency. 

The door clicks shut behind her and you absolutely lose it. 

You stumble into the little bathroom, your hands gripping the sides of the porcelain sink with such fierceness that you feel like you could rip it right off the wall. The first glimpse you get of yourself in the mirror is terrifying, your mascara is streaked down your cheeks, your eyes are bloodshot, and your chest is red and splotchy– borderline breaking out into stress hives. 

There was no way you could make it down the aisle and look presentable in an hour– yet you knew it was going to have to happen. 

You try to talk yourself down from off this metaphorical ledge that you’ve been walking with one foot dangling off the side of ever since you woke up this morning, but it’s easier said than done. You tell yourself that maybe you could learn to love Chris like you should. That maybe once you go back to New York and settle into your new life that you’ll look back on this and laugh like your Mom had said, but you shouldn’t have to learn how to love someone. It should come naturally and while you do have love for Chris it isn’t the eternal kind. 

You’ve only ever had that with one person and you threw it away for what? A life you don’t even want? To be sobbing on your wedding day? To be right back under your parents thumb? 

You guess you were always meant to be a rat in a cage. 

The door opens, you can hear the clicking of your Mom’s heels across the wooden floor, the sound of what is undoubtedly a glass of wine being sat down at the vanity, and then her voice echoing through the room.

“I’m going to go get Robin. You’ll get all fixed up and then everything will go as planned.” 

You don’t respond, you just wait for the sound of the door closing again before slowly exiting the bathroom. You find the wine glass sitting next to your favorite blush as you sit down at the lit up vanity and the girl that stares back at you in the mirror is unrecognizable. It’s a girl with no back bone– a chronic people pleaser. A girl who wishes that her knight and shining armor would come and save her, but this isn’t a fairytale and Chris isn’t an ogre. So the only thing you needed saving from was yourself. 

You sit there and stare at yourself for a long time until you eventually start wiping away the remnants of your makeup, your silent tears aiding you in the process, but nothing can remove the stain on your heart. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The second Steve pulls up to this place in his pickup truck he knows this is way out of his comfort zone. He may be in formal attire, but this is something you’d see in the movies or on the cover of some celebrity magazine at the doctor's office. He knew this Chris guy came from money, but not this kind of money, and Steve feels like the smallest guy on Earth, feeling like a fool for ever thinking that he could provide for you back then. He still could barely afford to pay his light bill on time some months and here you were marrying Mr. Money Bags. 

A gentle knock on his window startles him enough that he’s cursing under his breath and his hand shakes an unnecessary amount as he cranks the window down. 

“Sorry to startle you sir, just the valet,” a guy probably around his age states, who is also dressed in formal attire.

Valet. Right. Because that’s the type of wedding he’s attending where you can’t even park your own vehicle. 

Steve puts the truck in park, takes the ticket from the worker, and slowly gets out of the vehicle. The trek up the stairs to the entrance is lined with extravagant flowers and Steve finds himself having to remember how to walk, having to take one step at a time. There’s a lady with a clipboard standing at the top of the stairs by the front entrance that watches him the whole time, how his hand grips the railing like he’s an eighty year old man who’s taken on too many tumbles.  

“Hello! Name please?” The lady asks with a little too much enthusiasm once Steve finally makes it up the stairs. 

“Um– Steve,” he replies. “Steven Harrington.” 

The lady’s eyes scan the clipboard and then with a smile on her face she makes a little check by what he can only assume is his name. “Ah yes. Mr. Harrington!” She then looks back up at Steve with that same smile. “The Carters are very happy that you could attend.” 

Steve forces a smile back at her and tries to act like her referring to you as Carter before it was even official didn’t make his chest ache. 

As soon as he passes through the threshold he feels like he’s been transported into another dimension. He’s never been to anything this fancy before in his life, the excessive amount of flowers, the crystal chandelier, the live string quartet. If this was just the ceremony he could only imagine what the reception would be like. 

It’s so in your face and reeks of wealth and Steve can’t help but scoff because this is so not you. You two would have made fun of a wedding like this, claiming that anyone who felt the need to do something so extravagant was over compensating for an already failing relationship. 

But that was back then and Steve hasn’t talked to you in five years so hell for all he knows this is something you wanted. Maybe this was who you were now and it makes his stomach twist to think about how there’s a whole nother version of you that he doesn’t know a single thing about. 

There’s so many people here that Steve is actually kind of grateful for it, he can blend in and not feel like the obvious sore thumb he is– the ex at the wedding. Granted he’s not sure how many people here actually know who he is besides the handful of people from home, which is more than enough for him. He keeps asking himself why he ever thought it was a good idea for him to come as he tucks himself in a corner, sneaking sips from the flask he’d hidden in the breast pocket in his suit jacket. 

He thinks he might be a masochist– wanting to torture himself by watching the only girl he’s ever loved marry a man he could never measure up to. He doesn’t know why he’s throwing himself a pity party, he’d let you go, thought he was doing the right thing all those years ago, and sometimes late at night when he’s had a little too much to drink he wonders why his love wasn’t enough for you to want to stay. 

He knows you two wanted different things back then, that making long distance work was harder than either of you could have imagined, but he swears if you’d asked him to move to New York with you when you came home that Christmas he would have. Instead you’d broken up and Steve hates himself for not fighting harder for you, for rolling over onto his back and exposing his belly for you to carve into. He knows things were hard for you and maybe you felt like you didn’t have the capacity to love him and figure out who you were, but Steve didn’t really know who he was back then either and still doesn’t if he’s being honest. But it had never wavered his love for you because if there was one thing Steve was certain about it was how he felt about you. 

Steve’s eyes catch sight of your Mom hurriedly walking through the crowd of people and up the grand staircase– a glass of wine perched in her hand. She still has that same methodical ambiance about her, carries herself with such perfectionism and control that Steve understands why you moved to the other side of the country. 

“Look what the cat dragged in.” 

The familiar voice rips his eyes away from the older woman who disappears somewhere upstairs and onto the one person who he’d only ever seen wear a dress one other time, back when the tight feeling in his chest was from an alternate dimension entity murdering teenagers and not from attending a wedding.

“You look nice Robs.” 

He really means it, but he can tell she doesn’t care to hear his compliments. 

“Yeah– the things we do for Y/N,” Robin states with a soft sigh as she looks out into the crowd of people and then as if she realizes what she’s implied her eyes shoot back towards Steve. He’s already looking at her with an expression that says tell me about it, but he doesn’t say anything. He just slips his flask out of his pocket again and takes another swig, fully knowing Robin might judge him, but not caring anymore. 

If this was any other setting Robin would have said something to him, but over the years Robin had learned the importance of time and place, and as long as Steve didn’t get sloppy sad drunk before the ceremony even started, she’d let him be. She also feels partly guilty about Steve’s current mental state, she should have never told you to invite him, should have never told him that you wanted to see him, because no matter how much she wanted you two to get back together it would never be that easy. This wasn’t like the romantic comedies that Nancy would make her watch, this was real life, two real people with real feelings. 

Although Robin has a feeling that Steve would have shown up anyways without her telling him that. Steve would push down every horrid heartbroken feeling he had if it meant you got to be happy, if he got to see you be happy, because to Steve the happiness and safety of the ones he loved meant more than his own well being. It’s something she learned very quickly that summer she slung ice cream for a living with him. When their 4th of July was spent thousands of miles underground and how at only age nineteen Steve had taken the brunt of the horrors they experienced down there just so there wasn’t a scratch on her. 

Robin knows Steve has experienced so much hurt in his life for only being twenty seven and yet she knows him watching you get married to someone else will undoubtedly be the worst pain he’s experienced. 

She wonders if maybe in some twisted way this is closure for him. 

In the same twisted way she hopes it’s not– for either of you. 

“Did I tell you I’m walking down the aisle with the son of the man who invented Pop-Tarts?” Robin rambles, trying to make conversation, which is something she never has to force with Steve, but she guesses there is a first time for everything. 

It gets a slight smirk out of Steve though and so she’ll take it as a win. “Let me guess Michael Jackson is officiating the wedding isn’t he?” 

“Well now you’ve ruined the surprise!”  

Steve can feel himself falling back into the familiar back and forth riffing he does with Robin and for a split second a real smile graces itself onto his face, but it’s gone as fast as it appears. 

“Robin! There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” 

Your Mom suddenly appears next to Robin and Steve swears her presence alone causes a change in the air pressure. Her eyes lock onto his for a second, gives him a tight lipped smile, and then focuses her attention back on Robin. 

It wasn’t that your Mom didn’t like Steve. In fact your parents loved him as a person, but they didn’t love the fact that he hadn’t gone to college and that he was working at Family Video as a full time job when you two had started dating. Your parents would never come out and say that they wanted better for you back then or at least their terms of better, especially considering your parents were friends with Steve’s, but when you two had broken up it was obvious that your parents weren’t the least bit sad. 

“Honey I need you to go help Y/N. She had a little mishap with her makeup and I need to let everyone know we might have to push the start of the ceremony back just a teensy bit.” 

She says it so casually like it’s no big deal and Robin and Steve share a concerned look. 

“Is she okay?” Steve asks immediately, surprising both himself and the two women who stand in front of him.

Your Mom gives him a small smile, already halfway out of this conversation and onto the next task at hand. “Oh she’s just got a little wedding day jitters. She’ll be all good by the time she needs to walk down the aisle.” 

She’s gone before Robin or him can ask anymore questions and something settles deep in Steve’s gut. Something he can’t ignore and maybe it’s the liquid courage that he’s been nursing ever since he arrived or maybe it’s just pure concern, but he finds himself doing something he knows he shouldn’t. 

As soon as your Mom had left Robin was brought into another conversation by one of the groomsmen asking if you’d be mad if one of their ties might be a slightly darker shade than the rest of the guys and Robin wants to say ‘how the fuck could they be a different shade you all went and got them together’ but she doesn’t. She tells him it will be fine because frankly she has bigger fish to fry and that fish is you who she knows is undoubtedly a mess up in your dressing room. 

You’d been off for months now, but this morning while she was helping you get ready she could tell right away that your demeanor was not one of someone with wedding day jitters. She’d tried mentioning it in a not so obvious way, asking if this was something you still wanted, but you were always so quick to shoot her down. Your thousand yard stare quickly turning into a smile, reassuring her that this was what you wanted, but she could see the lack of sparkle in your eyes, and she hated that you felt like you had no way out of this. 

Once the groomsmen is shooed away Robin turns back towards Steve to tell him that she probably won’t see him till after the ceremony, but his corner is no longer occupied. Her head whips around in every direction, eyebrows drawn together in confusion and a little bit of annoyance because if she knew being a maid of honor meant putting out this many fires she would have never accepted the role. 

(Yes she would have because she loves you, but future Robin will take this day into consideration if anyone ever asks her again. Unless of course there’s a wedding in the future that might include her two favorite people and well then maybe she’d officiate it instead because how could she be both the maid of honor and the best man?) 

Her eyes finally lock on to someone with shaggy brown hair ascending the grand staircase and she just stands there– watching him. She makes no effort to stop him and when she sees him disappear down the hall she turns on her heel and heads to the other side of the building. 

This tie fiasco could ruin the wedding and Robin surely doesn’t want that. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve’s legs seemingly carry him down the hall, the same legs that have carried him through the tunnels under Hawkins and through the Upside Down multiple times, but the trek down this marbled hallway feels far more scary than his times spent in alternate dimensions. 

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, knows it’s only going to make things worse for him, but god dammit he needed to make sure you were alright. It doesn’t matter how long it’s been since Steve’s seen you, if you haven’t been his for five years, or if you were about ready to get married to another guy– he was always going to care about you. 

And he shamelessly wanted to see you. Even if he knew it would absolutely tear his heart to shreds, he wanted to see you one last time, because after today Steve was going to have to let you go. 

At least that’s what he keeps telling himself, but how is he supposed to let go of the girl who was and probably always will be the center of his universe? 

The once amplified sound of what seemed like hundreds of people talking and music playing has now settled into a muffled buzz in the distance as Steve stands in front of a double solid dark oak door. He can see his distorted face reflecting back at him in the golden door knobs and the Mrs. Carter sprawled across the center of the door on some sign that probably cost more than what he makes in a week teaching middle schoolers about puberty makes him want to reach back into his breast pocket for that security blanket once more. 

He runs his hand through his hair, takes a very shaky deep breath, and then with a whispered fuck it– he knocks on the door. 

“Robs?” 

Steve’s heart embarrassingly skips a beat over just hearing your voice. It had been five years since he’d heard it, the first time he’s heard it since you looked at him with tears streaming down your face telling him that you’re always going to love him before ending what was the best thing that had ever happened to him. 

The fact that he can tell you’ve been crying–  even through the door. God it makes his head spin because you never truly forget what it sounds like when the woman you love is hurting. He knows you may very well tell him to fuck off and to get out, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take if it meant seeing you. 

His hand shakes as it hovers over the door knob and before he can seem to lose the courage he wraps his large hand around the cool metal.  

On the other side of the door you’re oblivious that it’s anyone other than your best friend coming to help you and you don’t think of the implications of what you’re saying or the fact that it could be someone else– you just desperately call out to her as the door creaks open.

“Robin, I need you. I don’t know what to do.” 

Your face is hidden in your hands, still sitting at the vanity, not knowing how the hell you’re supposed to walk down the aisle in less than an hour and marry Chris. All you do know is that you need your best friend to talk you down off this ledge and maybe possibly help you figure out how to get out of this. 

“Robin?” you question once you realize the door had opened, but she hadn’t made her presence known.

As you’re lifting your head up Steve finally peaks his head in from around the corner and when you two make eye contact in the mirror you swear it feels like Pluto has flown off its orbit and collided directly into the sun– imploding itself and the entire solar system. 

A buzzing silence fills the room and you stare back at him in the mirror for the longest time, waiting for him to disappear, thinking that you’ve had a psychotic break and you were hallucinating him being here. You slowly turn in your chair and with unsteady legs you get up to face him, your hands gripping the back of the chair for support. 

“Steve?” 

It comes out so broken, but what should you expect when you’re broken yourself? 

Steve feels his knees go weak under him and he tries to casually lean against the table to his right, like his knuckles aren’t turning white from how he’s have to hold himself up. It’s embarrassing and his cheeks flush over how his knees had nearly buckled under him at the sound of your voice. 

Over the sound of you saying his name. 

“Hi angel.” 

The old pet name slips off Steve’s tongue with such ease no one would have ever guessed it had been five years since you two had been together. Steve doesn’t even register that he’s said it, he’s too mesmerized by how beautiful you look. How you’re standing there in front of him looking like a real life angel in the white dress that he’d imagined you in so many times. It takes his breath away in such a heartbreaking way because all those dreams were never going to become a reality and the proof was right in front of him. 

Your heart does a traitorous thing when you hear him call you angel and it does nothing to help ease the ache in your chest, if anything it makes it worse. Your hand still grips the back of the chair like a lifeline as you stand there staring at him, taking in the man you haven’t seen in years. He’s changed so much yet not all in that time and your stomach churns over the fact that you once knew every single thing about him, but now there’s half a decade of Steve that you know nothing about. 

When you’d left him he still had some of his boyish features, but now at twenty seven he’d grown into himself. His hair wasn’t as long as it was back in high school, but it was still long enough in that classic Steve way. There were crinkles around those all too familiar hazel eyes and you remember Robin telling you he coaches little league and you wonder if they’re from him being out in the sun. You could also tell that he’d gained some weight, filling out his suit in a way that had your eyes trailing all over his body. The slight pudge that made its presence known over his belt. It looked good on him and it didn't slip past you the way the fabric on the arm of his suit jacket strained when he lifted his arm to run his hand through his hair. 

He looked good. 

He looked too good. 

And you shouldn’t be thinking that about someone else on your wedding day. 

Steve could tell from your tone of voice through the door that you had been crying, but if he hadn’t been able to, well he could definitely tell now. Your mascara was still smudged slightly around your bloodshot eyes and your skin was red and splotchy– a tell tale sign that you were stressed and or upset. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask softly, not trusting your voice enough to not crack again. 

A little smile tugs at his lips, like he’s trying to make things less awkward, “Well I was invited…full government name and everything.” 

You give him a look– a look that he still knows very well and knows that now is not the time for jokes. 

Steve glances down at the floor, his bottom lip tucked securely between his teeth. The idea of admitting that he was coming to check on you, that he wanted to see you, made his stomach twist. Because he knows he doesn’t really have the right to do those things, feel those things, with you anymore. 

He hasn’t for a long time, but old habits die hard. 

He moves closer to you, just enough that it’s noticeable, but not enough that you’d feel inclined to step back– not that you would anyways. 

“I heard your Mom say the start of the ceremony was being pushed back and I wanted to make sure everything was alright.” 

His eyes wander up from the floor to you and the way you’re looking at him, eyes all round and lashes still damp from your tears, it makes Steve throw all his restraint out the window. 

“And I wanted to see you,” he states, like it doesn’t crack something deep in his chest. “I wanted to see you one last time.” 

Your fingernails dig into your palms, trying to stop yourself from breaking again, to stop your already watery eyes from leaking again. It’s funny that you thought inviting him would somehow make things easier for you, to close off that chapter in your life once and for all. You should have known it wouldn’t work like that, should have known that the moment you saw him again everything would come rushing back tenfold, that your orbit around your sun could never be severed. 

When you don’t respond Steve finds himself taking a deep breath, trying to not let your silence over him wanting to see you again bruise his already very fragile heart. He knew it was a little forward, but what did he have to lose? You were already standing in front of him wearing a wedding dress that another man was going to help you out of later. 

The smell hits you instantly. As soon as the air leaves his pretty pink lips you’re met with the overwhelming smell of alcohol. There wasn't any alcohol available to anyone until the reception, which means Steve either snuck some in, or drank before he got here. It’s then that you really take in how glassy his eyes are and how messy his hair really is, he was always one to constantly run his fingers through it when he was tipsy, never knowing what to do with his hands. 

His speech wasn’t slurred yet, but you could imagine if he’d found you any later he’d be on the cusp of it. 

“Why have you been drinking?” you ask abruptly. 

Steve wants to say– because I can’t get through watching you marry another man sober. 

Because ever since I got that invitation in the mail I’ve been drinking to cope. 

Because I’ve looked for you in every woman I’ve been with since you left. (which isn’t a lot)

Because I know after today I’m going to have to let you go, even when I haven’t had you for years.

Because I don’t know if I can ever move on from you even if I tell myself to let you go. 

Because it’s been five years and my Mom has been starting to ask when I’m going to find someone to settle down with. 

Because I’m hoping that maybe you still feel the same and maybe this won’t end with me at a bar tonight. 

Because I still love you. 

Instead, he turns the conversation back on you, not wanting to dive into his own personal issues, and asks. “Why have you been crying?” 

You narrow your eyes at him, annoyed that he’s trying to avoid your question by bringing up the obvious elephant in the room. There’s so many things you want to tell him, so many things that would ultimately determine if you were going to be walking down the aisle shortly, and you wonder if you asked Steve to sneak you out the back if he would. 

He would without a second thought. 

Do you tell him the truth? Do you tell him all the reasons that have been swirling around in your brain as you stand here in your custom made wedding dress staring into the glassy eyes of the man who would light the world on fire if you asked him to. 

You could tell him your red rimmed eyes and smeared mascara is just because of nerves.

But what you really want to say is – it’s because my special day is nothing like I ever expected it to be.

Because I feel like an imposter. 

Because the man that will be standing across from me at the altar isn’t a five foot eleven hazel eyed boy from Hawkins. 

Because my parents want this marriage to happen more than anything in the world, even at the expense of their own daughter’s well being. 

Because I realized that moving away and leaving you was never going to fix me and that I was never trapped in Hawkins. I was running from something much bigger than myself. 

Because seeing you here is killing me and knowing you’ve been drinking is making it even worse. 

Because you’re always going to be my sun and my orbit around you still hasn’t strayed even after all these years. 

Because I’ve thought about you showing up like this a million times and now that you’re here I can’t work up the nerve to ask you the one thing I need you to do for me. 

Because I wonder if you still love me even after I left you like I did. 

Because I still love you. 

But none of that comes out of your mouth– you lie straight to his face instead.

“I’m just nervous,” you respond. “I think every woman cries a little bit on her wedding day if we’re being honest. I mean there’s a lot of people out there. What if I trip walking down the aisle? Or what if I forget my vows?”

It’s all bullshit and you can tell as Steve’s eyes flicker across your face, taking in your wrecked features for the millionth time since he stepped foot into this room, that he knows it too. He’d always been able to tell when you were lying, when something much bigger was bothering you than you’d let on, and it’s times like this when you realize he probably knew about you wanting to leave Hawkins way before you did. 

He doesn’t say anything right away and lets your response linger in the air. He isn’t really sure what to say, he’d heard you crying out for Robin through the door, can clearly see the stress hives on your chest, this wasn’t just a little wedding day nerves. This was you freaking out and Steve doesn’t know if it’s because of your Mom or if it’s something else. 

He selfishly hopes it’s the something else, but if it was, how would that even play out? You’re supposed to be marrying Chris in less than an hour and what if this is all just nerves? Does he risk making a fool of himself by insinuating what he thinks is going on with you? What he hopes is going on? He doesn’t really have much to lose if he does, but there’s still something holding Steve back. 

It’s been five years since he’s seen you and in that time, not only has he changed, but so have you. Say he does put everything out on the table, asks you if you really want to marry Chris or just straight up tells you not to marry Chris. Who says you’d even want to be with him? Or if things would even work out. In a month you could regret ever leaving him today and Steve would be painted the fool. Hell, he doesn't even know if you still have feelings for him. The irrational side of him though, the side that still holds on to what you told him when you left years ago, tells him it’s a possibility. 

The rational side– it tells him to let you go.

You’re both not teenagers anymore, fighting demogorgons and saving your podunk town for years on end. You’re adults with real life responsibilities, and jobs, and 401k’s that Steve still isn’t really sure he understands. Things are so different from what they used to be and Steve can’t help but think about how when things got real– when all the adrenaline from years of being on edge had finally worn off– you left. And maybe that’s a sign that you two weren’t meant to be together in the real world, facing normal people problems that now seemed much harder than defeating Vecna ever was. 

His irrational side takes over long enough for him to break his already fragile heart. 

“Do you love him?” Steve asks, his throat constricting as the words come tumbling out. 

His question steals the air from your lungs and you swear you can feel the corset backing on your dress tightening again. This is what you had wanted, you’d wanted him to question things, wanted him to come save you, and you can’t get yourself to say the words you need to. 

“I–” 

Tell me not to do it Steve. 

“I love him,” you reply with what is the most uncertain tone coming from a woman who’s about to marry said man. “I love him enough.” 

Tell me not to marry him. 

“You love him enough?” An ugly feeling settles deep in Steve’s chest as he wrestles with the realization that your love for him was clearly never enough for you to stay in Hawkins, but you apparently love Chris just enough to marry him. 

The tears you’ve been holding back finally break past their barrier and then they come down harder when you realize that the man who’d wipe them away as soon as the first one fell wasn’t even moving an inch towards you. 

“I–no–Steve–” your words come out wet and broken and you have no fucking clue to what even say anymore. “That came out wrong–” it came out exactly like you wanted it to. “I’ve just got a lot going on in my head right now.” 

Say anything. Say anything at all and I won’t marry him. 

Steve can feel his emotions starting to get the better of him and he knows he should just leave the conversation at this because the longer he stands here and watches you cry the worse it’s going to get for him, but he’s got to get one last thing off his chest. 

“Do you remember what you told me when we broke up?” Steve asks, holding out hope that you’d held on to the same thing as him after all these years. 

You sheepishly shake your head no at him, there was a lot of things you’d rambled to him that night, and maybe if you’re brain wasn’t fucked up beyond belief right now you’d be able to decipher what he was alluding to. 

Steve tries to swallow down the giant lump in his throat, he should have known you wouldn’t remember, should have known every question he would throw your way would only hurt him, but fuck it he’s got a little bit of whiskey left in his flask, so he might as well continue. 

“You’d told me that you’d always love me,” he can see the broken realization on your face, but he continues. “And for the longest time I held on to that, hoping that you’d come back to me, and you never did. Which I should have expected, but I showed up to your wedding, came into this room, with the idea that maybe you still loved me even just half as much as I still love you.”

He shakes his head, eyes flickering back down to the floor in an act of selfpreservation.

“I don’t know what I was expecting to happen. I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this right now, but I’d held on to those words for so long that there was part of me that had hoped you’d see me and everything would go back to how it used to be, but I know this isn’t a fairytale. This is real life and you’re marrying another man and I have to accept that.” 

This is where you tell him that you still love him. This is where everything changes and you can feel like yourself again– with the only person who ever really understood you. This is where relief should be flooding your nervous system. 

Instead you stand there with tears streaming down your face and paralyzed vocal chords.

You can see the first few tears cascade down Steve’s cheeks and you want to reach out and wipe them away, remember how his skin feels under your touch, but you can’t. 

Steve wipes away his own tears and looks back up at you, clearing his throat before continuing to break not only his own heart, but yours too. “I’m choosing to believe that what’s going on with you is just nerves because if it was something else you would have told me. And I’m sorry for springing this on you but I couldn’t–” his voice cracks and he stops, shaking his head in annoyance at himself. “I’m happy for you and Chris seems like a great guy. I think maybe being nervous is a good thing, yeah? Just shows that you want your special day to be everything you imagined.” 

“Steve,” you finally choke out. There’s so much you want to say to him, so much you need to say to him, but you can’t get it out. You don’t have time to get it out. Because as much as you want him to run away with you, as much as you’re looking at him with pleading eyes, trying to get him to just take your hand and run out the back. 

It’s not going to happen. 

He’s too good of a man to do it and you’re too chicken shit to tell him. 

How you’re even standing right now is beyond you– you’ve got no backbone. Never have. Probably never will. Hopefully in the plethora of gifts that your Mom was boasting about earlier– someone has given you one. 

It’s clear that you’ll marry Chris because he’s good to you and because it will make your parents happy. You’ll also let Steve walk out of this room and hope that maybe the universe would give you a third chance in the future, because even if you’re married, even if this is Steve’s way of letting you go. 

How can Pluto ever stop orbiting its sun? 

His hand reaches out and you let him intertwine his fingers with yours, relishing in the feeling of his skin on yours for the first time in years. Electricity travels up your arm and directly into your chest– blooming something achingly familiar in your heart. You don’t want to let him go, don’t want to have to forget the way it feels to do something as simple as holding his hand or hear him call you angel again. 

You squeeze his hand as you look into those doe eyes of his and for a split second you feel like you’re seventeen again in the Family Video parking lot. The frigid winter air nipped at your skin back then as you leaned against your car, but you never even felt the effects of it because you had your sun right in front of you. Which is how you feel now, even for just a minute, having him here in front of you, it dulls the ache in your heart. 

Steve takes a shaky deep breath and you know this is the end, this is where he’s going to let you go, and you wonder if this is how he felt when you left him standing in his bedroom that Christmas. You feel his grip loosen just a tad, but you hold on tighter, not letting him leave before he’s said goodbye. 

He reaches up with his other hand and cradles the side of your face, his thumb gently wiping away your tears. It makes your breath hitch in your throat and the tears fall even harder, but you shamelessly lean into his touch, your eyes fluttering shut, trying to savor this fleeting moment. 

Even after everything, this was still your Steve standing in front of you. Still the same caring boy who’d put himself between you and too many life threatening situations to count, who would always bring you over free ice cream that summer he worked at Scoops and you worked at the Gap, who threw you a graduation party when Hawkins going into lockdown had ruined everything about the end of your senior year. Five years had passed and he’d fallen back into old habits like nothing had happened, like both of you weren’t hurting.

“I'll always love you Y/N, but I’ve got to let you go.” 

His words hit you square in the chest, like you’ve gotten the wind knocked out of you, and to make matters worse you feel his touch evade you. Clearly drawing the line in the sand with not only his words but his actions. As you slowly blink open your eyes you’re praying that this has all been a bad dream and you’d be back in your bed in New York, but luck has never been on your side, and Steve stands before you with round wet eyes that will haunt your dreams tonight. 

Steve wants to tell you a million other things, wants to stay holed up in this dressing room with you for eternity, but he knows he can’t. Hell he’s surprised your Mom hasn’t busted down the door wondering why you weren’t ready to walk down the aisle by now, but either way he knows his time with you is limited. 

He’d seen you, told you his feelings, and now he was going to watch you marry another man. 

“You know,” Steve shuffles back a bit from you, starting his exit plan. “I always thought you’d make a beautiful bride and it’s nice to know I was right.” 

He finds himself biting the inside of his cheek, trying to not let himself cry again as he walks backwards towards the door. 

You open your mouth to say anything to get him to stick around, but nothing comes out, and you’re internally screaming, pleading for him to not leave you. 

It seems to play out in slow motion as you watch his hand grip the door knob, the sound of the door opening ricochets off the walls, and then in a split second your sun leaves you and takes every bit of warmth with him. Silent tears stream down your face and when Robin walks in seconds later you’re none the wiser to the fact that she’d been eavesdropping in the hallway to hear at least the worst bits. 

She guides you to sit down at the vanity while she grabs some things from the bathroom. Time doesn’t seem to exist to you right now, and you don’t even realize she’s exited the bathroom until you feel her pressing a cold washcloth to the back of your neck and chest, trying to get you to calm down. She doesn’t say anything to you, which you’re eternally grateful for, but when you make eye contact with her in the mirror as she stands behind you, you know she knows. 

She knows you’re back in the Family Video parking lot, except you’ve locked your keys inside your car, and Steve is nowhere to be found. 

Forty-five minutes later and only a half an hour past the ceremony start time, Robin and you exit the dressing room hand in hand, leaving behind your conversation with Steve and an empty wine glass.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───                                                                                                                                     The moment the live string quartet starts playing Canon in D and everyone stands Steve wishes the floor would swallow him whole. As soon as the giant double doors open he hears a gasp from the crowd and he wants to punch himself for sitting in an aisle seat. He wonders if it’s too late to ask Lucas to switch seats, but then he locks eyes with you as you start coming down the aisle and whatever he was thinking goes out the window. It was one thing to see you in your dressing room, but this was different, this was real, and he feels his chest crack wide open. You looked like an angel, so breathtaking, and he’d imagined this day so many times before, what you’d look like as you walked down the aisle towards him, he just never thought he’d be in the crowd and not at the altar. 

He doesn't have Robin to lean on right now, just a very judgemental yet caring Max next to him that can definitely smell the whiskey on him, but doesn’t say anything. Mainly because Max is just observant at twenty-two as she was at fifteen and she knows that Steve Harrington is still very much in love with you. She knows he’s been struggling, knows this has to be the worst day of his life and she’s surprised he even came, but he was here and that has to count for something. 

Max feels a slight pang in her chest as she looks up at the man that has saved her life more times than she can count. He looks broken, far from the bat-slinging teenage boy she once knew, and she finds herself reaching out for his hand hanging idle at his side. Without a second thought she wraps her hand around his and gives him a reassuring squeeze, letting him know that she’s here and when he turns his head towards her and gives her a smile that says thank you, she gives him one back. She gently bumps his shoulder with hers like she’s telling him you know it’s no big deal, and he squeezes her hand back.

Their hands stay intertwined the whole ceremony and when the officiant says those famous six words, Max feels Steve grip her hand to the point where it hurts, but she knows that twenty seconds of pain is nothing compared to what Steve is feeling right now.

The guests cheer and holler and clap, but all Steve can hear is a constant ringing in his head, like he’d rung his bell too hard again. He watches as Chris and you walk back down the aisle hand in hand with big smiles on your faces. It makes Steve’s chest burn with such fierceness that he can’t catch his breath. The groomsmen and bridesmaids follow in tow of the newly married couple and he doesn’t miss the sympathetic look Robin shoots his way, it makes him feel even worse, like he’s the pathetic ex that showed up to the wedding just to ruin the vibe. 

The crowd eventually trickles out of the room and he hears Max and Lucas asking him something from behind him, but he doesn’t answer, doesn’t follow the crowd into the ball room. He just keeps going straight and lets the entrance doors slam behind him as fresh air finally fills his burning lungs. 

The first time you met Steve, you almost slapped him.

His reputation preceded him. Even your freshman year at Ohio State University, fresh out of rush week, you’d heard plenty about Sigma Chi pledge Steve Harrington. They were singing his praises from day one—he was handsome, a baseball genius, the life of any party. He commanded the attention of any room he stepped into. You were a little sick of him to begin with from how your Delta Gamma sisters wouldn’t shut up about him for two seconds even before that first party.

And when you walked into the Sigma Chi house for the first time, you didn’t even need to be told which one was the Harrington. The world gravitated around him like he was the sun itself, and he seemed to glow like it, too. He was handsome, devastatingly so. His smile was blinding. He had a stupidly good head of hair, gorgeous sun-kissed skin dotted with moles like constellations, and big hazel eyes that made him look deceptively sweet.

You’d met eyes from across the room, and at the time, it had felt like something clicking into place. Two puzzle pieces who had finally found where they belonged. Your breath hitched as he left the group he was talking to and sauntered over, that brilliant smile now directed specifically at you and you alone. Your heart had felt like it might burst from your chest.

“Oh my god,” one of your sisters, Margot, had said, grabbing onto your arm. “He’s coming over here.”

He didn’t even glance at her. He only looked at you. He wore a polo with jeans that fit him just right, a red plastic cup clutched in his large hand. When he reached you, you could smell his cologne, something intoxicating that made your head spin. He really was everything everyone had promised.

And then he opened his mouth.

“Hi,” he’d said, extending a hand towards you. “I’m Steve. And you are fucking beautiful.”

Embarrassingly, you’d giggled like a total fool, given him your hand, and introduced yourself. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

He’d actually taken your hand and kissed your knuckles, like the prince he absolutely saw himself as. And then, that suave grin turned into something more like a cocky smirk, a look you’d grow to know and loathe. “You know, you look like a girl who deserves the very best,” he’d said. “And, wouldn’t you know it—by sheer coincidence, you’re looking at the best this frat has to offer.”

Okay, a little eye roll worthy, but that wasn’t abnormal for these frat guys. You’d raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what could you possibly offer me?”

His smirk had widened, and he moved in, grabbing you by the hip and pulling you against him. “Oh, things beyond your wildest dreams, baby,” he’d murmured, even as you gasped at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Why don’t we go up to my room and I can show you?”

You’d shoved him back by his chest, making him stumble, the beer in his cup sloshing over the sides and onto his light blue shirt. “You’re a fucking perv.”

Steve’s expression had immediately transformed into something harder, all traces of the charming smile from moments ago completely erased. “What the fuck?”

“You don’t get to just walk up and touch me. I don’t even know you.” You’d scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Does that actually work for you?”

“Yeah, actually,” he’d said, looking at you with pure distaste now. “With girls who aren’t an uptight cocktease.”

You’d laughed, but only in an attempt to keep yourself from punching this guy square in the jaw. “Oh, wow. Fuck you.”

“Fuck me, huh?” he’d said, that stupid smirk back in place. “You know, that’s a good idea, maybe it would help if I got that stick out of your ass and gave you something else—“

“Oh-kay, let’s go get a drink!” Margot had said, dragging you away before you could land the slap you were winding up. You heard him laughing behind you, the sound loud and infuriating.

“See you around, baby!” he’d called after you. Margot just dug her fingers into your arm, pulling you to a completely different part of the house as fast as she could.

Things with Steve did not improve after that. And, unfortunately for you, you couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere you turned. Not only the golden boy on campus—his photo was used on any and all promotions for the championship winning baseball team—but, soon, also the president of Sigma Chi. And your houses went hand in hand.

Every party you went to, Steve was there, holding court among his adoring subjects. The guys on campus thought he was the coolest guy who ever lived, and the girls were practically stepping over each other for a chance with him. You attempted to keep your distance, but Steve loved annoying you more than he loved the girls begging to go up to his bedroom.

Delta Gamma also partnered with Sigma Chi for just about everything. As the top houses, it was just a given. Every event, every fundraiser, every charity event and mixer and rager. As much as you adored everything about your sorority and had always felt like you’d made the wrong choice, Steve was the one thing that made you question it.

It was no secret, either. Everyone knew you and Steve hated each other. Steve’s frat brothers found it hilarious, while your sisters tried their best to keep you away from each other. You just couldn’t get along—being in each other’s space for too long always ended in disaster. A loud argument, heated insults, or sometimes even a thrown drink, if Steve was feeling extra mouthy that night. You were best kept far away from one another.

You’d grown close with another girl who’d pledged Delta Gamma, Nancy. Nancy was sweet and smart and although you loved all your sisters, you’d clicked with her immediately. Nancy also happened to know Steve well. They’d grown up together, even dated briefly in high school.

“Steve is an asshole,” Nancy had told you, confirming everything you already thought. “Seriously, don’t let him try to charm you. He’s full of it.”

It kind of seemed like you and Nancy were the only ones who saw it, though. Of course there were the girls he’d already scorned, but the vast majority of the Ohio State female student population were head over heels for Steve Harrington. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes every time you saw it.

That would never be you.

Your junior year had just begun, and by the end of September, homecoming season was well underway. Sigma Chi had already partnered with Delta Gamma, a surprise to no one.

What was a surprise was that you had a chance at being crowned queen this year. Homecoming court was something you’d never given much thought to. Your attention was already divided in so many directions—between your classes and honor society, track, event planning and sorority obligations with being Social Chair, and being a TA for the first time this year, you were booked and busy. The crown was the least of your concern. Even now, you didn’t stress about it. Everyone knew your chapter president, Lindsey, would be taking the crown anyway.

The week of homecoming itself was always busy and filled with excitement—stuffed full of events and activities, a good chunk of which you had a hand in planning. But still, courting had begun, and Tommy Hagan had been going all out to catch your attention.

It started with a bouquet of flowers so huge you had to divide them up into three different vases just to display them in a way that didn’t look ridiculous. Then, it was the food. Fruit baskets, a mini cake, so much of your favorite candy and chocolate you had to beg your sisters to eat some of it. The day you walked out of the house to the entire OSU choir serenading you on the front lawn, you’d been utterly speechless.

Tommy was nice enough, you guessed. If you had to partner with someone, he wasn’t the worst choice. That would be Steve Harrington, who, by expectations alone—because Steve didn’t put much effort into anything that wasn’t baseball or getting his dick wet—was courting Lindsey. He didn’t even have to try and he knew it.

There was a new gift or grand gesture from Tommy daily, while Steve had sent a single box of milk chocolates, a half dozen and definitely the cheapest on the shelf even though everyone knew the Harringtons were absolutely loaded—and Lindsey was allergic to dairy. You could tell she was annoyed about it, but she was going to partner with Steve regardless. Every time you brought another elaborate gift into the house, the look she gave you was cold and cutting. It was…awkward.

At least for now, you could push thoughts of homecoming from your brain. It was Saturday night, and you were ready to have some fun. Or at least try to, because you were about to walk right into King Steve’s kingdom.

You’d think you would have gotten used to his presence by now, but he never got any less annoying. It’s not like you could just skip every party. Everyone knew Sigma Chi threw the best parties of any frat on campus. Were you just not supposed to go because the president was a total pain in the ass? You could kiss your social status goodbye real fast.

Sometimes you’d get lucky and wouldn’t see him at all the whole night. Maybe just a flash of his stupid hair, or the sound of his laugh from another room. A glimpse at his cocky smirk as he led some poor girl up to his room. And other nights, he seemed hell bent on annoying you as much as possible.

You really, really hoped for the former tonight. You walked into the house with Nancy and Margot, the bass already thumping, the place overrun with college students in various states of intoxication. You looked good, you knew you did. Tiny skirt that showed off your legs, a top that displayed just enough chest to have guys staring every time they walked past. Not that that was hard.

“Do you want me to get us drinks?” Nancy asked, leaning over to yell over the music right in your ear. You nodded, and she gave you a soft smile before pushing her way through to the kitchen.

There was no sign of Steve so far, which you hoped was a good omen. Your eyes scanned the room, mostly familiar faces, but a decent amount of freshmen you hadn’t gotten to know well yet were there, too.

Nancy was back quickly, walking through the crowd holding the two red cups up high in an attempt to not spill them or get anything on her white blouse. She let out a sigh of relief when she finally reached you, handing you a drink.

“It’s a total madhouse in there,” she said. “Like, more than usual.”

“How many new pledges are there this year?” you asked, taking a sip of your beer. You linked hands with Nancy and began pushing through to the living room. You eventually found a place to stand against the wall, surveying the rest of the party.

“I have no idea,” she said. Her curls were pulled back on top with a bow, and she held her drink between both delicate hands. “It’s gotta be more than last year, right?”

It certainly seemed like it. The Sigma Chi parties were always intense, but it felt like you could barely move. “With Harrington in charge this year, who knows.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “God, I know. When I heard he was president, I almost thought about dropping out.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking another sip of your beer. “At least in two more years, I’ll never have to see him again.”

“Lucky you,” Nancy grumbled. “I’m sure I’ll always be seeing him at some point when I’m back in Hawkins for holidays. It’s like I can’t escape him.”

The sound of your name being called caught your attention. You looked around, looking for the source—and saw Tommy Hagan on his way over, hand held up in a wave and a bright smile on his freckled face.

“Here comes your loverboy,” Nancy mumbled into her cup, looking away like she was minding her own business.

“Hey,” Tommy said as he reached you. He wasn’t as bad as Steve, but they were best friends and looked like they could have shared a wardrobe. He wore a dark red polo and jeans, one hand now in his pocket and the other holding his own drink. “Wow, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smiled politely. “Um, thanks for the flowers this morning. Blue this time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, his smile somewhat sheepish as he ran a hand through his short hair. “I was thinking, like, a different bouquet for every color of the rainbow, or something.”

You nodded, eyebrows raised. “Ooh, yeah. I see the vision.”

A soft blush colored the pale skin on his cheeks. “Did you like them?”

He was being so sweet, you couldn’t help but soften. You weren’t interested in Tommy romantically, but you were happy to partner with him if that’s what he wanted. “They were beautiful. Seriously.” His eyes lit up, and at the fear of yet another bouquet to make your bedroom look even more like a greenhouse, you added, “But I am starting to run out of room to put vases.”

Tommy laughed softly, looking down at the floor. “Yeah. Maybe I should try to get creative.”

A shout came from the sliding glass back door, drawing all of your attention behind him. “Hagan! Come out here and show the new brothers how a keg stand is done!”

Tommy turned back to you. “Sorry. Duty calls, I guess,” he said, although he didn’t look all that sorry. Sigma Chi took their keg stands very seriously. “I’ll catch you around later though, yeah? You’re not planning to turn in early or anything?”

“I’ll be here,” you confirmed, drinking from your cup again. “Go show ‘em, Hagan.”

His grin only widened. “See you later, beautiful.”

You watched him go, laughing softly as he immediately switched gears from gentleman to frat bro the second he reached the back door.

“Please let him be done with the bouquets,” Nancy said as soon as he was gone, done acting like she hadn’t been paying attention the whole time. “I’ve already got half of the flowers in my room.”

The party went on, and eventually you lost Nancy to the crowd. She’d started seeing this guy a few weeks ago, Vance, a transfer student who had her totally smitten like you’d never seen before. While Nancy had always been your partner at these parties—more like your shield from Steve Harrington—she’d started wanting to spend more time with Vance, and who were you to stop her?

It wasn’t until later in the night, when you were leaning against the wall with yet another drink, that you finally saw him. Or heard him, rather, because his obnoxious loud voice and laugh usually entered a room before he did. At least he had a warning bell, you thought.

When Steve entered the living room with his friends, telling some story that was definitely not funny enough to warrant how hard they were laughing, you thought about making a run for it. But then his eyes locked with yours from across the room, and he shot you that stupid fucking smirk that made you irritated immediately. And he knew it.

He stared at you even while he kept talking to his friends, and you stared back. He liked to do these little power plays. Even the women around him weren’t drawing his attention away. And finally, much to your disappointment, he turned away long enough to excuse himself before walking straight for you.

You really regretted not making your escape while you had the chance.

Steve greeted you by your last name, something none of the other guys did, since they cared about actually impressing you. “How sweet of you to grace my house with your presence. I almost didn’t expect you to show.”

You scoffed. “Just because you’re president this year doesn’t mean you’re special—“

“Actually, it does,” he smirked. “This is my kingdom, baby.” He held his arms out, as if the opulent house crammed full of sweaty, drunk college students was supposed to impress you. “And you’re talking to the king.”

You couldn’t have rolled your eyes harder if you tried. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk? It’s like everything you say comes from the official douchebag handbook.”

His smirk only widened. “Maybe it does. Maybe I even wrote it.”

“Steve, I’m not even sure you can read.” You shook your head, looking off to the side, searching for any lifeline out of this conversation with your least favorite person on earth. “Why are you over here bothering me, anyway? Don’t you have some poor girl to flatter long enough to get in her pants?”

“I’d much rather get under that skirt,” he quipped. When your head snapped back in his direction, eyes practically glowing with the fire behind them and the promise of pouring your drink all over his dark blue shirt and stupid khakis, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I came over because you looked fucking miserable. Why do you always look so bored? You’re at a party.”

“I’m not bored,” you retorted simply.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, leaning a hand against the wall next to you. “You look pissed off to even be here.”

“That’s because you’re talking to me.”

Steve laughed, which was maybe your least favorite sound in the world. “Every time I see you here, you look bored. Like you think you’re too good to even be here.”

“Well, unfortunately, Sigma Chi has the most annoying guy possible as their president, so…” you trailed off, a hand on your hip. You took a sip from your beer again, but you would need a lot more alcohol to make Steve’s presence bearable.

He hummed, as if he were considering it. “I don’t know. I think you feel like you’re above all this.” He gestured around the room. “Why would you join a sorority if you hate parties so bad?”

“I don’t hate parties,” you argued. And it was true—you didn’t. You could have plenty of fun at a party. You were Social Chair.

“Well, whatever it is, you’re bringing down the mood,” he said. He downed the rest of his own drink, sitting the empty plastic cup on the mantel, where it would surely sit until some poor pledges were tasked with cleaning the whole place tomorrow.

“I don’t think anyone cares what I’m doing,” you muttered. “Other than you, for some fucking reason.”

Steve grinned again. “I know what you need.”

“Yeah?” You raised your eyebrows. “Is it for you to leave me alone and never speak to me again? Because I could agree with that.”

“You need to get high.”

That made you pause. “What?”

His smile grew. “I think you need to loosen up. Like, a lot.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, back towards the staircase. “I could roll us a joint. I wanted to go smoke anyway.”

You just blinked at him. “You’re—“ You were genuinely stunned. “You’re inviting me to go up to your room and smoke? This isn’t, like, some weird attempt to have sex, right? Because that is never gonna happen—“

“No, Jesus,” he laughed. “I just think you need to stop being so damn uptight for once. It would help, believe me.”

“I’ve smoked before, I’m not some prude,” you mumbled, because you knew that’s exactly what Steve saw you as. “If you’re offering, why can’t you just, like…roll me one and bring it back down here?”

“I keep the good shit hidden in my room,” he shrugged. “Otherwise, these assholes would steal it all. They don’t need to know about it.”

You hesitated, because no matter how badly you wanted to accept the invitation for some free weed, it came with a worse cost—spending time one on one with Steve Harrington. He looked at you expectantly while you looked around the room, biting the inside of your cheek as you fought with yourself over it.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But we smoke, and then I’m coming right back down here and finding Nancy.”

“Deal,” he smirked. “At least you’ll be more fun. We have a reputation here, you know.”

You rolled your eyes yet again as he turned, leading the way back to the staircase. The crowd always seemed to part for Steve like he was true royalty, a deep seated respect that you personally would never understand. Your eyes darted around to every face you passed, absolutely mortified at the idea of someone seeing you following him upstairs, but no one seemed to notice.

The polished wood of the banister was smooth beneath your palm as you followed. You’d never even been up these stairs at all, the second floor a total mystery you had never been too eager to uncover. Steve’s shoes thudded against the shining hardwood floors, passing room after room occupied with couples, some of them not even bothering to close the door all the way. You scrunched your face up in disgust at one particularly shameless makeout session with the bedroom door wide open.

Steve reached a room at the end of the hall, turning to look at you over his shoulder before turning the doorknob, as if it were some grand reveal. You had to admit—only to yourself—but you were a little curious about what waited on the other side.

You trailed into the room behind him, closing the door behind you. You looked around as Steve kneeled by his bed, pulling out a shoebox. The bedroom was neat, bed made, clothes put away besides the ones piled in the laundry hamper. There was a desk with a lamp, soft light shining over a mess of papers and textbooks. His dresser was cluttered with hair products and a few bottles of expensive cologne. There were a few posters tacked to the walls, mostly sports related, a few of scantily clad women, and the year’s OSU baseball schedule. He had a bookshelf against one wall, holding his textbooks and a staggering amount of baseball trophies. A framed team photo sat on one shelf, along with one of all the Sigs taken at the beginning of the semester.

“Having fun?” Steve asked, making you jump slightly as you turned to look at him. He was sitting on his bed now, the shoebox open next to him. He was smiling at you as his fingers worked dexterously to roll the joint. “Didn’t know you could be so nosy.”

You scoffed, but your cheeks felt a little hot. “Shouldn’t have stuff sitting out if you don’t want people to look at it.”

He laughed. “You can look at whatever you want.” He licked along the seam of the joint, perfectly rolled. “Go ahead and search the whole room, if you want. The porn mags are in that drawer.” He nodded towards his nightstand.

You scrunched your face up. “Ew. You’re so gross.”

Steve laughed again as he put his baggie of weed and papers back in the box, pushing it beneath his bed again. You took a seat on the plush carpet, back leaning against his dresser. He placed a muscular arm on the end of the bed frame and lowered himself to the floor to sit across from you.

“You can do the honors if you want,” he offered, holding the joint out towards you.

There was a moment of hesitation before you reached forward, taking it from his fingers. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me,” you said, brows furrowed even as you placed the joint between your lips, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to the end.

“I’m not being nice to you,” he said. He still had that same look he always had when he looked at you, like it was one of his life’s greatest joys to piss you off, to get you worked up and upset. “Like I said, you’re ruining my party. Can’t have word spreading around campus that people are here looking bored. Sigs are the party kings of campus, and that’s not changing, especially not with me in charge.”

“Oh, right,” you said, exhaling that first cloud of smoke. “The new ruler can’t appear weak, and all that.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. He watched you take another hit, then leaned forward, accepting the joint back from you and taking a long pull himself.

“I don’t think anyone pays as much attention to me as you do, Steve,” you said. That warm feeling was starting to settle over you, and he was right—you were relaxing already. It was the first time you’d been in a room with him and didn’t want to scream or punch him.

His gaze was heavy on you as he hit the joint, looking at you with that intensity he always seemed to hold when you were in a room together. But now it was making you fidget, the room suddenly feeling hot.

“Who says I pay attention to you?” he finally asked. His voice was lower now, and when he leaned forward to pass the joint back to you, your fingers brushed together. It sent a jolt through your body, and you jerked your hand back quickly, bringing it to your lips to give yourself time to think before you spoke again.

“It’s kind of obvious.” Smoke billowed from your lips as you responded. The room was growing thick with it, a haze surrounding you both in and outside of your head. “Always staring at me, coming over just to annoy me…”

“It’s fun,” he admitted, laughing softly. He ran a hand through his hair, starting to lose its shape and flop into his wide hazel eyes. “Every time you get mad, you get that cute little furrow between your eyebrows, your lips get all pouty, and you roll your eyes about a million times.”

You paused—and then giggled, leaning forward to pass the joint back. “Seriously? I told you, you pay attention to me.”

Your laughter was starting to get Steve going too. He took another pull. “I mean, I notice things that are nice to look at. I’m only a man, after all.”

The laughter felt like something you could no longer control, bubbling up in your chest and filling Steve’s bedroom much like the smoke in the air. It was contagious, the two of you laughing together as you finished off the joint.

“You know you always say the cheesiest stuff possible,” you giggled, your body fully relaxed into the floor at this point. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, like every bit of tension in your muscles had faded. “It’s kind of amazing how everyone thinks you’re so cool, because you’re kind of a total dork.”

Steve laughed hard, his head tilting back. You couldn’t help but notice the strong column of his throat, the way the muscles flexed in his neck and chest. “I have to get creative,” he said, fixing his eyes back on yours once again. “I aim to keep you entertained, after all.”

“I guess you do,” you smiled. “Annoyed, yes. Bored? Never.”

He watched you for a minute, something thoughtful seeming to cross his face. Your eyes locked in that way they often did, just staring. Seeing each other. Steve always had a way of making you feel like he could see right through you, and it made you wonder if he felt the same about you, too.

The fact that you were enjoying Steve’s company seemed to strike you all at once. It was confusing—maybe concerning—but for now, you were too high to care. He’d been right. This was what you needed.

Steve nudged your foot with his own. “I’ve never seen you look so peaceful,” he grinned. “Who knew there was more to you than being stuck up and…snobby.”

You snorted a laugh. “Fuck you, Harrington.”

The grin on his face grew. “Oh, would that help you relax some more?” he said, looking a little too proud of himself. “Because I’d be happy to help you with that, too.”

Your eyes widened, and Steve was pretty sure you were about to tell him off again—but then you tossed your head back, laughing harder than he’d ever heard from you. “Oh my god. In your dreams.”

Steve smirked, that same look you’d grown to know as cocky and insufferable, but right now, you didn’t seem to mind it. It was endearing, almost. Handsome, maybe. “Baby, you let me fuck you, and you’ll be dreaming about it for months.”

It’s like everything he said, every stupid, corny line that would usually have you irritated, was suddenly the funniest thing you’d ever heard. “You really think you’re god’s gift to women, huh?”

“I know I am.” He tilted his head to the side, body relaxed as he leaned back against his bed frame. “Never heard a single complaint.”

“That’s because girls know how to fake it,” you mumbled. “Guys can never tell.”

“Oh, I can tell.” His hands flexed where they rested on his thighs, the veins beneath his skin suddenly extremely distracting. “Some guys can’t, sure. But I know the difference between some fake pornstar moans to boost some pathetic dude’s ego, and how it really feels to make a girl fall apart.”

Your cheeks felt hot now. Your whole body did, even though your outfit didn’t cover much skin. “You’re not that good in bed.”

“How would you know?” he asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity and something like delight.

“I can just tell,” you answered quickly, looking down at the soft beige carpet beneath your bare thighs. “Guys never care about making girls feel good. Just themselves.” That’s how it had been with every guy you’d ever slept with. Not a single one had been different.

“I’m not other guys,” Steve said, voice lower now. It made your breath hitch in your throat, slowly raising your head to look at him. He was still smiling at you, but there was something different behind his eyes now, something heavy and burning.

You returned his smile, laughing softly even as you felt your heart speed up in your chest. “Yeah, well. I don’t think any guy is different in that department.”

“You wanna bet?”

That almost earned him another eye roll (playful this time, but still)—until he shifted, moving over to sit next to you. You tensed as you felt his shoulder brush against yours, feeling both electricity and heat even through the fabric of your clothes.

“Steve…”

His large hand came up slowly. Now he was looking at you in a way you’d never seen from him before. The familiar cocky smirk was gone, his soft lips parted slightly as his eyes raked over every part of you like he wanted to memorize the way you looked right now. Your chest rose and fell with your heavy breaths, watching his intense gaze travel slowly, taking his time. From your eyes, to your lips, down your throat. Lower, to your chest, but not in the pervy way he’d done in the past. No, it wasn’t that—it was…reverent. Like he was seeing something holy.

His hand finally moved, brushing your hair back softly. It made you draw in a sharp breath, chills spreading across the skin of your neck where he’d made contact.

“I like you like this,” he said, voice low and quiet. His eyes were locked on the side of your neck, where he’d just touched.

It took you a second to find your voice, although it came out more like a whisper. “Like…what?”

“Happy,” he said. His gaze finally moved to your eyes. “Comfortable. Real.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You know, you’re really pretty when you smile like that.”

You were pretty sure you had to be dreaming, because in no world were you sitting in Steve’s bedroom while he looked at you like that. Like he wanted to kiss you. Like he was actually moving in, leaning in slowly to close the distance as if giving you all the chance in the world to run away—

You didn’t. Your eyes fell closed and then, with the force of a meteor crashing into the earth despite how soft and gentle it was, his lips met yours. His hand rested against the side of your neck while yours moved up to grip onto his bicep. He tilted his head slightly and your lips slotted together perfectly, moving together with a practiced kind of confidence and a sense of rightness you never should have felt with Steve Harrington ever.

There was no time to think with the way he was kissing you, slow and deep but utterly consuming. It was careful at first, exploratory. It felt so good, your lips moving with his like it was second nature. Steve was a good kisser. You knew he had plenty of experience, and it’s not like you didn’t, but he was taking the lead and you were happy to let him.

His tongue traced along your bottom lip, and you parted your lips on instinct. His tongue met yours with a soft groan that had you digging your nails into his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Steve laid you back on the soft carpet with way more care than you’d ever seen him show anything. He braced himself on a strong arm planted next to your head, never breaking the kiss for a single second. His body hovered over yours, one knee moving between your thighs where your skirt had fallen up around your waist, pressing against you through your panties. His free hand rested on your hip now, holding onto you. You let out a soft moan against his lips, delirious from every point of contact, rocking your hips down against his leg to feel that friction you craved so desperately.

He groaned, moving from your mouth to kiss across your jaw, down to your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin, giving you chills. Your breaths were coming in hard and heavy now, holding onto his broad shoulders like a lifeline, eyes closed as you felt every sensation he provided.

“So pretty,” he murmured against your neck, grinding his knee against you to meet every needy movement. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear. You could feel his smirk against your skin when you gasped, hips bucking against him in response. It made no sense how he knew exactly what to do, like he somehow knew your body better than you did.

“Steve…” you whimpered, the only word your brain could conjure.

“That’s it, baby,” he said. His breath was hot against your skin, sucking at your neck, biting then soothing the sting with his tongue. “Let me hear you. Gonna make you feel so good.” 

The hand on your hip slowly slid up the smooth skin of your side, rucking your shirt up. You sat up long enough to help him pull it off completely, leaving you in the lacy bra you wore beneath. He wasted no time lowering his head to mouth at the top of your breasts, practically burying his face in them, kissing and sucking and biting at the exposed skin.

“Always had the best fucking tits,” he moaned, losing himself in a way you could only describe as worshipful. He reached behind you to unhook your bra easily, pulling it away and tossing it to the side. He pulled back to look down at your body, the look in his eyes one of pure hunger. “Actually insane fuckin’ pair, Jesus Christ.”

You laughed, because yeah, there was the Steve you knew. That laugh turned into a gasp, then a moan, when he leaned down and wrapped his lips around one of your nipples.

“Fuck,” you gasped, hands shooting up to tangle in his hair. “Oh my god—“

He swirled his tongue around the stiff peak, groaning as he sucked on it. He grabbed the other, massaging your breast in his large hand, slightly calloused from years of pitching. The friction on your sensitive, hardened nipple was maddening, back arching and pushing your tits further into his face.

He never let up with the movements against your soaked cunt, either, even as he switched back and forth between your tits. Your clit was swollen and throbbing and begging for more, and you were pretty sure your panties were utterly ruined. You could feel the pleasure building in your core with an intensity that felt like it would completely take your breath away.

You’d never had a guy make you cum in your life, and now Steve Harrington was about to do it in five minutes, fully clothed, with his fucking thigh?

Steve could sense the tension coiling in your body—and he pulled away, taking away every delicious ounce of pleasure he’d been building.

Your eyes opened, still heavy lidded and hazy. “What—?”

“My bed,” he said, and you noticed he was breathing hard, too. “Not gonna fuck you for the first time on the floor.”

You didn’t give yourself time to think about his words. He helped you up, then pulled you into another frantic kiss as you both shed clothes as fast as you could with your lips still attached, utterly desperate for each other.

Steve’s mattress creaked softly as you fell back onto it, now in nothing but your panties. You moved back towards his pillows, leaning up on your elbows as you watched him.

God, he looked good with his shirt off, you absolutely hated to admit. He had thick hair covering his chest, which was muscular and strong, but his stomach was still a little soft. His skin was sun-kissed, those moles dotting his body all over. The desire to kiss every single one of them surged suddenly within you, but you pushed the thought away. That was…intimate.

His gaze remained heavy on you as he worked his belt open without drawing away his attention once. The way he looked at you was like a starving man preparing for a feast. Your thighs were slightly parted, and he didn’t miss how damp your panties were. For him.

Finally down to his boxer briefs alone, you could see more of him than you ever had before. He was fully hard, the outline of his dick visible as it strained against the thin, snug material.

And the rumors were true.

“Jesus,” you breathed. That cocky smirk returned to his face as he watched your wide-eyed stare. Truthfully, he was used to that reaction. “You’re…”

“I know, baby,” he purred, crawling onto the bed over you. He leaned down, peppering kisses along your legs as he moved higher along your body. “It’ll fit. I’ll be careful. ‘m gonna take care of you like you deserve.”

It felt like you were melting into the soft sheets and comforter surrounding you. Steve was taking his time, placing hot, open mouthed kisses against your calf, his hand roaming up the other leg in time with his mouth. He rose higher, over your knee, up the inside of your thigh.

He laid on his stomach between your legs, kissing and nipping all along the sensitive skin of both inner thighs. Your legs trembled. The sight of him there, with his mouth all over you, was almost too overwhelming to even take in. Your head dropped against his pillows, just giving in to his every desire, your body coming alive with every touch. Trusting him.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathed in pure admiration. His nose nuzzled against your core through the thin material, and you drew in a sharp gasp. He looked up at you from between your legs, fingers moving to dip beneath the waistband of your panties. “Has anyone ever tasted you before?”

You froze as you realized what he was asking you, what he was planning to do. By the time you found your words, he’d already slipped the delicate material down and off your body. You shuddered as you felt his breath against your pussy, cool against the wetness there, for him.

“I—“ You jolted when you felt him rub his nose against your folds, breathing in the intoxicating scent of you. Your whole body was flushed and hot. “…No.”

Steve groaned. The idea of being the first to pleasure you like this had his cock throbbing between his body and the mattress. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he grumbled, drinking in the sight of you for a little longer before he finally moved in, dragging his tongue against your cunt, moaning like he’d never tasted anything better. “You have the perfect fuckin’ pussy. Tastes so sweet.”

Your hips jerked against his mouth, crying out at that first unfamiliar contact. You heard his low chuckle, but there was no humor behind it, just pure want. He dove in, devouring you properly.

The feeling of his tongue against you was more intense than you’d anticipated. Your fingers tangled in his perfect hair, making a mess of it, pulling just hard enough to earn a groan from his chest that vibrated against your clit. You were nearly seeing stars already, hips rocking up against his mouth as he flicked his tongue against the swollen nub, sucking gently before moving down to your hole. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was pulling you apart piece by piece until you could hardly stand it.

You’d heard of this before, of course you had. Your sorority sisters had mentioned it a few times, and you’d seen it in that trashy porno you, Nancy, and Carol had spent the night giggling at after sharing a joint and some vodka crans. But you always thought of it as a myth. No man you’d ever been with had even offered, even if you’d gone down on him first. You figured it was something guys just didn’t do, or at least something they didn’t want to do.

Not Steve, apparently, because he was worshipping you like he could have spent hours with his face buried between your legs. His skilled tongue worked against you in all the right ways, moaning against you and grinding his hips against the bed, even harder if you tugged on his hair, which you were quickly learning he liked.

“Steve—“ you gasped, body writhing and arching beneath him. “Oh my god, I—-“

“That’s it,” he praised, pulling away from you just long enough to speak, eyes glazed and lips and chin shining with your wetness, before diving in again. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart. You’re so fucking hot.”

You whimpered when you felt his thick finger pressing against your entrance, moaning as he pushed inside while his mouth focused on your clit again. With how wet you were, he slid inside easily, fucking you before quickly adding a second finger. He curled them deep inside, pressing against something that nearly had you screaming his name loud enough for the whole party to hear.

“Steve!” you gasped, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other gripped onto the pillow, feeling like you would actually float away if you didn’t hold on. The pleasure he was giving you was nearly overwhelming, your body beginning to tremble harder as that coil tightened again, faster and more intense this time. He slipped in a third, fucking you deep, stretching you around his thick fingers.

“Gotta get you ready for me,” he panted, dragging his tongue through your folds one more time just to taste you. “Fuck. You’re so good, gonna take me so well, every fuckin’ inch, I know you will. Gonna stretch so perfectly around my cock.”

A whine crawled its way from your throat, hips rocking against his fingers as he fucked you deep with them, pressing against that bundle of nerves that had you losing your mind. “Steve…Steve…oh fuck, I’m—“

He didn’t let up with his fingers for a single second. But it was when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, while his fingers thrusted in hard and deep, that made it finally snap.

Your vision went white, your body tensing and mouth dropping open in a scream that was silent at first, before you let out what were probably the most pornstar-worthy sounds you’d ever made in your life. “Steve! Oh, fuck!”

Steve groaned at the sound, lapping up every bit of you, letting you grind your pussy against his tongue and working you through every shuddering aftershock until your body went limp beneath him. When he finally pulled back, you fully expected him to look up at you with that look he almost always wore, the one that made him look so proud of himself, so punchable. But instead he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sucking his fingers clean greedily, looking down at your body with that same heated, wanting expression.

He sat up on his knees. You didn’t think it was possible before but he was even harder now, a wet spot on his boxers at the tip of his cock where he’d been absolutely dripping for you. His thumbs hooked into the waistband, pushing down just enough for you to get a glimpse of the hair that disappeared below.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice a low rumble.

You let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with wide eyes. “…Yeah.”

Steve smirked down at you and pushed the material down in one go. His cock sprung free—and it was even more impressive than it looked before. He was thick and long, a slight right curve, vein prominent along the underside. His tip was flushed red like he was real desperate, and glistening from the precum he’d been leaking the whole time he was taking care of you. Another drop was beading at his slit. You’d never had a man look like he wanted you this bad.

You knew you were staring, and Steve certainly saw it, too. “See something you like, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, but truthfully, you were in no position to crack a joke or even deny it. You simply watched as he shed the last bit of clothing completely, leaving you both completely bare in his bed.

He leaned over you and reached to open the bedside drawer. There really were porn mags in there, which might have made you laugh if you couldn’t feel that thick length twitching against your thigh. He grabbed a condom and shoved the drawer closed, sitting back up on his knees. He ripped the foil packet open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock.

When he leaned over your body again, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other stroking his cock slowly, your heart began to pound fast. There was that brief moment of I’m really doing this, right now, with him, but you’d never wanted anything more in your life.

Steve lined the head of his cock up with your entrance. You were still soaked, so he wasn’t worried, but you were. You’d heard rumors of how some girls couldn’t even take him, only getting him halfway in before giving up and jerking him off instead. You hadn’t believed them, because starting a rumor about the size of his dick was absolutely something you could see Steve doing. But now you were here in his bed, seeing firsthand that it was very true.

He traced his cock up and down through your folds, coating himself in that slick wetness, showing a surprising amount of care. He placed hot, gentle kisses along your jaw as he did, voice a soft, low rumble in your ear.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, lips brushing against your skin. “You don’t like it, we don’t have to. But I’ve got you, baby. You’re so good, I think you can take it.”

You could hear the need in his voice, how badly he needed you to let him fuck you. But you also knew he was true to his word.

But, god, you wanted to take all of him. To show him you could, to feel him buried deep. To make him fall apart.

Steve kissed his way back to your lips, kissing you slow and deep, tongue massaging against yours. You felt the sting of the thick head of his cock pushing inside you, and you let out a soft whimper into the kiss. He moaned against you and pushed in just a little deeper.

“That’s it,” he whispered between kisses. He grabbed your thigh with his left hand now, spreading you wide for him. “Doin’ so good, baby, letting me in.” He rolled his hips in shallow thrusts, just that little bit inside of you, sinking in another inch with every slow, deliberate thrust, working you open.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, but he kept your attention on him, entirely on the way he was kissing you. You weren’t sure why or how but it was working, his slow, languid kiss distracting you from the sharp sting where he was stretching you around the girth of him, coaxing your body to relax.

The feeling of being filled was like nothing else. Sure, you’d had plenty of sex, but Steve made you feel absolutely stuffed full before he was even completely inside. He held your thigh up, keeping you open for him, your flexibility not lost on him. He rolled his hips in a few more slow thrusts—and then you felt his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to lean his forehead against yours. “So perfect, baby, you fuckin’—took it all, Jesus—“

You’d never heard Steve sound so utterly wrecked. He rolled his hips against you a few times, just enjoying the feeling of being completely sheathed inside your tight heat. And fuck, you were stretched around him perfectly, tight and hot. You felt like absolute heaven around his cock.

His cock throbbed inside you, so hard you could feel it. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, palms rubbing over his hot skin, a thin sheen of sweat coating it from the sheer effort of holding back from pounding into you.

“Steve,” you whimpered. Your cunt fluttered around him, and he dropped his head to your shoulder with a broken moan.

“Yeah?” he rasped. His hips rocked lightly against you, betraying his desperation.

“You can…” You gasped as the coarse hair at his base rubbed against your clit, still so sensitive but aching for him again. “…You can move.”

Steve moaned again, placing a few hot kisses against your neck as if thanking you. Finally he pulled his hips back, slowly withdrawing almost fully. Only his tip remained, and you could have cried at the loss of that perfect full feeling. But then he sank back in—slow at first, filling you to the brim again. Your desperate sounds of pleasure mixed together in the hot, charged air of his bedroom, a symphony intertwined much like your bodies.

“Shit,” he cursed. He set a careful rhythm, every thrust measured and slow and deep. “You’re taking me so fucking good. Fuuuuck. That pussy is fucking unreal.”

You could barely think straight. Your entire world narrowed down to the feeling of Steve inside of you, stretching you open perfectly. The sting was still there, but it was quickly fading into pure ecstasy with every movement of his hips. Your body was adapting to him like it was made for it.

Hands tangled in his hair again, you pulled him down into another messy kiss, all tongue and desperation, sloppy and hungry and hot. He groaned loudly into it, hips rutting into you faster.

Whines and whimpers and keening moans were spilling from your lips with little control. Your hips moved in time with his thrusts, meeting him every time. His cock was deeper than you thought possible, brushing against that spot that quickly had you gasping and babbling complete nonsense.

“Feels so good Steve, oh fuck, oh god, please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop I’m gonna cum again, Steve please, oh god—!”

Every word that tumbled from your lips was like fuel to the fire of his intense need. He couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t worry about if he might hurt you, too lost in the feeling of your body wrapped around him. His hips rocked against yours in a frantic pace now, his breaths coming in ragged pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounced with the force of his thrusts. You arched your back and he leaned down to wrap his lips around a nipple again, moaning as he laved his tongue over it, eyes closed and completely pussydrunk, all because of you.

He sucked hard on your nipple one more time before letting go with a wet pop and sitting up on his knees. He held onto your waist and used your body, pulling you down onto his cock with every rough snap of his hips. His eyes were locked on the sight, watching himself disappear into your perfect cunt, seeing you stretch around him, take him whole.

“Holy fuck,” he panted. The sight of the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he took what he needed from you, watching you with such heat, made you feel utterly delirious. He looked powerful and strong, like an absolute god. “Jesus. Look how you take me, baby, fuck. Knew you’d be good, but—“ His hips stuttered, eyes rolling back for a second. “—shit, holy fuck—“

“Baby,” you gasped, grabbing onto the pillow above your head. Your cunt was tightening, throbbing around him, soaking his cock. The sound of him driving into you was loud and obscene—the slick, wet sounds, the sound of his skin slapping against yours. You might have felt a little self conscious if you could think about anything other than his cock coaxing that second orgasm from your trembling body. “I can’t—oh god, Steve, please…”

“You can do it,” he was nearly begging now, his cock beginning to twitch within your tight walls, so close to his own end but determined to get you there first. “Come on, baby, give it to me. Let me feel it. Cum all over my cock, show me how good it feels, how much you like getting fucked by me.”

You turned your head, biting down on a pillow you held to your face in an effort to muffle the scream that ripped from your lungs. Your body arched, cunt clenching around him as wave after wave of overwhelming, perfect pleasure washed over you. Your ears were ringing, moaning and gasping and babbling his name again and again.

“Shit!” Steve cursed, hips pounding into you reckless and fast. “That’s it, god yeah, let me feel it—oh fuck—you’re so good, so fucking good baby, letting me fuck you like this, squeezing around me—shit—oh baby, gonna make me—gonna make me fuckin’ cum—“

His body pitched forward over yours, bracing himself on an arm and burying his face in your neck. His cock buried deep in you, hips snapping in a few more frantic, shallow thrusts before he tensed, his groan muffled against your skin as he spilled into the condom, repeating your name over and over, body shaking with the intensity.

Your head was spinning. You could hear your heart beating in your ears. Steve’s body was heavy on top of you, your sweat-slicked skin pressed together, as he tried to catch his breath. It was a minute of heavy silence before he finally slid his softening cock out of you, collapsing onto his back.

The loss of that glorious full feeling was disappointing, to say the least. But as Steve removed the condom from his spent cock, tying it off and tossing it into his trash can, the moment finally, properly, broke.

And you realized you were naked in Steve Harrington’s bed. That you had fucked him.

The effects of the weed seemed to have worn off, leaving you feeling suddenly cold and exposed and panicked. Even as you began to freak out more and more, Steve looked totally fine, laying back against the headboard with an arm behind his head. His chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths, skin still shining with sweat, but he looked satisfied. Proud of himself in that way that always pissed you off, but especially now.

“So,” he said, and like so many times before, he’d ruined it all the moment he opened his mouth. “You let me fuck you after all, huh?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, sitting up and reaching for your clothes. You felt like you couldn’t stand to be exposed like this to him for another second, holding every article of clothing you grabbed to your chest until you found it all.

Steve laughed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about being totally naked in front of you, comfortable in his own skin the way he always was. “Those panties might be ruined. They were pretty soaked. You can leave them here with me, if you want.” He grinned wider. “I’ll keep them safe. Won’t even wash ‘em.”

“You’re a pig,” you spat back at him. He wasn’t exactly wrong, though. You didn’t want to put them back on, but you weren’t about to walk out of this room wearing that tiny skirt with nothing underneath.

“But was I right?”

“About what?” you asked as you hooked your bra, roughly pulling your shirt back on. The scowl on your face was a permanent fixture at this point, which was amusing to him.

“That I’m good?” he raised his eyebrows, and the grin on his face told you he knew the real answer no matter what you said in response.

“You weren’t that good,” you mumbled. You pulled your skirt back onto your hips, grabbing your shoes.

Steve laughed. “Oh, come on. That’s not what you were saying when you were practically riding my face, or when you were cumming on my dick, begging me not to stop.” His words made your face burn, unable to even say something smart in return. “You don’t have to lie to me, baby. I was there.”

Fully dressed now, you moved to his dresser mirror, trying to fix your appearance. “Don’t call me baby.”

He crossed his ankles, just watching you with that infuriating grin. He made no move to cover any part of his body, his cock laying against his thigh. It was huge even when he was soft, which you hated that you even noticed. 

“Aw, why’re you so mad now?” The condescending tone in his voice made you shiver with the effort of not losing your absolute shit. “Personally, I had fun. And I just gave you your first orgasm ever—“

“Not my first orgasm.”

“Sorry, your first orgasm that you didn’t give yourself.” He tilted his head, smirking. You could feel his eyes all over your body, shameless. “Two of them, actually. So really, you should probably be thanking me.”

You barked out a laugh as you wiped a lipstick smudge from the corner of your mouth. You turned around, noticing for the first time that some of it had transferred to his face. “I’m not thanking you for shit. This never should’ve happened.”

Steve watched you head for the door. He had no intention of stopping you. He’d never let a girl stay in his bed after sex, and he wasn’t about to start now. He moved lazily even as he sat up and began to grab his own clothes.

“You can pretend you didn’t like it all you want, baby,” he said, not even looking at you anymore as he pulled his boxer briefs back onto his legs. “But you and I both know what happened in here tonight, and I don’t think you’ll be forgetting it any time soon.”

You held back a frustrated scream as you walked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind you. Thankfully the music was loud enough that it didn’t draw any attention. You stomped down the hallway and down the stairs, back into the chaos that now felt suffocating and overwhelming in a way it never had before.

You found Nancy in the kitchen, laughing with some of the other sisters. When she spotted you her expression turned serious, saying something to the girls before walking straight to you. 

“Where did you go?” she asked, reaching for your arm. Her hand was a little cold and every touch to your skin right now felt like a scalding burn, but you didn’t pull away. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Just got wrapped up talking to some people,” you mumbled, unable to make eye contact with her. “I’m gonna head home, though.”

Nancy’s brows furrowed. “Now? Already? It’s still pretty early.”

“I just don’t feel good,” you said. All you really wanted was to get back to the safety of your own bedroom and freak out about this in private. “You don’t have to leave.”

“No, don’t be silly. I’m going with you.” She drained the last of the contents of her cup and tossed it into the nearby trash can, intertwining her fingers with yours. “This party kinda sucked tonight, anyway.”

You smiled at her, genuinely grateful. Nancy was your best friend for a reason, and you loved her. But you could never tell her what happened tonight.

As you walked hand in hand to the front door, you felt a creeping feeling up your spine. Just as Nancy turned the doorknob, opening the door and letting the cool September air inside, you looked back over your shoulder.

Steve leaned against the railing upstairs, watching you. When you locked eyes, he lifted a hand in a wave, smiling down at you.

You left the house, letting the door close hard behind you.

Steve was haunting you.

Not even in the way he always had, constantly in the same places, an unavoidable physical presence. No, this was worse. He was in your head now. And for the first time ever, you felt you had actually been lucky before.

The night after that first fateful mistake, you’d gotten back to the house, told Nancy you didn’t feel good, and went straight to bed. You removed your clothes from the party, shoved that pair of panties straight in the trash. You didn’t think you could ever look at them again.

Sleep didn’t come easily. You laid in bed, thinking about Steve and what you’d done without a moment’s reprieve. It was miserable, but you figured it was normal. Something terrible had just happened after all; a horrible mistake had been made, so of course you were going to think about it. It would fade. You would feel better tomorrow.

The problem was that it never stopped.

You woke up thinking about Steve. Went to class thinking about him. Every time you saw him on campus—and he always saw you first, smirking at you and giving you that douchebag nod, or a casual wave that he knew was anything but—you averted your eyes and headed quickly in the other direction.

If the fact that you’d done it at all didn’t disgust you enough, it was nothing compared to the horrible truth. That you’d liked it. Loved it. Wanted more. He really was the best you’d ever had, and you didn’t think he’d ever done a single thing that had pissed you off more than that.

Of all the guys you’d been with, guys who were plenty hot and popular and well liked, not a single one of them had ever cared about your pleasure in any way. They were only interested in getting themselves off. You were pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to find the clit if they’d even bothered to try.

But Steve? He had absolutely rocked your world exactly like he promised. The only orgasms you’d ever experienced had been by your own hands, and you figured no one ever would or could know your body better than you did. How did he know the exact right places to touch, the right things to do? Every girl was different, right? Did he have some kind of stupid fucking superpower?

He had you completely spiraling. You felt like you were losing your mind. Even Nancy and Carol and the other girls noticed there was something up with you. Nancy was the only one who asked, but you quickly made up some excuse about being stressed over classes and homecoming. Tommy was still doing everything in his power to win you over, but there was only one Sigma Chi member on your mind at all hours, day and night.

You laid in bed at night with the memory haunting you. His mouth, his tongue, his fingers, his stupidly huge dick that he knew exactly how to use, that he’d taken so much care with so he wouldn’t hurt you. How hard you’d cum when he went down on you, the way he made you cum again with nothing but his cock. The memories replayed through your mind nonstop until the ache between your thighs became unbearable and you couldn’t help it anymore, your hand slipping beneath your shorts and panties and burying your moans in your fist until you came moaning his name, picturing his face the way he looked staring up at you from between your legs.

That was the worst of it, the guilt and confusion and disappointment you felt when it was over. When you were laying there in the quiet dark of your bedroom, realizing that you were really, truly fucked.

You wanted Steve. You wanted him bad. And you didn’t think you could keep lying to yourself.

By the time the next party came around, you were done even trying to pretend.

You spent a little extra time getting ready in your bedroom, picking out a cute little dress after trying on nearly everything in your closet. It was form fitting, short, and a bit revealing. You knew it would catch his attention. You honestly weren’t sure why you were even trying, since you’d never had to try to get him to notice you before, even when you desperately didn’t want him to.

When you met Nancy and Carol in the front room, their eyes widened at the sight of you. “Woah. That’s the slut dress,” Carol remarked right away.

It made you laugh even as your skin flushed with embarrassment. It was true. This dress rarely ever came out, and when it did it was because you were going on a date you really wanted to end happily—hence the nickname your friends had dubbed it with.

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” Nancy asked, her brows raised. “I mean, you look great, but…who’s it for?”

The question made you freeze for a moment, even though you should’ve known they’d ask. Of course they would. But you recovered quickly, making up a lie on the spot that you prayed sounded believable. “No one in particular. Just…hoping to catch the attention of someone interesting, at least.”

That seemed good enough for Carol, who turned away and started digging through her purse to make sure she’d packed her lipstick, but Nancy watched you a little longer. She was always so analytical with everything, and as your best friend, she knew you too well for you to get away with lying to her about much. And you hated lying to Nancy, you really did, but how would you explain this?

The three of you left Delta Gamma as a unit, arms linked together. The walk to the Sigma Chi house wasn’t far, and it was a chilly evening, but nothing too bad. The bare skin of your thighs felt the sting of the cold the most, but before you knew it you were walking in the front door, the packed frat house instantly hot enough to make you grateful for the amount of skin you had showing.

For the first time, you were grateful to be separated from your girls so quickly. And, equally as unusual in this alternate dimension you’d somehow stepped into—you wanted to find Steve. Your eyes scanned each room for him, ears focused on listening for his voice. Something you couldn’t explain led you to the backyard, a place you didn’t often venture here.

The hot tub was on, and overcrowded. Some of the guys were in with a handful of girls, most sitting in someone’s lap. A larger crowd just hung out on the back deck, some even into the yard beneath the lights. You heard the sound of his laughter quickly, turning your head to the left at the exact time he looked in your direction.

And god, you hated to admit it, but he looked good. His hair was once again perfectly styled, and he wore a long sleeve dark green shirt with a pair of jeans that he wore…really, really well. They were tight, perfectly fitted, and you didn’t know how you’d never known about his size when he wore pants like that. His ass looked great, too.

Fuck.

You locked eyes with him. He held your gaze for a minute, smirk on his face even as he kept talking to his friends. Then, for the first time ever—he turned away. Going right back to his conversation as if you’d never even been there at all.

You were stunned.

Never in the history of your time at OSU had Steve seen you and not immediately approached to piss you off. He had never dismissed you like that. If the rage hadn’t already been boiling in your blood, it certainly was now.

You scoffed, turning around and walking back into the house. If he was expecting you to come to him, it wasn’t gonna happen. It had never happened that way before and wasn’t going to start now. Instead you pushed your way to the kitchen, heading straight to pour yourself a drink.

Just as you were reaching for one of the red plastic cups, another hand came around your shoulder and grabbed it before you could. You turned around, more confused than angry, to see Tommy Hagan standing right behind you, a warm smile on his freckled face.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, looking like he just realized how awkward of a move it was. “I just—can I get you a drink?”

You paused for a second. “Um…yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, his expression becoming a little more comfortable at your acceptance. He moved around to the counter that held a keg and multiple bottles of liquor. It was surrounded by people, as it always was, but they moved for Tommy out of respect in the same way they did for Steve. “What’re you drinking?”

You scanned the selection—there was a bit of everything. Sigma Chi took pride in keeping the alcohol flowing at every party. “Tequila?”

“You got it.” Tommy grinned. He filled the red cup from the keg and passed it back to you, then reached for the bottle of tequila, pouring two shots. He handed one to you and held the other out in a toast.

You smiled softly as you gently tapped your cup against his, then brought it to your lips, downing the burning liquid with ease. Tommy laughed when you scrunched your face up in disgust for a second.

“You’d think Harrington would splurge for the good shit,” Tommy said, leaning back against the counter as he looked at you. “I guess I can’t complain about free alcohol, though.”

“True,” you smiled, even though you really didn’t want to talk or think about Steve anymore, especially right now. “Thanks. Again. For the drinks.” You held your beer up towards him before taking a sip.

“No problem,” he said, a soft blush touching his pale skin. “Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pour their own drinks.”

Even though you didn’t like Tommy as more than a friend, he really was sweet, and his attention made you feel good. Special. “What would I ever do without you, Tommy?”

He laughed, looking down at his shoes for a moment. “Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes again. “I was just thinking…if you’d maybe want to go out? Maybe…Monday?”

Your eyes widened. You hadn’t actually expected him to ask you on a date. Your lips parted, closed, then opened again, but you couldn’t figure out the right words to say.

“Nothing serious,” Tommy said quickly, noticing your hesitation. “It doesn’t have to be…y’know. I just thought we could maybe get some food, talk about homecoming…” His soft smile returned. “…and, you know, I’d really like to take you out.”

It was hard not to soften around him, especially with the way he spoke to you. Every Sig was great at turning on the charm, but there was something about Tommy that felt so genuine. And would it really be so bad to go out with him? “Sure. That sounds good. My last class ends at 4?”

“Great,” he said, the words leaving him in a breath of relief. “Yeah, awesome. I can pick you up from DG? Like…6?”

“That’s perfect,” you nodded. You drank from your beer again just as another Sig walked up to Tommy—Billy Hargrove. You hadn’t spoken to him much yourself, but he was nice to look at for sure. You knew a few of your sorority sisters had been out with him, and he had a bit of a reputation for being a ladies man. He had a gorgeous smile, tan skin, blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair that hung to his shoulders in soft, beautiful curls.

“Hagan,” Billy said, clapping a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then his eyes landed on you. “Well. You didn’t tell me you were busy entertaining DG’s most beautiful.”

Even though all these frat guys pulled the same cheesy lines, you still felt the heat rise to your skin. “Hi, Billy.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” He smiled down at you, showing off the dimple in his cheek. Something about it brought out the ‘smiling shyly, twirling your hair around your finger’, teenage girl-type feeling buried deep within you. Tommy’s confident smile had dropped, now shifting awkwardly on his feet.

“Uh, what’s up, Hargrove?” Tommy asked, trying his best to look unbothered.

Billy glanced at him for just a second before those clear blue eyes found you again. “No rush, Hagan. What, don’t wanna share her attention?” His smile was bright and friendly, the kind that would have any girl’s heart beating fast.

“It’s not—“ Tommy sighed, leaning back against the counter.

“We were just talking,” you said, glancing between the two boys. There was an unspoken tension there, but you didn’t dwell on it. “How’s basketball?”

Billy’s smile grew. “It’s great. We’ve started conditioning. Right, Tommy?” he asked, turning around to look at his friend for only a moment, a weak attempt at acting like he had any intent to bring him into the conversation. “You should come to some of our games this season. I think I play better when there’s a pretty girl cheering for me.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy and genuine. “Is that right?”

Billy shrugged. “Could be just a theory, but why take the risk? Wouldn’t be very good for school spirit if we didn’t do everything possible to make sure we take home that championship, right?”

You rolled your eyes lightly as you laughed again, but it was more amusement than irritation—not like with certain people. “I guess that’s true. We should all do our part.”

“Exactly.” He smirked. “And maybe I can come watch you run some time. See that record-breaking sprinter I’ve heard so much about in action.”

You weren’t sure why exactly, but it surprised you that he knew anything about your athletic achievements. It was talked about on campus—the school loved to celebrate their top athletes—but it’s not like most of the school cared about track and field the way they did about other sports. You were no Steve Harrington, star pitcher. “Yeah, that would be cool. I’d like that.”

“I’ve heard you’re good. Like, insanely fast.” He leaned against the counter next to Tommy with an instinctual swagger, exuding the confidence that came so naturally to him. “And, uh…long jump?”

“High jump,” you corrected, hiding your shy smile behind your cup as you sipped your beer again. “But, yeah. I’d love for you to come watch.”

“Maybe I’ll call you sometime.” Billy winked at you before finally acknowledging Tommy again. “Hagan. We’re waiting for you out back.” He looked back at you. “Sorry, came over here to grab him and didn’t expect to get…distracted.”

“Go do your thing,” you said, waving your hand in some kind of vague gesture. You were starting to feel a slight buzz, at least. “Have fun. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“I’ll see you around,” Billy said with one last flash of that charming smile. When he looked back at Tommy, his expression was more serious, nodding his head towards the back in a silent command that didn’t seem to have any other option.

Tommy smiled at you, but it was more forced, the comfort from before long gone. “I’ll see you Monday,” he said. “It was…good to talk to you. I hope you have fun the rest of the night.”

“Bye,” you said softly, but he was already gone. You watched him trailing after Billy towards the back door, where Steve and some of the other guys waited, a cheer erupting as soon as they walked out the door. Frat boys.

Left on your own again, you tried to enjoy yourself. Bouncing around the house, talking with people you knew from around campus, from sports, from Greek life. Still, you couldn’t shake the thought of Steve from your head. You knew what you’d come here to do, and even though you hated yourself for it, you hadn’t changed your mind. You didn’t think you could.

You saw him again a few times. Through the back door, in the living room, passing him in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, where he bumped into your shoulder and turned around long enough to smirk at you before walking on like it was nothing. Every time you saw him he saw you too, but he didn’t approach you once. It had you fuming.

A few hours into the party, unfortunately, you were getting desperate.

When you walked into the kitchen for another refill, you saw him again. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest with one hand holding his cup, talking to some girl you couldn’t name. You weren’t jealous—you were not jealous—but it just made you even angrier. Especially when he glanced at you for just a moment before turning back to her.

This was humiliating. It was demeaning. You hated it. You hated him. But you swallowed your pride, took a deep breath, and walked over to them anyway.

Steve looked at you again, and grinned wide, his eyes lighting up with an infuriating delight as he realized you were coming over. The girl by his side gave you a dirty look as soon as she noticed, but Steve’s attention was now entirely on you.

He said your name, a simple acknowledgement. “How are you enjoying the party?” He tilted his head to the side, his expression smug. He knew exactly what game he’d been playing all night, and he also knew he’d just won.

“It’s great,” you said, your deadpan voice doing nothing to hide your irritation.

“Good. I pride myself on my hospitality.” You didn’t think you’d ever seen Steve not looking proud of himself, but he certainly did right now. “Did you need something?”

You glared at him, biting the inside of your cheek as you refused to back down from the eye contact he was holding. The girl next to him looked between you. “I was…wondering if you had any more of that…weed.”

The grin that spread across his face was nothing short of euphoric. His hazel eyes seemed to shine with it. The girl next to him might as well have no longer existed. “Actually, you know, I might have a little more. I’d have to check.”

Your jaw clenched, looking off to the side before meeting his eyes again. Your whole body buzzed like a live wire. When he didn’t make a move, just kept looking at you, you raised your eyebrows at him expectantly. “Well?”

Steve laughed. “Now, huh?” He downed the rest of his beer and turned to the side, dropping the cup in the trash. You were momentarily stunned when he grabbed yours from your hand, too, doing the same. “Well, if it’s that urgent. Come on, we’ll go look.”

He pushed off the wall, walking in the direction of the staircase. He didn’t give the girl he’d been talking to another word or look, but she was certainly glowering at you when you glanced one last time before following after him. You felt ashamed, trailing behind exactly like he wanted you to. But worse than that was the relief.

Still, as you walked up the stairs behind Steve, you looked around to make sure no one was watching. You’d survived the first hookup without rumors starting, but you knew you had to be careful. If there was one student on this campus everyone paid attention to, it was Steve Harrington.

Even worse than some random students seeing and whispering would be Nancy or Carol. You didn’t want to have to even begin to figure out how to explain this to them. It was humiliating enough doing it, confusing even trying to justify it to yourself.

Steve led the way into his bedroom, although you’d dreamed about the same path so many times over the past week, you could have walked yourself there with your eyes closed. His room was still tidy, and the scent of the cologne he was wearing now permeated the air. All his usual hair products sat out on his dresser, and you could practically see the ghost of him there getting ready before leaving for the party downstairs, not putting it away.

He closed the door behind you, the sound of the lock clicking into place like a bomb in the silence. You turned around to face him. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead.

“So…” Steve began, walking over to you slowly. You felt like a rabbit that had run right into his trap—willingly. “Did you really want that weed? Or did you come back for something else?”

You gritted your teeth, fists clenching and unclenching at your side. Drawing in a deep breath, you tried to relax your muscles, your entire body tense. “I…”

Steve was still smiling at you as he approached. He knew you weren’t going to say it, but he had already won. You’d come. His hand came up to rest on your cheek, and you found yourself relishing in the warmth of his palm rather than flinching away.

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” he murmured, his voice low. No bravado, soft, meant only for you. His eyes were locked on yours. “I know what you need, baby.” His thumb stroked your cheek, then moved to rub slowly over your bottom lip. Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t break the intense eye contact if you tried. “Have you been dreaming about it?”

You didn’t know what to say. Your brain was short circuiting. Your hands hung loosely by your side, eyes wide, as he looked at you with pure heat. Goosebumps covered your skin, breath coming in strained.

“I already know,” he continued when you said nothing. His words were a low purr, a sound that had you hypnotized. You didn’t even react when he pulled down slightly on your bottom lip and slipped his thumb inside, pressing down against your tongue. “You’d never been fucked like that in your life. You’ve been thinking about it. Trying to recreate it with your own hand, getting off to the memory.”

Body on autopilot, you closed your lips around his thumb. Your eyes never left each others’ as you ran your tongue over the calloused pad of his finger, sucking on it. For all he tried to act unaffected and in control, you saw the shudder that wracked through him. You didn’t have to look to know he was hard already.

When he pulled his hand away, the trance was broken. But still, you both stood there, just looking at each other. The whole room felt charged with electricity, the air around you heavy enough to feel like a physical, oppressive weight.

Your lips crashed together in a kiss both hungry and frantic. It wasn’t slow and romantic, not this time. Steve’s hands dug into your waist, pulling you close, the kiss all tongue and teeth and messy desperation. He groaned into your mouth, and when he pulled your hips into his, you could feel the hard proof of what you’d already known.

He pulled back to pull his shirt over his head, your eyes drinking in the exposed skin shamelessly. He was breathing hard, eyes glazed over with unfiltered want. Shoes were kicked off, Steve’s jeans hit the floor, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you with ease and laying you on his bed.

“You wore this little thing for me?” Steve whispered in your ear as he settled over you. His lips attacked your neck, sucking at that spot he remembered was so sensitive. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left marks, but you couldn’t think straight long enough to care.

“No.” The denial was weak, even you knew that. You had watched him all night, approached him yourself after sucking up your pride, and now you were beneath him on his bed. But, fuck, hadn’t you given him enough satisfaction tonight?

“No?” He chuckled darkly against the hot skin of your neck. He didn’t believe you for a second. He was rolling his hips against you, the straining in his boxer briefs rock hard where it pressed against your dripping core. “That’s a shame, baby. It looks so good on you.”

The little whimper that escaped when he bit down on the skin beneath your ear would have been embarrassing if you were able to even process it. You arched your back beneath him, pressing your tits against his chest. Your nipples were hard through the thin material of your dress—a bra didn’t work with it, so you’d gone without—and the feeling of friction against them had a breathy noise falling from your lips.

Steve moved down your body, pushing your dress up roughly until it was up around your waist. He lowered himself between your thighs, pressing his nose against your already soaked panties, letting out a low, primal groan. “God, you’re so fucking sweet,” he growled. Unable to wait any longer, he hooked his fingers into the waist of your panties and pulled them off.

“Steve—“ you said in a voice that sounded more like a squeak than anything, spreading your legs for him, breathing hard. His big hands slid up your smooth thighs, opening them wider for him. His nose brushed lightly against your folds, making you draw in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured. He was looking at your cunt like he wanted this as badly as you did—maybe more. “What do you want?”

“Just do it,” you whined, your body writhing against his sheets with the overwhelming need. “Please, just…”

“What do you want me to do?” He was looking up at you now, smirking, even as his mouth was hovering an inch from where you needed him more than anything. “You’ve gotta tell me, sweetheart. I can’t read your mind.”

You groaned, eyes opening as you looked down at him. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

His big eyes widened with feigned innocence. “What?” You could feel his breath ghosting over your pussy, so wet for him, and it had you trembling. You couldn’t take much more of this and he knew it.

“Stop trying to make me say it,” you grumbled. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes.

“Not trying to make you do anything,” he hummed. He moved his head, nose brushing against your clit and making your breath catch. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to know what you want me to do if you don’t tell me, and, y’know, I’d never want to do anything you didn’t want—“

“Oh my god, Steve,” you huffed, hands running through your hair where you laid against his mattress. “Are you gonna keep running your mouth all night or put it to good use again?”

Steve laughed genuinely, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re so feisty. I always liked that about you.”

Before you could complain anymore, he buried his face against your pussy, diving in like it had been killing him to hold himself back, too. You cried out, loud, a hand moving to slap over your mouth a second too late. You could feel his lips curling in a smile against you.

He was good, so good, you didn’t have to have any prior experience to know that. It was no wonder he had girls lining up to get in his bed. You couldn’t keep yourself quiet, his tongue fucking inside of you, drinking in all the sweetness you dripped for him, rolling his tongue over your clit. It felt like he was everywhere at once.

“Steve, fuck!” you cried, gasping and clutching onto the pillows behind your head. “Oh my god, fuck, how are you—oh fuck—“

He groaned against your cunt, the vibrations going straight through your clit and to every nerve ending in your body. He flicked his tongue over the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it and sucking as he sunk two fingers into your fluttering hole.

“God!” you choked. Your thighs were trembling around his head already. Your hand moved down to card through his hair before gripping onto the soft strands for dear life, pulling another moan from him when your fingers tightened in them.

Steve’s fingers fucked into you, nice and slow at first, slipping in a third finger before curling deep to hit that perfect spot. He was getting you ready for his cock again, your heart beating out of your chest at the thought alone. You could see it when you closed your eyes, just as you had for the past week, and it had you growing even wetter for him.

“Steve…” you whined, your hips starting to grind against his face. He let you, moaning and working you even harder, begging for it without any words. “I’m gonna…”

“Give it to me,” he rasped, pulling away just long enough to say the words before his mouth was right back against you, delving his tongue between your folds and focusing on your clit while his fingers worked you open.

Stars exploded behind your vision. Unable to hold it back, you cried out, mindlessly babbling combinations of his name and curses and desperate pleas of don’t stop don’t stop oh please fuck god don’t stop—

Steve worked you through every last aftershock, playing your body like an instrument he knew wholly, intimately. Your body was still shaking when he pulled away. The sight of him looking down at you like that, with his lips and chin glistening with your release, made you whimper. God, why did he have to look like that?

“So fucking good,” he said, eyes dark and awed. His cock strained hard against his boxers. You could see it twitching through the material, throbbing visibly.

His hands slid up your body, looking at you with a deep reverence as he slid the dress up until it was over your head, tossing it to his floor. His eyes raked over your naked body, every inch of it, the smooth skin and the way your chest rose and fell, how wide your eyes were looking up at him, your pretty lips parted.

“I thought about you, too,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek, back to your ear. “Thought about how you tasted. How tight you felt around me. The way you said my name. The noises you made…god, I came so fucking hard playing those noises over and over in my head.”

You gasped, the throbbing between your legs starting up again at his words. You’d had no idea. Why would he be thinking of you when he could have any girl at this whole school? He wasn’t just saying it. The unfiltered heat in his voice made that clear.

Steve lifted off of you slowly, eyes staying on you until he turned away to open his bedside drawer and grab one of those foil packets he seemed to have an endless supply of. He pushed his boxers down, flushed cock springing free, and kicked the last bit of clothing off the bed with the rest.

You watched him rip the foil open and roll it onto his (impressive, huge, perfect, achingly hard) cock, your pussy clenching around nothing, your body itself begging for him. He settled between your legs, wrapping his big hands around your thighs, opening you wide.

“Dreamed about this pussy,” he mumbled, wrapping a hand around his shaft and dragging his tip through your soaked folds. He pressed the thick head against your hole, pressing forward just slightly, just feeling you. You whined, rocking your hips down, begging for him inside. He smirked as he noticed, but didn’t push in yet. His expression was almost dreamy, pupils blown. “Best pussy I ever had. Fuck. Never came so fucking hard as I did inside you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, the word itself a plea.

“Tell me,” he breathed. It wasn’t a tease anymore. The need in his voice was staggering. He was begging. “Please, baby. Need to hear you say it.”

The sight of Steve, utterly wrecked like this, was almost too much to bear. You didn’t have it in you to refuse, not anymore. “Please,” you keened. “God, Steve, please fuck me.”

His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a ragged groan, even before he finally rolled his hips forward, piercing you with that perfect, thick cock. You nearly sobbed in pleasure as you felt it, that overwhelming fullness as he sank into you inch by inch. It was easier this time but still a stretch, still that distant sting until his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ—“ Steve choked, falling forward on his hands, planting them on either side of your shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

You rocked your hips up against him, telling him it was okay to move. Begging him to move. “Oh my god,” you moaned. Your walls throbbed around him, which was undoing him way faster than he’d care to admit.

He pulled his hips back before sinking back in. Starting slow, as if he were still trying to be careful with his last shred of restraint. It didn’t last long. The perfect clench of your heat around him was driving him mad, his thrusts quickly working up into a punishing rhythm.

Your name left his lips in a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. The sound of his skin meeting yours filled the room, your cunt so slick and wet around him you could hear it every time he drove in. He fucked you harder than he had last time, something you didn’t even know you’d craved until you had it.

“So fucking—god—you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his body slick with sweat where it was pressed against yours. You hooked a leg around his waist as he reached down with one hand to grab your thigh and press it up against your chest.

The angle was devastating, his cock hitting deeper inside of you than you thought possible. Your eyes rolled back as he punched soft, mindless little “ah ah ah”s from your lungs with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of how hard he fucked you. The headboard knocked against the wall, chipping the paint from the force of it, the sound unmistakable for anyone who happened to walk by. “Gonna make me cum so fucking hard again. Fuck. Oh, fuck, baby, you’re so perfect, so goddamn—oh shit—“

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling on it the way you now knew he liked. The desperate groan he let out was muffled as you pulled him down to your lips, his tongue immediately licking into your mouth. The kiss was utterly filthy, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth—yours, his, both.

The whines he was letting out were growing higher, needier. All signs of that cocky, insufferable personality were gone, nothing but pleasure and desire coursing through him. His fingers dug bruises into your thigh as he snapped his hips forward harder, and oh fuck, he was hitting that spot again—

“Steve!” you gasped, head tossing back against the pillows. Steve’s lips moved down the exposed column of your throat, placing hot, wet kisses everywhere he could reach. “Oh, fuck, Steve, I’m gonna fucking cum—“

“Please,” he begged, his voice a ragged growl against your throat. “Let me feel you. Squeeze my cock, milk me fuckin’ dry, please.”

That coil snapped again, hard, the moan it forced from you more like a scream. It was loud, you knew it was loud, but you couldn’t help it, completely delirious with the intensity of the pleasure. Your back arched beneath him, moaning and crying out and calling his name again and again.

Steve let out a choked noise at the feeling of you tightening around him, clenching and throbbing hard. His hips rutted into you with a desperate, frantic intensity, rhythm completely gone as he chased his own orgasm. He was right behind you, only a couple more shallow thrusts until he was stilling as deep inside you as possible. He groaned roughly, his head dropping to bury his face right between your tits as his body shuddered with release. You could feel him pulsing inside you even through the condom.

The room calmed, your heavy breathing the only sounds remaining. His weight was heavy over you, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t exactly want him to move, at least not yet. In the quiet aftermath, you relished in the feeling of him, his cock still throbbing inside as he slowly softened.

When he finally mustered up the energy to move he lifted off of you, pulling out and removing the condom, tossing it in the trash. You couldn’t bring yourself to look and see if there was proof of him having any other girls in here since you’d been with him. You didn’t know why you cared.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, his arms resting on his knees. He was still catching his breath as you sat up, reality beginning to creep back in like unforgiving daylight after the safety of the night.

He turned his head to look at you, lips curling into a smile again. His skin still glistened with sweat. “Was it as good as the first time?” He asked, once again breaking the spell with his big mouth. “What you were hoping for when you showed up here tonight, dressed like that?”

You scoffed, sliding off the bed to collect your clothes again. Now that you’d gotten what you’d been craving, the desperation that had been clouding your brain was gone. That familiar shame was crawling over you again.

“What?” he laughed. “You can say it, y’know. Doesn’t mean you have to like me just because you like fucking me.”

You hesitated for a moment, then moved again, pulling your panties back over your legs. “Don’t.”

“Come on, baby,” he goaded, leaning back on the bed. He watched you, propped up on one arm, once again unbothered by being completely exposed to you. “Would it really be so bad to admit it?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his eyes staring at your ass as you pulled your panties back on. “Fine,” you finally huffed, turning around. You clutched your dress in your hands, nearly throwing it at him when he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze dropped down to your tits. “You’re good. It was amazing. Is that what you want to hear?”

He grinned. “I just wanted to hear the truth.” He shrugged playfully. “I mean, I already knew, just wanted to hear you admit it. Not for me, but for yourself.”

“Aren’t you altruistic,” you muttered, pulling the dress back over your head. The way his brow furrowed for a moment showed he didn’t know what the word meant, but he didn’t press.

Finally he sat up, beginning to replace his own clothes. “It’s okay that you can’t stay away. I get it. It’s good sex.”

“I can stay away—“

“Sure,” he interrupted, lifting his hips to get his boxers back on. “But you don’t want to, right?”

You paused. You hadn’t let yourself think about that. If it was okay to let yourself want this. Just because you hated Steve so bad, because you didn’t want anyone to know this was happening. But did that make it bad? Did it make you wrong? Weak, like you’d felt all week, and especially tonight?

Maybe he was right. It was good sex.

After buttoning his jeans, Steve stood to face you. He ran a hand through his hair, looking in the mirror behind you for just a second before focusing back on you. “Look,” he started, but it was hard to pay attention when he was standing there shirtless like that. “I think we could help each other.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face, the smirk sitting there evidence that he’d seen you staring. “Help each other?”

He walked over to you, hands resting on your hips again. You didn’t push him away, holding his gaze. “Yeah. Help each other. I told you I liked it too, didn’t I?”

You weren’t sure what to say. You’d heard him say it, when he was buried inside you, moaning your name, but you figured it was just…talk. Heat of the moment. Nothing real. Nothing you said or felt when you were fucking was real.

Your lack of a response didn’t deter him. His fingers flexed on your hips, but he didn’t pull you closer. “We could make this a casual thing,” he offered, finally putting the words out there. “You like it, I like it. Why not keep having fun together?”

You turned his words over and over in your head. It felt like far more than the seconds it actually took as you thought over his proposition. What it meant, what it changed, how it felt.

But the memory of the past week played through your mind on repeat. How miserable you’d been, the way you couldn’t get him out of your head. That he was right, the sex had been so good you’d craved it day and night, and the second time had been just as good, if not better.

Steve waited patiently, but he knew your answer before you finally forced it out. “…Okay. Yeah. I guess.”

He grinned, squeezing your hips one more time before moving back. “Okay then. Good.”

“But we keep this between us,” you added quickly. “I’m serious. Just us. You don’t tell your friends and I won’t tell mine.”

He looked amused, but he didn’t argue. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You stared at him. “Steve.”

“Okay,” he laughed, pulling his shirt back on. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word.”

You let out a sigh, both relief and anxiety at once. Turning to his mirror, you fixed your hair, cleaning up your smudged makeup. “It means nothing, and no one knows.”

The heat of his body suddenly behind you made you jump. But he just stood next to you, fixing his own appearance.

“It means nothing,” he repeated. “And no one knows.”

part two soooooon

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