hush is bbg

Your quirk allows you to manipulate emotions — anger, sadness, betrayal, love, hatred. If you can feel it, you can sink it into another's psyche deep enough to drive them to act. You can even imbue things with feelings. For example, a cup of warm milk can transform into more than just a simple comfort, now it can hold the feeling of home and safety, or even exhaustion strong enough to put even the biggest foe to rest. 

You could easily use your quirk with nefarious intent. 

You could steep hatred in someone's bone so deep it drives them to harm themselves. You could sew fury so solid into someone's mind it drives them to violence. 

Just a touch and you can control others with something so intrinsically personal it only exists within themselves: their feelings.

What makes you any different from little Asuke, a shy little girl with a quirk that allows her to see people's greatest fears, and then manifest and control them? You're convinced she can use this for good, if only with practice. In your mind, her future is bright and glimmering. Perhaps she will become a therapist, focusing on exposure therapy? Or, maybe the most prolific horror novelist in their time? 

Or, bright and sunny Tao — a transplant whose parents sought out Chiba Prep's specialized education — whose heteromorphic quirk makes his bodily fluids, namely saliva, eat through nearly anything but his own biologics. A sneeze is quickly the most dangerous thing in the world for the cheery, lizard-bodied class clown. 

He's just a boy given a quirk that needs more care. 

He isn't a villain-in-training. 

None of them are.

It's important to teach them that young — and as their teacher for Year 3 of their elementary schooling, you aim to hammer that in as much as possible. They deserve to feel normal. To feel loved and supported. They aren't scary, they're children. 

So, you take it upon yourself to insist on pushing for privileges like field trips. There aren't many public spaces that welcome the classes of Chiba Prep with open arms. Over the years, there have been plenty of incidents. But, a day trip into the city to visit Tokyo's Hall of Heroes is green-lit with bubbling excitement from both faculty, the children, and their parents. 

You usually keep your history as a graduated member of Class 1-A quiet. 

After all, you never did go pro.

And even still, Shoto Todoroki never stopped thinking about you.

He remembers that weekend everyone moved back in for their last year before graduation. He remembers you smiling at him, and helping him drag up a duffel of luggage from the common room to his dorm. You made a joke about how you're sure he got taller over the summer, and how his hair is longer now. You said you liked it. 

It was the beginning of the end, then.

His crush was a silent, smothering thing. It made it hard to think. Shoto had enough on his plate thanks to Touya's acceptance into the Villain Rehabilitation Program and his father's insistence on staving off retirement. Not to mention his parent's divorce — no matter how amicable, it was still a separation. Add on training, tests, studying, finals, and j-term classes... And a desperate, writhing, burning crush on the nicest girl in class? 

Touya's elbow digs into Shoto's side.

It drags him back to reality — to the stifled quiet of the historical Hall of Heroes. 

Suddenly, the doors to the wing squeak open, and a tour guide ushers in the elementary school class. The buzzing excitement and wonder are visible on each of their faces as the attendant — one of the HoH's lead tour guides — excitedly explains the newest, in-progress addition to the Hall:

Endeavor's wing. 

There's a whisper of awe that ripples through the children as their teacher and co-teacher follow, and as the class moves through the large, open space. They're staring up eagerly at the gilded statue in the center of the room. It's larger than life and intimidating. Years ago, Shoto might have had to fight the odd tremble in his knees at the reminder it brings: to be small in his father's shadow again. But, things are different now. 

Very different.

Touya scoffs. "I thought this wing wasn't open to the public yet."

"They're just children," Shoto hums, turning his back on the gaggle across the way to inspect the large mural winding along the back end of the installation, "I'm sure it's—"

"Oh, ho, no way!"

Shoto quirks his brow at his brother's outburst. His elbow digs into Shoto's ribs again. 

"Ain't that the pretty girl you never got the balls to ask out your senior year?" comes the rasped drawl of his older brother's voice. Touya is clearly amused, his white hair hanging in his eyes as he leans forward to squint, "She is cute, Sho'—"

"Shut up," Shoto grits, turning his head over his shoulder; he tries to bite back the flurry of nerves that ignite in his gut, "Stop talking."

It is you.

You look... good. 

Happy. 

You're crouched by a small, timid girl in the back of the crowd. Your hand is in hers, and you're pointing upwards at the large paneled screens replaying Endeavor's most historic fights. You're explaining something to her, your knees bent as you squat. You look... the same. As if in the six years since they graduated, you sat still in time. 

For a second, it's like he's seventeen again.

It's his senior year, and he's stuck at the corner of the gym's edge with a half-empty glass of punch in his hand. The lights are low, and there's slow music playing. His tie feels too tight. Bakugo keeps telling him to 'ask her to dance already', and Kirishima is considering bashing his head through the wall. Even Midorya is trying to persuade Shoto. 

"It's prom, man! C'mon, this could be your last chance—"

Touya is about to be a real pain in the ass — his favorite pastime — and make some comment about your ass, but when he turns to lob the one-liner at his baby brother, Shoto's gone.

Shoto is on the move.

The crescendo of gasps draws your attention first.

Then, the cry of "WOAH, IT'S SHOTO!" leaves you dumbfounded. The rippling murmur of excitement bleeds into the children as their eyes — and the eyes of the tour guide — widen at the sight of the approaching Pro Hero. 

Shoto Todoroki.

He looks... good. 

Really good.

He's a bit older, and a bit more filled out than when you were both teenagers. You can see the strength in his arms and shoulders — it's a distant echo of his father's physique, though Shoto is so much more elegant and much... prettier. He's always been.

For a second, you're seventeen again.

It's your senior year, and you're sprawled across Momo Yaoyorozu's bed.

They had finally wrangled out of you who your crush was: something they hadn't been able to do in all their years as classmates.

There's a sticky, Miss Midnight-themed face mask clinging to your expression as you try to flip through the large magazine in your hands as nonchalantly as possible. Mina's voice, as she paints Ochaco's nails a bright pink on the floor, is sweet and saccharine as she looks up at you.

"I think you and Shoto would be, like, the cutest couple ever." 

You're still crouched when the tour guide nervously — like she was caught doing something naughty — introduces The Pro Hero Shoto to the already-aware crowd of elementary school students and their teachers. It's like igniting a match; the uproar of excitement leaves you laughing as three of your boys push forward to bombard him with questions about his quirk. 

Asuke is smiling shyly, now. That's a small win. She's intrigued by the appearance of a real hero, not the "scary statues" — and her big, fat tears stopped rolling the moment you laid a gentle hand on her to quell her anxiety over the new environment with a push of comfort through your quirk. She unhooks her pinkie finger from yours as you guide her towards your co-teacher. 

"Boys," you call with a crisp air of authority as you stand and lead Asuke toward the bulk of the field trip group, "What have we learned about personal space?"

"It's fine, really, Insight," comes Shoto's voice; as warm and placid as you remember. 

"Insight?" mutters your co-teacher at the presumed hero-name; a look of confusion plasters itself on her face, and her big, feline ears perk up. She leans in to whisper in a way that borders on conspiratory, "Do you two know one another?"

"Old classmates," you confirm, not daring to get into the finer details.

Shoto's attention is entirely rooted in the way you manage the kids. There's something beautiful about the ease with which you handle the bouquet of students; you quell the excitement into a manageable decibel like it's as easy as breathing. 

"Shoto," you start as you gesture to him, "Has a very special quirk — Toyamai, he has ice like you. And, fire like Tojiro. He can regulate his temperature. Can anyone tell me what that means?"

There's a wave of hands shooting up, a few me, me, me's rise from the gaggle. 

You're using him as a teaching moment.

Shoto's smile is soft.

You nod at Ogomi, excitedly nodding as the reserved child speaks up. Normally, he hates public speaking. But, recently, he's started working with the speech pathologist during lunch. The boy bounces a little as he answers. "He doesn't g-get too hot, or too c-cold."

"Exactly! Isn't that cool?" you grin at the lazy attempt at a pun, "This is why it's important to learn about our quirks as much as we can!"

Touya thinks this whole thing is just too cute. 

You're different than he remembers — but, granted, things were sorta different last time he saw you. He was a little too busy tryna kill his old man and lil' Shoto. He's different now, too. A changed man! A real licensed hero. Support items and all. 

He hangs back. 

He... I mean, he is a jack-ass but he isn't gonna ruin this for Shoto. 

...It's kinda cute.

Just about as cute as Fuyumi said it was. 

Apparently, Shoto had opened up to her and Natsuo about his feelings after graduation — about how he regretted not doing anything about it. Fuyumi then told their mum, who then off-handedly mentioned it to Touya... and well Touya dug in because, duh, he is a whore for good gossip. He might be the family's black sheep, but Shoto is the glue that binds. 

And he deserves to be happy.

Your co-teacher is ushering the kids to the next installation — a viewing of All Might's Legacy, a new documentary following the retired pro's teaching career. It will be a good wind down for them, in comfy seats and the dark. It's hardly the sort of content an elementary school student would find riveting, but it is All Might. And they love him.

You hang back. 

Shoto's heart is hammering in his chest.

"Hey."

"Hi," you greet back, closing the door to the theater and stepping forward as you weave your arms around you, "Long time no see."

"Yea," Shoto breathes, his hands in his pockets as he meets you halfway across the museum's marble floors, "I... I see you're teaching."

His eyes are as pretty as they were back then. Slate grey and piercing turquoise. "I'm in my second year," you confirm softly, fiddling with the material of your sweater, "Congrats to your old man."

You gesture up at the statue, then wave around to the rest of the installation.

Shoto inhales, then nods; he's staring at your face, blissfully realizing you're just the way you were all those years ago. Kind. "I'll pass it along."

"How's he handling it?" you ask, your eyes raking across his expression and trying not to stick to the sharp slope of his jaw, or the bob of his Adam's apple, "Retirement, I mean."

"He's happy, I think. Touya and I are working together and... things are...  good."

Last month, Endeavor finally retired. He cited his age, and his dedication to passing his legacy to his two sons: Shoto and Touya. Shoto has planted himself firmly within the Top Ten in the last year or so, and shockingly, Touya isn't far behind. People love an underdog's redemption story, you suppose. 

And the underdog in question can read a room. 

This is getting a little too sexually tense for even him.

"Heeeeey, girl," he rasps out, staggering backward with a thumb over his shoulder, "Nice t' see ya. I'll let you two catch up, yea? I'm gonna go pop my head into the theater, see how the kids are handling the snooze fest on screen—"

You jump.

How long has he even been there?

"Hi, D— Touya," you strain, wincing a little; the rehab'd villain doesn't seem to mind.

"Hi, teach'. That cool with you?" he asks, wobbling his thumb and quirking a pierced eyebrow; it's comical, like he's trying to disarm you with humor, "Don't want you thinkin' I'm corrupting your youths—"

"It's fine," you breathe, ignoring the sting of age-old mistrust. You know better. Shoto wouldn't be here, with him, if Touya Todoroki hadn't changed. Endeavor wouldn't be entrusting his legacy to the ex-League of Villain member if he didn't believe in his capacity for good, "Just don't be disruptive."

Casting judgment on someone whose life was nearly destroyed by his own non-conforming quirk would go against everything you taught the kids anyway.

"Touya's whole thing is being disruptive," Shoto grits as his oldest brother slips silently through the doors, "I apologize for him—"

"No," you wave him off, laughing a little, "Don't. It's... nice to see you two together."

Shoto's expression is soft as he wanders a little closer. "It took time — and a lot of therapy — but we've all managed to come out the other side."

"That's great to hear, Shoto," you breathe, your eyes flitting across his face, "I'm really happy for you."

There's a long silence, then — and you can't help but ignore the roil of butterflies in your stomach. The eye contact is heavy with some unspoken thing, and both of your tongues are weighted by secrets-never-turned-confessions. 

It's like finally this dance you've been doing around one another for years breaks — and the two of you throw caution to the wind at the exact same moment. 

"Would you like to—"

"Are you free—"

Hesitant, slow grins bloom on both your faces.

"Dinner?" is all he manages after a sweet moment of soaking up your soft smile, "If you're available...?"

You make yourself available.

Yaoyorozu almost dies when you call her that night — winded from tearing through your entire wardrobe. You explained you had nothing to wear a-and you needed something nice, and you only have an hour to get ready, because Todoroki — yes, stop screaming, Todoroki — is picking you up at 8pm.

Little bro is nervous. Touya can tell. 

From his spot on the sofa, the white-haired ex-degenerate scoffs. Natsuo is digging around for some cufflinks in Shoto's dresser.

"Seriously, Sho'? A suit?" 

"It's a nice restaurant," his brother says tightly, adjusting the collar of the black button-down, "I booked the upstairs dining room for privacy." 

"Who the hell told you t' do that?" Touya quirks a skeptical brow.

"Father was the one who suggested it."

"...That old dog." 

Natsuo rolls his eyes at the exchange before throwing his hands as he emerges from the closet. "Do you have any links that aren't emblazoned with U.A. High School's crest?"

The ones in Natsuo's hands have his graduation year on them.

Shoto winces.

"Want me to ask dear ol' dog of a dad?" Touya snarks from the corner, his posture becoming less and less upright as he scrolls on his phone.

"Already did," comes the soft voice of Fuyumi; she's smiling, padding into Shoto's room with a velvet box, "He offered up his nicest pair. He also says not to screw it up with Insight. He likes her."

Of course, he likes her. You worked under Endeavor for a brief work-study period during your third year. Shoto remembers hearing grumbled praise over dinner one night about your talent for de-escalation.

"You told him who I was seeing?" Shoto asks incredulously, taking the box and working the cufflinks on. He's starting to feel exasperated.

Fuyumi nods, popping down beside Touya. 

"He asked. I'm not gonna lie to him."

"Did y' tell ma?" Touya rasps, peeking up over his phone to inspect Shoto's outfit. Not half bad, honestly. He looks good in all black. A man after his own heart, "M'sure she's gonna be real excited—"

"Yes," Shoto grumbles, "I called her earlier—"

"Chiba Prep is a really good school, y'know," Natsuo buts in as he tries to find a tie that matches Shoto's outfit. Ultimately, though, the middle brother decides against it and tosses the options over his shoulder, "They're, like, on the leading edge for quirk therapies."

"Hey, nerd? Quiet down. The big kids are gossiping," Touya shirks, turning back to Shoto, "What did mum say?" 

"She wants me to call her after—"

"One, you're gonna call mum the morning after," Touya raises a finger, "Because if you don't get laid, I'll be so fuckin' disap—"

Fuyumi slaps Touya's chest. He lets out a pained yelp at the solid smack.

"Uh, ow," he rubs his sternum. "An' two, take a deep breath. You look like you're gonna shit yourself. Those are my pants and they're expensive."

Shoto lets out a long breath. 

Fuyumi's smile is sweet like honey. "Aw, Sho'! It's gonna go great. You two have known each other for such a long time, and catching up is going to be amazing. Just be yourself! Confident and kind—"

"—Hold the door open for her, and pull her chair out," Natsuo adds as he adjusts Shoto's collar for him, "Car door, too—"

It's Touya's turn. He's dead serious. "—And do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night. I swear to god."

Easier said than done.

You never did go pro.

Those years of hardened battle instincts have lost their edge. You try to remind yourself this is just Shoto, not The Shoto — but you're a little lost in the whole celebrity of it all when he picks you up in a very nice, sporty little car with ENDVRplates. 

You answer the door and he forgets how to breathe.

He has flowers for you. They're blue and blooming and beautiful. 

Fuyumi's contribution. 

You settled then you were going to kiss him at the end of the night.

The restaurant is... nice. Really nice. The sort of nice you could never aspire to experience on your teacher's salary. Even the valet is a concept that has your head spinning. But, Shoto handles it all with cool ease. The entire time, his hand is settled on your lower back. 

It feels like you've been lit on fire.

You're glad Momo was able to create a dress fitting for the occasion. It's sleek and black. Comfortable, too. Not much can be said for your heels on that front, but it's fine. 

Somehow, Shoto managed to book the entire upper floor of this place in all its glimmering glory — it's just the two of you alone in a sea of tables. 

The waiter is pouring you a glass of the chef's suggested pairing of sake.

You thank him, smile, and take a sip as Shoto unbuttons his suit jacket and watches you. 

For a second, you're seventeen again.

Sero and Kirishima were always in cahoots when it came to parties back then — somehow, between the two of them, they always managed to smuggle enough booze onto campus to obliterate any semblance of promised sobriety from even the most stoic members of 1-A. 

You remember one night, after a lot of hounding, you finally gave in and joined a few of your classmates on the back lawn for a few drinks. 

A few beers turned into a cup or two of wine, and then another big gulp of whatever deranged jungle juice concoction Kaminiari managed to cook up. It tasted terrible, but you were too drunk to really care. Shoto was no better. He was nursing his fourth drink of the night — a rarity he was even drinking at all — and seemed completely fine with the way your arms brushed as the two of you sat close in the grass. 

He was always so nervous around you. Now, he just seemed... happy. 

"I can't believe there is only one week left until graduation."

Graduation day was the last time you saw him. 

Until this morning, that is. 

You smile into your drink. 

"What?" you ask when his eyes never leave your face.

His fingers twitch towards his own glass. Shoto blinks, then rolls his jaw. He was caught staring. He clears his throat, looking a bit shy. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" you press playfully, cocking your head to the side.

"You..." he starts, then bawks. You're stunning, and it's making it hard to even think straight. He thought these feelings might have mellowed out over the years but seeing you again has just reignited everything. He feels like a hormonal teenager again, "You look beautiful."

Your expression falters into something lovesick. You chew your lip. "You're not so bad yourself, Todoroki."

He manages a half-smile. "Touya had me worried the suit was a bit much."

The idea of Touya offering him advice on his outfit strikes a chord in your heart. It makes you smile even bigger than before. "Well, you can tell Touya that I like it. A lot."

You rake your eyes up and down him. On purpose.

He notices.

Shoto's face feels hot. 

He tries to shake the bone-deep want that has swept his entire body up in its grip, but it's difficult when every single word out of your mouth reminds him just how in love he was with you back in school. You explain, excitedly, why you chose to teach at Chiba Prefectural Prep and catch him up on where you've been living since graduating. He's pleased to learn you're still in the area, living in the city, and decidedly in love with the commute to the school. 

Shoto's always been a good listener — but you can see how much he's changed when he begins to speak about his career. He seems so much more sure of himself than he was all those years ago. It wasn't that he was... unsure... but, no. He was shy. Quiet.

Now, less so. 

It's adorable. 

Dinner comes and goes with conversation over sushi that is far too good for you to even process. It's easy talking to him. It was easy talking to Shoto back, then, too but... Things are different. You're both different. Not in a bad way, but in a way that feels like coming home. 

While you both wait outside for the valet, Shoto shrugs his jacket off and puts it over your shoulders without a single word. Suddenly, you're cradled in a warmth that's very Shoto — his cologne clings to the collar and you bury yourself a little deeper into it. 

Shyly, you step closer and steal his hand. It's calloused and warm. He laced his fingers with yours as if practiced. You bite back a grin. You give his hand a little squeeze when you spot the car coming around the corner.

His silence is calming — and he squeezes your hand back. When you look up at him, you realize he's already looking at you. 

His face is close. It's so... intimate. Very. Nearly better than a kiss. 

But, you've wanted to kiss Shoto Todoroki since you were seventeen. 

The valet driver interrupts the moment with a respectful call of Shoto's name and offers the keys with a shake of the hand. With a little bit of hesitancy, Shoto remembers the thing Natsuo said — the car door, too — and moves around the passenger side to open the door for you. 

It's sweet.

Really sweet. 

The car ride back to your apartment is punctuated with easy conversation — you ask him about Bakugo and Midorya, and you're pleased to hear they're both doing well. He asks about Momo, and if you still keep in touch with Mina and Ochaco. He smiles to himself when you admit you did call Momo for help with an outfit. 

"She did a beautiful job," Shoto breathes, a palm moving from the gear shift to brush over the dress' fabric on your thigh.

His hand settles there. 

Your stomach does a flip. 

You chew your lip, swallow down a sudden burst of nerves, and let your hand rest over his. You squeeze it. Shoto tries to focus on the road. His gaze drifts for a moment at a red light, his heterochromatic eyes dancing across your figure. 

Keep it together. 

He isn't seventeen.

He's twenty-five. He's a Professional Hero. One of the Top Ten in all of Japan. He's more than capable of keeping it together in the face of physical touch from the woman he's dreamed about for years. 

...Right?

Green light.

His hand is still on your thigh when he pulls up to your apartment. 

The touch is relinquished in favor of putting the sports car in park. 

It makes your chest ache.

Shoto swallows thickly.

Do not chicken out on kissing her at the end of the night.

He'll never forgive himself. But, admittedly, he's bad at this. He's not good at reading body language, or even knowing himself enough to realize he looks mildly terrified as you blink up at him in the passenger's seat. His heart is hammering a mile a minute.

What if you don't want to kiss him?

When would he even kiss you? Now? Or at the door?

Why does he feel like he's going to die?

"This was really... Shoto, are you okay?" you ask as you unbuckle your seatbelt; you pause, your brows knitting tightly. 

"What?" he asks, blinking back to the present moment. The look of fear disappears, "Sorry. Yes. I'm fine."

You're working his jacket off your shoulders, gently leaning to fold it neatly in your lap. Your voice dips low, into something playful. "You didn't look fine..."

"I—" Shoto clamps his mouth shut as he leans an elbow on the center console, "Sorry. I suppose I'm just nervous."

"Nervous?" you grin, a little giggle punctuating your words as you wriggle in the red, leather seat, "Why?"

Your expression makes his expression crack. He ducks his head as he huffs out a laugh. You continue to egg him on via expression alone. "I... Stop it."

"Stop what?" you push some more, your back pressed to the door as you face him in the car, "You're the one being weird—"

"I'm not being weird—"

"Then what's wrong, Shoto?" you tease in a sing-song voice.

"I'm nervous because I want to kiss you."

His words are punctuated by a slow look that takes in every inch of your face. Butterfly wings kiss your stomach walls. And your knees. You feel a little tremble in your chest. 

It feels like someone has sucker punched you square in the sternum. Shoto's no better. He isn't entirely sure what the expression on your face means. Is that... good? Are you happy?

Your voice is a little quieter now. You duck your head and fiddle with his suit jacket as you lean back against the seat, a little closer now. 

"You don't need to be."

Shoto's breath catches at that.

So, he makes his move.

His hand comes first — his calloused palm settles nicely against your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone as his pointer finger brushes the underside of your jaw. Shoto is slow. Methodical. It's like he's trying to ground himself in the moment. 

Truth be told, he thinks he might be blacking out.

Your eyes flit up his wrist — a dark leather band around his wrist with an expensive watch face, a dark dress shirt with glimmering cufflinks, strong arms and a broad chest, and you can see the dip of his collarbone where the top two buttons of his shirt remain undone. 

He looks so damn handsome with his sharp jaw, pretty eyes, and his trademark white and crimson hair. Even his scar is beautiful. 

The touch pulls you in like he's got his own personal orbit.  

Your elbows are braced along the center console, your eyes flicking across his face as his fingers continue to brush along the soft expanse of your cheek. You wring your fingers together. 

Then, his eyes stick to your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he whispers, his breath fanning across your face. 

You never did go pro.

But, Shoto did. 

It shows. 

Because, at this moment, all you can do is nod feebly before you're swept into the sort of kiss people go to war for. It's the sort of kiss that sticks to your ribs, that feels like warm, fresh food. It's the sort of kiss that would drive you to the brink, that would make you nod and agree sure, let's get married and have three kids, let's name one after your father, and paint the house blue like your mother's favorite flower—

His mouth is eager, but not in an overbearing way. It's gentle. Slow. As if he needs to remind himself this is real and not some midnight fiction that leaves him aching and alone. Shoto reminds himself to be tepid, pliable, and easy, which is easier said than done when somewhere deep inside of him there's a seventeen-year-old screaming in victory. 

It's better than anything he could have ever imagined. 

And then you whimper. 

It's a sound tied between bliss and relief and it's muttered against his mouth as you lean in and let your fingers brush the fabric of his dress shirt. The tips of your fingers brush his abdomen and he flexes, the feeling foreign and warm. It warrants his other hand to drift to your face and you break for a breath; he doesn't care that there's lipstick smeared across his mouth. He's kissing you again — this time a little bit more feverish, a little bit more aching. 

You melt against him, this time your hands trembling to grip his wrists.

He needs to slow down.

He is not having sex with you in his father's car.

That's shameless.

He needs to slow down.

He has to, or he'll lose himself in this and he refuses to fuck this up. 

Shoto's breath is ragged when he finally peels himself away, his lip parted and eyes half-lidded. His grip on your face is still so soft, so gentle. It's very him. 

You're glad you didn't do this when you were seventeen.

It would have permanently altered your brain chemistry, you're sure of it. How could you ever kiss someone else again after that? 

He's rubbing your cheek with his thumb. You swallow, and try to level out your breathing. It's hard when he's still so close, when he's so... perfect. 

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your cheek, "Since our last year at Yuei."

A well-kissed smile breaks across your face. You reel back, your nose wrinkling as you shake your head in disbelief. Shoto is smiling. A real smile. The sort that's so rare you can count on one hand the amount of times you've ever seen it in person. 

"Are you serious?"

"Very," he says, chastely pressing another to your other cheek as he leans back.

"Me too," you admit shyly, "Can we... do it again sometime?"

Shoto's eyes widen incrementally. Then, his smile eases back onto his face. 

"Are you free this weekend?"

"I can be," you reply easily with a honeyed look, "And I will be. For you."

"I get off patrol on Saturday around seven," he explains before asking timidly, "We could... do dinner again?"

"Works for me," you breathe as you move for the handle of the car door, "After all, I never went Pro. Weekends are free."

Shoto scoffs. 

Then, as you open the door and swing a leg out:

"Oh, and tell Touya I thought the suit sexy."

Shoto's laugh is dry. You leave his jacket on the seat and scurry into your apartment with a lovesick wave. He swears he sees the silhouette of a familiar ponytail greet you at the door, but he doesn't dwell on it. He waits until you're inside and the lights to the front door are shut off.

Then it hits him. He has another date with you this weekend. 

You linger near the doorway longer than necessary. Your mom notices first, her face lighting up. “You’re back!”

A few heads turn.

His eyes follow.

Just once.

The smile doesn’t reach them.

“Oh,” he says mildly. “You’re here.”

That’s it.

No question. No relief. No where were you.

Your chest tightens.

You mumble greetings, hugging your siblings, exchanging half-hearted smiles while your thoughts spiral. He continues talking like nothing happened, effortlessly redirecting the conversation, asking about the kids, about work, about plans for next week.

Like you didn’t vanish.

Like he didn’t spend the night not knowing where you were.

You try to catch his eye again.

He doesn’t look.

Dinner preparations begin soon after. The family drifts toward the kitchen, filling the space with noise and warmth. You hover near the counter, heart pounding, rehearsing what you’ll say.

“I should explain-” you start quietly, stepping closer to him.

He doesn’t even turn. Just hands your mom a cutting board.

“She’ll need help with the salad,” he says calmly. “You can assist.”

The dismissal stings.

You obey anyway, fingers shaking as you chop vegetables. The sound of the knife hitting the board feels too loud. He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there. confident, polite, composed.

But you see it.

The tightness in his jaw. The sharpness in his blue/gray eyes. The way his shoulders stay stiff. The way his voice never wavers, but never softens either.

You try again. “My phone died. I swear, I wasn’t ignoring-”

He reaches for the spice jar, passing right by you.

“We’re having chicken tonight,” he says to your sister. “Hope that’s okay.”

Your breath catches.

Later, when everyone sits down to eat, you find yourself seated across from him. A mistake. Every time you glance up, you catch him watching you. not warmly, not softly.

Assessing.

Waiting.

“So,” your brother says, grinning, “how’s married life treating you two?”

Your husband smiles politely. “Busy.”

You choke slightly on your water.

Busy.

Your mom notices your silence. “You’ve been quiet.”

You take a breath. “I was actually going to say-”

He cuts in smoothly. “The food’s getting cold.”

You snap your mouth shut.

Under the table, his foot brushes yours, not gently. A warning.

Later, as plates are cleared and tea is poured, he leans closer, voice low enough that only you hear it.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Not here.”

“Shouto, I need to explain,” you whisper back, panic creeping in.

He exhales slowly through his nose, lips curling into something almost like a smile, but not quite.

“Oh, you will,” he says. “Just not now.”

Then, quieter. Colder.

“And you’re really not going to like how calm I’m being.”

Your heart pounds.

When the family finally starts to disperse, kids yawning, coats being grabbed, he helps clean up, still perfectly polite, still composed. The moment the last of your siblings leave, the house falls into a heavy silence.

He sets the last cup in the sink and gets his jacket bidding goodbye to your parents and heading to the door.

The drive home is quiet.

not tense, loud, but quiet. just still.

his eyes stay on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The streetlights pass in slow rhythm. you want him to say something, anything.

he doesn’t.

When you reach home, he unlocks the door, steps inside, and sets his keys down carefully.

Turns.

“Sit,” he says.

Not harsh. Controlled.

You sit.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, staring at you like he’s been holding something back for far too long.

“Start talking,” he says.

Words spill out of you all at once. “My friend had an emergency, she was panicking, I didn’t think, I thought I’d be back before anyone noticed and then my phone died and I couldn’t charge it and I didn’t want to worry anyone and-”

“Stop.”

One word.

You freeze.

He straightens slowly, walking closer until he’s standing right in front of you.

“Do you know,” he says quietly, “how many times I called you?”

You swallow. “No.”

“Do you know how many scenarios I ran through my head?” His voice tightens. “Hospitals. Accidents. Villains capturing you. leaving without telling anyone?”

“I would never-”

“You already did.”

The words hit hard.

“I trusted you,” he continues. “I trust you. But you don’t just vanish. Not like that.”

“I was trying to help-”

“And you scared the hell out of me.”

That’s when the anger finally cracks, just enough for the truth to spill through.

His hands rake through his hair. “I didn’t sleep. I finished my missions and came home early just in case you showed up here.”

Your eyes burn. “I’m sorry.”

He studies you for a long moment, then sighs, tension draining out of him all at once.

“Come here,” he says, voice rough.

You stand hesitantly. The second you’re close enough, he pulls you into him, arms tight, unyielding.

“You don’t get to scare me like that,” he murmurs into your hair. “Ever again.”

“I won’t,” you whisper. “I promise.”

He leans back slightly, still holding you. “Next time, you tell someone. You leave a note. You borrow a phone. You don’t disappear.”

You nod, clinging to him.

“And as for your punishment,” he adds quietly, a familiar edge returning, “you’re not leaving this room tonight. You’re talking. You’re staying right here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

He presses his forehead to yours, anger finally giving way to exhaustion and relief.

“I was mad,” he admits. “Really mad.”

“I know.”

“But I’m more relieved than anything,” he says softly.

He kisses your temple, slow, grounding.

“Just don’t ever make me wonder if I’ve lost you again.”

You hold onto him like you never plan to let go.

A/N: Don't be shy to comment or request for more! Likes and reblogs are appreciated as well :)

You move bodily away from him with Leah clasped to your chest, wondering if you can beat him in, but then a chirp sounds near the door and you watch in slow motion as a young teenager brings a radio to his mouth and says, “Code milkshake!”

You hear a curse and can’t help looking back, right at the bimmer, where Steve is looking up through the windshield with a look of frozen trepidation on his face. 

—

So. 

How did you end up where you are? 

You aren’t one for thinking about the past. Don’t like doing it. In fact, you try your very hardest not to think of the past when you can help it. Once Leah was born, that was easy to do. Babies are demanding, they take over your entire life, and your new life in Portland was already busy to begin with. You find thinking of the past incessant and unnecessary, but. Things are happening oh so fast —you had genuinely figured you could get through your homecoming without being spotted. You figured you could leave Leah at home with your mom while you shopped, but meemaw’s stroke has affected more than her body, and you couldn’t leave Leah there in good conscience in case an accident happened. 

It’s not like you had many friends, before you left. Any, in fact. Steve was the first guy to ever show any interest in you, and as nice as he’d been in the quiet moments after, he hadn’t exactly brought you roses or promised you anything. You’re the dummy who got pregnant by the ‘washed out’ king of Hawkins High. It was probably going to be one of his peers, and it was never going to be Nancy Wheeler. 

Things were obviously more detailed at the time, but you and Steve had come together in a fling. It’s not a relationship that you’d pictured for yourself, but it’s not as though you set your sights on him and thought, yeah, I’m going to fuck him. It was more that he was friendly, and you were both at the same bar at the same time sitting by yourselves, and with a little gin and a ton of mutual loneliness, it’d felt natural to let him kiss you against the hood of his car. When he drove you home, worried you’d get stuck in the rain, you’d offered him into an empty house. Things snowballed from there. 

The sex was good. Steve was kind. He was a bit awkward from time to time and he didn’t know what to say without putting his foot in his mouth, but you liked it. Liked him. 

Then the test. Then the memory of his Harrington name, how his mom wanted him to marry a socialite and his dad was priming him to get into the family business, whatever that may be. That silly conversation about kids. “I’d never put them through it,” he’d said, naked and tracing a star into your shoulder blades through the sheets, his hair damp at the nape of his neck with sweat, “are you joking? They’d be the loneliest kid ever.” 

You remember laughing softly. You’d wanted him to say something different, but you aren’t sure what it is he could’ve said to make it right enough to stay.

In the end, you figured Leah could be part of a brand new start. You applied for a job in the classifieds and uprooted the rest of your life to go to it, and when you finally had your baby, you didn’t let yourself call Steve. What use would that have been, letting him smash the lingering, aching bit of your heart that wanted him to love you? You were smart enough then to recognise that your dream for the future was about as childish as getting knocked up at nineteen. 

It hurts now, though, as he gets out of the car, how badly you want him to want you, and how stupid you’ve always been. 

Steve shuts the door to the BMW and makes his way in a jog across the parking lot. He breathes your name. You’re nervous, not stupid. You don’t try to hide the baby. 

She grumbles on your hip. 

Steve stands in front of you. He’s remarkably not shouting at you, but he’s not smiling, either. He looks different than the last time you’d seen him for sure, fuller and broader, lip dark with stubble and his hair shorter (but not short). There’s a funny scar stretching unkindly against his throat, startlingly new to you but clearly healed. 

He stands there in quiet. 

Leah makes a fawning sound, like she’s tired and excited to see a new person. 

“Hi, Steve,” you say, to get sound out in the air. 

His eyes fall on Leah. She’s a good mix of you both. Got her dad’s eyes and her mom’s nose and a handful of his beauty marks, small dark freckles that sprouted all over her body a few weeks after she was born. 

“Is she mine?” he asks, cutting straight to the fat. 

You shift her closer to your chest. He’s impossible to read for once, not a lick of anything on his face as he waits for you to answer. The cold chaps your lips and the late-fall sunshine threatens to blind you where it’s rising from behind him. 

“You didn’t want to have a baby,” you say carefully. Each word said with less enthusiasm than the previous. 

He doesn’t speak. Leah whines at the pause, her hand spreading against your collarbone in protest. 

“I know you didn’t. You said it’d be miserable, and you’d get stuck with a woman you didn’t love to save face, and I knew that. I didn’t see any good in… in making you go through that.”

To your complete and utter surprise, his face softens. His mouth puckers in sympathy and his arm twitches like he’s going to reach for you. His hair curls into his eyes in the cold breeze. He squints against it, gaze falling once again on Leah, who he can’t get enough of. He’s full-blown gawking at her, watching her sigh and sniffle and press her hand into your neck.

“Is she mine?” Steve asks again.

You clear your throat to answer, but you can’t summon the words. Your nod is jerky and embarrassed and annoyed, all at once. Of course she’s his baby. She looks so much like him, and you never let anybody else touch you. 

Steve opens his mouth to finally speak and you cut him off. “Well, she’s mine,” you say tightly. 

He nods like he understands. He doesn’t even look mad at the insinuation. 

“Her name is Leah.” If he’d been angry with you, cruel, even agitated, which maybe he deserves to be, you’re not sure you could offer this to him now. “She… she looks a lot like you, huh?” you ask. 

Steve manages a laugh, strained as it may be. “Yeah. Yeah, she does.” He swallows harshly. “I thought if I came by the house you’d turn me away. Uh. Because I thought there must’ve been a reason you didn’t want me to know, but now we’re… here.”

You glance around the parking lot. His tattle of a child has made himself scarce. 

“Do you wanna come home with me?” you ask. Mostly for want of something to say. 

“Yeah.” 

You go to leave, but Steve makes a sound and brings you right back. Without comment, he curls an arm around your shoulder and pulls you into a half-hug, slotting his nose against your temple like he used to, even as you tense up in his embrace. 

“I thought you’d be more angry at me than this,” you say under your breath. 

“Yeah, that’s not really how I work.” He parts from you awkwardly and points to the car. “I’ll follow you?” he asks. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” He turns very suddenly and makes his way to his car. 

You meander to your own car and pop open Leah’s door. “Sorry, Lee,” you murmur, tucking her into her carseat.

“Why?” she murmurs.

“We’re gonna go to meemaw’s, okay?” If your mom could hear you calling her meemaw before her stroke she’d have knocked you up the side of the head, but it’s all Leah’s ever known her as, and meemaw doesn’t have much choice in the matter now. You’d laugh if you didn’t feel sick. 

“Okay.”

You kiss her cheek, getting stuck there with your nose in her hair, all manner of panic and awkwardness and I’d-rather-nots thrumming through you. I should’ve stayed in Portland, you think. 

Leah kisses your cheek while you’re stooped there. Your misery takes a backseat as you gather your bearings. 

You climb into your own seat, close the door, lock it, and shove the keys in the ignition. Steve’s car idles a few spaces behind, waiting for you to go. You cannot put this off much longer, but you’d pictured the moment so differently, there’s a sense of unreality now. Is this happening? Did you really spill the truth to him the very first time he asked? 

Where’s your backbone?

Where’s your common sense?

With a groan, you pull the car out of the space and begin the drive to your mom’s house. You were never close with her, as strange as it seems. She was a woman with interests and her kid happened incidentally. It doesn't bother you anymore. You came to Hawkins to take care of her. Nobody else was going to do it for you, but so far she’s been an easy patient. She needs help making dinner and she can’t walk more than the length of the hall without finding herself breathless, but she’s recovering slowly, so long as her mental faculties recoup with her body, she’ll be alright. 

You, however, have screwed the entire pooch. You look at Leah in the rearview mirror and worry you’ve ruined her entire life. 

“Chill,” you say to yourself quietly, almost missing the road to your mom’s house. Worst comes to worst and we go home to Portland, you tell yourself. Nothing has to change. 

“Mommy?”

“Mm?” you ask. 

Leah leans forward in her car seat, huffing with annoyance when the belts keep her in place. The jacket she’s wearing has bunched into a lump under her chin. “Off?” she asks. 

“Two minutes.”

“Off.”

“Let me park the car, Lee. I’ll take it off of you as soon as we get home.”

She whines long and loud.

“Sorry, sweet girl. Two minutes and we’re there.”

Leah sulks the entire way there. You park in the space in front of the house and hurry out of the car, quick enough to see Steve in the bimmer pulling onto the sidewalk. You open Leah’s door and offer her a huge smile, hoping to cull a tantrum with bubbly affection. “Hi, off?” 

“Yes!”

You laugh to yourself and bring her out, even as your heartbeat climbs up your throat. You can hear Steve getting out of his car as you unbuckle Leah from the car seat and drag her out. You sit her in the slight dip of the window and use your stomach to keep her up as your fingers search for the zipper of her coat. You pull it tight down and unzipper her, freeing her of the thing that had been irking her so bad and restoring her good mood. 

She exhales dramatically in relief, which has you laughing again. “Is that better?” you ask through it.

“Better,” she echoes. 

Leah sits up at the sound of shoes on gravel. Steve’s crossing the drive, hands shoved in his pockets. 

“Who?” she asks. 

Uhhhh.

“He’s gonna come in and have dinner with us, okay?”

“Y’okay.” 

“Yeah?”

Leah nods enthusiastically. You can see Steve grinning in your peripheral vision, and it’s so much like Leah’s smile you find your heart going haywire. 

“Okay,” you say, your full attention to Steve. “Is that cool?”

“Can we talk, first?”

You don’t blame him for asking. 

“Yeah, we’ll talk first. But… my mom, she’s not doing the best right now, so. Maybe we should talk outside?” 

“I’m not going to yell.”

“No, but. If you’re angry, I get it, but she can’t cope with that right now.” 

“Are you angry?” he asks. 

“No.”

“Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” he says, the sound of his smile palpable as Leah gives one back. “I’m not gonna yell. I promise.”

You show him into the house. It feels like walking yourself to the gallows. 

The room is narrow. The sides of your vision start to dissolve as you drop your car keys in the bowl by the door, then walk Leah to the kitchen. You hold her one handed as you palm off her shoes, dropping them and then her on the floor by the kitchen table. “Okay?” you ask her. 

She wanders off toward the living room and the sound of TV. 

Steve Harrington’s standing in your mom’s rinky dink kitchen waiting for you to talk. You’re standing there useless, taking sips of air that sting, waiting for him to cut the crap and berate you. It would make sense. If he’s upset that you didn’t tell him you were pregnant, or that you were stupid enough to keep her, to get pregnant in the first place, it wouldn’t surprise you. Men are cruel, and Steve had a reputation for popularity. It would make sense for him to be mean to you now. 

“How old is she?” he asks finally.

“She’s turning two soon.”

Steve seems to be holding his tongue. 

“Just– ask.” You try to look sorry. “Ask me whatever you want.”

“Can I–” He throws a hand out, the first sign that he’s not as genial as he appears. “Can I be her dad?”

You flinch. “What?”

“Like, I want to be her dad. A real dad. I want to be in her life, I want her to know me. Did you think I wouldn’t want that?”

“I didn’t think you wanted kids at all.”

“I want kids.” Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “I always wanted a whole team of them.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“When? When you told me you were having my baby?”

This is more what you’d been expecting. There’s a cruel pleasure in being vindicated. “When you told me you didn’t want kids, Steve. You said you didn’t want a miserable kid in a miserable marriage, what was I supposed to glean from that?” 

“Exactly, I didn’t want a miserable kid, which is exactly what I was, and I didn’t want it in an arranged marriage that my mom thought would be good for me.” His anger drains a little. “I never meant– I mean, even if I didn’t, you should’ve told me.”

“She’s my baby.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s totally fair, she’s literally mine.”

“It’s not fair to act like I wouldn’t have cared,” he clarifies, frowning at you. It’s so disappointed-looking it pisses you off worse, but you're trying to keep a level head. Nobody here deserves for you to blow up and say words you don’t mean. 

You bite your lip. “I’m sorry, Steve, but I wasn’t convinced that you would. I wanted what was best for me and her.” 

“I can be best for you both.”

You wait for him to hold it up. To prove what he means. 

“If she’s mine, I want to be her dad,” he says. 

“If?”

He waves a hand, like he could roll his eyes. He should thank his lucky stars he didn’t. “Not like that, I’m not saying she’s not, I just want to look after her.” 

“She’s looked after.”

“I’m not saying she’s not,” he says, uneasy now, shifting to hide a hand in his pocket. He wasn’t expecting you to be difficult, you think. “I’m not saying that. I’m not saying anything about you, I’m asking you if I can do right by you.”

“You might not actually want her, Steve.” 

“I haven’t stopped thinking about her since the kids told me. I didn’t get a good look at her, but the idea? Just the idea of her? I wanted it.”

You sigh, frustrated, and set your sights on the fridge. “Can’t believe you had kids posted up at Bradley’s to stalk me,” you murmur. 

“I needed to see her for myself.”

“Steve... You’re twenty three. We aren’t married. You don’t have to be anything to her, you don’t have to do right by me, we don’t have to play house until you’re miserable. In a couple of months we’ll go home to Portland and you don’t have to do anything. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but you don’t have to worry. You can tell everyone you tried and I said no and you’ll still look good.”

“Why are you being like this?” he asks, leaving little air between your sentence and his. “What are you talking about? I’m asking you if I can keep you guys and you’re trying to run me out?”

“Keep us?” you ask indignantly. 

“Yes!” He clears his throat. “I don’t get why you left without telling me and I am angry, but I also don’t understand what it’s like to have to make that decision, and I’m sorry you made it by yourself, and I don’t blame you for running away. Okay? Is that okay?”

He’s so loud, then, so tightly wound and upset, his voice a shade of pleading, that the protests you’d been making die on your lips. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

“You didn’t think I wanted a baby, and I guess I didn’t give you a reason to think that, but I do want one. I would’ve— if you’d told me, I would’ve lost my mind. I’m still losing it.”

You pull out a chair at the kitchen table to take a wobbly seat. Your heart is racing, that stupid kiddie feeling of being in trouble for hurting him clouded by a lingering sense of mistrust. You’d thought… all these years, that Steve didn’t want kids, or marriage, or anything, and– and– maybe you didn’t run away because of him, maybe it was all you, maybe— 

“Hey,” he says, a hand landing between your shoulders, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask, sharper than you mean to.

“I don’t know. I wanted you to stop freaking out.”

“Well,” you say, licking your lips, your breath coming short and shallow, “it didn’t work.”

Steve Harrington rubs your back. You try desperately to chill out, Leah in the other room, your mom sleeping or listening, probably already wound up from all the ruckus, and Steve, who you haven’t seen in years, who used to kiss all over your face before he’d hug you in the dark of his bedroom, waiting for you to calm down so he can say what he needs to. 

A chair pulls out next to yours after a while. Steve sits beside you, resting his hand on your knee. 

After a few minutes, you cover his hand with yours. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says. 

“Looks like her mom,” you mumble. 

“Yeah, she does. More like me though.”

You huff a weak laugh. 

“Are you gonna throw me out?” Steve asks. 

“You want to be her dad?”

For a few seconds, you worry he hasn’t heard you. But he rubs a small back and forth on your leg and says, “Please.” 

“Okay. Okay, then. I’m not letting you meet her if you’re not serious, Steve. You have to mean it.” You raise your eyes to his and all his perfect lashes. “Promise?”

He offers his pinky, which is so dumb. This whole scenario is so stupid. Too bad it’s mostly (almost entirely) your own fault. 

You shake his pinky. He keeps them tied for a long time. 

In a rush, you sniffle yourself dry and usher Leah into the room with a hand on her shoulder. She is so, so small. At least your mom missed the commotion, sleeping sat up in the armchair. 

“You promise?” you ask Steve, pausing at the table. 

Steve nods emphatically. By the looks of things, he’s all in. 

You pull your chair out opposite Steve and scoop Leah into your lap. You hold her wrist in your hand gently and lean down to talk in her ear. “Okay, Lee. I gotta tell you something, okay?”

“Y’okay.”

“This is daddy.” 

You can tell he’s not expecting such a straightforward introduction, but after a moment, he cannot hide his smile. Leah looks at him with his almond shaped eyes, all smiles in return. 

“Okay? This is daddy, and he’s gonna spend some time with us.” 

“Huh?”

You point at Steve, smiling even as your hand trembles between you both. “This is your daddy. He missed you very much and wanted to see you. Can you say hi?”

“Hi,” Leah says, her voice raspy and high. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says, ever so slightly choked up. Just barely. 

“He was my best friend,” you say, “and he wants to be your best friend, too. Do you want to play a game with daddy?” 

“Wam’ play game?” Leah asks Steve. 

“Please, I would love to play a game. What game do you like?” he asks.

“Um…” Leah places her hand in his and you could probably weep, but he’s smiling at her with so much love as he waves it up and down you never get there. She shakes her fist up and down in his, giggling when he over exaggerates her strength. 

“Woah, strong girl!” he says. “Don’t break my arm!”

Leah gives him a good shake. 

—

“I do not understand why you’re so calm. How you’re so calm. This is not how I’ve seen you react to things.”

Steve pushes the shopping cart into Robin’s hip. She squawks and thrusts it at him, the crate of kiddie water bottles he’d balanced on the bottom rung hitting him clean in the ankle. 

“How am I supposed to react?” he asks, wincing as he brings his leg up to rub at the new wound. 

“Uh, to blow the fuck up?” She tucks her hair behind her ears, staring at him. “I was expecting more whining, if I’m totally honest.”

Steve gets back to the task at hand. The aisle they’re in is pink no matter where you look, full of Barbie dolls and ballerina tutus and teddy bears with hearts in their palms. “What would you want if you were two?” he asks. 

Robin offers one of her kinder smiles. “I guess I’d want everything.”

“Well, Y/N’s not gonna like that.” 

He wants to take care of you both. He doesn’t want to make you feel like you weren’t doing that already. So. The cart is full of stuff for him mostly, things he’ll need to look after Leah should he ever be allowed to take her by himself, which he assumes he will. He’s got diapers, sippy cups, wet wipes, rash creams, a mountain of clothes he has to remember to keep the receipt for, baby snacks, a changing pad, bath toys. He has a towel like a poncho with a ladybug hood and a great big bottle of bathroom cleaner to shape things up for his baby. 

He also got you pajamas. He’s not sure why. He remembers that old pair you used to wear whenever he’d make it to your place with the pink and purple plaid, and he’d been wondering if you kept them, and a desire to see you in them again had come over him and now they’re in the cart. He’s hoping he can sort of slip them in between diapers. 

Steve doesn’t want to show you up, but he does want to prove he’s being serious, emotionally and physically —financially. Leah is his baby. Kids are expensive, and she must’ve already cost you a small fortune, and you didn’t want his help but you can bet you’ll be getting it, not singularly because he cared for you (he has to gloss it into that one word, care, things being complicated enough as it stands without remembered notions of falling and love) but because Leah is literally his baby. 

He pauses on the spot. 

Leah is his girl. He’s allowed to buy her things. It will not be an insult. 

He grabs a Barbie with a puppy dog on a leash, a box of stickle bricks, a teddy bear with a big cutesy grin, and purple bunny rabbit to be his best friend. 

Robin watches him put it all in the cart in silence. 

“Is that enough?” he asks, despite previous internal decisions. She’s his best friend. Everyone needs one. 

Robin turns on the spot to look at the shelves behind them, grabbing a box set of storybooks bound with ribbon down the spines. “These ones are from me,” she says, dumping them next to the second jumbo box of diapers.

“I’m not, like, super angry,” he says, getting behind the cart to push for the checkout. “I want kids. I want Leah. This isn’t a bad thing.”

“You kind of missed out on a lot,” Robin says. Carefully, not to be cruel, but to present it to him in case he hasn’t thought about it. Obviously he’s thought about it, but. 

“I mean, yeah. But do you remember being a baby?”

“It’s, like, a deep down thing.”

He swallows. “Sure, I don’t like that I didn’t get to be there when Leah was a baby, but… I’m finding it hard to be mad when she was protecting all of us from things we didn’t want, or, that’s what she thought.” Steve gives a jerky shrug. “I’m sure she got enough love from her without me, but I’m gonna make up for whatever she missed out on.”

“Okay. Well, when you explode, I’m literally right here.”

Steve is overcome with the urge to snuggle her in the middle of the store, but he hits her with the shopping cart again and feels the thanks get stuck in his throat. “I’m not gonna explode. I’m happy.” 

Steve is thrilled. He has a baby. He has a child. Maybe it’s not the wife and six kids he thought he wanted, but Leah is his baby. 

“She’s mine,” he says. 

“I know, dingus. You’ve said it a hundred times.”

He parks his cart at the belt behind a grandma buying cat food. “I can’t wait for you to meet her, Rob, she’s–”

“She’s beautiful,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “We’re way too young for kids, Steven. You were supposed to go to college.”

“I’m still gonna go!”

“With what money?”

Steve will save again. It’s community college. 

Robin holds his eye. He avoids it, starts putting things on the checkout belt. “You’re doing the only thing you can do,” she says, “I don’t wanna be friends with a deadbeat, but I wanted you to go. I’m too young to be an Aunt.”

“I’ll going, Rob.” 

“Fine. I believe you.”

“Can you help?”

She pulls stuff out of the cart reluctantly. 

Together, they pack what can be bagged and take it all to the car. Steve drops Robin off at home without much of a goodbye —either she’ll call him tonight or he’ll call her, ‘cos one way or another, they’re gonna talk. Then he takes the side road to your mom’s house and parks the bimmer behind your old blue Pontiac. 

He grabs the toys and the bag of groceries. He’ll have to make another trip for the diapers, but he figures it’s best to see your reaction before he lugs it all up the driveway. 

You answer the door. Parenting has been going better than expected considering you kept the baby a secret for two whole years, and you’re already smiling when you see him. Things were awkward that first week, but he’s been coming by every single day after work if he works, bright and early if he doesn’t. He can tell you’re growing more confident in his promises. He’s not gonna realise how big this whole thing is and run. He’s well aware of how world-changing his decision was to stay, but it wasn’t a decision at all. 

“Hi, is she awake yet?” he asks. Leah naps every day at noon. 

“Mm-hm. She was asking me for daddy all morning,” you say. Secrets you may have kept, but you’re glad for both of them whenever Steve and Leah get along. “I promised you’d be here after dinner.”

“Is it cool that I’m early?”

You eye the bags in his hands. “Sure. I already told you, I’m not gonna dictate anything. You can see her when you want to… What’s that?”

“I was thinking I’d make dinner?” He shakes the lighter bag. “And this is for Leah.”

“Right. Okay.” 

You let Steve in. He, despite all things in his body that remember this song and dance and demand he kiss your cheek hello, powers through to the kitchen without making a fool of himself. 

“Brought your favourite. Thought Leah would probably like it, since you liked it so much,” he says. “And those pastries you loved.”

“You want me to go grab her?”

“Where is she?” 

“She’s sitting with my mom. Don’t think she heard the door, she would’ve come out running by now. She’s a little sleepy.”

“That’s okay. I can put all this away and I’ll go see if she’s awake.”

You cross your arms over your stomach, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to get stuff for me.”

“I wanted to.”

“You don’t have to, though. Leah’s your baby, but I’m…”

He feels achy in his jaw. He abandons the bag full of groceries to look at you fully. “If you’d turned up here without Leah, after two years of full radio silence, no letters and no clue where you went, if you came back, I’d want to see you. You know that, right?”

“I…”

“I asked your mom where you went, did you know that?”

“No.”

“Well, she wouldn’t tell me.”

“I don’t think she knew.”

Steve hates how much that annoys him, hates the way he relates to it. He dries his hands on his pants, not sure if he wants to hug you or tip your head with his thumb at chin, forcing you to look at him, to say the things he’s said in his head before bed a couple nights a week for years. 

Steve Harrington does not love by halves. 

“You’d tell me if you were gonna leave again, right?” he asks. 

“We are leaving.” 

“I know, I know, but. You’re not gonna disappear in the middle of the night.”

“No, Steve. I’ll tell you before we go home. I promise.”

His shoulders relax. “Okay, then, I’ll keep bringing stuff you like, too. Trade deal.”

“Mutually beneficial. I won't kidnap your baby again and you bring me raspberry turnovers.”

“Exactly.”

You surprise him with a laugh. “Okay.”

“Okay, good,” he says, grinning, wondering if he’s finally paving a path into your lap again. 

From the doorway of the kitchen comes a pleased gasp. “Daddy?” Leah asks, her eyes widening in delight, feet stomping on the spot, “Hi, daddy!” 

He was supposed to give this up for community college? Steve squats down in a half-second and holds out his hands, ready for an armful of sleepy toddler. Her hair is all puffy and her pajamas big at the neck like she’d wriggled for hours, but she’s soft, smells clean as he wraps his arms around her and she burrows into his neck. 

“Hi, Leah,” he says softly. 

Leah hums her content. 

“Good nap?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? Did you have a good dream?”

She laughs as he strokes her back. He must’ve tickled her. “Da-ddy,” she says, a long, pulling word. 

She’s so small Steve can’t hug her properly like this, so he hooks her in one arm and stands up to his full height, catching your unreadable expression from over her shoulder. Whatever you’d been thinking fades away, your smile strengthening as Leah pulls out of his neck to wave at you. 

“Mommy,” she says, poking at Steve’s neck. “Look. Daddy’s for dinner.”

Steve laughs loudly. “I’m for dinner? You’re gonna eat me? I thought you liked me!” His head falls in a dramatic agony. “Leah wants to cook me up for dinner, I can’t believe it.” 

“No!” Leah says, giggling as she grabs his face. She pulls at his cheeks, forcing his head up. “Not eating,” she says, like he’s silly. 

Steve shifts her so she’s sitting braced on his lower belly, looking down at her. God, she’s so pretty. She’s perfect. She’s tiny, slim for her age according to you, but she isn’t weak. She holds herself up, her hands confident as they spread over his chest. Steve has to confess that this feeling is the strongest he’s ever experienced. Nothing compares to looking at this little kid who already treats him like he’s the best person she’s ever met, knowing that she’s his. He has to look after her. He gets to be loved by her without hesitation. Leah has no reason to love him, and yet here she is giggling in his arms from the excitement of seeing him. It’s like every day she likes him more, and every day, Steve gets to love her more. It’s so weird, but it's nice.

“I brought you something,” he says, shifting her again so he can cover her back with one arm, using the other to brush a stray bit of lint off of her face. “But– mommy, can she have it now?” he asks. 

You flush. Steve recognises this look on you, pleased and startled. He’s seen it on you a hundred different times. You were always that girl who didn’t expect kindness, or to be considered. He remembers how endearing it was to surprise you with a kiss to say thank-you, or picking up the bill no matter how casual dinner felt, or something as small as helping you into your pajamas after you’d both showered. It was heartbreaking, but he’s never been unfamiliar with the bare minimum. 

“Yeah, of course she can.”

“Alright,” Steve says, grinning. “Your Aunt Robin sent me with a gift for you, but daddy’s is better, so you can have mine first.” He twists for the bag it’s in and yanks it out, Barbie to him so she can’t see. “It’s only small, but I saw it and I thought you’d like it.”

“Can have?” she asks. 

“Depends. Can I have a hug first?” he asks, checking  your face to make sure he’s not being weird. 

Leah nods erratically and throws herself forward. Steve gets a big kiss right on his smooth-shaven cheek, and he can’t stop himself from beaming, his punched out sigh poorly suppressed as he turns her to give her a much gentler kiss at the very top of her cheek. “Thanks, Lee.”

Her eyes squint with a smile. “Can I have, please?”

Steve brings the box up and tosses it to flip it, brandishing it right way round to her glee. 

“Barbie!” she cries.

“With a puppy!” 

“Oh gosh.”

Steve bursts out laughing. “Gosh! Should we get the box open? Then you can gosh at the accessories. She has two pairs of shoes, Leah. Two!”

Leah squirms to be put down, hands clenched tightly on each side of the box. You’re already grabbing scissors to get it open. 

“Thank you.” You lean over Leah to start the dissection. 

“Don’t,” he says, quiet but less shame-faced. “You don’t have to say thanks.” 

You shake your head to yourself. “Yeah, well.” 

“She deserves it, and it’s not up to you to say thanks. I’m serious.” 

“It’s nice of you.” 

He doesn’t know how to prove how certain he is about staying. He decides to keep his mouth shut for now, which is hard. Almost slips up that whole evening. You don’t look happy when he doubles back before he leaves that night with the bag of snacks and the huge box of diapers, but he catches you as you and Leah stand on the stoop waving at the bimmer. You’re smiling. A real one, teeth on display for the first time since you came home. 

—

“Okay,” you say quietly, “up, baby. And another one. Good job.” 

Leah demonstrates a unique level of concentration as she climbs up the stairs with you. You’d have carried her if she didn’t insist she could do it herself with a displeased squeal. Her eyes are nearly closed, her tongue slipping between her lips and a hand thrown out for balance, the other held in your own as she manages two, then three, the few shallow steps that lead into the WSQK building. 

“Hi,” you greet a quiet man sitting at the door. “Is Steve in?” 

“Think so. Why?”

“I wanted to talk to him, if that’s okay.”

The man gives you a suspicious look that eventually metes. “Sure. Gotta knock the booth before you go in, though, they might be on the air.”

“Sure. Thank you.” 

Leah stumbles with you inside. There’s a wide wooden panelled room and smaller glass one within. You knock on it and wait for movement, too scared to look through the panels. You’ve learned that Robin has her very own radio show on the 94.5 called The Morning Squawk, and Steve, through best-friend nepotism, gets to be her sound guy. He has this WSQK van they drive around to do on the road interviews, and they’re both a hundred times happier here than they were rewinding tapes at Family Video. 

It’s a pretty firm knot of roots to lay. 

The door opens a good fifteen seconds after you’d knocked. You’re immediately greeted by a blondified Robin Buckley, her freckled cheeks slack with surprise. “Uh…”

“Hi, Robin.”

“Hi,” she says. 

The last time you saw Robin, you’d been laying on Steve’s couch in his socks and what might’ve been Robin’s own sweatshirt, the three of you arguing on what movie to watch and what candy you were gonna tip into your popcorn. You’d laid your head in Steve’s lap. 

“Leah,” you say, clearing your throat as subtly as possible, “say hi, bubby.” 

“Hi, bubby,” Leah says. 

Robin snorts. 

“This is your daddy’s best friend ever, Aunt Robin,” you say, shooting Robin a sorry look as you mouth, “Is that cool?” 

Robin culls your misery and manages a real smile. “That’s me, babe.” She bends at the waist. “Oh, you really do look like Steve. Shit, this is so cool.” Her awkwardness has melded to full-bodied delight. “You’re like his twin! Well, you do look like your mommy, duh, but this is trippy! Hey, did you get your books?”

Leah looks up at her with huge eyes. 

“Did you like your storybooks?” you ask Leah, kneeling down behind her to hold her shoulder. “Aunt Robin gave you those ones, remember, daddy read one to you about the ugly duckling?” 

“The duckies,” Leah says factually. 

“Awesome,” Robin says. “I’m so happy you liked them, sweetie. And I’m so happy to meet you.” 

You don’t question for a second that she means it. 

You pat Leah on the shoulder. “Aunt Robin is your daddy’s best friend in the whole world.” 

“Daddy’s here?” she asks Robin. 

“Uh, not right now, he had to go get lunch.” 

“Oh.”

“But you can totally come in!” she says, opening the door to the booth wide. “I can show you how the radio works! And then Steve– then dad can come back. I bet he’ll be here any second.”

“You’re not busy?” you ask. 

“I mean?” Robin laughs, nervously incredulous, “if I ever have kids they’d be her cousins. That’s pretty important. And, like, she’s Steve’s, so? I’d die for her?” Robin scratches a hand through her hair. “Come on, baby Stevie, I’ll show you the keyboard. It’s your dad’s favourite gimmick.” 

You hover in the middle of the small room as Robin slides a chair over to the desk with a keyboard and a mic balanced on top of it. She glances at you before she holds her hands out to Leah, and Leah goes into them willingly. Robin pulls her up and settles her in the chair. She can barely see the keys, but she’s already reaching for them as Robin starts to explain which ones do what, toggling a switch that you assume makes sure whatever sounds Leah plays are off air.

You sit yourself down on a loveseat by the door.

“We can play all of this stuff on the radio in the car,” Robin says, “do you listen to the radio?”

“The music, bubby,” you say. 

Leah gives a neck-breaking nod. 

“Well, me and dad choose what songs to play. Do you have a favourite song?” 

“She loves ‘Save it For Later’ by The Beat. She gets super into it,” you say. 

“Oh, we have that one! Let’s queue it up, Leah.”

Leah mashes the keyboard in a cacophony of introductions and funny sounds, then a long run of the Rockin’ Robin intro. She finds a sound bite of applause loaded up on the tape deck, hitting it over and over as she giggles. 

“Be careful, Lee, don’t break it.”

Her hitting doesn’t slow. 

“Lee,” you say more firmly, “baby, stop. You have to be nice. Don’t slap the buttons.” 

Leah throws you a glare. “Mommy,” she whines. 

“What? You have to be nice to other people’s things. Aunt Robin is letting you play with her keyboard, but it’s  important. It’s okay to try all the buttons! But with nice hands. Yeah?”

The ajar door opens fully. “Is my Leah not being nice?” Steve asks, already beaming with all his teeth as he sees her behind the keyboard. “I don’t believe that for a second!” 

Leah wiggles her excitement in the depths of the chair. Doesn’t bother calling out for him, there’s no need. Steve laughs, saying hi with a quick hand dropped on your shoulder, the gentlest squeeze anyone’s ever given with his thumb rubbing a half circle before he bends down by Leah’s chair. “Hi,” he says, your heart beating so loudly in your ears that you hardly hear him. “You’re at the radiohouse! Did Rockin’ Robin show you how to play a song? Do you wanna talk on the microphone?” 

“Hi,” Leah says. 

“Hi.”

“Hug me now?”

Steve’s like butter in the sun. He melts into nothing. “Yeah, babe, right now.”

She slinks forward and he picks her up, standing with a baby on his hip like he’s been doing it all his life. 

“I’m gonna play her a song,” Robin says. “My queues almost empty.”

“Okay, thanks,” he says, to which Robin wrinkles her nose. 

“Sure,” she says, sending you a look as she heads to her desk. Like, get a load of this idiot.

Steve presses his nose to Leah’s hair and smells her. Then he smiles, patting the small of her back. 

Leah looks straight at you and says, “Daddy’s here,” in case you weren’t aware. 

Steve blinks away a pained flutter, his brow pulling like he’d been in pain, quickly wiped away and hidden by the time Leah glances at him again. 

You think maybe, for a second, he’d wanted to cry. 

“Steve?” you ask quietly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No, yeah.”

“You sure?” 

He tugs Leah higher on his hip. “I’m okay,” he tells you, holding your gaze, his left sclera bloodshot but his nearly-tears blinked away. “I’m great, ‘cos Leah’s here,” he adds, pressing his mouth to Leah’s cheek, “at work! She’s a working girl now, we gotta get you on the payroll.” 

It’s a little while later, sitting on the couch and waiting for Steve to ask you what it is you’re doing here, when the door opens. Leah perks up in his lap, the headphones she’d been wearing falling down around her neck in a heap that makes her cringe, giving a warbly cry as Steve offers assurances to her. 

You’re focused on the teenager standing in the door. It’s the kid. 

His eyes widen at the sight of you. 

“Lucas Sinclair,” you greet, giving him a stony look. “You ratted me out.”

“Uh– did I?” 

“I know it was you.” 

Lucas grimaces. “Are we sure it was me?”

“I saw you.”

“Steve could’ve got the information from anyone.”

You glare for a few more seconds, then relax. “I’m messing with you, Lucas. I’m not mad. Even if you are a narc.”

“I am not! I told Dustin and it was Dustin that radioed Steve. He’s the narc. I said we had to wait for proof.”

“Well, thanks for trying.”

Lucas hesitates with you, though he comes further into the room and lets the door shut behind him. “I am sorry. Kind of.”

“We’re working things out.”

Leah tugs the headphones off of her head and out of the outlet in a great show of toddler rage, Steve laughing where he holds her. He grabs the headphones before Leah can throw them at the floor. “Hey!” he admonishes through laughter, “Those aren’t mine, babe. Should we put them on the desk?”

Steve takes them from her and sets them high. He moves the chair, bumping Leah on his knee, forcing her eyes to the new figure in the room. “Look, Lee, it’s your Uncle Lucas.”

Lucas gives an awkward, endearing smile. “Hi.”

“Hi!” Leah says. 

“What’s up?” Steve asks. 

“Can I get a ride, tonight? I asked my dad but he’s going to that miniature car thing.” 

“Where to?” 

“Max’s.”

“Why are you being cagey?” Steve asks, lifting an eyebrow. 

“I’m not!” 

“You so are, dude. What’s happening at Max’s?” 

“Nothing! She doesn’t, like, know I’m going, that’s all.”

Steve leans in his chair in what would be a total act of casual derision if he weren’t also holding Leah to his front, his fingers waving patterns into her tummy affectionately. “So I’m gonna be on her shit list for whatever it is you have planned? No deal, dude.”

“I’m not in trouble. She’s not mad at me,” Lucas says.

“For once.”

“She’s not. I have a surprise planned? And it’s gonna get ruined on my bike, so.”

Steve’s suspicion wavers. “What sort of surprise?” he asks. 

His smile is nice. Doesn’t it suit him? He’s calm where he sits despite the rumble of noise coming from Robin’s booth and Leah talking to herself in his lap. The red glow of the ON AIR light makes his brown hair nearly purple at the tops but leaves his face untouched, tan fading pale in the fall, his beauty marks the darkest bit of colour to him when you aren’t looking into the well of his eyes. His irises are like wet tree bark. His lashes look long from across the room. 

And his biceps don’t look half bad when they’re wrapped around your baby. Her tiny stature emphasises the bulk he’s put on while you were in Portland. You’ve been noticing more of him lately—his weight gain, the change in his muscle, the cut of his hair, those reading glasses he keeps in the console of his car. But there are things about him that didn’t change. He’s pretty happy, as things go. He likes doing things for other people. 

Their conversation drifts into focus. “…not too much, right?”

“Nah, I think that’s appropriate. Four years of dating is a long time.” 

“Even if you’re broken up for half a year in the middle?”

Steve chuckles. Leah looks up at the sound. “I wouldn’t mention that part,” he says. “Look, I’ll come get you after I’m done here–”

“You’re not coming tonight?” you ask, entirely sincere in asking. Not a lick of judgement in it, but surprise, and a second emotion you aren’t eager to name. 

“I was– I was gonna come,” Steve says. “If that’s cool.”

“Oh, sure. Sorry. I thought you were– Yeah, it’s fine,” you say. 

Steve looks at you for a long second. “I can’t miss out on dinner,” he says, dipping down to speak in Leah’s ear, “can I? What am I making tonight, Lee, do you remember?”

“S’getti,” she says, with a vindication bordering evil. 

Steve presses his lips together. Shrugs at Lucas smugly. “S’getti,” he says. “I’ll be there at six, okay?” 

Lucas shoots an “Awesome, thank you, sorry,” over his shoulder as he leaves. 

“Thank you sorry,” Leah repeats. 

Steve has to lock into work and he doesn’t ask you to leave, moving Leah around in his arms and plugs the headphones in. She enjoys the novelty enough to sit there without complaining, bathed in attention. It’s weird to have Leah with you without having to look after her. Like, she gets uncomfortable and Steve moves her. She whines in his arm and he opens a drawer to uncover a bag of chips. He does ask if it’s alright for her to eat them, but you say yes and he doesn’t need guidance after that. He wipes her dirty face in his sleeve and twists a knob on the keyboard. 

He is startlingly capable. 

You are startlingly hot. 

You pull at your neckline, wishing you’d brought a book to read or a zip tie to garrote yourself with for thinking such stupid shitty thoughts. 

—

Steve packs his shit up at five with Leah on his hip, happy to stay with him. You’ve been quiet bordering silent and he hasn’t summoned up the bravery to ask why. He didn’t wanna look a gift horse in the mouth, ‘cos you’re here, and you brought Lee without any begging on his part. He shows her off to everyone they pass on the way out, less subtly to the smiley cleaner Cindy who loves to call him handsome in the morning. Who’s this? she asks. 

This is my baby, Leah.

The problem arises when he’s trying to pass Leah to you to part ways in the parking lot. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard something that loud,” Robin laments, blinking fast. Because, despite years and time to learn, he’s her ride home. 

Leah screams another ear-splitter. “No!” she’s shouting. “No, no!” 

She sobs. 

You try to disentangle her from Steve’s chest. He can feel your individual fingers pressing into his pecs. “Lee, come on!” you say, laughing nervously. “Daddy has stuff to do, we’ll see him for dinner!”

She sobs louder. 

Robin shakes her head as though dislodging water from her ears.

“Baby, please,” you say, apparently possessing the patience of a god, “it’s okay, I promise, it’s not long. We’ll be okay for a bit.” 

Leah sews her hands in his hair tightly, yanking until it stings. Steve flinches and you immediately stop trying to make Leah disengage. 

“Sorry, honey,” you say, and Steve realises with a full body start you’ve spoken to him, your hand resting open on his upper shoulder. It’s an obvious slip of the tongue. You lean forward with a slight stammer, “I– Leah, don’t pull, you’re hurting.”

“Not going,” Leah says. 

“Just for now!” 

“No!”

You give Steve a wide-eyed frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s going on. She doesn’t do this… usually.”

“That’s okay, it’s fine, maybe you could come with me?” 

You nibble your lip. “I gotta go check on my mom, I haven’t been home all day, I don’t know if she’s eaten yet.” 

Steve tries to pass Leah into your arms with renewed purpose. The snap of hair behind his ear gives him pause. “Uh, can she come with me?” Steve asks, loud now, his head angled against her hand. “Ow, Lee!”

Leah stops pulling his hair with a sob. 

“I’ll take her with me and I’ll drop Robin off, pick Lucas up early, and we’ll come straight to the house.”

You falter.

The thought of you not trusting him hurts his stomach, but you say, “Steve, can you deal with that? She might not get any happier for a while.”

“Sure I can, you’ve had to do it a hundred times. I’m mostly patient. If she doesn’t calm down, I won’t yell–”

“I didn’t think you would.” You pout, wrinkling your nose. “You’d have to move the car seat–”

“Yeah, I got one.”

“You got a car seat?”

“Installed it last week. Jesus Christ, Leah, not the hair!” He reaches up to force her hand as gently as he can away from his scalp. “Baby, owwww. Not the hair.” 

Leah shudders away to check he’s not angry. He can see it on her tiny face, the worry. He brings his hand to her cheek, finds his hand is too big, and has to rub her cheek with his thumb alone. “You wanna come with daddy to drop off your Aunt Robin?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” 

“Come with you,” she says, a crocodile tear rolling down her cheek. 

“But mommy has to go home, is that okay?” 

Leah shudders again. “Y’okay.”

“Okay. Give mommy a big kiss,” he says, repeating one of your favourite lines when it’s time for Steve to leave. 

You get a kiss. You’re startled, he thinks, almost expressionless in how slack you’ve gone, but Steve smiles at you and you smile in turn. “You know how to do the car seat?” you ask. 

“Sure. It’s got the two mechanisms, right? Her arm goes through each of the triangle strap thingys?” 

“Yeah. Okay. Are you sure you can manage?”

“Are you okay with me taking her?”

You shrug. He can see why Leah does it as much as she does. “I guess I am. I mean, when we go home… like, you’ll have to have her for summers, I guess?” you ask, and you’re as beautiful as you usually are, the awkward twist of you and your tired eyes don’t touch it. You were beautiful when he walked into the sound room and found you in the loveseat, beautiful when you told him you’d stay for now without saying goodbye, beautiful when he spotted you across the parking lot with his surprise on your hip. You’ve always been beautiful. He knows you don’t feel strongly about your looks, but he does, and now you made his girl? And she looks so much like the two of you? 

Steve stares at you, not even in hopes of any realisation, but he stares at you and thinks I cannot let this girl go back to Portland without me. 

He doesn’t expect you to stay. All he needs is to beg a ride. 

Because yes, Steve will become your awkward cling-on. He’ll find a shitty apartment close to you and he’ll build his life around Leah if that’s all he can have. 

But it’s not everything he wants. 

“You go take care of your mom, and we’ll meet you for dinner at 6? 6:15 at the latest?” 

“Okie dokie.”

Steve rolls his eyes to stop from kissing your cheek. “Say see you later, mommy,” he tells Leah. 

“See you later, mommy,” Leah says. 

You use his shoulder as an anchor to kiss her cheek. He swears you rub his arm as you pull away, but Robin would call that delusional thinking. “See you soon, bug.”

He watches you walk away. Every step is perfect. “Your mom’s such a bombshell,” he murmurs, “holy sugar, she’s everything.” You turn over the top of the car and give him a wave, blowing Leah a kiss. He wants to catch it. He finger waves back. 

Then he spins and finds Robin judging him hard.

It takes them twenty whole human minutes to figure out how to get Leah safely secured in her car seat. Then he spends four minutes framing her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks, enamoured beyond anything to see her in the bimmer. Robin laughs at how lame he is and he strokes a hair off of Leah’s forehead rather than feed into her ridicule. His baby laughs up a storm as he chucks her under the chin. 

“Steve, I’m gonna starve!” Robin warns.

“Right, right!” 

He kisses Leah’s small forehead and clambers out. 

Robin talks a big talk, but she bends around in the passenger seat to chatter to Leah the whole way to her neighbourhood. “And then dad got us stuck on the side of the road! It was crazy! I told him we were in trouble and he kept laughing! But nothing is that funny, Leah, nothing. I think it’s ’cos your dad has a bunch of screws loose from that time he slipped on melted ice cream at work.” 

“Don’t listen to her, Lee!” Steve protests, laughing at her rolling giggles. 

“He busted his head! Luckily I saved him, because I am very very smart and I went to camp–”

“You went to Girl Scout’s sleep away camp, that’s not real camp! You were there for a week.”

“But they taught me what to do when your dingus gets a concussion,” Robin says, in her silky radio voice that Leah’s magnetised to. “And that’s why dad only looks a bit wonky, as opposed to a lot.” 

“I’m not wonky, am I, Lee?” Steve asks, checking the rearview for her. 

“Wonky?” she asks.

“Does daddy look wonky?”

“Mm,” she says. 

“What! That is so mean! Baby, I thought you liked dad?” 

She giggles and goes all shy. Robin, bless her clumsy, alternative, mixed-up huge heart, goes soft as taffy against the seat. “We don’t like him at all, do we?” she asks, reaching out to rub Leah’s arm. Steve nearly hits a curb trying to watch. “Stinky dad. You can be my girl instead, if mom wants to share. I don’t mind your Harrington blood.” 

He drops Robin off, but her mom comes out and wants to meet Leah and that’s a whole thing. She’s squarely heartbroken when she first sees her, going, “Aw,” and “Oh,” as her eyes fill with tears. 

“Mom!” Robin says. 

“Sorry, but she’s beautiful. Well done, Stevie.” 

He murmurs a Thank you, Mrs. Buckley and gets the usual It’s Melissa, Steve.

It takes another ten minutes to get Leah in the car after her quick trip. He heads straight for Lucas’ and finds him freaking out about the bouquet he got Max —Erica told him to put salt in the water to keep them fresh. Steve drives him to the florists ten minutes before they close and they end up with two smaller bunches combined into a vibrant hodgepodge.

Steve buys a handful of daisies for Leah, tucking one behind her ear. 

Max likes her flowers, but she’s far more interested in the baby. Lucas stands behind her rubbing his mouth. 

“She does look like you,” Max says thoughtfully. 

“Right? She has my eyes.”

“Yeah.” Max leans into the car. “Hi, Steve’s baby,” she says quietly. 

“This is your Aunt Max,” Steve says. 

Leah, who has taken all these new aunts and uncles in her stride (or is too young to get what the hell is going on), offers Max a huge smile with her tiny baby teeth. “Hi Am’ Max,” she says. 

Max grins despite herself. “Hi. Are you having a good day?” 

“Yessss.”

“Yeah?” She glares at Steve momentarily before standing in front of him, like she’s annoyed he’s seen her being normal, like he doesn’t catch her in a good mood all the time. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to lie. Did you have dinner?” 

“Max, I am perfectly capable of looking after her.”

“I’m just checking!” She shakes Leah’s hand nicely. “This party had enough boys,” she says. 

Steve ruffles Max’s hair, unbound and bouncing behind her. He’s lucky he makes it to the car with his hand. 

Steve sighs when they’re on the road to your place. “Okie dokie,” he says, clenching the steering wheel to listen to the leather creak, “let’s go see your mom. It’s only–” He checks his watch. Blinks big and wide. It’s 6:37PM already, and it’s a five minute drive to your side of Hawkins. “Oh, my god. You’re mom is gonna kill me dead.” 

“Kill?”

“Kiss!” he says, cringing. “Yep, she’s gonna kiss me! No other words.” 

“Y’okay.”

“Who taught you to say that so cutely?” he asks, fully stressed now, the tightness in his voice surprising a giggle out of Leah. “Stop laughing!”

She giggles worse. 

He can’t be more anxious as he pulls up to the house. He climbs out of the car, grabs Leah from her car seat, and in his rush to get her home before you murder him, slams his head so hard into the roof of the car he sees stars. 

“Oh, fuck,” he says, holding Leah to his chest as his vision fades out. 

Your laugh sounds out from behind him. “Every parent has to do it, Steve, I’m sorry to say,” you call, jogging down the path to the car. “I was wondering where you guys went. It’s… Steve?” 

He blinks hard as he stands up, his arms around Leah shaky as his head pounds and pounds and pounds. “Sorry,” he says. 

“Steve, what’s wrong?” You rest your arm behind his shoulders to hold him. “Hey, are you okay? Do you need to sit down?”

He urges you to take Leah. 

The pain is radiating from the centre of his skull outward, into each eye and down the nape of his neck. It’s such a sudden sharpness he loses his breath, spotty vision fading in and out as he curls into himself. 

“Lee, can you go inside, baby?” he hears you ask. There are a few steps, your dark shadows on the ground drifting further away before one returns, all alone. “Steve, what happened? How hard did you hit your head?” you ask softly. 

“It’s– I got that–” Every word pulls at the nausea brewing in his stomach. “I’m gonna–”

Steve gags. He aims for the grass. Everything goes white. 

—

Steve does a valiant job of keeping himself upright long enough for you to sit him down inside, but after that, he’s useless. 

“Okay, it’s okay,” you’re saying, a ringing in your ears you can’t cope with, “it’s alright, Steve, you’re okay. Come forward, honey, let me see–”

You aren’t sure he’s conscious, but he slumps forward regardless to expose the back of his head. You feel through his hair and pull your hand out quick to check for blood on your fingertips, but they come away clean. 

“Daddy?” Leah asks, wandering into the living room with her little smile and a daisy drooping behind her ear. 

“How was meemaw, bub?” you ask. 

“Sleeping.”

“Why don’t you go snuggle with her for a minute? I’ll bring you a buppy?”

Leah hugs your leg from behind. “Buppy?”

“Yeah, do you want one?”

Leah shoots for the bedroom. You take her absence as an opportunity to pull Steve’s head up, meeting his droopy gaze. “Steve, baby,” you say, so softly it’d be a wonder if he could hear you, “are you okay?” 

He groans. “Just a migraine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Feels like one.”

“You get them a lot?”

“More since you left.”

You swallow roughly. “I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“No.” At that, he sits up, holds his own head up to plead, “You don’t have to. I’m fine, this just happens sometimes. After I hit my head at the mall, I get these killer migraines.”

“You hit your head, though. I think you have a concussion.”

“Not my first one.”

You hold his cheek in your hand. Your thumb brushes over his beauty marks. “No?” you ask. 

“Had three.”

“You never told me.”

“I know. Didn’t want you to think I was– some loser? I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know why it was hard to be honest with you, guess I thought– it’s not like it’s ever done any good before. I always say the wrong thing.”

You get on your knees in front of him. To cope with the strain of looking up at him, but more to see him face to face. “Steve, you nearly yacked in my yard. I think we’re past appearances.”

Steve covers his mouth with a big hand. 

You tuck as much of his hair behind his ears as you can. “Can you look at me? I want to check your pupils.” 

He opens his eyes properly, pouring his gaze into yours without hesitation. You check the size of each pupil and find them normal, though the longer he looks, the bigger they become. “I think there’s something wrong, Steve. Your eyes are blown.” 

“It’s fine. It’s not ‘cos I hit my head. It’s a headache.” 

“You almost knocked yourself out. You’re throwing up. What if I don’t call the ambulance and Leah’s dad dies on my couch?”

“I don’t need an ambulance. I barely puked, it was all spit.”

“Steve.” 

“I’m serious. I didn’t even go for the first two concussions, and the third one, they said this could happen. Turns out that taking a couple of bad knocks to the head makes you fragile, I’m fine.” He cups your cheek. “Jesus, don’t feel sorry for me–” 

“I do feel sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Seconds of stringy silence follow. He squints at you through the pain. “It’s okay,” he says, his own thumb rubbing at your veins. “I’m sorry, too.” 

You pull his hand off your face. Not without care. 

“…Can I please call an ambulance?” you ask, uneasy.

“I don’t need one.” 

“How do you know?” you whisper. 

He turns his hand in your grip to hold yours. His eyes are brown and teary with pain, but they’re so familiar. “I just do. Can you trust me, please?”

You try to stand. Steve squeezes your hand in his and makes you sit on the couch beside him as his eyes shutter closed and his head tips back, the column of his throat there and pale and working as he swallows his pain. You stare at the length of it with your hand too hot in his grip, wondering when it’s acceptable to pull your hand away, and if you’d even want to when the time came. 

You told me you didn’t want this, you think, your two joined hands rising and falling where he’s pulled them to his chest. You swear you can see his heart in his chest. The gentle bump-bump of it against skin. A miserable wife. 

“Can I get you anything?” 

He croaks a hum. “Mm, no.”

“Are you sure? I have aspirin.”

His fingers flex. “It’ll go away.”

“When?”

“It depends. It can take a few hours, sometimes, but I don’t get the worst of the pain for long.” His voice is hoarse with its quiet. 

“The other times?”

“They can last for days.”

You’d seen the physical change in Steve. He went weak and sweaty in seconds. His nausea was obviously extreme. You can feel the tremor in his hand as he talks like every word spurs pain.

“It won’t, though,” he says. “Don’t worry. I need five minutes and I can make dinner.”

“Uh, no you can’t. You can sit right here until you feel better, thanks.”

He sinks impossibly further into your mom’s old couch. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” You lower your tone. “I don’t mind. I’m sorry if you thought I would.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“To what? Give yourself a concussion on the roof of the car? I gathered that.”

“Didn’t mean for it to become your problem,” he says. 

“You’re not a problem, Steve. I promise.” 

You fight for better judgement and lose, letting yourself caress a piece of hair away from his pale neck. 

“I think I really screwed up,” he says. “Think I made out all the wrong things. You didn’t think you could tell me about the baby–”

“We don’t have to do this again–”

“Yeah, we do. We do. Because I made you think I wouldn’t want you. I lied to protect my ego and I could’ve had everything I wanted,” —his brow pulls tight and glared, his jaw rigid— “and I hurt you.” 

“I hurt myself. You didn’t make me run away, Steve. I did it all alone. I’m good at that.” 

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

“I don’t want you to live a life that you hate.” 

“I don’t. I won’t. How could I ever hate anything about her?”

You have to give him that. But. “I didn’t tell you for a bunch of reasons, Steve,” you confess, hardly wanting to let it out. “I was scared of everything, you and your parents, making you into the reluctant husband, or– or at the least the reluctant father. I didn’t want to deal with it. And I didn’t wanna be that stupid girl who got knocked up by the prom king. I ran away and nobody had to know.” 

“It wouldn’t have been like that.”

“I realise that now.” 

His head lolls to see you. He pulls his lashes apart enough to peek through them, that dark hedging a line you’d like to count. You tip your head toward his and face him across the couch cushions, hands joined and hot as a hearth. 

“It was never messing around, to me,” he says quietly. Sweat wets the hair at his temples. 

“You don’t have to–”

“I got my heart stomped on pretty hard over and over and I stopped trying. I put all my cards on the table every time. But with you, I couldn’t do it again. I thought I couldn’t, so I acted less into you than I was.”

You remember all his kisses and tight armed hugs, his affectionate nudges, his nose lined to your temple as he bore down. It hadn’t felt like less. But you’d never thought it was more, either. 

“I pretended we were this summer fling, told you I didn’t want kids, that I wanted to live in the city and get a full time job at a firm with a company car, like that stuff mattered.” He frowns at you deeply. “I’m sorry. I wish I could change it.” 

His throat bobs. 

“S’it still hurting?” you murmur. 

“So much,” he murmurs too, holding your hand against his heart. “I can’t get it to stop.” 

“I can’t do this with you.” 

He shakes his head minutely. “M’not asking you for anything you can’t give me. I’m just sorry.” 

You want him to lean in and align his mouth to yours. You imagine it vividly, the press and taste of him, the scratch of the stubble on his upper lip and his hand slipping behind your neck, squeezing your nape gently, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw trying to open your mouth. You want him so badly it’s a palpable ache in your teeth, like he’s already kissed you harsh and quick, that clack of a collision and the subsequent metallic on your tongue. 

But you aren’t lying. You can’t do this.  

A thudding noise echoes from your mom’s room, compelling you up and away from his warm touch. Your hand sings with pins and needles as it falls out of his. 

“Lee?” you call. “Sorry. I have to go make sure she’s okay.” 

He frowns again as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “That’s fine. I’ll be here.”

—

The bedroom throw blankets haven’t changed since you were here last. Your mom didn’t waste much time turning it into a guest room, but the sheets and blankets are the same, soft with wear in your hands as you lay them out. Leah waits for you to finish before climbing into bed, her bottle teat bitten between her teeth. It slips out of her hand with a rush of air as she slips into the pillows. You pick it up and offer it to her again, your shoulders aflame with the weight of an uncommon gaze. 

“What side do you sleep on?”

Steve, at half-mast but less obviously pained, takes his time answering. 

“Left.” 

“Left side’s all yours.”

He shuffles forward in a polo and a pair of his old sweatpants. You, in a horrible stroke of great luck, had them in the bottom of the chest of drawers. 

“Make room for me?” he asks Leah. 

She grins around her bottle. 

You’re pretty sure that if Steve can’t open his eyes for more than ten seconds at a time, he can’t drive, and you don’t want him to fall asleep at home and never wake up. Hence your impromptu sleepover. The bed is a queen and you have a shared child as a buffer, but you’re already annoyed with yourself. Your arms keep remembering what it felt like to stretch out over him whenever he ended up on his front. It is not helpful. 

You put the big light out and the nightlight on, a ladybug on a mushroom that glows a warm orange on Steve’s side of the room. In your own sweatpants and a vest, you climb into the right side of the bed and nearly fall straight back out at the lack of space. 

Steve curls an arm around Leah tentatively, encouraging her into his side to make room for you. 

“You okay?” he asks Leah quietly. 

“You okay, daddy?” she asks. 

“I’m fine, beautiful. I’m good.”

“Sleep?” she asks.

“With you, if that’s cool?”

“Cool,” she says decidedly. 

When you lie down, Leah immediately rolls out of Steve’s grip and makes herself comfortable in the curves of you, her nose digging hard in your arm, the bottle warm on your chest. 

“I’ll move her when she falls asleep,” you whisper, nodding to the foldout cot next to the bed with its padded interior. 

Sleeping in the same bed as Steve Harrington is a long gone artefact of the past. It’s odd to be face to face with him, to smell him so close, the toothpaste on his breath and the salty, earthy sting of sweat mixed with allspice. You don’t strictly mind it, but you didn’t think you’d ever be this close again. It hurries the heart. You miss him like a slap. 

Refusing to think on it is the best way forward. 

“You sure you’re okay?” you ask him under your breath. 

Leah suckles at her bottle, breaking the quiet, though it’s a monotone sort of sound. Steve doesn’t answer. You glance at him and find him dozing already, not a blanket over him nor a sheet untucked. 

“Steve.” 

He blinks to attention. “Huh?”

“Pull the blanket up over yourself.” 

He must like your tone. You’d gone soft by accident, too used to lulling Leah to sleep via sweetness and dulcet murmuring. He kicks it down and then pulls it up to his ribs, a tight white parcel with the pink throw laid over his feet. 

“It’ll be cold tonight. Does that make the migraines worse?” you ask. 

“No. I’ll be okay.”

You let him fall asleep. Leah snuggles under your chin. This isn’t the daydream. You aren’t being cuddled and coddled by warm kisses along the side of your face, his big arm around you, your baby between you. Steve keeps a good distance and he’s exhausted. 

Leah takes a lot longer to fall, but when she does it’s for keeps. You give her ten minutes tucked up on your chest but decide to move her when you feel your own eyes drifting shut. A rush of unnecessary shushing and a soft kiss later, you creep toward the bed and lay down on your side. Steve sleeps as your mirror, one cheek and eye hidden by the pillow, the sheets pulled haphazard over his hip. You yank them from under you and pull them up to cover him to the shoulder, tempted to tuck his hair behind his ear again. It’s long enough. 

“Can feel you staring,” he whispers. 

Your heart leaps in shock, though thankfully you don’t jump. “Hm?”

“Staring at me.”

“Trying to gauge whether you died in your sleep.” 

“Still ‘live.”

You do reach for him, then, stricken by how badly you want to take care of him. “I can see that.” 

He peeks down at your hand on his cheek and grins dopily. “Missed you,” he says. 

“Missed you, too.” 

You wouldn’t tell him if it weren’t dark, if he weren’t in pain. 

“You did?” he asks. 

“I always miss you,” you say. You pull your hand away like it’s him that’s said the wrong thing, annoyed at your own boldness, moving onto your back to stare at the ceiling. 

He feels at your wrist, up your arm. Steve slides his palm over your stomach and holds it there. When you’re starting to think he might’ve fallen asleep again, your breath aching in your throat to be expelled, he presses down carefully and sighs. “I wish I got to see it. Don’t know why you were alone.”

“I wasn't.” 

“Would’ve looked after you, though.” 

“Steve…”

“I would’ve.”

“I know.” You know now. You could’ve stayed here and had him look after you, but it’s not what you wanted. “I wanted… more, than that.”

He stares at you across the pillows. Your breath catches as he brings his hand up to your cheek and encourages your head toward him, as he lifts himself up off the pillows to bear down over you.

“Do you still want that?” he asks. 

You laugh, weak and weary. “Not when you’re concussed.”

He laughs in your face. It’s quiet to leave Leah sleeping, and to stop from hurting himself again, but it’s a genuine laugh of joy leaning over you. His hair falls in his face and he’s beautiful. All freckled and gold in the dim amber light sunning in from behind him. 

“I am not concussed,” he says, leaning down. 

You don’t kiss. Won’t lift your lips to his where he waits, though waiting might not be the right word. It’s like he’s alright with anything you’re about to do, or not do, sharing your breath. 

“I don’t believe you,” you tease lightly. 

He’s moved so much to be over you. It is unquestionably the position of a man who’s going to kiss you. 

You press your forehead to his chin. 

“We should sleep,” you say, because you shouldn’t kiss. 

Portland feels very, very far away as he trails his fingers down the front of you and takes a handful of your hip. 

“I’m not concussed,” he says, though it’s not asking for anything; Steve’s already pulling away. He sits up and slightly away from you, rubbing a wave into your abdomen lovingly, like you never went to Portland at all. Like it’s the sleepover after a night spent kissing slow and watching shit TV. “Get some sleep, angel,” he adds, so quietly you’d doubt he spoke if you hadn’t watched his mouth shape the words. 

—

In the morning, you wake to find Leah chest to chest with Steve, his hair like water on your pillows. 

“An’ my hand an’ my nose as my mouth,” she says factually. 

“And your ears,” he says back to her quietly, stroking a path from her shoulders to her lower back and up again. “Your eyebrows, and your hair, and your neck.”

“Yeah.”

“Your tummy, and your legs, and your little toes.”

“Am’ my toes,” she says. 

“Even your toes are pretty,” Steve agrees. “‘Cos duh. Leah’s the prettiest girl I ever met, right?” His voice drops low enough to rattle hoarsely. “Just as pretty as mommy. I didn’t know that was possible.”

You hide your face in the pillows, pretending to sleep. 

This is not going to go how you’d first thought. 

—

Attempt #2 - Starcourt Mall

He saw you outside Sam Goody a week later and lit up like a Christmas tree. You froze like a startled deer. He took two steps toward you-two!-and you spun so fast he swore he saw cartoon dust clouds behind you.

“I think she blacked out,” he told Robin that night.

Attempt #3 - The Arcade

This one actually hurt a little.

You turned around, saw him, whispered “I forgot something,” then walked out so quickly you left your coat hanging on a Dig Dug cabinet.

He stood there holding it, wondering if he really was that intimidating. He wasn’t. Everyone knew Steve Harrington couldn’t intimidate a goldfish.

By the time he got back to Family Video, coat still in hand, he collapsed in the break room chair and stared up at the ceiling.

“Okay,” he groaned. “That’s it. I’m done. She hates me.”

Robin didn’t even look up from her magazine. “She doesn’t hate you. You just… you know… terrify her.”

Steve threw his hands up. “How? How am I terrifying?!”

Robin shrugged. “You’re tall. Pretty. Loud. It’s a dangerous combination.”

He glared. She wasn’t wrong.

Robin finally set the magazine aside and narrowed her eyes at him like she was solving a math equation.

“You want her to go out with you, right?” Steve nodded miserably. “Then stop trying to talk to her in person,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Try something she can’t run away from.”

He blinked. “Like what?”

Robin grinned. And that should’ve been his first warning.

“Like the radio.”

Steve blinked again. “The-what?”

Robin slapped the break room table excitedly. “The Squawk, dingus. WSQK. It’s time to broadcast your heart.”

Steve stared. His fate was sealed.

-

The WSQK station sits on the edge of Hawkins like an abandoned birdhouse-sun-bleached siding, a cracked “ON AIR” sign hanging crooked in the window, and a radio tower that looks like it survived ten different lightning strikes. The parking lot is mostly weeds and gravel, the kind of place no one pays attention to.

But today… Steve Harrington storms through its front door like a man on a mission.

The inside smells like dust, leftover pizza, and those weird foam covers on microphones. Posters of old concerts peel on the walls, and everything hums faintly-machines warming, waiting, whispering.

Robin swivels in her chair, lazily rolling toward him on her wheeled stool with a half-eaten granola bar in hand. She takes one look at him-hair mussed, eyes wild, frustration radiating off him like static-and sighs.

“Oh boy,” she says. “Which failed attempt are we on now? Seven? Eight? Did you accidentally call her the wrong name? Spill something on her? Blink too hard?”

Steve groans dramatically, dropping onto the opposite chair and dragging both hands through his hair. “I can’t do it, Rob. I seriously can’t do it.” His voice cracks a little, and it kills her.

“What happened this time?” she asks, tossing the granola wrapper at the trash and missing so badly it lands in the hallway.

He leans back, staring at the stained ceiling tiles like they personally offended him. “She ran,” he mutters. “Again. Like full-on sprint. I wasn’t even close enough to scare her. I didn’t shout. Or-like-wave my arms. I barely breathed.” He sits up suddenly. “Do I look scary when I breathe?”

Robin pats his shoulder with faux sympathy. “You look scary all the time, dingus.”

He drops his forehead onto the soundboard. The buttons light up beneath his skin like a sad, defeated Christmas tree.

“I like her,” he says quietly, voice muffled against the equipment. “I really like her. More than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. And she keeps running away from me like I’m the goddamn boogeyman.”

Robin kicks herself back over, stool squeaking against the tile. “Maybe she’s shy.”

“I know she’s shy!” he snaps, lifting his head. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I don’t want to freak her out. And every time I go to tell her how I feel-every time I even think about asking her out-she’s gone before I can finish a single syllable.”

A long pause. The hum of the station seems louder. A soft song plays faintly from the monitor, tinny but warm.

Then Robin’s eyes light up. Dangerous. Brilliant. “You wanna talk to her?”

Steve looks exhausted. “Uh, yeah, Robin, that’s kind of the issue here.”

“Then don’t talk to her,” she says casually, swiveling once. “Talk to everyone. Through the airwaves.”

He stares at her. She stares back. He blinks. She grins, shark-like.

“You’re on a radio show,” she says. “Literally surrounded by microphones. She listens to The Squawk-you said so yourself. So… don’t ask her out in person.”

The realization hits him like a dropped amplifier. “Oh my god,” he whispers. “You want me to confess to her… over the radio?”

“Not confess.” Robin wiggles her brows. “Send her a message.”

He leans in automatically, curiosity sparking through the frustration. “What kind of message?”

“A subtle one,” she says. “A sequence of songs. Each song starting with a letter. And together, they’ll spell something out.”

Steve sits back, wiping a hand across his mouth as a smile threatens. “A message… through music.”

“Bingo.” She points at the record shelves along the wall-thousands of discs, all humming with possibility. “Because if she keeps running away from you… maybe she’ll listen to you instead.”

A slow grin spreads across his face, bright and boyish and hopeful. “You know,” he says softly, “that might actually work.”

Robin kicks off the desk, spinning away dramatically. “Oh, it’s definitely gonna work.” She pauses mid-spin, pointing at him again. “Question is… what do you want it to spell?”

Steve doesn’t even have to think. He breathes out the words like he’s been holding them in too long.

“Go out with me.”

The fluorescent lights flicker above them. Outside, the radio tower crackles in the wind. And inside the tiny station, surrounded by static and vinyl and hope- a plan begins to hum to life.

-

WSQK The Squawk crackles through your bedroom speakers the way it always does-like someone fed electricity through a bird’s nest. The station hums faintly against your windowpane, rainclouds settling low over Hawkins in a thick gray blanket that makes the whole world feel softer, quieter, a little more secret.

Your room is your refuge. Warm lamplight pools across your quilt, posters of movie soundtracks and mixtape covers lining the walls. Your books are stacked in uneven towers, your Walkman sits on your desk, and the radio-your old, slightly battered one with the dented antenna-fills every inch of the space with familiar static.

You always listen at this hour. You always have. The Squawk is comforting in a way most things aren’t.

You settle cross-legged on your bed, notebook open but ignored, pen tapping lightly against your knee as a DJ segment ends with Robin’s unmistakably chaotic laugh drifting through the speakers. Then the switch clicks- a beat of silence- and a new song begins.

A song you never hear on this station.

“Girls Just Want to Have Fun.” Cyndi Lauper’s bright, glittering voice bursts into the room like the sun kicking clouds aside.

You blink. Okay… interesting choice. The Squawk usually sticks to classic rock and mellow hits, not vibrant pop you dance to with your hairbrush as a microphone.

Still-it gets you smiling. The kind of smile you try to hide behind your hand, even though no one’s watching.

You start to sway a little. Tap your pen to the beat. Hum along softly.

But halfway through, a strange feeling creeps in-something warm and fluttery settling in your chest, something that makes your pulse pick up.

Because… this song reminds you of something. Someone.

Dark hair. Soft brown eyes. A voice that cracks when he gets nervous around you. A boy who keeps smiling at you even when you panic and run the other way.

Steve Harrington.

Your face heats instantly. Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

You draw a tiny circle on your notebook. Then another. Then you write the letter:

G

You don’t know why you write it, but you do. Something about it feels right. Like the song is trying to tap your shoulder.

The track fades out, replaced by Robin’s voice-brighter than usual.

“And that was our surprise pick of the day! Keep listening, Hawkins. We’ve got something… fun planned this week.”

You don’t think she’s talking to you. Not really. But your heart does a strange little skip anyway.

The next song comes on-something totally normal. But your thoughts never settle.

Because for the first time, you wonder… What if someone is trying to tell you something?

And what if you’ve been too shy, too scared, too busy running-to hear them?

You close your notebook, slide it under your pillow, and curl up beneath your blanket-feeling like the air itself is humming with possibility.

One letter down. And the music has only just begun.

-

The next afternoon drapes itself over Hawkins like a sleepy blanket. The sky hangs low and silver, not quite raining but definitely thinking about it. The kind of weather that makes everything feel slowed down, softened at the edges, almost like the world is waiting for something.

You kick off your shoes by your bedroom door, shrug out of your jacket, and toss your bag onto the chair beside your desk. The moment you press the power button on your radio, the room fills with a familiar ripple of static-like warm air greeting you, like the start of your favorite ritual.

You settle onto your bed again, tugging your blanket over your legs as you flip absentmindedly through one of your paperbacks. You’re reading the same paragraph over and over without absorbing any of it. Because you’re waiting.

You tell yourself you aren’t. But you’re waiting.

Robin’s voice filters through the speakers, sharp and lively as always:

“Alright Hawkins, we’re rolling into our afternoon set. Don’t go anywhere-we’ve got more surprises up our sleeves.”

Surprises. Your stomach knots with that word.

Then the first notes of the next song slide into the room-smooth, bright, and immediately recognizable.

“Our Lips Are Sealed.” The Go-Go’s.

You sit up straighter, heart thumping a little harder.

Another pop song. Another upbeat, out-of-character choice for The Squawk. Another title starting with-

Your mind connects it before your hands do.

O.

Slowly, with a kind of quiet reverence, you reach for your notebook under the pillow. Open to yesterday’s page. The lonely, penciled G in the corner.

You draw a second letter beside it:

O

Your chest warms-an ache, a flutter, something delicate and bewildering. Two letters. A pattern. A message?

Your book slips from your lap as you lean forward, elbows on your knees, letting the song wash over you. The Go-Go’s harmonize through the static, their voices buoyant, secretive, like they’re whispering directly into your ear.

Your lips part on a small, shaky breath. Because the truth is: You’ve been holding your own secret too.

You like Steve Harrington. You like him so much you freeze. So much you run. So much your heart gets tangled in your ribs when he walks into a room.

And suddenly… suddenly it feels like maybe-just maybe-you aren’t the only one tangled.

The song fades, the last synth note trailing like a ribbon through the speakers.

Robin and another voice-Steve’s voice-come through faintly, adjusting knobs in the studio. You can’t make out their words, but you hear laughter. A soft thud. A sarcastic mutter that sounds undeniably like him.

You swallow hard.

Is this for you? It can’t be. There’s no way.

But when you lie back on your pillow, notebook still open on your stomach, the letters G and O stare up at you like the beginning of a sentence waiting to be read.

And you feel it- in your fingertips, in your breath, in the marrow of your bones:

Something is happening. Something meant for you.

The radio hums on, switching to another normal song. But your mind is still stuck on the message beginning to take shape.

GO…

You bite your lip, cheeks warming, heart fluttering wildly like a trapped bird.

And for once- you don’t feel like running.

-

Time doesn’t move normally after that.

It doesn’t pass in hours or classes or the scrape of your locker door. It moves in songs.

Every afternoon, WSQK flickers to life in your room, in your car, through the little radio hanging from your shower caddy. The Squawk becomes the pulse of your days, beating steady and sure, tugging you forward like a thread around your ribs.

And each day brings a new letter.

MONDAY - “OUT OF TOUCH - Daryl Hall & John Oates” (O)

You’re brushing your hair in the bathroom when the opening synth riff hits the tile like a heartbeat. “What are you doing to me?” you whisper, gripping the counter as you scribble another O in your notebook. The word grows: G O O

The mirror fogs from your breath.

TUESDAY - “UP WHERE WE BELONG - Joe Cocker & Jennifer Warnes” (U)

You’re lying on your stomach, chin in your hands, when the song floats from your radio-warm, slow, impossibly romantic. Your pen shakes. You add U.

G O O U

The message is starting to peek through the fog. Something in your chest begins to unfold, petal by petal.

WEDNESDAY - “TAKE ON ME - a-ha” (T)

The school day is a blur, but the second you get home, you’re curled near the radio like a moth to a flame. When the familiar, spiraling synth kicks in, your breath catches. You write T with a trembling hand.

G O O U T

Your heart thuds so hard it feels like it might break the skin.

THURSDAY - “WITH OR WITHOUT YOU - U2” (W)

The U2 ballad pours through your speakers like spilled honey-slow, aching, full of longing that sinks straight into your bones. You don’t write it right away. You sit in silence, gripping your notebook, tears pricking unexpectedly at the corners of your eyes because-

If this means what you think it means… No one’s ever wanted you like this before.

Finally, you add the W.

G O O U T W

Your pulse is a runaway train.

FRIDAY - “I WANNA DANCE WITH SOMEBODY - Whitney Houston” (I)

You’re halfway through doing homework when the song blasts so loudly you almost fall off your bed. You laugh-bright, surprised, breathless. You write I and underline it twice.

G O O U T W I

You press the heel of your hand to your smile, trying to smother the butterflies taking flight in your stomach.

SATURDAY - “TIME AFTER TIME - Cyndi Lauper” (T)

You’re helping your mom fold laundry when you hear the first slow, familiar notes. Your hands freeze mid-towel fold. The world blurs. You whisper the letter before your hand even finds your notebook:

“T…”

G O O U T W I T

A shiver crawls down your spine.

SUNDAY - “HEAVEN IS A PLACE ON EARTH - Belinda Carlisle” (H)

You almost drop your cereal bowl when the song pours from the radio in a bright ribbon of sunlight and 80s glitter. The letter hits you like a jolt:

H

G O O U T W I T H

Your breath stumbles. Your fingers tremble. Everything inside you blooms into something enormous and terrifying and beautiful.

You’re lying on your bed now, the sun setting in amber streaks across your wall, notebook resting open on your chest. The letters stare up at you, undeniable.

GO OUT WITH

With… Who? You know the answer. You’ve known since Monday. Maybe longer.

Steve Harrington’s smile sits behind your eyelids like an afterimage=-warm, boyish, hopeful.

Your heart thumps.

The message is almost complete. One letter left. One final song.

You swallow hard, hugging your pillow to your chest as the room grows darker.

Whatever comes next… you’re ready to hear it.

-

The radio crackles to life in your room like it’s alive, the hum of WSQK filling the air with warmth and tension. Outside, rain taps the windowpane in soft, steady fingers, painting the world gray and shimmering. You curl beneath your blanket, notebook in your lap, heart already thudding with anticipation.

Earlier songs had built the message carefully: G O O U T W I T H

And now… the final letters remained.

Then the familiar, slightly raspy, totally unmistakable voice of Steve Harrington comes through the speakers.

“Hey… uh, Hawkins,” he says, voice hesitant, a little nervous, but brimming with that dumb charm you can’t help but love. “Okay, so… I’ve been trying to get someone’s attention for… a while now. And, uh… maybe this is the weirdest way to do it, but… sometimes the best things are worth being a little ridiculous.”

You freeze. It’s him. It has to be him.

Steve clears his throat. “So, if you’ve been following along with the songs this week, you already know the letters so far. And… well. I guess it’s time to finish it.”

The first notes of a song drift through the speakers-soft, melodic, and familiar:

“Man in the Mirror” - Michael Jackson.

You bite your lip, heart skipping. The first of the final letters.

He continues, voice almost whispering, but full of determination:

“M. That’s for you. And… the very last letter…”

Another song begins immediately after-brighter, slightly playful, almost like it’s teasing you:

“Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” - The Police.

“E,” Steve says, clearly speaking it just for you, even though the radio waves carry it to all of Hawkins. “And… well… the message should be clear now. If you’ve been paying attention…”

He pauses. You can hear the nerves in his voice, that familiar hesitancy that melts your heart.

“G O O U T W I T H M E,” he says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, letting them sink in. “That’s me asking… you. Out. And, uh…” His voice softens, warming. “If you want to… meet me… I’ll be at the place where we first met. You know… the parking lot at Hawkins High.”

Your breath catches. Rain streaks down the window, blurring the world outside into silver streaks, but your heart is on fire. The words echo in your head: the place where we first met.

Steve’s voice comes again, quieter, almost shy: “I’ll… I’ll be waiting. Rain, shine, whatever… I’ll be there. Please-just… come.”

The song swells again behind his voice, the chorus spilling over you like sunlight through clouds, and your hands shake around the notebook in your lap.

The letters stare back at you. G O O U T W I T H M E

Your heart pounds, chest tight, cheeks warm. All your fear, all your hesitation, all those times you ran-they’re gone. Because it’s him. Steve Harrington. As ridiculous and nervous and perfect as ever. And he’s waiting for you.

You grab your jacket. Notebook tucked under your arm. And you step into the rain.

This time, you’re not running away.

You’re running toward him.

-

The rain falls in steady sheets over the Hawkins High parking lot, the streetlights casting halos in the mist. Puddles ripple underfoot as your sneakers splash through them, water soaking your jeans, your hair plastered to your forehead. The air smells like wet asphalt and pine and something impossibly like hope.

You round the corner near the old bleachers, heart hammering in your chest like it wants to break free. Each step closer makes your stomach twist tighter with anticipation, excitement, and just a hint of fear.

And then you see him.

Steve stands near the edge of the lot, hood down, rain dripping off his hair, eyelashes heavy with droplets. His jacket clings to him, soaked through, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring at the entrance, posture tense, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

When he sees you-really sees you-his entire body seems to shift. His lips curve into a grin that’s equal parts relief and disbelief. His eyes, wide and warm, track you like he’s been holding his breath for this moment for weeks.

“You came,” he says, voice rough with wetness and emotion, almost drowned out by the rain around you.

You can’t speak. Your throat is tight, lumped with every word you wanted to say, every time you ran, every glance you stole when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Steve takes a tentative step forward. “You… you really did come. I thought… I thought maybe you’d… run again.”

You shake your head, droplets scattering from your hair like tiny fireworks. “No,” you whisper. “I… I wanted to see you.”

He swallows, takes another step, and then suddenly the rain feels warmer, somehow softer, as if the clouds themselves are giving you permission. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, and then-he’s close enough that you can see every freckle, every drop of water on his eyelashes, every beat of his nervous smile.

Without thinking, you both lean forward at the same time. The rain pelts around you, drowning out everything else: the empty parking lot, the wet asphalt, the sound of the world. There’s only him. Only you. Only the heartbeat in your chest syncing with his.

And then, finally… your lips meet. Soft, hesitant at first, tasting faintly of rain and peppermint gum. The world collapses around you. The rain soaks you to the bone, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing else matters except this: the boy who chased you through Family Video, the mall, the arcade-Steve Harrington-is here, and you’re here, and somehow, finally, you’re together.

He pulls back just slightly, forehead resting against yours, breath ragged and warm against your skin. “I’ve been trying to tell you… for weeks,” he murmurs, voice low and sincere. “Every time I saw you, I just… I didn’t know how. But now? Now I know. I want… I want to take you out. Please. Don’t run this time.”

You laugh softly, water dripping from your hair onto the puddled ground. “I won’t,” you whisper.

The rain falls heavier, soaking both of you completely, but it feels like sunlight on your skin. You reach for his hand, fingers intertwining, and the tension that’s built up over days, over weeks, over unspoken words-finally melts away.

Steve grins, shakes his head, wet hair plastered to his forehead. “You’re amazing, you know that?” he says. “You’re… ridiculous, beautiful, perfect… and somehow, you stayed.”

You smile, leaning into him, your nose brushing his cheek. “And you’re Steve Harrington. And somehow… I’m crazy about you.”

He laughs, breathy and triumphant, and presses one last kiss to your temple before taking your hand firmly in his. “Then it’s official,” he says, voice carrying over the rain-soaked lot. “Date number one… starts now.”

“Dude,” Tommy H. whispered, too loud to qualify as whispering, “you think Hargreaves can smell fear?”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, and your fear smells like Aqua Net and regret.”

A couple of boys laughed. One of the girls, one of the ones who always had a fresh lip gloss and a fresh opinion, giggled like Steve had handed her something personally.

You kept your eyes on your notebook. Not that you were taking notes. It was detention, not class. But giving your hands something to do was easier than giving them away to nerves.

Your only real interaction with Steve Harrington to date had been… well.

Not interaction, exactly. More like… accidents.

Like the time you’d looked up from your locker and caught him watching you from across the hallway, leaning against the trophy case with a basketball under his arm like he’d been born glued to it. His eyes had met yours, hazel and bright and a little too sharp, and you’d broken the contact immediately, heat rising up your neck like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

Or the time in class when you’d turned a page and found him looking at you over his shoulder, chin propped on his palm like he was bored by the entire concept of the world. You’d blinked, and he’d smirked, as if the eye contact was a joke you didn’t understand. You’d stared resolutely at the textbook until your eyes went dry.

It wasn’t that you were shy, exactly. You could speak up when you needed to. You could tell off a boy who thought “quiet” meant “weak.” You could stand between a kid and a bully without your knees giving out.

But Steve Harrington was… Steve Harrington.

He wasn't just popular; he was a gravitational anomaly. His presence didn’t just draw attention—it warped the very social fabric of a room, bending conversations, glances, and intentions toward him like light around a star. People like you didn't orbit celestial bodies like that. You stayed in your own quiet, predictable lane, on your own sensible path, where the gravity was weaker but the footing was sure.

Mr. Hargreaves, a man whose patience had been weathered thin by decades of adolescent indifference, slapped a dog-eared attendance sheet onto his desk with a sound like a gunshot. “All right,” he announced, his voice a dry monotone that cut through the low buzz of whispered conversations. “Since some of you have mistaken detention for a social hour, we’re going to be productive. Shockingly.”

A synchronized groan of protest rolled through the back row, a chorus of discontent.

“Mr. Harrington,” Hargreaves said, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.

The legs of Steve’s chair gave a protesting squeak as he shifted. “Yeah?” His tone was all easygoing recognition, as if he’d been called upon to settle a bet, not reprimanded.

“You can start,” the teacher continued, finally lifting his gaze, “by not speaking unless spoken to.”

A ripple of muted snickers traveled through the room. Steve’s own laugh was a low, warm rumble, utterly unbothered, as if he’d just been paid a charming compliment. “Sorry,” he said, the word dripping with a performative remorse that suggested he was anything but. “I’ll try. It’s a medical condition, honestly. Terminal charisma. The doctors are baffled.”

Mr. Hargreaves finally looked up fully. His eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, landed on Steve with the dull, heavy pressure of a thumb pressing down on an insect. “Your medical condition can write me a two-page reflection on the importance of respecting classroom environments. Single-spaced.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed insolence, stretching his arms behind his head as if detention were a beachside lounge chair. “Two pages? Wow. You’re really worried about my emotional development, huh. That’s… touching.”

“Three pages,” Mr. Hargreaves corrected instantly, his voice devoid of all humor.

The class erupted in a collective, drawn-out ‘Ooooh’ of vicarious schadenfreude.

Steve placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of wounded nobility. “Cruel and unusual punishment. You know, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. I might have to call my lawyer.”

“And yet,” Hargreaves said, turning back to his desk, “here we are.”

He picked up a precarious stack of worksheets and tapped them sharply against the wood, aligning them into a punishingly neat pile. “Now. Since we’re already in the business of consequences, I’m going to address another pressing issue.” His gaze, flat and assessing, swept the room. It lingered for a discomfiting second on various faces, and your stomach tightened involuntarily. You hated being looked at in groups, it felt like being drafted into a team you never tried out for, suddenly responsible for the collective reputation of ‘students.’

“Midterms are in three weeks,” Mr. Hargreaves declared, as if announcing a plague. “Some of you are doing fine. Some of you are… decidedly not.” His eyes flicked like a whip toward the back row once more. “And because I would like to avoid the soul-crushing monotony of summer school paperwork, I’m implementing a peer tutoring system.”

The groans this time were louder, a symphony of despair.

“Tutoring?” someone muttered, the word soaked in disgust.

Steve’s voice, smooth and carrying, floated forward like a perfectly folded paper airplane. “This feels like communism, sir. Sharing the wealth of knowledge and all that. Very collectivist.”

“Sit up, Harrington.”

Steve made an exaggerated, slow-motion show of straightening his spine, his movements fluid with mocking precision. “Yes, sir. Posture is the foundation of learning, sir.”

Mr. Hargreaves ignored him, plowing onward. “I have a list. High-performing students will be paired with those who are struggling. This is not optional. This is not a debate. This is me choosing peace for myself in June. You are welcome.”

You held your breath, though you weren't sure why. You were, unfortunately and undeniably, a high-performing student. It wasn't a badge you wore with pride; it was a quiet, persistent fact of your existence, like your eye color or your heartbeat. Work diligently, get good grades, go home. It was a system designed to keep your life manageable, your future predictable. You could already feel the subtle ripple in the room, the collective shift of eyes darting toward the known academic achievers, as if they had just been declared communal property.

Mr. Hargreaves lifted a sheet of paper and began reading names in his dry, administrative drone.

“Karen Richards, you’re with Mark Ellison.”

A boy near the middle of the room slumped dramatically in his seat, as if sentenced to hard labor.

“Diane Cooper, Jeff Williams.”

Somebody in the back muttered, “Good luck, Jeff,” and was instantly shushed by a neighbor.

He read a few more pairs. The reactions were a spectrum of human resignation: some looked vaguely smug, some utterly defeated, some simply wished for the floor to open up and end their misery.

You kept your face a careful, neutral mask, but your fingers tightened around your pen, leaving slight indents in your skin.

Then—

“__________…”

Your heart performed a clumsy, sideways stutter in your chest.

The teacher paused, adjusting his glasses as he found the matching name. “…Steve Harrington.”

For one full, suspended second, the room went utterly quiet. It was the kind of silence that is thick with stunned potential, the silence that precedes an eruption, when something is so perfectly, ironically funny that everyone is collectively deciding if they’re allowed to laugh.

Then the dam broke.

Laughter burst out, sharp and uncontained, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It wasn't malicious, necessarily; it was the sound of cosmic irony being acknowledged at top volume.

Steve turned in his seat immediately, the motion fluid and attention-commanding. He craned his neck, his eyes scanning the rows until they landed squarely on you. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical spotlight, hot and inescapable, even before you reluctantly looked up from the safe harbor of your notebook.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes. It was a tactical error.

Steve Harrington’s expression was a masterclass in controlled reaction. Amusement and genuine surprise blended seamlessly, lifting his brows and curving his mouth. It was the look of a king who has just been handed an intriguing, unexpected puzzle, a gift he hadn’t known to ask for, but was immediately pleased to receive. His lips tilted into a slow, spreading grin that seemed to hold a private joke meant just for the two of you.

You stared back, your own face deliberately flat, a fortress of neutrality. You refused, absolutely refused, to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. You would not blush, you would not smile nervously, you would not look away.

His grin only widened, the spark in his eyes intensifying. Your silent defiance wasn't a rebuff; it was entertainment. A challenge. It made the whole situation more interesting.

Mr. Hargreaves slammed a meaty hand on his desk. “Enough! If you have something to say, say it quietly or write it down. In your three-page reflection, Harrington.”

Steve’s grin didn’t falter. He turned back around with a leisurely, unhurried confidence that spoke of a lifetime never spent worrying about whether he was liked. He simply was, and the world adjusted accordingly.

You looked back down at the clean, blue lines of your notebook, your vision momentarily swimming. You concentrated on the steady, silent mantra in your mind, pretending with every fiber of your being that your pulse wasn't hammering a wild, dramatic rhythm against your ribs.

Great. The word echoed in your skull, bleak and flat. Just… phenomenally, spectacularly great.

The rest of detention limped by, a slow, excruciating punishment measured not in minutes but in the agonizing, audible ticks of the wall clock above Mr. Hargreaves’ desk. Each tick was a tiny hammer on the silence, each tock a confirmation of your sentence. The room hummed with low, whispered commentary, a current of gossip you couldn't quite tune out. You heard your name, now permanently twinned with his, passed between classmates like a piece of contraband candy, sweet, scandalous, and meant to be savored. A voice, sharp and acidic, cut through the haze behind you: “Harrington’s gonna flirt his way to a B, easy.” Another, laced with a grudging admiration, answered, “Man can flirt his way to whatever he wants. That’s his whole thing.”

You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch. You kept your eyes fixed on a random chip in the laminate of your desk, your posture rigid. Your job wasn’t to react. Your job was to be invisible until the clock ran out.

When the bell finally, mercifully, released its shrill cry and Mr. Hargreaves dismissed everyone with a weary, defeated wave, you moved with a speed born of pure self-preservation. You gathered your notebooks and pens in a frantic, silent flurry, shoving them into your bag, hoping to dissolve into the hallway’s chaotic stream before the inevitable could happen.

“Hey.”

His voice. Not from across the room, but close. Beside you. It was a low, warm sound that seemed to bypass your ears and vibrate directly in your chest.

You froze, your fingers stalling on the zipper of your bag. Slowly, as if moving through syrup, you turned.

Steve Harrington had somehow transformed the mundane act of loitering in a classroom doorway into a deliberate, effortless composition. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, his body a study in casual angles. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, and his letterman jacket hung open, the rich red leather a stark contrast to the drab beige of the walls. He looked like he’d been placed there by a director, a perfect, living snapshot of charismatic nonchalance. There was a faint, bruise-colored shadow beneath his left eye, not dramatic, but enough to sand away a layer of his polished perfection, making him look less like an icon and more like a person who might walk into a door or take an errant elbow during gym. It made him real, and that was somehow more disarming.

He smiled at you, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that suggested you were both participants in a delightful, shared secret.

You did not smile back. Not out of intentional rudeness, but out of a profound mistrust of your own facial expressions. Your face had a history of betraying you, of flushing at inopportune moments, of eyes widening with unguarded surprise. You kept it carefully, painfully neutral.

“What?” you asked, aiming for a tone of detached curiosity and landing somewhere near flat annoyance.

Steve’s brows lifted a fraction, a flicker of genuine surprise, or perhaps appreciation, that you hadn’t immediately softened under his gaze. “We’re, uh…” He gestured lazily with his chin toward the crumpled paper still clutched in Mr. Hargreaves’ hand. “Apparently a team now. Academically speaking.”

“I heard,” you said, the words clipped and final.

He laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “Okay. Ouch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That was cold,” he clarified, his grin tilting into something crooked, almost self-deprecating. “I’m Steve, by the way. In case you’ve been living under a very quiet, studious rock.”

You knew his name. The entire ecosystem of Hawkins High knew his name. It was a fundamental fact, like the location of the gym or the taste of cafeteria pizza. But you refused to grant him the satisfaction of the acknowledgment.

“I know who you are,” you stated, turning back to your bag to give your hands a purpose. “We’re in the same class. Have been for two years.”

He made a dramatic, wounded face, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. So you have noticed me. I’m flattered. Truly.”

You stared at him, your gaze level and unimpressed. “Is this… how you talk to everyone?”

Steve’s eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, crinkled at the corners. “Depends,” he said, as if considering a complex equation.

“On what?”

“On whether they look like they’re about to throw a textbook at my head.”

“I’m not about to throw a textbook,” you said, finally swinging your bag onto your shoulder. The weight was a comfort. “I’m just trying to leave.”

“Right.” He pushed off the doorframe with a graceful, unhurried motion, stepping aside and sweeping a hand out in a mock-gallant gesture, as if opening a stage curtain for the leading lady. “After you.”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent war between pride and prudence, before walking past him. The air in the doorway seemed charged, buzzing with his proximity. To your mild horror, he fell into step beside you as you entered the hallway, matching your pace with an easy, infuriating familiarity. It felt less like an invitation and more like an annexation, as if he’d decided your personal space was now communal property.

He was too good at this. At taking up space without asking.

“That pairing,” Steve announced, as if continuing a conversation you’d been having, “is a mistake. Just so we’re clear.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Why? Because you’re above needing help?”

“No,” he said quickly, then seemed to catch himself, his expression shifting into one of careless amusement. He shrugged, the movement emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders under the leather jacket. “I mean—yeah, sure. Because I’m perfect and brilliant and definitely not failing Mr. Hargreaves’ history class. Obviously.”

The sheer, bald-faced audacity of his lie, delivered with such cheerful conviction, was almost impressive. Against your will, the corner of your mouth twitched. It was a tiny, treacherous movement, a mere ghost of a smile, but you fought it down, clenching your jaw.

Steve noticed. Of course he did. His eyes brightened instantly, like a hunter spotting movement in the brush. A spark of pure, triumphant delight flashed within them.

“I’m serious,” you said, clearing your throat to erase any trace of amusement. The sound was too loud in the emptying hall. “If you don’t show up to our sessions, I’m going to tell Mr. Hargreaves. Immediately.”

Steve placed a hand over his heart again, his expression one of profound betrayal. “You’d narc on me? To Hargreaves? That’s cold-blooded.”

“It’s not ‘narcing,’” you corrected, your voice firm. “It’s reporting a failure to participate in a mandatory academic program. It’s consequences.”

“God,” he sighed, the sound long-suffering and theatrical. “You say that like a grown-up. With a briefcase and everything.”

“I am a grown-up,” you retorted, then instantly wished you could snatch the words back from the air. They sounded childish even to your own ears.

Steve’s grin widened, a predator sensing weakness. “You’re a grown-up?” he repeated, his voice dripping with mock awe. “In high school? Wow. That’s… a rare specimen. Should I be calling you ‘ma’am’?”

You stopped at your locker, a sanctuary of cold, painted metal. He stopped too, leaning his shoulder against the locker next to yours as if he had a standing reservation there. The hallway around you was draining of life, the sounds of slamming lockers and retreating footsteps growing fainter, leaving you in a bubble of unsettling quiet.

You spun your combination lock with practiced, furious speed, a code you could do in your sleep.

Steve watched your hands.

Not in a way that felt intrusive or creepy, but with a focused, open curiosity. It was as if he’d never seen someone open a locker before and found the mundane ritual fascinating. As if by observing the small, ordinary mechanics of your life, the twist of your wrist, the click of the lock, the way you neatly arranged your books, he could decipher the larger, more complicated puzzle of you.

It made your skin feel hyper-sensitive, as if every nerve ending was standing at attention.

“So,” Steve said, breaking the silence you were desperately trying to cultivate, “when do we embark on this… noble academic journey?”

You opened your locker door, using it as a shield between you. “When are you free?”

Steve blinked, as if the question itself was a novelty. “Me? I’m always free.” He said it like it was a point of pride, a testament to his desirable social flexibility.

You turned your head slowly to look at him over the edge of the locker door. “That’s not something to brag about, Harrington. It suggests a profound lack of commitment.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Okay. Fair. That’s… a solid point.”

You grabbed the strap of your bag and slammed your locker shut with more force than necessary. The metallic bang was satisfyingly final. “I’m free after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In the library.”

Steve’s expression flickered. For a split second, the mask of easygoing charm slipped. His eyes darted away, his brow furrowing just slightly. It was a look of rapid, internal calculation, not about his schedule, but about what it meant to have this obligation, this structure, imposed upon a life that was famously unstructured. It was the brief, vulnerable glimpse of a boy realizing he might have to show up, physically and mentally, for something he couldn’t charm his way through.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the crack was sealed over. He smoothed his features back into an approximation of his usual grin.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he repeated, nodding as if confirming a business meeting. “Cool. Cool, cool. I can do that. I can be… scholarly. I have the posture for it.” He straightened up, affecting a comically rigid, intellectual pose.

“Great,” you said, already starting to walk away. “Library. Four o’clock. Bring your textbook. And a pen. That can write.”

Steve made a face like you’d just asked him to bring a live, venomous snake. “Textbook. Right. Totally. The big green one with the… depressing pictures.”

You were walking, and he was following again, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your determined, faster ones.

“Do I have to bring anything else?” he asked, his tone light, teasing. “Like… an apple? For you? Teachers love apples. It’s a known thing.”

“I’m not your teacher,” you said, not breaking stride.

“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur beside you, “but you’re gonna be telling me what to do, right? That’s kind of the same thing.”

You stopped so abruptly your bag swung forward on your shoulder. Turning to face him, you crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m going to help you understand the material. You are going to do the work. There’s a difference.”

Steve held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but his eyes were still laughing. “Okay, okay. Relax. I’m just saying, this is kind of a power dynamic. You have the knowledge. I have the… charming personality. It’s a partnership.”

You stared at him, your face a masterpiece of deadpan delivery.

Steve stared back, his grin still firmly in place, but his eyes had changed. They were no longer just amused; they were searching, scanning your face for a crack, a clue, a way in.

And it struck you then, sharp and sudden as a paper cut: he was performing. Not just for you, but for himself. The jokes, the charm, the exaggerated nonchalance, it was a deflector shield. If he kept everything light, kept everything a game, he wouldn’t have to admit, even to himself, that he might be nervous. That he might be in over his head. You’d seen that behavior before, in people who were scared of being seen as vulnerable. You’d just never seen it crafted so skillfully, worn so comfortably, by Steve Harrington.

“You don’t have to make jokes,” you said, your voice quieter now, losing its defensive edge.

His grin faltered, just a millimeter. A flicker of uncertainty in the brown depths of his eyes. “I’m not making jokes.”

“Yes,” you said softly, holding his gaze. “You are.”

He recovered with a shrug, but the motion was stiffer now, less fluid. The performance was becoming work. “It’s what I do,” he said, a simple statement of fact that felt, for the first time, like a confession.

“And why do you do it?” you asked. The question was out before you could censor it, born of a curiosity that had now sharpened into something more pointed.

Steve’s eyes sharpened, the playful light in them hardening into something more alert, more guarded. It was the look of someone who’d just felt another person step onto a private, well-trodden path. His mouth opened, undoubtedly to fire back another quip, another deflection, and then he hesitated.

There it was again. That tiny, revealing crack in the foundation.

You knew you shouldn’t have pushed. You didn’t know him. This wasn’t your business. But something about the dissonance, the arrogant posture clashing with that fleeting glimpse of the boy working the levers behind the curtain, had hooked you. It made him… curiously human.

Steve exhaled a long, controlled breath through his nose, then leaned back against the lockers again, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. It was a pose meant to reclaim territory, to re-establish cool. “You always interrogate your tutoring clients?” he asked, his tone aiming for lightness but landing somewhere closer to wary.

“Only when they’re being deliberately distracting,” you said.

Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “Distracting,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.

“Mm-hmm.”

He smiled again, but this one was different. It was slower. More thoughtful. Less an automatic reflex and more a conscious choice.

He tilted his head, the movement considering, and studied you with an open, unabashed curiosity that had entirely replaced the lazy confidence he’d been wearing all afternoon. It was as if he’d decided the charming barrage hadn’t worked, and now he was switching tactics to simple, direct observation.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, almost intimate rumble in the quiet hallway. A small, challenging smile played on his lips. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m doing everything wrong?”

The question carried just enough challenge to make your spine straighten. His voice was smooth, casual—but his eyes weren’t joking. They stayed on you, steady, like he was bracing for something.

Then you met his eyes.

“No,” you said evenly. “This is the part where you decide whether you’re actually going to try.”

For a heartbeat, Steve looked caught off guard.

The grin that followed was slower, brighter, like you’d just nudged him into a game he hadn’t realised he wanted to play.

“Wow,” he said. “Direct. I respect that.”

He spread his hands, easy and open, the picture of confidence. “I try plenty. I just… prefer to do it my own way.”

“Your own way isn’t working,” you said, not unkindly.

Something flickered across his face—too quick to be a full expression. Not anger. Not offence. More like recognition.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Tuesday. Four o’clock. Library.”

Steve nodded, but his attention lingered like he hadn’t quite moved on yet.

“Tuesday,” he echoed.

You took a step away.

“Hey.”

You stopped, not turning around right away. “Yeah?”

The hallway had emptied almost completely. When you finally looked back, Steve’s posture had changed. He still looked like Steve Harrington, confident, charming, infuriatingly put-together, but there was something more careful in his eyes now, like he was choosing his words instead of tossing them out.

“Don’t,” he said, then paused, exhaling softly. “Don’t go easy on me.”

It wasn’t delivered with a grin. There was no joke hiding behind it. Just honesty, bare and a little exposed.

You studied him for a second, then nodded once. “I won’t.”

The relief that crossed his face was subtle, but it was there. He watched you like your answer mattered more than he wanted it to.

You turned and walked away before the moment could stretch into something fragile.

And when you glanced back, just once, you saw him still leaning against the lockers, gaze fixed on the space you’d left behind, brow faintly furrowed.

By the third tutoring session, Steve Harrington stopped pretending he didn’t care.

He still acted like he didn’t—leaning back in his chair, tapping his pencil against the table, sighing dramatically whenever you asked him to actually read something—but the effort underneath it all was unmistakable.

You noticed because you noticed things.

The library became your first routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, four o’clock sharp. You always arrived early, spreading your notes out neatly, lining up your pens by colour because it helped you think. Steve arrived late the first time—five minutes, then ten—but by the second week, he started showing up on time. Not early. Never early. But on time, hair still damp from a rushed shower, jacket half-zipped like he’d thrown it on mid-stride.

“Wow,” he said one afternoon, dropping into the chair across from you. “You always this organised, or are you trying to intimidate me?”

You didn’t look up from your notes. “If my handwriting intimidates you, we have bigger problems.”

He laughed, a warm, easy sound that carried a little too far in the quiet library. The librarian shot him a warning look over her glasses.

Steve leaned closer to you, lowering his voice theatrically. “See? You’re already getting me in trouble.”

You slid his textbook toward him. “Page eighty-six.”

He stared at it like it might bite. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

That alone made you glance up.

“Dangerous, I know,” he added quickly. “But I think my brain just… doesn’t like history.”

“That’s not how brains work,” you said.

“Mine does.” He tapped his temple. “Selective listening.”

You raised an eyebrow. He grinned, unbothered.

“Read,” you said.

He groaned, but he did it. Slowly. Haltingly. He stumbled over dates and names, but when you corrected him, he repeated them back, careful this time. You caught the way his shoulders tensed whenever he got something wrong, and the way he relaxed when you nodded instead of sighing.

He pretended not to notice your reactions.

You pretended not to notice his effort.

After the library came empty classrooms. When the weather turned colder and the library started closing earlier, you commandeered a spare room down the hall from the science wing. It smelled faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant, and the windows rattled when the wind picked up.

Steve liked it better there.

“No judgemental librarians,” he said, spinning a chair backward and straddling it like he belonged in the space. “Feels more… authentic.”

“You mean louder,” you said.

“Exactly.”

He still joked constantly. Still found ways to lean too close when he asked questions, to stretch his legs into your space like he was testing boundaries. You didn’t clock it as flirting—just Steve being Steve. You chalked it up to his inability to sit still, to the way he filled rooms without trying.

But you noticed other things.

Like how he started bringing the right notebook without being reminded. How he underlined things you’d mentioned before. How he stopped rolling his eyes when you corrected him—and started nodding instead, jaw set in concentration.

One day the suggestion came out of Steve’s mouth like it hadn’t been rehearsed.

“Okay, hear me out.”

You glanced up from your notes, pen hovering mid-word. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs like he trusted the floor more than he should’ve. “I’m just saying. The library closes early today. And that classroom smells like someone’s been microwaving regret in there.”

“That’s science wing,” you said. “It’s supposed to smell like that.”

He grimaced. “Yeah, well. My brain doesn’t work under chemical warfare.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already packing up your notebook. “Then we’ll meet earlier tomorrow.”

“Or,” Steve said quickly, dropping the chair legs back to the floor with a soft thud, “we could just… go somewhere else.”

You paused. “Where?”

He shrugged, too casual. “My place is a disaster. Like, medically concerning. So that’s out.”

You waited.

Steve shifted in his seat, eyes darting briefly to the window, then back to you. “What about yours?”

The question hung there, light but deliberate.

You frowned slightly. “My parents are out late.”

“That’s… fine,” he said quickly, then added, “I mean, if that’s fine. Totally fine if it’s not. I’m not trying to, you know, invade your personal sanctuary or whatever.”

You studied him for a second. He looked oddly earnest, like he was trying very hard not to mess something up.

“It’s quiet,” you said slowly. “And small.”

Steve brightened. “Perfect. I thrive in small, quiet environments.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Okay,” he admitted. “But I want to thrive.”

You sighed, already resigned. “Fine. But we’re actually studying.”

“Absolutely.” He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honour.”

You didn’t believe him. But you grabbed your bag anyway.

Your house was dark when you unlocked the door, the kind of quiet that settled in once everyone else had left for the evening. You flicked on the hall light and kicked your shoes off by the mat.

“Whoa,” Steve said softly, stepping inside like the place might echo. “This is… nice.”

“It’s just a house,” you said, locking the door behind him.

“Yeah, but.” He shrugged, lowering his voice instinctively. “It feels… calm.”

You led him toward the kitchen, the warm overhead light spilling across the worn wooden table. You set your bag down in its usual place, books following, pen placed neatly on top like a marker.

Steve didn’t follow right away.

You glanced back to find him hovering in the hallway, suddenly very aware of himself. His eyes drifted over the closed doors, the framed photos on the walls, the quiet hum of a lived-in home. Family photos on the fridge. A mug drying by the sink. The faint, comforting smell of dinner lingering in the air.

“Hey,” you said. “You coming?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly, tearing his gaze away. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he tilted his head, lips twitching. “So, uh… do I get the full tour, or is that a second-date privilege?”

You paused. “There is no date.”

“Right, right,” he said easily. “Strictly academic.” He gestured vaguely down the hall. “Still. Just curious. Like, purely hypothetical, are we talking secret rock band poster phase? Or aggressively neat bedroom?”

You stared at him.

His grin widened. “Because if there’s embarrassing childhood decor, I feel like that’s important information.”

“No,” you said flatly. “You are not peeking into my room.”

Steve immediately raised his hands. “Whoa. Okay. Boundary respected. I wasn’t gonna peek peek.”

“That sounded exactly like peeking.”

“I was thinking more like… accidental glimpse,” he said. “I trip, door’s open—boom. Knowledge.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t smile.

He laughed under his breath and shook his head. “Kidding. I’m kidding. Mostly.”

“Kitchen,” you said, turning away. “Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, mock-serious as he finally followed you. “Wow. Invite a guy into your home and immediately start bossing him around.”

You pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

He did, still smiling, but quieter now, like the joke had served its purpose and could be put away.

The kitchen felt smaller with him in it. More personal. Steve took it all in without comment, like he was suddenly aware he’d crossed into something private.

“This is… really you,” he said after a moment.

You glanced at him. “It’s a kitchen.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But still.”

You slid his textbook across the table. “Same chapter.”

He eyed it. “You’re ruthless.”

“I warned you.”

He flipped the book open, then looked up again. “Your parents really cool with this?”

“With studying?” you asked.

“With me,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I have a reputation.”

You met his gaze evenly. “So do I.”

That caught him off guard.

For a second, the grin faded, not completely, but enough to reveal something real underneath. Then it returned, gentler.

“Okay,” he said. “Fair.”

For a while, it was just pages turning and pencil scratching. Steve fidgeted, tapping his foot against the table leg, humming under his breath until you shot him a look and he zipped his lips theatrically.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Habit.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” you said.

“Feels like I should.”

At one point, he leaned closer to look at your notes, his arm brushing yours. You stiffened instinctively, not from fear, just awareness.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, pulling back. “Too close?”

“It’s fine,” you said, even though your heartbeat had kicked up a notch.

He nodded, like he was filing that information away.

After a while, he pushed his book aside and stretched, arms lifting over his head. “Okay. I officially hate the Founding Fathers.”

“They hate you too,” you said.

He laughed, loud and unguarded, then winced and glanced toward the hallway. “Right. Quiet house.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Hey,” Steve said suddenly, more serious. “Thanks. For this. I know you didn’t have to.”

You looked at him sitting at your kitchen table, elbows resting where your family ate dinner every night, hair falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to fix it this time.

“It’s just studying,” you said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still.”

The house hummed softly around you, refrigerator clicking on and off, the clock ticking above the sink.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I thought this was gonna be weird.”

“And?” you asked.

“And it’s not,” he said. “It’s just… nice.”

You nodded. You’d been thinking the same thing.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the table lightly. “Back to work.”

He groaned but picked up his pencil. “You’re really not going easy on me.”

You met his eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

He smiled, small, genuine, and bent back over the page.

And if he stayed a little longer than necessary that night, if he lingered in the doorway when it was time to leave, neither of you said anything about it.

The house didn’t seem to mind.

And neither did he.

He was different here, less performative. Still funny, still charming, but quieter. More present. He joked under his breath instead of projecting to an audience. When he laughed, it was softer, like he wasn’t expecting anyone else to hear.

And then there were the moments you weren’t supposed to see.

The first time was in the hallway outside the classroom. You’d forgotten your notebook and gone back to grab it, only to find Steve crouched down in front of a freshman whose locker had jammed.

“Okay, no, don’t yank it,” Steve said, calm but firm. “You’re just gonna make it mad.”

The kid looked on the verge of tears. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re fine.” Steve twisted the handle gently, then gave it a sharp tap with his palm. The locker popped open. “See? Easy.”

The kid stared at him like he’d just witnessed magic. “Thanks.”

Steve ruffled his hair without thinking. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”

When Steve straightened and saw you watching, he froze for half a second.

Then he smirked. “What? Community service hours.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled, small and genuine.

The smirk faltered.

Another time, one of his friends—Tommy, you thought—made a crude comment about a girl passing by. You were close enough to hear it, close enough to see Steve’s reaction.

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he said, “Dude. Knock it off.”

Tommy scoffed. “Relax.”

“I’m serious,” Steve said, voice sharper now. “It’s not funny.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and walked off.

Steve noticed you again then, standing a few feet away with your books clutched to your chest. He shrugged like it hadn’t mattered.

“Guy’s an idiot,” he said lightly.

You nodded. You remembered.

Steve covered these moments with humour like it was instinct. Like kindness embarrassed him more than cruelty ever had. Whenever you looked at him too long, like you might be piecing something together, he cracked a joke. Whenever you thanked him, he waved it off.

“You’re gonna make me sound like a saint,” he said once, when you thanked him for walking you to your car after a late session.

“I said thank you,” you replied. “Not ‘I worship you.’”

“Slippery slope,” he said. “First it’s gratitude, next thing you know, I’m babysitting the entire town.”

You frowned. “Babysitting?”

He grimaced like he’d said something accidentally. “Just—forget it. Long story.”

You didn’t push. You just stored it away.

Because that was how you cared. Quietly. By noticing. By remembering.

And Steve, whether he realised it or not, started watching you the same way.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked to you when he got something right, like he was checking your reaction. In the way he straightened when you praised him, like your approval weighed more than his friends’ laughter.

One afternoon, you corrected a date he’d written down wrong.

“Actually,” you said gently, tapping the page, “it’s 1776, not 1786.”

Steve stared at the paper. Then at you.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. That makes more sense.”

He erased it carefully and rewrote the number, slower this time.

When he looked up, you were still watching, not judging, just attentive.

Something in his expression shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. Just… thoughtful.

“Hey,” he said, quieter than usual.

“Yes?”

“Do you—” He stopped, then shook his head with a laugh. “Never mind.”

You waited anyway.

He glanced at you again, then away. “You’re really good at this.”

“Tutoring?”

“No,” he said. “Not making people feel stupid.”

The words landed heavier than he’d intended. You could tell by the way he swallowed after.

You softened your voice without thinking. “You’re not stupid.”

He scoffed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you said. “You just learn differently.”

Steve studied you like he was trying to decide whether to believe that.

Then he smiled, small, unguarded, gone too quickly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess I do.”

When you packed up that day, he lingered, pretending to fiddle with his notebook while you slid your pens back into place.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Same time Thursday?”

“Yes,” you said.

“Cool. Cool.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, then paused. “Thanks. For, uh. Not giving up on me.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and realised something quietly important.

Steve Harrington was trying.

And he didn’t even know how much that mattered to you yet.

You watched him walk away down the hallway, joking loudly with a passing friend, the mask sliding back into place like muscle memory.

The first thing you noticed was the car.

It cut into the student parking lot like a challenge, engine loud, music spilling out with the confidence of someone who expected to be watched. Heads turned automatically. Conversations dipped, then picked back up in whispers as the Camaro rolled to a stop.

You slowed only long enough to register the driver’s door opening.

Billy Hargrove stepped out like the world was already his.

Tall. Broad shoulders. A faded denim jacket thrown over a sleeveless shirt despite the chill, collar tugged up like the weather was something that happened to other people. Dark hair perfectly messy in a way that felt practiced rather than accidental. He paused by the car, scanning the lot slowly, deliberately, like he was deciding what belonged to him and what didn’t.

A group of girls near the curb started whispering immediately. A couple of guys straightened, suddenly aware of their posture. Someone behind you muttered, “Who the hell is that?”

You didn’t stop. New kids showed up all the time. Loud ones, quiet ones, kids who lasted a week before Hawkins swallowed them whole and moved on.

Billy didn’t look like someone who got swallowed.

You pushed through the school doors and let the noise of the hallway take over. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. The smell of cheap cologne and cafeteria food hung heavy in the air. You found your locker, spun the combination, and focused on the familiar click-click-click, grounding, reliable.

Then the hallway shifted.

Not dramatically. Subtly. Like a current passing through a crowd.

People stepped aside without being asked.

You glanced up just in time to see Billy walking down the hall like he’d been there for years. His gaze flicked from face to face with lazy interest. A couple of teachers watched him with immediate suspicion. He didn’t care.

He stopped near the trophy case, said something to a group of guys, Tommy, among them, that made them laugh a little too eagerly.

You turned back to your locker. Not your circus. Not your—

“Hey.”

The voice was closer than it should’ve been.

You shut your locker harder than necessary.

The metal clang echoed down the hallway, sharp and final. You kept your eyes forward, expression carefully neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard.

It worked.

Billy noticed anyway.

He stepped into your space like he’d already decided this conversation was happening. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just one smooth, confident movement.

“Afternoon,” he said, voice low and lazy.

You turned only enough to acknowledge him, nothing more. “I’m busy.”

Billy smiled like that was exactly the answer he’d hoped for. He took one step closer, just one, but it was enough to make the air feel smaller, heavier. The scent of cigarettes clung to him, sharp and stale beneath whatever cologne he’d layered on top.

“Maybe I do,” he said.

Your jaw tightened.

“Then you should find someone else,” you replied evenly.

Billy’s eyes dragged over you again, slower this time, like he was waiting for you to flinch. You didn’t. You met his gaze just long enough to make it clear you weren’t impressed, then shifted your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

That seemed to amuse him more than anything else.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You hesitated, not out of fear, but because you didn’t owe him anything. The hallway had gone quieter around you, people pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.

You gave him only your first name.

Billy repeated it like he was tasting it. “Pretty.”

You didn’t respond.

The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Intentional.

Billy chuckled under his breath. “I like that,” he said. “Most people don’t make me work this hard.”

“That’s not my problem,” you said.

His smile sharpened. “We’ll see.”

You stepped around him before he could block you, brushing past with deliberate confidence. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t need to.

You could feel his attention cling anyway, heavy, lingering, like a hand at your wrist even after you’d pulled away.

And as you walked down the hall, spine straight and expression calm, you had the unsettling sense that Billy Hargrove didn’t see resistance as a warning.

He saw it as an invitation.

You ducked into the girls’ bathroom two minutes later, more irritated than rattled. The door swung shut behind you with a hollow thud, muffling the noise of the hallway. You exhaled, leaning briefly against the counter as you ran cold water over your hands.

Stupid. You hadn’t done anything wrong.

“__________.”

You startled, spinning toward the door.

Steve Harrington stood just inside the bathroom, one hand braced against the doorframe like he’d followed you in without thinking and only realised where he was once he’d already crossed the line. His hair was a mess like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times. His expression was tight—jaw clenched, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to panic.

“What were you doing with him?” he demanded.

Your irritation flared instantly.

“What?” you snapped. “Excuse me?”

Steve took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Billy. What was that?”

“I was existing,” you said flatly. “He came up to me.”

Steve scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t just come up to people.”

“And yet,” you said, gesturing between you, “here we are.”

Steve stopped short, chest rising as he tried to rein himself in. “You shouldn’t talk to him.”

The words hit wrong. Too sharp. Too familiar.

“And you don’t get to tell me that,” you shot back.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer again. “There’s something—he’s not—he’s bad news.”

You crossed your arms. “Then say that. Don’t corner me in a bathroom and act like I did something wrong.”

Steve’s mouth opened, then shut again. You could see it, the conflict, the frustration, the words he wasn’t saying stacking up behind his eyes.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said finally.

Your chest tightened. Not with gratitude. With anger.

“By deciding for me?” you asked quietly. “By not trusting me enough to explain?”

Steve’s shoulders sagged just a fraction, like the fight drained out of him all at once. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” you said. “Because right now it feels like you’re mad at me instead of him.”

Silence settled between you, heavy and unresolved.

Steve looked away first.

“Just… stay away from him,” he muttered. “Please.”

The please almost softened you. Almost.

You stepped past him, opening the bathroom door. “I don’t like being talked to like I’m stupid,” you said over your shoulder. “Especially not by you.”

The door swung shut between you.

Steve stayed where he was, staring at it like he’d just lost something important, and hadn’t realised how easily that could happen.

By lunchtime, the rumours had already started.

You were halfway through eating when a folded flyer slid onto the table in front of you.

You looked up to find Carol standing there, perfectly lip-glossed and already bored. She dropped another flyer onto the table beside you, then another onto the table behind you.

“House party,” she said, like it explained everything. “Harrington’s place. Friday.”

You glanced down at the paper. Someone had taken the time to draw flames around the words HARRINGTON HOUSE in aggressive marker.

“No parents,” Carol added. “Obviously.”

She drifted away before you could answer.

You stared at the flyer for a moment longer than necessary, then folded it in half and slid it into your bag. You didn’t go to house parties. You never had. Too loud. Too many people. Too many expectations.

“Please tell me you’re not throwing that away.”

Steve dropped into the seat across from you like gravity had personally invited him. He looked… distracted. Less polished than usual. Like his mind was somewhere else and his body had followed out of habit.

“I wasn’t,” you said. “I was ignoring it.”

Steve winced. “Worse.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, leaning forward, lowering his voice like this was confidential, “this party is kind of… important.”

“Important how?” you asked.

“Well.” He gestured vaguely around the cafeteria. “King Steve has an image to maintain.”

You snorted despite yourself.

“There it is,” he said, brightening. “That sound. That’s why you should come.”

You shook your head. “I don’t do house parties.”

Steve’s smile softened, turning almost sheepish. “You don’t do them yet.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Okay, look,” he said, dropping the theatrics. “I’ll make it better. You can stick with me. I’ll keep people from bothering you. You can leave whenever you want. I’ll even—” he grimaced “—turn the music down if it gets too bad.”

“You would never,” you said.

“I would,” he insisted. “Once. For you.”

You studied him. He was watching your face closely, like this mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“I don’t belong there,” you said quietly.

Steve frowned. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you replied. “Those parties aren’t for people like me.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening. Then he leaned forward again, elbows on the table, eyes steady on yours.

“They are if I want you there.”

The words slipped out before he could dress them up as a joke.

He blinked. Cleared his throat. “I mean—uh. It’d be less boring.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t look bored lately.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Funny how that works.”

There was a beat. Just long enough to feel something settle between you.

“Please,” he added, softer now. “Just… come for a bit. For me.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the strap of your bag where the invitation waited.

“I’ll think about it,” you said.

Steve grinned like he’d just won something anyway. “That’s all I ask.”

As he stood to leave, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And, uh,” he added casually, “if anyone gives you trouble? You tell me.”

You smiled faintly. “You always like playing hero?”

Steve hesitated.

“Only when it matters,” he said.

The promise of the party hits you long before the door even swings open, a deep, subcutaneous thrum of bass that leaks through the solid wood and the old Harrington siding. It rattles the porch planks beneath your feet, traveling up through the soles of your shoes to vibrate in the hollow of your chest, a second heartbeat that’s too loud, too eager. You freeze on the threshold, fingers instinctively plucking at the hem of your top—a nervous, futile gesture, as if you could rearrange your very decision to come. For one last, fleeting second, the fantasy of retreat flickers: you could turn around, walk back to the quiet of your car, and pretend this reckless yes was never uttered.

But it’s too late now. The decision has been made, and the house is waiting.

You push inside, and the wall of sound doesn’t just greet you, it swallows you. It’s a physical, smothering thing. The roar of a hundred overlapping conversations, shrieks of laughter sharp enough to cut, the thudding backbeat of a song swallowed by the crowd. Bodies are packed in a hot, shifting mosaic of denim and bright fabric, leaving you to navigate through a labyrinth of elbows and shoulders. The air is thick and hazy, carrying the sour-sweet tang of spilled beer, the chemical bite of cheap vodka, and beneath it all, the warm, damp smell of too many people in a closed space. Someone jostles your shoulder hard, moving past without a glance or an apology. From across the room, a voice you barely recognize shouts a variation of your name, the syllables wrong, turning you into someone else entirely.

You swallow, the motion dry and difficult, and adjust the collar of your jacket for the third time since entering. A sudden, piercing self-consciousness descends. You are a map of vulnerabilities: your hands feel awkward and oversized, your posture a confessed sin, the very rhythm of your breath seems out of sync with the room. Everyone else melts into the chaos with a practiced ease, a belonging that looks as natural as breathing. You feel transparent, a sketch among finished paintings.

Then—

Steve sees you.

He’s a fixed point in the swirling chaos, across the crowded living room, a red cup held loosely in his hand. He’s mid-laugh, a bright, easy smile directed at a guy clapping him on the back. And then his gaze, sweeping the room, snags. On you. The smile doesn’t vanish, but it falters, softens, reshapes itself into something quieter and infinitely more focused. It’s not a dramatic, movie-style double-take. It’s a subtle shift, a gentle zoom lens effect. The noise around him seems to mute, the people blur into vague, colorful shapes. For a second, pure, unguarded relief flashes in his eyes, a quick, bright spark he doesn’t manage to bank in time.

He moves without hesitation. Excusing himself with a nod, he begins weaving through the press of bodies, his path urgent and direct. He doesn’t saunter; he aims for you. When he finally reaches you, slightly breathless as if he’d sprinted the last few feet, his grin is wide and a little winded.

“You came,” he says, his voice pitched low, a secret meant only for your ear. The words aren’t a tease or a casual greeting. They are a statement of genuine, gratified surprise.

You manage a nod, your own voice fighting its way through the lump in your throat. “I said I’d think about it.”

Steve huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, well. I was hoping thinking would work in my favour.”

The connection feels fragile, a bubble of calm in the storm. But the party is a living thing, and it asserts its claim. A heavy hand claps down on Steve’s shoulder, making him wince.

“Harrington! Stop hogging the new recruit. Beer pong throne’s waiting, and we need a king.”

Steve rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, the party king weariness settling on his features. “Of course it is.” His attention snaps back to you, swift and serious. “Don’t move. I’ll be back before you can blink.”

“That’s optimistic,” you murmur, already feeling the crowd pressing in.

He points a finger at you, the gesture playful but his eyes earnest. “Stay. Right. There.”

And then he is absorbed again, his back disappearing into the vibrant, swallowing mass.

You let out a slow, controlled exhale, the brief anchor gone. Almost immediately, the vacuum is filled. A red cup is thrust into your free hand.

“Drink!” commands a girl with smudged eyeliner and a brilliant smile, her words a shout against the music.

You stare down at the cloudy, suspicious liquid. Hesitation is a luxury here, and it’s spotted instantly.

From beside her, another girl with crossed arms snorts, her voice dripping with derisive amusement. “She’s probably too much of a pussy to drink it.”

The words land like a lit match on dry tinder. Your jaw tightens, a hot flush of defiance rising in your chest. Without another thought—without thinking at all—you lift the cup to your lips and throw the contents back in a few swift, burning gulps.

Fire races down your throat, exploding in your stomach, harsh and medicinal. You cough, eyes swimming with involuntary tears. The girls around you erupt in a chorus of approving shouts.

“Holy shit! Okay then!” “Damn, she went for it!”

You hand the empty cup back, your pulse hammering not just from the alcohol’s immediate, scorching shock, but from the sudden, chemical unraveling of your coiled nerves. A dangerous looseness seeps into your limbs. A simulated boldness.

The music shifts, a faster song with a driving, insistent rhythm taking over. Hands reach for you, pulling you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. You give in, letting the beat move you, operating on instinct rather than confidence. The strobe light fractures the scene into snapshots, laughing faces, thrown-back heads, glinting cans. For a few minutes, the self-consciousness dissolves. You are just a body in motion, anonymous in the dark.

Almost.

You feel it before you see it, a pressure, a pinpoint of cold awareness on the back of your neck. A stare that doesn’t flicker or wander. Too steady. Too intent.

Your dancing slows. You glance, almost against your will, toward the shadowy margins of the room.

And your stomach plummets.

Billy Hargrove is propped against the archway to the kitchen like a lion at rest, owning the shade. His denim jacket hangs open, his muscular arms are crossed over his chest, and a cigarette dangles, forgotten, from his fingers, a long curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling. His eyes are not just on you; they are locked on you. Blue, intense, and utterly unapologetic.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. Doesn’t offer a smirk or a nod of acknowledgment. Just holds the gaze, cool and assessing, as if dissecting every hesitant step you took onto the dance floor.

A cold ripple, antithetical to the room’s heat, cascades over your skin. You try to turn back to the music, to shake off the chill, but the feeling metastasizes. It’s a primal signal, a deep-seated knowledge that the predator has sighted the herd, and you are the one who has strayed. The air in the room turns gluey and suffocating. The laughter sounds suddenly shrill, the bodies too close, pressing in.

You have to get out.

Abandoning the dance floor, you push through the thicket of people, a new and frantic urgency in your movements. The back door, fresh air, solitude, just five minutes to let your heart settle back into its proper rhythm.

You stumble onto the relative quiet of the back porch, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. You drag in a deep, trembling breath, gripping the wooden railing.

The creak of the door behind you is soft, but it echoes like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. Slow, deliberate footsteps follow you out onto the porch.

The voice that cuts through the cool night air is a low, smooth drawl, designed to crawl under your skin. It carries no urgency, only a taunting, predatory amusement.

“Running away already?”

You don’t turn. Your fingers tighten on the rough wood of the porch railing, the splinters biting into your palms. “I needed air,” you say, the words clipped, aiming for a neutrality you don’t feel.

“Uh-huh.” The soft scuff of his boots on the weathered boards tells you he’s moved closer. The scent hits you anew, not just the ghost of tobacco, but the fresh, acrid bite of a recently lit cigarette, mixed with leather, cheap beer, and something purely, unsettlingly male. “Didn’t peg you for the party type,” he continues, his voice a rumble just over your shoulder.

A brittle, humorless laugh escapes you, fueled by the liquid courage still simmering in your blood. It makes your tongue reckless. “Didn’t think you were a mind reader, Hargrove.”

You can hear the shift in his silence, a pleased, intrigued pause. When you finally steel yourself to glance his way, Billy is grinning. It’s a slow, deliberate unfurling of expression, all white teeth and calculated charm. His head tilts, eyes raking over you with renewed interest.

“There it is,” he murmurs, as if he’s uncovered a secret. “You’re more fun like this.”

“Like what?” you challenge, turning fully to face him now, crossing your arms against the chill and his gaze. “Not ignoring you?”

He gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug, the denim of his jacket pulling taut. “Not pretending you don’t want the attention.” His eyes hold yours, blue and unblinking, issuing a challenge of their own.

Your pulse, already unsteady, kicks into a frantic drum against your ribs. “You don’t get to decide what I want,” you fire back, the words hotter than you intended.

Billy’s grin doesn’t falter. He closes the remaining distance between you in one fluid, invasive step. The night seems to shrink around him. Before you can react, his fingers brush against your forearm, a touch that is deceptively light, yet it brands your skin through your sleeve. It lingers, a hairsbreadth too long, a silent test of boundaries.

You freeze, a half-second of stunned inaction that feels like a lifetime. It’s all the opening he needs to read as consent.

And suddenly,

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and clear as shattered glass. It isn’t loud, but it carries a command that instantly redraws the lines on the porch.

He’s there, framed in the golden light spilling from the kitchen door, his body a tense line. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and his eyes, usually so warm and easy, are laser-focused, zeroing in instantly on the point where Billy’s fingers still ghost your skin. The distant thump of the bass becomes irrelevant. The world narrows to this triangle of charged silence.

“Back off,” Steve says. The words are simple, flat, and utterly devoid of their usual friendly cadence.

Billy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t remove his hand. He merely turns his head, the smirk on his face deepening into something smug and victorious. “Relax, Harrington. We’re just talking. No laws against that.”

Steve moves then. He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t even look at you to gauge your reaction. He simply steps forward, inserting his body squarely between you and Billy, a human shield made of simmering anger and frayed loyalty. “You don’t touch people who don’t want it,” he grinds out, his shoulders squaring.

Billy’s smile turns razor-edged. “She didn’t say that.” He lets the implication hang, his gaze sliding past Steve to pin you again. “Did you?”

Heat, shameful and fierce, floods up your spine, burning the tips of your ears. The objectification, the presumption, the sheer audacity of being spoken for, it combusts inside you.

“I can handle myself,” you snap, the words exploding into the space between them.

The effect is immediate. Both heads swivel toward you. Steve’s expression fractures, the protective anger melting into pure, wounded surprise, then into something that looks painfully like hurt. It’s as if you’ve shoved him away after he took a blow meant for you.

Billy’s eyes, in stark contrast, gleam with dark, appreciative delight. He’s found the spark he was looking for.

“I don’t need you jumping in,” you continue, your voice finding a steadiness that your trembling hands betray. You look at Steve, then at Billy, refusing to cede ground to either. “Either of you.”

Steve’s throat works as he swallows. “I was just—” he starts, his voice softer, confused.

“I know,” you cut him off, not unkindly but firmly. The hurt in his eyes makes your chest ache, but the principle is a fire you can’t snuff out. “But I didn’t ask.”

A thick, uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the ragged sigh of the wind in the trees. You have dismantled their confrontation and made it about something else entirely.

Billy is the first to break it. A low, appreciative chuckle escapes him. “Damn,” he breathes, shaking his head slowly. “I like you even more now.”

Steve shoots him a look of pure, unadulterated venom, a promise of violence held in check by sheer will.

It’s your cue to exit. You take a deliberate step back, then another, reclaiming the territory of your own personal space. “I’m going back inside,” you announce, your tone leaving no room for debate.

Billy lifts his hands, palms out, in a gesture of mocking surrender. “Your call, sweetheart.”

You don’t wait for Steve. You don’t offer him a conciliatory glance. You turn on your heel and push through the door, letting the wall of sound and heat wash over you once more.

But as you disappear into the throbbing heart of the party, you can feel it, the weight of a gaze anchored to your back. It’s Steve’s. Heavy with confusion, with a fear he hasn’t yet named, and with that stubborn, protective instinct that is already, irrevocably, tipping into something deeper, more complicated, and far more dangerous.

And for the first time that chaotic night, a crystal-clear thought pierces through the alcohol and the noise: coming to the Harrington house wasn't the risky choice. The real danger was never the party itself, but the unpredictable currents of want and defiance it would unleash, currents that have already begun to pull you all toward a reckoning.

Either way, the night is far from over. You move through the crowd, a new, brittle energy crackling under your skin, and without breaking stride, you pluck a freshly filled red cup from a passing tray. The first sip is less a taste and more a decision, to feel everything, or to feel nothing at all. You drain it, and let the burn chart a new course through the chaos.

You don't slow down after that second cup, but you don't rush either. You move through the crowd with a new, liquid rhythm, a current pulling you deeper into the warm, noisy heart of the party. You take another cup from a passing tray, vodka, you think, something clear and vicious, and you drink it not as a challenge, but as a choice. The burn is an old acquaintance now, traveling a familiar path to settle like a low, persistent flame in your chest. It melts the last icy shards of adrenaline, turning the nervous hum under your skin into a gentle, manageable buzz.

The music transforms. It’s no longer an assault; it’s a current you can ride. The bass lines feel like they’re moving through you, not just around you. Your limbs are lighter, your thoughts less carefully corralled. They drift closer to the surface, shimmering and less afraid.

You talk more. To a guy wearing a faded band tee about a song you only half-know. To a girl who compliments your shoes. The words come easier, your laughter rings out louder at a joke that’s only mildly funny. You dance again, not with abandon, not yet, but with a reclaiming of your own physical space. You are present in your body, moving through the strobe-lit dark, feeling less like a specimen under observation and more like a participant in the night's strange, collective dream.

And then you feel it. A shift in the atmospheric pressure of the room.

Not Billy’s predatory, pinprick focus. This is different.

Steve.

You don’t have to scan the room to know he’s there. There’s a gravity to his attention now, a pull you’ve only just begun to calibrate. It’s steadier than the thumping bass, a fixed point in the swirling chaos. When you finally turn your head, he’s leaning against the doorframe that leads toward the darkened stairs, a half-full cup dangling forgotten from his fingertips.

He isn’t smiling his easy, party-host smile. He isn’t scowling with protective anger either. He’s just… watching. His gaze is so intensely focused on you that it makes your stomach perform a slow, dizzying flip. It isn’t jealousy, not precisely. It’s a concern held in such taut check that it vibrates with its own energy. He’s standing monumentally still, as if any movement might startle you, or might betray the depth of his own unease.

When your eyes finally meet across the humid air, something visible unlocks in him. A tension you hadn’t fully registered releases from his shoulders. He pushes off the wall, not with his usual confident swagger, but with a deliberate purpose. He meets you halfway, carving a path through the dancers until he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout, but not so close as to crowd you.

“You okay?” he asks.

Two words, simple and unadorned. They are quiet, careful, and they land with more weight than any dramatic interrogation could.

You blink, your head tilting slightly as the world tilts with it. The vodka lets you see him from a new, unfiltered angle—the genuine worry etched in the faint lines around his eyes, the way he’s holding his own body with a stiffness that speaks of withheld action.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, actually considering the question. The buzz in your veins is warm, the knot in your chest is gone. “Actually… yeah. I am.”

Steve’s brows knit together. His eyes perform a quick, professional scan of your face, checking your pupils, the looseness of your smile, the way you’re gripping your cup a little too tightly. It’s the look of someone who has seen one too many bad nights unfold.

“You’ve had a bit,” he observes, his voice gentle, devoid of accusation but full of implication.

You snort, a short, sharp sound. “Is that Harrington math or actual concern?”

He winces, just a flicker. Not because you’re wrong, but because the two are so entangled in him he can’t separate them. “I’m not judging,” he says quickly, taking a half-step back as if to prove it. “I just—”

“You just worry,” you cut in. The words aren’t unkind, but they aren’t soft either. They are an observation laid bare. “A lot.”

Steve exhales a long breath through his nose, his hand coming up to rub the tense muscles at the back of his neck. “Someone has to,” he says, and it sounds like a mantra he’s worn thin.

You laugh again, but this time it’s hollow, a dry sound in your throat. “Do they?”

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You take a small, deliberate sip, letting the silence stretch for a beat. The alcohol grants you a perilous, clarifying honesty. “It means,” you say, choosing each word as if placing a stone on a scale, “that you keep acting like things happen to me instead of around me. Like I’m not in the room making my own choices, even the stupid ones.”

Steve’s mouth opens, then closes on a rebuttal that doesn’t come.

“That’s not fair,” he finally manages, but it lacks conviction.

“Isn’t it?” you press, the warmth in your chest fueling your resolve. “You stepped in back there like I was scenery. Like the conversation was between you and him, and I was just the subject.”

“He touched you,” Steve snaps, the words cracking like a whip. He immediately lowers his voice, a flush of frustration coloring his cheeks. “He crossed a line.”

“I know he did,” you say, holding his gaze steadily. “And I was handling it.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering. “After,” he says, the single word heavy with meaning. After you froze. After he’d already made his point.

It lands. The truth of it settles in your chest, a cold, uncomfortable weight beneath the warmth of the vodka. The party noise, the laughter, the shrieks, the pounding music, swells around you like a turbulent sea, but in the eye of the storm between you and Steve, there is a profound, insulated silence.

“I didn’t ask you to,” you say, your voice dropping to match the quiet.

Steve looks at you then, and the defensiveness, the anger, it all drains away, leaving something raw and exposed. Just… hurt. “I wasn’t trying to be the hero,” he says, the words soft and earnest. “I just didn’t want you dealing with that alone.”

Your voice softens despite the armor you’re trying to hold onto. “I wasn’t alone.”

He flinches.

It’s not a dramatic motion. Just a slight recoil, as if the words were a physical tap on a fresh bruise. Enough to tell you everything.

“That’s not what it felt like,” he whispers, and the admission seems to cost him.

You study him in the fractured light. The deep crease between his brows, the way his hand flexes nervously around his cup, the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his posture. The "King of Hawkins High" is nowhere to be seen.

“You don’t get to decide when I need help,” you say finally. The statement comes out clear and steady, sharper than you intended, a line drawn in the sand.

Steve’s eyes flicker with a vulnerable, wounded light. “I wasn’t deciding,” he insists, but the certainty is crumbling. “I was just… trying to keep you safe.”

You shake your head slowly, sadly. “You don’t keep people safe by stepping over them, Steve. You keep them safe by standing with them.”

The sentence hangs in the air between you, dangerous and irrevocably true.

Steve swallows hard. “You think I was stepping over you.”

“I think,” you say, measuring the words with deliberate care, “that you didn’t trust me to handle it. And that feels worse than whatever Billy was doing.”

“That’s not—” he begins, but you lift a hand, stopping him.

“And before you say it,” you continue, a little breathless now from the emotion, “I know you meant well. I do. I see it. But intent doesn’t erase how it feels.”

Steve goes utterly quiet.

For a long, suspended moment, he just looks at you. It’s not the look of someone formulating a counter-argument. It’s the look of someone genuinely listening, of pieces being rearranged behind his eyes. He’s recalibrating. He’s seeing the delicate, often invisible line between protection and control, and realizing, with dawning horror, that his instincts have been leading him to toe it without his conscious consent.

“You’re different,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You huff a small, tired laugh. “I’ve always been like this. You’re just actually paying attention now.”

That earns you a faint, wry smile, but it doesn’t reach the concern still clouding his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, the question even quieter now, stripped bare.

“Yes,” you affirm. “And if I’m not… I’ll tell you. You have to trust that I will.”

Steve nods, slow and deliberate, as if he’s agreeing to a much larger, more important treaty. “Okay.”

Neither of you moves. The charged silence stretches, filled with unspoken apologies and new understandings.

“KING! We need you back on the throne, man! Game’s falling apart without you!” a voice booms from across the room, followed by a chorus of agreeing shouts.

Steve doesn’t even glance in their direction. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m busy,” he calls back, his voice flat, firm, and utterly unmistakable.

A beat of surprised silence rolls through his immediate crowd, followed by a few confused laughs and muttered questions. The party, for a second, recalibrates around his absence.

You just blink at him, surprised. Steve shifts his weight, suddenly looking less sure of himself now that he’s commanded the room’s attention only to dismiss it. Up close, in this fragile pocket of privacy you’ve carved out, he looks younger. Less polished, more real. The veneer is gone.

“I, uh—” He clears his throat, his eyes darting past you for a half-second before returning, full of a nervous resolve. “I was gonna head out soon anyway.”

It’s a lie. A generous, face-saving revision of the night’s script. You both know the party is his domain, and leaving it early is an abdication.

He rubs the back of his neck again, the gesture familiar and endearing in its anxiety. “I just wanted to check if you… if you wanted a ride home. Later. Whenever.”

You study him, the warm buzz in your veins making his earnestness feel profound, softening the hard edges of the night. “You’re leaving your own party?”

He huffs a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve thrown enough of these to know the exact moment they stop being fun and start just being… loud.”

There’s something new in the way he looks at you now. It’s not the protective, possessive gaze from the porch. It’s careful. Concerned. Deeply present.

“And,” he adds, his voice lowering into a space meant only for you, “I don’t really love the idea of you walking home alone like this.”

“Like what?” you tease gently, a small smile touching your lips.

He mirrors it, a small, fond quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Like someone who just confidently out-drank half the varsity basketball team.”

You laugh, and the sound is genuine, lighter than anything you’ve felt all night. It feels like a release.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “But… yeah. I’d like that. A ride.”

Relief, pure and unguarded, flickers across his face before he can compose his features. “Yeah?” he asks, as if he needs the confirmation to believe it.

“Yeah.”

Steve nods, a little too quickly, then immediately backpedals, the old uncertainty resurfacing. “No pressure,” he stammers. “I mean, if you want to stay longer, or if someone else is giving you a lift, or—”

“Steve,” you interrupt, your voice soft but firm.

He stops, his ramble cut short.

“I said yes.”

That, finally, seems to settle him. The tension fully leaves his shoulders, replaced by a simple, hopeful resolve. “Okay,” he says, and this time his smile reaches his eyes, real and unguarded. “Okay. Let me just grab my keys and my jacket.”

He takes a step away, then pauses, turning back. His expression is solemn, sincere. “Thanks for coming tonight. Seriously.”

You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. “You literally begged.”

He laughs, a warm, rich sound. “Still. It meant something.”

The drive home is quieter than you’d anticipated, not with the weight of unsaid things, but with a soft, shared exhaustion. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. Steve pulls the BMW away from the chaotic curb, the thumping bass of the Harrington house shrinking into a distant, rhythmic pulse, then dissolving entirely into the still Hawkins night. After a moment, his hand reaches out, not toward you, but toward the radio. He twists the dial with practiced familiarity, bypassing the stations playing party hits until he finds one crackling with static at the edges, bleeding a slow, melancholy guitar riff into the car’s interior. It’s a song from another decade, meant for open windows and long, contemplative roads.

Neither of you comments on it. The choice hangs in the air, understood.

Streetlights become a metronome, sliding past the windows in golden intervals. Each one illuminates Steve’s profile in a fleeting, cinematic flash: the strong line of his nose, the curve of his lower lip, his hands resting steady and capable on the wheel. The tightness has left his jaw; the party-host mask is gone, shed somewhere on the Harrington driveway. What’s left is just Steve, a little tired, a little sobered, beautifully real in the dashboard’s glow. The hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on asphalt, the faint radio melody, they blend into a lullaby for the overstimulated soul.

Your head lolls back against the plush headrest, eyelids heavy. The alcohol has completed its transformation from a sharp stimulant into a warm, woolly haze. It cradles your bones, makes your limbs feel deliciously detached and weightless. In the periphery, you sense Steve’s glance, a quick, sidelong sweep to check on you. You catch him in the act and offer a faint, sleepy smile. He looks away instantly, feigning deep interest in the empty road ahead, but you see the way the corner of his mouth lifts in a reluctant, pleased echo.

When the car finally glides to a stop outside your dark house, he cuts the engine but leaves the radio playing, a thin, gentle thread of sound connecting you. It feels like an acknowledgment that stepping out of this capsule, back into the real world, requires a moment of preparation.

“Home,” Steve says, his voice soft, almost reverent in the new quiet.

You nod, the movement slow. Your hand finds the door handle, the chrome cool under your palm. The second your feet meet the solid earth of your front walk, the world executes a slow, graceful tilt. The ground seems to swell gently toward you.

“Oh—”

The sound is out before you can stop it, a soft, surprised exhale. You haven’t even begun to stumble when you hear the decisive thunk of his car door. Steve is already there, having moved with a quiet urgency, rounding the front of the BMW. His hands come up, hovering near your elbows, a portrait of restrained readiness.

“Hey—hey,” he says, his voice low and calm. “You good?”

“I’m fine, Steve,” you insist, laughing a breathless, embarrassed laugh as you force your spine straight. You make a shooing motion with your hand. “Promise. Go back to the car.”

He hesitates, his brow furrowed in clear disbelief, but he takes a measured step back, granting you the space to prove it.

You manage five steps. The walkway is familiar, but tonight the pavement has developed a subtle, malicious camber. Your foot catches on the raised edge of a flagstone. With a small, helpless gasp, you pitch forward, the world tipping past the point of no return.

“Nope.”

The word is uttered with flat, undeniable finality. In two long, sure strides, Steve is at your side. His arm slides around your waist—not tentatively, but with a firm, confident warmth that stops your fall mid-arc. You let out a soft oof, your hands coming up to brace against the solid wall of his chest. You can feel the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart beneath.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, laughing into his shoulder, your cheeks burning with a mix of intoxication and chagrin. “That one didn’t count.”

Steve exhales a laugh that is mostly relief, shaking his head as he adjusts his hold. “Yeah, no way. I’m invoking best-friend—or, okay, driver—privileges.”

His movement is seamless. He guides your arm up and over his shoulders, his own arm locking securely around your waist, taking your weight without a hint of strain. It feels instinctive, practiced in the way only true caretaking can be. It feels, impossibly, like you belong right there.

You lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder more than you strictly need to. The scent of his cologne, faint beneath the smell of night air and party, is calming.

“_______,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial tone as he steers you toward the front door. “We have to be quiet. Your parents are definitely sleeping.”

You nod, suddenly and immensely serious. “Yes, sir,” you whisper back, the words overly precise. Then the absurdity of it hits you, and a giggle escapes, muffled against his shirt.

Steve bites his lip, trying to stern his expression, but the smile breaks through, lighting up his eyes in the dark.

The old porch wood groans a quiet protest under your combined weight. He stops, holding you steady as you fumble in your pocket for your keys. His hand at your waist gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze. When the lock finally clicks and the door swings inward, the profound silence of the sleeping house envelops you, cool and still.

You step across the threshold carefully, Steve’s support unwavering until you are firmly planted on the entryway rug.

“There,” you announce softly, giving his arm a pat. “See? Made it. Told you.”

He doesn’t release you immediately. He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing your face in the dim light from the street. They are warm, fond, and still etched with a trace of that stubborn, endearing worry. Finally, he nods.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he instructs quietly, his voice a soft rumble in the hall.

You tilt your head, your own eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling with mischief. “You gonna tuck me in, too, Harrington?”

Steve lets out a short, choked laugh, shaking his head as he follows you into the hallway, his steps silent on the carpet. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Mm,” you hum, swaying gently toward the wall. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Yeah,” he says, his hand shooting out to steady you by the elbow, guiding you back to center. “Shockingly, I’m a believer now.”

He ushers you gently into your room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound so soft it seems to absorb into the walls. Steve pauses just inside, his gaze doing a slow, involuntary sweep of the space.

Your room is… a map of you.

The soft, buttery light from a small ceramic lamp on the nightstand. Band posters and art prints tacked up with careful precision, but not obsessively aligned. A worn, beloved stuffed rabbit peeking out from under a pile of pillows, as if hiding from judgment. Your desk is a curated chaos, a mosaic of ticket stubs tucked into the frame of a mirror, a chipped mug bursting with colorful pens, a precarious stack of well-loved paperback novels, their corners dog-eared to mark your progress. It’s a space that is neither aggressively girly nor austerely minimalist. It’s warm. It’s layered. It’s you.

Steve swallows, a sudden, strange tightness in his throat.

You, meanwhile, are blissfully unaware of his quiet audit. You’ve beelined for the bed, executing a move that is part graceful collapse, part tactical maneuver. You kick off your shoes and fall face-first onto the comforter with a deep, soul-satisfying sigh, immediately wrapping your arms around a pillow and nuzzling into it.

“Wow,” Steve murmurs, amusement thick in his voice. “Out like a light.”

“M’not asleep,” you mumble, the words smothered by cotton and down. “Just… resting my eyes. Strategically.”

He smiles, a private, tender thing, and sits carefully on the very edge of the mattress. It dips slightly under his weight, a gentle valley forming between you. You feel the shift in the universe, a slight, sleepy roll toward the new gravitational center he creates.

“Hey,” you murmur after a moment, your voice slurred and soft as worn velvet. “Thanks for tonight.”

Steve glances down at the crown of your head. “For driving you home? That’s a pretty low bar for gratitude.”

You turn your face just enough to peer at him with one heavy-lidded eye. “No. For the fun. And for not… staying mad at me.”

“I wasn’t mad,” he corrects gently, his hand resting on the comforter near your shoulder. “I was worried. There’s a difference.”

“Still,” you sigh, already drifting back toward the pull of sleep. “Thank you.”

He’s quiet, letting the silence breathe. Then, lightly, he adds, “Anytime. Though, for the record, maybe we pace the drinks next time? Just a thought.”

You make a vague, dismissive noise that vibrates through the pillow. “You’re such a mom, Steve.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I know.”

Then, softer, the bravado gone: “Seriously, though. I’m glad you came.”

The words land differently this time. They bypass the haze, shimmering with a sincerity that makes your sleepy heart give a sluggish, thick thump.

Before he can say anything else, you move. It’s a slow, dreamlike reach—your hand rising, fingers seeking. They find his hair, the strands soft and slightly mussed. You hum, a contented sound deep in your throat, and run your fingers through it once, twice, in a slow, rhythmic, utterly intimate caress. It’s an action of pure, unthinking affection, as natural as breathing.

Steve freezes.

Your touch is a brand of warmth. It’s gentle. It’s trusting. It unravels something tightly wound inside him.

With a final, sighing breath, you let your hand fall back to the bed, palm upturned. Your breathing deepens, evens out, sleep claiming you utterly and without preamble.

Steve doesn’t move for a long minute. He just sits there, anchored to the spot by the weight of the moment, watching you.

Watching the slow, steady rise and fall of your shoulders. The way all the guardedness, all the sharp wit and defiant pride, melts from your face, leaving only a peaceful, unlined openness. How devastatingly beautiful you are like this, not put together, not performing, but simply existing. Real and vulnerable and his to protect, if only for this silent moment.

He feels it then, an irrevocable shift deep within his chest. A locking into place. A settling of dust he didn’t even know was unsettled.

With movements as careful as if he were handling something infinitely precious, he stands. He pulls the blanket up from where it’s tangled at your feet, draping it over you with a tenderness that aches. He smooths it down, tucking the edges loosely around your shoulders. He hesitates, his hand hovering near your cheek. Then, with the backs of his fingers, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch so feather-light it’s almost a prayer.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, the word barely a breath.

You don’t hear him. You are far away in dreams.

But he lingers in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, for much longer than is reasonable. He watches the gentle rhythm of your sleep, memorizing the scene, letting the terrifying, wonderful truth wash over him completely, without dilution or denial.

Somewhere between the deafening noise of the party and the profound quiet of this room, between a challenge issued on a porch and a touch granted in trust, Steve Harrington has fallen.

He’s fallen hard, and he’s fallen for you.

Monday arrives not with an alarm, but with the slow, throbbing ache of a consequence you’d briefly managed to forget. It settles behind your eyes, a dull pound that syncs with your heartbeat. Your mouth tastes like stale cotton and regret, and your head is filled with a fuzzy, static-filled fog. But cutting through the haze are crystalline shards of memory, replaying on a loop: the solid, steadying pressure of Steve’s arm around your waist, the conspiratorial hush of his voice in your dark hallway, the way the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of your bed, an intrusion that felt like a belonging. The space between you had been rewritten that night, the rules erased and redrawn in something far softer, and infinitely more dangerous.

By the time you push through the heavy front doors of Hawkins High, you’ve crafted a plan. You will be a ghost of normalcy. You will move through the halls as if the party was a collective dream, a shared hallucination no one will be gauche enough to mention. You will be bland, uninteresting, and above all, untouchable.

It is an excellent, foolproof plan.

It lasts approximately seven minutes.

The first sign isn’t a shout or a pointed finger. It’s a low-grade hum, a change in the social atmosphere. It’s in the way conversations seem to stutter and dip as you pass, not into silence, but into a lower, more intentional register. It’s the flicker of eyes—not staring, but tilting, tracking your progress with a newfound, speculative interest. A junior from your chemistry class, a girl you’ve never spoken to, catches your eye in the crowded hall and offers a slow, approving nod. “Hey,” she says, her tone implying a shared secret. You’ve been voted into a club without your consent.

You ignore it. You perfect the art of looking straight ahead, of seeing nothing. You make it to your locker, a metal sanctuary in the chaos.

And then you see the second sign.

A folded square of notebook paper, neon yellow and obnoxious, is shoved into the air vent slits of your locker door. It isn’t tucked discreetly; it’s jammed in there, a flag planted on stolen land.

Your hand freezes on the combination lock. It’s just paper. It’s stupid. But a cold, intuitive dread pools in your stomach. You pull it free, the paper rough against your fingertips. Unfolding it feels like disarming a bomb.

The message is short, written in a slashing, aggressive script that digs into the paper, each letter leaning forward as if trying to escape the page:

Nice party. You clean up well.

No name. No signature needed.

The handwriting is a violence in itself, jagged, impatient, all hard angles and implied threat. It doesn’t feel like a note; it feels like a trespass.

A hot, sharp irritation, clean and bright, slices through your morning fog. You don’t blush; you burn with a quiet, furious indignity. How dare he. How dare Billy Hargrove infiltrate your Monday, your locker, your peace? He doesn’t get to litter the edges of your life with his presence. Without a second thought, you crumple the note into a tight, angry ball and shove it deep into your bag, as if burying evidence.

“Morning.”

The voice, so close, makes you jump. You slam your locker shut with a metallic clang that echoes too loudly in the hall.

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the neighboring lockers. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark waves falling across his forehead, and his leather jacket hangs open over a faded tee. He looks like he sprinted to make the bell, but his eyes are clear, alert, and already fixed on you. They perform that same familiar, worrying scan, over your face, your posture, searching for cracks. When he finds none, a visible relief softens his features.

Then his gaze drops, snagging on your hand, still clenched in a white-knuckled fist around the strap of your bag.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the casual greeting vanishing. His voice is immediate, intense.

You blink, forcing neutrality. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t even entertain the lie. His head tilts, a familiar, stubborn concern etching lines between his brows. “Something’s wrong,” he states, taking a step closer. The hallway noise seems to fade around him. “Did he—”

“Did who?” you cut in, though you both know.

Steve’s jaw hardens, a clean, tight line. A muscle feathers along the ridge of it, a tiny tremor of restrained energy. “Billy,” he says, and the name is a stone dropped into the still water between you. Spoken in that low, graveled register he reserves for warnings and middle-of-the-night truths, it sends a cold, unwelcome current straight through your system.

“No,” you say, the word coming too quickly, too defensively. “Nothing happened.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, a minor release of immediate tension, but the sharpness doesn’t leave his eyes. They remain fixed on you, bright and unblinking, the eyes of a goalkeeper in a permanent state of anticipation, braced for a shot he is convinced, in his bones, is coming. “Are you sure?” he presses, the question not one of doubt in you, but of deep, ingrained suspicion of the world’s inherent threat.

You inhale slowly, drawing the school’s recycled air deep into your lungs, using the count of four to steady the erratic tempo of your pulse. “Yes.”

He studies you in a silence that feels both intimate and agonizing. You can see the calculation behind his gaze, the silent war between what he wants to say and what he feels he must do. It’s a familiar conflict now, etched in the slight furrow of his brow. Then he delivers it, not as a suggestion between equals, not as a shared strategy, but as a verdict handed down from a bench you never agreed to. His voice drops into that firm, unmistakably protective register that leaves no room for debate.

“Stay away from him today.”

It’s the tone that does it. Not the sentiment, which might have been offered as concern, but the unyielding finality of it. The unspoken premise that his assessment of risk is absolute, and his authority to manage it, unquestionable.

“Steve.” Your voice is quiet, a single syllable woven with warning and disappointment.

He mistakes it for a request for emphasis. “I’m serious.”

“I heard you,” you say, each word measured and even, a calm surface over roiling water. “I’m asking why.”

He pauses.

The hesitation is brief, a stutter in the rhythm of the hallway’s chaos, but it yawns into a chasm between you. In that silent gap, you see everything: the ghost of past confrontations in his eyes, the weight of unspoken rules, the shadow of a game he’s been playing on a field you can’t even see. Explaining would mean drawing back a curtain on a stage where he has been both actor and stagehand, and he isn’t ready for you to see the machinery.

His mouth opens, forming the ghost of a word, then closes on nothing. His fingers flex at his sides, empty hands curling and uncurling as if grasping for an answer that keeps slipping away.

“You don’t need a reason,” he says finally, and the words sound hollow even to him, a defensive mantra that has worn thin.

You stare at him, the cold from the crumpled note in your bag seeming to seep into your very bones. “I do, actually.”

Steve exhales a tight, frustrated breath through his nose, the sound of a man trying to leash his own fear. “Look—he’s not—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening again, a visible wall going up. “He’s bad news, okay? The kind that leaves a mark. Just… trust me.”

There it is.

The refrain. The emotional shortcut he falls back on when the path of true communication seems too treacherous.

Trust me.

But trust is not a blindfold to be willingly worn. It is a bridge, and it is built, painstakingly, with the bricks of shared context and the mortar of mutual understanding. He is asking you to cross a chasm while refusing to show you the plans, to assure you the foundation is solid while hiding the cracks he sees from his side.

Your chest tightens into a familiar, aching knot. “You keep saying that.”

His brows knit together, frustration and a flicker of desperation darkening his features. “Because it’s true.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you snap, the heat rising before you quell it, lowering your voice as a cluster of freshmen giggle past. “It just means you want me to listen without understanding. To follow your lead without knowing the destination or the danger. It’s not a reason; it’s a request for obedience.”

Steve’s expression fractures. First, a flash of genuine, wounded hurt, as if you’ve questioned not his judgment, but his very character. Then, almost instantly, something defensive and weary slams into place, the practiced mask of the protector locking down. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says, the words ground out like a worn prayer, a mantra that has become both his purpose and his prison.

“You said that already,” you reply, and your voice softens despite the sting, because you can see the cost. The exhaustion is a tangible presence in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the slight slump of his usually proud shoulders. This self-appointed role of guardian is a weight he carries alone, and it is bending him. “And I told you, you don’t get to decide what ‘safe’ looks like for me. You don’t get to build the cage, however well-intentioned, and call it shelter. A cage denies the sky, Steve. Even a gilded one.”

His jaw clenches so tightly you fear he might crack a tooth. He looks away, his breath hitching in a ragged, suppressed sound, visibly wrestling with a torrent of words—fear, anger, pleading—that he knows would only make things worse.

When he looks back, the rawness is gone, replaced by a strained, deliberate calm. His voice is lower, steadier, but it carries the distinct chill of controlled desperation.

“Fine,” he says, the word quiet and utterly resigned. “Then just… don’t engage with him. Please.”

It is not an order this time. It is a boundary drawn with a trembling hand. A plea, stripped of all authority, naked in its vulnerability.

You search his face, looking past the worry for the truth that must be fueling it. “That’s still not an explanation, Steve. It’s just a different phrasing of the same request.”

“I know,” he admits, the confession bursting out of him, too fast and full of self-directed anger. “And I hate that. I hate how it sounds. I hate standing here sounding like I’m telling you what to do.”

“Then tell me,” you urge, your voice dropping to a whisper, a final lifeline thrown across the growing divide.

Steve hesitates.

And in that suspended, breathless moment, everything becomes devastatingly clear. The truth is not absent. It is present, a living, breathing thing he is consciously, actively, holding back. There is a specific reason. A history. An incident. A knowledge he possesses and is choosing, with full awareness, to withhold.

His hands curl into loose fists at his sides, then release, a physical echo of his internal struggle. He opens his mouth—you see the shape of a confession, the first syllable almost forming—and then he consciously, decisively, shuts it down. The words are swallowed back, locked away.

“I can’t,” he finally says.

The raw, unvarnished honesty of it lands with a force that steals your breath. It is not a evasion. It is a surrender. An admission of a limit he cannot, or will not, cross.

You nod slowly, the movement stiff and formal, an acknowledgment of a door being firmly closed in your face. “So you don’t trust me,” you state, the words a bleak conclusion, not an accusation.

“That’s not—” He lurches forward a half-step, genuine panic flashing in his eyes, erasing the practiced calm. “That’s not what this is. It’s the opposite.”

“Then what is it?” you ask, your voice achingly quiet, giving him one last, clear chance.

Steve swallows, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper meant for you alone in the echoing hallway. “It’s me… trying to keep one last, ugly thing from touching you. To be a buffer between you and something rotten. And if you knew—if you had the full, unfiltered picture—you might make a choice. A brave, stubborn, you kind of choice. And I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

The words aren’t cruel. They are worse. They are fear and fierce, possessive care twisted into a single, suffocating knot. A confession that his need to protect has completely outpaced his ability to truly partner.

The ache in your chest sharpens into a precise, heartbreaking pain. “So you trust me with your past,” you say, your voice miraculously steady even as it threatens to fracture. “With your failures. With the quiet confessions at my kitchen table. With the vulnerability of being in my room when the world was shut out.” You list the intimacies like sacred, earned treasures. “But you don’t trust me with this reality. Not with the truth of what’s happening right now, right here, to us.”

He looks at you as if you’ve reached inside his chest and laid bare his most fragile, guarded secret. “_______—” Your name is a broken sound, a plea and an apology.

You shake your head once, a small, definitive motion that silences him. “I don’t need every classified file, Steve. I don’t need to dissect every shadow. I just need to know that you see me standing beside you, not behind you. That you’re not deciding for me what I am, or am not, strong enough to face.”

His eyes shine, glassy with unshed tears he would never let fall here. His jaw works, a muscle ticking furiously as he battles the torrent of emotion fighting for release.

He says nothing.

And in that profound, chosen silence, you receive the only answer that matters.

You take a deliberate step back, physically creating a foot of space where, just moments before, there had been the aching potential for closeness. The air between you turns cold and still.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you say, the words soft, final, and infinitely weary. “Feeling like I’m trusted with the curated pieces of you, the fun companion, the comforting presence, but not with the raw truth that affects us both. It makes everything else feel… conditional. Like a loan of your trust.”

“Please,” Steve breathes, the word stripped of all pride, raw and exposed. It hangs in the space between you, a single thread holding a great weight.

You pause, feeling the pull of that thread, the ache to simply turn back and accept the partial version of things because the alternative is this cold distance.

But you don’t.

“When you’re ready to be honest,” you say, your voice firm yet not unkind, carrying the echo of the care you still feel, “really, fully honest… I’ll be ready to listen.”

Then you turn, and you walk away.

You don’t run. You don’t storm off in a performance of righteous anger. You simply leave, because to stay any longer would be to silently ratify a version of love that demands ignorance as its price, a partnership where one person holds the map and the other is simply told to follow.

Behind you, Steve does not follow.

He doesn’t call your name. He doesn’t rush to close the gap. He remains rooted in the spot, a statue of conflicted intention.

And that absolute stillness, that resigned letting-go, hurts almost more than a heated pursuit ever could. 

Billy Hargrove is wrong all day.

Not loud-wrong. Not aggressive-wrong. Not the familiar, swaggering menace you’ve learned how to clock and avoid with practiced ease. This isn’t the Billy who takes up space on purpose, who makes noise because noise means control.

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

In first period, he sits without slouching, spine unnaturally straight, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact that never comes. His hands are folded flat on the desk, fingers perfectly still, as if he’s been instructed to keep them that way and is terrified of breaking a rule he doesn’t fully understand.

It’s unsettling. Billy never sits like that.

When the teacher calls on him, there’s a delay, just long enough to make the room shift uncomfortably. He looks at her too long before answering, eyes fixed and unblinking, like he’s processing the concept of authority rather than responding to it. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm. Flat. Almost polite.

That might be the worst part.

A group of students laughs behind him at something stupid and inconsequential. Billy’s head turns toward the sound, slow and precise, like a radar dish swiveling to lock onto a signal. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t react. He just watches until the laughter fades, then turns back to face the front of the room.

You feel it in your spine.

Every time you shift in your seat, his gaze follows.

Not openly. Not obviously. It’s subtle enough that you almost convince yourself you’re imagining it, until you glance up and catch his eyes already on you. They don’t flick away when you notice. They don’t sharpen or soften.

They just… stay.

There’s no appraisal there. No hunger. No challenge.

Just attention.

Like you’re a variable in an equation he hasn’t solved yet.

By second period, the unease has sunk beneath your skin. You keep your head down, focus on your notes, tell yourself you’re being paranoid. Billy is many things, but quiet isn’t a crime.

Still, you can feel him.

Waiting.

Across the hallway between classes, Billy stands alone near the lockers, not leaning, not posturing. Students move around him without acknowledging his presence, like their instincts are telling them to give him space even if they don’t know why.

You don’t look at him.

You can feel the moment he notices you’ve passed.

Steve does too.

You catch him watching Billy from across the hall, his usual easy posture gone rigid. His jaw tightens in that familiar way, like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to say out loud. His eyes track Billy’s movements with a sharpness that makes your stomach drop.

You leave school unsettled, nerves humming beneath your skin, but you tell yourself you’re overreacting. You’re tired. You’re still angry. You don’t want to give Steve the satisfaction of being right about something he won’t explain.

You stop at Starcourt on the way home because you need something ordinary.

Groceries. Toothpaste. A carton of milk you don’t technically need. Something small and practical to anchor yourself to the world you understand. The mall is busy without being crowded, families drifting between stores, teenagers loitering with sodas in hand, the low, constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like the mall itself is breathing.

Normal. Safe. Predictable.

You let yourself believe it.

You move through the aisles on autopilot, fingers brushing familiar packaging, the cold air of the freezer section raising goosebumps on your arms. Muzak crackles faintly through the speakers. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere else, a cashier argues about coupons.

The world is blissfully unaware of the tight knot lodged beneath your ribs.

By the time you exit the mall, the sky has begun to bruise. Purple bleeding into orange, dusk settling like a held breath. The parking lot stretches wide and open, asphalt still warm from the day, rows of cars catching the dying light in dull flashes.

You adjust the bags in your hands and head for your car.

You’re halfway there when the air changes.

It’s subtle. A pressure shift. The feeling you get when someone stands too close behind you—but sharper. Focused. Like a fingertip pressing between your shoulder blades.

From the long, navy-blue shadow between two parked trucks, Billy Hargrove steps into the last of the dusk’s glow.

He doesn’t emerge; he unfolds. He moves with a languid, terrifying certainty, as if he’s been a part of the landscape the entire time, a statue waiting for the light to hit him just right so he could step down from his plinth. As if he’d been waiting, perfectly still, for the exact moment the universe would deliver you into this empty pocket of the world, alone.

The performative costume is gone. No worn denim jacket, no cigarette prop. Just a simple, cheap white t-shirt, stretched drum-tight across the hard plane of his chest and shoulders. The fabric pulls taut over the coiled power of his arms, whispering of muscle held in a state of permanent, aggressive tension. He looks contained, but not calm. He looks like a spring compressed to its absolute limit, every line of his body straining against some unseen, internal leash. His eyes, reflecting the bruised sky, hold none of the mall’s indifference. They are fixed, intent, and utterly, terrifyingly present. He has not happened upon you. He has arrived.

“You really do like to play games, don’t you?”

The voice slides into the space behind you like a blade, cold, sharp, and intimately invasive. It doesn’t just reach your ears; it slithers down your spine.

You freeze.

Your heart doesn’t just beat faster; it slams against your ribcage once, a single, violent contraction so powerful it feels like it punches the air straight from your lungs. The plastic grocery bags grow impossibly heavy, their handles like biting wires in your clenched fists.

Your pulse spikes, a frantic drum against your throat. “Billy. I don’t want to talk to you.”

He smiles.

It’s a slow, careful peeling back of lips. Utterly empty. A mockery of warmth that dies long before it reaches his eyes, which remain flat, watchful, and chillingly intent.

“Why do you play so hard to get, ______?” he asks, his voice a low, almost gentle croon that somehow makes the words more vile.

Every instinct in your body screams a single, primal command: RUN. You take an involuntary step back, your shoes scuffing loudly against the gritty asphalt. “What—”

“Couldn’t you just submit,” he continues, stepping forward in perfect time with your retreat. His voice lowers, thickens, something wet and furious curling underneath the honeyed tone, “like all the others? Would make things so much easier for you.”

Your stomach twists violently, a wave of nausea rising with the bile of fear. “That’s not—” you stammer, backing away again, the plastic bags slipping in your sweaty grip.

Billy moves. It’s not a rush. Not a lunge. It’s a sudden, efficient annihilation of the space between you, too fast for your eyes to properly track. One moment he’s several feet away; the next, his hand snaps out with the speed of a striking snake.

His fingers clamp around your wrist.

The grip is crushing, absolute. It’s not the hold of a person; it’s the bite of a mechanical vice. A sharp, sickening pain radiates from the bones. The grocery bags tear from your other hand, hitting the pavement with a crash. A can of soup rolls away with a lonely, metallic clatter.

You gasp, the sound thin and desperate.

His skin is cold. Not just cool from the evening air. It is a deep, unnatural cold, as if he’s been standing in a shadow that leaches all warmth from the world.

“You don’t get to say no,” he hisses, the gentle pretense evaporating. His breath smells of stale smoke and something else, something metallic and wrong.

And then his face changes. Not dramatically. Not into some storybook monster.

It shifts in small, profoundly wrong ways. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the icy blue of his irises until his eyes are almost entirely black, depthless pools. His jaw jerks sideways in a quick, spastic twitch, once, twice, as if something inside the shell of him is yanking on the strings, struggling to fit behind the mask of skin and bone. The expression is one of intense, internal conflict, but the hand on your wrist only tightens further, until white-hot bolts of pain shoot in jagged lines up your arm.

You scream.

It’s a raw, unfiltered sound of pure terror. Adrenaline, sharp and clarifying, tears through the panic. You shove at the solid wall of his chest with both hands, twisting your body with all your strength, your foot kicking out blindly. For one miraculous second, you manage to wrench your wrist free from that icy, iron grip.

You duck on instinct. His fist swings through the space where your head had been.

It doesn’t whistle through air; it crushes it.

The blow connects with the driver’s side door of a parked sedan.

The sound is a sickening, catastrophic CRUNCH of buckling metal and shattering safety glass. The door panel caves inward, a grotesque dimple of ruined steel. The car’s alarm erupts in a frantic, whooping wail, strobe lights flashing across the asphalt.

You stare, blood freezing in your veins.

That should have shattered every bone in his hand. That should have been impossible.

Not human.

The thought detonates in your mind, and with it, a panic that is hot, dizzying, and total. It vaporizes all thought, leaving only the ancient, mammalian imperative to flee.

You run.

Your shoes slip on the pavement as you bolt, veering wildly between the rows of cars. Your lungs burn, clawing for air that doesn’t seem to reach them. Your heart hammers so violently it blurs your vision, turning the world into a shaky, impressionist painting of color and shadow.

Behind you, Billy laughs.

It’s not loud. Not gleeful. It’s a low, wet, broken sound—a chuckle that seems to come not from his throat, but from somewhere deeper, darker. It’s the sound of something that finds your terror amusing.

Fingers, cold and strong, snag the back of your jacket. They yank with violent, effortless force, pulling you completely off your feet. You are a doll in his grip. You hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through your teeth. The rough asphalt shreds the skin of your palms as you try to break your fall. The pain is bright, sharp, and grounding.

You roll, instinct taking over, your foot lashing out in a blind, frantic kick. Your heel connects solidly with his kneecap.

He barely stumbles. It’s like kicking a brick wall.

A ragged, sob-like gasp tears from your throat. You scramble backward on your elbows and heels, putting precious inches between you, just in time to see his open hand slam down, palm flat, where your head had been.

CRACK.

The sound is horribly final. A spiderweb of fractures erupts in the asphalt beneath his hand.

Your vision tunnels, darkness pressing in at the edges. The world shrinks to this patch of broken ground, the wailing car alarm, and him.

Your scrabbling hand finds purchase on something long, cold, and heavy—a tire iron, abandoned near a car’s flat tire. Your fingers close around the gritty metal. Without thought, without hope, you swing it with every ounce of desperate strength you have left.

It connects with his shoulder with a solid, sickening THWACK that vibrates up your arm, rattling your very bones.

Billy… barely reacts.

He turns toward you slowly, deliberately, his head tilting to one side at an angle that is just a few degrees past natural. His black, depthless eyes rake over you, your heaving chest, your bleeding hands, the useless weapon in your grip, with something akin to clinical curiosity. There is no anger, no pain. Just a chilling, fascinated assessment.

He looks like a scientist observing a trapped insect that has, against all odds, managed to sting him. He looks like he’s calculating, with detached interest, exactly how much force it will take to finally, definitively, end your resistance.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

The shout doesn’t just cut through the air, it splits the night open like an axe through rotted wood. It’s raw, ragged, and forged from pure, undiluted terror.

Steve Harrington crashes into Billy Hargrove not like a man, but like a force of nature. He comes from the side, a blur of motion and desperation, his shoulder driving into Billy’s chest with the full, reckless weight of his body. The impact is a visceral, punishing thud that echoes off the cars, knocking the air from both of them in a synchronized, choked gasp. Billy, caught off guard for the first time all evening, is driven backward, his boots scraping twin streaks of protest across the asphalt, surprise, real, human surprise, flashing across his distorted features.

Steve doesn’t pause. He doesn’t check his own injuries. The momentum of the collision is just a prelude. He uses it, stepping into the space he’s carved out, his body pivoting to plant itself as an immovable object between you and the threat. His arms fly out to the sides, not in a heroic pose, but in a primal, instinctive spread—a human shield making itself as wide as possible. His stance is wide, knees bent, every muscle corded. He is a wall. He is a barricade. He is the only thing that matters.

“Run!” The command is ripped from his throat, hurled over his shoulder at you. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a plea and an order fused together. “NOW!”

Your legs are stone. Rooted. Paralyzed.

Billy regains his footing, the surprise melting into something molten and vicious. A low, guttural snarl tears from his lips, his face contorting, lips peeling back from teeth that seem too white in the fading light.

“Wrong choice,” he growls, the words dripping with a promise of pain.

And then he moves.

He hits Steve.

It’s not a punch; it’s a demolition. Billy’s fist connects with Steve’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack of bone on bone. The sound is horribly intimate, echoing in the vast, empty lot. Steve’s head snaps sideways. A spray of saliva and blood catches the dull gleam of a distant security light. He doesn’t cry out; he just goes down, his body folding under the force, skidding across the rough asphalt with a sound like tearing cloth.

Something flies from his grip, clattering and spinning across the pavement.

The bat.

Your eyes track it dumbly as it rolls in a wobbly arc, coming to a stop near your feet, its familiar, nail-studded wood looking absurdly ordinary against the oil-stained ground.

Billy is on him instantly.

The speed is inhuman. He doesn’t pounce; he flows onto Steve, a tide of relentless violence. His fists rise and fall in brutal, piston-like arcs. Each impact lands with a dreadful, meaty finality. Thud. Thud. THUD. Steve, dazed but fighting, tries to roll, tries to curl into a protective ball, his arms coming up to guard his head. But Billy doesn’t tire. He doesn’t need to breathe. It’s as if some external, malignant force is lending strength to every blow, making gravity his ally.

You scream Steve’s name.

The sound is torn from a place deeper than your lungs, raw and guttural, shredding your throat. You scramble to your feet, your legs trembling violently. Your heart is a frantic, caged bird trying to beat its way out of your chest, the pulse thundering in your ears so loudly it drowns out the car alarm. Your vision tunnels, the edges blurring into a swimming darkness, the world collapsing to the horrifying diorama of violence on the ground.

Steve is losing. Badly.

He blocks what he can, his forearms taking brutal punishment, already darkening with welts and cuts. What he can’t block, he absorbs. A fist slips past his guard, connecting with a sickening crunch against his ribs. He arches off the ground, a pained groan escaping his bloodied lips. Another blow splits the skin above his eyebrow, and blood, shockingly bright and red, blooms instantly, streaming down into his eye, painting half his face in a grotesque mask.

Still, he fights back.

Every movement is wild, desperate, fueled by a stubborn, unkillable fire. He swings a weak, looping punch that glances off Billy’s arm. He tries to buck him off. It’s futile, but the message in every ragged breath, every pained gasp, every defiant snarl, is screaming the same thing, over and over:

Not her. Not her. Not her.

“STOP!” you scream again, your voice breaking into a sob, the word dissolving into the night air, useless as confetti against a hurricane.

Billy seems to grow larger, his muscles bunching under the white cotton with an unnatural, rippling tension. He rears back, his fist lifting high, cocking for a blow that has no purpose but annihilation. It’s a killing strike, aimed at the vulnerable curve of Steve’s temple.

Thought evaporates.

Instinct takes over—an instinct older than fear, fiercer than panic.

Your hands, scraped and bleeding, find the cold, rough wood of the bat on the ground. Your fingers close around the grip, sticky with Steve’s blood. It feels impossibly heavy, a log of deadweight. But also solid. Real. A tooth of the real world in this nightmare.

A terrifying, feral clarity descends. The dizzying fear sharpens into a single, white-hot point of purpose.

You lurch forward, your body moving without your mind’s permission.

You swing.

You put everything into it, the terror of the note, the chill of his grip, the sound of crushing metal, the sight of Steve’s blood. You put every ounce of your weight, every shred of your fury, every desperate atom of your love into the arc.

The bat cuts through the air with a terrible, whistling sound.

It connects.

The impact is not a thud, but a hollow, resonant CRACK, like splitting a dense, frozen log. The vibration judders up your arms, rattling your teeth.

Billy’s head jerks sideways with a violent, whip-like snap. His body goes rigid for a split, suspended second. His black, endless eyes, wide with a shock that isn’t pain, but profound, outraged interruption, find yours. In that fleeting moment, you see a bottomless fury, a universe of wrongness focused solely on you.

Then the connection between his will and his body seems to sever.

He collapses.

It isn’t a graceful fall. It’s a total, boneless slump. He hits the asphalt like a sack of wet cement, limbs splayed at awkward, unnatural angles, his face turned toward the bruised sky.

Silence.

It crashes down, heavier and more profound than any noise. The only sounds are your own ragged, sobbing breaths, the fading echo of the car alarm, and a low, pained groan from Steve.

The world rushes back in a dizzying, nauseating wave, the cold air, the smell of gasoline and blood, the distant hum of the mall. You stand there, the bat now a dead weight in your trembling hands, staring at the two bodies on the ground: one still, one struggling to move.

The silence is deafening. It rings in your ears, a high-pitched tone of pure, undiluted shock.

Your arms tremble violently, a post-storm quake that travels from your shoulders to your fingertips. The bat slips from your numb, blood-slicked grasp and hits the asphalt with a dull, hollow clang that seems to echo the finality of the moment.

“Steve—” you gasp, the sound tearing from a raw throat as you drop to your knees beside him, the rough pavement biting through your jeans.

He’s breathing. Shallow, wet, rattling breaths, but they are there. His eyes flutter beneath bruised lids, struggling to focus on your face through the mask of blood streaking from his temple down his cheek, a vivid red river against his pale skin.

“Hey,” he rasps, the word barely a whisper, a thread of sound spun from pain and sheer will. His gaze, clouded with concussion, finally finds yours. “You… okay?”

The question—absurd, selfless, utterly Steve shatters what little composure you have left. A choked sob escapes you, tears welling hot and immediate, blurring his broken form.

“You absolute idiot,” you weep, the words mangled by emotion. Your hands flutter uselessly over him, finally pressing against the solid, trembling plane of his shoulder. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You could’ve—he could’ve killed you.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, so faint you have to lean in to hear. A ghost of a smile, more a twitch of his split lip, touches his mouth despite the agony etched in every line of his face. “Worth it.”

Getting him to your car is an ordeal etched in fire and fear. You half-drag, half-carry his dead weight, every step sending white-hot pulses of agony through your screaming muscles and bruised spine. Steve sags into you, his arm a heavy, unsteady bar over your shoulders, his body shaking not just from injury, but from the sheer, draining effort of remaining conscious. Each shallow, ragged breath he takes ghosts warm and uneven against the side of your neck, a terrifying metronome counting the seconds he remains with you.

“You’re okay,” you whisper into his hair, the mantra as much for yourself as for him. Your voice is a thin, desperate thread in the vast, silent parking lot. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, just hold on.”

Your shoes, slick with a grimy mixture of spilled soda, oil, and his blood, slip on the pavement. You stumble, his weight almost pulling you both down. Your fingers clutch desperately at the bloodied leather of his jacket, bunching the material in your fists as you adjust your grip, your muscles shrieking in protest, your heart a wild, frantic drum against your ribs threatening to break free.

The memory hits you then, unbidden and cruel in its contrast.

The way he carried you once, just days ago, yet a lifetime away. So slow, so careful, as if you were made of the most delicate glass. One arm a firm, secure band around your back, the other cradling the bend of your knees, his voice a low, soothing rumble in the dark hallway telling you it was okay to lean on him, that he had you. You’d laughed then, hazy with drink and trust, letting your head loll against his shoulder, believing completely in his strength.

The irony of it burns now, acrid and sharp.

This time, it is you who holds him together. Your arms, now trembling with a different kind of weakness, are the only thing keeping him from crumbling to the ground.

You reach your car, fumbling for your keys with fingers that feel thick and foreign. They slip twice, clattering against the door handle, before you finally manage to fit the key into the lock. The click is deafeningly loud. Getting him into the passenger seat is a clumsy, frantic ballet of bracing and easing. You cradle his head, guiding it carefully against the headrest, murmuring his name over and over like a protective incantation.

"Steve. Steve. Almost there."

Blood smears across the pale upholstery in stark, Rorschach blooms. It coats your hands, drying sticky and dark under your nails. It is on everything, a brutal, undeniable testament.

He groans as you buckle the seatbelt across his chest, his eyes fluttering open. For a second, through the haze of pain, his gaze finds yours and holds, a startling, lucid connection.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a hoarse scrape. A feeble attempt at a smile touches his ruined mouth. “You did good.”

Your throat closes completely, a solid wall of grief and love and terror. Fresh tears spill over, hot and silent.

“Don’t,” you beg, your voice breaking into pieces. “Just—don’t talk. Please.”

You slide into the driver’s seat on legs that feel like water. The leather is cold beneath your trembling palms. Your hands clamp around the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching white as you force yourself to take one deep breath, then another, fighting the dizzying tide of shock.

The only sound in the car is Steve’s breathing, shallow, uneven, a fragile rhythm in the dark.

And then it hits you.

Not like the fear, a lightning strike of adrenaline. Not like the panic, a cold flood.

This comes slower. Heavier. A deep, settling ache that displaces the shock.

He knew.

The realization unfolds with dreadful clarity. The way he found you, not by chance, not searching frantically, but with direct, horrifying purpose. As if he’d been anticipating this exact horror all along, a shadow he’d been trying to outrun or intercept. The way he didn’t hesitate for a single second, not when he saw Billy, not when he put his own body between you and those fists. He stepped into the violence as if it were a script he’d already read, a price he’d already agreed to pay.

Steve knew something was fundamentally, terribly wrong with Billy Hargrove.

And suddenly, the heated argument in the hallway plays back in your mind with a new, devastating soundtrack. His tight jaw, his clipped warnings, the raw desperation woven through every stay away from him, it wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about a lack of trust in you.

It was fear.

A bone-deep, history-informed terror he didn’t know how to articulate without unleashing the very monster he was trying to shield you from.

Your grip on the steering wheel loosens, just a fraction, as the fight drains out of you, replaced by a profound, sorrowful understanding.

He hadn’t been trying to build a cage around you.

He’d been trying, clumsily and imperfectly, with the only tools his battered heart knew how to use, to keep you out of reach of a darkness he recognized.

You survived.

Not just because you were brave enough to swing a bat.

But because Steve Harrington showed up anyway.

Because he’d been watching, waiting, a silent guardian orbiting your periphery, ready at a moment’s notice to throw himself into the grinding gears of that darkness if it meant you could walk away.

Your chest tightens, a complex knot of emotion burning behind your eyes as you glance at him slumped in the seat beside you. Blood is drying in a cruel corona at his temple. One hand lies curled weakly in his lap, already swelling. He looks young. Broken. Beautifully, terribly human.

The secret he kept didn’t almost get you killed.

The secret he kept is the precise, awful reason you are both still breathing.

And that realization doesn’t erase the hurt of his silence, it sharpens it, hones it into something quieter, more intimate, and infinitely more painful.

Because if Steve had found a way to trust you with the terrifying, ugly truth…

Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting beside you now, bleeding and broken, paying for that silence with his own flesh and blood.

You turn the key. The engine sputters to life, a mundane sound in the aftermath of chaos.

As you pull the car out of the Starcourt parking lot, leaving the scene of the violence swallowed by the night, one truth settles in your chest, heavy and undeniable as a stone:

You’re not angry that he tried to protect you.

You’re shattered that he ever felt he had to do it alone.

The hospital is quieter than you expect. Not silent, it’s a space that never truly sleeps, but subdued, a world muffled in soft noise and dimmed concern. Machines hum a low, continuous hymn from other rooms. Rubber-soled shoes squeak with purposeful gentleness somewhere down the polished linoleum hall. Behind a drawn floral curtain, a nurse murmurs steady, practiced reassurances in a voice meant to soothe. Even the fluorescent lights, usually so harsh and revealing, have been dialed down to a muted, almost apologetic glow, as if they, too, understand that this hour demands something softer than truth.

Steve lies in the narrow bed, a landscape of white sheets and bleached cotton. His left arm is a careful sculpture of gauze and tape, resting atop the blanket. A thin, stark bandage cuts across his temple, a white flag against the purple swelling beneath. His chest rises and falls in a steady, medicated rhythm now, thank God, thank everything, but the sight of him so still, so deliberately still, makes a quiet, persistent ache settle deep in your throat.

You perch on the stiff, unforgiving plastic chair beside his bed, the only anchor in the sterile sea of the room. You don’t leave.

You should be exhausted. A bone-deep, system-failure kind of tired. And you are. Your clothes carry the acrid scent of asphalt fear and sharp hospital antiseptic. Your hands, scrubbed raw at the sink until they tingled, still feel phantom-sticky, no matter how hard you’ve washed. But every time your heavy eyelids start to drift shut, every time you consider resting your head back against the cold wall, your gaze snaps back to him—to the steady pulse in his throat, to the faint twitch of his fingers, as if your vigil alone is the thread keeping him tethered here. So you sit.

You watch the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital gown. You listen to the metronomic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, a sound that has become both lifeline and lament. You replay the fractured day on a loop in your mind, the note, the argument, the parking lot, the crack of the bat, until the memories lose their sharp edges and blur into a single, prolonged smear of terror and adrenaline.

At some point deep in the night, a nurse with kind eyes and a quiet step enters to check his vitals. She smiles softly at you, her clipboard held like a shield against her chest.

“You can grab some coffee from the vending machine down the hall, sweetie,” she offers, her voice a gentle nudge. “He’s stable. Sleeping soundly. You don’t have to stay glued to that chair.”

“I’m okay,” you reply, the words coming a little too quickly, too tightly.

Her eyes, wise and weary, flick between your face and Steve’s still form, then back to you. Her smile deepens, becoming something knowing and warm. “Girlfriend?”

You blink, thrown. “Oh— no. I mean, we’re not—”

She chuckles softly, a sound like rustling pages. “Honey, you’ve been holding his hand for the last three hours. Pretty convincingly.”

You look down, startled.

You hadn’t even realized.

Somehow, while you were lost in the watchful silence, your fingers had woven themselves between his. Your palm rests against the back of his bandaged hand, your knuckles brushing the familiar, vulnerable curve of his palm. The contact feels as natural as breathing, as essential as the IV drip feeding into his other arm. Like your hand belongs exactly there.

A slow, warm flush climbs your cheeks. “I’m just… staying,” you murmur, lamely.

“Well,” she says, her tone softening into something approaching reverence, “he’s lucky to have you.”

She slips out as quietly as she came, the door clicking shut with a hushed finality.

You don’t let go.

Steve wakes just before dawn.

It’s not a dramatic awakening. No gasps, no jolting upright. It’s subtle, a slight hitch in his previously even breathing, a faint, pained furrow appearing between his brows. But you notice instantly. Your body jolts upright in the chair, the legs scraping a jarringly loud protest against the floor.

“Steve?” you whisper, your voice gravelly from disuse and emotion.

His eyelashes flutter, dark against his pale skin. His dry, cracked lips part. “Ow,” he croaks, the single syllable rough and genuine.

A wave of relief so potent it’s dizzying crashes through you. A sound escapes you—half a laugh, half a sob, entirely unguarded. “Hi,” you manage, your own voice trembling. “Welcome back.”

He squints at the speckled acoustic tiles of the ceiling, processing, then turns his head slowly, carefully, on the pillow. His eyes, clouded with pain and medication, drift, struggle to focus—and then land on your face.

And they soften. All the tension, all the guardedness he usually carries, melts away, leaving something open and unbearably tender.

“Oh,” he murmurs, the word filled with a quiet, wondrous realization. “You stayed.”

Your throat constricts painfully. “Of course I did.”

He swallows with visible effort, his jaw working. “Good,” he rasps, a ghost of his old smirk touching his mouth. “‘Cause I was gonna be real mad if you didn’t.”

You snort, the familiar, fond irritation bubbling up despite everything. “You got beaten half to death in a parking lot, and that’s your priority?”

“Hey,” he says weakly, but his eyes are shining. “Consistency matters.”

You shake your head, a real smile breaking through the fatigue and fear, even as fresh tears burn behind your eyes.

For a long moment, you just look at each other in the pre-dawn grey of the room. The unspoken things hang heavy in the air between you, weightier than any monitor or IV stand.

Then Steve exhales, a long, careful, deliberate breath, as if he’s gathering courage from the very bottom of his lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. So quietly.

The apology isn’t rushed. It isn’t defensive or wrapped in a joke. It is simple, stark, and utterly honest.

“I should’ve told you,” he continues, his gaze unwavering. “I knew something was wrong. I knew he wasn’t… himself. Not for a while. And I still didn’t tell you.” His voice cracks, just a hairline fracture of sound that speaks volumes. “I thought I could handle it alone. I thought if I just kept you far enough away, I could keep you safe without ever having to scare you with the… the realness of it.”

You hold his gaze, letting him speak, letting the truth he’d hoarded finally find air.

“And?” you prompt gently.

“And I was wrong,” he admits. No excuses. No deflection. Just the raw, humble admission. “I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve given you the choice. I was so afraid of you choosing to walk toward the danger that I didn’t realize I was already pushing you away.”

Your fingers, still laced with his, tighten gently. An anchor. A forgiveness.

“I don’t forgive you because you jumped in front of me,” you say, your voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “I forgive you because you’re sitting here right now, bleeding through your bandages, and you’re owning it. All of it.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath that sounds like the beginning of a release. “Yeah. Well. Growth. Apparently I’m doing that now. It’s… uncomfortable.”

You smile, a real one that reaches your eyes. “Terrifying.”

He huffs a pained laugh, then grows serious again, his thumb moving in a faint, unconscious stroke across your knuckle. “I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t want to be the guy who only matters when things get bad. The crisis guy. The fighter. I wanted you to like me when I was just… me. When I wasn’t bleeding or bruised or playing hero.”

Your chest aches with the sweetness and the sorrow of it.

“I liked you at my kitchen table,” you tell him, the memory vivid and warm. “With your stupid, nervous pencil tapping and your fake, overconfident grin.”

He groans faintly, a blush tinting the skin above his bandage. “God, I knew you clocked that.”

“You joke when you’re scared,” you continue, building the portrait of him you’ve been assembling in your heart. “You try to protect people when you don’t know how to just ask them to be careful. And you care so damn much it makes you reckless. It makes you walk into parking lots against things you don’t understand.”

Steve watches you, his eyes wide and soft, as if you’re reading from a book of his own secret history.

“I fell for you anyway,” you finish, the confession hanging softly in the space between you. “Maybe even because of it.”

Silence stretches, but it’s a comfortable, understanding quiet, filled with the hum of healing.

Then Steve smiles—not the dazzling, performative King of Hawkins grin, not the defensive jock’s smirk—but something smaller, softer, and completely unguarded. It transforms his battered face.

“You flirting with me right now,” he asks, his voice a gentle, hopeful rasp, “or are you?”

You laugh, the sound warm and real and free, and you lean closer, bridging the space the chair had created. “You finally noticed.”

He squeezes your hand, the grip weak but full of intention. “Guess I’m a slow learner.”

Outside the narrow hospital window, the world begins to lighten. Pale, tentative gold spills across the white sheets, gilding the edges of the blanket, washing over his tired face and your clasped hands. Steve watches the sunrise for a moment, a quiet peace settling over his features. Then he looks back at you, his eyes clear and certain.

“I’m still gonna want to protect you,” he says, the vow simple and true. “It’s in my wiring. But I’m gonna ask first. And I’m gonna listen. And I’m gonna trust you to stand next to me, not behind me. To be my partner in the weird, scary stuff. Not my… not my problem to solve.”

Your heart feels full, not with giddy lightness, but with a steady, chosen weight. Like you’ve both been looking for solid ground and have finally found it, together.

“Good,” you say, your own voice firm with promise. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve’s smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s the smile of a boy who has finally put down a burden he was never meant to carry alone.

What started as an unwanted move became a slow unraveling of everything you thought you understood about the world. Somewhere along the way, you found yourself tethered to a group of kids who were scrappy, stubborn, impossibly brave. You followed them into dark woods and abandoned labs because turning back stopped being an option the second you realized they needed you.

You learned how to listen when they spoke, how to believe them when they whispered about things lurking beneath the town. You learned that monsters didn’t always look like monsters, sometimes they were shadows between trees, sometimes they came from places that shouldn’t exist at all. You survived battles no one would ever know about, victories that tasted like ash because survival always came with a price.

You lost your brother first. Billy’s absence hollowed you out in ways you didn’t have words for. Grief came in waves, violent, unpredictable, dragging you under when you least expected it. There were days you still turned, ready to seek comfort in him, only to remember there would be no answer. No engine roaring in the driveway. No sarcastic grin. Just silence where he used to be.

Only it didn’t stop there.

Eddie Munson appeared in your life exactly when you needed him most, and no matter how many times you tried to scare him away, he stayed. He never treated you like something fragile or cracked beyond repair. Losing him tore you open all over again, as if Hawkins were methodically stealing pieces of you, one by one, just to see how much you could endure before you finally broke.

Worst of all was Max, the only family you had left. She was stubborn, brave, and far too young to carry the weight she did. Watching her lie motionless in a hospital bed, machines breathing for her, felt crueler than any monster you’d ever faced. She was technically alive. But every day you woke up wondering if it would be the day she finally opened her eyes… or the day you’d have to learn how to say goodbye forever.

Nevertheless, here you were, crammed into the back of the WSQK van, knees drawn up, spine pressed against cold metal as the engine rumbled beneath you. Somewhere out there, beyond the veil of this world, Hopper and Eleven were lost in the Upside Down without so much as a flicker of communication. The not knowing gnawed at you, a familiar kind of fear that had taken up permanent residence in your chest.

Up front, Steve and Jonathan were at it again. Raised voices, clipped words, the same argument looping endlessly, who had Nancy’s attention, who understood her better, who was “right.” It was exhausting. Almost laughable, considering the circumstances. The sound of them snapping at each other finally pushed you over the edge. You slid forward and shoved the back door open, metal screeching softly in protest as cool night air rushed in.

“Smoke break.” You muttered, already hopping down onto the pavement. You doubted either of them heard you over the dense cloud of ego and testosterone filling the van, and honestly, you didn’t care. Thank God for nicotine. You leaned against the side of the van, the chill of the metal seeping through your clothes, and reached into the pocket of Billy’s old denim jacket.

Your fingers closed around a fresh pack of cigarettes and then the lighter, scratched, heavy, its crimson skull dulled from years of use. Eddie’s. One of the few things you had left of him. You rolled the lighter in your palm for a moment, thumb tracing the grooves absentmindedly, a familiar ache of grief blooming in your chest. Without a second's hesitation you flicked it open.

The flame sprang to life, brief and bright, casting red-orange light across your knuckles as you brought the cigarette to your lips and inhaled. The smoke burned going in, grounding you, steadying your breath. For just a moment, standing there under the indifferent stars, you let yourself pretend the world wasn’t ending again. Just as you lifted the cigarette back to your lips, the faint clink of bicycle wheels sliced through the quiet.

The sound was wrong, too familiar, too out of place this late at night. For half a second, you wondered if exhaustion had finally tipped you into hallucinations. Hawkins had a way of doing that, blurring reality until even the impossible felt plausible. Then the sound drew closer. The street lights flickered, casting uneven pools of yellow across the pavement, and a small figure emerged from the darkness.

Curly hair. A bike rolling lazily beside him. Dustin Henderson. Your breath hitched. Relief flared first, sharp and instinctive, followed immediately by dread so heavy it made your chest ache. Because something was wrong. Horribly wrong. His face was swollen, one eye already purpling, his lip split. Blood trailed from his nose, streaking down over his mouth and chin, dark and tacky under the glow of the lights.

Bruises were blooming across his skin, fresh and angry, the kind that came from fists, not accidents. Your stomach dropped at the mere thought. Dustin spotted you and lifted a hand in a casual little wave, like this was nothing. Like he hadn’t clearly been through hell. The sight of it snapped something inside you clean in half. You dropped the cigarette without thinking, crushing it beneath your combat boot as you crossed the distance in a few hurried steps.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve scoffed behind you, voice sharp with disbelief. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” You barely heard him. "Dustin? What the fuck?" The words tore out of you before you could soften them, before you could figure out how to sound anything other than terrified and furious all at once. Dustin didn’t answer. He kept his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder, as you silently took inventory of every bruise and smear of blood.

His silence only fed the fire in your chest. Before you could say another word, Steve moved, grabbing Dustin’s bike and swinging the back doors of the van open. “Get in the van.” Dustin obeyed without protest, climbing into the passenger seat and buckling in with stiff, mechanical movements. He looked smaller there somehow. Too quiet. Too still.

You climbed into the back with Jonathan, the space cramped and claustrophobic as the doors slammed shut and Steve pulled away from the curb. Jonathan immediately slipped his headphones on, fingers flying over the dials and switches, his face pinched with concentration as he searched for anything, any signal, any sign of Eleven or Hopper. The low static filled the van, a constant hiss that made your skin crawl.

For a few seconds, no one spoke.

Then Steve broke the silence, words spilling out of him, explaining everything that had happened while Dustin was gone. Karen and Ted Wheeler in the hospital. Holly missing. Eleven and Hopper trapped in the Upside Down with no backup, no plan, no guarantee they were even still alive. Each sentence landed like a punch to the ribs, knocking the air from your lungs.

Your jaw locked so tight it ached. Your fingers kept moving, picking at the chipped black polish on your nails until it flaked away, spinning the rings on your fingers over and over. And across the van, Dustin stayed silent, staring straight ahead, carrying whatever had happened to him like a weight he wasn’t quite ready to set down.

“Which brings us to you, rolling in here looking like Rocky Balboa,” Steve scoffed, irritation dripping from every word. “So yeah, of all the crawls, this was the one to miss. Congrats, Henderson. Really, really, well done." You watched Dustin’s shoulders tighten as he shifted away from Steve, pressing himself against the cold window of the van. He looked cornered. Defensive. Your chest twisted.

What the hell had happened?

“Speechless,” Steve added with a huff. “That’s new.” Dustin finally broke, voice clipped and strained, like he was holding himself together with duct tape and stubbornness. "I'm still processing Steve, it's a lot." Holly. You heard him mutter the name like a question the universe refused to answer, then dragged a hand down his face with a weary sigh.

"Maybe Eleven could tell us, but it's a bit difficult to contact her now that we've lost all connection to the upside down." Steve countered which made you eyes roll. Here it comes. Ego versus ego. Again. "Okay," Dustin muttered. "For the future, when the lights go from really bright to really dim, it means the generator is surging, so you have to turn everything off. Immediately." He explained, his tone precise, as if he needed the logic to anchor him.

"Thank you for that Henderson," Steve replied dryly. "I'll remember that next time it happens, or maybe, and this is just a suggestion, you could be where you're supposed to be." The words landed hard. "I was en route to the Squak." Dustin countered flatly. "When you fell off your bike, that right? Remind me, what did you fall into again, a knuckle sandwich?" Steve retorted.

“Hey! Can you keep it down up there?” Jonathan’s voice cut sharply through the argument. “I’m listening to a signal back here, in case you forgot.” You bit down hard on your lip, swallowing the comment that burned at the back of your throat as Steve lifted one hand off the steering wheel and flashed a deliberately obnoxious thumbs up toward the ceiling. You wanted to strangle him so bad.

"Who was it? Was it Andy and his goons?" The name hit like a cold slap, your spine went rigid on instinct. Andy, along with Jason Carver had made Eddie’s life a living nightmare. Back then, though, once you and Eddie became friends, the harassment mysteriously stopped. None of them had dared to so much as look at you sideways, knowing Billy would retaliate if they ever so much as breathed in your direction.

But now Eddie was gone, and Dustin was the one paying for it. “You just poke the bear one too many times.” Steve muttered, the words barely louder than the hum of the engine. That did it. "Well what is he supposed to do, sit there and let them beat the shit out of him?” You snapped, venom lacing every word. “Fighting back isn’t exactly helping, Hargrove.” Steve shot back, jaw tight, eyes flicking your way just long enough to challenge you.

"Your concern for me is overwhelming, Steve." Dustin murmured quietly, wiping dried blood from his face with a paper towel. "My concern? I have shown nothing but concern for you since forever, and I’ve been repeatedly ignored, and now look what’s happened. We are totally and royally screwed." Steve’s voice echoed in the cramped space of the car, frustration bleeding through every word as his grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“Correction, we’re screwed because you don’t know how to do the most basic thing, like prevent a power surge.” Dustin fired back. “See this? This right here is your problem.” Steve fumed. “It’s the easiest thing in the world.” Dustin scoffed, exhaustion and defiance tangling together in his voice. “Jesus Christ!” Steve exploded, the sound ricocheting off the windows. “Just for once admit it, Henderson, that you were wrong and that you screwed up—”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up!” Your words tore through the car before Steve could finish, loud and final. For half a second, even the engine seemed quieter. You turned to Dustin first, forcing your voice to soften despite the anger still boiling in your veins. “Dustin, you’ve clearly been through hell today, and your emotions are all over the place so just breathe.” He didn’t respond, didn’t argue, just stared out the window. you took the silence as a fragile victory.

Turning you faced Steve, eyes hard, patience shredded. Before you could overthink it, your hand connected with the back of his head, hard. "Try to be a little more encouraging and less condescending. He messed up once, big fucking deal. After the year he's had he deserves a break." The van stayed quiet after that. Jonathan focused on the radio. Steve stared straight ahead. Dustin leaned back against the window, eyes closed, breathing a little more evenly. If you were the one holding them together, then yeah, maybe you were all totally and royally screwed.

The next morning, you slipped back into the Squak unnoticed. Will was already talking, standing amidst a chaotic array of maps and wires. Though a hint of fear lingered in his voice, he spoke steadily. He detailed the urgent need to establish a connection, vital for reaching Hopper and Eleven. He also stressed the importance of finding Holly before Vecna could target another child. It was clear this was no longer random, but a piece of a larger, more deliberate plan.

You took a seat between Nancy and Joyce, the metal chair cool beneath your thighs. Without looking, you reached for Nancy’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. It was the only way you knew how to show you cared without words. I’m here. You’re not alone. She squeezed back immediately, fingers threading through yours, offering a small, tired smile that held more gratitude than words ever could.

You were still holding onto that moment when Joyce’s voice cut through your thoughts. “Sweetheart, what happened to your hand?” Your stomach dropped. You followed her gaze down and winced inwardly. Your knuckles were swollen, split skin darkened with bruising you hadn’t bothered to ice. You should’ve hidden it better. You should’ve remembered Joyce noticed everything.

You shrugged, forcing your shoulders loose even as the muscles in your body screamed in protest. “I’m fine,” You muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. “Just tripped. Scraped it up a little.” The lie tasted sour on your tongue. “It looks worse than it is, promise." You added quickly, hoping the reassurance would stick. Hoping she wouldn’t push, wouldn’t look at you with that knowing motherly concern that made it impossible to keep walls up.

Your attention stayed fixed on Mike as he crouched over the table, pushing D&D pieces across the map with sharp, deliberate movements. You nodded, tracked the pieces with your eyes, forcing yourself to stay present in the conversation. But you felt it. The weight of a stare that hadn’t wavered since Joyce had pointed out your injuries, injuries you hadn't had the night before. Steve hadn’t looked away once.

Not when you tucked your hand beneath your thigh, not when you shifted like the chair had suddenly grown uncomfortable. Every time you moved, his gaze followed with something that wasn’t annoyance or sarcasm this time, but concern. It unsettled you more than the pain in your knuckles. You were never close, never bonding over late-night talks or inside jokes. Most of your interactions had been over forced teamwork.

And yet, there he was, leaning back in his chair, jaw set, eyes flicking down to where you were hiding your hand and then back up to your face like he was trying to read something you hadn’t given him permission to know. You flexed your fingers subtly, testing the damage. The movement sent a dull pulse up your arm. Steve noticed. His brows drew together, mouth pressing into a thin line. No comments. No jokes.

Just that look, like he already knew that “I tripped” was bullshit and was deciding whether to call you on it later. You swallowed and refocused on Mike, on the way he moved a knight piece forward and described the next phase like it was inevitable. But Steve’s attention lingered, steady and unwanted, a silent reminder that someone had in fact noticed the walls you were trying so hard to keep up. And for reasons you couldn’t quite place, that bothered you more than it should have.

With the plan set in motion, the room burst into action. Chairs scraped back, voices overlapped, everyone scurried off to prepare, checking weapons, arguing over routes, tightening loose ends. You stood a little too fast, the ache in your hand flaring as you moved, making a beeline for the coffee machine Robin had bullied Steve into setting up. Your body begged for nicotine, lungs tight with the familiar craving, but you shoved it down. Not in front of the kids. Not now.

The coffee poured too slowly. You watched the dark liquid fill the cup, focusing on the sound, the steam, anything to keep your thoughts from spiraling as footsteps approached. You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. Steve’s presence had a weight to it, an awareness you couldn’t shake even when you wanted to. You kept your eyes trained on the dark surface of the coffee like it might reveal answers if you stared long enough.

Anything was better than meeting his gaze and letting him see too much. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, until it pressed against your ribs. Then he stepped closer, not crowding you, but near enough that you felt the heat of him. His hand came into your line of vision, extending slowly, carefully, like he was dealing with a skittish animal instead of a person who could absolutely bite back. An ice pack rested in his palm.

“Ice,” He offered quietly, nodding toward where your injured hand was tucked close to your body. “For your hand.” You scoffed softly, rolling your eyes as if that alone could deflect the concern, but you still took the ice pack. Your fingers brushed his for a split second, warm against cold, and you pulled back immediately, pressing the pack to your angry knuckles. A breath slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Relief bloomed sharp and immediate as the cold dulled the pulsing ache, grounding you in your body again. Steve shifted, planting his hands on his hips. “So,” He started, tone careful. “You tripped last night, huh?” You nodded once, eyes locked on the ice pack, jaw tight. You didn’t trust your voice, not with how close the truth sat beneath your tongue. He didn’t call you out on it. Instead, he lingered, weight shifting from one foot to the other.

“Because, those look more like you hit something or someone than the other way around.” You shrugged once more, your eyes finally lifting to meet his. "Hawkins sidewalks are brutal. Should've taken my brother's advice and planted my feet." A huff of breath escaped him, half amusement, half disbelief, but it faded quickly. His eyes softened, brows pulling together like he was fighting the urge to push and choosing, instead, to tread lightly.

You shifted your stance, angling your body away from him. “You don’t have to worry about me, Harrington.” You swallowed, focusing harder on the ice, on the dull throb beneath it, on anything that wasn’t the strange warmth curling low in your chest. You’d lost too much to let concern turn into something else. Something dangerous. Something that asked for more than you were willing, or able, to give. So you shut it down the only way you knew how.

“I’ll live,” You muttered. “I always do.” Steve studied you for a moment longer, like he wanted to argue, then thought better of it. He nodded once and took a step back. You moved immediately, spotting Dustin a few feet away near the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched in that way he got when he was trying not to think too hard about everything going on around him.

You crossed the distance and bumped your shoulder into his, gentle but deliberate. “Walk with me.” He didn’t hesitate. He fell into step beside you without question, like it was second nature. The two of you slipped outside, the door swinging shut behind you, muting the noise of voices and radios and plans that could still go wrong. You hadn’t even reached the car when he finally glanced over, eyes sharp and perceptive in a way most people underestimated.

“Are you gonna tell me what really happened to your hand?” One eyebrow arched, familiar and unimpressed. “Tripped.” Dustin gave you the look. The exact one you’d given him the night before when he’d claimed his injuries came from a bike accident. Flat. Knowing. Not buying it for a second. You huffed, turning away from him to pop the trunk of your Camaro, suddenly very interested in the latch that didn’t need your full attention.

“Let’s just say Patrick won’t be bothering you anymore,” You muttered. “Or vandalizing Eddie’s grave ever again.” Dustin froze, staring at you like you’d just dropped something heavy at his feet. “You didn’t—” You shook your head quickly, cutting him off before the guilt could take root. “Don’t,” You warned gently. “Don’t start.” You already knew what he’d say, that you didn’t need to do that, that he could’ve handled it himself, that it wasn’t your job to protect him.

You’d heard it all before.

Reaching down, your fingers brushed against familiar fabric, soft and worn, and your throat tightened. You pulled it free from the trunk, the black and white cotton folded carefully despite everything else being a mess. Dustin’s breath caught, eyes widening. “Where did you—” You held it up, the faded Hellfire Club logo staring back at both of you. “It was Eddie’s,” You interrupted, voice steadier than you felt. “The dingus tugged it off his own body in the middle of the kitchen at Tina’s Halloween party.”

A weak smile tugging at your lips at the memory. “Something about it being a crime to let my Metallica tour shirt absorb the stench of cheap beer.” A quiet laugh escaped you, throat constricting. “I changed into it, and he even washed my shirt for me after, only when he told the story, he swore up and down he didn’t. Claimed it ruined his Satanic image.” Your voice wavered despite your best efforts, and you blinked hard, forcing the tears back down where they belonged.

You refused to cry here. Not now. You folded the shirt once more, hands careful, before extending it toward Dustin. “Those assholes ruined yours, and I just know, Eddie would want you to have this one.” Dustin stared at the shirt like it might disappear if he breathed wrong. Slowly, he reached out and took it, fingers curling into the fabric like it was something sacred. His jaw tight, eyes shining despite his best efforts to stay composed.

Before you could even register what was happening, Dustin surged forward and wrapped his arms around you, clutching at your waist like you might vanish if he let go. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, his head tucking instinctively into your chest, curls brushing your chin. You froze. For half a heartbeat, your arms hovered uselessly at your sides, muscles locked, instincts screaming at you to pull back.

You weren’t good at this part. Comfort. Letting yourself be someone others leaned on instead of the one who stood guard at the edges. Slowly, almost cautiously your body moved on its own. Your arms came up, one settling between his shoulder blades, the other circling his back, pulling him against you just as tight. It felt familiar. Safe. Too much yet not enough all at once. “You tell anyone about this, Henderson and you’re dead.” You whispered, voice wavering slightly.

There was no real malice behind it. No bite. Dustin responded by holding onto you harder, fingers fisting in the back of your jacket like an anchor. His reply came muffled against your shoulder, rough and uneven. “Understood.” You swallowed, throat tight, as you rubbed slow, grounding circles into his back with your thumb. You didn’t rush him. Didn’t tell him to let go. You let him have the moment, because you knew he needed it, and because you couldn't lose anyone else by pretending you didn’t care.

From the open side of the WSQK van, Steve froze, fingers tangled in wires and duct tape as his gaze drifted, then locked on the scene unfolding a few yards away. His jaw went slack without him realizing it, eyes widening as he took in the sight of you with Dustin wrapped around you. It was so far from the version of you he knew that for a second, his brain struggled to catch up. Something in his chest pulled uncomfortably tight. The kind of tug that came out of nowhere and refused to be ignored.

He looked away for half a second, then glanced back again like he needed to confirm it was real. The way your hand moved slowly against Dustin’s back, the way you didn’t push him away. It fucked with him, plain and simple. Because then maybe everything he thought he understood about you was wrong. The realization lodged itself somewhere dangerous, rattling around in his head long after he forced his attention back to the wires, heart beating just a little harder than before.

The group came up with this fabulous idea to track the Demogorgan. Shoving a tracker inside a bullet, luring the demogorgan into a trap, shooting it with the tracker, and then following it in hopes in finding you and Holly.

Steve barely helped. Too warped up in his thoughts to even focus right. He found a chainsaw to cut the floor but because he was out of it, he almost cut someone. Nancy told him to just wait in the car.

He didn’t even notice when Dustin got in. Or when the Demogorgan came to the house. Or the lights flickering. Or when Nancy and Jonathan got in. Or that the Demogorgan was now on the run and if he didn’t act fast, he would never find you.

He switches the gear into drive, slamming his foot on the gas as they go flying down the road.

The tires scream as they peel away from the curb, gravel spitting up behind the car. Steve grips the wheel so hard, his knuckles are turning white.

“Right— RIGHT!” Dustin shouts, holding the frequency device.

“Right here?” Steve asks, looking to his right to see nothing but fenced off backyards.

“NOWWW!!!!”

Steve takes a sharp right, the force causing everybody to move with it. They break through a fence, traveling backyard through backyard.

“STOP! STOOOPPPP!! STOP STOP STOP!!!”

Steve slams on the brakes, everybody getting sent forward. If nobody had their seatbelt on, he was sure everybody would have flied out the window.

“God damnit!” Steve yells out frustratedly. “Henderson, what are we doing?!”

Dustin immediately starts spinning the wheel to the radar, “We lost the signal.”

“Come on!”

“Shhhh!”

“Come on—“

“Got it! It’s headed southeast now.” Dustin says, pointing his finger in the direct.

Steve sighs, making a quick and sharp U-turn towards the direction. He floors it again, the engine whining in protest as the car rockets forward. His car was definitely going to need a check up after this.

“Tracker’s steady!” Dustin calls, eyes locked on the device. “Wait… It’s— it’s slowing down?”

Steve shoots a look at Dustin quickly, confused. “That’s not good.”

“No.” Nancy agrees quietly from the back. “That means it found something.”

They make another turn and that’s when their eyes land on the barn.

“Fuck— my mom!” Jonathan shouts, rolling down the window so he could see better. Joyce was there, swinging her axe at the creature.

It feels like everything slows down in Steve’s head.

Oops. Forgot to mention that Derek Turnbow is Vecna’s victim soooo the group drugged the Turnbow family and may have kidnapped them. They’re now in the barn as Robin, Erica, and the other two Byer Family members stood watch.

Steve’s foot gets heavier on the gas pedal, the car picking up speed. Dustin lets out a loud and girlish scream, the car smashing into the Demogorgan. The creature screams, its body rolling.

He makes another U turn, stopping in front of it. Steve gets a wave of chills down his spine as he stares directly at the mouth of the Demogorgan.

The creature lets out one last screech, turning around and making a dash for a tower. It launches itself onto it, ripping it open to create a gate.

“It’s headed back towards us!” Dustin shouts, looking back and forth between the device and Steve.

Steve is focused on the gate.

He needs to find you.

And his baby.

Fuck. He still couldn’t believe he was going to be a dad.

“Come on.” Jonathan says, grabbing onto Steves shoulder. “What are you doing man? We need to turn around—“

“Wait— gates are kind of like peanut butter Boppers, right?” Steve says, eyes glued to the gate.

“What?!” Everybody shrieks, eyes wide. Was this dude seriously thinking about Boppers?

“The outside is like crunchy and tough. But then you bite down on it… it gives way to a gooey, creamy core.”

Jonathans grip on his shoulder tightens. “Dude! What the hell are you talking about?”

“If I drive fast enough, the beamer can punch a hole into the gate, and then we can track the Demo on its home turf in the Upside down. Follow it straight back to Y/N.”

“We’re losing the signal!” Dustin screams, his grip now so tight on the device his hands are shaking.

Jonathan finally lets go of Steve’s shoulder, using it to point at the quickly closing gate. “We won’t be able to follow anything if we crash!”

Steve finally tears his eyes away from the gate, “We aren’t going to crash if it’s like a Bopper!”

Dustin shrieks, “It’s almost GONEEEE!!!”

Steve and Jonathan both look at Nancy expectantly.

She stares at the gate, gears cogging in her mind. “Do it.”

Steve doesn’t waste a second, pressing on the gas pedal so hard he could feel a cramp forming in his thigh.

Everybody is screaming. Screaming and begging him to slow down.

But the only thing on his mind is you.

The cold air slams into them like a fist, the windshield frosting immediately. The headlights of the car flicker violently.

The screams of protest now stopped and were replaced by celebratory chants. The adrenaline was on a all time high in that car.

So much though that Steve forgot the number one rule for driving: always keep your eyes on the road.

-

You sit on the edge of the bed in one of the upstairs bedrooms, leg bouncing anxiously.

Breathe in and breathe out. Everything is going to be okay. Eleven will come for you, right?

You have only been there for a few hours. You definitely aren’t freaking out anymore but the thought that you’re literally under Vecna’s roof was looming in the back of your mind.

Holly had been roaming around the house, doing whatever she wanted. Vecn— Henry, had left and was doing some “errands”. Holly was never really left alone at her house so she was taking it to her advantage. He set no rules only one: do NOT go into the woods.

DING DONG

DING DONG

DING DONG

The noise makes you jump, heart slamming against your chest. You run up to the window, peeking out to hopefully see who your visitor was but you see nothing.

The doorbell rings again and again, relentless.

Is that Henry?

Is he trying to play some mind game?

You push yourself to leave the room, legs shaky as you move to the top of the stairs.

“Holly?”

No answer.

“Holly?!” You call again, this time urgency lacing your voice.

Your stomach drops.

You take the stairs two at a time, panic clawing its way up your throat. “Holly? Holly! HOLLY?!”

The living room is empty.

The only evidence of her was a cup of chocolate milk by the couch and cartoons playing on the TV.

“No— no, no, no—“ You mumble, moving faster throughout the house. Bathroom? Empty. Kitchen? Empty.

You run back to the front door, ready to go run out to the woods and fight off whatever monster had her now— only for Holly to be at the mailbox?

What?

Her body is facing the woods but her head is down. As if shes looking down at something.

You step fully outside, keeping your distance as you walk slowly towards her. You call for her cautiously, “Holly?”

She jumps, spinning around. She was holding a piece of paper and a brown object?

“H-hey, are you okay? Who was knocking?” You swallow, “What is that?”

Holly looks back at the woods one last time before approaching you. She pushes the paper and the object into your hands. “Henry needs our help! I think he’s in danger!”

You hold up the paper, it was a drawn map. Squinting, your eyes follow the path on the paper to the marked “X”. The object she was holding is a compass.

“No.” You shake your head, crumbling up the paper and shoving it in your pocket. “Absolutely not.”

Holly’s face falls instantly. “He needs us!”

Your chest tightens. “No.”

“But—“

“We are not going into the woods Holly!” You snap a little too harshly, face falling when you see her flinch.

“Okay.” She whispers, shoving past you and going inside.

“Holly—“ You try to call out but she ignores you, disappearing somewhere inside.

You sigh, looking down at the compass one last time.

Protecting Holly from that weirdo was your number one priority. You don’t know what kind of game Henry was trying to play on her, but you weren’t going to let it happen.

Going inside you make your way into the kitchen. You reach into your pocket and throw away the map, leaving the compass on the counter.

Ten minutes later, the house is quiet again.

You’re in your room again, awfully hungry.

Right. Food. You’re eating for two now, you can’t just not eat because you’re scared.

You drag yourself out of the bedroom and down the stairs, feet heavy against the floorboards. You assume Holly is doing her own thing somewhere.

You step into the kitchen, ready to cook up a meal when your eyes go straight to the counter.

Your breath stutters.

The compass is gone?

“No, no, no…” You mutter, rushing forward. You scan the counter, the sink, the table, maybe it fell on the floor?

You can hear your heart in your ears.

You spin around, sprinting to the trash can. You throw off the lid and dig through it— the map is gone too.

“Shit, shit, shit! Holly?!” You call out, freaking out once again. No response.

This is your fault. You shouldn’t have left her side. You should’ve just stayed out here and watched her fuckfuckkkkkk!!!!

You don’t even grab a weapon or plan anything out before you’re bursting through the door, throwing it open so hard it slams against the wall.

The forest looms ahead of you, very welcoming actually. It was very vibrant and green.

Henry’s rule echoes in your head.

Do NOT go into the woods. There’s monsters in there.

You step forward anyway.

The warmth swallows you instantly. Every sound is warped— your footsteps too loud, your breathing too fast.

“Holly!” You cry out, eyes scanning throughout the woods.

Nothing.

Your hand pressed to your stomach, protective without thinking. You felt nauseous.

You remember the map having all kinds of directions to go over and under and around things but the “X” was marked at these rock things. It seemed pretty straight forward honestly, just go forward.

Running through the forest and nature, you prayed and prayed you wouldn’t find her dead somewhere. You prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed—

Then you reach the rocks.

They’re tall and a dusty orange, brownish color.

But no sign of Holly.

“Holly?” You scream, spinning around like a maniac in hopes maybe she’ll just pop up somewhere. “Holly? HOLLY?”

Your voice cracks as it echoes uselessly between the towering rocks. “Holly! Where are you?”

You freeze, your eyes landing on a crack between the rocks. It’s thin. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. But it’s big enough for someone to fit…

“Holly…?” You whisper, stepping closer.

Then something moves.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat.

The person emerges next, red hair dull and tangled. Eyes half-lidded, unfocused but there. Clothes ripped and dirt on their face.

You stagger backward, nearly falling. You open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

She stands in front of you like some superhero, the sun shining behind her through the cracks in the wall like hope. Bad hope.

“W-what? H-how… Max?! Max Mayfield?”

“Hey, Y/N.”

You rub your eyes a few times, not believing your eyes. Are you going crazy? Is Vecna making you crazy? Is this Vecna?

“S-stay away from me.” You stutter, backing away. “Where’s Holly?”

Max reaches out, “Hey, hey it’s okay—“

“Get away!” You scream, smacking her hand away. “Where the hell is Holly?”

You grab the nearest rock, holding it up like you were going to throw it at the Max creature.

“Calm down! She’s fine!” She says, taking a step back from you. Her eyes were wide, almost scared.

“Where is she?!”

She then pops up from behind her, walking out of the crack in the rock wall. “Y/N—“

“Holly! Come here, stay away from h—“

“Wait wait! It’s me! It’s Max! I can prove it, I can prove it!!”

You still, arm still up in the air as you stared at the two girls in front of you. They both looked panicked.

“Me and El had a sleepover one night. We were using her powers to spy on people and we chose you. You were giving Steve a haircut and you fucked it up so bad you tried to glue it back and that made it even worse. Steve didn’t talk to you for a week and you told everybody it was because it was because he was working long hours but me and El knew what really happened.”

You drop the rock, arms falling to your side in disbelief.

In another scenario, you would’ve been so pissed about them spying on you. But all you could do right now was pull her into a hug, arms wrapping around her middle so tight it almost hurts.

you and steve were genuine soulmates. everyone in the town thought so. you pulled steve out of his dickhead ways, and steve brought you a sense of calm and stability, he always knew how to pull you out of your head and ease your worries.

the two of you were destined to be married, to spend the rest of your lives together, all until steve fucked up and you couldn’t take it anymore.

—

you have been friends with nancy wheeler and jonathan byers forever, no exaggeration. you have been in each other’s lives since the time you could crawl; your families were basically one and the same. 

nancy and jonathan’s brothers were best friends and they were now dating; you were added to the mix by association, and now you’re all connected, whether you liked it or not.

everything felt perfect up until will byers went missing, flipping everything on its head.

you, nancy, and jonathan were all diligently hanging missing posters on the bulletin boards around the school. it was heartbreaking, the mood was sour, uncertain. it seemed like there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

nancy handed you a poster, and just as you were about to push in the thumbtack, a rude voice interrupts the process.

“that kid is obviously dead,” tommy says, making carol laugh. steve is silent, ignoring tommy’s words, and instead he focuses his attention on you. seeing the worried expression on your face is enough to break his heart.

for as long as he can remember, steve harrington has had a hopeless crush on you, he cannot remember a time when he didn’t feel his heart flutter at the mention of your name.

he would forget how to breathe when he was around you, forget how to think straight. he always believed it was unrequited, something he would grow out of. boy, was he wrong.

you saw red, “tommy, if you don't shut the fuck up, i’m gonna shove my foot so far up your ass you’re gonna taste it.” you glare, tommy scoffs at you, “yeah right, bitch.” 

you laugh scarily, nancy and jonathan sigh. one thing about you, you’re a guard dog, you’ll go to any length to defend those you hold close to your heart. they know you’re about to go off. 

steve pushes tommy harshly, “dude, what the fuck? don’t call her that.” he’s pissed, getting all in his face, he looks somehow taller. you interrupt the fight that’s about to break out, standing in front of steve, right in tommy’s face. carol is standing beside him like an idiot. 

“listen here, buddy, i know you’re mad at the world cause you’re stupid, there’s no way you’re getting into college, and you probably have a dick so small that little carol here can’t even see it,” you have a scary smile on your face, steve’s eyes are so wide. tommy scoffs at you.

“some people have serious issues going on other than your miserable life,” you say calmly, though your voice is dripping with venom. 

“if you actually paid attention, you would notice will is missing, not dead, missing, and no one here cares about your stupid fucking commentary, right guys?” you glance at nancy and jonathan with a smile, they nod.

“so, i’m telling you, get out of my face, or my offer still stands,” tommy pushes past you, his shoulder bumping yours. carol follows along like a lost puppy.

you turn to look at steve with an analytical look, calculating his next move. he surprises you, his hand extending for some of the flyers. you, jonathan, and nancy all look at him in shock.

“let me help,” he says confidently. this wasn’t help out of pity, this is him helping out of the kindness of his heart. you hand steve some flyers with a grateful smile, and he returns a gentle one.

“that was really great, you know?” steve says to you quietly. nancy and jonathan move to another area to hang up flyers. you huff out a laugh, “thanks, harrington,” he grins despite the situation.

“can i ask you something?” you look to steve and back at your hands when you notice you’ve caught his attention. you push the thumbtack with your thumb into the top of the paper.

his gaze is focused on you, “yeah, of course,” he voiced gently, watching you arc up the confidence to say something that’s clearly eating you up inside. you let out a shaky breath, scared of his response, but you know what? fuck it. 

“why do you hang out with them?” you’re looking up at him now, a hurt expression evident on your features. “i don’t know,” he says earnestly, eyebrows pinching in the process; he really doesn’t know why he wastes his time with people like that. with people who don’t have any respect.

you turn your body to face him completely. “steve, i don’t want you to hang out with them,” you say quickly. steve gives you a surprised smile. you always know how to knock him off his feet.

“you don't want me to hang out with them,” he repeats, a teasing tone evident in his words. you roll your eyes at him, arms crossing over your chest.

“no, i don’t,” he grins at you, “and i wanna take you out on a date, sweetheart, but here we are,” his words land soft in the atmosphere, but god, they're undeniably smug. 

he cannot believe he said that. who does he think he is? he’s kicking himself for it. badly.

“okay,” you quip, not even registering what you’ve just agreed to. you and steve harrington. “oh,” he says simply, feeling his heart speed up like crazy. you swallow, quickly changing the subject.

“steve, i’ve known you since what? second grade? and i know you’re a good person, you wouldn’t be helping if you weren’t a good person.” your eyes are looking into his with confidence, steve is nervous under your gaze, you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out. your eyes searching his to find out his each and every thought. and he’d let you.

“i'm serious, they’re bad people, steve, people like that don’t deserve to be around you.” his mouth is extremely dry now. he was never good at receiving compliments, especially from someone he’s been in love with forever. someone he has immense respect for.

he nods at your words, “i want what you want,” he utters, his eyes flickering between your own. “i won’t hang out with them,” he says truthfully. you smile at him, “good.”

he feels his confidence come back to him now that he’s seen that smile play at your lips. “i’ll just hang around you,” he proposes, half-joke, half-serious. you took it seriously. “if you’ll have me, of course,” he is smiling at you in a way that makes your chest warm.

you chuckle, your nerves simmering on the baseline of it, “of course, harrington.” he’s grinning now, only making your smile grow in return.

you see nancy and jonathan waving at you to come over, steve follows immediately, matching your steps with purpose.

“don’t think i’ve forgotten about that date, by the way,” he reminds you. your breath catches.

“after we find will,” you clutch the flyers to your chest. he sees the way you’re trembling slightly, so much worry and stress in your body language. he would do anything to help you.

he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you to his side gently. his thumb slowly and comfortingly moves back and forth over the fabric of your jacket, the movement soothing you.

“after we find will,” he affirms, words following a gentle yet confident smile, you’re swooning. he speaks so softly with you, almost like he’s afraid you’re gonna break, afraid you’re some sort of fragment of his imagination.

he wants this. he wants this to be real, and he will do anything to keep it.

that was the starting point of your relationship. the beginning of it all.

—

you wish it could have stayed good. you really wish things could have stayed the way they were, but unfortunately for you and steve, things turned sour. 

it was the first week of summer, always yours and steve’s favourite time of the year. you were working as a teaching assistant while steve was working with robin at scoops ahoy. 

after the two of them were tortured by russians at starcourt mall, you noticed a difference in steve. he was cold and distant. the boy who used to come over to your house every day, pick you up from work without fail, and be basically attached to your hip barely saw you anymore.

he wouldn’t call.

he wouldn’t come over, and if he did, it was rare, short and extremely awkward.

he would barely touch you.

he couldn’t even look at you anymore.

he completely pushed you away.

he completely shut down; he made you feel like he wanted nothing to do with you. you thought he lost interest in you.

steve always found it so easy to talk to you, he told you anything and everything, and ditto with you. but now, he couldn’t even tell you what was wrong.

you knock on steve’s door, nerves rattling your entire body. you were shaking; you never thought you would have to do this. he opens the door with a confused look, face softening when he sees you, his heart was fluttering. steve always fell more in love with you when he saw you.

“hey” you say simply, “we need to talk”. he knew this was coming; he hoped for your sake that this would happen. he nodded, letting you in without a word.

“do you want something to drink?” he said awkwardly, looking at you like a nervous wreck. you shake your head, finding it difficult to look at him without crying. “look i’ll just come out and say it, i can’t do this anymore.” he inhales sharply; he feels like he’s going to throw up.

“i’m sick and tired of waiting for you to come back to me, steve.” your eyes begin to well with tears, “my boyfriend won’t even look at me, he won’t talk to me,” you choke up, he can feel the tightness in his throat begin to win, the tears stream down his face.

you’re looking at him through your teary eyelashes, his heart is completely broken. he was the one who broke you, and he will never forgive himself for it. the tears are falling frantically. two years down the drain.

“i know something’s wrong and you won’t tell me, you’re shutting me out like i’m nothing, if you’ve lost interest, stop being a pussy and tell me,” you say tearily, hastily wiping your face with the sleeve of his hoodie that you’re wearing. 

he’s full-on crying with you now, shaking his head. he’s so disappointed in himself. he hates himself for making you feel like this.

“i haven’t lost interest,” he says earnestly. you narrow your eyes at him, “fucking bullshit,” you sneer, “you don’t treat your girlfriend like this, steve,” you let out a broken sound, and that’s when steve officially declares his heart ripped completely in two.

you move to sit on the couch in his living room, face in your hands, crying. “i don’t know what i’ve done, i have always been there for you.” he kneels in front of you, placing a hand on your knee, seeing you flinch at the contact, tears him apart.

he pulls his hand away from you. your eyes bore into his, “you have done nothing wrong, honey, i’m awful i know that,” he stammers, “you don’t get to call me that anymore.” he lets out a long exhale, looking down at your knees. 

“okay,” he nods, looking up at you again, you can’t help but notice how his eyebags are darker, he looks ruined. “i’m just figuring shit out, i don’t know, i just, need space,” you interrupt him quickly.

“you never want space, you always work it out with me, you always talk to me” you push the words past your trembling lips, you’re shaking.

“you have never pushed me away like this, you were the one who said we would be there for each other no matter what,” he swallows, voice breaking “this is just different, y/n, i don’t know what to say to you,” his body language is mirroring yours, this is easily the worst day of his life. 

you stand up from the couch, moving past him towards the door.

“we’re finished, steve, i’m done.” your hand is on the doorknob, you look back at him, “you need to figure your shit out, and don’t count on me coming back because i’m not,”

steve is about to sob, he wants to hold you to his chest, apologise for being a shitty boyfriend, tell you why he’s acting the way he is. he can’t. he needs to let you go. he loves you too much to drag you down with him.

“you can’t even say anything, you’re just letting me go. letting us go,” you laugh in disbelief, wet and heartbreaking to hear. you open the door, “whatever” you force out, slamming the door behind you.

steve falls to his knees and cries, he cried for hours, not even able to pick himself up off the floor. he couldn’t handle this; he thought this would help, would be the solution to the problem, but he just didn’t think it would hurt this bad.

after what happened at starcourt, being tortured and traumatised, steve shut down. you were there for him the entire time, tried to get him to open up, but he couldn’t. 

during the torture, all steve thought about was you. he thought the worst; he thought he and robin were going to die.

he thought about how he wouldn’t be able to come home to you, how you would act when you got told he was gone. he thought about how he couldn’t see you again, hold you, kiss you, just look at you. he thought about how you would be fucking broken if you never saw him again, knowing he was killed and you couldn’t help.

he didn’t want to put you through that. he feared seeing you broken; he feared he would leave you behind, his true love alone, no one to look out for you.

he was stupid; he thought if he made you hate him, you wouldn’t have to go through that. he wanted you to live your life to the fullest, and if that meant him not in it, that was something that would have to work, even though it fucking killed him.

he’s stupid, and he knows that. he just wants you to be happy. he loves you more than anything in this world and he’s determined to keep you safe.

—

robin hated nothing more than being in the middle of you and steve. she was your mutual best friend and it killed her just as much when the two of you broke up right after the russian drama.

sure, she complained about how annoying you two would be stealing kisses on breaks, coming in during your free time to visit, but in her heart, she loved it. seeing her friends happy gave her a fuzzy feeling. she loved to see the two of you in your little bubble, though you always included her in everything.

when the two of you broke up, the dynamics changed; she hardly ever saw you anymore. she called you often, and you would talk like old times, only making both of you miss what you had before. 

robin and steve were working a shift at family video. she was rambling about her love life while steve stocked the returns back in their places.

“i’m hopeless,” she breathes out, back landing on a display, steve follows suit, “eh, we both are.” robin knew why you broke up with him, she knew both sides of the story well. she hates that he wouldn’t open up to you, to let you put together the broken pieces. she wanted the two of you back.

you had accidentally heard about all the dates steve was going on through robin, accidentally spilling the news when you two were on a catch-up phone call. stupid ones where he tried to get his mind off you but it didn’t work. (she didn't mention that part)

you were crushed, how could he just move on so quickly, like it was nothing? so, you did the same, you started going on dates with random people, none of them bringing you anything but hey, tit for tat right?

—

you turned on the tv mindlessly in the breakroom of the teacher’s staffroom, hearing the news about the death of someone at the trailer park, your eyes widen, quickly thinking about max.

in parallel, steve and robin had just heard the same news, shit like this hadn't happened for a while, this wasn’t good.

you rush out when the bell rang, spotting dustin and max who waved you over quickly, “come with us now, please,” dustin breathes out, max nods frantically, you say yes immediately after seeing the expression on their faces. “okay let's, go.”

you follow behind them on their bikes in your car, swearing when you see the family video sign. you had been avoiding this place like the plague when robin told you about her new job.

this meant seeing steve. you’re ready to turn around but for the kids, you park the car and follow them to the door, fiddling with the skin around your nails.

“henderson, i swear to god,” you glare at him, dustin looks at you sympathetically, completely forgetting about how awkward this would be for you.

“shit, i’m so sorry,” dustin took it really hard when you guys broke up, you were the parents to all the kids but closer with him. when steve told him the situation, he called him an idiot for letting you go, everyone did.

“it’s okay” you sigh, max smiles at you, placing her arm around your waist comfortingly as dustin opened the door. “hey, steve” dustin rushes, max following quickly behind him, you trudge along, really dreading seeing your ex-boyfriend.

“you see this?” steve says worriedly looking down at the kids, his eyes snap to you when he spots you, breath catching in his throat, nervous expression increasing.

robin gasps when she sees you, giving you a tight squeeze, you laugh hugging her back, “hey, hun” you whisper.

you look over her shoulder to see steve looking at you, you give him a nod, a dismissive one. robin separates from you, “it's so good to see you,” she whispers, you smile in acknowledgement, bumping her shoulder with yours, “you too.”

“how many phones do you have?” dustin questions, “someone was murdered,” steve looks shocked.

“how many phones do you have?” dustin repeats, clearly frustrated. “uh, two why?” he replies, “technically three, if you count keith’s in the back,” robin adds, you look at dustin, the kid is seriously worried.

“yeah, three works,” max says to dustin, the younger boy throwing his backpack onto the counter, “what are you doing?” dustin pushes it right into steve.

“what are you-, HEY” he exclaims, “my pile!” robin gasps, dustin climbs over the counter wiping everything off with a crash, “no, no, no, my tapes! dude,” steve groans, you sigh loudly, moving to help robin clean up behind the counter. 

steve can smell you when you’re this close; it’s so hard for him not to acknowledge you right now. dustin goes to the computer on the counter, “what are you doing, man?” steve complains, looking at dustin with his eyebrows furrowed.

“setting up base of operations,” dustin says simply, fingers moving on the keys quickly, “get off of that,” steve says to the boy, “no, i need it,” typical dustin and steve bickering over everything.

“i’m looking up eddie’s friends' phone numbers,” you tilt your head while looking at robin, “isn’t that the kid that repeated? he’s our age?” robin nods at you.

“your new best friend you think is cooler because he plays your nerdy game,” steve sasses, dustin rolls his eyes, animatingly, “yes, i never said that,” he quips back. 

you shake your head, helping robin stack up her piles again, “seriously, guys, maybe on a monday you can play around like toddlers, but it’s saturday, it’s our busiest day” robin moves around quickly.

you pick up a left over tape on the floor just as a hand you know too well reaches for it, you both snatch your hands back like you’d burnt it on something, looking at each other, shocked.

“sorry” steve says, picking it up and standing. you stand up behind robin like a kid who’s afraid of talking.

“robin, i empathasie, but this cannot wait,” dustin says like a robot, scribbling numbers down furiously on his clipboard. “oh my god,” steve groans, hands running over his face.

“cause calling eddie’s friends is an emergency?” robin shakes her head, slamming papers on the counter, “correct” dustin exclaims. 

“who wants me to strangle him?” steve looks between you and robin, you can’t help the little smile that plays at your lips, you shake it off quickly.

“we could take turns,” robin smiles. she turns to look at you, eyes asking if you’re okay, you nod with hesitation, she gives your hand a quick squeeze.

“can you fill them in while i do this?” dustin looks to max, “fill us in on what?” you ask, max looks right at you, the keyboard clacking furiously in the back.

you all quickly start up with the phone calls, “have you seen eddie munson?” falling from all of your lips. you cross off the names while the kids and robin tell you the result, this was looking bad,

you see steve from the corner of your eye, flirting with a girl while recommending a movie. you glare at him like you never have before, he can feel the eyes on him on instinct. he can’t look at you, he’s fucking terrified.

thank goodness for max mayfield interrupting right now.

“hey guys, i may have a lead,” you all turn quickly, hopeful. “apparently, eddie gets his drugs from some guy named reefer rick, and sometimes eddie crashes there.” 

robin glances at you, “that sounds promising,” she says to max, dustin and you nod at her words, “where does his reefer rick live?” max closes her eyes for a moment.

“see that’s the thing, no one knows, he’s more of a..a legend than someone that people actually know,” you look at max in disbelief. 

“bet the cops know a last name,” steve mumbles, moving around tapes in a metal bin, “what?” max looks at him, “cops” steve says simply, your eyes stay trained on steve.

“listen if this reefer rick is actually a drug dealer, i guarantee you he’s been busted at some point, means he’s in the system,” steve turns, faltering his steps as he sees you looking at him. he leans on the counter, a little closer to you than he probably should be right now.

“the cops, really, steve? that’s your suggestion?” dustin snaps, you place a hand on the boy's shoulder, “hey, relax” you say softly, steve is surprised you're somewhat defending him right now, and so are you. 

you're blaming it on muscle memory. you clear your throat, suddenly becoming aware of the situation.

“i mean i just think they should be filled on what we know, what’s going on,” his hand waves in the air as he leans on the counter, you don’t look at him anymore, focusing on dustin with all your strength. 

“you think eddie’s guilty?” dustin says stiffly, you look over at max, giving her a reassuring smile, she seems just as distant as you.

“woah, i believe in innocent until proven guilty, all that constitutional shit, i just, you know,” he claps his hand, rubbing them together.

“don’t think we should rule it out,” he looks a little nervous as he says it, considering he’s getting quizical looks from all four of you behind the counter. 

“that’s precisely what we’re trying to do here, steve,” max concludes.

“and maybe we’d have a little bit more luck” dustin starts, “if you spent less time trying to find a girlfriend and more time trying to find eddie,” he says with sarcasm, you freeze, you look like someone shot you in the chest. 

“i um, i’m cold, i’ll just go get my jacket from the car,” you grit out, pushing past robin who was trying to stop you. “dude, why would you say that?” steve groans, watching you with sad eyes as you walk out hurriedly. 

dustin’s face dropped a little, “shit.” steve shakes his head, “don’t say that shit around her, man,” he tutts, robin looks at steve with a pained smile, following you out the door.

she finds you standing at your car with a mindless expression, “hey, you okay?” she asks softly, you’re a little startled when you see her, “oh, yeah, rob, i’m okay” you nod curtly, “it’s okay if you’re not, you know? steve’s an idiot” you puff out a laugh through your nose, “yeah”. 

you hate how much you miss him, you hate how you couldn’t stop loving him and you hate how much that comment affected you.

“let’s go inside, hm?” you nod, letting her drag you back to the video store.

the kids are arguing with steve about how he doesn’t treat the customers equally, and that’s when it clicks for robin, to search for his name in the rental log.

steve looks at you immediately when you come back in, he basically jumps at the jacket you’re wearing; it’s his.

he gave it to you back in high school after a date, and god, he forgot about it. his mouth is completely dry, he watches you stand next to robin as she searches for a name. 

you have this confused expression on your face that always made him wanna kiss you like crazy it was so cute. he can’t do that anymore, you’re not his.

you all share little laughs as robin cycles through the ricks, feeling a sense of normalcy. you see steve looking at you as you stand next to robin. you glance at him quickly, when your eyes meet, you both immediately drop eye contact, this is torture.

“he’s out by lover’s lake” dustin says, you swallow when you hear the name, you’ve had your fair share there with steve, and he knows that.

he refuses to look in your direction, his cheeks grow pink when he thinks about the shared kisses and hugs and..other things you both had at that lake, he wants it back. 

you all rush to steve’s car, you quickly go into the back next to max in the middle, sitting behind robin with a shaky breath. it’s been so long since you’ve been in this car, and you’re sitting behind the seat that used to belong to you.

you wonder if steve’s sunvisor still had the polaroid of you two stuck on it; it was taken on your birthday, a fond smile on your face as steve pressed a kiss to your cheek. you’re sat on his lap in front of a birthday cake. good times, you thought.

steve drove to the location, the sky now dark and eerie. your knee is bouncing up and down with nerves, you shouldn’t have come, this is becoming too much for you. steve looks at you worriedly through the rearview mirror, your expression is something he dreads seeing.

you all get out of the car, steve hands you a flashlight as you all go to approach the door, you look at him, surprised, offering a tight-lipped smile, “thanks” you say softly. 

your tone reminds him of your voice right before you drift to sleep, the gentle voice you would say in his ear as he held you close. it was always followed by your hands raking through his hair, telling him about your day.

he clears his throat, “yeah”. you both look at each other for a second later before dropping it, lighting the door as dustin rings the doorbell with determination.

“eddie, it's dustin!” he yells, “he’s not there,” steve mutters harshly, watching as you, max, and robin walk off to look around. max sees something, calling you all over, her torch lights up a metal shed. you look at robin in fear, “oh my god,” you whisper shout, steve feels that protectiveness bubble in his chest.

you all approach carefully, robin opens the door slowly, “hello, is anyone home?” she calls out, “be careful” you mutter, holding on to max’s arm. you all walk in, looking around the dump that people call a shed. 

you watch as steve grabs an oar off the walls, you raise your brow at him, he meets your gaze, shrugging as he holds it. he approaches a boat in the centre, he quickly stabs it towards some bags in the boat, “what are you doing?” dustin asks sharply.

“he might be in here” steve continues poking and prodding at the bags, “just take the tarp off” dustin shouts, “if you’re so brave, you take the tarp off” steve challenges, you roll your eyes at both of them.

“don’t worry, steve will get him with his oar” dustin says sarcastically.

steve huffs, “ah, i know you think you’re being funny, henderson, but considering the fact everyone in this room has nearly died a hundred times, personally, i don’t find it funny in the slight-” he pokes again, suddenly something moves from the tarp, attacking steve, you gasp as steve is slammed into the metal wall. eddies got a knife to his throat, you freeze.

“eddie this is steve, he’s not going to hurt you” dustin exclaims, steve looks at you, not at anyone else, he looks at you. he thinks about how you’re going to watch his neck get sliced, just what he was trying to avoid.

dustin makes steve drop the oar, you breathe heavily as you look at steve. dustin defuses the situation, making eddie lower his guard.

he introduces each of you, “you remember, y/n, you told me she was hot once,” dustin says slowly, you look at dustin in shock, steve had an expression of worry go straight into fury now.

eddie drops the knife as you all swear on dustin’s mother that you were on his side. you let out a sigh of relief to see steve is free from eddie’s grasp.

you watch as robin checks on steve, you’re staring at him now, you want to check up on him but that’s not your place anymore. you just look longingly, placing a hand on max’s shoulder. she looks up at you with a knowing look, placing her hand on yours comfortingly.

steve looks at you from his crouched position, breathing unsteadily as he takes in your appearance. this is too much for him to handle.

robin, dustin and max all encourage eddie to open up, you hang behind, looking between the four of them and steve occasionally. he’s okay, you’re relieved. eddie explains the situation tearfully, you all listen carefully, you all know what this means. 

—

you all go back the next morning, arms full of supplies. “delivery service,” dustin smiles, eddie exhales, seeing you all wave at him with smiles on your faces in the doorway of the shed.

you hand eddie some food, he looks at you with big eyes, “oh, y/l/n, you’re a vision,” he flirts.

you clear your throat, “okay,” moving back to stand next to dustin. steve is clenching his jaw, glaring at the boy with long hair like he could kill him.

steve’s always had a jealousy problem.

dustin tells him the plan, the good news and the bad news as eddie shoves his face with more food. “they’ve gone through this before,” robin reassures eddie.

“these one’s especially,” she waves her finger between you, dustin and steve. you all nod when eddie glances in your direction. you all cover eddie hurriedly when you hear the sirens. shit was going down.

—

you all drive up to see what was going on and spot nancy talking to the authorities. you all get out of the car carefully. when she sees you, she almost cries, her best friend in the whole world, she waves at you. her eyebrows immediately furrow when she sees you with your ex boyfriend. what the hell is going on?

you all go to the trailer park, telling her the situation, exchanging theories. nancy is upset, she’s honestly traumatised. you hug her to your side, comforting her, “it’s okay, nance,” you smile.

she spots steve looking at you, he just looks like he wants to jump over the table and pull you to him to offer you the comfort you were always giving to anyone other than yourself.

he spots her looking and looks around the trailer park. nancy looks at you, “come with me” you both begin to walk over to her car and steve follows immediately.

“where do you think you’re going?” he’s looking between the two of you. “it’s a shot in the dark, i thought y/n and i could check it out,” nancy shrugs, steve shakes his head quickly, “no, absolutely not, are you out of your mind?” he says to you, not nancy, you look at him offendedly. 

“you two are not flying solo with this vecna on the loose, no, it's too dangerous, you need someone to..” he trails off, you scoff, your arms folding over your chest. he’s only saying this to you, like this is your idea.

“we can take care of ourselves.” this is the first real sentence you’ve said to him since the breakup. “yeah” he says sarcastically,

“harrington, i’m not a baby, i’ve dealt with this shit the same as you,” you argue, you two were both as bad as each other. 

“y/n, it’s dangerous, that’s my final word,” you laugh in his face, “i’m not yours to worry about anymore, remember?”

that stings when he hears it. your voice sounds pained, his face drops. he shakes his head, throwing his keys to robin. “i’ll go with them”.

they fight about how she can't drive, she dumps the keys back into steve’s hands. “the ladies will stick together,” robin looks at him, “unless you think we need you to protect us,” she smiles at him, steve’s face hardens. 

he wants to be there for you. “whatever, just be careful” he says to robin, looking at you as you walk away without another word.

“just gonna stand there and gawk?” dustin teases when you’re out of earshot, “shut up and get in the car,” steve grumbles. your words are replaying in his head like your mixtape he plays every day on his way to work. you’ve clearly moved on from him. 

you all get in nancy’s car, she immediately grills into you, “are you okay? is it awkward? why are you with him? are you getting back together?” you snap.

“nancy, please i really don’t want to talk about this,” she looks at your surprised, you immediately apoligise, “i’m sorry it’s been really crazy for me,” you breathe out. nancy and robin both look at you, they know you well, this is killing you.

—

“so” dustin looks over at steve, “we gonna talk about, it?” he tries, steve shakes his head, “nope.”

dustin huffs, “we’re not gonna talk about your temporary insanity when you basically threw yourself at y/n,” your name alone makes steve shiver.

“that is not what happened,” steve shakes his head, “pretty sure that’s what happened,” dustin quips, steve looks at him challengingly. 

“are you implying i still want y/n?” steve rushes out, “i didn’t say that, you got there on your own.”

steve swallows, “i don’t want her to get hurt by this vecna creep” he says gently, dustin nods, “she won’t.”

steve knows you won’t, and he’s determined to make sure it doesn’t. 

—

you all went to the creel house, you helped steve bring down the board covering the door. you rattle the doorknob, “it’s locked”.

steve gently moves you away from the door, doing the same thing. you scoff, “it’s locked” he repeats, “i just said that, god, you think i can’t do anything,” you say to him, he sighs looking at you.

“i didn’t say that,” he’s frustrated, you feel a little relieved he’s finally arguing back with you like you used to, a vast difference from your breakup. robin, nancy, dustin, max, and lucas all look at each other with dread.

“should i knock, see if anybody’s home?” steve says, “don’t be a smartass,” you sneer, “don’t start,” he says, voice dropping low enough to make goosebumps form on your skin. your mouth is open to respond, but nothing comes out.

robin lifts a brick, “no need, i’ve got a key.” she smirks, chucking it through the window. you go to put your arm through the hole to open the door, steve stops you like clockwork.

“oh for fucks sake,” you groan, he holds his hands up at the look you’re giving him, backing off. you open the door, and everyone follows behind you. 

steve stands next to the doorway, hands on his hips as he studies you. you look at him, assessing him once over before you approach him.

“you look like you’re dying to say something, go ahead, harrington,” you sass.

there used to be a way he’d get this bratty attitude in check, but it’s highly inappropriate right now.

he stands taller, “you’re being reckless,” he says flatly, jaw clenched as your eyes meet. your eyes flicker between his, you say nothing and move away from him, catching up to walk with nancy.

he lets out a frustrated breath, hand passing through his hair once. it was something he always did when he was pissed.

max points out the clock that she saw in her visions, you let out a shaky breath, the adrenaline is really kicking in.

“why is this wizard obsessed with clocks, maybe he’s a clockmaker or something?” steve questions, your laugh comes out on its own, he whips his head towards you.

“what’s so funny?” he cuts in, you shrug, giving him your best look of innocence. he’s fucked.

“i’m getting really weird vibes here,” you say to nancy. steve is listening in on your conversation, he needs to keep an eye on you.

“everyone, stay in groups,” nancy calls out, she holds your arm and pulls you with her upstairs. steve and dustin are left downstairs.

“bet you wanted to be with y/n, huh?” dustin says cheekily. steve lets out a sigh and climbs the stairs.

steve and dustin explore upstairs, steve finds a jar of spiders, it sends a shiver up his spine. he sees a spider crawling on his shoulder, he gets up walking backwards into a spiderweb and lands right into you. 

you let out a little oof when the boy runs into you, “what’s wrong?” you ask him, he shakes his head, “there was a spider, a black widow,” you walk around him looking for any signs of one but you see none. 

he turns to look at you when you stand behind him, “don’t go in there,” he closes the door.

“you’ve got, um” you raise your hand to your hair, “what?” he asks softly, walking towards a mirror, you exhale sharply, “stop moving,” you hold onto his shoulders from behind.

he pauses, all his senses are clouded with you.

you reach your hand up, taking the spider webs out of his hair, “thank you” he mumbles, the sensation so familiar, like a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

“i got it” you say softly, “so um, are you okay?” he says nervously while you're diligently taking the webs out.

you pause, “yeah uh, you?” steve feels a little smile play at his lips, he nods, humming a yes in response. “all done,” you step back, he turns, looking right at you, “great, thanks,” you nod, giving him a little smile. 

he swallows, his eyes flickering between yours, “guess we should, uh, get back to the investigation” your eyes are trained on him, examining him closely. it’s a look he knows well, you’re trying to get inside his head. 

his eyes look down to your lips for a second before he moves past you, leaving you there extremely flustered.

you all move downstairs, watching as the lights of the chandelier flickers. “it’s like the lights all over again,” you whisper to nancy, she nods, “they come to life, like when will was in the upside down” you look over at steve quickly, he looks scared.

you grab max’s headphones and put them on her ears when the lights turn off, “everyone turn off your flashlights and spread out” nancy says carefully. everyone goes, leaving you and steve standing there. he moves first, and you follow. 

“i got him,” you and steve look at each other, following the sound. suddenly steve’s light pulses, “he’s moving,” he exclaims, you all follow behind him.

it turns off at the top of the steps and you all sigh, “i lost him”, max steps forward, “no, you didn’t,” she opens a door and there’s the light.

you all carefully approach the door, slowly walking up the stairs. all your lights turn on when you approach the singular lightbulb, “okay, what’s happening?” steve says nervously.

—

you’re all in the car for a supply run to eddie, you’re sitting in front of steve and it really isn't doing him any favours. he’s staring like he wants to crawl in your skin and live there forever. 

everyone in the car is arguing about how to best break the news to eddie about vecna being in the upside down, whereas you, you’re just staring at the window. 

you never thought you would be in this position right now, you’re extremely overwhelmed. steve notices, he always notices.

when you get to the house and realise eddie isn't there, you all need to go to skull rock. everyone walked off so quickly, you’re left with steve and dustin.

dustin is twisting and turning looking for skull rock while staring at his compass. “dude, i’m telling you, you’re taking us the wrong way” steve says to the younger boy, you nod, you and steve know exactly where it is. 

“you know skull rock is like a super popular makeout spot because of us, right?” steve’s eyes scans your face as he says it, your cheeks are quick to fill with pink, this is so awkward. dustin groans, steve quickly reroutes, taking you all in the correct direction.

when steve finds it, he’s a smartass. “you can’t admit it, you can’t admit you’re wrong, you butthead,” you chuckle, quickly turning into a scream when you feel hands on your waist. steve springs into action, turning immediately, ready to fight whatever's got you. 

that’s when he sees eddie grabbing you, “dustin henderson you are a total butthead” he repeats. “god, get off me” you push eddie off, he laughs.

this is so uncomfortable to deal with in front of steve.

steve’s tongue prods the inside of his cheek, he’s fucking livid.

“hey, man, maybe don’t sneak up on people like that, you scared her,” steve stands in front of you, you roll your eyes, “steve, drop it,” you huff.

he turns to look at you unimpressed, “no,” he challenges, moving a little closer to you. you feel like he doesn’t trust you.

“you’re so fucking-” he’s quick to cut you off, lowering his voice, “i dare you to finish that sentence” his eyes burning into yours.

“finish,” you feel the word explode in your stomach as he repeats it. you swallowed the anger that was ready to lash out, choosing to drop it as you have an audience. 

he smiles when you do, making you roll your eyes and walk over to nancy when you see her. you all listen to eddie as he recounts what happened, your arms are crossed over your chest, still angry that steve has to get all ridiculous when you do anything.

he always found you hot when you got like that. 

—

you don't know how you managed to be convinced to get on a boat with eddie, steve, nancy and robin but here you were, looking for in robins words, the snack sized gate. 

nancy and robin get on, steve looks at you when you approach, his hand on instinct going to the small of your back while he helps you get on the boat, “thanks” you mumble, steve nods.

the kids are keeping watch on the shore as steve rows you further out into the lake. the compass begins to freak out. “slow down,” nancy breathes out, you all lean over to look at the compass with her.

steve begins to take off his shoes and socks, you look up at him immediately, “what are you doing?” you blurt out, “somebody’s gotta go down there and check this out,” he breathes out, you shake your head quickly.

“no” he looks at you, “yes” you feel like you could faint.

“unless any of you can top being a hawkin’s high swim co-captain and a certified lifeguard for three years” you’re staring at him, he’s so brave but so fucking stupid.

“it’s gotta be me, no complaints, alright?” your hand moves on its own, grabbing his and squeezing, “steve, please no,” he let out a shaky breath, looking at you like he’s trying to memorise every detail. 

he squeezes your hand back before letting go to take off his shirt, robin and nancy exchange knowing smiles at each other when they catch you looking up at a shirtless steve harrington. 

you were both so obvious.

eddie hands him a flashlight covered in a plastic bag and wishes him good luck, you sit up on your knees, “steve” you choke out, you look extremely worried now.

he smiles at you, a private one you haven't seen for many months now. he’s telling you it's okay.

“be careful,” you say quietly, he nods at you, “i will” he says like a promise, jumping in without another word.

you bite your fingernails as he goes under, “he’s taking too long,” you say to the boat, he pops up and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

he grabs onto the edge of the boat, your hands hold onto his arms, “i found it” he breathes out heavily. the feeling of your hands on his arms is driving him crazy, especially since he couldn’t do anything about it.

robin alerts the kids through the radio. steve’s looking at you relieved. his head suddenly goes under, you grip onto him tighter and he comes back up. suddenly he's completely gone. 

you scream, you were just holding him and now he’s gone.

”steve!” everyone yells, you didn’t know that steve was now in the upside down. you jump in before thinking, hearing the muffled yells of your name as you go down quickly, you need to find him.

you see the gate and go into it quickly, spotting steve being strangled and attacked by some sort of bats. you rush over, hitting them with an oar, the others are just behind you.

you hit the bats repeatedly, the others fending off the ones that were quickly approaching.

one grabs you, nancy tries to free you, you spot steve bite the tail of the one strangling him, nancy kills the one that’s on you with the help of robin.

it’s crazy and chaotic, you can’t even think straight.

steve swings a bat repeatedly on the ground, stepping on it’s stomach and ripping it in half, there’s blood dripping from his mouth, he spits, panting as he looks up at you.

“are you out of your goddamn mind?” he exclaims, charging over to you, “steve,” you start, “don't steve me, what the fuck are you doing down here?” he points at you.

“you’re always so stubborn, i told you i was doing this,” his eyes pierce right through you.

“i’m stubborn? don’t fucking start with me, steven,” you scoff, “uh guys, maybe fight about this later” robin says awkwardly.

steve looks at the rest of them, “that goes for all of you too, you shouldn’t have come down here” he’s pissed. he’s so angry.

“what was i supposed to do, let you die down here by yourself?” you yell, his eyes widened, “yes, you were,” he responds sharply.

you tune him out, looking down at his injury, gasping. he looks down with you, “oh my god,” you could cry right now. 

“it’s fine, they took out about a pound of flesh but i’m fine.” your eyes scan all over his injuries, your hand gently coming up to trace over his neck softly, shaking your head in disbelief.

“you’re not fine,” your eyebrows pinch, you're interrupted by the screech of bats flying menacingly above. “the woods, come on,” nancy yells, steve grabs your hand, making you run with everyone towards the trees.

you’re back at skull rock, only this time in the upside down. steve’s hand is still holding onto yours tightly.

he stands up, suddenly leaning too much on his left side, you slow down his fall, helping him rest up against the rock.

tears are falling and you don’t even know it, “you’re losing blood” you gasp, he groans as his hand presses into his wound, you grab it to move it, it’s pulsing and gorey.

you rip the bottom of your shirt quickly, robin’s going on a tangent about rabies until nancy pulls her away, you need to focus. 

you always do this for steve, put him back together again both mentally and physically. this is something you had to do.

you pull him forward gently and he grunts, “okay, steve, breathe,” you steady yourself, pressing the fabric of the shirt into his wound, he exhales in pain, there’s a wet squelch from the wound.

he lets out a stifled groan, hands on the back of his head, “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry” you whisper, your hands moving quickly to tie the fabric.

“it’s okay” he grunts when you pull it tight, “too tight?” you look up at him, he shakes his head, “no, baby, that’s good” he breathes out, not even registering what he’s saying.

he watches your hands as you tie the knot firmly, leaning back onto the rock, panting.

“okay” you swallow, he's looking at you now, eyes pinning you in place.

his hand moves, cradling your cheek in his hand, thumb wiping off a tear rolling on your cheek, “thanks” he whispers, the gesture so intimate. “i’m okay,” he reassures, reading your mind. he really did know you better than anyone.

you break the eye contact, grabbing his arm and placing it over your shoulder, helping him walk. he’s breathing heavier than before, you're so close to him he can’t think. 

you think the increased breathing is him in more pain, you look over at him worried, “painful?” he shakes his head, “no, it’s fine” standing up a little straighter, his arm hooking around your waist to hold you steady.

nancy warns eddie of the hive mind, answering all of his and robin’s questions about the upside down.

“we need weapons,” you say to nancy, she nods immediately at your words. steve pulls you slightly closer. eddie suddenly throws a denim vest to steve, you glare at him.

“don’t fucking throw shit at him, munson, he’s hurt” you grumble, helping steve dress slowly. steve is smiling, he doesn’t know it but he is. 

suddenly everything starts shaking, steve’s arm goes over your chest, bracing the two of you with his other hand on the rock, your hands are holding onto his arm tightly, you cannot let him slip out of your hands again.

when it stops, you all agree you need the guns from nancy’s bedroom, steve grabs your hand quickly as you all walk to the wheeler residence.

you can’t ignore the sour taste in your mouth. you love him. you love him so much it hurts. you wonder if this is him acting on fear or love. he’s acting on love, he’s acting on admiration, all of it.

—

you’re all walking slowly to the wheelers, almost there. steve pulls eddie aside as you catch up to nancy and robin.

“y/n, there, she jumped in so fast after you, she just dove right in, that’s an act of true love i’ve never seen before,” steve’s looking at you with that yearning expression. he fucked up big time letting you go. 

steve calls you over, you turn to look at him, spotting him wave his hand gesturing to come back to him. he holds his hand out to you and is oh so pleased you took it.

he looks over at you, “i’m sorry for yelling at you, thank you for helping me,” he says softly, just for you to hear. you look at him surprised, you really didnt care. “it’s okay” you match his volume, he smiles at you.

“you were pretty bad ass saving me back there” you smile back at him, “just keep walking, steven.”

he grins boysishly, giving your hand three squeezes as you fall into a comfortable silence. he always did that when you were together, it was a simple way of him saying ‘i love you’. your head is spinning.

—

you’re all looking around nancy’s room realising you were stuck in time. you hear steve suddenly yelling dustin’s name in the other room, you all follow the sound.

he’s flashing his light to the roof, “dustin, hello?” he’s screaming, you look at him worried, has he lost more blood?

you can hear him, calling out to dustin with steve. nancy has a lightbulb moment literally, “we can communicate through the light.” you desperately hope someone gets the sos signal.

—

you connect to the kids through holly’s toy, watching nancy write into the light. you’re all crouched around nancy, steve behind you, pressing his chest against your back, you’re even more nervous now.

“there’s a gate at every murder sight” you hear the faint voice of dustin.

you all ride on your bikes towards eddie’s trailer, and low and behold, a gate in the roof of eddie’s trailer.

you gasp when something pushes through the portal, steve is quick to grab you close to him. steve pulls you with him to look up at the opening, seeing erica, dustin, max and lucas smiling back at you laughing.

you let out a sigh of relief, forehead resting on steve’s shoulder for a moment, he grins.

—

you all tilt your heads at the stains on eddie’s mattress staring at you menacingly. this is the worst, but you need to get out of here. the kids pass through a makeshift rope, you cannot believe this is working.

you watch as robin climbs up with hopefull eyes, laughing as you see her pass through and hit the mattress. “thank god” she laughs. eddie goes next, followed by nancy.

steve looks at you, “go on, i’ll see you on the other side,” he nudges his head to the rope. 

you pull yourself up, feeling yourself fall into nothing. you’re slammed harshly to the floor, steve’s not here, the kids aren’t here. you’re still in the upside down. 

“y/n,” steve says to you worriedly, noticing your eyes have gone white, his hands are on your shoulders, frantically shaking you. you're in a trance, you can't wake up.

“stay with me, honey,” he yells. you see visions of horrible things, you feel your death coming to you quickly.

“come on, baby, come on,” steve begs, his hands cradling your face, trying to wake you up. “hurry up!” he calls out to the others. your eyes snap open, you fall backwards.

steve catches you, lowering you down slowly. “it’s okay, baby, i got you” he breathes out, his hands on your face, checking you over. you’re panting, panicking, looking up at him with wild eyes.

“steve, i saw him, i saw” you cry, he nods, “okay, okay, it’s okay” he shushes you. steve helps you climb up the rope quickly, holding you in his arms tightly.

you tell the group what you saw, the visions of hawkins, what was to come. steve is sat on the couch with you on his lap, your back lying on his chest as you hold onto his arms wrapped around your waist.

he’s whispering sweet words in your ear to calm you down. he’s extremely worried. “he’s just trying to scare you, y/n,” steve says softly. “it’s not real,” you shake your head, “you don’t know that,” you choke out, he holds onto you tighter.

“we have to go back there, to the upside down” nancy says looking out the window, everyone protests immediately, especially steve.

“absolutely not, no way” steve stands you both up from the couch, “we need to think this through, in case you forgot your best friend almost died” he says to nancy while pointing at you.

“we need to go back” you nod, steve looks at you with a bewildered gaze, “you’re not going back down there what if he grabs you again?” he stammers.

“we’ll be prepared this time, we’ll get weapons and protection,” nancy says, everyone looks stressed.

—

and that’s how you ended up sneaking into the trailer park, going to some place called ‘war zone’.

what is this life?

eddie fiddles with the wires of the caravan, “eddie, i’m not sure i love the idea of you driving.” robin says wearily.

“oh, i’m starting the sucker, harrington’s got her, don’t you big boy?” smiling as he teases steve, you laugh, plopping down into the passenger side seat. steve gives you a surprised smile.

“you sitting up here with me?” steve grins, you’re about to answer until the owners knock on the door and steve has to speed off quickly. 

as you drive off, you keep glancing at steve. “you’re pretty good at driving this thing, harrington” you smile, he gives you a cheeky smile.

“you know,” he starts, the radio playing faintly in the back, “i’ve actually always had this dream of having a big family, like a fool brood of harringtons” he smiles looking at the road.

“hm? how many?” you glance at him, he meets your gaze, “like 5 or 6 kids?” steve ponders, you laugh.

“and who on earth is going to push out 6 kids for you, steve?” he pauses, looking over at you with a longing gaze.

he knows it's you. you know he’s talking about you.

pink tinges your cheeks as you look at him, he smirks, “three girls, three boys, and then every summer, us harringtons could pack into something like this and just..see the country” he sighs, you’re nervous now.

“that sounds nice” you say quiety, he looks at you with a shit eating grin, “yeah? you’ll be there?” you roll your eyes.

“don’t push your luck,” you tease, he places a hand on his chest, “oh, i wont, honey” you both laugh.

“hey, steve,” you chuckle, he hums, looking over at you again. 

“i’m not having 6 kids” he laughs, nodding, “i can dream”.

there’s a beat of silence, “hey, when this is all over,” he says nervously, “i think we um, need to talk, i want to explain everything to you.”

he’s jittery, you nod, “okay,” he lets out a grateful breath. he knows what he wants, and that’s you. forever.

—

“this is nuts” you laugh, looking up at the warzone sign, steve laughs too, “this is nuts” he parrots, bumping your shoulder playfully with his to push you to the door.

“nance, this is your heaven” you say with wide eyes looking at the vast amounts of isles, she grins, “shut up and go find something,” you smile back at her, walking with steve and robin.

you laugh as steve puts on a leather jacket, “who are you trying to impress, harrington?” he chuckles at your words, “you, obviously,”

you chuckle, helping robin load the kerosene fuel into the cart.

you look concerned when nancy approaches you guys, “they’re here.” you all pay quickly and run to the caravan, steve drives away. 

after you get away, you all make weapons together, a really strange bonding moment.

you and steve hold empty bottles while robin pours fluid into them, both of you reassuring robin that she and vicky may still have a chance.

“not everything has a happy ending,” robin grabs another lighter fuel, “don’t say that, rob,” you place a gentle hand on her knee, steve smiles at both of you.

“i think it does,” steve says earnestly, smiling wider when your eyes meet his.

“okay you two, quit slacking” robin teases, making you and steve laugh.

—

you go through the plan with dustin, robin, nancy, steve and eddie. steve can’t help but look at you worriedly.

he pulls you aside for a quick moment, “listen, i don’t know what’s going to happen so i need to tell you this now” he says quietly to you, grabbing your hand, you nod, “okay.”

“i’m sorry for everything, i pushed you away because i’m an idiot and i thought it would make things easier but it didn’t, i can’t lose you, y/n, i can’t” he starts, tears begin to brim at your eyes.

“i love you, you have to know that, i always will” you nod, “i love you too, stevey, always” a tear rolls down his cheek and you’re quick to wipe it off. he’s relieved, he knows you understand him and he understands you. 

“let’s go beat this vecna guy's ass and have a proper talk about this hm?” he whispers, you smile, “let’s do it” he cradles your cheeks with his hands, leaning forward to rest his forehead on yours for a moment.

you all walk to the gate, steve pulls himself up first, you follow immediately after the mattress goes down.

he lets out a huge sigh of relief when you come down with no problem, “i gotcha, baby,” he helps you up, you smile, your faces close together for a moment.

he winks cause he knows it makes you laugh, he helps you to the side, looking up to see the rest coming down.

—

hawkins was ripped in half. eddie was gone, max was in a coma. it was bittersweet; it was hard to feel the victory when there was so much loss.

post blowing up vecna, steve drove you to his house that night, you talked from the night up until the late morning.

he explained everything, why he acted the way he did, and he opened up to you in a way he had never done before. he let you express how you felt, how you felt like he doesn’t trust you. you both listened to each other intently and reassured each other of all your worries and concerns.

you both knew this wouldn’t happen again, the shuting down and pushing away. after hours of talking, crying and laughing together, you and steve got back together again.

—

you and steve help load the car with all the donations, seeing max, el, a random guy with long hair, jonathan and will. everyone runs and exchanges hugs.

you hang behind with steve, smiling as everyone greets each other. he pulls you to his side, kissing the crown of your head affectionately.

everyone looks at you and steve with knowing smiles, “thank god” mike exclaims when he sees you loved up.

—

you grab a box out of steves car, you, steve, robin and dustin, making your way to the school with the donations. you all look around with bittersweet expressions, vecna was gone but look at all these people who suffered.

you all hand over the donations, “can we help?” robin asks melissa at the donation table.

you and steve move to take over the clothes station. as steve and you are folding, you look up to see vicky and robin smiling with each other, you bump steve’s hips with yours, you both smile seeing your friend happy.

“i told her about fast times,” steve smirks, you laugh when he presses happy kisses to your cheek. you both laugh, you kiss the tip of his nose affectionately. 

“i’m so happy i have you with me again,” you whisper to him, he smiles widely, “i’m more than happy i’ve got my sweetheart back” he dips his head to pull you into a kiss. your lips move against each other with that familiar feeling of love, love that you never lost, just merely put on hold.