sweet like a vanilla kiss

Except, it wasn’t really. This Steve was older, filled out in the shoulders, moving with confidence that seemed so easy and didn’t require an audience. Coaching middle schoolers apparently, teaching them something. You watched him crouch down to the kids’ level, saying something that made half of them laugh and the other half groan. 

Oh, you were so going to kill Devon for so blatantly setting you up with zero warning. 

"Good practice today,"  he was saying as you got close enough to hear. "Really solid work. Daniels, that catch in the outfield?" He made a chef’s kiss gesture. "Carter, your swing's getting better, but you're still dropping your back elbow—we'll work on it Thursday, yeah?"

Carter beamed like Steve had awarded him a trophy. 

The kids stared at the scatter, grabbing backpacks and water bottles, and that’s when Steve looked up. His gaze swept across the parking lot the way you assumed it probably did—making sure parents were here and kids weren’t abandoned—and then it landed on you. 

He went still for a fractional second, then his face shifted from coach mode to something unguarded and surprised. Then he blinked, and his face did a recalculation and rearrangement into something easy, friendly, and casual, and he was walking over. His hands moved to his pockets. They always did that when he didn’t know what to do with them. 

You focused on Carter instead, his backpack dragging and one shoe untied. 

"Hey," Steve said, stopping a few feet away. He was close enough that you could see he’d nicked himself shaving, far enough that it was very clear that it wasn’t established whether the two of you could hug. His hands slipped into his pockets again. His voice was lower. Did that happen in high school, and you just didn’t notice? When did any of this happen? 

"Holy shit—it is you," he said, and it sounded like he was on the same boat as you, wondering if he’d been imagining things. "You’re back."

"Yeah," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity. "Been a couple weeks."

"Couple weeks," he echoed, like he was turning the information over and calculating whether you’d known he’d be here. You hadn’t, but you couldn’t tell if that made it better or worse.

Then his eyes flicked to the kids, then landed on Carter who was zooming toward you with his backpack half-open and dragging on the ground. "I’m assuming this one’s yours."

You chuckled slightly as Carter crashed into your side, sweaty and dirt-streaked and happy. 

"Did you see? Coach Steve said my swing’s getting better!"

"I saw," you said, ruffling his hair slightly. "You looked great out there."

Steve was looking at you and you were looking at him, and there was this weird moment where there were about seventeen things you could’ve said and exactly zero ways to say any of them. The last time you’d seen him was at graduation—almost a year after trying to avoid him and Nancy Wheeler in the hallways because you were just that girl who could not move on from a high school boyfriend. 

Carter’s beady eyes ping-ponged between you both, his brain clearly working overtime, then his brows furrowed just the slightest.

"Wait," he said, suspicion creeping into his voice. "Do you two know each other?"

"We went to school together," you said. 

"We were friends," Steve said at the exact same time. 

The word hung there like it was something tangible, something you could touch and would cut if you did. 

"Woah." Carter narrowed. "You were friends?"

"Yeah," Steve said, looking at you with eyebrows raised, like he wasn’t sure what the script was here. "Long time ago."

"How come you never told me your friend was my coach?" Carter asked you, accusatory like you’d been withholding critical information. 

"I didn’t know he was your coach," you said, letting out a small chuckle as you bopped his nose, which made him scrunch his face up. "I didn’t know he was doing—" You gestured vaguely at Steve and the whistle and the whole situation. "This."

"This?" Steve repeated, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice now.

"You know what I mean."

Carter was still looking at you, and you could practically see the gears turning. "Were you like, actually friends? Or like, friend-friends?"

You subtly shook your head at Steve, but he was indulging Carter now. His fingers were on his chin as he hummed. You knew what he was doing. He always did this, making things lighter when they got too heavy and turned serious into a game. It used to drive you crazy, and it still did. 

"What’s the difference?"

"Like, did you hang out and stuff?" he pressed. "Has he been to grandma’s house?"

You’d been fifteen when Steve first said he loved you. At the quarry with the radio playing something you couldn’t remember now, so many it was not all that important as you thought. You’d been seventeen when he stopped. 

"Sometimes," you said carefully, shooting Steve a look that he either didn’t catch or deliberately ignored.

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. Your mom would keep his favourite cereal in your pantry; he knew where you kept the spare key. Was he thinking about that, too? How he’d been to your house more times than you could count? 

"Did you have classes together?"

"A few," Steve said. "She was waaaay smarter than me, though. She actually did the homework."

Carter was still processing the information, his face scrunched up. Then, apparently, satisfied with whatever conclusion he reached, he shrugged. "Cool. Coach Steve, can I have a snack? I already ate my string cheese."

"You’re supposed to have that after practice, bud." 

"I know, but I’m hungry." Carter dragged the word out like it was a medical emergency.

Steve laughed and pulled a slightly crushed granola bar from his pocket. "Here. But don’t tell your mom."

"Yes!" Carter snatched it immediately and tore into the wrapper.

"Seriously, don’t tell her," Steve said, glancing at you with genuine worry. "I don’t wanna be the coach that ruins dinner."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, pushing down a smile. 

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked, and for a second it was like being sixteen again, that stupid flutter in your stomach, the way he'd look at you across the cafeteria or in the hallway between classes. Except you weren't sixteen anymore, and this wasn't high school, and Steve Harrington was apparently mature enough now to actually look after kids. 

"So," Steve said, watching Carter devour the granola bar three feet away. "What brings you back?"

You shrugged, feeling slightly smaller now. "Didn’t work out the way it would, I suppose."

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, like he understood what you said. "I get that." 

"Do you?"

He tilted his head like he was thinking about it. "Took a while to come to terms with it. I mean—I’m still here."

There was something in his voice that sounded something in-between regret and acceptance. "It seems like fun, though. Up your alley, too, now that I think about it."

He laughed slightly at that and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but it’s—good. The kids are great. They’re weird and gross and they ask the most insane questions during sex-ed, but they’re great." Your eyebrows twitched up and mouth parted as soon as he said that. He beat you to the cut, saying, "Don’t laugh. I’m still getting the hang of it."

"I wasn’t going to," you said, but your voice wavered in a way that said you definitely were going to laugh. "I just can’t imagine you talking to kids about that."

He pointed a loose finger at you as he said, "Well, sit in on one of my classes. Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two."

Your rolled your eyes at that. Carter had finished his granola bar and was now attempting to balance on one of the parking lot curbs like it was a tightrope. You should probably get him home before he broke an ankle. "Carter!" you called, because you needed to break whatever this moment was. "We need to get going. Your mom’s gonna wonder where you are."

"Five more minutes!"

"Now, please."

He groaned but jumped down from the curb, trudging toward you with all the enthusiasm of someone headed to their execution.

Steve shifted his weight, hands sliding back into his pockets. "Hey, I'm usually here Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. You know. If you're picking him up again."

You felt something twist in your stomach. "Yeah. I might be."

He nodded. "Cool. That’s—cool."

The silence stretched between you, not quite awkward but close to it. Carter reached you and immediately latched onto your hand, already pulling you toward the parking lot.

"It was good seeing you," Steve said, and his voice had that genuine quality again, the one that made your chest feel tight.

"You too, Harrington." You smiled softly. 

"Steve," he corrected, raising a brow. 

You nodded, flashing him one last smile, not trusting yourself to say anything else, and let Carter drag you toward the car.

"Bye Coach Steve!" Carter yelled, waving frantically.

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back. Couldn't look back. Just got Carter buckled in, climbed into the driver's seat, and tried to remember how to breathe normally.

Everything sucked. The only jobs in Hawkins were either at this very coffee shop (which felt like admitting defeat in a very public, dimly lit way) or required experience you didn’t have in fields you’d never thought twice about. 

You’d taken over the corner table at the Daily Grind because it had an outlet and because Bonnie, who’d been working here since you were in middle school, didn’t care if you nursed the same coffee for three hours. The application in front of you asked you to describe your "passion for customer service excellence" in 150 words or less. You weren’t sure if that was too much or too little. It almost seemed like a dare.

Four years ago, you could’ve written this down in your sleep. You would have talked about forming a "genuine connection" and "creating memorable experiences." You also would’ve been smiling while writing it, already imagining yourself charming the hiring manager in the interview. 

You typed, I believe in treating customers with respect and

You deleted it. Your foot started tapping again. You shifted in your seat, crossed your ankles, kept them still. 

I believe in

Deleted it again. 

Your coffee had gone cold. The cafe smelled like burnt espresso and the cinnamon rolls Bonnie made every morning that were too sweet and somehow always slightly undercooked in the middle. There was a stain on the ceiling that looked like Texas, which felt appropriate given that you’d briefly considered moving there last year with your ex-boyfriend before that had imploded with everything else. 

The door chimed. You didn’t look up because looking up meant acknowledging that you were a 21-year-old woman sitting in a coffee shop at 2 PM on a Wednesday, filling out an application for a job you didn't want, in a town you'd sworn you'd never come back to.

"Hey, Bonnie."

You looked up. 

Steve Harrington was at the counter in jeans and a Hawkins High sweatshirt—not a recent one, something older and more worn—and his hair was doing that thing where it looked like he’d run his hand through it too many times, but it still somehow looked better than more than half the Hawkins population’s hair. He had a canvas bag over his shoulder, and you could see some papers peeking out of it and the print of a water bottle inside. He was smiling at Bonnie, warm and genuine, completely unaware of how disarming it was. 

Or maybe he was aware. He had used that smile to get out of a lot of things before. 

"The usual?"

"You know it."

You should look back down at your laptop. You should absolutely look back down and pretend you hadn't seen him, pretend this wasn't the third time in a week that the universe had decided to throw Steve Harrington directly into your path like some kind of cosmic joke.

He turned around, already pulling out his wallet, paying, and saw you.

The smile faltered like he was recalibrating. Like he was running through about six different responses in his head and trying to figure out which one was appropriate for seeing your ex-girlfriend you broke up with four years ago in a car on a Wednesday afternoon.

"Hey," he said, slowly striding towards you. 

Bonnie was making his drink—you could hear the espresso machine hissing, the clink of the syrup bottle—and Steve was still standing there, you were still sitting at your corner table with a cold coffee and a half-filled job application, and this was so much worse than the baseball field because at least there you’d had Carter as a four feet and eleven inch tall buffer.

Steve glanced at the empty chair across from you, then back at you, then at Bonnie like she might save him. She didn't. She just kept making his drink with the focus of someone who'd worked in customer service long enough to know when to mind her own business.

"Are you—" Steve gestured vaguely at your table. "Can I—or are you working? I don’t wanna interrupt if you’re—"

You forced a small smile as you closed your laptop. "I’m not working." God, was that an understatement. "Just—job applications. The exciting life of the recently returned."

He smiled at that, small and a little crooked. "Yeah, I remember that. The job hunt thing is always the worst."

"Did you do a lot of it?"

"Enough." Bonnie called his name and he grabbed his drink. Caramel latte, you'd bet money on it, extra caramel because Steve Harrington had never met a coffee drink he couldn't turn into dessert. When he came back, he was holding his cup with both hands and doing that thing with his weight where he shifted from foot to foot. "So. Can I sit, or—?"

"Yeah, course." You gestured at the seat with a wave of the hand, and applauded yourself for how normal you were being in the same orbit as him.

He sat. The table was small enough that when he placed his drink down, his fingers were about six inches away from yours. You moved your hands to your lap. 

He nodded towards your closed laptop. "How’s it going?"

"It’s going." You shrugged. "Turns out Hawkins doesn’t have a lot of opportunities for people whose only qualifications are ‘gave up on college and came home.’"

"You gave up on college?" he asked, not able to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Your teeth tugged at your lip as you looked down at your hands, the floor, the table, and literally anywhere else that didn’t include him. 

He cleared his throat when you didn’t respond, trying to break the ice. You momentarily felt bad for stalling the conversation and turning sour at the slightest—most normal, in fact—question someone could ask you about yourself right now. "Well, I served ice cream for a while. Then, I worked at Family Video for a while. Then the radio station. You remember Keith? He gave Robin and I the job when someone quit."

You nodded as he spoke, absorbing the new information about him, filling in the gaps in your mind about his life since he’d walked out of yours. "And now you’re a teacher."

"And a coach. Don’t forget coaching." He smiled sardonically. "Which is really me trying to convince middle schoolers that stealing bases is a real thing and not something I just made up." 

You laughed despite yourself, feeling the gloominess that had taken over you just moments ago wash away. "Carter’s been talking about you nonstop since that day, you know? It’s ‘Coach Steve said this’ or ‘Coach Steve said that.’ I think Devon’s ready to kill you." 

"Why?" He asked, letting out a chuckle. "What did I do?"

"You told him he could be a professional baseball player if he practiced hard enough."

"I mean—" He pulled the corners of his lips down as he shrugged. "He could."

"He can’t tie his shoes properly yet."

"Hey, don’t ruin his dreams," he said, pointing his index at you. "He’s got potential."

"You told a room full of middle schoolers they can be Mike Schmidt, didn’t you?"

"They’re kids! They’re supposed to have potential! That’s like, the whole point of being one." He was animated now, gesturing with his hands, and you’d forgotten how he got excited about things, how he cared in such a unique, unguarded way that made you want to believe anything he was saying was true. "You can’t tell an eleven-year-old he’s bad at baseball. That’s how you give complexes."

"I think Carter already has a complex about trying to be cool enough for you."

Steve's expression softened at that, became something more careful. "He doesn't need to be cool. He's already—he's a great kid. They all are."

His voice went softer when he said it in a way you’d never heard from him before. 

"You really like it," you said. "The teaching thing."

"Yeah, I do." He met your eyes, and there was something too honest for you to look at there. "I know it’s not like I’m changing the world or anything. But it’s good. Feels like I’m doing something that matters, you know?"

You didn’t. Not really. But you weren’t surprised he did. 

"That’s good," you said finally. "I’m really glad you found it, Steve."

"Yeah." He paused, and you could see him working up to something, the way his jaw tightened just slightly. "What about you? "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why’d you come back? To Hawkins, I mean—" He stopped, and seemed to reconsider his words. "You had plans. You were gonna study psychology and everything. Help people."

You should have expected this question, especially from Steve after you’d seen him. He’d known all your plans, he had been part of all your plans. You both would pick schools that weren’t too far from the other’s, meet each other on the weekends and… Well, just be. You should’ve had an answer prepared, but you didn’t, so you just said the truth.

"I don’t know." You looked down at your laptop. "I got to college and realized I had no idea what I wanted, just knew what I was supposed to. And that’s not—not enough, you know?"

Steve was quiet, and when you looked up, he was watching you with this expression you couldn't quite read.

"Sorry," you said quickly. "That's—that's a lot. You asked a simple question and I just—"

"No." He shook his head. "Don't apologize. I asked."

"Still."

"I get it," he said. "I did it, too. You remember? What I thought I was always supposed to." His voice had gone quieter.

You thought about Steve in high school. King Steve with his perfect hair and his basketball jersey and his spot at the top of the social hierarchy that he'd inherited and maintained without ever really seeming to try. You thought about the way he'd smile at everyone, the way he'd been friendly and charming and exactly what he was supposed to be. And then you thought about the Steve sitting across from you now, wearing an old sweatshirt and talking about teaching sex-ed and coaching baseball with this earnestness that you weren’t used to.

And you were happy for him. You didn’t resent his happiness the way you thought you always would at seventeen. But a small part of you reminded he had to physically remove himself from your life to be the person he was proud to be. Why hadn’t you become your own, then? It was a bitter pill to swallow that Steve had done the right thing for himself leaving you. 

"You’re different," you said, because you couldn’t not say it. "From high school."

"Yeah?" He smiled slightly, like he was happy you’d noticed. "So are you."

You blew out a breath. "Yeah."

"I don't know. Less—" He made a vague gesture with his hand, like he was trying to shape the words in the air. "You used to smile at everyone like you were running for mayor. You don't do that anymore."

You shrugged. That much was true. "Maybe I’m not happy to see people"

His smile turned crooked, self-aware. "Well, you were also running for class president back then." Then, he added, "I think it’s a good different, by the way."

You had to focus on the coffee cup sweating condensation onto the table or on anything that wasn't Steve Harrington looking at you like he understood exactly what you were too afraid to ask out loud.

The thing was, he probably did understand. That was worse, somehow. That he'd figured himself out and you were still here, filling out applications for jobs you didn't want, living in your sister's house, trying to remember who you'd been before you'd spent four years performing for an audience that had already left the theater.

"I should—" You gestured vaguely at your laptop. "I've got like six more of these to fill out before dinner."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stood up, grabbed his bag, and you watched him hesitate. Watched him do that thing where his hand went to the back of his neck and his weight shifted and you knew—you knew—he wanted to say something else but couldn't figure out how to say it.

Then he did anyway, because this version of Steve said the thing he was thinking instead of swallowing them down. "Hey, if you ever need a reference or something. For the applications. I know that sounds weird, but I’m technically a professional now. May look good if they don’t know me that well."

You stared at him for a moment. "You’d do that?"

"Yeah. I mean—why not?" He shrugged, and it was so casual, so genuinely generous that it made your chest hurt in a way you didn’t want to look at. "You're smart. You're good with people. You even put up with me for three whole years. That’s gotta count for something, right?"

The joke landed wrong. More because it was funny than not. It was exactly the kind of thing Steve would say to lighten a moment that had gotten too heavy, except this moment was already heavy and the joke just made it heavier. Four years. He'd said it like it was nothing, like it was just a fun fact about your shared history and not the entire shape of your adolescence, not the thing you'd built your life around until he'd decided he didn't want to be part of that life anymore.

"Steve—"

"Just think about it," he said quickly, already backing away from whatever he saw on your face. "I'll see you Thursday, right? At practice?"

You weren’t planning on going, not wanting to run into him again. "Yeah. Probably." 

"Cool." He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder, gave you that crooked smile one more time. "See you then."

The next few times you saw Steve, it was mainly expected. Aside from when you ran into him at Melvad’s or during your run a few mornings, catching him behind the gates of Hawkins High smoking a cigarette and being horrible at keeping it a secret. The two of you had unconsciously—almost involuntarily—formed a routine where you picked Carter up every Tuesday and Thursday, with you staying behind around ten minutes making conversation with Steve that didn’t feel as awkward anymore.

Ten minutes became fifteen. Fifteen became twenty. By the third week, you were helping him pack up equipment—baseball bats into the mesh bag, bases stacked and carried to the storage shed behind the dugout—while Carter ran laps around the parking lot with whatever kid was still waiting for their ride. 

"You don’t have to help," Steve said one Thursday, watching you coil up the extension cord he used for the speaker system. "I mean, this is probably half of my job."

"I know."

"So why are you?" 

You shrugged, looping the extension cord around your elbow and hand the way your dad had taught you when you were ten. "Carter’s still running around. Might as well be useful."

He smiled at that and—thank god—didn’t question further. 

It was easier than you thought it would be, falling into this. The talking, the helping, the standing around in a dusty parking lot while the sun started its slow descent and Carter attempted to teach another kid how to do a cartwheel the same way you’d taught him how to do one. 

You watched him demonstrate with arms too loose and legs not quite straight. He’d gotten better since the first day you came back and spent a whole morning in Devon’s backyard breaking down the mechanics. Hands there, then here, push through your shoulders, spot the ground. The same way your ballet teacher had taught you when you were seven. 

The other kid tried and collapsed halfway through. Carter laughed and tried to explain differently. You almost walked over to help before you caught yourself. They’d figure it out. 

Steve told you about his classes, about a kid who asked whether or not someone could get an STD from public toilet seats and how he’d had to explain, very carefully, that no, that wasn’t how it worked. You told him about the receptionist job you’d snagged at Dr. Feldman’s dental office where you spent eight hours a day answering phones and scheduling cleanings and telling people about proper flossing techniques. 

You’d written a thank-you note for Dr. Feldman after your interview using actual stationary, a blue pen, with your mother’s voice in your head about the importance of gratitude. Devon had found it on the kitchen counter. She’d told you that nobody did that anymore. You said you knew. Then she said, "Like, they’re going to think you’re weird," as though you were missing the point she was getting at. You knew that, but you’d mailed it anyway. The alternative was letting go of a habit that actually made you feel like you had control over something. You didn’t want to do that, even if it made you look like you were stuck in an old system of expectations of human interaction.

"That’s the place you got your braces, right?" Steve asked, leaning against the chain-link fence.

"Yeah, and it’s so embarrassing. Mrs. Patterson still works there and she keeps asking if I remember when I was snot-nose crying during my consultation."

He laughed at that. "Well, you got them off right before sophomore year. I’d know."

You rolled your eyes at that. You still weren’t completely comfortable with him bringing up the past so easily, but it made sense for him to do so. He’d made his peace with it. You weren’t sure you ever would. You may have not completed college, but two years had taught you that shit like being left for another girl sticks with a person. 

One afternoon, he mentioned Robin and Eddie were coming by after practice to help him move some equipment to the gym for an assembly. You'd heard the names—Robin Buckley and Eddie Munson—but the pairing still felt strange. Robin had been in band, quiet and a little intense. Eddie had been the guy who sold weed behind the school and wore a denim vest covered in patches. And Steve had been—well. Steve.

"Wait," you said, watching Carter attempt to steal second base from a kid who wasn't even holding the ball. "Robin Buckley? From band?"

"Yeah."

"And Eddie Munson? Like, Eddie Munson?" Your voice had a particular lilt to it that said you weren’t sure how you could describe him.

Steve’s expression shifted and turned into something more careful. "Hey, they’re good people."

"I'm not—I didn't mean—" You stopped, recalibrated. "I just meant I'm surprised. You guys didn't really run in the same circles."

"We do now." His tone had a protective  edge to it. "They're my best friends."

You thought about Steve in high school, about Tommy H and Carol, about the basketball team and the parties at his house when his parents were gone, about the carefully maintained social hierarchy that had felt so important at the time and so stupid in retrospect. You thought about yourself, too, about the cheer squad and student council and the way you'd smiled at everyone but really only talked to a select few.

"That's good," you said finally. "That you found people like that."

Steve relaxed slightly, and you noticed how his shoulders dropped. "Yeah. They’re—they’re really good. Robin’s in Massachusetts right now. Studying feminist theory or something. She’s way smarter than anyone."

"She was always smart," you mused, nodding as hazy memories of high school conversations started rolling around your mind.

"Yeah. Well, now she’s smart and gone, which sucks. But she visits when she can." 

His voice picked up with affection and missing that felt bone-deep. You wondered how that felt, having someone care about you from hundreds of miles away. Having them check in, call on Sundays, come back because they wanted to and not because they’d run out of all other options. 

"And Eddie?" you asked, genuinely curious.

"Eddie’s—" Steve laughed running a hand through his hair. "Eddie’s Eddie. He works at the garage on Main and his band’s kicking off and is actually pretty good. He’s kind of insane and loud but he’s—he’s solid, you know? He’s a great person."

Your teeth tugged at your lip. You didn’t really know, but you were glad Steve did. You liked that he’d found people who weren’t constantly trying to be something other than who they were. 

The following Tuesday, you showed up to practice and Steve was talking to a guy with long curly and denim vest, both of them laughing about something while they loaded baseball equipment into the back of a van that had seen better days. Eddie Munson, you recognized. Up close, he looked older. He had sharper cheekbones, more tattoos than you remembered from the brief glimpses you’d caught in the high school hallways. He smiled at you; you’d been trained in that smile, the one that looked friendly without completely meaning it.

"You must be the famous high school sweetheart," Eddie said, so matter-of-factly you were mildly taken back at addressing the elephant in the room you had been avoiding pretty seamlessly so far. 

Steve made a sound in his throat that may have been a protest, but Eddie was already sticking his hand out to you. 

"Eddie Munson. We didn’t really run in the same circles back in the day." His grip was firm, rings cold against your palm. "You probably don’t remember." 

"I remember you," you said, because you did. It was pretty difficult to forget the guy who’d walk on tables in the cafeteria and give monologues about—well, about how horrible the entire crowd you ran with had been. 

"Yeah?" He looked genuinely surprised, then pleased. "Huh. Usually cheerleaders pretended I didn’t exist. No offense."

"None taken."

He turned back to the van, tossing in another equipment bag. "So, you’re back in town. That’s—how’s that going? The whole homecoming thing?"

You shrugged. "It’s definitely going by."

"Yeah, I bet." He said it while nodding. "Small towns, man. They’re like quicksand. Really, really slow quicksand."

Steve snorted. "Yeah. That’s how it works."

"You know what I mean." Eddie grabbed another bag. "Anyway, Robin's coming back this weekend. Visiting from Massachusetts. We're doing drinks at the Hideout Friday night if you want to come. Low-key, nothing fancy. Just—you know. Hanging out."

"Oh, I don’t know—" 

"You should come," Steve said quickly, and when you looked at him, his expression was hopeful and open and slightly terrified. "I mean, if you want, obviously. No pressure. It’s just—it’d be nice. To hang out. Outside of, you know." He gestured vaguely at the baseball field. 

You should say no. You should absolutely say no, because going to a bar with Steve and his friends—friends who'd known him after you, who were part of the life he'd built without you—felt like asking for trouble. Felt like stepping into a space where you didn't belong and waiting to be reminded of that fact.

But Steve was looking at you like he genuinely thought it was a good idea, and Eddie was watching you with curiosity, and Carter was running toward you covered in dirt and grinning, and somehow, you heard yourself say, "Yeah. Okay. That sounds good."

"Yeah?" Steve's whole face lit up, and you remembered—God, you'd forgotten this—how his smile could make you feel like you'd done something right just by existing.

"Yeah. Why not?"

"Cool. Friday night, around eight. I can pick you up if—"

"I'll meet you there," you said quickly, because getting in a car with Steve Harrington felt like too much too fast, felt like something that required more thought than you were prepared to give it. "I know where it is."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He rubbed the back of his neck, and Eddie was smirking now, clearly enjoying Steve's discomfort. "Cool. See you then."

Carter crashed into your side, breathless and happy. "Can we get ice cream?"

"Maybe." You ruffled his hair, already sticky with sweat. "If you don’t get my car smelling like a sock."

"I don't smell!"

"You definitely smell, bud," Steve said, and Carter shrieked with laughter and tried to tackle him, which turned into Steve picking him up and spinning him around while Carter screamed happily and you stood there watching, something warm fluttering in your chest that instantly made you feel nauseous.

Eddie caught your eye and raised an eyebrow, and you looked away quickly, busied yourself with grabbing Carter's backpack from where he'd abandoned it near the dugout.

By the time you got Carter buckled into the car, Steve and Eddie were still working on the equipment, their voices carrying across the parking lot in easy conversation. You sat in the driver's seat for a moment, hands on the wheel, trying to figure out what you'd just agreed to.

Before you went to pick up Carter on Thursday, you ran into Mrs. Perry at the grocery store. She was your old dance teacher, Madame Petrova’s sister, and she lit up when she saw you. "Sweetie! I heard you were back in town. How are you?"

"Good, thanks. How are you?" you asked, pausing to meet her.

"Oh, busy as ever. You know, Linda closed the studio last year? Her hip finally gave out. Such a shame, no?"

Your chest tightened. You’d trained at Linda Petrova’s from age seven to seventeen. Every Wednesday and Friday, sometimes Saturdays. Your mom would drive you twenty minutes because Hawkins didn’t have a real dance studio, just the community center with scratched floors and the mirror that was cracked down the middle. 

"No," you said, voice softening. "I had no idea."

"Mm. All students had to find new places. Some just quit completely." She shook her head. "The high school’s still figuring out how to do their musical, though." She looked around the store, then her eyes landed on you.

You weren’t sure if you knew what she was implying, but you smiled. 

"Well," she continued. "You’re probably busy with settling in. So, I’ll leave you be."

You smiled, nodded, and said goodbye. You had to pick up Carter.

When you got there, Carter was finishing up drills, you helped pack up, and Steve was talking about the kid who'd asked if masturbation counted as exercise.

"What’d you tell him?" you asked, coiling up the extension cord.

"That technically yes, but it wasn't going to replace actual cardio for him." Steve was trying not to laugh. "His face, though. God. I thought he was going to die of embarrassment."

You laughed at that, eyebrows going up. "If he lives on Loch Nora, his parents are probably gonna give you a talking to."

"I don’t think he’s going to tell his parents what he asked," he said. "So, tomorrow," he said as he noticed you were getting to ready to leave, Carter already halfway to the car. "You’re still coming, right?"

"Yeah. I said I would."

"I know, I just—" He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Robin can be kind of intense at first. And, well, you already met Eddie. I just want you to know if it’s weird or if you want to leave or whatever, that’s totally fine. No pressure."

You looked at him—at Steve Harrington in his coaching jacket with grass stains on his jeans, warning you that his best friends might be too much, giving you an out before you'd even walked in the door. And you thought about how you'd spent four years trying not to think about him, trying not to wonder if he was happy or if Nancy Wheeler had been worth it or if he ever missed you. And here he was, nervous about you meeting his friends, even though the two of you had been nothing but friends—at best—that spent around thirty minutes with each other weekly.

"I'll be fine," you said. "I can handle intense."

"Yeah. You can." He smiled softly. "See you tomorrow, then?" 

"See you tomorrow."

When you were in the car, Carter wasn’t hesitant about prodding anymore. "Coach’s really cool," he said, buckling his seatbelt.

"Yeah, he seems like a good coach."

"He let me practice pitching today even though I'm not supposed to until next year. He said I have good form." Carter kicked his legs against the seat.  "Are you coming to the game next week? We have a scrimmage against the other middle school."

"Maybe if your mom can make it."

"She always does."

"Then I’ll come, too."

There were maybe only fifteen people scattered around the bar, a Bon Jovi song playing from the jukebox in the corner, and you stood in the doorway for a second too long, trying to remember why you thought this was a good idea. The Hideout itself looked the same as the night of graduation—and the other handful of times when the bouncer was a sleepier man who didn’t check ID—with dim lighting, sticky floors, and it looked like it had no intention of ever changing. 

Steve was at the table in the back corner, and you recognized him immediately. He had one arm draped over the back of the chair, laughing at something, you recognized, Robin Buckley was saying. She had short hair and was talking with her hands, fast and animated. Next to her was a girl with strawberry blonde hair watching Robin with all her attention. Vickie. And Eddie was there, gesturing wildly with a bottle of beer, saying something that made Steve shake his head and grin. 

Why were you invited? You were sure every single person on that table had one perfectly valid reason or another to not like you. You could give Steve some excuse about not feeling well; he probably wouldn’t even be that surprised. 

But then Steve looked up and saw you, and his whole face showed something like relief. Then he was standing up, waving you over, and it was too late to turn back. 

"Hey!" Steve said as you approached, and his voice was too loud, too eager. He cleared his throat, as though he was suppressing it. "You made it. I wasn't sure—I mean, I thought you would, but—" He gestured vaguely at the table. "Everyone, this is—well. You guys know her."

Robin looked at you with eyes you could only categorize as indifferent but also assessing. "Hi. I’m Robin." Before you could say that you knew, she stuck out her hand and you shook it. "Steve’s told me about you. Some things. Not like, a lot of things, but—you know. Things."

"Good things, I hope."

"Jury’s still out," she said, but she was smiling when she said it, and you couldn’t quite tell if she was joking or not.

"That's Vickie," Steve said, pointing to the strawberry blonde, who gave you a warm smile and a little wave. "She works at the hospital. And you met Eddie."

"The infamous ex-girlfriend returns," Eddie said, raising his beer in salute. "Want a drink? First round's on Harrington." 

"It is?" Steve asked, furrowing his brows together.

"Yup." Eddie was grinning, looking between you and Steve like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week. "So what'll it be? Beer? Something stronger? We're celebrating Robin's weeklong presence in Hawkins before she abandons us again."

"I'm not abandoning you," Robin said. "I'm going back to school. There's a difference."

"Feels the same from here."

Vickie reached over and squeezed Robin's hand, and Robin's expression softened immediately.

"Beer's fine," you said.

"One beer, coming up." Eddie stood, stretched. "Harrington? You want another?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Cool. Don't be weird while I'm gone." He pointed at Steve, then at you, then walked off toward the bar.

You sat down in the chair Steve pulled out for you, hyper-aware of how close Robin was sitting, how her eyes kept flicking to you and then away, like she was trying to figure something out.

"So," Robin said, leaning forward slightly. "You're back in Hawkins."

"For now."

"That's what Steve said. 'For now.' Very noncommittal." She took a sip of her drink, something clear with lime, probably vodka. "What brought you back? If you don't mind me asking. Which you might. In which case, ignore me. I ask a lot of questions. It's a thing."

"Robin—" Steve started, but you cut him off.

"It’s fine. I dropped out of college, and didn’t really have anywhere else to go, I guess."

Robin's eyebrows went up slightly, but she didn't look judgmental. Just... interested. "What were you studying?"

"Psychology."

"And you dropped out because...?"

Your eyes landed on the wall beside the table. "I mean—mainly because it wasn’t what I imagined. And it didn’t get better." You blew out a breath. "What about you? Steve said you’re in Mass." 

"It’s good. Really good, actually." She glanced at Vickie and smiled softly. "It’s hard being away from people, but yeah. It’s good."

Vickie squeezed Robin's hand again, and Robin leaned into her slightly, unconscious and natural. You tried not to feel something hollow in your chest at the way they fit together, the ease of it.

And soon enough, the conversation started to move on. Robin was talking about her classes, Eddie was complaining about losing a pick, Vickie was telling a story about a patient who’d come to the ER because he’d superglued his hands together on a dare. By your third beer, the edges had softened. You laughed when Eddie made a joke about Steve's hair.

Steve kept glancing at you, checking if you were okay, if you needed anything, and you wanted to tell him to stop, that you were fine, that you didn't need him to take care of you. But you also kind of liked that he was trying. That he cared enough to worry.

"—I can’t believe you actually wore that to school," Eddie was saying now, grinning at Steve. "That sweater was such a bad joke. The whole school was laughing at you for once."

Steve groaned, dramatically dropping his head in his hands. "Please stop."

"It had a reindeer on it," Eddie continued, clearly delighted at the memory. "King Steve was wearing the ugliest Christmas sweater with a light-up nose on it. People could see you coming from three hallways away."

Robin was laughing. "Please, please say there are pictures."

"There are definitely pictures," Eddie said. "It was in the yearbook and everything."

"It was for spirit week," Steve protested. "Ugly sweater day. That was the whole point."

"Except it wasn't ugly sweater day," you said, and immediately regretted it when everyone turned to look at you.

"What?" Eddie leaned forward, eyebrows raising.

You bit your lip, trying not to smile. "It wasn't ugly sweater day. That was the Friday. Steve wore it on Tuesday."

Steve dropped his head into his hands. "Oh my god."

"Wait wait wait," Robin said, waving her hands. "He wore it on the wrong day?"

"I told him it was Thursday," you said, unable to stop the smile now. "As a joke. Because he'd been insufferable all week about—I don't even remember what. And I figured he'd check the schedule himself, but he just—"

"Showed up in a light-up reindeer sweater on a random Tuesday," Eddie finished, absolutely delighted. "Oh, this is so much better than I thought."

"You told me it was Tuesday!" Steve said, looking at you with mock betrayal.

"I told you it was Tuesday as a joke, Steve. You were supposed to double-check!"

"I trusted you!"

"That was your first mistake," you said, and Eddie nearly choked on his beer laughing.

"So wait," Vickie said, smiling. "Everyone at school thought he was just being weird on purpose?"

"Oh, everyone had theories," you said, warming to the story now. "Some people thought he'd lost a bet. Some people thought he was trying to start a new trend. Tommy H told everyone Steve just wanted to wear it in for actual Christmas day."

"I got so much shit for that," Steve said, but he was smiling now too, shaking his head.

"You wore it on Friday too, though," you pointed out. "For the actual ugly sweater day."

"Because at that point I'd already committed! Everyone had seen it! I couldn't just not wear it again!"

Robin was wiping her eyes. "This is the best story I've ever heard. Please tell me you have more."

You glanced at Steve, who was giving you a look that was half-warning, half-amused.

"I might," you said carefully.

"Oh, you definitely do," Eddie said. "You dated him for what, three years? You've got to have dirt."

"So much dirt," you admitted, and Steve groaned.

"Please," Robin said. "I'm begging you. He never tells us anything funny from that time. And that was when he was doing the most stupid things"

You told them about the janitor’s closet (he'd been hiding from Coach after skipping practice and got stuck for forty-five minutes), and then about the time he'd tried to cook you dinner and set off the smoke alarm at his parents' house, and then somehow you were all trading stories. Eddie talked about Steve at the video store, Robin shared something about Steve crying at a documentary about penguins. And it was good. It was really good.

And when Steve's knee bumped yours under the table and stayed there, warm and solid and what you assumed was deliberate, you didn't move away.

It was when you were telling them the story about Steve’s attempt at serenading you to ‘I Want it That Way’ and how when he’d forgotten the words, he’d tried to rhyme ‘girl,’ ‘squirrel,’ and ‘beautiful basketball pearl, that someone called Steve’s name from across the bar. 

You all turned to see Melissa Andrews weaving through the tables, smiling wide, and it only took you a second to place her. Cheer squad, junior and senior year. Always had extra hair ties and let you borrow her good mascara before games.

"Steve! Oh my god, hi!" She reached the table, then her eyes landed on you and lit up. "Wait—oh my god, is that you? I heard you were back!"

You stood up and she pulled you into a hug immediately. "It’s so good to see you," she said, squeezing your arms when she pulled back. "How are you? How long have you been back?"

"A few weeks. I’m good. How are you?"

"Good. Really good. Working for my dad’s firm, same boring stuff." She laughed and then looked at the table, at Steve. "Oh, are you guys here together?"

"Just—with everyone." What else were you supposed to say?

"That's so sweet. God, I can't believe—it feels like yesterday we were all in high school, you know?" She smiled at Steve, warm and familiar. "How've you been? It's been what, like six months?"

Steve's expression shifted, went careful. "Something like that. Yeah."

Six months since what, your brain supplied helpfully, and then immediately answered its own question when Melissa continued.

"I'm glad we stayed friends after—you know." She said it easily, casually, like it was nothing. "You're too nice. And you—" She turned to you again. "We have to catch up." Then, she turned to wave at the table, then disappeared into the crowd.

No one said anything. You picked at the beer label. Robin was looking between you and Steve with barely concealed curiosity; Eddie was picking at his beer label; Vickie looked confused. 

"So," Eddie said finally. "Melissa seems nice."

"She is nice," Steve said quietly.

You picked up your beer, took a sip. It tasted like nothing.

Your brain was doing math you didn't want it to do: Melissa. Six months ago. Maybe less. How many dates was "a bit"? Two? Five? Ten? And before Melissa, who else? And after? Now?

How many people from your high school—people you'd known, people you'd been friends with—had Steve gone out with while you were gone? 

"So," you said, trying to keep your voice as light as you can. The smile slipped into place. "Melissa. Small world, huh?"

Steve was watching you carefully, tugging at his lower lip like he wasn’t sure what he could say. "Small town."

You nodded, because that much was true. "I mean, Melissa’s great. She was always really sweet in high school, from what I remember." She’d also heard you talk about Steve, hear the intimate details about your breakup, and comforted you throughout it. But that was all the past. Water under the bridge. 

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. "It wasn’t really—"

He didn’t finish the sentence, and after a moment of awkwardness, the conversation picked back up. Eddie was saying something about seeing Karen Wheeler at the grocery store, Vickie was asking if anyone wanted another round. You laughed and you nodded, but you felt separate from it now. 

Steve shifted in his seat, knee bumping just slightly into yours. This time, you shifted in your seat to listen to Eddie. You took another sip of beer and tried to focus on what Eddie was saying—something about his band, a gig next weekend—but your brain kept circling back. Steve dated Melissa. Steve dated Melissa six months ago, which meant—what? You weren’t sure. But how many people was it from your past—people you’d run into at the store, or on the street, or at work—that you’d spoken with, caught up with, had dated Steve and you just had no idea?

You finished your beer, set the bottle down carefully on the table. Your hands were steady. That was good. You weren’t sure if they could tell you were drowning in a form of humiliation you hadn’t anticipated, but you had to get out of here. 

"I think I'm gonna head out," you said, and it came out easy, casual. "Early shift tomorrow."

"On a Saturday?" Robin asked.

"Dr. Feldman's doing emergency appointments. Someone's got to answer the phones." It was a lie, but a believable one.

"That sucks," Eddie said.

"Yeah, well." You stood, grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair. "It was really nice meeting you guys. Thanks for letting me crash your night."

"You weren't crashing," Vickie said warmly. "It was so nice to meet you."

"Seriously, you should come out again," Eddie added. "Anytime Robin's in town. Or, you know, anytime. We're here a lot."

"I'll keep that in mind." You smiled at them because they'd been nice, because you'd actually had fun before Melissa showed up and reminded you of all the things you'd been trying not to think about.

Steve stood up. "I'll walk you out."

"You don't have to—"

"I want to."

Robin and Eddie exchanged a look that you pretended not to see.

The walk to the parking lot was quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet you'd been building toward earlier in the night, but the heavy kind where both people were thinking too much and didn't know what to say.

Your car was parked near the back, under the one working streetlight. When you reached it, you turned around and Steve was standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking at you like he was trying to solve an equation he didn't have all the variables for.

"Hey," Steve said. "You okay?"

"Mm-hm. Just tired." You smiled at him. "Early morning tomorrow."

He was watching you carefully. "Feldman has early appointments a lot?"

"Sometimes. You know how it is." Then, to make the mood lighter, you added, "Some people just get convinced their teeth will fall out over the weekend."

He was nodding along like he wasn’t completely listening. "Yeah, yeah. So—tonight was good, right? Robin, Vickie, Eddie. They thought you were cool. I could tell."

"They’re all really great, Steve," you said. "Thanks for letting me come. I mean it. It was really nice to hang out with more people."

"Yeah, I—" He paused. You’d reached your car and had opened the door without getting in yet. You turned to face him with your hand on the frame. "Was it Melissa?" he asked quickly. "Because she didn’t mean anything by it. The whole ‘staying friends’ thing. We just run into each other sometimes. It’s not—"

"Steve, it’s fine, really. You don’t need to explain anything." And you wish he really, really wouldn’t. "There’s nothing wrong that you did," you said, choosing your words as carefully as you could.

He was staring at you like he couldn’t figure out what to believe. Your words or the voice in his head.

"Okay," he said slowly. "But you’re being weird."

"Am not."

"Are too—"

"Okay," you said, forcing out a chuckle, trying to stop whatever was going on before the conversation turned immature. "I really do need to go. Devon’s probably waiting up. Rain check on the interrogation?" you said lightly.

"I’m not—" He stopped and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Okay. Rain check."

"Perfect." You got in the car, pulled the door shut before he could say anything else. You turned the window down because he was still standing there. "Thanks again for tonight. Really. Tell everyone I said bye." 

"I will." You started the engine. He stepped back from the car, hands going to his pockets. You could feel him watching as you checked your mirrors, put it in reverse.  

"Drive safe," he said.

"Always do." You smiled at him one last time and gave him one little wave. 

He lifted his hand but didn't wave back. Just stood there as you pulled out of the spot, and you kept your eyes on the rearview as you left, watching him get smaller in the frame. He hadn't moved. Still standing in the same spot under the streetlight, hands in his pockets, staring after your car. 

You turned onto the main road and he disappeared from view. Three blocks away, you had to pull into the parking lot of a closed gas station and turn off the engine. 

Your hands were shaking. Your palms pressed flat against your thighs. Breathed. In for four counts, out for four. The way Madame Petrova had taught you before recitals when you were thirteen and you thought you might throw up from your nerves.

You were trying your best to avoid Steve during pick up the next Tuesday. Devon had genuinely felt bad about not being able to take over this time after you told her bits and pieces of what you’d heard at The Hideout, but you couldn’t blame her. You’d been voluntarily coming after your shift to pick up Carter at 4:45, recently with a smile on your face at the chance for general social interaction with someone aside from the people at the clinic who knew you from this girl’s sister or that boy’s tutor. 

You parked at your usual spot but stayed in the car an extra minute. Practice was wrapping up, kids were scattering across the field, Steve was near the dugout gesturing at something, probably explaining proper sliding technique or why you couldn’t bat after a strikeout. 

Carter noticed you first and waved so hard his body shook with it. You got out, locked the door, and smiled at him. 

Steve looked up and raised his hand in greeting and nodded. You nodded back. 

Carter jogged over, face red and sweaty, backpack half-zipped and dragging. "I made the coolest catch today!"

"Hey, that’s great," you said, smiling down at him as you ruffled his mussed up hair.

Steve was walking over. You started asking Carter if he had his water bottle and his glove and if he needed help tying his shoelaces. He didn’t, which meant his shoelaces were going to stay untied. 

"Hey," Steve said as he reached you.

"Hi," you glanced at him, smiling briefly. "How was it today?"

"Good. Yeah. Same old, but they’re getting better." He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Carter’s been getting amazing at his accuracy, though," he said, moving his eyes to the smaller bystander to this situation.

Carter smiled at Steve then wandered a few feet away to watch two other kids mess around near second base before you could stop him. 

He’d left you and Steve to stand there with the silence stretching. There was no reason to stay.

"So, we’re gonna—"

"So, uh—" Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "How’ve you been?"

You planted your feet in the spot again. "Pretty good. Busy."

"Yeah. Cool." He nodded too many times. "That’s good."

After another beat of silence, Steve continued, "Hey, so I don’t know if you’d be interested, but—" He was talking faster now, like he’d been working up the courage to get this out before he lost his nerve. "You remember Mrs. Stone? The drama teacher? She’s kind of freaking out right now because they’re doing the spring recital and she doesn’t have anyone who knows choreography because the dance teacher isn’t dancing anymore, so she’s been trying to figure it out herself but it’s—it’s kind of a disaster, honestly." His voice went lower at the last part, which made you wonder if he’d sat in on one of the rehearsals and seen the disaster in real time. 

You looked at him, an eyebrow raised. He kept going. 

"And I know you did all those routines for the competitions and choreographed for cheer, and they were always—really good. Like really good. And I just thought maybe you’d want to help? It’s only for six weeks, and rehearsals are on Mondays and Wednesdays and Fridays around this time." He paused. "I don’t know if that’d be a problem with your schedule. But, I—"

"Steve—"

"—And I know you haven’t been doing that anymore, but I thought, maybe—" He stopped himself. "I don’t know. I thought you’d be great at it. That’s all."

There was something so desperate in the way he said it, like he was trying to fix something without knowing what was wrong. 

You tried to think over your words. "I don’t know if I’m the right person for it," you said carefully. 

"You are. Trust me." He was looking at you now. "Mrs. Stone’s got these kids trying to do a number with flips and it’s—it’s bad. Like, someone’s going to break an ankle bad. They need someone who actually knows what they’re doing."

"I’ve never taught—well, not like that, you know?"

"But you could. You were always—" He stopped, eyes wavering over your entire face like he was reliving the memories. "You were always really good at it all. I don’t think half the dance or cheer team had any idea what to do before you took over."

Your chest felt tight. You looked away from him. "When would she need an answer?"

"Soon, probably. The recital’s in six weeks."

"That’s not a lot of time," you said softly.

"I know. I know, no pressure. But just—" He was fidgeting with his hands now. "Just think about it? That's all I'm asking. Just think about it."

Carter was drifting back over now, curiosity getting the better of him. "Think about what?"

"Grown-up stuff," Steve said automatically.

"That's what everyone always says when they don't want to tell me things."

"That's because it's true, bud."

You watched Steve with Carter and the easy way they talked to each other, the way Carter looked at him like he hung the moon. You thought about those kids trying to choreograph themselves. About the high school cutting the arts and nobody stepping in to fill the gap. About Madame Petrova's voice in your head saying again until you got it right.

"Okay," you said quietly.

Steve's head snapped up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'll—I'll call her. Or you can give her my number. Whatever."

"Really?"

"Don't make me change my mind."

A smile broke across his face—genuine, relieved, the kind that made your stomach flip before you could stop it. "That's—that's great. Really great. She's going to be so happy. The kids are going to be so happy."

"I haven't said yes to her yet."

"But you will. I know you will." He was grinning now, and you hadn't seen him look this pleased with himself before. "You're going to be really good at this."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually."

Carter was looking up at you now, confused but intrigued. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Maybe helping with the school musical," you said. "Maybe."

"That's so cool! Can I come watch?"

"We'll see."

"That means yes," he told Steve confidently.

"It means we'll see," you corrected, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Steve was still watching you, something soft in his expression. "Thank you. Really. For doing this."

"I haven't done anything yet."

"But you will." He said it with certainty like he knew you better than you knew yourself. "Mrs. Stone's usually in her classroom after school. Room 204. Or I can just—I'll tell her to expect your call?"

"You can tell her." You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of how long you'd been standing here. How easy it had been to slip back into talking to him. "I should get Carter home."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He stepped back, hands going to his pockets. "See you Thursday?"

"Mhm."

Carter grabbed your hand, already pulling you toward the car. "Bye Coach Steve!"

"See you Thursday, kid!"

You didn't look back until you were in the car. Steve was still standing there, watching you leave. You lifted your hand off the steering wheel, waved back, and got yourself out of there as soon as possible.

You’d found your bag in a box filled with your things, shoved behind a box of yearbooks and old cheer uniforms. Navy blue with your initials embroidered on the side in gold thread, a sixteenth birthday present from your mom. The zipper was still stuck in the same place, and you found something ironic about that. Inside were a pair of beat-up jazz shoes you’d forgotten you owned, an old water bottle with about fifty stickers from so many different things, athletic tape gone slightly sticky with age, a scrunchie that smelled faintly of the vanilla you’d worn all of junior year.

You’d pulled it out, dusted it off, and before you could think better of it, you’d packed it with newer things. Fresh water bottle. Clean towel. The notebook where you’d started sketching ideas for the choreography when you couldn’t sleep at 2 AM. 

After you’d introduced yourself to the high school group, you’d surprisingly managed to dodge most of the questions related to your time in high school (and there were a lot of questions). Who did you assign captain after you graduated? Whose sister won ‘most likely to be famous’ in the yearbook superlatives? How long were you and Steve Harrington together? The latter topic, unsurprisingly, involved the most questions. How did you two start dating? And how did he ask you to be his homecoming date, and how could the boy asking the question ask his current girlfriend to be his homecoming date? 

You were heavily reconsidering whether you had it in you to do this after the first run-through. The kids knew the basic steps Mrs. Stone had taught them, but there was no uniformity or energy or sense of music. Two were doing an entirely different dance from everyone else. One girl in the back looked like she was going to cry out of sheer confusion. A boy in the front was clearly making up his own routine as the song went along. 

You hadn’t reconsidered, and two weeks later you were sweating through your t-shirt despite the gym’s aggressive air-conditioning. Your voice was hoarse from counting, but they'd run the opening eight-count twelve times in a row without a single person off-beat.

It wasn't perfect. Not even close. Sarah—the girl with the ponytail—still dropped her shoulder on the fifth count. Marcus—the boy who'd asked about Steve—kept forgetting to spot his turns. But they were together. They were listening. They were trying.

"Good," you said, and you meant it. "That's what I wanted to see. We'll pick up here on Wednesday, okay? And I want everyone to practice those counts at home. In the shower, while you're doing homework, waiting in line at the grocery store, I don't care. Just practice."

They scattered—grabbing bags, pulling out phones, collapsing dramatically onto the stage the way only teenagers could—and you bent down to grab your water bottle, your lower back protesting the movement.

You'd been on your feet demonstrating for two hours and your body was already reminding you that you hadn't done this in four years. Your calves were tight. Your shoulders ached. There was a knot between your shoulder blades that wouldn't release no matter how you rolled them.

But it was the good kind of sore. The kind that meant you'd actually done something.

"That was amazing."

You turned andMrs. Stone was standing there with her binder clutched to her chest, looking at you like you'd just performed a miracle.

"It wasn't—I mean, they still need a lot of work—"

"They were flailing around like drunk squirrels before you got here," she said, and you had to fight the urge to laugh at the image. "What you just did in two hours—I've been trying to get them to understand counts for three weeks. You're a natural at this."

The compliment settled somewhere in your chest, filling something. You weren’t quite sure what it was yet. 

"Thank you," you said quietly. "I'm just—I'm glad I can help."

On the third week, you were shoving the last of the rehearsal CDs into your bag when you heard the gym door crack open behind you. 

"Hey."

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was Steve. You’d developed a sixth sense for his presence over the past few weeks, and could feel the air shift before you heard his voice. 

"Hey yourself." You straightened, rolling your shoulders backwards. The knot between your shoulderblades pulled tight and you winced. 

He was wearing a maroon sweater that was slightly fraying at the edges. His hair looked like he’d been running his hands through them repeatedly. 

"Didn’t know you were still here," you said, bending to grab your water bottle from where it had rolled under the bleachers.

"Had to finish grading papers. Heard music coming from down here." He walked closer, and you tracked his movement in your peripheral vision, noticing the easy lope of his stride, hands sliding into his pockets. "Thought maybe the drama kids were summoning spirits or something."

"Close. Just teaching them to count to eight."

He laughed, and the sound bounced around the gym. "How’s it going? The rehearsals?"

You stood, wiping your palms on your leggings. They were damp from sweat and from that nervous energy that hadn't left you since you'd agreed to do this. "It's... going. They're getting better. Slowly. Very, very slowly."

"But they are getting better?"

"Yeah." You couldn't help the smile. "Yeah, they are. Today we actually made it through the opening number without anyone forgetting which direction stage left is."

"That's huge."

"It's something." You grabbed your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. The weight of it—familiar and grounding—settled against your hip. "One of them asked me today if I'd ever considered teaching professionally. Like, as a job."

"What'd you say?"

You paused, replaying the moment. Sarah with the ponytail had asked it so earnestly, like the thought had just occurred to her and she had to share it immediately. The way sixteen-year-olds asked questions was always unfiltered, and always assumed the answer was simple.

"I told her I'd never really thought about it." You started walking toward the door and Steve fell into step beside you. "But I have now, I guess. Been thinking about it."

"And?"

"And I don't know." You pushed through the gym doors and the hallway air hit you—warmer, staler, smelling like industrial cleaner and teenage desperation. "It's nice, though. Teaching them. Watching them figure it out. This one girl, Emily, she couldn't get the timing on this turn sequence. We stayed fifteen minutes after everyone left and just broke it down, over and over, until—" You stopped yourself, realizing you'd been talking faster. "Sorry. I'm rambling."

"No, you're not." He hit the push bar on the main entrance door, holding it open for you. "You're excited. It's different."

The parking lot was mostly empty now, just your car and his parked three spaces apart, both facing the baseball field. The sun was starting its descent, turning everything orange-pink. That specific late afternoon light that made Hawkins look almost pretty if you didn't think too hard about it.

"You look different, too," he said, and when you glanced over, he was studying your face. "Less..."

"Miserable?" you offered.

"I was gonna say tired. But yeah, that too." He leaned against his car, arms crossed. The whistle swung slightly against his chest. "Looks good on you. The happy thing."

Something warm bloomed under your ribs. You tried to ignore it, but it spread anyway, filling more spaces you'd forgotten were hollow.

"Steve—"

"You wanna get a drink?"

He said it fast, as though he was finding space to launch the question before he could overthink it. His hand went to the back of his neck and you could practically feel him trying to reel it back and make it casual. 

"I mean, not like a drink-drink. Or it could be. Whatever you want." He was looking at the parking lot and his shoes and anywhere but your face. "Just thought—you’ve been working hard, I’ve been working hard, and there’s half-price appetizers at the Hideaway on Wednesdays, which is today. Wednesday, so." 

You bit your lip, trying not to smile at how completely he was fumbling this. Steve Harrington, who used to ask you out with the kind of confidence that bordered on cocky, now tumbling over the suggestion of french fries and beer.

"So you're asking me out for half-price appetizers?"

"I'm asking if you want to hang out." He finally looked at you again, and there was something vulnerable in his expression. "As friends. Or not friends. I don't—fuck." He laughed, self-deprecating. "I used to be better at this."

"You really weren't."

"I definitely was."

"Steve, your first attempt at asking me out involved you 'accidentally' blocking my locker so I'd have to talk to you."

"That was strategic."

"That was obvious."

"But it worked." He was smiling now, some of that nervousness easing into something more familiar. "So what do you say? The Hideaway? I'll even let you order the loaded fries this time instead of pretending you don't want them."

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder, feeling the weight of your old dance shoes against your hip. The ones you'd found in a box. The ones you'd thought you'd never use again.

Your car was right there. You could say you were tired—which you were—or that you had an early morning—which you did. You could smile and say rain check and drive home and spend the evening scrolling through apartment listings that you couldn’t comfortably afford.

Or you could say yes to Steve Harrington in a parking lot bathed in orange-pink light, asking you to hang out with all the grace of a teenage boy even though you were both twenty-one and should know better.

"Yeah," you said. "Okay. Let's get a drink."

His whole face changed—lit up in a way that made your chest tight.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah.." You pulled your keys from your bag. "And if you try to pay for my fries, I'm leaving."

"Deal. No—wait. What if I just pay for my fries and accidentally order way too many and you have to help me eat them?"

"That's the same thing."

"It's completely different."

You were already walking toward your car, but you were smiling. Genuinely smiling, and it was the kind that reached your eyes and made your cheeks ache. "I'll meet you there in forty. Gotta freshen up quickly. I’m all sweaty" 

"Make it thirty," he called after you. "Those fries wait for no one."

You unlocked your car, tossed your bag in the passenger seat, where it landed with a soft thud, your old water bottle rattling against the new one. Through the windshield you could see Steve still standing by his car, watching you. When you looked over, he raised his hand in a small wave.

You’d ordered an Amaretto Sour while Steve ordered a Jack and Coke. You’d opted for The Hideaway this time because you wanted the fries and were sure you were going to drop dead from your day of answering phone calls, then teaching high schoolers a dance routine, going home to shower, then immediately coming here. You and Steve had claimed the back booth, the one where someone had carved ‘CLASS OF ‘79’ into the table edge where the vinyl was patched with duct tape.

Steve shrugged out of his jacket, and you watched him fold it twice before settling it into the seat beside him. It was a habit you didn’t remember him having. He used to just throw his jacket anywhere. You picked at the cocktail napkin under your glass, peeling it into damp strips while he settled beside you. 

"Carter asked me today if I thought he could pitch in the majors." Steve was grinning now, eyes crinkling at the corners. "He wanted to know what age recruiters started looking. The kid who can’t put on his backpack properly at one go is already planning his draft year."

"Oh, my god. Devon’s gonna kill you." You pressed your fingers to your temples. "He’s already asking for more gear for his birthday. She’s gonna start sending you the bills. He’s also gonna start asking for a pitching coach"

"I am a pitching coach."

"A real one."

"Wow. Okay." But he was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. "That’s how it is."

You mockingly tipped your glass in his direction. "That’s how it is."

The conversation started drifting after that, both of you having had. He’d told you how Joyce Byers and former Chief Hopper had moved to Montauk.

"Remember when he tried to arrest you?" You were smiling before you finished your sentence. 

Steve’s hands stopped halfway to his glass. "He did no—" He stared at you for a second, mouth opened. "Holy shit, he did. God, I completely forgot about that." He started laughing, the kind of laugh that built slow and then took over his whole body. "It was partially your fault."

"Who told you to park behind a construction site?"

"You did!" He pointed at you with a fry, laughing now. "You specifically said ‘no one ever goes back there.’" 

"I said no one goes there during the day."

"That is not—" He was laughing again. "That is not what you said. You specifically said—" He put on a voice, one that was higher than yours ever was. "‘No one ever goes there, Steve. It’s fine’"

"I do not sound like that." You smiled into your straw. "I totally did that." 

"I rest my case. You were always the reason for our worst decisions." When you gasped, he continued, "You’re the reason I had to drive for an hour at three in the morning."

"You’re the one who said you were craving IHOP!" 

"And you were the one who said ‘lets go right now," he shot back immediately, like the memory was just on the tip of his tongue. 

"Because you wouldn't shut up about it!"

The bartender dropped off another round for which neither of you had asked, but you were both nearly done with your drinks, so it worked out. Steve immediately grabbed a fry from the basket that had appeared at some point.

"Okay, but that trip was worth it," you said. "We had an entire diner to ourselves."

"Because it was three in the morning."

"And you spilled syrup all over the seat."

You both were grinning when Steve’s arm draped over the back of the booth as he shifted further into it. 

"Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you—" He scratched slightly at his chin. "Was—is everything okay? About the Melissa thing?"

You cleared your throat, caught slightly off guard by the question. "Yeah. I mean, I said so."

"Yeah, but you’d also been—sort of—avoiding me after."

"I mean, I don’t know what to tell you, Steve." You let out a short laugh, wishing that you could reset and never let this conversation begin. "It was just weird, I guess. I don’t know how to explain it."

"Try?" he said, and you could hear the little uptick in his voice.

"I can’t imagine dating, like, Tommy H. or Benny or any of your old friends, you know? It would feel too weird."

"Well, I hope you don’t date Tommy H., he’s an asshole." Then, he added, "But yeah, I guess I didn’t think of it that way.  

"I—I’m not saying you should’ve." You took another sip of your drink. Dutch courage was your way to get through this situation. You traced your glass with one finger. "I think—" You stopped, then started again. "I guess I always thought we were building something. Like long-term. And maybe that was just me being seventeen and stupid, but…" You shrugged. "I guess seeing Melissa just reminded me that for you, it was just—high school."

He was quiet enough that you looked up, and you were fearing that there it was. You’d said it, the wrong thing, and made everything wrong wrong wrong. His jaw was tight, and he was staring at his drink. 

"It was serious to me," he said, voice softening as he tilted his head to look at you. "Not just high school or whatever bullshit you’re saying."

"Was it?" you said, trying to keep your tone gentle. Then, you loosely waved a hand. "I was young and dramatic and it was my first real relationship. Of course I spent years thinking it was everything."

Steve shook his head at your words, brows furrowing. "It was everything. To me, too."

"Steve—"

"Hey, I’m just saying. I’m not liking how you’re talking like you’re the only one who cared. Like I didn’t."

"I didn’t say that."

"You kinda did." His hand was still on the booth behind you, fingers drumming absently. "I may have not always—well, treated you that way. But I just want you to know I did care." 

The air between you felt too thick now. You smiled tightly. "Yeah," you said, nodding. "I appreciate you saying that." 

You took a sip of your drink and he grabbed another fry. 

"So, you’re not going to avoid me at practice anymore?"

"I wasn’t avoiding you."

"You absolutely were."

"Maybe a bit." You smiled. "It’s fine now."

"Good." His fingers brushed against your shoulder where his arm was draped, casual and easy. "Because I do like hanging out with you. Don’t want you disappearing on me."

You felt something lodge in your throat and tried to swallow it down. "Okay." 

"Good," he repeated, a the corners of his mouth twitching up. "Well, so much about who I’ve been with. What did you get up to?" He raised a brow. "Three years of college must’ve brought someone."

You laughed despite yourself, reaching for another fry. "You really want to know?"

"Fair’s fair, right?" He was watching you with an almost-curious expression.

"There was someone. For about a year and a half."

His hand stilled on your shoulder for a moment. "Year and a half’s pretty serious."

"It was." You chewed on the fry. "He was going to be an investment banker. You know, that type? Patagonia and a trust fund and all that."

Steve’s nose wrinkled. "Sounds like a catch." His thumb brushed against your shoulder. 

You continued, "He asked me to move to New York with him after graduation. That maybe I’d want to get a fresh slate in a ‘real’ city."

Steve hummed.

"So I ended it three months before I decided to come back here. He called me a quitter, but it was worth it." 

"I think that’s the last thing someone would call you." He took a sip of his drink.

The silence stretched for a moment too long. Somewhere around you, someone fed quarters into the jukebox and Tom Petty started playing. Steve finished his drink in two long swallows.

"You want to play?" He nodded toward the pool table where the couple was gathering their jackets. 

You looked at him and the way his fingers were drumming against the table. He needed to move. So did you.

"Pool?"

"Mhm. Unless you’re scared to lose."

You raised an eyebrow. "I’m definitely not scared."

"Prove it."

You slid out of the booth and he followed. His hand briefly touched the small of your back as you walked toward the pool table. The touch was light, and you were wearing a sweater, but it still made your skin warm through the touch.

The previous players had the courtesy to rack the balls. Steve grabbed two cues from the wall rack, testing the weight of each before handing you one. "You break."

"Trying to be a gentleman?"

Steve leaned on the edge of the table, grinning. "Trying to get a good look at your form. See if you’ve gotten rusty."

You lined up your shot, very aware of how he was watching you. The cue also felt familiar in your hands; you’d played enough in high school, usually at parties, and even more at college. 

The break was clean and solid cracks of ball scattered across the felt. Two stripes fell.

"Stripes," you said, straightening up.

"Good shit." He moved to stand closer, watching as you circled the table for your next shot. "Remember that time you beat Pat three games in a row and he tried to convince the entire party you were cheating?"

"All of you were such sore losers." You leaned down for your next shot, the 11 ball in the corner pocket. "He kept saying I was distracting him."

"Well." He clicked his tongue.

"I was just playing pool."

"You were wearing that—" He stopped himself and took a sip of his drink instead.

You missed your shot. "Wearing what?"

"My turn." But his ears had gone slightly pink.

He moved around the table, chalking his cue. You tried not to watch the way his hands moved, the way his shoulders shifted under his shirt as he lined up his shot. Tried and failed.

"The purple top," he said suddenly, not looking at you. "With the—the straps."

You remembered that top. Spaghetti straps, low-cut, the one your mom said was too revealing. You'd worn it specifically because Steve had mentioned he liked purple.

"You remember what I wore to a party five years ago?"

"I remember a lot of things about you." He sank the 3 ball, then moved to line up his next shot. "You used to bite your lips when you were concentrating. You’re doing it now."

You released your lip from between your teeth. "I don't—"

"You do." He missed his next shot, stepped back. "You also used to cheat."

"I did not cheat."

"You absolutely cheated. You'd lean over right in my line of sight and—"

"That’s not cheating, that’s being easily distracted."

"Same difference."

You moved to take your shot, very aware now of how you were standing, how he was watching. The 9 ball was an easy shot, straight line to the side pocket. But your hand was less steady than it should be.

"You're thinking about it now," he said from behind you. Close behind you. "About whether you're distracting me."

"I'm thinking about making this shot."

"You're thinking about both."

He wasn't wrong. You took the shot. Made it. Moved to find your next one.

The 10 ball was on the far end of the table. You had to lean across, stretching to line it up properly. You felt Steve move, sensed him coming closer even before you heard his footsteps.

"You're gonna scratch if you hit it that hard," he said, right behind you now.

"I'm not going to scratch."

"Your angle's off."

"It's not."

"It is. Here—" His hand covered yours on the cue, adjusting your grip. 

His hand covered yours on the cue before you could argue. His chest pressed against your back, and suddenly you couldn't remember the shot you were trying to make, couldn't remember anything except the way his thumb brushed over your knuckles as he adjusted your grip. He smelled like whiskey and the same detergent he'd used in high school, and you wondered if he knew that, if he'd chosen it deliberately or if it was just habit.

"See?" His breath stirred against your ear. "It’s more to the left."

You felt heavy all of a sudden and couldn’t breathe properly. "Got it?"

"Yeah?" His thumb pressed between the hollow of your knuckles. "You sure?"

Your heart was trying not to escape through your body out your throat. "Steve."

"Mm?"

"You’re not helping."

"I know."

"Let me make the shot, Steve," you said through a chuckle, slightly using your arm to push him off."

He laughed roughly before stepping back. 

You took the shot. Sank it. Barely.

"Lucky," he said.

"Skill."

You straightened up, turned to face him. He was closer than you expected, close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

"Your turn," you said.

"Right." But he didn't move and kept looking at you.

The air between you felt electric. The bar noise faded into background static; someone's laughter, the clink of glasses, a song you didn't recognize playing from the jukebox. All of it distant and muffled compared to the sound of your own heartbeat.

"Steve—"

"Hm?"

"Hi," you said, tilting your head to the side.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Hi."

His hand came up, and for a second you were bracing yourself for him to touch your face. But instead he plucked the pool cue from your grip and set it down on the table behind you without looking. His eyes remained on yours.

"I’m gonna kiss you now," he said.

"Okay."

His hand slid to your waist, and there was a pause—just a breath, maybe less— where his thumb hooking through your belt loop and just stayed there. Then, he pulled you in, and you went, the inch of space between you disappearing.

The kiss was soft at first—almost careful—his lips pressing against yours like he was relearning the shape of your mouth through the shape of muscle memory four years old. You felt him hesitate and question in the gentleness, and something in your chest cracked open.

You pressed your lips against his a little harder, just for a second, and then his other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that almost made you lose your balance. The pool table bit into your lower back as you swayed, and you grabbed onto his shirt, fabric bunching in your fists, just to stay upright.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, nose brushing against yours, foreheads touching. His eyes were still closed. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

Then he was kissing you again, tilting your head back with his hands in your hair. He tilted your head back with the hand in your hair, angling you exactly where he wanted you, and you let him. Let him kiss you like he'd been thinking about this for weeks, months, maybe years. Like he'd been holding back and had finally decided to stop. 

You remembered this even through the haze of the alcohol and him and the way the bar had gone blurry around the edges. How Steve kissed you, how he gave it his whole attention, his whole body, like both of you would die if you’d stopped. His hand on your waist slid around to the small of your back, pressing you closer until you were flush against him.

You broke away for air, dizzy, and he immediately redirected, pressing kisses along your jaw. Open-mouthed and deliberate, working his way down to the spot just below your ear that he definitely, definitely still remembered.

"Steve," you breathed, fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Mm." The sound vibrated against your skin. His lips traveled lower, finding the spot just below your ear, and your breath caught audibly. His teeth grazed your pulse point and you gasped, the sound embarrassingly loud even though you could barely hear it over the noise around you. 

He smiled against your neck. You felt his lips curve. "Still sensitive there."

"We're—" You had to stop to breathe when he sucked lightly at the spot. "We're in public."

"I know." But he didn't stop. His hand had somehow worked its way under the hem of your shirt, thumb brushing the bare skin just above your hip. "Should probably stop."

"Probably."

His mouth moved lower, to the junction of your neck and shoulder, and his hand on your back pressed you impossibly closer. You could feel him against your hip—hard and obvious—and the knowledge sent a jolt down your spine.

Someone laughed too loud at the bar. A glass broke. The song changed to something with a heavier bass line. None of it mattered.

When you finally pulled away, you were both breathing hard. His lips were red and slightly swollen, hair messed up from where your fingers had threaded through it without you realizing.

"Come home with me," he said. 

"Steve—"

"I don’t want this to end tonight." His hand flexed against your back.

You should say no and suggest coffee tomorrow, keeping this slow, not rushing into something that could blow up in both your faces. But this was what it was, casual. Something that was bound to happen. Something you had to get out of your system before it came out during unwanted times. 

But his forehead was pressed to yours again and you could feel his breath—quick and uneven—and his hand was still under your shirt, thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. And you'd spent four years trying to be smart, trying to make good decisions, trying to be the person you thought you were supposed to be. Maybe just for tonight, you could want something. Could take something. Could let yourself have this without overthinking it into nothing.

"Okay," you said.

His eyes searched yours. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You released your grip on his shirt, smoothed the wrinkles you'd created. Your hands were shaking slightly. "Let's go."

His whole face changed—relief and want and something softer you didn't want to name. He kissed you again, hard and quick, then grabbed your hand.

He doubled back without letting go, pulled out a bill, placed it on the table, grabbed his jacket, and you were moving again.

"Wait," you said as you hit the parking lot. The cool air was a shock after the warmth of the bar. "We can't drive. We're—we've had too much."

Steve stopped, turned to look at you. For a second you thought he might argue, but then he nodded. "You're right. Shit. Okay." He ran his free hand through his hair. "I only live like five minutes from here. We could walk?"

"You want to walk?"

"I want you to come home with me." He said it simply. "Walking, driving, fucking teleporting—I don't care. Just—" His thumb stroked your cheek. "Please don't change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind." You laughed slightly.

"Promise?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him there on the sidewalk in front of The Hideaway, and he made this sound—relief and surprise mixed together—and kissed you back.

When you pulled away, you were both smiling.

"Come on," you said, lacing your fingers through his. "Show me where you live."

His grin was immediate, bright enough to compete with the streetlights. The air outside was sharp enough to clear your head a little, the in-between where the air was deciding whether it wanted it to be winter yet. Steve immediately laced his fingers through yours this time and started walking, pulling you along with him.

The streets were quiet. Hawkins on a Wednesday night never had much going on. A few cars passed, some porch lights were still on, but mostly it was just the two of you and the sound of your footsteps on pavement.

"This is weird, right?" you said after a minute. "Walking through Hawkins like this."

"Good weird or bad weird?"

"I don't know yet."

He laughed, tugging you closer until your shoulder bumped his. "Remember when we used to walk home from parties?"

"You mean when you used to walk me home because I wasn't allowed to be out past midnight?"

"Your mom loved me. She never actually cared when you got home."

"She definitely cared. She just liked you too much to say anything."

"See? Loved me." He was quiet for a moment, then: "I used to take the long way on purpose. Make it last longer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I knew you were doing that."

"You did?"

"Steve, your house was in the opposite direction. You'd walk me home then walk like twenty minutes back to yours."

"Worth it," he said simply.

You passed under a streetlight and he tugged your hand, spinning you under his arm without warning. You stumbled, laughing, and he caught you around the waist.

"What are you doing?"

"I don't know. Felt right." He was grinning down at you, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, how his hands fit perfectly on your waist. "You used to let me do that all the time."

"We were usually dancing."

"We're dancing now."

"We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk."

"Same thing." He started swaying slightly, pulling you with him, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"There's no music."

"So? We don't need music." He spun you out again, this time humming something off-key that might have been nothing at all.

"You're ridiculous."

"You're smiling though."

You were. You were smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, and when he pulled you back in and kissed you—soft and sweet and tasting like whiskey—you were still smiling against his mouth.

"Come on," he said, taking your hand again. "Before I decide to just keep you out here all night."

You walked for another minute in comfortable silence, your hand warm in his, before he spoke again.

"That's where you fell off your bike in eighth grade," he said, pointing to a spot near the Richardson’s driveway. "Busted your knee open. I had to walk you home."

"We weren't even dating yet."

"I know. I still carried your bike the whole way." He squeezed your hand. "And then your mom gave me cookies."

"She always gave you cookies."

"Best part of walking you home. That’s why I always did when we were together."

"The cookies?"

"Well—" He looked at you, something soft in his expression. "Second best part."

Your heart. Stupid, stupid heart. "Steve—"

"That's where Tommy tried to fight that guy from the baseball team," he interrupted, pointing to another corner. "Remember? You had to break it up."

"I didn't break it up. I threatened to call his mom."

"Same thing. You were terrifying." He pulled you closer, arm going around your shoulders now. "Still are, actually."

"I'm not terrifying."

"You made three teenagers cry during rehearsal last week."

"That was one kid. And she was crying because she finally got the turn sequence right."

"Still counts."

You elbowed him in the ribs and he laughed, the sound echoing down the quiet street. His arm tightened around you and yours went around his waist, and walking became this stumbling thing where you were too close together to move properly but neither of you cared.

"This is nice," he said after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I missed this. Just—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Being with you. Feels right."

You didn't know what to say to that, so you just pressed closer into his side. His apartment building was visible now, just up ahead, and you felt your stomach flip.

"That's me," he said, pointing to a brick building with external stairs. "Third floor."

"Nice."

"It's small. Nothing fancy." He was rambling now, nervous. "But it's clean. Usually. I mean, I didn't know you were coming over so I didn't—but it should be fine. Probably."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

You stopped walking, turned to face him. "It's fine. I don't care what your apartment looks like."

"No?"

"Nope." You reached up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "Not here for the apartment."

His tipped his head down to meet your eyes as he smiled slightly. "What are you here for?"

Instead of answering, you kissed him. Rose up on your toes and kissed him right there on the sidewalk in front of his building, and he made a small sound as he pulled you closer to him.

When you pulled away, you were both breathing hard again.

"Inside," he said roughly. "We should really—inside. Now."

"Yeah. Okay."

His hands were shaking as he tried to get his keys out of his pocket. 

"You're not helping," he muttered, finally getting the keys free from his pockets. One of them slipped from his fingers and clattered on the ground. He bent to grab it, and you pressed against his back, arms sliding around his waist.

"I'm not trying to."

"Yeah, I’m getting that." He was smiling when he straightened, and his hands covered both of yours where they were linked at his stomach. His thumb traced over your knuckle once before he turned the key in the lock. 

The stairs were narrow—the kind where you had to go single-file or risk knocking into the railing—and Steve kept your hand in his the entire way up, pulling you behind him. Second floor, third door on the left. He fumbled with the keys again and you almost offered to do it for him, but then the door swung open and he was pulling you inside.

You had a split-second impression of the place—small, wood floors that needed refinishing, a couch that looked like it came from someone's basement, the smell of coffee and laundry detergent and something distinctly Steve that had no specific things you could point to—before he turned and his mouth found yours again.

This kiss was different from the ones at the bar; it felt hungrier. His hands cupped your face and he walked you backward until your spine hit the door, and the sound of it closing was the click of the lock and your bag sliding down your arm to hit the floor.

"Hi," he breathed against your lips.