pals

Steve looks at you, his face a little flushed but he tries his best to look confused.

“What do you—”

“—you told your mom that we were ‘practising’ when she asked if we were trying for a fifth,” you say, beginning to bounce Maisie in your arms as she grew a little fussy—her big brown eyes locked on the buffet table ten feet away. “She just gave me some tips on how to conceive a boy.”

“Son of a—” Steve mutters, glancing down at Maisie before he stops himself. “—biscuit.”

“iscuit,” Maisie mimics with a small giggle. 

You look at Steve with a soft smile. “Nice save.”

“I told her to stop bothering you about that,” Steve mutters, gently taking Maisie from you as your daughter starts to try and wrestle her way out of your arms—completely fixated on that damn buffet. “The practising thing was a joke because we have so much—mommy and daddy time.”

Again, you try not to laugh at Steve self censoring. He had learnt from his mistake of saying ‘shit’ one too many times in front of your oldest, Ellie, who had nearly ruined your sister’s wedding by shouting out the word in the middle of the ceremony.

“Yeah well, you mom seems to think you won’t be happy until you have a boy,” you say, glancing in the direction of Steve’s parents. His dad looked as though he would rather be anywhere than at the twins' third birthday party while Steve’s mom seemed to be closely inspecting one of the cupcakes you made.

You don’t see it but Steve’s jaw clenches tightly, his eyes flicker down to your daughter in his arms and he wonders why the fuck people can’t see how happy he was. He had you. The love of his life, the woman who had been by his side through demogorgons, evil Russians and everything that came after that. The woman who gave him four little girls. Four perfect little girls.

Ellie, now nearly six years old, had an imagination so big that yours and Steve’s days were filled with tea parties, pretending to be mermaids in the inflatable pool and bed time stories that could last hours if Ellie had her way. Then there were the twins—Florence and Margot who were identical right down to their freckles but couldn’t be more different. Florence was quiet, liked to observe the world around her carefully and Margot? Well—Steve sometimes wondered if she had belonged to a circus in a past life. Margot would climb the walls if she could. And Maisie—who watched Margot run by with wonder in her eyes at her big sister—seemed to be following right in her footsteps. 

“I’m more than happy,” Steve tells you firmly, holding Maisie with one hand while the other cups the back of your head so that he could place a fierce kiss against your forehead. “Don’t listen to my mom. I’m more than happy to keep practising.”

You smile at him, you bump your ass against his hip and Steve wants nothing more to hand off Maisie to your mom to go upstairs and—

“Time for cake?” you ask Steve innocently and it makes him want to kiss you stupid. “Yeah,” Steve says softly, leaning in to press a determinedly chaste kiss against your lips. “Time for cake.”

The cake went as well as you had imagined it would—ending in orange and pink icing smeared in both the twins’ hair. Steve didn’t care that he had ended up with icing over his  brand new shirt, he just cared that his girls were smiling and that Margot hadn’t yet tried to scale the climbing frame (again).

The party was now dying down. You had taken Maisie up to bed an hour ago and your parents had taken on the task of rounding up the twins for a much needed bath. Steve had Ellie on his lap as he sat with some of his work colleagues outside. Ellie was happily drawing some—well, Steve wasn’t too sure what she was drawing. Some strange fusion of a dragon and a hamster, perhaps. Whatever it was, Steve thought it was a masterpiece.

“Good job, little lady,” Steve tells Ellie affectionately as he brushes her hair gently to the side. “We’ll have to get another fridge for all your drawings.”

Ellie smiles and shakes her head. “You’re silly, Daddy.”

“I’m not silly,” Steve gasps, feigning offence. “Your daddy is never silly.”

“Daddy’s always silly.”

Steve smiles before pressing a kiss to Ellie’s cheek. She squeals and promptly scrubs her cheek.

“You’re so good with them,” Mr. Matthews comments as the English teacher watches Steve with his daughter.

It was meant to be a compliment but to Steve, he was doing the bare minimum being a good dad. And so, Steve just smiles and turns his attention back to Ellie and her dragon-hamster hybrid.

“Don’t you ever wish for a boy?”

And there it was. The question Steve had been asked more times than he could count over the years.

“Don’t need one,” Steve says simply with a polite smile. “Got my girls. My wife. That’s all I need.”

It was what he always said and he truly meant every word.

“Don’t wish you were playing baseball instead of princesses?”

Steve stilled for a small second. If his daughter wasn’t sat in his lap, he may have snapped at Mr. Matthew’s causal sexism but he didn’t. Not in front of Ellie.

“Margot’s got a mean swing, actually.” Steve tells Mr. Matthews proudly. “Pretty sure she’ll be joining Little League this time next year.”

“She’ll be great!” Mrs. Willaims—the arts teacher—pipes up. “She’ll outrun all the boys in her class.”

Steve gives Mrs. Williams a grateful smile. She clearly thought Mr. Matthews was a sexist piece of shit too. Steve certainly felt relieved when Mr. Matthews retreated into the house to grab another drink.

The conversation flowed between Steve and his colleagues after that. Discussing lesson plans, what everyone was doing during the upcoming summer holidays. After the cake, the kids had (mostly) begun to settle down. Parents of the girls’ friends were taking their kids home with party bags filled with birthday cake, a bubble wand and some finger puppets. Steve was barely paying attention to the fact Mr. Matthews had taken well over five minutes to grab a drink.

“Um, I think Peter is piss—annoying your wife,” Miss Adams says to Steve suddenly.

The comment makes Steve turn sharply, Ellie shifting a little in his lap. He barely hears her grumble of annoyance as he sees you speaking to Mr. Matthews. He knows that look on your face, the quiet anger. The polite smile that masked the fact you wanted to smack the asshole stood in front of you.

“Oh—shoot. Rachel, can you keep an eye on—”

“I got her,” Miss Adams says with a smile as Steve gently lifts Ellie off his lap onto his chair. “Go.”

“Daddy? Where are you—”

“Daddy’s just checking on Mommy, okay? I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

He says it so gently that Ellie just nods and turns her attention back to her drawing. But Steve felt anything but gentle as he walked right up to you and Mr Matthews.

“—I’m just saying—girls are great. Really. But he’s probably missing out on—”

“—what’s going on here?” Steve asks, resting a reassuring hand to your lower back, despite the fact that he had a pretty good idea what was going on.

“Peter here was just—”

“—just telling your wife how great having a son is. That’s all.”

Nevermind the fact that Mr. Matthews had interrupted you, nevermind what he was trying to insinuate but the way he had called you his wife as though that was all you were pissed Steve off. Now—Steve loved you being his wife. He loved it. He was immensely proud of it. But you weren’t just his wife or the mother of his beautiful children, you were so much more than that. You were the woman who once threatened to smack Billy Hagrove with a nail bat. The woman who was scarily good at beer pong. The woman who made Steve Harrington get his act together. 

“Well—quite frankly Pete,” Steve says with a forced smile as his hand on your lower back moved so Steve could wrap his arm around your waist. “I don’t much care for what you’re insinuating here. That my girls aren’t enough for me. They’re more than enough, more than I deserve. And I would appreciate it if you don’t talk to my wife like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“—I don’t really give a shit. No one talks to her like that. No one. Especially not in front of me.”

Mr. Matthew swallows, glances at you who was looking determinedly down at your feet before he gives Steve a small nod.

“Right. Gotcha. Sorry Harrington, I didn’t mean to—”

“—but you did. And if you ever talk about my family like that again? I won’t be so forgiving.”

Mr. Matthews understood the dismissal. He nods once again, wordlessly setting down the unfinished can of Diet Coke onto a nearby table before he hurries out of the backgarden.

Steve watched him go, jaw set and posture tight. But when your hand found his arm, Steve blinked. He took a breath before looking back at you, eyes almost immediately softening.

“That was hot,” you told him with a smile and it was just what Steve needed. He laughs and feels the tension leaving his body as you run your hand up and down his arm.

“Really? That’s what does it for you these days?” Steve asks, both arms now encircling your waist. “You can be a real freak Mrs. Harrington, you know that?”

You roll your eyes before leaning in to place a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And you love it, Mr. Harrington.”

It took every bit of self control Steve had to note sweep you off your feet right there and take you upstairs. But there were still a few guests remaining, the kitchen and back garden needed to be cleaned and Ellie needed to go to bed. But after all that—

“Want to do some more practising tonight?” You ask Steve with a teasing smile as you pull away enough to look at him. “Because after seeing you defend me like that, I might need us to practise all night.”

“All night? Baby, you’re killing me.”

You smile at his whineiness. At the way his hands grip your hips a little, how he tugs you a little closer.

“Good,” you say, leaning again to press a sweet kiss to his lips. But to Steve, it felt anything but sweet. Especially that small swipe of your tongue—

But then you’re pulling away and leaving Steve breathless. Even after four kids, a simple kiss from you still made him feel light headed.

“I’m going to help my parents with the twins. You take Els to bed, okay?”

Steve swallows and nods. Honestly, he probably would have done anything you said while he was in this state. “Okay.”

You smile, sending him a subtle wink before heading back into the house. Steve watches you go, watches the way of your hips sway and the way the dress you were wearing lifts up just so—

“Daddy?”

Steve feels a small hang tugging on his jeans and he takes a few moments to come to his senses, looking down and smiling when he sees Ellie.

“Yeah, sweet pea?”

Ellie smiles and holds out her completed drawing for him.

“I finished it!”

Steve looks down at the drawing and smiles. He still had no idea what the creature was she had drawn. He didn’t know why the hybrid dragon-hamster’s wings were a violent shade of purple, he didn’t know why it was wearing a party hat but the smile on his daughter’s face meant everything.

“Oh, honey. This is incredible!” Steve exclaims, bending down so he could pick Ellie up. She smiled widely at the praise and wrapped her little arms around Steve’s neck. “Seriously. I might have to get in contact with someone from the Louvre—”

“—Daddy’s being silly again,” Ellie says with a shy smile. “Maybe,” Steve shrugs with a smile that absolutely nothing could ruin. Because Steve Harrignton may not have a little boy, but he was whole. Complete. As long as he had his girls, as long as he had you, he was happy. Ridiculously so.

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The upside down is nothing like you’d expected. It’s simultaneously worse and better than you’d expected.

It smells damp, the air is thick like smog, and you can’t bring yourself to look down to where you’re walking, the sound of your converse dragging through the sludge is enough to have you feeling nauseous.

Everyone else seems to be handling it much better than you—probably because they’ve done this before. It’s hard not to feel somewhat resentful that Steve had only brought all of this up to you by pure chance.

You knew he’d been hiding something. He was secretive, holding that goddamn walkie-talkie with him like it was the second coming of Christ and most obviously, never let you meet his friends.

Besides Robin, you liked Robin. Though it had been practically unbearable to sit politely and smile as they both regaled you of stories of Dustin, or any of the rest of The Party. It all festered underneath your skin, why did he never bring you around them?

Until the night you’d just happened to be over at his house when Dustin had attempted to recruit Steve to help find Eddie Munson. Eddie, drug dealer Eddie, who was now accused of murder.

“Steve he didn’t do it, it’s the upside down—” Dustin babbles incoherently, you can barely keep up. None of the words coming out of his mouth make sense to you.

The upside down?

“Steve?” you whisper to your boyfriend, who’s staring at the highschooler before you in dawning horror and grim acceptance.

“I’ll drive. Get in the car—I have to—” Steve waves over to you in a vague gesture and Dustin’s eyes grow wide as his jaw slackens.

“You haven’t told her?” He sounds horrified by the idea of it. Told you what.

“Car Henderson. Now.” Steve states firmly, throwing the curly haired teen his keys as he turns to you with a solemn expression.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’d like to think you’d taken the news of a sadistic other-worldly demonic creature hellbent on killing pretty well, considering the fact that you were currently in his…world? Plain? Planet?

You had been rightfully angry with Steve for not telling you but given that there were bigger stakes than your feelings involved, you’d decided to lay your argument to rest.

Only for you to subsequently discover that Nancy Wheeler knew. Nancy Wheeler that Steve had fallen in love with. The same Nancy you watched Steve grow glassy eyed when talking about.

The same Nancy you tried to measure yourself up against and fell short on all aspects no matter how hard you seemed to try. You watched him with her, as much as it pained you.

He looked so happy, like the fate of the world wasn’t resting on his shoulders. Granted, Nancy was in a relationship, that was a point of contention amongst the two. You assumed some sort of shared history.

Nancy was sweet to you, checking in on you, asking if you needed anything. You couldn’t fault her for your own feelings. Hell, if you were in Steve shoes, you’d probably also have fallen in love with her.

You heard them talking in the van on the drive back from the hardware store, huddled in the back with Eddie and Dustin. It doesn’t feel like a conversation you should be listening in on, but you can’t help it.

“It’s—it’s silly but I—I’ve actually um—I always had this dream that I’d always have this really big family. I’m talkin like full brood of Harringtons, like 5, 6 kids” Steve confesses, laughing alongside her.

Your heart thumps louder in your chest. He’s never told you that. Why wouldn’t he tell you that? It’s not like you’ve been dating long enough for that to have been a conversation but—just why wouldn’t he have said something to you?

Why would you have to listen to this from the backseat of a stolen van as he confesses his hopes and dreams to a girl who he claims he “used” to love?

“Six?” Nancy asks incredulously. You crack a smile; you can’t help it. She’s funny, you think to yourself. Funnier than you’ve ever been.

“Yeah, six little nuggets. Three girls—” you drown out Steve’s voice as you watch their silhouettes.

They would make pretty babies, you think. Beautiful babies, full of Nancy’s intelligence and Steve’s smile. They’d play basketball or do ballet. Steve would be their coach—and Nancy would be working at some big corporate office and they’d be—they’d be so happy.

Bile rises in your throat. You can’t even compete with her. She’s perfect, pretty, smart, witty—what do you have? You have the boy, plus one for that—but what good does that do when he looks at a her like she’s hung the moon and the stars.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you like that.

You think you might be better off not knowing.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re embarrassed to admit that overhearing their conversation makes you distance yourself from the both of them.

You find yourself flocking to Eddie’s side,  joking and laughing with each other.

“You’re a good guy Munson.” You murmur softly as you both watch as Dustin and Mike duel with fake swords and shields, yelping each time they catch each other.

“You’d be the first to think so.” Eddie replies to your left, humour masking the insecurity in his tone.

“I highly doubt that.” You contest, smiling up at the older boy. “Dustin certainly thinks so.”

“Yeah well the munchkin’s biased,” He scoffs with a smirk, leaning back against the stump of wood behind the both of you.

You snort, “He thinks you’re the greatest. He talks about you all the time.” You insist.

Eddie’s expression melts softly, something adoring taking place of what was once anxiety and manufactured aloofness. “He’s a good kid. Don’t know why he likes me so much, but I’m lucky to have him.” He admits.

“You treat him like he’s a person. He’s always going on about how you ask him about his opinion, how you actually listen.”

Eddie blows out a breath, nodding slowly as he digests your words. He turns to you slightly, “You’re a sweet girl,” he tells you seriously and you look up at him in slight shock.

“Don’t lose that, would be a damn shame if we didn’t have you around.” He smiles, slinging an arm over your shoulder as he calls out for Dustin to fix his posture.

You snort with a smile, leaning into him.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Steve watches the two of you from higher on the hill with a scowl on his face.

“Scared Munson’s gonna steal your girl?” Robin teases, huffing as she tugs a rope from the backdoor of the van.

Steve scoffs, irritation bleeding into his tone. “No,” he replies shortly “Munson wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Robin hums suspiciously high, “Seems to me like he’s doing pretty well for himself.” She mentions, gesturing back over to the two of you.

Steve’s glare grows as he catches sight of Eddie’s arm slung over your shoulder. His irritation rising as he spins to glower at Robin, “Who’s side are you on?” he growls.

Robin holds her hand up in surrender, “Just saying. You two haven’t spoken since you arrived—you’ve spent more time with me and Nancy than you have with her.” She says conversationally.

Steve frowns. Has he actually? Sure, he’s been pretty focused on getting things ready to go into the upside down, so he didn’t really have the time to be checking in on you.

It was purely coincidence that he, Robin and Nancy ended up working together considering they were carrying the bulk of the ammunition and knew how to work them.

“She’s fine.” Steve mutters uncertainly. “We’ll talk after.” He insists.

Robin frowns, saying nothing but glances between the two of you in concern.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The tension between you and Steve as you enter the upside down is undeniable. The growing distance seemingly seems to stretch between the two of you the longer that you walk.

You’re side by side, walking in silence as Nancy, Jonathan and Robin walk slightly ahead of everyone whilst Eddie and Dustin remain slightly behind.

“Okay,” Nancy starts firmly, stopping in front of the group in a small expanse of land. The small group forms a circle in front of her, all watching her in rapt attention.

“You all know the plan yes? No deviations, we can’t take any risk that this doesn’t work.” 

You’re all nodding, you listen as she goes over the plan for Max to bait Vecna, the Creel House and the demobats. It’s perfectly planned out, Nancy Wheeler style.

When you all break off, you grab hold of Steve’s arm, who turns to look at you in confusion, “I uh—I’m going to go with Dustin and Eddie alright?” you say softly, avoiding eye contact with him.

Steve frowns, watching your face closely before scoffing, making you look towards him in perplexion, “Yeah, sure. Fine.” He says sarcastically, shrugging your arm off of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve’s voice is hard and angry, “It means that if you wanna go run off with Munson while the rest of us are trying to save the world—be my guest.”

You blink, staring at Steve with your mouth agape, “You think—Eddie?”

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes, “Yes, Eddie. I see the way the two of you have been…canoodling,” he offers weakly.

You scoff, “Real mature Steve.”

Nancy and Robin stop in front of the two of you when the notice you’ve both stopped following them. They’re far away enough to not being able to hear but close enough to notice the start of an argument between you both.

“What? You have a problem?”

Your expression morphs into hurt, “Six little nuggets?” you ask him accusingly as he stares at you, unflinching.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

It’s the weakest argument you’ve heard from him yet, “Why?” you push. “Because it involved Nancy, that it? I didn’t fit into your white picket fence suburban dream?”

Steve flinches, his expression turning uncertain and dread fills your very being.

He doesn’t see you there.

“Can we—can we not do this now?” he asks, pleadingly.

You shake your head, “No, Steve. I want to know.”

“Know what?” He argues, throwing his arms up in the air.

“If you love me Steve!” you burst out, your voice echoing lightly through the vast expanse of the Upside Down.

“Guys—” Eddie calls hesitantly, but you both pay him no mind.

You shove your finger into Steve’s chest hard enough to make him flinch, “I want to know if you see a future with me! Do you? Do you see me in that big old family picture? Because—” your voice breaks, tugging at Steve’s heart strings.

“Because I love you, and if you don’t—if you don’t see that future with me, then maybe we’re not meant to be together,” you whimper, lifting your hand to your mouth to try and muffle your cries.

Steve slumps in shock, looking as if you’ve just torn his heart out from his chest.

“You’re breaking up with me?” he whispers desperately, scanning your face like he’s searching for something, anything.

You shake your head, your teary gaze meeting his shocked one. “I’m asking you if you’d choose me Steve, if given the chance.” You whisper.

“Baby, of course I—"

“You can’t even say you love me Steve.” You scoff with a laugh, self-deprecation coating your tone.

He stands in shock, like he’s not sure what to do.

“Steve!” Nancy calls from the back, frustration in her voice from being held up.

Steve watches you pleadingly as you school your expression, taking a step back when he turns to look back at her.

Always her, you think bitterly.

“I—” Steve pleads, panic in his tone.

“Just go Steve.” You reply tonelessly, turning to walk towards Eddie and Dustin who have been watching the both of you in concern.

“Baby—” You hear him call after you, desperation in his voice as you walk away. You shake your head, sniffling before looking towards the two boys in front of you.

“Are you okay?—” Dustin asks hesitantly.

You force a smile, “Fine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

If you thought you knew pain before, the sting of walking away from Steve was worse. Every bone if your body wants to turn around and run back into his arms, but you refuse to subject yourself to any more humiliation.

You walk with Eddie and Dustin in silence, setting up the amp and Eddie’s guitar with little fanfare.

When the time comes, Eddie plays like a man possessed. You think he was made for this, a true metal rockstar. He looks almost godlike in view.

The bats swarm the trailer with almost no time to spare. Eddie, Dustin and you rush into the trailer as it rocks with the force and sound of flapping wings.

You almost think you’ve done it before they start flooding in. One after another they come through the vents, met with your handcrafted weaponry.

Dustin grabs the rope leading back into the real world, but when you catch Eddie’s gaze watching him, you already know what’s going to happen. What’s more rockstar than saving the world.

He looks at you and then back to the bedsheets, offering you a way out. You see the determined look on his face, and with a shared nod, he cuts the rope.

“What are you doing?!” Dustin screams to the both of you, watching as you both grab your weapons and Eddie’s shield.

“Buying more time.” The two of you chorus, launching yourselves out of the trailer in tandem as Eddie rides the bike with you running behind him.

The bats follow you like a moth to a flame, swarming around the two of you within minutes. You feel it before you see it, the sound of your flesh tearing and ripping open as the bats latch onto your skin.

You feel the warmth of your blood pool around you as you swing and crush the bats that fly towards you. You find Eddie doing the same in your peripheral vision. You watch as the bats sink their teeth into him, drawing a guttural scream from his chest.

Your wounds start to get the better of you as you stagger on your feet, slumping over onto the ground as you crash to your knees. You can hear Eddie calling your name and you turn to see him slumped a few meters behind you.

You crawl over to him, mindless of the bats still latched to the two of you. Your eyes meet and you share a bloody smile.

It’s then that you notice the silence, the bats that fall around the two of you. “They did it,” you croak, blood bubbling through your throat.

Eddie groans, “We did good,” he affirms, turning his head to look at you.

You hear footsteps rushing your way, and a small part of you hopes that its Steve. The curly hair however in unmistakable.

“Henderson,” Eddie coos, coughing slightly as blood stains his lips.

“Eddie—Y/N, no no no.” he chants, falling to his knees.

“Hey,” you whisper dazedly. “We’re okay,” you reassure him.

“You’re bleeding—” he chokes out.

“Can either of you stand?” he asks Eddie abruptly, turning to look at him. Eddie frowns, looking down on his leg before looking at you, “Dustin, buddy you can’t take both of us—"

“I don’t care,” he bursts out. “I need to know if you can stand, if I can get you back to the trailer, we can alert the rest of them that Y/N is down and—” he babbles.

“I—” Eddie blows out a breath, looking hesitant. You both knew when you’d left that trailer than you’d had no intention of coming back, it was a suicide mission.

“Please,” Dustin begs. Eddie hesitates before nodding abruptly, “Okay,” he concedes. “Okay—we’re coming back.” He tells you seriously.

You smile, nodding softly. Your clothes are starting to stick to your skin with the amount of blood pooling from your wounds.

It’s too dark for them to see, they can’t possibly know how bad your injuries are. Eddie looks by far worse than you, his wounds uncovered by his clothes.

“Okay,” you say.

They leave, Eddie hobbling beside Dustin as they walk towards the trailer. You’re not sure how long you spend staring at the sky before rushing footsteps are coming back to you.

You think you might already be dead when you see Steve rushing to your side instead of Dustin. “St’ve?” you slur, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion.

“Oh baby,” he moans desperately as he drops down next to you, his hands hovering uncertainly as if he’s too scared to touch you.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you.

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay,” he chants to himself as he lifts you into his arms despite your loud groaning in complaint of being jostled.

“You gotta keep your eyes open for me honey, c’mon look at me—look at me baby.” He pleads with you, rushing towards the trailer as yo9ur blood starts to soak his own clothes.

“I’m getting’ y’u d’rty.” You complain breathlessly as your head lolls to the side. Steve whimpers, reply wetly, “That’s okay baby—I—I don’t mind, I’ll put it in the wash when we get home okay?” he says consolingly, sounding panicked.

“’kay,” you agree mindlessly, your eyes drooping.

“Think ‘m gonna sleep now—”

Steve shakes you awake, making you cough as the feeling of the liquid filling your throat.

“Sorry—sorry honey, you can’t—fuck, baby you can’t sleep. Haven’t even got to tell you how much I love you yet sweetheart, you don’t even know,” He says, simultaneously awestruck and horrified.

“You don’t even know how much I love you baby, God, I—I was so dumb earlier, I shoulda run after you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—never gonna make that mistake again. But you’ve gotta stay awake for me okay? Because I’ve got a lot of making up to do huh?” He chokes up, muffling his sobs.

“Cause you can’t die—I, we have so many things left to do—can’t leave me alone—I can’t do this alone, you—you have to stay,” he sobs.

He almost chokes on the relief he feels when he sees the trailer, stumbling as he runs as fast as his feet can carry him towards the silver home.

Your breathing is shallow in his arms, and he would think you were already dead if not for the slow rise of your chest.

“Please,” he chokes out the paramedic he sees when he gets back to the real world. He holds you out, begging for them to take you. “You—you have to help her. She—she’s lost so much blood—oh god, please help her.” He begs desperately, succumbing to his own tears.

They take you immediately, transferring you to a stretcher as they rush you to an ambulance whilst Steve follows behind them, refusing to let you out of his sight for another second.

Whilst they load you, Steve pleads with them, “Please let me go with her—I’m the only one she knows, she’ll be so scared I need to be there—”

“You can ride with her, but we need to go now.” The paramedic rushes him in, letting him take the seat next to you as the strap you to a heart rate monitor and place a breathing mask over you.

He clenches his hands around your own as you blink slowly at him, “Hey,” he whispers into the silence of the ambulance, the paramedic watching the two of you in concern.

“I love you,” he blurts out again, frantically hoping you hear him. Your small smile calms a small portion of his fear, and he feels you shakily trace a pattern on his palm.

The upside down is nothing like you’d expected. It’s simultaneously worse and better than you’d expected.

It smells damp, the air is thick like smog, and you can’t bring yourself to look down to where you’re walking, the sound of your converse dragging through the sludge is enough to have you feeling nauseous.

Everyone else seems to be handling it much better than you—probably because they’ve done this before. It’s hard not to feel somewhat resentful that Steve had only brought all of this up to you by pure chance.

You knew he’d been hiding something. He was secretive, holding that goddamn walkie-talkie with him like it was the second coming of Christ and most obviously, never let you meet his friends.

Besides Robin, you liked Robin. Though it had been practically unbearable to sit politely and smile as they both regaled you of stories of Dustin, or any of the rest of The Party. It all festered underneath your skin, why did he never bring you around them?

Until the night you’d just happened to be over at his house when Dustin had attempted to recruit Steve to help find Eddie Munson. Eddie, drug dealer Eddie, who was now accused of murder.

“Steve he didn’t do it, it’s the upside down—” Dustin babbles incoherently, you can barely keep up. None of the words coming out of his mouth make sense to you.

The upside down?

“Steve?” you whisper to your boyfriend, who’s staring at the highschooler before you in dawning horror and grim acceptance.

“I’ll drive. Get in the car—I have to—” Steve waves over to you in a vague gesture and Dustin’s eyes grow wide as his jaw slackens.

“You haven’t told her?” He sounds horrified by the idea of it. Told you what.

“Car Henderson. Now.” Steve states firmly, throwing the curly haired teen his keys as he turns to you with a solemn expression.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’d like to think you’d taken the news of a sadistic other-worldly demonic creature hellbent on killing pretty well, considering the fact that you were currently in his…world? Plain? Planet?

You had been rightfully angry with Steve for not telling you but given that there were bigger stakes than your feelings involved, you’d decided to lay your argument to rest.

Only for you to subsequently discover that Nancy Wheeler knew. Nancy Wheeler that Steve had fallen in love with. The same Nancy you watched Steve grow glassy eyed when talking about.

The same Nancy you tried to measure yourself up against and fell short on all aspects no matter how hard you seemed to try. You watched him with her, as much as it pained you.

He looked so happy, like the fate of the world wasn’t resting on his shoulders. Granted, Nancy was in a relationship, that was a point of contention amongst the two. You assumed some sort of shared history.

Nancy was sweet to you, checking in on you, asking if you needed anything. You couldn’t fault her for your own feelings. Hell, if you were in Steve shoes, you’d probably also have fallen in love with her.

You heard them talking in the van on the drive back from the hardware store, huddled in the back with Eddie and Dustin. It doesn’t feel like a conversation you should be listening in on, but you can’t help it.

“It’s—it’s silly but I—I’ve actually um—I always had this dream that I’d always have this really big family. I’m talkin like full brood of Harringtons, like 5, 6 kids” Steve confesses, laughing alongside her.

Your heart thumps louder in your chest. He’s never told you that. Why wouldn’t he tell you that? It’s not like you’ve been dating long enough for that to have been a conversation but—just why wouldn’t he have said something to you?

Why would you have to listen to this from the backseat of a stolen van as he confesses his hopes and dreams to a girl who he claims he “used” to love?

“Six?” Nancy asks incredulously. You crack a smile; you can’t help it. She’s funny, you think to yourself. Funnier than you’ve ever been.

“Yeah, six little nuggets. Three girls—” you drown out Steve’s voice as you watch their silhouettes.

They would make pretty babies, you think. Beautiful babies, full of Nancy’s intelligence and Steve’s smile. They’d play basketball or do ballet. Steve would be their coach—and Nancy would be working at some big corporate office and they’d be—they’d be so happy.

Bile rises in your throat. You can’t even compete with her. She’s perfect, pretty, smart, witty—what do you have? You have the boy, plus one for that—but what good does that do when he looks at a her like she’s hung the moon and the stars.

You wonder if he’s ever looked at you like that.

You think you might be better off not knowing.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re embarrassed to admit that overhearing their conversation makes you distance yourself from the both of them.

You find yourself flocking to Eddie’s side,  joking and laughing with each other.

“You’re a good guy Munson.” You murmur softly as you both watch as Dustin and Mike duel with fake swords and shields, yelping each time they catch each other.

“You’d be the first to think so.” Eddie replies to your left, humour masking the insecurity in his tone.

“I highly doubt that.” You contest, smiling up at the older boy. “Dustin certainly thinks so.”

“Yeah well the munchkin’s biased,” He scoffs with a smirk, leaning back against the stump of wood behind the both of you.

You snort, “He thinks you’re the greatest. He talks about you all the time.” You insist.

Eddie’s expression melts softly, something adoring taking place of what was once anxiety and manufactured aloofness. “He’s a good kid. Don’t know why he likes me so much, but I’m lucky to have him.” He admits.

“You treat him like he’s a person. He’s always going on about how you ask him about his opinion, how you actually listen.”

Eddie blows out a breath, nodding slowly as he digests your words. He turns to you slightly, “You’re a sweet girl,” he tells you seriously and you look up at him in slight shock.

“Don’t lose that, would be a damn shame if we didn’t have you around.” He smiles, slinging an arm over your shoulder as he calls out for Dustin to fix his posture.

You snort with a smile, leaning into him.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Steve watches the two of you from higher on the hill with a scowl on his face.

“Scared Munson’s gonna steal your girl?” Robin teases, huffing as she tugs a rope from the backdoor of the van.

Steve scoffs, irritation bleeding into his tone. “No,” he replies shortly “Munson wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Robin hums suspiciously high, “Seems to me like he’s doing pretty well for himself.” She mentions, gesturing back over to the two of you.

Steve’s glare grows as he catches sight of Eddie’s arm slung over your shoulder. His irritation rising as he spins to glower at Robin, “Who’s side are you on?” he growls.

Robin holds her hand up in surrender, “Just saying. You two haven’t spoken since you arrived—you’ve spent more time with me and Nancy than you have with her.” She says conversationally.

Steve frowns. Has he actually? Sure, he’s been pretty focused on getting things ready to go into the upside down, so he didn’t really have the time to be checking in on you.

It was purely coincidence that he, Robin and Nancy ended up working together considering they were carrying the bulk of the ammunition and knew how to work them.

“She’s fine.” Steve mutters uncertainly. “We’ll talk after.” He insists.

Robin frowns, saying nothing but glances between the two of you in concern.

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The tension between you and Steve as you enter the upside down is undeniable. The growing distance seemingly seems to stretch between the two of you the longer that you walk.

You’re side by side, walking in silence as Nancy, Jonathan and Robin walk slightly ahead of everyone whilst Eddie and Dustin remain slightly behind.

“Okay,” Nancy starts firmly, stopping in front of the group in a small expanse of land. The small group forms a circle in front of her, all watching her in rapt attention.

“You all know the plan yes? No deviations, we can’t take any risk that this doesn’t work.” 

You’re all nodding, you listen as she goes over the plan for Max to bait Vecna, the Creel House and the demobats. It’s perfectly planned out, Nancy Wheeler style.

When you all break off, you grab hold of Steve’s arm, who turns to look at you in confusion, “I uh—I’m going to go with Dustin and Eddie alright?” you say softly, avoiding eye contact with him.

Steve frowns, watching your face closely before scoffing, making you look towards him in perplexion, “Yeah, sure. Fine.” He says sarcastically, shrugging your arm off of him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve’s voice is hard and angry, “It means that if you wanna go run off with Munson while the rest of us are trying to save the world—be my guest.”

You blink, staring at Steve with your mouth agape, “You think—Eddie?”

Steve snorts, rolling his eyes, “Yes, Eddie. I see the way the two of you have been…canoodling,” he offers weakly.

You scoff, “Real mature Steve.”

Nancy and Robin stop in front of the two of you when the notice you’ve both stopped following them. They’re far away enough to not being able to hear but close enough to notice the start of an argument between you both.

“What? You have a problem?”

Your expression morphs into hurt, “Six little nuggets?” you ask him accusingly as he stares at you, unflinching.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

It’s the weakest argument you’ve heard from him yet, “Why?” you push. “Because it involved Nancy, that it? I didn’t fit into your white picket fence suburban dream?”

Steve flinches, his expression turning uncertain and dread fills your very being.

He doesn’t see you there.

“Can we—can we not do this now?” he asks, pleadingly.

You shake your head, “No, Steve. I want to know.”

“Know what?” He argues, throwing his arms up in the air.

“If you love me Steve!” you burst out, your voice echoing lightly through the vast expanse of the Upside Down.

“Guys—” Eddie calls hesitantly, but you both pay him no mind.

You shove your finger into Steve’s chest hard enough to make him flinch, “I want to know if you see a future with me! Do you? Do you see me in that big old family picture? Because—” your voice breaks, tugging at Steve’s heart strings.

“Because I love you, and if you don’t—if you don’t see that future with me, then maybe we’re not meant to be together,” you whimper, lifting your hand to your mouth to try and muffle your cries.

Steve slumps in shock, looking as if you’ve just torn his heart out from his chest.

“You’re breaking up with me?” he whispers desperately, scanning your face like he’s searching for something, anything.

You shake your head, your teary gaze meeting his shocked one. “I’m asking you if you’d choose me Steve, if given the chance.” You whisper.

“Baby, of course I—"

“You can’t even say you love me Steve.” You scoff with a laugh, self-deprecation coating your tone.

He stands in shock, like he’s not sure what to do.

“Steve!” Nancy calls from the back, frustration in her voice from being held up.

Steve watches you pleadingly as you school your expression, taking a step back when he turns to look back at her.

Always her, you think bitterly.

“I—” Steve pleads, panic in his tone.

“Just go Steve.” You reply tonelessly, turning to walk towards Eddie and Dustin who have been watching the both of you in concern.

“Baby—” You hear him call after you, desperation in his voice as you walk away. You shake your head, sniffling before looking towards the two boys in front of you.

“Are you okay?—” Dustin asks hesitantly.

You force a smile, “Fine.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

If you thought you knew pain before, the sting of walking away from Steve was worse. Every bone if your body wants to turn around and run back into his arms, but you refuse to subject yourself to any more humiliation.

You walk with Eddie and Dustin in silence, setting up the amp and Eddie’s guitar with little fanfare.

When the time comes, Eddie plays like a man possessed. You think he was made for this, a true metal rockstar. He looks almost godlike in view.

The bats swarm the trailer with almost no time to spare. Eddie, Dustin and you rush into the trailer as it rocks with the force and sound of flapping wings.

You almost think you’ve done it before they start flooding in. One after another they come through the vents, met with your handcrafted weaponry.

Dustin grabs the rope leading back into the real world, but when you catch Eddie’s gaze watching him, you already know what’s going to happen. What’s more rockstar than saving the world.

He looks at you and then back to the bedsheets, offering you a way out. You see the determined look on his face, and with a shared nod, he cuts the rope.

“What are you doing?!” Dustin screams to the both of you, watching as you both grab your weapons and Eddie’s shield.

“Buying more time.” The two of you chorus, launching yourselves out of the trailer in tandem as Eddie rides the bike with you running behind him.

The bats follow you like a moth to a flame, swarming around the two of you within minutes. You feel it before you see it, the sound of your flesh tearing and ripping open as the bats latch onto your skin.

You feel the warmth of your blood pool around you as you swing and crush the bats that fly towards you. You find Eddie doing the same in your peripheral vision. You watch as the bats sink their teeth into him, drawing a guttural scream from his chest.

Your wounds start to get the better of you as you stagger on your feet, slumping over onto the ground as you crash to your knees. You can hear Eddie calling your name and you turn to see him slumped a few meters behind you.

You crawl over to him, mindless of the bats still latched to the two of you. Your eyes meet and you share a bloody smile.

It’s then that you notice the silence, the bats that fall around the two of you. “They did it,” you croak, blood bubbling through your throat.

Eddie groans, “We did good,” he affirms, turning his head to look at you.

You hear footsteps rushing your way, and a small part of you hopes that its Steve. The curly hair however in unmistakable.

“Henderson,” Eddie coos, coughing slightly as blood stains his lips.

“Eddie—Y/N, no no no.” he chants, falling to his knees.

“Hey,” you whisper dazedly. “We’re okay,” you reassure him.

“You’re bleeding—” he chokes out.

“Can either of you stand?” he asks Eddie abruptly, turning to look at him. Eddie frowns, looking down on his leg before looking at you, “Dustin, buddy you can’t take both of us—"

“I don’t care,” he bursts out. “I need to know if you can stand, if I can get you back to the trailer, we can alert the rest of them that Y/N is down and—” he babbles.

“I—” Eddie blows out a breath, looking hesitant. You both knew when you’d left that trailer than you’d had no intention of coming back, it was a suicide mission.

“Please,” Dustin begs. Eddie hesitates before nodding abruptly, “Okay,” he concedes. “Okay—we’re coming back.” He tells you seriously.

You smile, nodding softly. Your clothes are starting to stick to your skin with the amount of blood pooling from your wounds.

It’s too dark for them to see, they can’t possibly know how bad your injuries are. Eddie looks by far worse than you, his wounds uncovered by his clothes.

“Okay,” you say.

They leave, Eddie hobbling beside Dustin as they walk towards the trailer. You’re not sure how long you spend staring at the sky before rushing footsteps are coming back to you.

You think you might already be dead when you see Steve rushing to your side instead of Dustin. “St’ve?” you slur, your eyelids drooping from exhaustion.

“Oh baby,” he moans desperately as he drops down next to you, his hands hovering uncertainly as if he’s too scared to touch you.

I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you.

“You’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be okay,” he chants to himself as he lifts you into his arms despite your loud groaning in complaint of being jostled.

“You gotta keep your eyes open for me honey, c’mon look at me—look at me baby.” He pleads with you, rushing towards the trailer as yo9ur blood starts to soak his own clothes.

“I’m getting’ y’u d’rty.” You complain breathlessly as your head lolls to the side. Steve whimpers, reply wetly, “That’s okay baby—I—I don’t mind, I’ll put it in the wash when we get home okay?” he says consolingly, sounding panicked.

“’kay,” you agree mindlessly, your eyes drooping.

“Think ‘m gonna sleep now—”

Steve shakes you awake, making you cough as the feeling of the liquid filling your throat.

“Sorry—sorry honey, you can’t—fuck, baby you can’t sleep. Haven’t even got to tell you how much I love you yet sweetheart, you don’t even know,” He says, simultaneously awestruck and horrified.

“You don’t even know how much I love you baby, God, I—I was so dumb earlier, I shoulda run after you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—never gonna make that mistake again. But you’ve gotta stay awake for me okay? Because I’ve got a lot of making up to do huh?” He chokes up, muffling his sobs.

“Cause you can’t die—I, we have so many things left to do—can’t leave me alone—I can’t do this alone, you—you have to stay,” he sobs.

He almost chokes on the relief he feels when he sees the trailer, stumbling as he runs as fast as his feet can carry him towards the silver home.

Your breathing is shallow in his arms, and he would think you were already dead if not for the slow rise of your chest.

“Please,” he chokes out the paramedic he sees when he gets back to the real world. He holds you out, begging for them to take you. “You—you have to help her. She—she’s lost so much blood—oh god, please help her.” He begs desperately, succumbing to his own tears.

They take you immediately, transferring you to a stretcher as they rush you to an ambulance whilst Steve follows behind them, refusing to let you out of his sight for another second.

Whilst they load you, Steve pleads with them, “Please let me go with her—I’m the only one she knows, she’ll be so scared I need to be there—”

“You can ride with her, but we need to go now.” The paramedic rushes him in, letting him take the seat next to you as the strap you to a heart rate monitor and place a breathing mask over you.

He clenches his hands around your own as you blink slowly at him, “Hey,” he whispers into the silence of the ambulance, the paramedic watching the two of you in concern.

“I love you,” he blurts out again, frantically hoping you hear him. Your small smile calms a small portion of his fear, and he feels you shakily trace a pattern on his palm.

She scoops the crayons into her backpack — carefully, carefully, like they're made of glass — and Steve watches her small fingers close around each one, watches the concentration on her face, and his heart aches with how much he loves her.

Steve crouches down to help his girl with her shoes when she fumbles with the laces. Steve's fingers are big compared to hers, but he's gentle — always gentle with her — and he redoes the laces carefully, pulling them tight, tying a double knot so they won't come undone.

"All done," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smells like strawberries. "Let's go, bug."

Ellie's school has hallways lined with artwork and spelling tests, and the air smells like chalk dust and floor wax. Steve has been here before — for drop-off, for pickup, for the time Ellie fell off the monkey bars and needed ice and a hug — but never for a parent-teacher conference.

Ellie's hand is small and warm in his. Her fingers curl around his, trusting, and Steve walks a little slower so her shorter legs can keep up.

"You're going to the library," he says. "Remember? They have books and puzzles and... Well, I guess you don't need crayons, do you?"

She grins up at him, pleased. "Yup."

He walks her to the library door, kneels down one more time, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She squirms — she's seven, she's too old for this, she's told him so — but she doesn't pull away.

"Be good, bug."

"I'm always good."

"I know." He kisses her forehead. "I'll be back soon."

She nods and disappears into the library, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, and Steve watches her go until he can't see her anymore. Then he takes a breath and rounds the corner to your classroom.

The door is open.

You're inside, sitting at a small table covered in papers and drawings and a mug that says World's Okayest Teacher. You're writing something, your head bent over the page, your hair falling out of its ponytail.

Steve knocks on the doorframe, you look up, and suddenly, Steve's whole world stops.

Because you are beautiful.

Admittedly, he's been in the presence of very many beautiful women before, but you are the kind of beautiful people have the privilege to look at in art galleries. You are beautiful in the way sunlight is beautiful when it comes through the windows on a quiet morning. You are stunning. You are the most beautiful person Steve has ever seen.

And he feels like he's spinning.

"Mr. Harrington," you say, standing up, and your voice is warm, a little breathless, like you're surprised to see him even though this meeting has been on the calendar for two weeks. "I was starting to think you might not show."

Steve realizes he hasn't said anything. He's been standing in your doorway, frozen, staring at you like a teenager with his first crush. His heart is pounding. His palms are sweating. He is twenty-nine years old, he is a father, he has faced down monsters and survived, and he cannot form a single word.

"Sorry," he finally manages, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended. He clears his throat, steps inside, shoves his hands in his pockets so he won't do something stupid like reach out and touch your cheek. "I'm late. Ellie had a crayon situation. I'm sure you know how it is."

Your smile widens. "I do know how it is. Please, take a seat." You gesture to the chair across from you, the one that's too small for his long legs. "Please, sit."

Steve sits. His knees bump the underside of the table, and you hide a smile behind your hand, and he feels his ears go pink.

"Sorry," he says again. "I'm not — I'm not great at these."

"Parent-teacher conferences?"

"Chairs that are made for children."

You laugh. It's a soft sound, warm and genuine, and Steve watches the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crinkle, the way you look at him like he's funny instead of awkward.

"Noted," you say. "Next time, I'll make sure there's adult-sized ones."

"You must get that a lot," he says, trying to sound casual. "Dads who can't fit in the chairs."

"I get all kinds." You lean back in your seat. "More moms, though, I have to admit. So it's cool to see a dad. You're the first one today, actually." You scrunch up your nose like you're trying to remember. "Actually, maybe the first this year."

Steve's smile flickers, just for a moment. He's good at hiding it — years of practice, years of being fine when he wasn't, years of telling people everything was okay when it was falling apart. But something about the way you're looking at him — soft and curious and unguarded — makes it hard to keep the mask in place.

"Yeah," he says, looking down at his hands. His thumbs are tracing the edge of the table, back and forth, back and forth. "It's just been me and Ellie for a while. Her mom isn't really... in the picture."

He doesn't say it with anger. He used to, in the beginning — used to feel the bitterness rise in his throat like bile, used to lie awake at night thinking about all the things he'd say if she ever came back. But that was years ago. Ellie was a baby then, small and soft and completely dependent on him, and Steve didn't have time for anger. He had diapers to change and bottles to warm and a tiny human who needed him to be okay.

So he let the anger go. Most of it, anyway. What's left is something quieter — a resignation, a weary acceptance. A shoulder shrug in words.

"She doesn't help?" you ask, and your voice is gentle. Careful.

Steve shakes his head. "Never has. She left when Ellie was six months old. Said she wasn't cut out for it." He pauses, looks up at you. Your eyes are soft, and there's no pity there, just understanding, and something in Steve's chest loosens. "I think she was right, honestly. She wasn't cut out for it. But I was. I am."

"Clearly." Your voice is warm. "Ellie is one of the happiest kids in my class. That doesn't happen by accident."

Steve feels heat rise to his cheeks. He's not used to compliments—not real ones, not about this. People see him with Ellie and they say things like you're so brave or that must be so hard, but they don't often say you're doing a good job. They don't often look at him like he's something more than a single dad surviving.

"Thanks," he says, and his voice is rougher than he intended. "That means a lot. Coming from you."

You tilt your head, and Steve watches the way your eyes catch the light. "From me?"

"From her teacher." He clears his throat. "You spend more time with her than almost anyone, except me. If I was screwing it up, you'd be the one to know."

You're quiet for a moment. Then you reach across the table and touch his hand — just a brush of your fingers, light and quick, but Steve feels it all the way down to his bones.

"You're not screwing it up," you say. "From what I've seen, you're doing everything right."

Steve looks down at your hand. Your fingers are small and warm, resting on the back of his. "I don't know about everything," he says. "But I'm trying. That's got to count for something."

"It counts for everything." You pull your hand back, and Steve misses the warmth immediately. "She's lucky to have you."

Steve wants to say something—wants to tell you that he's the lucky one, that every day with Ellie is a gift, that he can't imagine his life without her small hand in his and her laugh echoing through the house. But the words feel too big, too heavy, too much for a parent-teacher conference with his daughter's beautiful teacher.

So he just says, "Thanks," again, and you smile, and he thinks he could sit here forever.

You talk about Ellie for twenty minutes.

Or maybe it's an hour. Steve isn't entirely sure. Time moves differently when he's looking at you.

You tell him about the time Ellie shared her snack with a boy who forgot his, about the drawing she made of "daddy and me" that's just two stick figures, one that has very large hair, about how she helped water the class plant and took her job so seriously that she watered it three times and they had to have a talk about moderation.

"She's wonderful," you say, and your voice is so sincere that Steve's throat tightens. "She's kind and curious and so, so smart. You've done an amazing job with her."

Steve opens his mouth to reply when a small head peeks around the doorframe.

"Dad?"

Steve turns. Ellie is standing in the doorway, her backpack hanging off one shoulder, three crayons clutched to her chest. She looks at him with those big brown eyes like she's not quite sure she's allowed to interrupt.

"Bug," Steve says, and his whole face softens. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in the library."

"The librarian said the conference was supposed to end ten minutes ago." Ellie looks at you, then back at Steve. "She said I should come find you."

Steve glances at his watch. Then at you. You look flustered, and you're biting your lip, and Steve feels his own ears go warm.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't realize—"

"Don't apologise," you breathe. "I lost track of time too. Thank goodness you're my last session."

Ellie crosses the room, her sneakers squeaking on the tile, and Steve watches her small figure navigate the classroom. When she reaches him, she doesn't hesitate to climb up into his lap.

Steve's arms come around her automatically. His hand finds her hair, smoothing down the tangles, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head without thinking.

"Hi, bug," he murmurs.

"Hi, Dad." She tilts her head up to look at him, and Steve's heart does that thing it always does when he looks at her—swells and aches and overflows all at once. "Are you done?"

"Almost." He shifts her in his lap, making sure she's comfortable, and looks up at you.

"Miss Y/N," Ellie says, twisting in Steve's lap to face you. "Did you tell my dad I'm good at math?"

You smile, and Steve watches the way your whole face lights up. "I did. I also told him you're good at sharing, and watering plants, and asking questions that make me have to look things up."

Ellie grins. "I asked her what clouds are made of," she tells Steve. "She said water droplets, but then I asked why they float, and she had to think about it for a long time."

"A very long time," you agree. "And then I looked it up, and you were right to ask. It's a good question."

"I have lots of good questions."

"You do." You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table. "What's your favourite thing you've learned this year?"

Ellie considers this. Her brow furrows in concentration, and Steve feels her small hand find his under the table, her fingers curling around his thumb.

"Chameleons," she says finally. "They can change color because they have special cells under their skin. But they don't just do it to hide. They do it to talk to each other too."

"That's right," you say. "They do. What else?"

"They're not very fast. So they use their tongues to catch bugs. Their tongues are longer than their whole bodies."

Steve watches you nod, watches the way you're looking at Ellie like she's the most interesting person in the world. There's no impatience in your expression, no hint of hurry or distraction. Just genuine interest. Just care.

"That's one of my favorite chameleon facts," you say.

Ellie beams. Steve feels it—the way her whole body lights up, the way she sits up straighter in his lap, the way she looks at you like you've just given her a gift.

"I drew a chameleon once," Ellie says. "For the art project. It was purple. Do you remember?" She asks shyly.

"I remember." Your voice is soft. "You used seventeen different shades of purple."

"Seventeen," Ellie confirms, nodding seriously.

Steve laughs. He can't help it. Ellie looks up at him, confused, and he just shakes his head and pulls her closer.

"You're something else, bug," he says.

"I know," she says, and you smile, and Steve feels something shift in his chest.

"Ellie," you say, and her attention snaps back to you. "I'm really glad you're in my class this year. You make every day more interesting."

Ellie's cheeks go pink. She ducks her head, hiding her face against Steve's chest, and he feels her smile against his shirt. "Thank you," she mumbles.

"We should probably go," Steve says, and his voice is softer than he intended, eyes flickering to you over the top of Ellie's head.

You nod. "Probably."

Ellie lifts her head. "Can I say bye to the class fish?"

"The class fish is asleep," you say gently. "But you can say bye to me."

Ellie considers this. Then she climbs off Steve's lap and walks around the table to where you're sitting. She's so small standing next to you—the top of her head barely reaches your shoulder—and Steve watches as she looks up at you with those big brown eyes.

"Goodbye, Miss Y/N," she says.

"Goodbye, Ellie," you murmur, smiling at her, and she curls herself around your middle, and you tuck her against your front. Steve feels his heart ache in his chest.

"See you Monday," Ellie says.

"See you Monday." You release her from your hug, and Ellie walks back to Steve and slips her hand into his.

Steve stands up, the chair scraping against the floor. "Thank you," he says. "For everything."

"Of course." You stand too, and you're close enough that Steve can see the freckles scattered across your nose, the small scar on your chin, the way your eyes are a little bit sad and a little bit hopeful all at once. "Have a good weekend, Mr Harrington."

"Steve," he corrects softly.

"Steve," you parrot gently, and his name sounds different on your tongue. Like it was always meant for you to say. "Have a good weekend."

"You too," he murmurs. He walks to the door, Ellie's hand in his. He pauses on the threshold, looks back. You're still standing there, your arms crossed over your chest, your hair falling out of its ponytail, and you're beautiful.

"Dad," Ellie says, tugging on his hand. "You're staring."

"I'm not staring."

"You're staring."

Steve looks down at his daughter. She's grinning at him—that knowing grin, the one that makes him nervous.

"Let's go, bug," he says.

They walk down the hallway together, Ellie's small hand warm in his. The school is quieter now, most of the classrooms dark, and their footsteps echo on the tile.

"Dad?" Ellie says.

"Yeah, bug?"

"I like Miss Y/N."

Steve's heart stumbles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ellie swings their joined hands between them. "She's nice. And she laughs at my jokes. And she knows about chameleons."

Steve smiles. "She does know about chameleons."

"She would be a good mom."

Steve stops walking. He looks down at his daughter — at her serious brown eyes, her messy hair, the purple smudge on her chin. She's looking up at him like she's just stated a fact, like she's said the sky is blue or the grass is green.

"What did you say, bug?" he asks, and his voice comes out strange.

Ellie shrugs. "Nothing. Can we get pizza for dinner?"

Steve stares at her. She's already moved on, already thinking about pepperoni and cheese, and Steve is standing in the middle of an empty school hallway with his heart pounding and his daughter's words echoing in his ears.

She would be a good mom.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, bug."

"Pizza?"

Steve takes a breath. Lets it out. Squeezes her hand.

"Yeah," he says. "We can get pizza."

Ellie grins, and Steve walks her to the car, buckles her in, and he doesn't stop thinking about you for the rest of the night.

He’s always had an easy smile for you, or a friendly word. 

But right now, his smile is gone, replaced with a helpless sort of expression. The top buttons of his coaching polo are undone, and his hair looks mussed, like he’s been raking his hands through it. 

“Hi,” he says, a little sheepish. “Sorry to just show up like this, I—”

Something in his gaze shifts, and his lips part as he takes in your outfit. His eyes rake over you. From your stylish updo, to your sultry eye makeup, to your tight dress, and finally settling on your high heels. 

“Oh—wow. You look…really good. I mean—” He huffs an unbelieving breath. Like he’s just remembering where he is. “I’m interrupting. I can go. I’m going. Sorry!”

You rush to stop him. 

“Hi, Mr. Harrington! No, it’s okay. Do you want to come in?” You step aside, motioning inside. 

“God. Steve. Please. Uh, no, I—” He glances back towards his house. “It’s just…well, you’re a girl, right?”

You chuckle. “Last I checked. Is everything okay?”

He groans, running a hand over his face. Your eyes catch on his long, tapered fingers, tanned by the summer sun.

“God, this is embarrassing. That came out bad. Yeah everything’s fine, it’s just my daughter, Lily,  has a ballet recital tonight. And she’s supposed to wear her hair up in this…scrunchy donut thing? And I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and anyway, I’m sorry. You clearly have a date.” He sighs, then his eyes widen. “Or—plans. I didn’t mean to assume—shit, I used to be better at this.”

“What? Asking for help.”

“Talking to pretty girls.” He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “But yeah, that too.”

You know you should feel bad for him. Stressed, overworked single dad, trying to make it to his daughter’s recital on time. But really, with every rake of his hands through his hair, and every shift of his feet, you can’t help but be amused. 

It’s actually, really cute. 

“Relax, Steve,” you say with a smirk, closing your door and stepping down onto the steps with him. “I’m happy to help.”

Relief floods his face. “Oh my God, really? Are you sure? I mean—”

“Really, I don’t mind,” you assure him with a gentle hand on his arm, already pulling up your phone to message the guy on Tinder. “My date seemed boring over text anyway.”

Steve turns away, but as your hand falls from his warm skin, you catch a small, crooked smile starting on the corner of his mouth. “Hmm. Shit texter? Huge red flag."

You smile. “Right. So, where is this ballerina?”

“Oh, she’s inside. Finishing up her dinner. But I have all the supplies…if you wanna come over and save me from completely ruining her life.”

You smile. “I’d love to.” 

Ten grassy steps later, Steve opens his front door for you.

When you step into his home, heels clicking on his polished wood floor entryway, your heart does a little flip. 

There are girl toys everywhere. 

Pinks, and purples, and glitter, and…is that a play castle?

“Daddy?” a little voice calls from somewhere deeper in. 

“Yeah sweetheart, I’m back,” Steve replies, motioning for you to follow him. "Sorry for the mess, we just got back from practice."

The first thing you see when you round the corner into the kitchen, is a tutu—pink frills stuffed up on a barstool, little legs swinging. But where you expect to find ballet slippers dangling, instead, you find dirty baseball cleats.

Steve’s daughter, Lily, looks over her shoulder as you both enter the open doorway. She looks sweet. 

Very sweet—given the jam smeared around her lips, a messy PB&J in her hand. 

She smiles at you, her brown curls a little mussed, just like her dad’s. And on top of her head, rests a princess hat. It’s one of those long cone ones with a ribbon train hanging down her back. 

Upon seeing her state, Steve surges forward and swipes a paper towel. “Honey, you’ve got jelly all over your face—hey, c’mon.” His voice softens as he leans over to wipe her cheek. “Okay, listen, this is our neighbor—” He pauses and looks up at you. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, actually.”

You tell it to Lily, because for some reason, when you meet Steve’s eyes, you can hardly get a word out. 

“She’s going to help you with your hair for the recital, okay?” Steve adds, a little more upbeat, cleaning the last of the sticky sweetness from his daughter’s face and standing up straight again. 

Lily’s eyes light up. “Can I knight her, Dad? Please?”

He looks over at you and rubs the back of his neck. “We’re in a bit of a medieval phase, lately. Lots of fairytale books from the library, and now it’s…a whole thing.” 

“I love fairytales,” you say. Then you turn to Lily and curtsy as well as you can in your little black dress. “I’d be honored, Your Majesty.”

Lily lets out a delighted squeal and slips off the stool, vanishing into the next room. She’s back seconds later, clutching a glittery wand topped with a star. 

You don't miss the way Steve glances at his watch and grimaces.

You slip off your heels and kneel on the cool kitchen tile just as Lily marches up to you, bowing your head solemnly. 

“My lady,” you say, voice hushed for the ceremony, “as my first act as knight, it would be my greatest honor to do your hair.”

Lily lifts her chin, wand raised. 

“Granted,” she declares.

From across the room, Steve sends you an appreciative look. It turns your stomach all warm and melty. 

You stay perfectly still as she taps the plastic star first to your left shoulder, then your right. “I dub thee…Knight Neighbor.”

You lift your head slowly, like you’ve been entrusted with something of great importance. Lily giggles. Then, you stand and gesture to the kitchen table. 

“Amazing work, Your Majesty,” Steve plays along, nudging Lily towards the chair. “Alright, sit tight, and here, look, I have a mirror you can hold." He turns to you, holding up a handful of supplies.“Here, I’ve got a hair tie and the—uh—donut thing. Do you need anything else?”

You nod. “I’ll need a hairbrush. A fine-tooth comb would be best. And some hair gel if you have any.”

Steve disappears down the hallway, and you turn your attention to the little girl sitting in front of you. 

“Lily, I’ll have to take this off to do your hair. Is that okay?” you ask, tapping her cardboard hat. 

“Oh. Yes.” She spins around in her chair to face you. “But I forgot to tell you, you have to call me Princess Lily.”

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

She turns back around and picks up the mirror. You gently remove her hat and set it aside, careful to place it somewhere it won’t accidentally get stepped on.

“So, Princess Lily, how old are you?” you ask. 

“Five.”

“Wow. So, you run a kingdom, do ballet, and you play baseball?”

She shrugs. “Yeah. Dad says girls can do both.”

You smile behind her, catching her eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “He's right. Girls can do everything.”

Steve’s footsteps thump against the wood as he returns to the kitchen.

 “Okay, I found the comb, but I don’t have gel. Will hairspray work?” he asks, handing you the supplies.

You shrug. “Probably.”

You take a second a second to lay out your supplies, but once everything’s arranged on the kitchen table and you’re expected to start on her hair, you find yourself hesitating. 

The only sounds are the distant hum of a lawnmower somewhere in your neighborhood, and the whisper of tulle from Lily’s tutu as she shifts in her seat. There's nothing wrong, it's just...

Here you are, in your tight date-night dress, barefoot in a kitchen that smells like peanut butter and jelly. 

But it’s not that you feel like you don’t belong here. 

It’s that you feel like you do. 

It’s ridiculous, and completely unreasonable, but you feel it all the same. 

Suddenly, you seem to remember they’re on a time crunch, so you take a steadying breath and quickly smooth back Lily’s hair. 

It’s soft and warm between your fingers as you brush it through. When you spray the hairspray, you guard Lily’s eyes with your hand. She giggles and pretends she’s gone blind. The spray creates a little haze that gathers in the sun beam streaming through the window. 

“This is nice hairspray,” you say dumbly. Partly because it is, but mostly because you don’t know what else to say to fill the silence. You hope Steve can’t hear the rapid staccato of your heartbeat. 

“It’s Daddy’s,” Lily says, 

You look up. Steve’s sending her an incredulous look in the mirror. “I don’t use it that much.”

“You did today,” Lily points out, tilting her face up to look at him. “And you buy girls’ hairspray for yourself!"

She laughs and covers her mouth, like she's just spilled a giant secret.

“Stay still, kid.” Steve scolds, but his hands are gentle as he places a palm on each cheek, turning her to face the mirror again. 

You chuckle softly and look over at him. “You do have nice hair.”

But as the words leave your lips, a blush steals across your cheeks, and you return your gaze to your work. It’s silent for a long moment, and you can feel Steve’s eyes on you like a physical, tangible touch. 

“Thanks,” he says softly. 

The hair tie snaps into place, breaking the tension as you secure Lily’s slicked back ponytail. 

“There,” you breathe. “That’s the hard part. Now, let me show you how to use the scrunchy donut.” 

Steve watches intently as you instruct him in the wild ways of a ballet bun. He nods along, hands on his hips, his breath ghosting your bare shoulder. You show him how to pull the ponytail through and gather her silky strands around the edge, explaining how it makes her hair look fuller. You even show him how to smooth back fly-aways around the edges. But when you finish wrapping her hair, the stubborn ends don’t tuck underneath quite right.

You struggle with it for a minute, then ask, “Do you have any bobby pins?”

Steve exhales, thinking. “Somewhere. I could look around for some—”

“That’s okay. Here—” 

Without thinking, you reach up into your updo and pull the pins free. Your hair tumbles down around your shoulders, and Steve makes a sound behind you, but you’re too busy perfecting Lily’s hair to pay close attention to him. 

You sigh, content, as you step back and review your work. 

“It looks perfect,” Steve says, awe in his voice. “Seriously. Thank you. What do you think, Lil?”

But she’s already slipping off the chair, mirror forgotten. 

“Hey, easy—careful,” he says as she jumps down, half-laughing. 

“Your Majesty, if I may…” you say, stopping her in her tracks. You glance down at her footwear and her eyes follow yours. “Listen, I’m not knocking the shoe choice. But as your knight, its my duty to inform you, that it might be difficult to pirouette in cleats.”

Lily seems to consider this for a long moment. Her little brows furrow together and when her lips twist to the side to think, she looks exactly like her Dad. Something in your chest tightens. 

Steve hurries over and hands her some mini pink ballet flats. “These might work a little better, huh?” He crouches slightly. “You good, or you need backup?”

She shakes her head with a determined tilt of her chin. “No. I can do it.”

“Okay, but hustle, alright? I’m going to walk our knight out. Can you tell her thank you?”

Lily wobbles on one foot as she yanks her cleats off, but it doesn’t stop her from beaming up at you. “Thanks. Bye. And next time you come over, you’ll have a place in the castle!”

You chuckle. “Promoted already, huh? Wow. Knighthood is amazing.”

“Yeah, my dad’s the king, and I’m the princess, so all we’re missing is a queen!” 

You freeze. Your eyes find Steve’s for one charged second before you look away at the same time. 

 Lily nods along to her plan, completely oblivious to the tension in the room as she plops right down on the kitchen floor to slide her flats on. “Sides, your dress is too fancy to be a knight anyhow.”

Steve’s throat bobs on a swallow, and his gaze holds yours for just a second too long. 

“I agree,” he says, finally. “Queen it is.”

“So, King Steve, huh?” you tease him as you slip your heels back on.

Steve tips his head and chuckles, like there’s more to the story and you don’t know the half of it. You wish you could ask him, talk more with him—but he’s already late as it is. 

So, you let him walk you to the door. Outside, the sun is starting to set, casting that perfect golden glow over everything. 

Steve leans on his doorframe and crosses his arms.  You can’t help but notice the way his brown eyes turn to molten honey in this light. 

A heat gathers low in your stomach. Like butterflies, but heavier, and softer. Something you haven’t felt for a long time. 

He sighs, then looks at the ground. “Listen, I’m really sorry I made you miss your date.”

You shake your head. “Trust me, it’s really okay. Dry texter. Remember?”

“Right. Well, I still feel bad. I know how…difficult the whole dating thing is.”

“Me? I’m sure it’s difficult for you.” Your eyes widen. “Not that Lily makes difficult or anything, just that—”

He holds up a hand to stop you, smiling gently. “No, it’s okay. I know what you meant.” He tilts his head and looks out at the sunset. “It’s…different, I guess. But honestly, I think it just makes you a little more careful. Wait for the right person instead of just…going through the motions. You know?”

As he turns back to you and your eyes connect, you know exactly what he means. 

Ignoring the fluttering in your stomach, you turn towards the steps. “Well, have fun tonight. She looks perfect, and I’m sure—”

“Please,” Steve interrupts, reaching for you but stopping himself just in time. “There’s got to be some way for me to repay you for this. You know, according to medieval rules, you’re not supposed to let a knight leave without a token—”

You wave him off. “No token needed.”

“No, I’m serious,” he says, leaning a little closer, playful but intent. “Pretty sure it’s bad luck. Like, for a really long time.”

He holds your gaze. A mourning dove coos, hidden in the branches of a tree in his yard, and suddenly, you realize arguing with him about this is fruitless. You aren't leaving his front porch without something.

And if you somehow manage to, it’s not like he doesn’t know where you live. If he’s as insistent as you think he is, he’ll leave flowers at your door, or you’ll pull up and find him mowing your lawn…better just to get it over with now. 

“Alright, fine,” you concede with a laugh and a gentle roll of your eyes. “What’s the traditional token for knights, huh? A handkerchief? A free beer—” 

“A kiss.”

Your eyes snap to his. Your stomach flips as he tilts his head in an unspoken challenge.

“What do you say?” he murmurs. “Will you accept?”

You can’t stop the way your eyes drop to his lips. Even if you tried. 

 “I will.”

He casts one hurried glance over his shoulder into the house, but the coast must be clear because when he turns back to you, his eyes simmer with heat. 

Your breath hitches as his arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in like he’s been waiting all night to do it. You’re close enough to smell the grass on him from the baseball field, the hairspray in his hair.

His breath caresses your lips, and you feel your eyes slip shut as he leans in. Your noses bump, and you both laugh softly. You’re still smiling when his lips brush yours. 

It’s a hesitant, soft thing. A thank you but in kiss form—genuine and warm. 

But when your fingers find his shirt, and you tilt your chin, inviting a firmer touch, he sighs into your mouth. 

It’s a relieved, desperate sound, as if he hasn’t been touched in ages. Something twinges deep in your chest, and your hand reaches up, threading into his hair and pulling him closer. 

That earns you a deep groan, and when his tongue brushes yours, your ankle buckles in your high heel. 

God, the man can kiss. 

Slow and steady, but hot and needy all at once. It’s so good it makes your head spin. 

“Daddy?” Lilly calls from inside. “I’m ready!”

This kiss breaks, both of you pulling back at the same second. 

But he doesn’t let you go immediately. His hand finds the back of your neck, slipping under your hair, and you swallow hard. You linger there, nose brushing again. Like you’re both barely holding yourselves back from falling into each other again.

“Thank you,” Steve whispers, his voice raspy now. And somehow, you know he means for more than just Lily’s hair. 

“You’re welcome,” you murmur breathlessly.

The soft pitter-patter of ballet slippers coming closer finally has you taking a step back. 

His hands slip from you reluctantly as you step down the stairs.

“And if you ever need anything else…” you wink over your shoulder, just to make sure he catches your drift. “Your knight is right next door.”

a/n: listen, my friend was telling me her husband didn't know how to do a ballet bun for their daughter's dance recital, and she hadn't even finished speaking before my fingers were FLYING typing this up in my notes app.

divider by @cursed-carmine | steve masterlist | come yell at me

College, then a career, marriage, and after several comfortable years, maybe children could enter the picture. You were, after all, eighteen, and the prospect of kids had felt astronomically far away.

(Isn’t life funny sometimes?)

Then the car crash happened.

You don’t remember much of it—bits here, pieces there, some flashes if you thought hard enough that it makes your head hurt—just that one moment you were in the backseat of your family’s car, buckled in and drifting to sleep, and in the next, you were staring up at the ceiling of Hawkins Memorial.

You had survived with some broken bones and a nasty concussion. 

Your family did not.

You were eighteen and alone, having graduated high school only a few weeks prior. And between all of the injuries that you’d sustained and the sudden lack of family to help pay for tuition, you were forced to drop out of college. Your days were instead spent planning funerals from a hospital bed, handling lawyers and life insurance and inheritance. You threw yourself into physical therapy and, once your leg healed, forced yourself into a car, refusing to let yourself vomit from the anxiety of being behind a wheel once more.

You survived it all, and you came out a stronger person on top.

Different, maybe, but stronger.

And throughout it all—through the long hours in the hospital and longer hours rebuilding your strength—was your boyfriend, Mark Lewinsky.

Mark was sweet. Mark was kind. He filled your recovery room with flowers, and once you were discharged, his parents allowed you to stay at their house as you recovered.

But Mark also had a life outside of yours completely crashing down around you, and in August of ’85, he swept off to Purdue without a glance backwards.

The two of you went long distance, with the onus on you to make the hour and a half drive to Lafayette to visit.

And life moved on. Injuries healed, you moved back into your family’s home, and your days were spent with sorting through their belongings, figuring out which items you wanted to keep and which items would be better loved in another home.

Mark called often. Of course he called often! He was your boyfriend, the love of your life, and was even starting to talk about rings and weddings and marriage, and even if your life hasn’t gone the way that you thought it should, at least you could still have the other parts, right?

It was just as things were starting to feel normal again, that you were settling into your new existence, that the earthquake happened.

Mark spent the summer of ’86 bouncing between his parents’ house and your place, filling out the copious amounts of paperwork that the military required for him to be released to go back go college, and before you could wrap your head around it, he was gone.

He was gone, and you were left in this new, strange world by yourself. No Mark, no family, no friends.

Alone.

And it was fine. It was fine.

It was fine up until the military doctor informed you, during one of the mandatory checkups, that you were pregnant.

And then, suddenly, everything wasn’t fine, because it was October of 1986, the military was breathing down everyone’s necks, and you were scared and pregnant and alone and all Mark could say over the phone was, “Babe, are you even sure that it’s mine?”

You seethed. Of course you seethed—you were faithful! You’d been nothing but faithful for two years! You hadn’t even looked at another man, not since Mark asked you out during your senior year! And now you were pregnant with his baby, stuck in a nightmare scenario, he changed his phone number, his parents had moved from town, and you were alone.

Mark, clearly, did not care.

In fact, he didn’t really seem to care until long after you gave birth, not until your daughter, Mia, was nearly two, and he came skipping back into Hawkins after he graduated college, demanding a paternity test.

He demanded a lot of things, really, that you were too exhausted to fight him on. Not with the money behind the Lewinsky name. Not with the way you hadn’t slept for a full night since giving birth. Not with living through a military occupation, abandoned and scared, with a baby who depended on you for everything. 

So you got the test done, and wouldn’t you know it? Mark Lewinsky was, in fact, the father. Except Mark Lewinsky was no longer your boyfriend, and he had a nice, new woman at his side with a nice, new shiny ring on her finger and a nice, new lawyer to demand shared custody.

The only thing you refused to budge on was changing Mia’s last name from yours to Mark’s. You were, after all, the person that carried her in your body, the only parent she knew for the first two years of her life, and you were the one she cried for after nightmares. You were the one that she snuggled up next to after you rented Cinderella from Family Video for the umpteenth time and you knew exactly how she liked her pancakes made. 

She was yours in every way that mattered and nothing was going to change that.

And before you knew it, years passed, and Mia grew faster than you could keep up with. She developed thoughts and feelings and opinions—god, so many opinions that it makes you laugh—and, suddenly, an interest in sports.

(You’re not quite sure where that one came from, seeing as Mark’s athletic prowess had been comical at best and you were too busy in high school with other extracurriculars to even try.)

Which is how you find yourself here, the early June sun beating down on your neck, at Hawkins Middle School with an excitable Mia clutching your hand, surrounded by the newly formed Hawkins Little League Softball Team.

A team that had been spearheaded by none other than Steve Harrington, a familiar face that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time.

Shock spreads across your body at the sight of him jogging towards your ragtag group, and the first thought that crosses your mind is that he looks good. Better than he did in high school, back when the two of you spent a summer fooling around with one another like there was nothing better to do with your time. His hair is a bit shorter than it was back then, a little less styled with the tips curling from humidity, and a white shirt already drenched with sweat sticks to his chest.

Your throat goes dry at the sight of what should be considered indecently short athletic shorts and hairy legs stopping in front of the crowd, and not for the first time, you find yourself regretting that the two of you drifted apart once Mark became a more stable presence in your life.

(Were you ever really friends? You’re not sure, but you gave a piece of yourself to him that summer, and you’ve never once regretted giving it away.)

You rip your gaze away from his legs, tracing the line up his body—which is both so similar and so different from your memory—and find that he’s smiling sunnily at you, recognition crossing his face.

And then, he greets the kids and practice is started.

You make yourself way to the stands with the other parents, watching with no small amount of amusement as Steve corrals a gaggle of five year olds who want to do nothing more than sprint in dizzying circles around him. He takes it all in stride, however, and you find yourself impressed at the everlasting patience he has for the girls with no attention span. 

It would be a lot for any person to handle, you think, but somehow, Steve has a knack for getting the kids to listen to his instructions.

The first practice goes fine. Great, even, for a bunch of hyperactive, uncoordinated give year olds. And even though there isn’t a single kind who actually manages to hit the ball with the stupidly expensive softball bats, but afterwards, Steve gives each and every girl a high five, tells them that he’s proud of them, and reminds them all to drink plenty of water once they get home.

You watch Mia bound over to you, her twin braids flying as she yells, “Did you see? Did you see?”

“I saw!” you laugh, catching the bundle of energy in your arms as she babbles on excitedly about how much fun she had and how much she can’t wait for the next practice.

Your heart sinks, because despite how uncomfortable the metal bench was, you really enjoyed watching her tumble her way across the field. But… the next practice is next week, Mark’s week, and he was already reticent to pay for half of the fees. Would he even stay to watch? Would his wife—a lovely woman in her own right—stay to watch? Will there be anyone to cheer Mia on as she runs in circles? You’re not sure, and it makes your chest hurt to think about that.

Before you can dwell on it too long, though, a shadow crosses over the two of you, and you look up, up, up, to find Steve Harrington in all of his sweaty glory, your name dripping from his lips, and he asks, “Hey! It’s been awhile. How are you doing?

“I’m good,” you say at the same time that Mia, a clingy child on the best of days, does her best to burrow her way into your skin. “I was actually a little surprised to see you here. Didn’t know that you were moonlighting as a coach now, but it looks good on you.”

“Yeah?” he says, a little bashful as he pushes the hair from his eyes. “I coach the baseball little league, too, and was kind of annoyed that the girls didn’t have their own sport, so… yeah. Anyway, is this your niece?”

You open your mouth, ready to respond, but it’s in this moment that Mia chooses to peel herself from your arms and beat you to the punch.

“Uh, this is my mom, Coach Steve. Duh.”

“Mia!” you scold. “God, Steve, I’m so sorry, she’s a little—I mean—”

A booming laugh cuts you off. You watch, stunned, as his head tilts back, the evening sun catching on the column of his throat, the corners of his eyes crinkling from the force of his mirth. Everything about him screams All American Boy as the delight spills from him, and a knot in your chest that you didn’t even know was there eases.

“You’re right, Mia,” he says, holding a hand out to her as a peace offering. “I should’ve known better. Will you ever forgive me?”

Mia sniffs imperiously, eyes him a little warily, but clearly decides that he passes some invisible test when she places her little hand in his large palm. “I guess.”

You take this moment to pry her from your lap, instructing, “Go get a snack from the car, sweets. I’m going to talk to Steve real quick.”

She grumbles something under her breath, shooting you a sour look, but does as told, scampering towards your old sedan.

“So…” Steve starts, hands placed firmly on his hips and his gaze firmly trained on your daughter, as though he’s making sure that she doesn’t run into any trouble in the perilous twenty foot distance between you and her. “Daughter?”

“Long story,” you offer.

He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

You pause, thinking, and realize dimly, Oh, he should know. Especially if Mark drops her off next week. “Well… no, actually.”

You give Steve the abbreviated version—as abbreviated as it can be, anyway, for a tale that is both short and rather uninteresting. Knocked up at nineteen, gave birth at twenty, share custody with her father, Mark Lewinsky, so he’ll be the one at practice next week.

If possible, Steve’s brows raise higher at the mention of Mark. 

“The bench warmer?” he asks, then flushes as if he wasn’t supposed to say that.

But it’s your turn to laugh. “Yeah, him.” Glancing to make sure that your daughter is still out of earshot, you add, “Wouldn’t have been my first choice in fathers, but I got Mia out of it, so… Worth it, in the end.”

“She’s a good kid,” Steve says. “Picked up on what to do faster than the other kids. And I’m not just saying that to, like, stroke your ego or anything. She’s smart.”

“Yeah,” you smile. “She is, isn’t she?”

Life persists and summer continues to grow, the heat swells until it presses into every corner of your life, and the humidity wraps itself around you like a second skin. 

As always, Mia is at your house one week, goes to her dad’s the next, and inevitably she returns with her light a little dimmed and a trembling smile on her face, climbing into your bed every Sunday night after her dad drops her off.

(It breaks your heart, but what can you do? It’s not like they’re mistreating her or anything. She just doesn’t like going out over to Mark’s house, especially not since Mark’s wife announced her own pregnancy.)

And, against all odds, Mia sticks with softball, throwing her tiny little body into practice and drills. She takes to spending every evening with her bat in the backyard, swinging it around wildly as she asks, “Do you think Coach Steve can tell that I’m doing this?”

“Of course,” you reply amiably from your spot on the deck, a book propped open on the table next to you. “Coach Steve is very smart, you know.”

She preens under the thought of praise, and you heart clenches with gratitude that you get to be her mother.

Practices get bumped up to twice a week, too, meaning that every other week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, your evenings are spent in the stands at your old middle school, watching your daughter flail across the field with the grace of a newborn kitten.

There’s a certain amount of affection that wells up in your chest whenever you watch Steve interact with her. He corrects her with a gentle efficiency, lifting her elbow into place, showing her how to stand. It’s hard not to notice just how much she blossoms under his roaring cheers from across the field when she manages to hit the ball, her little legs pumping as she sprints to home base. 

And then—faster than you can process it—she slides her way to the home plate. Tries to slide her way to the home plate, and it’s immediately evident that it completely went wrong when a shrill cry pierces the air. Your blood freezes, and in the next second, Steve’s at her side before you can even stand, scooping her sobbing form up. His big hand settles on her small back as he jogs towards the first aid kit. 

You scramble from the stands, forcing your way through the other parents, and as you make your way closer, you hear him say, “I bet it hurts a lot, Mia, but it’ll be okay. See? It’s just a little cut, don’t worry.”

“But—but—” Her lower lip wobbles, fat tears falling from her eyes. “What if I can’t run anymore?”

If this shocks Steve, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he reaches out gently, dragging a thumb across her cheek as he wipes the tears away, promising in a soft voice, “You’ll be able to run again, I promise. You think a little scrape can prevent that? Come on, Mia, you’re a strong girl. You can do anything you want.”

Your heart melts at the assurance as you slip onto the bench next to her, tucking Mia into your side as he finishes cleaning and bandaging her skinned knees, saying, “There, all done. Look! No more blood. How about you sit here with your mom for a bit, okay? If it hurts a little less, you can come back out, but no worries if not.”

She nods, presses her face into your shirt, and Steve offers you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the rest of the team.

You offer her soothing words and squeezes, smoothing a hand down her back throughout the rest of practice, trying desperately to ignore the way your stomach flips at the mental image of her coddled against Steve’s chest.

It’s inappropriate, you think, to feel so electrified after seeing how kind his is with your daughter.

(But is it really your fault? You’ve seen Mark with her when she’s injured, the way he tends to hand Mia off to his wife when all she needs is a hug, a kiss to the forehead, and an assurance that all will be well. Because Mark is awkward and never quite adapted to fatherhood, and Steve—)

(Steve just seems so naturally step into that role, even for kids that aren’t his own.)

After practice, you stay sitting on the bench, watching as the rest of the team disappears in the parking lot and drives off. It’s only once the last family has left that Steve makes his way back over to the two of you, checks on Mia’s knees and opens his arms up. “Will you ever forgive me, Mia?”

She giggles and throws herself at him, wrapping herself tight around his neck as she buries her face into the crook of his neck.

“I guess,” she says in a way that you know, from experience, means yes. 

Your throat tightens at the sight, trying to remember the last time you’d seen her actual father treating her with so much tenderness.

Steve’s eyes, warm and brown, meet yours, and he asks, “Can I make this up to you? Both of you? There’s a new diner nearby that’s supposed to be good, and it’ll be my treat. I should’ve shown Mia how to safely slide before she ever attempted it, and…”

“Oh, Steve,” you say. “You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he says firmly. “Please?”

“Please, Mom?” comes your daughter’s muffled voice.

You glance down at Mia, at her face still filled with baby fat tucked into his shirt, and find yourself nodding. “As long as Mia wants to, I’m fine with it.”

The smile Steve sends you is blinding.

He leads the two of you towards his car, having insisted on driving, with Mia held close to his chest after she demanded that he carry her as payment—where she learned that phrase, you’re not quite sure—and you find yourself shocked to find a silvery blue pickup in place of a maroon BMW, and you blurt out, “You got rid of the Beamer?”

Steve pauses where he’s opening the passenger door, glancing back at you with something unreadable on his face. Carefully, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, he says, “Figured that it was time for something better.”

“Still, we had some good memories in that car,” you say without thinking.

Steve coughs.

You freeze, face burning.

“Oh my god,” you say. “I’m so sorry, that just—”

“It’s fine,” he wheezes, his cheeks turning a rosy red. “Can’t say you’re wrong, can I?”

And Mia, ever the nosy child, finally puts two and two together. “Mom, did you know Coach Steve before softball?”

“I did, sweets,” you say. “We were friends in school.”

(Which isn’t exactly the truth, but, well, you’re not exactly about to tell your five year old that you and Steve hooked up between relationships, are you?)

“Your mom was the prettiest girl in our grade,” Steve whispers conspiratorially, easing Mia onto the bench seat and nudging her towards the center.

“Mom’s the prettiest girl now,” Mia asserts.

“You’re right,” he seriously replies. Then, as your brain struggles to catch up with the conversation, he turns to you with a hand held out, saying, “Alright, Prettiest Girl, let me help you in.”

Your face feels hot as you slip your hand into his, an electric shock racing up your arm at the contact. His palms are warm and calloused, assured in the way he grips your fingers as his other hand settles on your lower back, helping you up into the passenger seat.

He lingers for a moment, peering up at you, the setting sun making his eyes appear more honey than brown, and he says, “Not so bad, is it? Not as nice as the Beamer, but she’s a sturdy gal.”

And for a moment, you’re sixteen years old again, having your chin tilted up by Steve Harrington at Mayor Kline’s 1983 Fourth of July bash, his chapped lips brushing against yours at the peak of the Ferris wheel. You’re sixteen, and your biggest worry is whether or not your friends will believe you when you say that King Steve kissed you, and his hands are warm and steady on your waist as you wind your arms around his neck, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “God, you’re beautiful.”

You blink, and you’re twenty-five once more, with Steve Harrington—who has long since fallen from his throne—giving you a shy smile as his hand slips from your back, and for a moment you have the delirious thought that he still sees you as you, not the role you’ve filled for the past five years. He sees you as the teenager you once were, stealing kisses in the summer sun, making the windows of his Beamer fog up. He sees the person who once stole seven of his shirts in one night—shirts that still sit in your closet—and the person who once snorted lemonade out of your nose in his backyard.

And then your daughter shifts next to you, clearly antsy, and his gaze dips down to her, reminding you of the person you are now, before meeting your eyes once more.

As if he can sense your thoughts, he quietly asks, “You alright?”

You force yourself to nod, saying, “Yeah, of course. Just, uh, hungry.”

Because if you don’t, you’re going to ask him, Do you still see me as me? Or do you only see me as a mother like everyone else does?

(You’re not sure if you could handle the answer, no matter what it is.)

The drive to the diner is filled with endless chatter from your daughter as she fills Steve in on how she’s starting kindergarten in the fall, every thought and excitement and fear she has pouring from her body, and you watch. You watch the way his fingers curl around the steering wheel, you watch the way he leans over to ruffle Mia’s hair. You listen to the low, soothing timbre of his voice when he assures her that kindergarten isn’t hard, that she’ll have no problem making friends, that she’ll be okay no matter what. 

And for a moment—

For a moment, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve looked like, in another universe.

But you don’t let yourself dwell on that long, because in another universe, Mia wouldn’t be your daughter, and the thought of that makes your chest crack wide open from pain.

Steve helps the two of you out of the truck, doesn’t comment when Mia grabs his hand as well as yours, and holds the door open to the restaurant, ushering you both in and settling you into a corner booth.

Mia orders a stack of waffles—and you note the anguish that flashes across Steve’s face when she announces this to the waitress, wondering but not asking—and you order a sandwich, cautious of not spending too much despite his insistence to not worry about it.

It’s… it’s fun. It’s fun in a way you haven’t felt in a long time, a burden that you didn’t know was there easing from your bones. 

Steve, clearly, is phenomenal with kids, never flinching when Mia’s voice gets too loud or her stories too rambley. He meets her at her level like it’s the most natural thing to do, and you know from experience that it’s not. She’s a precocious child, too smart for her age and always getting into something, and it’s a common complaint you’ve heard from her father when he drops her off at your house. That she isn’t always controllable, as if it’s a crime to let a child roam free, as if a child is meant to be controlled.

(You can’t think about that one without righteous indignation burning through your veins.)

And when the food arrives, he waves you away when you move to cut up Mia’s waffles, saying, “I got it, just enjoy your meal.”

You think that you could cry.

Dinner passes without incident, and you’re nowhere close to surprised when Mia nods off onto your arm, her snores filling the space between you and Steve. He huffs out a quiet, affectionate laugh, goes to pay the bill, and when he comes back, he leans down to gather her into his arms, asking, “You ready?”

He’s quiet as he takes you back to your own car, contemplative, and he wordlessly helps buckle Mia into her car seat, biceps flexing as he protects the top of her head from bumping against the roof of the sedan. 

It should be odd, you think, to let him do this. To let him take care of your daughter without question.

But it’s not like you don’t know him. It’s not like he’s never treated you with the same gentle reverence, either.

(Because you remember high school. You remember your first big breakup, sophomore year, and Steve finding you crying behind the bleachers in the outfield. You remember him sitting next to you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling some napkins from his coat pocket to dab at your mascara stained cheeks. You remember his kindness, back when he was King Steve and you were someone on the outskirts of his universe. You remember him driving you home afterwards and helping you into bed. You remember coming into school the next day to see your ex with a black eye and fat lip, and the warmth in your chest that, for the first time, someone had taken care of you.)

“Thank you,” you say, even if it falls far short of anything else you really want to say. “This… this meant more than you know.”

Steve straightens, gently shutting the door. “It’s no problem, honestly.”

“Still,” you say. “You don’t need to be so nice, Steve. I know I’m just your…”

Your former fling. Someone you filled your afternoons with before Nancy Wheeler broke your heart. A person you probably haven’t thought about in years.

“My friend,” he gently finishes. “You’re my friend.”

You blink, taken aback. “But we haven’t—”

“I know,” he interrupts, still in that soft, soothing tone of his. “But I never once stopped considering you a friend. And…” He pats around the pockets of his jeans, pulling out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been trying to figure out a good time to give this to you.”

You take it, looking down to find a phone number scrawled out.

“I live in a place up near Forest Hills Park now,” he continues on. “Up in northeast Hawkins? Not the trailer park that has the same name, it’s on the opposite side of town. So my number’s obviously changed, but if, you know, you ever want to talk, I’m almost always home around eight. To catch up.”

“Oh.” Your throat feels uncomfortably tight. “Oh, this…”

“You don’t have to,” he quickly says. “Just figured I’d offer.”

Something in your chest warms at the thought. Catching up. Even if you’re confident that there’s nothing in your life interesting enough to catch up on, he’s looking at you so earnestly, so ardently, that you can’t deny him.

“I will,” you promise. “I will. And—my phone number never changed, so if you still remember that—”

“I do.”

You pause, smiling. “You can call me anytime.”

A shy, sheepish grin peeks from his face. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. And for what it’s worth, I’m still living in the same house I did in high school.”

“Really?” he asks, following you around the car as you reach for the driver’s side door. “What’s the story behind that?”

“I don’t know,” you say coquettishly, slipping into the seat. “You’ll have to call and find out, won’t you?”

Sunday comes, and Mia gets whisked off to her father’s house like she always does, and you’re once again left wandering around your house, trying desperately to fill up the time and space that’s usually allotted to parenting. It’s never easy to ignore the way that being a mother has been hardwired into each and every one of your molecules, a small tick tick tick that’s sounding off in the back of your brain like you’re somehow doing something wrong by curling up on the couch, watching reruns on the television instead of reading your daughter a bedtime story.

A few days pass, and Mia calls like she does every night when she’s at her dad’s, telling you about softball practice and feeling the baby kick and what she ate for dinner.

“I don’t think Dad likes Coach Steve,” she whispers over the line. “He always sits in the car at practice and never says ‘hi.’”

This doesn’t surprise you, but you’re not about to tell her that Coach Steve and Dad once got into it over Dad not being good enough at basketball to get off the bench in high school. 

“I’m sure he likes Coach Steve just fine,” you instead say. “Anyway, what else did you do today?

She continues to ramble, you continue to listen, and eventually, Mark takes the phone, saying, “Hey, listen, I had a question for you.”

You sit up straighter. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“I know this is short notice,” he begins. “But my parents bought plane tickets for me, Lisa, and Mia to visit them in Florida next week. They wanted to see everyone before the baby comes, you know? Anyway, I told them that it was your week, but they insisted on it.”

Something in your gut curdles.

And here’s the crux of the issue:

You don’t dislike the Lewinsky's. Sure, they did threaten to sue you into oblivion had you not agreed to the current custody arrangement between you and Mark, and sure, they ignored your calls when you were pregnant, trying to get in touch with Mark after he changed his number. But you can’t forget how they took care of you after your family’s death, either, nor can you forget that they’re your daughter’s family.

(As much as you might think they’re reprehensible people, that’s for Mia to decide when she’s older, and you do your best to keep your opinions away from her.)

You stay silent long enough that Mark says, “And so you don’t lose your time with her, I figure that when we get back, you’ll get the next two weeks before we go back to our normal schedule.”

You purse your lips together. “I’m not happy about this.”

“I didn’t think you would be,” Mark replies. 

“I’ll agree this time,” you say. “But don’t make a habit of it. Have you told Mia? She’s going to be upset.”

“Wanted to ask first,” he says. “Could you pack a bag for her, by the way? I’ll swing by Friday evening to pick it up, and she can say bye to you then.”

“Fine,” you tell him shortly. “Please take some pictures of her while you’re there and send me the copies.”

“You got it,” he says. “I’ll make sure to set some time aside for her to call while we’re down there, too.”

That’s the least you could do, you think bitterly, but force yourself say, “I appreciate it. Give her my love.”

And the line goes dead.

You let out an aggravated sigh, too annoyed to keep sitting. You make your way to the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing the scant dishes you’d left from breakfast. Laundry gets thrown into the wash before you climb upstairs, looking around your daughter’s room as you find a bag, tossing in clothes that Mark’s parents are the least likely to judge, tucking her favorite book in alongside in the fabric, and for a moment, you’re lost.

Adrift.

You’ve never spent two weeks away from your daughter. You had never gone more than seven days without her wrapping her small body around your chest, without hearing her mumble as she dreamed or watching her sleepily walk into the kitchen for breakfast. 

Your life, since May 1987, has entirely revolved around the role of Mom.

Who are you when you aren’t that?

You aren’t sure, and that scares you more than it should.

The rest of your evening is spent aimlessly, listlessly, as you try to find something to fill your time. Your time away from Mia is generally spent catching up on laundry and cleaning and getting ready for her to come back, making sure you have enough food in the house for her lunches and some new books from the library.

What did you do for fun before you were a mother?

You genuinely can’t remember.

Before you can consider it too deeply, your keys are in your hand, sandals are slid onto your feet, and the next thing you know, you’re in the parking lot at Family Video, easing your way inside the familiar store and nodding at the bored teenager behind the register. 

For a moment, you stare at the red curtain in the back, illuminated by the neon sign proclaiming ADULT above it, and you’re tempted. Really tempted. Honestly, when was the last time you had time for yourself like that? But the last time you’d been behind that curtain was the summer that Mia was conceived, when you’d snuck behind it with Mark, giggling like the children as you whispered the names of different titles, mocking and young and so, so in love.

If you go back there now, you’re not sure that you won’t meet the ghost of your former self, still being spun in a circle and covered in kisses with not a single care in the world.

So you pivot left, in the opposite direction of the pornos, towards the new releases and ignoring the door opening behind you as you search for something to fill your evening.

Rows of tapes surround you, some sticking out, movies you would’ve rented without second thought for Mia like 101 Dalmatians and The Brave Little Toaster. Films that are kid friendly, ones you can enjoy alongside her as you wait for a re-release of The Little Mermaid and fight half of Hawkins to snag a copy.

Just as a copy of Father of the Bride catches your eye, a warm voice behind you says, “Hey.”

You jump, spinning around, coming face to face with none other than Steve, who’s smiling down at you like it’s the most natural thing for him to do.

“Oh! Hi, Steve,” you say, clutching your chest. “What are you doing here?”

The second the words are out of your mouth, you feel like a complete idiot. What are you here for? What else would someone go into a video store for?

But he only shrugs, saying, “I caught sight of you walking in as I was driving home, so I figured I’d stop in. I was just about to call you, actually.”

Your heart beats harder than it should at the admission as you thump his arm softly. “Okay, creep.”

He laughs, and your gaze snags on his Adam’s apple as he tilts his head back, carefree in a way you haven’t felt in years.

“You got me there,” he admits. Glancing around, he asks, “Is Mia at her dad’s this week?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And, uh, next week, too. Last minute vacation to Mark’s parents’ place in Florida, apparently, so she won’t be at practice.”

There must be something in your tone—a sadness you can’t force away—because Steve catches your wrist, his thumb pressing comfortingly into the pulse point where your heart flutters against your skin, his voice full of empathy as he says, “That sounds rough.”

You nod, blinking back the torrent of emotions threatening to overpower you. “It’s kind of weird having no kid around, if I’m honest.”

“Hence the movie?” he asks, tilting his head towards the racks.

“Yup,” you say. “Hence the movie.” 

An idea pops into your head, then. And, well, Steve is the one who said that he still considered you a friend, right? 

“Hey, uh,” you flounder for a moment. “Would you want to come by for dinner on Friday? If you’re free? I can cook, you know, to make up for you buying our dinner. We could, uh, watch—” Your eyes cut to the tape next to you, and you snatch it from the shelf. “—Father of the Bride together. Maybe drink beer or something?”

His shoulders soften, and he fixes you with a look that has your knees weak and your stomach flipping as though you were a teenager once more.

“I’d love that,” he murmurs, his thumb worrying a path down to your palm. “But let me get the beer, alright? I’ll feel bad not bringing something.”

“I can agree to those terms,” you say, suddenly giddy. “You said you’re usually home by eight, right? Or—if you want to come home—I mean, come by earlier—I get back from work around four.”

“Is five okay?” he asks. “I’m helping a friend build something during the day, so I want to make sure I can shower before I come over.”

“Five’s perfect!” A grin stretches across your face before you can stop it. “You haven’t developed any allergies since high school, right?”

He shakes his head. “No, and before you ask, I do still eat anything that gets put on a plate, so just make whatever you’d usually eat.”

You already know that you are going to make something nice, and you’re pretty sure he can tell, too, but you lead him towards the register, slapping the tape down on the counter and digging through your purse.

But while you’re pulling your wallet out, Steve’s already handed a ten dollar bill over, telling the cashier, “Have a good night, man.”

“I was going to pay,” you say as he leads you from the store. “Seriously, Steve, let me give you money for it.”

“No can do,” he says. “My mother raised me to be a gentleman, honey. She’d rip me a new one if she knew I made someone as beautiful as you pay.”

You stumble, heat coursing through your body, and his hand quickly puts you right, a steadying presence as you choke out, “Hold on, are you flirting with me?”

“I’ve been trying to since I saw you without a ring on your finger,” he confesses. “But I’m glad it’s working now.”

You splutter incoherently. “Steve!”

Embarrassment flushes at your skin, and in the next moment, it feels as though your entire being is overpowered by him. He leans down, his nose brushing against your own as the smell of his cologne, something deep and woodsy, fills your head. Fingers skim down your arm, and you can practically taste the sweat on his skin as he murmurs, “I wasn’t lying when I said that you were the prettiest girl. And, well…” His gaze very obviously drops down to your lips. “I’d like to rectify that and say you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice,” you breathe, heart beating erratically against your rib cage.

“Am I?” he asks.

For a moment, you think he might do something more, and you feel like that sixteen year old who spent her summer wrapped up in his arms, but the only thing he does is press a chaste kiss to your cheek.

You touch it gently, blinking up at him, and he whispers, “See you Friday?”

And then you’re left standing in the middle of the parking lot, Father of the Bride clutched in your hand as you watch him drive off.

You don’t remember much of the drive home. You don’t remember much of anything, really, just that the second your front door is locked, you’re climbing the stairs to your bedroom, arousal burning it’s way through your entire body.

It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—since you had the freedom to feel this way—that it crashes into you all at once, almost blinding you with how much you want. Want Steve, want pleasure, want something.

Your shirt gets shed first, your bra is thrown towards the hamper in the corner, and you kick your underwear and pants off in one fell swoop before collapsing onto the bed. 

There’s no slow buildup the way you might have once done it, no teasing of your breasts, no swirling around your clit, because god, you are wet and aching in a way that you haven’t felt in so long. Too long.

While one hand roughly grabs your own tit, your other creeps down to the apex of your legs, drifting through the thatch of pubic hair to swipe through your slit, gathering slick on the pads of your fingers. 

You remember, suddenly, the first time you ever slept with Steve, a few months after that breakup in tenth grade. How he had gripped your hips with his big, warm hands—hands that were soft and free from callouses at the time—and brought his mouth down to your cunt, licking a stripe from your hole up, sucking your clit into his mouth and hollowing out his cheeks in a way that had you seeing stars. How you had never felt such pleasure before, how you’d never had someone pay so much attention to you wholeheartedly before, and it’s the image if him peaking up at you from over your pussy that has you plunging two fingers inside, using the heel of your palm to grind into your clit.

It’s messy. It’s hot. It’s mesmerizing, becoming reacquainted with a part of your body that has long lived dormant inside you, to have the thrill of desire run so freely through all of your senses. To have your breasts peak in the cold air of the bedroom, to be able to moan loudly and freely, to so unabashedly become reacquainted with yourself once more.

You pinch a nipple between two fingers, twisting it in a way you once remember Steve doing, gasping breathlessly as your hips jerk up into your hand.

It’s intense, and your orgasm builds fast, faster than it usually does in quick, stolen moments. Your toes curl as heat pools in your stomach, your core aching, and with one more circle of your clit, everything explodes.

You lay there, panting, as the aftershocks of pleasure fissures through your limbs, pulling your soaked hand from between your legs.

If there is one thing that you know, you cannot wait for Friday to arrive.

The rest of the week passes quickly, and you find yourself thrumming with anticipation at the thought of Steve coming over.

(Not that you’re expecting anything, but you can’t even find it in yourself to feel guilty for fantasizing about the feelings of his hands against your thighs.)

Mia still calls every evening, and any happiness of the thought of seeing Steve gets doused when she quietly admits, “I wish I could spend the week with you.”

“I know, sweets,” you tell her. “But you’ll have so much fun with Nana and Grandpa. And I’ll take a week off of work, so we can have a whole week to ourselves when you come back, okay? Plus I’ll give you such a big hug and so many kisses when you come to get your bag tomorrow that you’ll be set for a whole week of hugs and kisses.”

“Mom, I don’t think it works like that,” she whines. “Don’t be silly.”

“Uh, it absolutely works like that,” you say. “Are you questioning me? The same person you called the smartest person in the world?”

“You’re not being smart when you’re being silly!”

You sigh dramatically, shaking your head. “I love you too, Mia.”

It isn’t until later in the night when you’ve finished washing your face and have slipped into pajamas that it hits you.

Mark is coming over. Tomorrow. When Steve is going to be at your house.

Fuck.

You scramble for the phone on your nightstand, punching in the number to Steve’s house that’s sat by your alarm clock since he gave it to you, and you hope and pray that it isn’t too late for you to call.

And for once, luck is on your side.

His voice is a little rough when he answers with, “Henderson, I swear to god, I love you, man, but I haven’t gained any opinions on quantum physic theories since you asked me twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, good for you,” you wryly say. “I’m not here to ask your thoughts on quantum physics.”

There’s a silence, a spluttering, and then Steve chokes out, “Yeah, you weren’t who I thought was calling.”

“Clearly not.” You sit down on the bed, running a finger along a fraying thread on your quilt. “I, uh, needed to warn you about something.”

“Ominous,” he says. “Hit me with it, honey.”

Your face warms at the epithet, and you quickly explain the scheduling blunder you made, rushing to say, “Just—if you’re here when Mark and Mia come over, could you—uh—stay hidden? I’m not embarrassed or anything, but, well, you are Mia’s coach, and Mark has been kind of weird when I’ve had men over before—and you two do have a history—and you can park in the garage and everything so Mia doesn’t see the truck, and I’m so sorry to ask this of you, and—”

“Honey,” he gently interrupts. “I get it. You don’t need to worry about offending me.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, worrying your lip between your teeth.

“Am I sure?” He huffs out a laugh, soft and full of affection. “I was sure when we were sixteen and you pushed me into my pool. I was just an idiot back then, but, you know, I had to thump my head a few times to figure it out.”

“I just…” You press your eyes shut. “I haven’t… it’s been a long time, Steve, and I don’t want to mess this up, but… I’m not the same girl you knew then. ”

“You won’t,” he assures. “And I’m not the same boy you knew, either. I want the woman you are now, in whatever way you’ll let me have you.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, and you whisper, “Okay.”

You can hear the grin in his voice as he says, “Maybe we can talk more about this tomorrow? In person, over some beers?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course. Of course—just—I’ll leave the garage door open for you, okay? And you can come in through the side door. Just shout so, you know, I know when you’re in my house.”

“Anything for you, honey,” he says. “See you then?”

“See you then,” you promise.

The next day passes slowly, and you end up taking a half day, feigning illness convincingly enough that your boss lets you go without complaint.

Your house gets scrubbed from top to bottom, new bedding gets spread across your mattress, dinner is prepped, and you take a gloriously long shower, scrubbing every inch of your body until you’re satisfied.

You make your way back into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your body, digging through your dresser to find something, well, sexy to wear.

(Not to be presumptuous or anything, but… you didn’t want to be caught off guard, either.)

It’s as you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears when you hear the creaking of the screen door. Seconds later, Steve’s voice calls out, “Honey, I’m home!”

You roll your eyes, affection blooming in your chest, and you call back, “One moment!”

With one more glance in the mirror to make sure everything is where it’s supposed to be, you make your way down to find Steve in the living room, a six pack of beer in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other, smiling nervously as you make your way closer to him.

“These are for you,” he says, thrusting the flowers towards you.

You take in the sight of him slowly, savoring it as your fingers brush against his, accepting the bouquet. His hair’s curled at the ends, like he’d taken a shower and didn’t dry his hair all the way afterwards, and he has a nice, linen button down tucked into dark wash jeans, clearly having put effort into looking nice.

For you.

“You look handsome,” you say shyly.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “You look beautiful.”

You shake your head, moving past him towards the kitchen. “You have to say that,” you say. “I made you dinner.”

“I’d say that even without the promise of food,” he tells you, falling into step behind you. “But I won’t lie, the food is a motivator.”

It should be a little awkward, a bit uncomfortable, but the only thing you feel is safe.

It’s easy, you think, to share a space with Steve. Even if you hadn’t talked to him in nearly a decade, even if the shape of your life has changed so much since you first befriended him, he still knows you at your core. He knows what makes you laugh and what you like. He remembers how to work your oven, preheating it for the ziti that you prepped, and he slides an open beer across to you without prompt, bumping his foot against yours underneath the breakfast table you’re both sat at as you wait for the pasta to bake.

It’s almost enough for you to forget who you are outside of this small bubble you’ve created, for you to forget the person you’ve become in the years you didn’t see Steve. 

Almost, up until the doorbell rings, and Steve hangs back as you bring the bag of Mia’s clothes to the front porch, easing the door shut behind you.

You’re not shocked when Mia throws herself at you, tears already streaming down her face as Mark taps his foot impatiently behind her, blubbering incoherently about missing and sad and Mom in a way that has your heart shattering into a million, tiny pieces.

“Oh, sweets,” you murmur into her hair, holding her tightly to your chest. “It’s just a week, sweet girl. You’ll be home before you know it, and you’re going to have so much fun.”

“But I don’t wanna,” Mia sobs, little hiccups bubbling from her. “I wanna stay here, Mom, I don’t wanna go to stinky Florida!”

Mark scowls. “Amelia, honestly. This behavior is ridiculous. I’ve already told you that we’re visiting Disney. Don’t you want to meet Minnie Mouse?”

You shoot Mark the nastiest glare you can manage. 

“Not without Mom!” wails Mia, gripping your shirt even tighter.

“Baby,” you try again. “It’ll all be okay. You won’t even have time to miss me!”

“You’re lying,” she shouts, though her words are muffled from the way her face is pressed into your throat. “I always miss you!”

(And if that doesn’t make you want to pull her into the house and lock the door.)

Mark lets out an exasperated noise, glancing towards the idling car, and you know it’s time for them to go. Forcing yourself to stand, you gather Mia up in your arms—even if she’s just a bit too heavy for you to comfortably carry—and make your way towards the backseat.

She screams the entire way, tiny fists pounding on your back as you pull open the door. Mark’s wife, Lisa, gives you a sympathetic look when you’re forced to pry Mia’s hands from the fabric of your shirt, choking back your own tears as you buckle your daughter into her booster seat. You capture her face between your hands, pressing kisses to every surface of her face that you can reach, even as she screeches in protest.

You barely manage to utter out one final I love you so much, sweets before Mark nudges you out of the way, slamming the door shut as he says, “If you didn’t coddle her so much, she wouldn’t act like this.”

There are plenty of things you want to say. You could say, words that have been simmering under the surface for years. Insults, injuries, all sorts of horrible thoughts you’ve buried ever since Mia came screaming into the world on an early May morning, but you choke all of it back, snapping, “Have you considered that, maybe, if you’d wanted to be a father when she was born, she would have more of an attachment to you, Mark.”

“The town was in lock down,” he argues.

You shake your head, not pointing out the fact that he changed his god damn phone number so you couldn’t to reach him. “You could’ve tried, asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” he snips, stomping his way over to the driver’s side. “At least I’m not an uptight bitch.”

The only thing that stops you from losing it entirely is the knowledge that your daughter will hear it, and you refuse to be the parent who does that to her. Instead, you say, “You better call once you’re settled at your parents’ house. I want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grunts, slamming the car shut, effectively cutting the conversation off.

You stand there, waiting in the driveway as he pulls out, memorizing the shape of your daughter’s face pressed against the window, the way her little fingers claw at the glass, and you hold yourself tightly, trying desperately to not let her see just how much pain this situation is causing you.

(You would do anything to prevent her from shedding another tear again, and it kills you to be the cause of her anguish now.)

Once his car disappears from sight, and you force yourself back into the house, kicking the door shut behind you. 

Steve looks up from his place on the couch, takes one look at your face, and opens his arms up in the same way he had for your daughter just a few weeks prior. It’s easy, then, to crawl onto his lap the way you once did in high school, to let yourself be held tightly, to press your ear against his chest and listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, dragging a hand down your back.

You sigh, pressing your eyes shut. “Mark’s just an asshole, and Mia hates spending more time with him than she has to, but there’s nothing I can do about it. She’s still so young, and even if I had the money to take him to court for full custody, it would be hard to when the courts wouldn’t take her opinion into consideration. I try my best, but… but seeing her cry, I don’t know. Makes me wonder if I’m doing the right thing by not letting her choose now, you know? But despite everything, they’re her family, and she should know them.”

“What a douche bag,” Steve bluntly says. 

A laugh bursts from you, unbidden. “Did I ever tell you that he accused me of cheating on him when I announced that I was pregnant?”

A scandalized noise erupts from his throat. “No.”

“Yes!” You sit up, meeting Steve’s eye. “And because he was at Purdue, I had to call him. He asked, ‘are you sure it’s mine?” then changed his number so I couldn’t contact him! He only showed up when Mia was two and demanded shared custody after the paternity test said that he was the father.”

“Seriously?” Steve scoffs. “What an asshole. You know, he never watches Mia at practice, either, and always looks annoyed when she tries to talk to him about it. I’ve even told him that she was really good and he just glared at me! Glared! He doesn’t deserve her.”

“No,” you agree. “He really doesn’t.”

“You know…” A small smile crosses Steve’s face. “I bet the reason he’s so pissy about it is ‘cause he’s mad that she’s better at softball than he ever was at basketball.”

“I bet you’re right,” you say. “He can’t handle the blow to his ego.”

A beat passes, his grin widens, and before you can stop it, giggles spill from your lips as all tension leaves your body. 

It feels good to talk to someone about your daughter’s shitty father, to have Steve so easily validate every annoyance you’ve ever felt towards the man. It feels like you’re not as crazy as you're left feeling half the time after interacting with the man, to know that you’re not as alone in the world as you felt even five minutes prior.

The timer on the oven goes off, and the two of you make your way into the kitchen. Steve pulls plates from the cabinet, talking about the baseball team he coaches as you pull the baking dish from the oven, putting it on the breakfast table while he sets silverware down.

And dinner is…

It’s nice.

It’s simple, and it’s easy, and you feel like you, but in a way that doesn’t feel at war with your role as a parent. Like Steve sees both sides of you, understands that they are two sides to the same coin, and he likes you that way.

He talks about his life since high school. A shitty job at the mall, a shittier job at Family Video once the mall burnt down. The years spent working weird jobs, taking care of a gaggle of kids you vaguely remember seeing him with in high school. He tells you how he lied to his parents about how he couldn’t get into college, having not known what to do with his life and not wanting to disappoint them.

“I guess I thought they’d find it easier to accept that I was too stupid to be accepted,” he explains. “Though, as it turns out, they wouldn’t have had an issue with me just saying that I wanted to take a gap year.”

“Did you end up going?” you ask, sipping at your beer. “To college, that is.”

He leans back in his seat, stretching his arms behind his head. You don’t miss the flash of tummy, the trail of hair leading south that had not been there the last time you saw it. 

“I did,” he says with no small amount of pride. “Graduated this past May, actually. Got a degree in physical education from Ball State. I’m starting at a gym teacher at the middle school in the fall.”

“Holy shit!” You reach over, squeezing his leg. “Congrats! That’s huge!”

He beams, but shrugs bashfully. “It’s no big deal.”

“Don’t be modest,” you scold. “That’s amazing. Mr. Harrington, gym teacher. Has a nice ring to it.”

“You think?” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the wooden tabletop. “So… you told me to call and ask why you’re still living here. Do I still need to do that, or can I ask now?”

“Hm.” You pretend to contemplate it, dragging your gaze across the kitchen, your eyes catching on the fridge covered in your daughter’s drawings. “I guess I can tell you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a fun story.”

“Not everything has to be,” he says.

And that’s all the assurance you need.

He listens attentively as you describe the car crash you don’t really remember, the one that ended the lives of your family just a couple of weeks after you graduated high school. The physical therapy, the fact that you lost your spot in college from all the medical issues. The way you planned to go once you healed, just somewhere closer to home, somewhere more affordable so you didn’t blow through the money you inherited. But then one thing led to another—the earthquake, the quarantine, the pregnancy—and your life had once again flipped upside down.

You talk about the early years with Mia. The labor that had lasted for thirty-one hours, the nurse who all held your hand as you pushed, the one for whom you named Mia after. The exhaustion, the late nights and early mornings, how you felt so, so much love for the tiny creature that you created from nothing, who felt so alien and so familiar at the same time. You tell him about her first laugh and first words and first steps, her propensity to get into trouble even from such a young age. How you bawled at her first birthday party, an event that was only attended by neighbors because, at that point, all of your friends had moved on with their lives while yours was completely centered on Mia.

You tell him about the day that Mark came crashing back in, the fury that you felt, how you had screamed at him so loudly that a neighbor came over to see if they needed to call the police on him for trespassing. The way you felt so small when his parents came in with money and lawyers and more things than you could ever hope to provide your daughter on a meager salary, how you’d been bullied into giving up more of your time with Mia than you ever wanted. 

You tell him everything that you can think of, and when you’re done, you steel your nerves, look Steve straight in the eye, and say, “There’s another thing.”

He nods. “Yeah?”

“I can’t…” You chew on your lip. “I won’t do anything to hurt her, Steve. I can’t have you in my life as… as someone who’s flirting with me, or doing something more. Not if you don’t understand that we’re a package deal. She’s everything to me, and I would rather die than have her hurt over a choice I made. And I know this is a lot, and I know this is intense, but—I’m telling you right now. You’re either all in or you’re out. We can be friends, and we can hang out, but if you want anything more… you have to understand that she will always come first.”

“I know,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honey. Whatever you’ll let me have, whatever parts of your lives I can be in, I want that. I want you. Both of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.”

Something in your chest eases at the admission, a nervousness dissipating.

Slowly, he leans in, the gap between the two of you closing, and he whispers, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut.

And his lips crash into yours.

Your fingers scramble up, gripping his chin as he pulls you forward, off your chair and onto his lap.

It feels as though you’re on fire, sparks shooting across your skin with every rough drag of his lips, with every nip of his teeth. You tilt his head so you can have a better angle, and when he lets out a wanton groan, you feel alive.

His calloused palms skim their way under your shirt, settling on your waist as you moan into the kiss, open mouthed, drawing his tongue in. 

It’s messy, and it’s a little clumsy, but you find that you don’t care. Not when you can feel him hot and hard against your leg, and not when he whimpers against your lips as you tug on his hair.

“Honey,” he whispers. “Don’t torture me.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” you say, pulling away. A trail of spit connects the two of you, and you take in just how incredibly wrecked he looks already, with his pupils blown wide and a heavy flush on his cheeks. “Would you… do you want to go upstairs?”

“More than anything,” he admits.

You stand and capture his fingers between your own, tugging him through the house and up the stairs.

It isn’t until you enter the expanse of your bedroom that the nerves start to get the better of you, and you put your hands on his chest, stopping him from ducking down to kiss you once more as you say, “I have something else to tell you.”

“What is it?” he asks, pressing his forehead into yours.

“Just… I…” You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment flooding your system.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me, honey. Are you having second thoughts? We don’t have to do anything—honestly, I wasn’t expecting—”

“It’s not that,” you quickly interrupt. “It’s not—it’s just that—I’m different now. My body—it looks different from how you remember it. It’s softer, and I have stretch marks, and—I’ve had a baby. I don’t look the same.”

A kiss, gentle yet effervescent, is pressed into your temple. “That doesn’t matter to me at all. You grew a person. You think I’m supposed to feel anything other than awe over that?”

“I’ve had—other people have told me it’s gross,” you confess. “I just… I wanted to prepare you, is all.”

“Oh, honey.” It’s said so softly that you barely hear it. “I could never be grossed out by you.”

Your eyes fly open. You see the honesty on his face, along with the unbridled desire as his gaze dips down, and before you lose your nerve, you reach for the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and off and tossing it somewhere out of sight.

The reaction is immediate.

It’s gratifying, honestly, how clearly he wants you. How clearly he desires you, and everything that comes with it. Enough so that you’re pushing your pants down, asking, “Am I the only one getting undressed tonight?”

He grabs the end of his shirt with a fervor, completely and utterly uncoordinated, and you can’t help but giggle from his enthusiasm.

That is, however, until you see his chest. The way a forest of hair has completely taken over, yes, but the mottled silver scars that cover the tanned skin, tracing down his sides and stopping mere inches from his boxers.

You want to ask, but when you look back up at his face, you recognize the situation for what it is: A conversation for a different time, a different day, where you have the time and space to become reacquainted with one another on a deeper level.

He steps closer, then, and you remember thinking how much of a man Steve had seemed back in high school, back when you were just a girl yourself and he was the most grown person you’d slept with. All confidence and bravado and hard lines, a tendency towards your pleasure before his own like it was his solemn duty. But you had been utterly wrong about whatever masculinity that you assumed he had back in high school. 

The boy he was then has nothing on the man he is now, the kind of man who has grown into his own body, who is comfortable in who he is above all else. One that’s softer, less toned, but somehow more powerful than before. Covered in the kind of hair that can only come with life experience and age, a surety in his hands that no one else has ever had as he reaches for your hips.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he warns, his lips brushing over your own.

You tilt your chin up, grinning, and he presses forward.

It’s softer now, less frenzied. He takes his time mapping every part of your face as he presses you back into your sheets, covering your body with his own. You reach behind you, unclasping your bra and tossing it away, desperate to feel the wiry hair on his chest brush against your nipples, and you mewl at the sensation. 

Steve huffs a laugh into your mouth, planting his lips down your chin, ghosting his teeth over the column of your beck and down to your collar.

He pauses, then, one big, calloused hand coming up to cup your breast, his thumb dragging over the peak, and he whispers, “I know I keep saying this, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone more beautiful than you are.”

“You’re cheesy,” you say.

“Only for you,” he replies.

A kiss is pressed onto your sternum, then a little bite, and before you can process it, your entire nipple is sucked into his mouth, his tongue lavishing circles around the bud as his hand comes up to play with your other breast.

“Fuck, Steve,” you gasp, threading your fingers through his hair.

He peeks up at you, his brown eyes glowing in the darkness of your room, and grins with your tit still in his mouth.

It’s obscene, yet you feel so, so hot, especially as his hand travels down your body, making its way to your wet, aching core.

“So pretty for me, honey,” he murmurs, releasing your breast with a pop. “So, so pretty.”

He traces a path down, his tongue leaving a trail of spit as he goes, and for a moment, you think he’s going to just dive in, ripping your panties off and feasting the way he once did, but he doesn’t. He stops at your stretch marks, and carefully, begins to plant a kiss on every single one that he can find, mumbling beautiful and gorgeous as he goes. 

Your entire head goes fuzzy at the sight, and you think he can tell by the dopey grin he shoots you as he asks, “Do you still think I don’t love this?”

“You’re a perv,” you moan, his thumb pressing down on your clit through your panties. “And a freak. I can’t believe—”

“Only for you,” he promises. “Only for you, honey.”

Fingers come up to the elastic of your underwear, and with your permission, he begins the torturous process of peeling them down your legs, tossing them to the side without a care before spreading you open once more.

You aren’t surprised when he pampers kisses along your inner thigh, easing his way towards your core, to where you want him the most. You can feel the mess you’re making despite the fact he’s barely touched you, and you see the delight on his face when he makes his way home, stroking a hand through your pubic hair before spreading your lower lips apart.

“I missed this,” he says, then dives straight in.

The next thing you know, his tongue is everywhere. Dipping inside your cunt, swirling around your clit. He flattens it, licking a long stripe up as he peers at you through the thatch of hair, and you feel completely and utterly incoherent as pleasure builds faster than you’ve ever felt before.

Two fingers nudge their way inside, curling, finding the spot that has your thighs squeezing Steve’s head. You can feel his laugh, rather than hear it, as it vibrates against your pussy in a way that has your hips jerking up, desperate, chasing—

“That’s it,” he says, twisting his hand. “Come for me, honey.”

And you do.

Loudly.

A moan is ripped from your throat, bouncing around the walls as you tangle your fingers into his hair, stars shooting across your eyes as he holds you in place.

You feel like you’re on fire, like you’ve somehow been born anew as he works you through your orgasm, brushing a thumb against your clit as you shake and shake and shake, coming down slowly from the highest high you’ve ever felt in your life, until slowly, finally, your limbs stop trembling, and every single one of your muscles goes lax.

“Wow,” you whisper, forcing your eyes open and down towards the man still planting kitten kisses against your pussy. “Wow, Steve. You got—a lot better at that.”

“Yeah?” He shoots you a lopsided grin. “I’m glad.”

You tug on his hair once more, pulling him back up your body. “Come here.”

He follows, and you pull him towards your mouth, savoring the taste of you on his tongue as he kisses you deeply.

It’s perfect.

You reach down, hooking your thumbs into the elastic of his boxers, and he pulls back suddenly, saying, “Uh, when I said I wasn’t expecting anything—I meant it. I don’t—I didn’t bring protection.”

“It’s alright,” you say. “I have an IUD.”

His eyes blow wide open at that, and the next thing you know, his lips are crashing into yours once more as he helps you shuck his underwear. You take him into your hand, finding him warm and somehow bigger than you remember, but still so utterly him and utterly real.

His hips stutter as you give a few, testing pumps, and he whimpers against your mouth, pleading, “Don’t tease.”

“Not teasing,” you say. “Just feeling.”

His forehead drops to your collar as you continue to stroke him, up and down and up and down, dragging your nails across sensitive skin, soaking in the way he moans so beautifully under your ministrations. 

“Honey,” he groans. “Please, please, may I fuck you?”

“Well,” you giggle. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

You yelp when he catches you under your knees, pushing up, up, up until you’re practically folded in half, the tip of his cock dragging through your folds, gathering wetness. He looks up, locking his eyes on you, before slowly—torturouslyslow—he pushes in. 

Your mouth drops open as a loud moan is punched from your throat, savoring the feeling of how he drags against your walls, filling you up in a way that you could go crazy over.

He eases out, testing, and gives a shallow thrust, testing, teasing, as he carefully fucks each and every single inch back into you until finally, finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with your pussy.

And for one, small, excruciating moment, you know what it feels like to be home.

He leans over your body, capturing your hands in his own, winding your fingers together as he presses your foreheads together, the obscene sound of him fucking you gently filling your head.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs against your open mouth. “So, so beautiful, so mine—so lucky, honey, I’m so lucky—”

Tears of pleasure spring in the corners of your eyes, falling down your cheeks, and you let out a breathy laugh when he licks them up, loving the feeling of his tongue against your oversensitive skin. 

It’s never, not in any of your years of sleeping with people, made you feel as whole and complete as you do now, with Steve making space in your body for himself, with the unbridled pleasure he gives you with each and every thrust. 

It almost slips from your lips—an inappropriately timed expression of love—and you think he can tell, because he whispers, “I know, honey, I know.”

“Steve,” you gasp. “Steve.”

He picks up the pace, his hips snapping against yours faster, punching the air from your lungs as bliss lays claim on every single one of your senses.

“Please,” you babble, “please please please, come in me, please—”

“Fuck,” he grunts, then captures your lips so roughly that they’ll no doubt be swollen by the time morning rolls around.

He gives a last few, harsh, stuttering thrusts as warmth spills inside you before collapsing on top of you entirely.

It takes a few minutes, ones you spend stroking a hand down his muscular back, becoming reacquainted with the feeling of his skin, before he pulls out and rolls off, saying, “I could do that every day.”

You tilt your head, giving him what is no doubt a dopey smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

It takes a bit for the two of you to clean up, with Steve insisting on carrying you to the bathroom and laughing when you slip from his sweaty grip.

He finds a wash cloth in the linen cabinet, taking care to be mindful of any sensitivity on your end as he drags the cloth through your folds, washing his spend from your skin.

He also, in the years apart, has apparently lost all sense of shame and insists on staying in the bathroom as you pee, holding your hand like you were at risk of flying away if he were to turn away for just a single second.

It should be embarrassing, but you find that you’ve long since moved past any sense of shame when it comes to Steve Harrington.

Back in your bedroom, he tugs soft pajamas from the dresser and insists on dressing you, kneeling on the ground as he helps you step into underwear, his hands warm against your legs as he pulls up the fabric. 

The two of you move back to the bed, crawling under your old quilt, and instinctively you reach over to the alarm clock, flicking on the radio as Jimmy Lee’s Late Night at the Squawk plays.

“You know,” Steve murmurs against your cheek. “One of those weird jobs I mentioned earlier? One of them was at the radio station.”

“Yeah?” you ask, a little too sleepy to say anything else.

He nods, his hair ticking the soft skin of your face. “Uh-huh. Back during lock down, in ’87. I did the late night set at the Squawk, Monday through Friday.”

Everything in your body stills. “Are you serious?”

His eyes peel open, fixing you with a curious look. “Yeah. Robin—my best friend, she handled the morning show—always said that she had to put me late at night, ‘cause my music choices were too boring.”

“No, it’s not—” Your heart pounds erratically, and it feels as though flowers have wound themselves around your ribcage, blooming under the admission. “Steve.”

“Yes?”

“Mia was born in ’87.”

“I know,” he says.

“No, no, you don’t—”

A laugh bubbles from you, and he hitches himself up on an elbow. “I’m missing something.”

“That was you!” you say between giggles. “Oh my god! No wonder she likes you so much!”

“Honey?”

“After Mia was born,” you start, grinning like a madman. “When it was just me and her, the only way I could get her to sleep was by tuning the radio to the Squawk whenever your show was on. But I had no idea it was you—I was so exhausted, you know?—and your voice—oh, god, your voice—it was the only thing that ever soothed her to sleep without fail.”

“Are you…” He licks his lips, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Are you serious? She…”

There’s something in his expression—hesitation, wonder, affection—that brings tears to your eyes, because you know that look. You know it intimately, because it’s the same way you feel every single time your daughter does something that surprises you, every time she grows just a little more into her own person.

And it’s a look that you have never, not a single time, seen on Mark’s face when he looks at her.

Something in you bursts, a swell of tenderness, of hilarity, over the fact that it took so long to find someone who might even remotely feel the same way about Mia that you do. And that person—that man—the one who so carefully cleaned her scraped knees, is the same man who once applied the same, careful precision to wiping tears from your face when you were nothing but a stranger to him.

It took so long, and he’d lived so close the entire time.

“You know,” he says, sounding rather choked up. “I—don’t kill me for saying this, but—I wish I’d run into you sooner.”

You find his hand in the dark and squeeze, hoping and praying that it conveys every single thing that you feel.

He threads his fingers through yours and squeezes back. 

“I’ve wasted so much time that I could’ve spent with you, with her,” he whispers. “I… I was serious earlier, when I said that I’ll take the two of you, in whatever way you’ll have me.  I’m all in, honey. She’s just—god, she’s an incredible kid, and you—I don’t even know where to begin, but—fuck.”

But he doesn’t need to explain.

It's nothing expensive—not a box suite for the corporate assholes or the celebrities—but it's stationed by deep left field where Steve Harrington is prone to hit his homers. Sure, he isn't bigger than your thumb if you were to hold your hand up to home plate from how far you're actually seated.

But it's where the fans will swear by, the true fans that boo and disparage their favorite player's name from a place of utter love. You've been coming to games since you were a kid, propped up on your dad's knee and your beady little eyes trying to find patterns of why your father would cheer or boo at the screen.

Now you're just like him, a crashout queen made in his image.

"Stay on the bag, stay on the fuckin—!" You shout when a player on your team attempted to steal second base before nearly getting picked off by the catcher.

Steve Harrington's still at bat but the count's full now. It's the ninth inning with two outs, one run down from the opposite team, and one player on first base.

One homer and your team wins the game.

The pitcher winds up the pitch before letting loose. The ball's a blur and you lose it before the unmistakable crack of a bat echoes throughout the field and you see it.

It's soaring above the green and you're immediately on your feet with the rest of the crowd. You've got a gloved hand held above you, ready to catch it and—

"OOH—"

The crowd groans in sympathy when the ball lands right on your temple and your vision nearly goes white, slumping down into your seat absolutely dazed. The world spins around you as an unmistakable dull yet sharp pain blooms on the side of your head.

"… some help here! She's …"

Voices and sentences and misshapen syllables flood your brain before you feel your body lifted and placed on a gurney. Despite the pain that's taking over, a stab of embarrassment makes itself known when you're carted away.

Soon enough, your vision blacks out.

—

The first thing you see is white, fluorescent lights when you come to and the first thing you feel is a horrific throbbing in your right temple. Your vision is blurry for only a moment before the world clears out and comes into view.

"Careful."

A medic with a badge that read 'Vickie' gently stops you from touching the bandage wrapped around your head. You look up in confusion as you try to recall how you even got here.

"What— what happened? Where am I?" The wax paper beneath you crinkles as you shift on the exam table that's inclined up to a seated position. You find yourself in what looks like a small doctor's office, a few diagrams of the human body on either side of you and a monitor atop a table with a rolling stool.

You aren't alone.

"You have some luck," Vickie chuckles as she hands you an ice pack wrapped in a paper towel to hold to your bandaged head while Robin leans against the exam table beside you. She doesn't care for sports but tags along to a game whenever you bribe her with a new vinyl. For once, she's happy she came to this one; she'd hate to get the call from home that you got hit with a ball and she wasn't there to witness it herself. "Harrington's homer landed right on your pretty head. Minor concussion and some bruising but otherwise, you'll be fine."

You blink up at her before you glance behind her to see Steve Harrington himself hovering by the doorway. He hasn't even changed out of his uniform, his chest and knee still smeared with dirt from where he had slid home from the sixth inning. His infamous hair is still defying gravity but it sits crooked, as if he's been running his hands through his tresses. It barely distracts away from the concern and guilt swimming in those warm eyes from the fact that he might've caused permanent damage to your head—

"Okay, but did we win?"

An incredulous laugh escapes the medic and Steve but your face doesn't twitch at all, brows set with determination. Robin shakes her head but a smile threatens to lift the corner of her lips. "She's absolutely serious, by the way. Better answer before she hightails it to the field to see the score herself."

"Yes, we won." Steve clears his throat bfeore stepping further into the room. His broad shoulders practically fill out the doorway and you swallow nervously. You're wearing his jersey but he's too busy staring at the growing bump on your head. "But are you okay? Dizziness or nausea or—" He looks up to the medic who's growing more and more entertained at their frazzled designated hitter. "Is she actually okay?"

"She's fine, Steve. Checked her vitals, all she'll get is a nasty bruise and maybe a signed baseball?" Vickie hedges with a knowing grin and he startles as if he was jolted with an electric shock. He digs into his pocket behind him to retrieve a dirty ball as Vickie hands him a sharpie from a cabinet nearby.

You already lack impulse control with your mouth as it is but maybe the minor concussion had just bulldozed through whatever flimsy brain-to-mouth filter you had because you scoot to the edge of the medic table to get closer to Steve.

"Just a signed baseball? I could've died, Harrington."

Steve balks. "Uh—" The sharpie draws a smear through the seam when he flinches at how close your pretty face is. "What— I mean, is there anything you want? Anything at all."

You shrug casually. "Season tickets, maybe?"

Steve's smile is beaming when he laughs, fully charmed by your dry humor as he fixes up his signature. He hands the ball to you, tries not to focus on how warm your fingertips are when they brush against his calloused ones. "I'll see what I can do."

A comfortable silence befalls both of you and you wait to see if this is where this dream-like interaction ends but Steve makes no room to move. His eyes keep glancing up to the bandage, his eyes tightening in a look that you're starting to recognize as guilt and worry.

"I'm fine, Steve. Seriously," you chuckle. "It hurts a little, but that's it."

He nods and reaches out to brush aside a few strands of your hair, fingertips skimming along the white bandage. Vaguely, you recognize Robin and Vickie chatting it up behind Steve. Before you can dwell on it, the athlete draws you back in with a soft chuckle.

"Your eyes are wandering, could be a sign of brain damage. Sure you're good?"

Your brows furrow in slight frustration. "I'm good, I promise." To drive your point home, you lift a pinky up for a pinky swear.

Steve's smile makes your heart flip as he indulges you, linking his pinky around yours. The tightening in his eyes is gone now. He looks cuter like this, boyish and eager as he seems to hype himself up for his next reply. "Yeah? Good enough to maybe… go on a date with me?"

A wave of giddiness erupts in your chest but your face is nearly stoic as his question settles into the silence that blooms within the room. Vickie and Robin are watching in rapt attention, eyes wide in surprise.

"Is this a pity date?"

The confidence in Steve's eyes are obliterated as they go wide, tripping over his words. You fight the growing smile on your face. "What—no!"

You don't stop and Robin groans into her palm, catching onto your twisted sense of humor. "What if I was ugly? Would you just have offered me free tickets than a date after busting a baseball right into my head?"

"No-! Jesus, I wouldn't—I mean, would you rather prefer free tickets?" Steve's digging himself into an early grave; Dustin's been saying he's been losing his touch. This is what he gets for flirting with the pretty girl that he just gave a concussion to. "I could just give you free tickets…?"

But to make matter worse, you pout. You pout and Steve's ready to shove his head into the pitching machines to atone for his foot-in-mouth disease.

"Oh my god, you think I'm ugly?!"

Steve's ready to pass away now but Robin's loud jeering pulls himself out of his own pity party. "Jesus Christ, babes, let the man breathe—! Hey, uh… Mr. Harrington? Don't take it seriously, she's fuckin' with you."

He chances a look back at you and his heart all but gives out. The pout is gone but the little smile on your lips is devastating. "I am," you confirm with a quiet giggle and—

He's a fucking goner.

"You're not gonna make things easy for me, will you?" Steve sighs with a fond chuckle and steps a bit closer into your space, forcing you to tip your head up to meet his gaze.

You shake your head. "Your homer conked me in the head, Harrington. I deserve a little fun."

"You're trouble." When you don't deny it, Steve gives you a little laugh and gently tugs your wrist out (the hand that isn't holding the ball). He bites the cap off with his teeth and write something on your hand. It isn't until he's recapping the marker that you see his number is scrawled onto your skin, punctuated with a little smiley face.

A shout of his name could be heard down the hall and you take this as your cue to start heading out. Robin's quick to throw an arm around your hips to steady you as you begin to walk, waving goodbye to Steve as he starts to exit through the other way down the hall.

Robin's chatter blends into the background, growing quieter as the two of you walk off and he pauses in his steps as he glances over his shoulder. He nearly trips over his feet.

You were wearing his goddamn last name on your back.

—

Ten months later.

"What's this one commemorating?"

Dustin saunters into yours and Steve's new apartment with all the confidence of a homeowner. He'd been adorable when you first met him a few months into dating Steve, a smart-ass but endearing all the same, but now he's burrowed deep into your heart as an honorary little brother. So when you and Steve decided to throw a small housewarming party to also celebrate being signed for five more years with his team, Dustin had been the first to slam right through the door.

You look over your shoulder from the kitchen where you were preparing drinks while Steve fiddles with the music system. "Which one, Dusty?"

He points to the cleanest ball on top of the mantle, the one smack dab in the middle amongst the few other baseballs that are proudly displayed. You remember them all; his first homerun of the post season. His winning walk-off homerun of the World Series. His fiftieth homerun that solidified him as a member of the 50/50 club.

But the one Dustin's pointing to brings forth a smile on your face as you enter the main living space to place the drinks down on the coffee table. A few of your other guests wander closer to the fireplace to catch a glimpse of the baseball with no placard.

"That one, my friend, is how Steve Harrington asked me out."

Dustin rolls his eyes and Vickie and Robin share a laugh from the corner of the room as they recall that fateful day. The other guests, however, hum in confusion and when they ask for you to elaborate, Steve's fighting through the crowd to get to you before you could answer. Except—

"His homerun conked me right on the head and he asked me out while I was suffering a minor concussion—"

"Why would you say it like that?" Steve groans as he finally makes it to you, an arm around your waist to hug you from behind with his face shoved into your neck.

"Because I'm a delight, Stevie," you grin as you tilt your head, allowing him to pepper kisses along the line of your neck.

His teeth graze along your most sensitive spot. "You're trouble, is what you are."

Your smile never falters as his hand settles on top of yours. "You love it."

"'Course I do. Wouldn't want it any other way."

You're on his couch, legs tucked under you, some movie playing in the background that neither of you is watching. You're talking about your week, about work, about nothing important. And then you say it.

"Steve, I think we should talk about something."

Steve's stomach drops. Those words. Those three words that never, ever lead anywhere good. We should talk. His stomach twists.

He's heard them before. From Nancy. From his dad. From every person who's ever looked at him and decided he wasn't enough.

He doesn't want you to think he's not enough, too.

"Yeah?" He tries to keep his voice steady. Tries to ignore the way his heart has started pounding. "What's up, sweetheart?" The endearment slips out automatically, because that's who he is with you. Even scared, even spiralling, he can't talk to you without softness.

You're quiet for a second, looking down at your hands, and that silence is worse than anything. He watches you bite your lip, watches you gather your words, and every second feels like an hour. You're nervous.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," you say slowly. "About us. About where we're going."

Steve can't breathe. You're breaking up with him.

And I... I just — I don't know if this is—" You pause, shaking your head. "I'm not saying this right."

He doesn't hear the rest. He can't. Because all he hears is I've been thinking about us and I don't know if this is and his brain fills in the blanks with the worst possible words.

Working. What I want anymore. Worth it.

He stands up so fast you startle.

"Steve?"

He looks at you — at your confused, beautiful face — and even now, even with his heart cracking open in his chest, all he feels is overwhelming tenderness. He can't be mad at you, not even when you're breaking his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is soft, so soft, because he can't ever be anything else with you. "I'm sorry, angel, I just — I need a minute. Okay? I just need a minute."

He's moving before he knows it, grabbing his keys, heading for the door. He hears you call his name, hears the confusion in your voice, but he can't stop. He can't stay in that room one more second or he'll fall apart right in front of you.

But even as he leaves, even as he's running, he closes the door gently. Because it's your door. Because you're on the other side. Because he'd never do anything to hurt you, even accidentally, even now.

He makes it to his car. Sits there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing.

His chest hurts.

It actually hurts, like someone's reached inside him and is squeezing his heart in their fist. He can't breathe right. His lungs won't work. He tries to take a deep breath and it gets stuck halfway, a horrible stuttering inhale that does nothing to help.

You're leaving. You don't want him anymore.

The thought circles in his head like a song stuck on repeat. He knew this would happen. He knew it. People always leave. They always figure out that he's not worth the trouble. He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he can physically push the pain away.

He should drive away. He should go somewhere, anywhere, and deal with this alone. But he can't make himself start the car. He just sits there, hurting, waiting for something he doesn't understand.

Then there's a knock on his window.

He looks up, and you're there. Standing in the driveway wearing your house slippers, your face worried and confused and... and not cold. Not distant. Not looking at him like he's something you're about to throw away.

"Steve." Your voice is muffled through the glass. "What's going on? Baby, please open the door."

He looks at you — shivering a little, eyes so concerned — and even through the fog of his own pain, all he feels is you're going to get cold. So he reaches over and unlocks the door.

You open it immediately, crouching down to his level. Your eyes scan his face, and whatever you see there makes your expression crumble.

"Steve. Honey. What happened?"

He laughs. It's not a nice sound. "You know what happened. You said—" His voice cracks. He has to stop, swallow, try again. "You said we needed to talk. About us. About whether this is—" He can't even say it.

But even saying that, even voicing his worst fear, he reaches out and touches your face. Just lightly, his fingers brushing your cheek, because you're right there and he can't not touch you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I'm making this harder. You're trying to do this gently and I'm — I'm making it worse. You don't have to explain, sweetheart. I understand."

You stare at him for a long moment, looking entirely confused. "Steve. I was trying to ask if you wanted to move in together."

He blinks. "What?" What?

"I've been thinking about us," you say slowly, carefully. "About where we're going. And I wanted to ask if you'd consider — if you'd want to—" You take a breath. "I want to live with you. That's what I was trying to say. I just didn't know how to ask without sounding desperate."

Steve stares at you. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't move it.

"You want to move in with me."

"Yes."

"With me. Me, living together. With you?"

"Yes, Steve."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I thought you were breaking up with me."

Your face crumples with realisation. "Oh, baby. Oh, no."

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because you look upset and he hates that, he hates that he made you look like that. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have — you were trying to talk to me and I just—"

"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, mirroring him. "Stop apologising. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I thought I was losing you." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "And I couldn't — I couldn't breathe. I still can't breathe." His voice breaks. "I love you so much. I couldn't even be mad. I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me."

You make a sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and then you're climbing into the car, into his lap, wrapping yourself around him.

"You idiot," you whisper against his neck, but you're crying, and you're holding him so tight. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. I'm right here."

Your arms lock around his neck, your face presses into the warm space where his shoulder meets his throat, and you hold him like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

He feels your breath against his skin, feels the dampness of your tears soaking into his collar. You're crying. For him. Because he's hurting.

"I'm here," you whisper against his neck, your voice thick but steady. "I'm right here, Steve. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His hands spread across your back, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. "Angel," he breathes, and it's barely a sound. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ran."

You shake your head against his neck, holding him tighter. If you could, you'd crawl inside his chest and curl up next to his heart. You'd wrap yourself around every bruised, broken part of him and never let go.

"Don't be sorry," you murmur. "Just let me hold you. Okay? Just let me hold you."

He nods against you, and you feel his arms tighten around your waist. His shaking is subsiding.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. Your thumbs trace his cheekbones, brush away the tears tracking down his skin.

"I love you," you tell him, slow and deliberate, because he needs to hear it, because he needs to understand. "I love you, Steve. You hear me?"

He laughs, watery and weak. "I hear you."

"Good." You press your forehead to his. "Because I need you to know it. I need you to believe it."

His hands come up to cover yours where they rest on his face. He turns his head, just slightly, and presses a kiss to your palm. "I'm trying," he whispers. "I'm trying to believe it. It's just hard when—" He stops, swallows. "When no one ever has. Stayed, I mean."

"I know." You kiss the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering. "I know, baby. But I'm not them. I'm me. And I'm staying."

He looks at you — really looks at you — and for the first time since you said those terrible, wonderful, misunderstood words, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"You're cold," he murmurs, because you are, because you're shivering in your house slippers and thin pyjama shirt.

"I don't care about cold."

"I care." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Let's go inside, angel. Please."

You nod, but you don't move. You just keep looking at him, your hands still on his face, your eyes soft and warm.

"I'm okay," he tells you quietly. "I'm okay now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiles, small and shaky but real. "You're kind of magic, you know that?"

You shake your head. "I just love you. That's all."

He shifts you carefully in his lap, getting situated, and then he's opening the car door and climbing out with you still in his arms. You don't protest — just tighten your hold on his neck and let him carry you.

He kicks the door closed and starts toward the house, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.

"You're so warm," you murmur against his neck.

"You're freezing." He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer.

He carries you up the steps to the porch, careful and steady, then nudges the front door open with his hip. He carries you over to the couch and sits down carefully, settling you in his lap. You curl into him immediately, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart.

He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, "I love you," he whispers into the quiet.

You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw. "I love you too. So much."

He looks down at you, at your face soft and open and full of love for him, and something in his chest finally settles.

"So," you say, your eyes bright. "About that moving in conversation..."

You’d been leaning back on your mom’s Ford Pinto, waiting for the dance to be over. Your mom had a late shift at work, and you promised her you’d be there to look out for Will.

You were watching the doors for him like a hawk when Steve pulled his Beamer into the spot next to you. You knew he was there to pick up Dustin, as you’d seen him drop the kid off. While his actions were sweet with the boy, you didn’t really trust him fully yet.

Steve had apologized, admitted his wrongs, proved himself to be a different man, but you held yourself a bit more carefully around him, not quite knowing if it was a facade or not.

When he got out of his car, sidled up next to you and said, “Byers, you're super smart, right? Ever think about tutoring?” - you were fairly certain you were hallucinating, because while you still measured him in sharp glances for his past mistakes, he was looking at you as if he’d forgotten them.

“You might need to pinch me to make sure I’m awake if you’re about to ask me to tutor you Harrington,” you quipped back, and he had chuckled under his breath at the statement.

“Come on, I could really use the help,” he replied truthfully.

“Why are you asking me of all people?” you asked wearily, unsure of his intentions.

“You know Mrs. Click brags about you being the best student she’s ever had. Plus, it doesn't hurt that you’re easy on the eyes,” he throws a captivating smile your way, ever the flirt. You couldn’t help the small smile that was pulling at your lips at the flattery.

Still, Steve saw the remaining uncertainty that you were feeling, “I’ll pay you.”

That piqued your interest because you could use the money. Despite your high grades, your family couldn’t afford the college you wanted to go to. You were planning to attend Hawkins Community and save up simultaneously for Indiana University in a couple of years, thus leading to your agreement to tutor Steve.

The day he graced your lips with his for the first time was constantly on a loop in your mind; a vivid memory.

He had been getting frustrated at the math problems he was trying to solve. With his head thrown back in aggravation, he had groaned about why God cursed him by being born stupid.

You didn’t like that comment. You had lifted your hand from the book you’d been reading and cupped the back of his neck. You tugged, coaxing his head back up. That surprised him, not expecting your touch, which you kept there even once he was looking at you.

“You’re not stupid, Steve Harrington,” you told him fiercely, holding eye contact, thumb brushing at his exposed skin - tracing the beauty marks lining his neck.

He swallowed hard, mesmerized by the fondness in your eyes for him, “If I asked to kiss you, would you let me?”

You had let him, obviously, and from there your relationship had bloomed in the most tender way.

You refused to accept his money any longer, but Steve paid you in new ways; makeout sessions in his car, swoon worthy dates, an endless stream of compliments thrown your way, and your personal favorite; the longing stares he’d give you - expression filled with an adoration for you that you had never felt before.

It wasn’t easy being a Byers in a town full of stereotypical families, but Steve made you feel seen. Made it feel like loving you was easy, despite feeling your whole life that something was wrong with you.

It helped that Steve was a yearner; you learned quickly that he was simply a guy looking for someone who would give him the affection he was craving - desperately wanting to be someone’s number one choice.

But you were starting to think him a liar after what transpired earlier today.

You had been studying with Steve at the Hawkins Library.

It was a routine the two of you had down to a tee. After he got off his shift at Family Video, and you finished your last class of the day at Hawkins Community College, you’d meet with him for an hour - help him practice for the SAT that he was earnestly trying to pass since he had barely scraped by it the first time around in high school. He planned to retake the exam in the hopes of raising his score high enough to join you at school come next semester.

Your legs were propped up on his lap as he worked on taking notes from a test prep book. He had one hand gripped around his pencil to write - the other gently stroking the calf of your leg. He was lost in his work, while you were completely lost in him.

You were practically drooling over how beautiful he looked with that focused expression on his face, eyebrows drawn in slightly as he concentrated.

Steve really was a beautiful man; with the sleeves of his henley pushed up just enough to see the wiry muscles and corded veins running up his forearms, hair styled back with a single strand caressing his forehead.

You were starving for his attention, but you didn’t want to interrupt him. You decide you need to take a break from watching him, otherwise you’d surely end up curled up next to him despite the public setting.

“I’m going to go try to find that book you need for the writing portion of the exam,” you tell him, popping up out of your seat.

Steve looks at you, gazing lovingly from his spot. He immediately drops his pencil and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you towards him.

He presses your body against his front and pouts his lips at you; a cue that he wants you to kiss him. You teasingly roll your eyes before granting his wish. You cup his jaw and press your lips adoringly to his, soft and quick. When you pull away from him, Steve lets out a noise of displeasure and leans forward to capture your lips again.

“Steve, we’re in the library,” you chide as he moves to press kisses along your jawline. He hums discontentedly at the reminder and presses one last kiss to your cheek for good measure before pulling back with a wide grin.

“I can’t help it, pretty girl, you’re just so kissable,” he smirks.

You can’t help but blush, still falling for his charm despite being together for quite some time now.

Steve can’t resist you, taking advantage of your closeness, he mischievously slides his hands down the slope of your lower back, dangerously close to trailing his hands to the curve of your ass.

You lean forward to kiss him again, lips slotting easily. You sigh in pleasure, breath escaping your nose deeply when his tongue delves into your mouth.

“Baby, you’re killing me,” he exhales, “Can’t wait to get you home.”

His words make you remember you’re standing in the middle of the library, and his mouth tries to catch yours again when you pull away. You laugh sweetly at his look of disappointment, before swiping at his chin with your thumb and forefinger - telling him you’ll be right back.

You wander the shelves to find the book he needs. You squat down, reading the labels and can’t help but overhear a conversation on the other side of the shelf.

“Ugh, gag me. Did you see that - Steve and the Byers girl?” you hear someone spit out.

You freeze, realizing whoever it is, is talking about you.

“How did a loser like her even pull Steve?” another girl asks, voice laced with disgust.

“Ladies, please. She didn’t. Steve’s clearly just using her to get back at that freak brother of hers for being with Nancy,” a third voice snarkingly replies.

You recognize that one; Carol Perkins.

Your heart rate picks up in speed, and your throat constricts thickly at the horrible words she’s just said. Surely Carol is lying - Steve would never use you like that; but you knew they’d once been close enough that she’d know Steve’s behavior like the back of her hand.

“Once Steve gets what he wants out of her, he’ll be gone,” Carol continues and you hear a chorus of laughter follow.

It echoes in your brain, planting a seed of doubt firmly along your nerves and cells. When you’re sure they’re gone, you briskly grab the book - feeling like you're in a trance as you check out and find your way back to the table you left Steve at. You stare blankly ahead, not paying him any mind this time, thoughts too consumed with what you’d just heard.

Shamefully, the words weren’t hard to believe because you had originally thought maybe Steve asked you out just to upset your brother.

Steve notices the shift the second you’re back, “Hey, you okay?”

Worry is swirling behind those doe eyes of his, and you tell him you’re okay, pretending nothing's wrong.

“You sure, baby?” His voice is soft, like he’s a predator approaching its prey, not wanting to scare you off. He ducks his head, trying to get you to look at him.

You refuse to meet his eyes, knowing you’ll break if you do. You nod, trying to assure him nonverbally. Steve’s learned not to push, but he knows something is wrong by the way you have your fist closed up, nails digging into the flesh there.

He gently pries your fingers out, and you wince when you see the deep crevices left behind. Steve notices them too, and he brings your palm to his lips, kissing the sore skin.

If you weren’t devastated at believing that he’s pretending with you, that action would have had you melting into him - would have had you kissing the hollow of his throat to reward him for being sweet to you.

Steve’s keen to get your mind off whatever has taken over it, not realizing he’s about to make the situation worse.

“I meant to show you earlier,” he shoves some of the materials on the table away, finding a paper labeled with a passing grade from a practice test he had taken. He holds it up for you to see, and his excitement brings a real smile to your face.

“That’s amazing, Steve. I’m proud of you,” you whisper, giving his hand a small squeeze.

“Nancy will be impressed, don't you think?” He asks hopefully, and you swear you feel your heart breaking at the mention of her name.

“Nancy?” you ask unsteadily.

“Yeah, the last time she helped me study for one of these things I failed miserably. Now look at me,” he grins, and it’s the final nail in the coffin that makes you sure Carol’s words ring true.

The sinking feeling in your gut is growing with each passing second, and you know it’s time to leave. Steve’s face falls when you rip your hand out of his and start to rapidly pack your bag.

“What’s the rush, pretty girl?” he asks, concern etched in his tone.

God, you really wish he wouldn’t call you that. It made you feel naive, like everytime he’s called you it before has been a lie, meaningless. It felt like every kind word he’d murmur by the shell of your ear was now just a cruel tease.

You withdraw from him, putting a distance between the two of you that you don’t want, but you could no longer ignore the fact that you’ve been stupid enough to believe that Steve Harrington truly wanted someone like you.

“I can’t do this,” you blurt out, the words making you feel like you were tearing yourself in two. Your hands are trembling, pressed deeply to your sides as if you were trying to hold yourself together at even saying such a thing.

Steve physically rears back at the bite of your abrupt words. His breath catches in shock, color draining from his face.

“Can’t study, or can’t be with me?” he chokes out, disbelief stamped into every line of his face because from your body language he knows which one it is.

You cast him a mournful look, not able to get the words out.

“You seriously feel that way?” Steve’s breathless, rattled, hand running through his hair trying to feel something real because surely this isn’t happening to him again, not with you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble weakly, and Steve feels like he’s been struck down with a blow so deep that he can barely comprehend what’s happening.

Like a coward, you leave him there alone to sit in the misery you just caused.

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan demands when you slam the front door behind you, clocking your attitude right away.

“Nothing. I’m fine, Jonathan,” you huff out bitterly, ripping your shoes off and tossing your backpack down on the floor.

The book that you had checked out at the library for Steve fell out of your bag, the zipper not having been fully closed. You must’ve stuffed it inside there with the rest of your things in your haste to get away from him.

You kick the book instinctively, your misguided hurt being taken out on the thing. It skids across the hardwood floors and you stare dejectedly as it comes to a sad stop by Will.

“You don’t seem fine,” Will chimes in from his spot on the living room floor. He’s sitting cross legged, using the coffee table to sketch while the TV plays mutely on in the background.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, this time a little less harsh; not wanting to snap at your baby brother when you know he only means well.

Jonathan raises his eyebrows at you, folds his arms and waits for you to be honest with him.

You sigh loudly, about to give in when movement from the kitchen alerts you. It’s Nancy, looking at you with a worried expression, and you realize you can’t deal with this right now; not with her here. You give her a wobbly smile before turning back towards Jonathan.

“Headache. It’s killer. Thanks for the concern, but I’m going to go lay down for a bit,” you push past him to head towards your room.

You close and lock your door, before throwing yourself down on the bed. You stare at the ceiling fan moving in lazy circles, recalling the events from merely moments ago, and fresh tears start to well in your eyes at the memory.

You roll over on your side, and swallow harshly at seeing the stuffed teddy bear that rests on your bed, tucked in between your pillows.

Steve had given it to you, cheesily calling it Mr. Bear, and telling you to hold it in moments when you couldn’t hold him. You pick it up and throw it across the room, letting out a frustrated cry. Every breath you took felt raw, aching from the heaving sobs that have been ripped from the back of your throat.

It was an unsettling hurt that you felt, tangled up with disappointment because it had proved what you’d known all along; that you were just a pawn in a game of fury to get back at your brother.

Jonathan had stationed himself outside of your door, trying to get you to let him in. Nancy had left when she heard the first sounds of heartbreak coming from your room, telling Jonathan that he should talk with you in private. Will was pacing worriedly down the hall, hating to hear you in such distress. Thankfully Joyce wasn’t home yet; there would have been no hiding in your room from her if she were here.

Jonathan sighs in defeat, the back of his head hits your door, and his eyes dart to Will.

“You want to try?” He asks, knowing you’ve always had a soft spot for WIll and might open the door for him.

“Yeah,” Will nods before knocking delicately.

At his pleading, you finally make yourself get up and unlock the door, opening it just a crack, giving them permission to come in.

You snuggle back under your covers, eyes bloodshot and despair embedded into your features.

Will props himself on the edge of your bed, and Jonathan stands by the entryway, apprehensive. They’re silent, giving you the space to share if you want to.

“I sort of broke up with Steve,” you force out, the words feeling heavy on your tongue.

Jonathan’s eyes widened, stunned at what you’ve just admitted, “What?”

“I mean, I didn’t actually say that, but he knows that’s what I meant,” you trail off.

“You’re kidding,” Jonathan splutters, not understanding why you would break up with Steve.

You sit yourself up and motion to the hopeless state you're in, "Obviously I’m not kidding Jonathan.”

“But, Steve makes you happy,” Will says with a puzzled expression.

Your face crumples at that, bursting into a new wave of tears. The ache that’s been in your ribs since you left the library nearly knocks the wind out of you.

“He was using me. To make you upset, or to get back at you for stealing Nance,” you whimper out.

Jonathan tilts his head in bewilderment, “I didn’t steal Nancy from him.”

You glare at him, “Maybe not physically, but emotionally you did - don’t deny it.”

Will takes that as his sign to leave, not wanting to get involved in the spat that’s slowly building between you two.

“It’s not my fault he was a shitty boyfriend,” Jonathan says defensively.

“He’s not a shitty boyfriend - he just wants to be loved,” you retort, the heels of your hands rubbing at your eyes.

“If he’s not a shitty boyfriend then why have you been moping around your room for hours?” He throws his hands up in the air.

“If Nancy had loved him back, I wouldn’t be moping right now,” you say angrily, but not really meaning it.

“If Nancy loved him then I wouldn’t be with her right now. You can’t force someone to love you,” he replies.

“Whatever. I love Steve, but he loves Nancy, and she loves you, and you love her, and no one loves me,” you mumble bitterly, wallowing in self pity.

Jonathan closes his eyes briefly, starting to lose patience with you, before taking the spot that Will was in.

“I’m sorry, but you know that’s not true. Have you seen the way Steve looks at you? If I really thought he didn’t love you I would have told you - you know how against the idea I was of the two of you being together. Besides, how do you even know that Steve was using you?” Jonathan questions.

“I heard Carol talking about it today and I-,” you start, but are cut off by your brother jumping off the bed, giving you an incredulous look.

“Are you telling me you chose to believe bullshit gossip? You know better than that,” he chastises you.

“She used to be one of Steve’s friends,” you shrug.

“Did you even ask Steve about it?” he looks at you in suspicion.

“Well, no, but-,” you try to answer and he interrupts you again.

“Oh my god,” he groans, “What were you thinking?”

You scowl at him, “I was thinking that Steve and I have never made any sense together, and I finally had an explanation for why he was with me in the first place.”

Jonathan shakes his head, “This town’s been unfair to you. They’ve been unfair to all of us, and Lonnie was a shit excuse of a father to show you love,” he says sadly before continuing, “I can’t believe I’m defending the guy, but Steve’s not dad. He’s not going to leave you, and he’s changed. We all can see that.”

It’s like a cold bucket of water has been thrown at you, clearing your head. Shit, you had jumped to conclusions; easily accepting words that weren’t Steve’s own because of your deep rooted insecurities this town has bullied you into believing. And you unfairly projected that onto him, without any sort of explanation.

The trill of the phone ringing cuts through the air, and Jonathan gives you a look of empathy before leaving to answer it. You knew if anyone could understand that it was him, who also felt inadequate in his own relationship sometimes - not feeling like he could measure up to someone like Nancy.

You smack a hand to your forehead, groaning at your impulsivity; how it might’ve just caused you to lose the best thing that you’ve ever had.

You swing your legs to the edge of the bed, ready to go fix the mess you’ve created when suddenly, something smacks hard against your window frame.

It jolts you from your stupor, breath snagging, heart hammering in your chest at the sudden noise. Surprise crackles through you at the sight of Steve, before you're flooded with a dizzying rush of warmth that he’s the one standing there.

It wasn’t the first time he’d shown up outside your window to sneak in, but it was certainly the first time he’d shown up with red rimmed eyes, face full of sorrow.

He’s in the middle of sliding the glass panel up, which he plans to scold you for later for forgetting to lock it again, when Jonathan walks back into your room, having finished up the phone call.

Steve freezes, half his body through the window, legs still hanging out and laughs awkwardly at Jonathan’s dumbfounded expression at seeing him.

“Hey, man,” Steve lifts a hand half heartedly in greeting, unsure about the reaction that’s about to come from your brother.

You look at Jonathan, giving him a pleading look to not make a big deal out of it. He tips his head down, pinching the bridge of his nose before he decides to relent.

“I’m pretending that I don’t see Steve trying to crawl through your window. You owe me,” he points to you, before shaking his head and roughly shutting your door. Your attention turns back to Steve, who’s finally pulled himself all the way

“You scared me,” you whisper, breaking the silence.

“I didn’t mean to. I just, I had to see you,” he replies softly.

Steve takes you in, and swears his heart cleaves clean down the middle at the sight of your disheveled appearance.

“Baby,” he breathes out, rounding the bed to where your legs dangle still, dropping to his knees in front of you.

Steve wasn’t sure how tonight was going to play out when he’d decided on a whim to demand answers from you; but he folded - boy did he fold quickly.

“Pretty girl, I don’t know what I did,” his voice falters, splintering slightly.

His hands slide to your bare thighs, and you’re instantly aware that you’re clad in one of his old shirts left behind and a tiny pair of shorts.

You flush deeply at the contact, and his fingers curl around the backs of your knees, drawing you closer to him.

“Please, I’m sorry - don’t shut me out. Just tell me what I did, I’ll fix it. I’d do anything for you,” his voice carries a weight of fragility, as if he’s already bracing for you to reject his apology.

“Steve-,” you try, but your brain immediately shuts down at the feel of his lips skimming over the plush of one of your legs.

You whimper at the unexpected touch, hands flying out, fingers threading through his hair, effectively tousling it.

“Please,” he repeats, mumbling the word over and over again in between the press of his lips to your skin.

You inhale sharply at his begging, the drag of his mouth making you boneless, and you’re about ready to fall flat on your back and give in to his advances.

“Tell me, tell me what’s wrong. I’d rather you be brutally honest with me than lose you without knowing why,” he pleads, hands slipping from your knees to your waist and hiking your shirt up; exposing the flesh of your hips.

Steve makes quick work of pressing his mouth to your hipbone, lips traveling higher to your belly button, then your ribcage, and he damn nearly has his head underneath the shirt as he continues to litter your skin with velvety kisses.

“I’m not stopping until you tell me, pretty girl,” he rasps out, and the jarring feeling of the trace of his tongue lavishing at you has you seeing stars.

Your grip on his hair tightens, causing a grunt of pleasure to leave his lips. You pull, trying to indicate that he needs to stop if you’re to get a word in edgewise.

Steve understands the hint, and finally pulls away to give you some reprieve - lips flushed a deep pink, a wild look flooding his eyes.

He sits back on his knees, and waits patiently now; hands moving to grasp at the hem of your shorts, large palms resting against your thighs.

“I, um, I heard something today,” you divulge, twiddling with your fingers.

Steve nods, silently encouraging you to continue. You hesitate, unsure of how to approach the topic. At your pause, he leans back in to gently nip at your thigh, warning you to keep going.

You mumble quietly, “That you’re with me because you want to get back at Jonathan.”

“Get back at him for what?” he questions, genuinely confused.

“Nancy,” you mumble out, not even needing to speak in a full sentence because Steve knows right away what you’re insinuating.

“Who the fuck said that?” Steve grits out, breathing harshly, an anger that you rarely see in him rising.

“Carol Perkins,” you tell him.

Steve scoffs at the answer, “Baby, since when do you believe shit talkers like her?”

“Since it justifies why you want to be with me,” you utter weakly. Steve’s hands grab at your face, splaying out to hold you carefully.

“The only justification is that I love you,” he says firmly, “I’m in love with you. No one else. Just you.”

Your lips part, “You mean it?”

Steve stammers out a feeble laugh, “You want proof?”

You don’t answer, and Steve grips onto your hand, urging it to rest against where his heart lies in the cavity behind his sternum. You feel it fluttering frantically, and his eyes close briefly at your touch.

“If I was lying, I wouldn't be here on my knees for you. Just being with you makes my heart feel like it’s going to bust out of my chest,” he implores, which you believe because you can feel the strong beat of it under your fingertips.

“I’m not messing with you. And honestly, thinking that I’m just trying to get revenge on Jonathan is severely overestimating the feelings I had for Nancy. Yeah, I loved her, but I’m in love with you. I would never take that for granted,” he exhales deeply, wishing that you’ll believe him.

“Oh,” you croak out, the emphasis in his tone starts to ebb away the pain, leaving behind a dull throb of endearment for him.

“Oh? That’s the reaction I get after professing my undying love for you?” he replies, a wry smile toying playfully on his lips.

You shakily laugh, overwhelmed by his confession, “I love you.”

Steve pushes himself off the floor and joins you on the bed. His arms wrap around you, turning to pull you against him while he lays down on his side, partially on his back. He’s pressing your body to his, allowing you to fully settle your weight against him. You burrow yourself in his chest, leg hitched up to slip over his own.

“My pretty girl just needs a little love, doesn’t she?” he questions, starting to pepper kisses into the crook of your collarbone.

A ripple of giggles are pulled from you at the feel of his lips grazing your neck, letting your own hands travel the span of his back and up to his broad shoulders.

The two of you rest there, basking in each other’s presence; and as the room grows darker from the setting sun, Steve happily proves his devotion to you with his hands and lips.

It’s much later when Steve finally pulls away to ask in mock offense, “Why is Mr. Bear all the way over there?”

The next time you see Carol at the library, you and Steve have your backs against a bookshelf, stationed on the floor in front of it. All the tables had been taken up by students gearing up for midterms.

“Hey, Carol,” Steve calls out to her as she passes by, “next time you want to pass judgement on someone’s relationship, you could take a long look at your own.”

Carol freezes, mouth dropping open at the dig Steve just threw her way.

“Steve,” you scold lightly, not wanting to cause a scene.

He simply lifts his index finger up to you, “Just a moment, baby.”

“Sorry, I just-,” Carol falters, palpably caught off guard.

“You should be sorry. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been with her,” he gestures to you, “and you’re clearly still miserable with Tommy H.”

You watch her pale at Steve’s cutting words, and you almost feel bad for her.

“I am getting what I want by the way, not that you’d understand that with Hagan, right? The guy never was a sharpshooter was he?” Steve carries on, unwilling to let her get off the hook easily.

“Steve,” you hiss, embarrassment creeping over you at his vulgar words.

Carol’s fuming by now, and doesn’t respond when she sharply turns, stomping away from the two of you. You give Steve a pointed look.

“Oh don’t be like that, baby. Had to defend my pretty girl,” he grins, and leans in to capture your lips with his.

Steve loves his girl, and isn't afraid to show it; even if that means trying to slip his tongue into your mouth in the middle of Hawkins Library.

And when you had your heart set on becoming a healer—specifically one for Hogwarts—Remus was your number one supporter. He was your backbone during the NEWTs in your seventh year and during your training at St. Mungo’s. Remus was always there when you needed a breather. Then, when Dumbledore hired you as Madam Pomfrey’s assistant, he was the first one to congratulate you on the achievement.

Moreover, you were always there when he needed support, too. During the first wizarding war, there were so many casualties that it was impossible to count them. And when James and Lily died, you were the first to comfort Remus—especially when it was brought up that Sirius might have been the one to expose their whereabouts to Voldemort and even kill Peter when he tried to defend the Potters. 

You weren’t close with James and Lily, but Remus was their best friend, and you knew losing nearly all his friends in a span of a few days hurt like hell. It took a lot of love and reassurance to get Remus to get out of your shared bedroom and get ready for their funerals. 

Nevertheless, it was trials like those that made the two of you the perfect pair. But something always ate at your insides. Since Remus was a werewolf, no one in the wizarding world would want him to work for them. Even if he never told them about his condition, they could easily piece together why he would disappear from work every full moon. 

Remus told you he didn’t mind staying home and caring for the house, but you swore you saw the light in his eyes dim a little more every time he came back from an unsuccessful job hunt. So—against your better judgment—you sought out Dumbledore after a term at Hogwarts, when another Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had been sacked. 

“Professor Dumbledore, sir!” You chased after him after you watched the last student leave the castle, smiling up at him with the same smile from your own years at Hogwarts. “Sir, I think I have the perfect replacement for the DADA position.”

Dumbledore hummed and waved his hand, lighting the rest of the candles in the corridor. “How many times have I told you to call me Albus? We work together, Y/N.”

“Sorry, sir— Albus.” You correct yourself before shaking your head. Twisting your wedding ring, you spoke up with a sparkle in your eyes. “As I was saying before, I think—”

“I know you want me to hire Remus for the job.” He cut you off, putting a hand up when you were about to speak up again. “I believe that’s a wonderful idea. And given what he is, I’m sure he knows all about what should be taught to the students.”

You beam up at him, “I’m glad we’re on the same page then, sir—Albus.” You correct yourself once more when he stares at you intently, your face flushing before clearing your throat. “Sorry, it’s a habit already… I should probably tell him—”

“Do not worry about telling him about the job, Y/N,” Dumbledore said calmly, patting your shoulder. “I will handle telling him when the time comes.”

What you didn’t expect was that Dumbledore practically waited until the very end of the summer holiday to inform Remus about the available position at Hogwarts. Every day, it became more and more evident that you knew something was going to happen. Even when Remus questioned your odd behavior, you simply brushed him off and kissed him silly until he forgot what he asked. 

Well, up until Dumbledore told him. 

“Dovey, you won’t believe who I ran into at Diagon Alley.” Remus entered the living room with paper bags, kissing your cheek when you took them from him and thanked him for buying ingredients you needed for remedies Madam Pomfrey requested you make over the holiday. 

You furrow your brows in response to him, waving your wand and sorting the different ingredients alphabetically. “Who, Rem?”

“Dumbledore.” He stated and leaned back on the counter, watching your shoulder stiffen before they relaxed once more. Remus thought you couldn’t be more obvious, but he still played along. “He offered me a position at the school as the Defense Against Dark Arts professor.”

“Did he?” You murmur, refusing to turn around because you knew your eyes would give you away. You felt him get closer, his arms snaking around your waist, causing you to tilt your head in his direction, begging Godric that your eyes weren’t hinting at anything too revealing. 

He hummed, “He said a little bird told him I’ve been lonely back home.”

“Lonely?” You scoffed and pulled away from him, putting your hands on your hips. “I did not call you lonely.” 

Remus raised a brow at you—watching your face go from defensive to horrified to sheepish. He was probably more surprised than you when apologies began spilling from your lips, making him hold your arms to stop your rambling. 

“Why are you apologizing?” He rubbed soft shapes into your arms. 

“Because I offered you up for the job even when I didn’t ask you.” You murmured, pulling on the ends of your sweater. Well, technically, it was his sweater that you promptly stole from him one day. “I understand if you don’t want to take the position. I just thought—”

“Don’t be sorry. This is good.” He nudged his nose to yours, making you look up. 

You blink and look between his eyes, searching for any kind of lie. “This… is?”

Remus chuckled and kissed your forehead, his chest rumbling when you went to wipe off the kiss in confusion, thinking it was a pity kiss. “Dovey, you and Dumbledore are the only ones left who still believe in me.” He shrugged. “I think this is a great opportunity.”

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course not.” He creased his brows together before balancing himself when you threw your arms around him, his hands splaying on your back carefully. Before he could ask, you spoke, your mood greatly improved from when you thought you were in trouble. 

“I’m excited to work with you, Rem.” You smiled brightly when you pulled away, punching his arm lightly. “You’ll love it just as much as you did all those years ago.”

Unfortunately, you weren’t the only other employee at Hogwarts. While McGonagall was happy to have Remus as a professor—mainly because he was a star student back when he attended Hogwarts himself, and she trusted him to teach a class such as Defense Against the Dark Arts—Snape was anything but joyous to have him teaching a subject he wanted for himself. 

“You have to be joking.” Severus drawled as he looked between you and Remus before his eyes settled on the headmaster himself. He sighed through his nose, “Albus, I simply cannot allow a werewolf to teach the students as you put them in danger—”

“Remus knows exactly what to do during his transformations.” You defend your husband, standing in front of him despite his warm hand on your waist to calm your fire, even though Remus wanted nothing more than to hide in the shadows of Dumbledore’s office. “And we both know wolfsbane is the perfect solution to his lycanthropy, Snape. Unless you want him to suffer just so you can teach—”

“Enough.” Dumbledore put a hand up, silencing whatever argument you and Severus had left. “You have been working together for several years, and only when Remus begins working here do the two of you begin arguing like first-year students.” He looked at the man mentioned with a soft smile before staring down at you and Severus through his moon-shaped spectacles. “While Remus teaches here, you cannot act like this, do you understand?”

You sigh and nod, crossing your arms while Severus begrudgingly agrees, somesort of grunt leaving his mouth. Still, the two of you glared at each other as if Dumbledore hadn’t said anything. Remus pursed his lips in discomfort and kissed your temple in an attempt to diffuse the tension between the two of you, causing Severus to finally look away with a grimace. 

“I expect you three will be responsible and respectful this year.” Dumbledore finished in expectancy before sending you all out of the office with a simple wave of his hand. 

The three of you descended his office, the pressure between the three of you still heavily weighted down until Severus spun around abruptly. He briefly looked at you before sighing again, his eyes trained on Remus with bitterness.

“Don’t expect me to be at your beck and call, Lupin.” He sneered before taking his own leave toward the dungeons, his cloak following behind like a foreboding shadow.

You scoff under your breath, “Arsehole.”

“Dovey.” Remus suppressed a laugh, shaking his head. “Let’s go home.”

The following week was hectic for you and Remus. Having to move his stuff over to yours—now your shared quarters at Hogwarts, and then planning lessons that the last two professors failed to complete. And when the students began arriving, Remus thought it would be better for him to take the express for old times’ sake, making you roll your eyes in affection at how nostalgia hit him like a brick. 

But when you were taken away from the start-of-term feast to tend to Harry Potter because of a dementor attack, you thought the express ride was far more terrifying than nostalgic. 

“What trouble have you gotten into this time, Harry?” You tut at the boy who always came rushing to you whenever he got cut by something magical that even Ron and Hermione couldn’t explain. “I swear, you’re always back at the hospital wing at the beginning of every term.”

Harry messed with his Hogwarts robes and pushed your hand away when you put the back of your hand on his forehead. “S’not my fault. The dementors came onto the train.”

You send him a somber look, “I heard all about it from McGonagall when she called me over. Let me get you some chocolate—”

“Oh! The new professor, I think Professor Lupin was his name, gave me some already.” Harry interrupted before you could shove more chocolate in his mouth. If he was being completely honest, he was getting pretty tired of chocolate already, and the term only just started.

“Did he?” You ask almost cheerfully, confusing Harry while he nods slowly, furrowing his brows when you clapped your hands lightly. Maybe it was because he was confused about why you were clapping about the attack. “That’s good.”

And before he could even ask, Madam Pomfrey walked in and checked Harry’s temperature and then heart rate, checking in with you about other important vitals. “I hear we finally got a good DADA professor. It’s nice to have someone who knows what they teach.”

“I agree.” You nod swiftly, making Madam Pomfrey roll her eyes in your direction. Harry looked between you two again, getting more and more confused with each passing second. “What?”

“Go down to the feast, you two.” She finally waved you and Harry off.

You tilt your head in mock offense, “I’m not a child, Poppy.”

She raised her brow, “Say that to me when you aren’t coming to me whining about being tired when the twins spell first years.” You feel your face warm at her words, but she continues. “In fact, that’s what your husband is for now that he’s—”

“That’s unfair!” You complain before catching yourself, clearing your throat, and scratching the back of your neck. She stared at you expectantly, shaking her head in amusement as you apologized hastily. “Sorry, Poppy.”

“Husband?” Harry turned to you once the two of you were out of the hospital wing, catching up to your surprisingly quick pace. “You’re married?”

It was quiet for a second, the words not processing through your mind until you were at the oak doors that concealed the Great Hall, where everyone else had already begun eating. You stop just before you could push the doors open, turning to look at him face-to-face.

“Of course, I am.” You send him an odd look, yet a smile appeared on your face. “To one of the smartest wizards I know.”

“Wait a second, do we even know who it is?” He inquired, taking notice that you were getting more impatient with all his questions. For once, you seemed more eager to get inside the Great Hall than he was. 

“Oh, Harry.” You coo as if you were talking to a baby and pat his head, making him push your hand away again. “Let’s not ask the obvious.”

And with that, you pushed the oak doors open and entered the hall as if you hadn’t left Harry with so many unanswered questions. He watched you bound toward the staff table at the very front of the hall, taking your usual seat between McGonagall and whatever new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor they had this year, except the excitement he saw from you earlier only seemed to increase when you sat down. 

What was even more unusual was that Snape’s glares seemed to be aimed at the new professor and you rather than Harry. 

Harry took his seat beside Ron, looking over at Hermione. “Did you know Y/N is married?”

Hermione raised a brow at him and put her fork down, her gaze drifting toward the staff table along with Ron, who was busy stuffing his face full. “The ring on her hand wouldn’t suggest otherwise, why?” 

“Because…” Harry trailed off before shaking his head. “Nevermind, it’s not important.”

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other before shrugging, although Hermione was already planning to keep an eye on you this year. Not that it was prudent to know who exactly you were dating, but if Harry mentioned it and found it a little interesting, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little investigating. 

As the first term went by, it was more or less rough with how Remus was adjusting to teaching at Hogwarts, and with Snape constantly making snide remarks whenever Dumbledore wasn’t around, you were starting to get pissed. Even more so when Snape threatened not to make the potion for Remus one afternoon simply because you looked at him funny. 

“Severus, it is completely unjust if you refuse to make the potion.” You hiss one day in his empty classroom, staring at him with nothing but pure hatred. “Frankly, I don’t care what happened back at Hogwarts when we were younger. What I care about is whether or not he is going to be okay during the next—”

“Is it unjust?” Severus narrowed his eyes at you. “I may be crude, but what if he is helping him get onto the school grounds?”

You scoff out a laugh, “I know my husband, and he would never—”

“Er— Professor Snape?” You heard a voice coming from the potion’s doorway, making you freeze on the spot. “Professor McGonagall asked me to fetch you for—”

“Weasley, can’t you see I’m busy?” Snape sneered before taking his leave without even taking any points off the Gryffindor house. You left the classroom soon after, leaving behind fury and annoyance from the earlier conversation—not even acknowledging Ron’s existence at the moment. 

Against his better judgment, Ron followed you as best as he could, hoping you wouldn’t catch him in the act despite your indignant mood. However, when you turned west of the hospital wing, he saw a glimpse of where you were heading, only briefly hearing a voice before you slammed the door shut. 

“Dovey—”

By the start of the second term, Harry, Hermione, and Ron still had no clue who you were married to. And it’s not like you were going to give them hints—you were always one to avoid talking about your personal life whenever they tried to pry. Honestly, they were about to give up by the end of January when Ron came up with such a crazy theory on the way to their Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

“You don’t think she’s married to Snape, do you?” Ron muttered as a group of Slytherins passed, rolling his eyes when he saw them trip a Hufflepuff. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ron. We’ve known them for three years now. If they were married, we would know.” Hermione shook her head in exasperation, adjusting her shoulder bag. “Besides, her husband could very well not work at Hogwarts. There are thousands of wizards out there.”

Harry scuffed his shoe against the stone, his voice uncertain but clear. “But Ron said he heard someone when she entered the faculty tower.”

“That could be anyone.” She shook her head. “Come on, we'd better get to class before Malfoy decides it’s funny to take our seats again.”

At the same time, you were cooped up in Remus’ office. You just went up to check on him one last time since the full moon was coming up soon, when one thing led to another, and well… It’s not like you were doing anything indecent, but it was enough to traumatize someone if they walked into his office. 

“Okay, I have to go.” You murmur as you pull away from his kisses, laughing when he pulls you close by the waist, not wanting to let go just yet. “Remus—”

“Yeah?” He grinned and kissed you once more, making you soften under his touch. 

Smiling into the kiss, you pull away again, putting a hand up against his lips. “As much as I would love to stay here and kiss you dizzy, you have a class in about five minutes, and—” You reinforce your tone when you feel him open his mouth against your palm. “—Poppy will come after my head if I don’t show up to help her reorganize our remedy cabinet.”

Remus lolled his head to the side with honey eyes that made you melt on the spot before you shook your head, already walking backwards toward the exit of his office. “Don’t miss me too much, Lupin.”

“I’m already dying, dove.” He grinned and followed you down the stairs, hands in his pants pockets as his room began filling with Slytherins and Gryffindors, the golden trio entering the classroom with curiosity. “The three troublemakers.”

“Yep.” You murmur with a smile, waving to the three of them as you head for the door. 

Ron, however, stopped you from advancing, suspicion lacing his voice when he spoke. “What were you doing here?”

You shrugged, taking small steps toward the exit, glancing at Remus momentarily before answering Ron. Technically, you were lying to them, but they didn’t need to know your husband was a werewolf or that you were basically making out with their professor for the past twenty minutes. “Giving the new professor tips and tricks on how to deal with you lot.”

Hermione frowned, “But it’s been an entire term—”

“Have fun with DADA!” You cut the busy-haired girl off, finally taking your leave as Remus calms the class down to start their lesson on Red Caps. 

Then, in February, you and Remus decided it would be nice to actually get out of the castle for once. Of course, since there wasn’t anywhere else to go, you landed on going to Hogsmeade for the weekend. There wasn’t an exact shop or place either of you wanted to go to, but it had been a while since you and Remus went out on a date without having to be needed by the students at every waking minute. 

But it wasn’t like they didn’t approach. On the way, several students came up to you and Remus to simply say hi or how are you? You were both kind enough to respond, but truly, you just wanted to spend time together. And just as a first-year Hufflepuff named Julie left the two of you alone, you finally turned to Remus—seemingly exhausted by the number of students coming up to you. 

“We could get butterbeer?” You suggested, your arm curled around Remus’ while your old scarf billows in the wind, the stone path covered in bits of snow. You carefully stepped over a pile of gray snow, nose scrunching as you spoke. “And then we could go to Tomes and Scrolls after.”

“I like the sound of that.” He nodded and pressed a muted kiss to your temple, guiding you into the Three Broomsticks.

As you entered, Madam Rosmerta’s eyes flickered up when footsteps entered the pub, gasping when she saw the two of you appear in front of her. Instantly, she rushed over to you and pressed a kiss to your cheek before doing the same with Remus, just as though the two of you were the children she saw dancing around each other’s feelings.

“Well, isn’t this a sight to see. My favorite Gryffindors together once more.” She gushed, squeezing your arm. 

You smile and pull your scarf off, gingerly teasing her when she kept looking at the two of you in awe, as if she could hardly believe her eyes. “Stop, you’ll make me blush.” You wave her off, your own gaze shifting to pride when you catch Remus’ eyes. “Actually, Remus got a job at Hogwarts.”

“I heard.” Madam Rosmerta tilted her head with her own smile before gesturing for both of you to take a seat, wiping her hands on her apron. “I think a batch of butterbeer on me is in order.”

Remus raised his brows in surprise, shaking his head at the offer. “Please, there’s no need to—”

“I’m doing it anyway, Lupin.” She insisted and shooed you away, gently pushing the two of you away from the bar. 

You laughed softly as Remus took you to a booth, humming as you calmed down. Tilting your head, you rested your chin in your palms and studied Remus as if he were a textbook you were supposed to be studying for an exam. He raised a brow in your direction, silently asking you what you were thinking. 

“Seriously, though, I’m happy you’re here.” You say in response, eyes still trained on him. You feared that if you looked away for even a second, he would disappear. Before he could say anything, you asked him a question that you hoped would yield a positive answer. “Are you happy to be teaching here?”

Remus nudged your foot with his, a small smile making its way to your face at the simple action that filled your chest with his oh-so familiar warmth. “I would like to say so. The students are quite wonderful and are curious about what we seem to be learning.” He waved a hand around, a recognizable grin plastered on his lips. “And I guess it’s a bonus that you work here too.”

“Aw, you love me.” You chuckle, reducing to a puddle when he cupped your face and placed a tender kiss on your lips. “Remus…”

“And you know that is completely and utterly true.” He rested his forehead on yours and pressed one last peck before pulling away, acutely aware of how students from Hogwarts were gaping at you both. 

It almost seemed quiet in the Three Broomsticks now, all heads turned to where you and Remus sat. Then, several seconds later, whispers began to fill the air. Some were giddy, and some were in repulsion at the thought of the staff having a relationship outside of the school. 

“I think they know.” You mumble with a tiny smirk, thanking Madam Rosmerta when she delivers the butterbeer tankards at your table. Stirring your straw around the drink, you look around the pub as well, choking on your drink when you catch Ginny Weasley staring like she saw a ghost. 

Remus shrugs, “They definitely know, but who cares, really?” He sipped his butterbeer, causing you to wipe the excess from the corner of his lips. “I mean, the other day, we nearly had the Weasley twins walk in my office while you were—”

“Enough.” You cover his mouth, face burning from the memory. Your next words came out in a low whisper, “I thought we agreed to never mention that ever again?”He laughed against your palm and kissed the skin there. 

After your date at the Three Broomsticks, you were sure everyone knew that you and Remus were in a relationship, as there were students who seemed to tease you whenever they saw you walking in the hallway. Even McGonagall now had her fun at poking at the two of you, saying how she was the sole reason you even got together in the first place.

Unfortunately, Harry, Ron, and Hermione still couldn’t piece together that the two of you were married. Not until the three of them ran into Remus when he was on his way to see you. They suppose he was just visiting the hospital wing since he tended to be ill a lot, but he looked physically fine, confusing them for the last time, since Remus had told them that he would be busy after his final class. 

“Professor!” Harry stumbled over his own feet when he did a double-take, taking notice of how Remus was actually walking quite happily compared to most days whenever he navigated himself to the hospital wing. “I-I thought you said you were busy?”

“I am, Harry.” Remus corrected, not even sparing a glance toward the young wizard. “I’m off to the hospital wing.”

Ron furrowed his brows and looked at Harry and Hermione sideways before speaking, “Are you feeling… Okay? I mean— You know… You look fine, professor.”

He nodded and made a sharp left turn, causing the three Gryffindors to crash into one another. “I’m feeling great, Ron.” 

Hermione brushed herself off and quickly chased after Remus, not bothering to even check up on Ron and Harry. She was out of breath by the time she caught up with him, equally shocked at how lively Professor Lupin was today. Typically, they’d have to slow their own pace so he could catch up with them. 

“Sir, why—?”

“Remus! What took you so long?” You call out to him when you see him enter the hospital wing, smiling knowingly when the golden trio walks in behind him. Waving at them, you shook your head, all pieces clicking together. “I should’ve known it was you three who would slow him down.”

Hermione tucked her curled hair back, chest still rising and falling from the journey it took to get here. “Well, we were actually heading to the library when we ran into Professor Lupin—”

You clicked your tongue when you looked at the giant clock displayed above the door, “Luckily, Remus made it here on time. We’re cutting it close with our reservation at the Gilded Griffin.”

Only then did the three Gryffindors notice what you and Remus were wearing. While Remus was wearing black, sharp dress robes, they didn’t even know he owned—for he always dressed in his shabby, torn ones—you were dressed in a maroon dress that they thought was far too fancy to even wear for any occasion besides a wedding. Ron’s mouth dropped open before Hermione shut it with the tip of her finger, but equally shocked at the way the two of you dressed.

“Ready, dove?” Remus let you take his arm, his smile softening as he looked you up and down. 

“Always.” You nod cheerfully and pull your wand out, not noticing the way the trio was looking at you like you had both grown multiple heads. 

And before you could apparate—special permission given by Dumbledore himself because he definitely favored the two of you over others—Harry snapped out of his astonished gaze and practically shouted at you like he was bleeding out to die. 

“YOU’RE MARRIED TO PROFESSOR LUPIN?”

You break away from admiring Remus and tut at Harry, patting his head once more. Ironically, Harry was starting to believe you loved to treat him like your own child because of how often you did that to him. He pushed your hand off his hair, scowling a little when you spoke to him with a mocking tone. 

“Oh, Harry… Of course, I am.”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed several times before settling on something, “B-but how come—”

“If you ever asked what my last name was, we wouldn’t be here, now would we?” You tilt your head before smiling at them, watching the three of them look at one another incredulously. “I will see you three later. For now, behave and don’t go looking for trouble.”

And with that, you and Remus disapparted with three very surprised Gryffindors. 

“Well, Professor Lupin. I think we really deserve this now.” You laugh when you appear at the entrance of the restaurant, propping your chin on his shoulder. 

Remus pressed a kiss to your lips, “I couldn’t agree more.”

“Y/N? Are you even listening?” Eloise’s voice snaps you back to the present. Heat rushes to your cheeks as you turn toward her. 

“My apologies,” you flush. “I seem to have misplaced my focus, but I assure you, I am listening now.” 

Her eyes follow the path your own had taken. When she spots her brother stationed against the wall, she rolls her eyes dramatically. “You are utterly hopeless.” 

“I know not of what you speak,” you reply primly, refusing to glance back toward him. “As I said, I lost focus.” 

Eloise huffs, though amusement tugs at the corners of her lips. “Shall we fetch a drink? I have been meaning to tell you about the book Colin brought me from Greece.” 

You link arms with her at once, grateful for the diversion. “Lemonade sounds lovely.”

The crowd near the refreshment table is thick with perfume and murmured gossip. You've just reached for a glass when a gentleman materializes beside you with uncanny timing.

"Miss Y/N." You turn, and he bows with practiced elegance. "Lord Thomas Jameson," he introduces himself, extending his hand. "I have been admiring you all evening."

You smile politely and place your gloved fingers in his. His lips brush your knuckles in a gesture just a touch too lingering. Eloise catches your eye, the two of you exchanging a look edged with barely concealed amusement.

"You are most kind, my lord."

"Nonsense. I merely state what all must be thinking." His gaze flicks to Eloise. "Miss Bridgerton. A pleasure."

"Charmed," Eloise returns, though her smile was tight.

Jameson's attention settles fully upon you once more. "Might I be so fortunate as to secure a place upon your dance card?"

He is handsome, charming in the superficial way that often impresses a ballroom. Besides, you could not refuse a dance simply because your heart belongs, quite foolishly, to another.

"Of course," you agree, managing a polite smile. He offers his arm, and you take it, allowing yourself to be led onto the polished floor, your untouched lemonade forgotten. 

From across the room, Benedict's jaw tightens. He has never liked Jameson. The man wears civility like a coat, well-tailored and carefully displayed, but beneath it lay something grasping and entitled. Benedict knows enough of London clubs and whispered stories to distrust him thoroughly. Watching Jameson's hand settle at your waist stirs something sharp and unwelcome inside him. A jab to his ribs brings him back to the present.

"Say, brother," Colin drawls, "are you bored with us? You appear rather absorbed by Miss Y/N's dance."

Benedict crosses his arms. "I am no such thing."

"For my part," Mr. Adams adds with a laugh, "I would not blame him. Miss Y/N is quite the vision tonight. Perhaps I shall inquire after her card myself."

The remark strikes like flint to tinder.

"Indeed," Colin says lightly, though his eyes are anything but, "she has bloomed since her debut."

Benedict sets his empty glass down with more force than necessary. "I require another drink."

He does not look back as he strides away. By the time Eloise joins him at the sideboard, Benedict is halfway through a glass of whiskey.

"Y/N has abandoned me," she announces dramatically. "Lord Jameson. Do you know him?"

"Yes."

"Well?" she presses, "Is he kind? I dread the notion of her marrying some dreadful creature."

Benedict nearly chokes, "Eloise."

"It is an honest concern."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "He is wealthy. He holds a proper title. He is not... particularly kind."

Her eyes sharpen, "How unkind?"

"They are merely dancing," he insists. "There is no cause for alarm."

Eloise lifts one brow. "Then why is he leading her to the terrace?"

Benedict's head snaps toward the doors.

Eloise gasps triumphantly. "See! You are worried."

He mutters a curse under his breath and sets his glass aside. "Remain here."

"Benedict—"

"Please," he says more softly, squeezing her arm. "Trust me."

She huffs but relents, "I expect a full report.”

"Would not dream of denying you." He is already halfway across the ballroom.

You had not thought it so terribly bold to accept Lord Jameson's request for air. It is your first season; you tell yourself you must not appear skittish. The terrace doors close behind you with a soft click. Moonlight bathes the gardens in silver. You rest your hands upon the stone banister, drawing in a steadying breath as memories of childhood games among the hedges drift through your mind.

You do not hear him approach until he stands far too close. His hands come down on either side of you, boxing you in. "My lord—?"

"Shh." His breath brushes your ear. "I told you I had been watching you. I made you desirable tonight. It is only fair you return the favor."

Your stomach drops. You try to turn; he catches your wrist, his fingers tightening painfully. "I should return to the ballroom," you say, striving for calm. "My chaperone—"

"Nonsense." His grip tightens, "I shall have what I seek."

Terror blooms in your chest. You struggle in his grasp, thrashing and squirming, but he's stronger. His hand drags at your gown, tugging at the hem. The terrace door opens. A tear falls down your cheek, knowing your honor shall soon be ruined. Even worse, what if you are forced to wed the man who has put you in such a compromising state? Just as you begin to despair, though, Benedict Bridgerton steps into view. 

You nearly sink to the ground in relief. Benedict takes in the scene, his eyes flicking between you and Lord Jameson. His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it when he speaks, "Unhand her, Jameson."

 The lord straightens up, but his grip on you does not relinquish. Clearly, he had not heard Benedict enter. He turns his head to the second Bridgerton sibling, raising an eyebrow, "Ah, Bridgerton. Miss Y/L/N and I were merely getting acquainted with each other. Isn't that right?" He squeezes your wrist tighter.

 A whimper is all you can manage, and you watch as Benedict seethes. It's like watching lightning strike in the distance. One minute, Benedict is in the doorway; the next, he is pulling Lord Jameson off of you, pushing him to the ground. His arm rears back and delivers a harsh blow to the side of Thomas's face.

You back up, the railing digging into your back. A startled gasp leaves you, and the sound is enough for Benedict to take pause. He looks over at you, scared and shaking, and his expression softens. 

Then, his mask falls back into place, and he turns back to the bleeding Lord."If I see you near her again, I will ensure you never set foot in good society again. Am I clear?" Benedict growls. 

Groaning, the lord nods slowly, clearly knowing he stands no chance against a Bridgerton. "You will not speak a word of this to anyone," he adds, and the man nods once more. 

"Good," Benedict grunts. "Now, apologize to her." You're shaking, watching the scene like one watches a fire. You're unable to tear your gaze away even as everything is consumed, and your whole body burns red-hot. Thomas is angry, angrier than you've ever seen a gentleman, but Benedict shakes him by his collar, repeating, "Apologize to her!"

"I'm sorry," he gasps out, "Sorry."

 Benedict huffs, pulling him up by his cravat. "Go," he says simply. The man looks between the two of you, hesitating, but one more look from Benedict, and he's gone. You're frozen in surprise, hands shaking beneath the gloves.

Benedict moves closer. He reaches out to squeeze your shoulder, and you flinch. Guilt washes over you immediately, but Benedict only smiles softly. It's a smile you've seen before. The same one he'd given when you were both children, and you scraped your knee. Pity, concern, but there's something more there now. 

"I'm sorry," you murmur, rubbing your sore wrist. Your eyes are locked on your white glove, refusing to meet his gaze. 

"Y/N," Benedict speaks softly, taking another step toward you. "You have nothing to apologize for." 

God, why did you have to cry? Tears spill down your face, and you wipe at them uselessly. You must look a fool, akin to a crying toddler, but Benedict doesn't mock or run away. He wipes your tears with his thumb, and you finally bring yourself to look up at him. He softens even more when he sees your face. 

"Did he..." he begins, cupping your face in his hand. He swallows, clearly debating how to word his question. "Did he hurt you?" 

You shake your head, feeling the warmth of his palms on your cheeks. "No," you sniffle, still squeezing your own wrist. "He grabbed me, and he-" your voice cracks. 

Benedict shakes his head, pulling you into a hug. If anyone were to see, the sight would be scandalous, but you can't bring yourself to care. You allow him to hold you, crying into his chest. 

"It is alright. We needn't speak of it tonight. All that matters is you are well." He glances down at where you hold your wrist. When you've stopped crying, Benedict takes hold of your hand, his voice barely a whisper, "May I?" 

You hesitate, but when you meet his gaze, you know it will all be alright. Finally, you nod silently. He smiles reassuringly, fingers dancing up your arm to the top of your glove. He pulls the dainty thing off like he's done it millions of times before, and likely, he has. A bruise is forming on your wrist. It's faint and will likely only take a couple of days to fade, but Benedict's jaw clenches at the sight. His fingers trace it, his touch feather-light. Your breath catches in your throat, his touch feeling reverent.

Benedict's eyes flicker up to yours, "I apologize, Y/N." 

You can only furrow your brow at first, "You apologize? Whatever for?" 

“If I had intervened sooner, I-" he sighs, shaking his head. "I should have intervened the moment I saw the two of you together on the dance floor." 

It's your turn to shake your head, reaching out to grab his hand. He winces when you do, and that's when you finally look down at his own injury. His knuckles are bloody and bruised, evidence of the punches he had used to defend your honor. 

You gasp, lifting it closer into view, "You are hurt!" 

He waves you off, "Oh nonsense," he scoffs. "I would've continued had a lady not been present."

 You laugh through your drying tears, "I hardly feel like a lady." You're examining the injury curiously when an idea occurs to you. "My glove," you murmur to yourself, looking to Benedict's other hand that still holds your white glove. You take it from his grasp, tying it around his knuckles securely.

"Ah! You've ruined your glove!" Benedict protests, "As I told you, I am quite well, Y/N." 

"I assure you, I have more gloves than I know what to do with," you reply. 

Benedict eyes you, a fond smile pulling at his lips. How is it that you still make his heart stutter after the events of the night? You look breathtaking, even with dried tears running streaks down your face. 

"Y/N," he speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. You ignore him at first, fussing with the glove to avoid meeting his blue eyes. He tilts your face towards his with his free hand, forcing you to look at him. "You are in shock. We should get you to a guest room." 

"Nonsense," you argue. "I am well enough to return home." 

"For my own peace of mind, then," he insists. You hesitate, and he adds a smooth, "Please." His hand is warm on your face, and all you can think about is how badly you've wanted him this close for so long. 

"Benedict, I-" Your eyes flicker to his lips, an indescribable feeling of desire coursing through you. 

He follows your gaze, looking at your lips. He wants to hear more. He wants you to say the words he's longed for you to say for so long, but he can't let you. Not right now. Not after everything that's happened to you tonight. 

So as much as he loathes to, he clears his throat, "Come, Y/N. Let us get you comfortable." He offers you his hand. Your face falls, and it takes everything in him not to say to hell with propriety and kiss you senseless. Against all odds, he stays strong, even when your bare hand slips into his. 

"What about my mother? I- I do not wish to tell her," you admit. 

Benedict pauses, looking at you tenderly. He squeezes your hand, speaking lowly, "We needn't tell anyone if you do not wish, but Y/N," he begins, holding your gaze. "You must know you did nothing wrong. You have no reason for shame; you do know that, don't you?" 

You hesitate, blaming yourself. "I should not have accepted his invitation to the terrace. It was not ladylike of me. I should have known better, and I must have done something. Otherwise, he would not have thought me the sort of lady who-."

"Enough, Y/N," he pulls you closer, holding up your wrist. "You did nothing to deserve this. Thomas Jameson is a cad and a fool, and it pains me to think you believe you could have earned this." 

Seeing your upset expression, he switches gear, "In fact, perhaps I shall go find him and challenge him to a duel, hm?" 

You can tell by the look on his face that he is merely trying to put a smile on your face. A breathless laugh escapes you, and he grins. 

"How dare you laugh! Do you not have confidence in my dueling abilities? Because I assure you, I am quite the marksman!" 

You laugh again, and he wipes your tears with a pleased smile. "There's that smile. Now, dry your eyes, and I shall grace you with my plan." 

When you nod, he continues with a flourish, "We shall travel through the servants' hall out of sight. Then, I will track Eloise down and ensure she convinces your mother to allow you to sleep over with her. Ladies have sleepovers, do they not?" 

You roll your eyes, nodding, "Yes, I suppose they do." 

"Ah, so I thought. Very well then, will you allow me to escort you to a guest room now, or do you intend to continue arguing with me?" Sighing, you take his hand and follow him as he leads you through the dimly lit service halls. It's strange being here with him. He walks in front of you, tugging you down the long hallways. You stare at the back of his head, allowing yourself to imagine him as your suitor. 

The two of you emerge in the upstairs east wing after Benedict peeks through the hallway door dramatically. "We must make haste about it," he teases, pulling you as he bursts into a jog. 

You laugh in surprise, trying to remain quiet, "Benedict! I can hardly run in this gown!" 

"Well, that simply won't do!" 

He scoops you into his arms. You practically squeal, covering your mouth quickly. 

"Shhh!" He hisses, but there's a wide grin on his face. 

"You must put me down, Benedict! This is ridiculous!" you exclaim through your giggles. 

"Nonsense!" He chuckles, finally coming to a stop in front of a door. "Besides, we are here," he explains, opening the door. "You are injured. You must let me take care of you." 

"It is my wrist, and it will be faded by the morning," you argue, but he only scoffs, sitting you on the edge of the bed. 

"Nonsense, you mean you are not writhing in pain?" He teases, examining your wrist dramatically. 

"Do I appear to be writhing in pain?" You're wracked with giggles, his touch ticklish on your wrist. 

Benedict lit up. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself this much fun. He couldn't remember the last time he'd joked and teased a lady just to see her smile. Usually, it was all means to an end, but this time, he wasn't considering how quickly he could get beneath your skirts. 

"No, I suppose you do not appear to be writhing," he agrees, smirking. "Though you do appear to be quite ticklish, it seems." 

There's a mischievous glint in his eye, and you glare, scooting back towards the pillows on the bed. Shaking your head, you point with your still bare hand, "You would not dare, Benedict Bridgerton." 

Leaning closer, he raises an eyebrow, "Would I not?" 

He steps closer, and you gasp, exclaiming, "Do not!" But this time around, there is delighted amusement on your face. 

The guest room door swings open, and a worried Colin Bridgerton is in the doorway. He looks between the two of you, the way you're backed against the pillows, and Benedict looms over you. At first, he assumes the obvious and begins to back out of the room, but then he recalls the reason he had entered the room in the first place. 

He'd heard your exclamation, concerned by your words, paired now with the sight of a fresh bruise on your wrist. Benedict must realize how the scene looks because his face falls immediately, seeing Colin's worried, and now angry, expression. 

He holds his hand out to Colin, "Brother, it is not what it looks like." 

Colin ignores Benedict, looking at you, "Y/N, are you alright?"Your cheeks must be pinker than Lady Featherington's atrocious gown. 

You nod your head quickly, "Yes, Colin. It is as he says. It-" you look at Benedict worriedly, "It is not what it looks like." 

Colin studies your face, intent on knowing if you are truthful. He motions to your wrist, "You are hurt." 

You look at your own wrist as if suddenly remembering your earlier encounter with Lord Jameson. Your eyebrows raise practically to your hairline, "Goodness, Colin. Of course, Benedict did not hurt me." 

Colin looks between the two of you again, noting the protective look on Benedict's face. The flash of anger. He crosses his arms instantly, "Someone else did then?"

 Benedict sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Colin, it is none of your concern!" He scolds, knowing the shame you felt despite his earlier words. 

"Benedict, it is alright," you say softly. "I do not wish for your brother to think you cruel." 

The older Bridgerton steps between you and Colin, his expression shifting to one of reassurance. "Do not worry on my account. I hardly worry myself on Colin's opinion," his tone is humorous, not wanting to stress you.  

You crack a small smile, "You are quite right. It is only Colin. I trust he will not report to Lady Whistledown." 

Colin takes a slow step forward, still concerned, "Y/N, if something has happened, I would not tell a soul." 

You roll your eyes, "Well, I know that of course, but," you look back to Benedict sheepishly. "Truthfully, I would prefer not to tell the story. Besides, you needn't babysit me all night, Benedict. I am quite well. You may take your leave of me, I assure you." 

He furrows his brow, beginning to argue, but you glower, crossing your arms. "Truly, I am quite sick of your face," you insist. 

Benedict ducks his head, hiding his amusement, "Very well then." He rises, motioning for Colin to lead the way toward the door. "I will send Eloise in with some gowns." 

He's halfway out the door when he turns back, his eyes crinkled. "I do not believe you, though, for the record." 

Your arms cross against your chest, asking with a furrowed brow, "About what?" 

Benedict's dimple appears on his cheek, "I believe you are quite fond of my face." 

And with that, he shuts the door, leaving you in disbelief. You pace the room after that, until your ball slippers have rubbed blisters on your heel. You collapse onto the bed with a huff. 

The ceiling in the guest room is rather plain, but you stare for what feels like forever, replaying the events of the night. So much had happened in only one night. The thought of that wicked man's grasp on your wrist sends shivers up your spine. You remember the fear you had felt when the door swung open, and the instant relief when Benedict had appeared. He had arrived just in time. It's an effort not to wonder what would have happened had he not been there.

Later, once Eloise had come and gone, you were left alone. Or so you thought.

Sleep would not come. The bruise on your wrist throbbed faintly; the memory of Jameson's grasp was worse still. You slipped from bed and opened the door-

—and nearly stumbled over Benedict Bridgerton sitting on the floor outside your chamber, sketchbook in hand.

"What on earth are you doing?" you whispered.

He rose swiftly, flushed. "Ensuring you were not disturbed."

"You meant to sit here all night?"

He hesitated. "Yes."

The weight of it stole your breath.

"You need not act from duty," you said softly.

He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "Duty?" He stepped closer, candlelight gilding the earnestness in his expression. "You believe this is duty?" His hand found yours, searching your expression.

The candlelight trembles between you, throwing shifting gold across his face. His eyes drop, not to your lips this time, but to your wrist. To the faint bruise darkening beneath your skin.

His jaw tightens, "When I opened that terrace door," he says at last, voice rougher than before, "and saw him with you..."

He stops, swallows, "For a moment, only a moment, I believed I had failed you."

The air feels thinner.

"I thought I was too late." His hand curls slightly at his side, as though remembering the feel of Jameson's collar in his grip. "And in that instant, I saw the rest of your life unfold without me in it. I saw you standing beside a man who would cage you. Touch you." His voice drops, almost shaking now. "I saw you looking at him the way you look at me."

The confession lands between you like a spark.

"And I realized," he continues, stepping closer, "that the pain of that vision was not honorable. It was not noble. It was not friendly  affection." He lets out a short, humorless breath.

"It was jealousy. It was terror. It was love."

Your heart stumbles in your chest.

"You were a child with ribbons perpetually slipping from your hair," he says more softly. "You followed us into the gardens and demanded inclusion in our games. I told myself I watched you because you were Eloise's friend. Because you were small. Because someone had to."

A faint smile ghosts across his mouth, "But you were not small forever."

He reaches up, hesitates, then cups your cheek as though it is something precious.

"One day, you laughed at something I said, truly laughed, and I felt something shift inside me. I ignored it. I told myself it was habit. Familiarity."

His thumb brushes just beneath your eye.

"But habit does not make a man search every room for one face. Habit does not make him count the hands that dare touch her waist during a dance."

His other hand lifts, hovering at your hip without quite settling there.

"I have tried to draw everything," he murmurs. "Landscapes. Light. Strangers in passing carriages. Yet every sketch becomes you. The curve of a cheek becomes yours. The tilt of a chin. The fall of hair."

His voice grows quieter, "You have become the measure by which I recognize beauty in this world."

He exhales, forehead nearly brushing yours now, "And when I thought I might lose you tonight... I understood that a world in which you do not belong beside me is not one I care to inhabit."

The space between you has vanished. Your night robe brushes his coat. You can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric. His hand finally settles at your waist — tentative, as though awaiting permission.

"I ought to court you properly," he says, drawing himself up slightly, though his hand does not leave you. "I ought to call upon your mother. Bring flowers. Stand in your drawing room like a respectable gentleman."

A flicker of warmth softens his mouth.

"I will do all of it. Gladly."

His eyes lock with yours — open, unguarded.

"But I have had a lifetime to consider my heart. In every season of my life, the answer has been you."

He takes your hand, pressing it firmly against his chest. His heart is racing beneath your palm.

"If you will have me — not because I saved you, not because you feel indebted, not because of what nearly happened tonight — but because you choose me..." His voice steadies. "Then allow me to spend the rest of my life proving I am worthy of that choice."

A breath. A final step forward.

"Y/N. Will you marry me?"

You cannot speak at first. Your entire life seems to unspool behind your eyes — gardens, laughter, teasing glances across ballrooms, years of quiet longing you thought foolish and solitary.

"You thought you alone carried this?" you whisper finally. Your hand trembles where it rests over his heart. "I have loved you since I did not understand what love was," you confess, voice unsteady. "I followed you into those gardens not because I wished to join the game — but because you were there."

His breath stutters.

"I watched you dance with other women and told myself I did not mind. I told myself I was a child. That I would outgrow it." You shake your head faintly. "I never did."

Your fingers tighten in his coat. "When he took me onto that terrace, I was afraid," you admit. "But when the door opened, and it was you..." Your voice breaks softly. "I have never felt such relief in my life."

His hand slides fully around your waist now, firm, grounding.

"I do not choose you from gratitude," you continue. "I choose you because you are the first person I search for in every room. Because my heart quiets when you are near. Because I cannot imagine my future without you in it."

Tears gather in your lashes, but they are not born of fear.

"Yes," you breathe.

His entire body stills.

"Yes," you repeat, louder now, surer. "I will marry you. I have been yours in my heart for years."

Something in him breaks open. He gathers you up as though you weigh nothing, lifting you clean from the floor. A breathless laugh escapes you as your arms wind around his neck. He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed.

"You are certain?" he murmurs, almost disbelieving.

"Quite certain," you reply, smiling against his mouth.

This time, when he kisses you, it is not tentative. It is full.

His lips claim yours with warmth and certainty, not desperation. His hand cradles the back of your head, careful even in passion. You melt into him, your fingers sliding into his hair, the world narrowing to breath and heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against yours.

When he pulls back, your foreheads remain touching.

"We shall do this properly," he says softly. "I will ask your mother. I will endure whatever scrutiny awaits me."

You smile.

"And if she refuses?"

His dimple appears.

"Then I shall simply charm her. I have had years of practice. Besides, your mother loves me."

You laugh, and the sound feels lighter than anything you have known all evening. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

Outside, the last of the candles flickers. The house is quiet. The terror of the terrace feels distant now, replaced by something steadier. Warmer.

He sets you gently back upon your feet but does not let go of your hand.

"Get some rest," he murmurs. "Tomorrow begins the rest of our lives."

"And you?" you ask softly.

He brushes his thumb across your knuckles.

"I shall be right outside your door," he says with a faint smile.

You squeeze his hand, whispering, "Stay,”

Benedict stills. Every inch of him goes rigid with restraint.

"Y/N," he says carefully, the gentleman warring visibly with the man who has just asked for your hand. "If I remain... it would not be proper."

Your fingers tighten around his. "I do not mean—" You swallow, steadying yourself. "I do not wish to be alone." 

His expression changes immediately. The fire in his eyes gentles into something fiercely protective. "You are afraid," he says quietly.

"I am not," you insist automatically, then falter. "Not of you. Only... when I close my eyes, I see it again."

His jaw sets. That decides it. He steps toward the hearth and drags a chair closer to your bed. Not beside you. Not beneath the covers. Close enough to see him.

"I shall remain," he says firmly. "But here."

You blink. "On a chair?"

He arches a brow, "You did not think I would take advantage of my fiancée's vulnerable state, did you?"

The word fiancée sends a warmth through you that eases the lingering chill in your bones. You climb back beneath the covers. He removes his coat and folds it neatly over the chair, sleeves rolled slightly as he settles. The candlelight casts him in gold and shadow.

"You need not sit upright all night," you murmur.

"I have done more uncomfortable things for less worthy causes," he replies lightly.

Silence settles. After a moment, you reach your hand out from beneath the covers. He looks at it. Then, without hesitation, he takes it. Your fingers lace together, your hand warm in his.

"Sleep," he says softly.

You and Benedict had both been eagerly anticipating the moment when your son would utter his very first word. The two of you had playfully debated whether it would be ‘Mama’ or ‘Papa’…or perhaps something entirely unexpected.

Gazing down into your son's deep blue eyes—so strikingly similar to his father's—you began to gently encourage him. "Mama, can you say…Mama?" you urged.

Benedict, not one to be outdone, joined in with a playful grin on his face, leaning over to engage in some friendly competition. "Papa! Say…papa! How could you not say papa? I carried you across the lawn just this morning when your little legs couldn't manage it!" he exclaimed, speaking in full sentences as if little Charles could grasp every word, full of affection.

Charles giggled and babbled in his adorable baby voice, yet he hadn't picked a side to settle on. He squirmed out of your laps, lifting his hands to indicate his desire to crawl. You gently placed him on the floor, understanding his strong urge to explore. He wobbled towards his beloved hiding spots, inviting one of the games you enjoyed playing with him. His pudgy legs and arms carried him behind the table and then beneath a chair.

He was giggling wildly, his laughter echoing through the living room as you and Benedict joined in the game, feigning exaggerated confusion in your search for him.

“Oh no! Husband, wherever could our son be? Perhaps we have lost him forever!” you exclaimed, widening your eyes and placing a dramatic hand over your heart. Benedict, standing beside you, stroked his chin with mock seriousness, his fingers brushing over the faint stubble as though he were contemplating with a full beard.

“Ah. Well, perhaps we need to make another one,” he mused with a sly grin. You playfully swatted his arm with the back of your hand, shaking your head and laughing, unable to maintain the pretense any longer. You marveled at how Benedict's eyes sparkled whenever he talked about fatherhood. The thought of introducing a new little sibling for Charles had been a dream you had quietly nurtured, envisioning more tiny feet pattering around the house.

You turned to him, a playful smile dancing on your lips. "Perhaps we do," you murmured, stepping a little closer to him. Your hands glided up his strong shoulders, feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his shirt, and your fingers found their way to the back of his neck, gently twirling the soft strands of his hair.

He leaned down, his breath brushing against your cheek, unable to resist as he pressed a tender kiss to your lips. "You know," he whispered, his voice laced with a teasing tone, "making the baby is the fun part…"

A soft laugh escaped your lips. "Well, easy for you to say, Mr. Bridgerton," you retorted, shaking your head with amusement. "I don't recall you being the one who was miserable for nine months," you added, your eyes sparkling with mirth as you playfully nudged him.

You spun around, your heart skipping a beat as you realized Charles had completely slipped out of sight. Anxiety crept in as you and Benedict exchanged worried glances, both of you instinctively starting to search the sitting room.

“Charlie?” Benedict called out, his voice carrying a hint of concern as he crouched down to peer beneath the piano-forte. The thought struck both of you that Charlie might have toddled off down the hallway.

By the time you and your husband tracked him down, he was happily ensconced in Benedict's art studio. Blue and green paint was smeared across his pudgy little fingers, and a perfect baby-sized handprint marked his forehead. He was sitting amidst the scattered tubes and brushes, giggling with delight.

Benedict sighed in resignation, though a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth revealed his amusement. Without hesitating, you bent down and lifted Charlie into your arms, unfazed by the oil paint now staining your dress. Tenderly, you wiped a streak of green paint from Charlie's nose. At that moment, Charlie's bright eyes flickered between you and Benedict, a joyful grin lighting up his face.

"Mama," he giggled.

You gasped, your eyes lighting up as you showered his tiny face with a flurry of kisses, not caring about the smudges of paint left behind on his cheeks.

Benedict placed a hand over his heart with theatrical flair, his face twisted in mock agony. He then turned to Charles, a playful glint in his eyes. “Betrayed!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with exaggerated woe. “In my own home! By my own flesh and blood, he has forsaken me!”

You spun around, a playful laugh escaping your lips, as Benedict bent down, his lips brushing gently against your temple. His eyes sparkled with affection as he turned his gaze to his son, a proud smile stretching across his face. “You made a good choice, my boy,” he said, his voice warm and approving. "Indeed, she reigns supreme within the hierarchy of our family, does she not?"

Together, you and Benedict attended to the delightful yet mischievous little one, joining forces to bathe him in his modest silver tub. Unlike the typical gentlemen of the ton, who might never deign to assist their wives in such domestic endeavors, Benedict was different. He took great joy in being as involved as his duties permitted, cherishing these moments with his little family.

Once Charles was changed into a pair of warm, footed pajamas, you all nestled under the soft quilt on the bed, with him snugly resting between you. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow a few candles.

“I know he cannot sleep in the bed with us, but I don’t want to place him back in the bassinet,” you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath as you ran a gentle finger along Charles’s smooth, rosy cheek. It was astonishing to think that your love with Benedict had brought this tiny, perfect being into the world. You then rested your head on Benedict’s broad shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of his steady breathing.

He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss on your head before brushing your hair back with a gentle hand. "I never dared to imagine such happiness could be mine, y/n. Not in my wildest dreams, not ever.” he murmured, his voice full of sincerity.

Sleepily, you traced your fingers across his hand, feeling the warmth and reassurance it offered. “We built this happiness together, my love,” you replied softly.

You always knew there was something different about Benedict Bridgerton.

While his brothers concerned themselves with duty and the rigid expectations of the ton, Benedict existed slightly apart—watching, sketching, as though the world he saw was entirely different from the one everyone else lived in.

Perhaps that was why you had always felt drawn to him.

And perhaps that was why, when you stumbled upon his greatest secret, it felt like stepping into a dream.

It was by accident that you found it.

You had been wandering through the halls of Aubrey Hall in search of quiet when you noticed a door slightly ajar—a room you had never paid much attention to before.

Curiosity got the better of you.

The moment you stepped inside, the scent of oil paint and parchment filled your senses. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, casting golden light over the cluttered space. There were stacks of canvas, half-finished works propped against the walls, and a wooden easel in the center of the room—its latest subject still hidden beneath a cloth.

And then you saw them.

Sketches, scattered haphazardly across the desk.

All of you.

You froze, your breath catching as your fingers brushed over the pages.

In each sketch, you were captured in moments so intimate they stole your breath away—laughing softly at some long-forgotten joke, gazing out of a window lost in thought, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Benedict had drawn you as if he had memorized every detail of your face, as if he had studied the way your eyes softened when you smiled and the precise curve of your lips when you frowned.

It was overwhelming.

It was breathtaking.

“You weren’t meant to see that.”

The deep, familiar voice sent a shiver down your spine.

You turned sharply to find Benedict standing in the doorway, his figure framed by the light behind him. His hands were stained with charcoal, the sleeves of his white shirt pushed up haphazardly. There was something raw in his expression—something caught between vulnerability and hesitation.

Your heart hammered in your chest.

“You…” Your voice faltered as you gestured to the sketches. “You’ve been drawing me?”

A muscle in his jaw tensed.

“I suppose there’s no use denying it now.”

He stepped forward, slowly, as if uncertain whether you would run.

You turned back to the sketches, unable to tear your eyes away. “How long?”

Silence.

Then—so softly you almost didn’t hear it—

“Since the first time you smiled at me.”

The confession was a whisper, barely louder than the rustling of the wind through the open window.

Your breath caught.

You had always known Benedict was kind. Witty. Charming. But this? This was something else entirely.

You looked at him then, truly looked at him, and saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, the way his gaze flickered between your face and the sketches as if bracing for rejection.

You swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He exhaled, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Because I was afraid.”

The words hung between you, heavy with meaning.

“Afraid of what?” you whispered.

Benedict let out a breathless laugh, shaking his head. “Afraid that if you saw the way I see you, you would never look at me the same way again.”

Your heart clenched.

Because he was right.

You would never look at him the same way again.

You stepped closer, your fingers tracing over one of the sketches—a softer one, a portrait of you looking away, lips parted as if caught mid-thought. It was intimate. Loving.

You looked back up at him, and for the first time, you let yourself see what had been there all along.

Every lingering glance. Every stolen moment. Every time Benedict had looked at you as if you were something more than just a friend.

Something precious. Something his hands ached to touch.

Something his.

You took a deep breath, your voice barely above a whisper. “Benedict…”

He was watching you so intently, as if he was memorizing this moment, sketching it in his mind.

And then, in a breath of movement, he reached for you.

His fingers, stained with charcoal, brushed against yours, hesitantly, searching.

“I should have told you,” he murmured. “I should have told you a long time ago.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Told me what?”

“That I never wanted to sketch anyone else.” His voice was rough, full of something you had never heard from him before. “That every stroke of my pencil, every painting, every shadow and line—it’s always been you.”

Your breath hitched.

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured. “And I will.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you did something reckless. Something inevitable.

You leaned in.

And Benedict met you halfway.

The moment his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into one of his paintings—soft edges and blurred lines, all color and warmth and want.

His hands, still dusted with charcoal, cupped your face, tilting your chin so he could kiss you deeper, slower. It was not urgent, nor frantic. It was a confession, a promise in the shape of a kiss.

When you finally broke apart, your forehead rested against his, both of you breathless.

Benedict’s thumb traced your cheek, smudging a bit of charcoal across your skin. “I suppose I’ll have to paint you properly now,” he murmured, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You laughed softly, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I think I’d like that.”

And as he kissed you again, the unfinished canvas behind him stood waiting—ready to capture a new masterpiece.

Robin leaned over, grabbed your milkshake, and took a obnoxiously loud sip through the straw. “I genuinely don’t know why you don’t just ask him out,” she said, licking whipped cream off her lip. “It’s not like he can do better than you. Actually, scientifically speaking? He cannot.”

You opened your mouth to argue but Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Speaking of the dingus,” she muttered, turning her head toward the counter.

You followed her gaze just in time to see Steve swinging his ice-cream scoop. A gaggle of ten-year-olds watched with awe as he attempted some kind of Scoops Ahoy–themed trick.

He spun it once. Twice.

On the third swing, it slipped straight out of his hand and clattered across the floor. The kids burst into laughter. Steve just stood there, hands on his hips like that had been the plan all along.

Robin pointed with the straw still between her fingers. “Really? That guy? That guy is the one you’re down bad for?”

A soft, helpless smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Yeah,” you breathed, chin dropping into your hand again. “Isn’t he amazing?”

Robin jabbed you in the ribs with her elbow. “C’mon,” she said around another mouthful of your milkshake, “go. Hit your chance before the universe smites you for being a coward.”

“You really think—?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding so aggressively her hair bounced… though the effect was slightly ruined by how she was giving you a distracted thumbs-up while still sipping through the straw.

You pushed yourself out of the booth before your brain could stop you, smoothing your shirt. By the time you reached the counter, the ten-year-olds had dispersed, leaving Steve standing alone.

“Cool trick,” you said, leaning an elbow on the counter because Robin always claimed it made you look ‘effortless.’

Steve brightened immediately. “Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me?” he intoned in that ridiculous nautical voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh, matching his grin. “Depends, sailor. What flavor do you recommend sailing on today?”

His eyes flicked to where Robin was sitting with your half-finished milkshake.

“Uh—why don’t you just… have that one again?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You tried again, leaning in just a bit. “But you haven’t told me your favorite. C’mon, what’s your go-to?”

“But you didn’t even finish that one,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward Robin with a soft frown. “You should try it properly this time.”

God. He really didn’t get it.

You watched his brows pinch in that soft, boyish confusion—like he thought he was helping, like he genuinely believed he’d cracked the code of what you wanted. And maybe that was the worst part. That he cared enough to try but not enough to see.

Your smile faltered for half a second. “Right,” you said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll just have that again.”

“Great!” Steve said, already turning to gather ingredients.

You turned your head just enough that Steve wouldn’t notice, giving Robin the smallest shake. Robin’s face fell around the straw. She mouthed what happened?but you only shrugged, because how were you supposed to explain something that felt stupid and small and somehow enormous all at once?

Your eyes drifted back to Steve, watching the easy way he moved behind the counter, the way his stupid hat bobbed with every step. He looked so completely unbothered, so far from the storm brewing in your chest. And the thoughts started piling up like dominoes you couldn’t stop tipping over.

Maybe he just didn’t see you like that, maybe he never had. Maybe every smile you’d memorized and every laugh you’d tucked away like a pressed flower had been nothing more than… friendliness. Harmless, casual affection he gave to everyone. Maybe you’d taken crumbs and convinced yourself they were a meal.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on anything else, but your brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept pulling threads until everything began to unravel.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for someone new. Maybe his heart was still snagged on something old, someone familiar. You remembered the way his voice softened every time Nancy’s name slipped into conversatio. How he never talked about her, not really, but the silence said more than any words could.

Robin had sworn up and down he’d moved on, but maybe she only said that because she hated seeing you hurt. Because she was trying to protect you from the obvious truth.

Because why else would he look so confused by your flirting? Why else would he never meet you halfway?

Your fingers curled against the countertop. Suddenly the whole picture felt painfully, humiliatingly clear. Of course Steve didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t see you trying. Of course he wasn’t picking up on hints, he wasn’t looking for any.

He was still in love with Nancy.

Steve turned around with a blinding, boyish grin and set the milkshake on the counter

“Here you go!” he said, like he hadn’t just unknowingly stepped on every fragile feeling you’d spent months trying to hide.

You forced your lips into something resembling a smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Steve.”

You carried it back to the booth, sliding into the seat across from Robin without a word. She sat up straighter, ready to ask a hundred questions, but you just nudged the milkshake toward her with two fingers.

“I’m… not in the mood anymore,” you muttered.

Robin stared at the glass, then at you, her expression softening as your gaze drifted somewhere far away. You tried to drown out your thoughts, tried not to replay every moment of confusion on his face, every hint he’d never picked up, every dream you’d apparently made up alone.

“Hey, Steve!”

Nancy Wheeler’s voice cut through the air like a needle scraping off a record.

You closed your eyes for half a second, exhaling through your nose. Of course. Because the universe didn’t just hate you, it wanted to make you suffer.

You looked over just in time to see Nancy walk up to the counter, and Steve—God, Steve—lighting up in that easy, familiar way. Like slipping into a jacket that used to fit perfectly.

You watched them talk, your heart deflating in slow, measured beats. That was it then. The conclusion you’d spiraled into was right, he wasn’t confused because he was oblivious. He was confused because he wasn’t looking for anyone. Because he’d already loved someone with everything he had once, and even if he wasn’t stuck in the past, he definitely wasn’t stuck on you.

“Rob?” you said softly, reaching for your purse.

She startled, glancing up. “Wait, where are you going?”

You stood, forcing another weak little smile. “I’ll… see you later, okay?”

You walked away, hearing Robin mutter Stupid dingus under her breath but you ignored it. Cause maybe this time, you were the stupid one.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ────────

You lay sprawled across your bed, the landline cord wrapped twice around your wrist because you kept fidgeting with it. Down the hall, your dad and El were in the middle of World War III over… cereal? curfew? Who knew. Their voices rose and fell like badly-tuned radio static behind Robin’s sighing in your ear.

“I don’t know, Rob,” you said, rubbing your temple. “Maybe he just… hasn’t moved on from Nancy yet. And even if he had, what’s the guarantee he’d ever like me?”

Robin made a noise like she’d just been stabbed. “Oh my God, I can’t do this. I’m actually aging, I hope you know that. I have wrinkles now. Actual wrinkles.”

“And besides,” you continued, ignoring her dramatics, “I don’t even think I’m his type.”

Robin sucked in a breath so sharp you could practically picture her clutching her imaginary pearls. “Not his—not his type? Are you kidding me? What type do you think he has? Do you think his type is ‘random girl who breaks his heart in a bathroom’ because that didn’t exactly work out for him!”

“I’m being serious,” you argued softly, curling onto your side. “He deserves someone… I don’t know. Someone like Nancy. Someone who fits.”

“You fit!” Robin practically shouted, then lowered her voice when she remembered your dad could be lurking. “You fit so stupidly well it makes me want to scream. I promise you, he—ugh—he likes you. Like, capital-L likes you.”

“Then why doesn’t he act like it?” you shot back, voice small. “If he really liked me, wouldn’t he… I don’t know… notice when I’m flirting? Or maybe flirt back? Or at least look at me the way he looks at—”

“Nancy?” Robin groaned. “Oh my god. We are back to Nancy. We’ve made a full lap.”

You hugged your pillow tighter, eyes stinging. “He still lights up around her, Rob. I saw it today. The way he smiled? It was so easy. Like they still just… clicked. And I—”

“You click with him too!” Robin argued. “Better than Nancy ever did! He goes dumb and sparkly around you!”

Your laugh came out tired and hollow. “He goes dumb around everyone. That’s Steve’s natural state.”

“That is true,” Robin admitted. “But he’s sparkly around you.”

“How can you even say it so surely?” you whispered, a pathetic little laugh catching in your throat. “You don’t know what he feels.”

“Yes I do!” Robin insisted, voice pitching high. “Because he to—”

A door slammed somewhere in the house, loud enough to rattle your bedroom window. You winced, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

Robin’s voice fuzzed on the other end, drowned out as Hopper’s booming bass echoed down the hall and El shouted back, something about ‘you never listen’.

You sighed, pressing your eyes shut. “Rob,” you murmured, “I’ll… talk to you later, okay?”

“No—wait, don’t you—”

But you’d already clicked the receiver back into its cradle.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ────────

Robin was already waiting for you the next morning at Scoops Ahoy, pacing behind the counter. You barely stepped through the door before she lunged at you, grabbing your shoulders like she was about to deliver life-changing news .

“Okay,” she whispered urgently, dragging you behind the counter so fast you nearly tripped over a mop bucket. “Today is the day. Today. I’m doing this. I’m setting you two up, and I’m not letting you run away, and I’m not letting him be an idiot, and if anyone tries to stop me—God help them.”

You blinked at her, still emotionally hungover from everything you’d spiraled through last night. “Robin… what are you talking about?”

She held up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t even start.”

You opened your mouth and Robin slapped her hand over it. “Shh. Do not ruin this for me. I am dying. A shell of a woman. But I will go out with dignity and possibly a concussion when I knock your two thick skulls together.”

Before you could respond, Steve emerged from the back room, hair perfect, swinging his keys around his finger like he’d never been the source of ninety percent of your emotional turmoil.

“Hey!” he chirped brightly when he saw you. “You’re early today.”

Robin lit up like a nervous bomb. She shoved you forward, “Yeah, because we have something to ask you.”

“Robin—” you hissed, mortified.

But she marched on, committed to the bit. “So! Dingus! She and I were thinking, you know, since you’re free tonight—”

“Oh!” Steve cut in, his face lighting up even more, if that were possible. “Right. I actually meant to tell you guys. I’m… uh… I’m not free tonight.”

You froze.

“Oh?” Robin said tightly, voice straining like a crack in glass. “Why not?”

Steve leaned casually against the counter, cheeks slightly pink. “I have a date.”

Your heart stuttered. Like something inside you tried to stand up and then immediately sat back down.

“A… oh,” you said, throat suddenly too small. “A date?”

Robin went rigid beside you. You could practically hear her internal screaming.

“Yeah!” Steve continued obliviously, grinning like he hadn’t just punched a hole through your ribcage without noticing. “She’s really cool. So I figured why not?”

Why not. Why not. The words echoed inside you, mocking, hollow, sharp around the edges.

Robin stared at him like she was seriously, genuinely contemplating committing a felony. “You… have a date,” she repeated, as if her brain needed time to reboot.

Steve nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! And actually—” He turned to you with that same bright, easy smile he always gave you, the one your heart stupidly stored like a treasure. “I was actually hoping you could help me get ready?”

The world tilted. Painfully.

“You… want me to—”

“Well yeah!” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “You’re good at that stuff. You always tell me when my hair’s doing that weird flippy thing, and you know what shirts make me look less like a suburban dad, so I figured you could help me pick something out?”

Robin made a sound beside you that could only be described as the noise someone makes when witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.

You swallowed, smiling even though it burned. “Sure,” you said softly. “Yeah. Of course.”

His grin widened. “You’re the best.”

And with that, he went back to reorganizing cones like he hadn’t just peeled another layer off your already bruised heart.

Robin pulled you aside the second his back was turned, gripping your shoulders.

“I’m going to die,” she whispered. “I’m actually going to die. I can’t do this anymore. I’m retiring from matchmaking. I refuse to witness this level of obliviousness for one more day—”

You barely heard her. Because your brain was looping one thought, over and over, louder and heavier each time:

Of course he had a date. He wasn't in love with Nancy anymore. Of course he moved on. Just… not with you.

And you were going to help him get ready for her. You were going to stand in his room and pretend your heart wasn’t folding itself into smaller and smaller shapes just to survive being near him.

Robin stared at you, eyes softening into heartbreak for you and secondhand exhaustion for herself. “Please,” she murmured, “for my sanity, tell me you’re not going to make this hurt worse.”

But you already knew you would. Because it was Steve.

And loving him hurt no matter what you did.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ────────

Steve’s room looked exactly like you would think a boy-in-denial-about-his-feelings room would look. He held up two shirts—one blue, one a softer green—and looked at you with that expression that always, always managed to knock the wind out of you.

“Okay, so… which one says ‘cool but not trying too hard’?” he asked, brows raised, lips pursing.

You swallowed and pointed at the green one. It made his eyes brighter. Made him look unfairly good. Made your stomach twist into something sharp and stupid and agonizing.

He grinned, delighted, and tossed it onto the bed. “Knew you’d pick that one. You have good taste.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, fingers curling in your palms, “sometimes.”

He didn’t hear the wobble in your voice, of course he didn’t. Steve could hear a twig snap in the woods from twenty feet away and mistake it for Nancy calling his name, but he couldn’t hear you cracking right in front of him. He turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair, fussing with the collar, stepping back and forth like he was trying to solve himself.

And there you were behind him, reflected in the glass, sitting on the edge of his bed holding a pair of his sunglasses you’d been fidgeting with. You looked like someone pretending to be composed. Someone pretending they weren’t guiding the boy they loved into someone else’s arms.

You cleared your throat lightly. “So… what’s the plan? For the date.”

He nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Dunno yet. I want it to be good, though. Like… memorable? Y’know?”

Your heart turned over so painfully you had to look down at your hands. “Well,” you said, keeping your voice light and steady despite the ache climbing up your throat, “if it were me… I’d want something easy. Something that doesn’t feel like a performance.”

His eyes flicked up to the mirror, catching yours. He listened the way he always did. It almost made you dizzy.

“Like what?” he asked.

You shrugged, swallowing hard. “Just… I dunno. Something small. Ice cream, maybe. Or records. Or a late drive with the windows down. Stuff that feels like you… not something you read in a magazine last minute.”

He grinned again. “Yeah. That sounds good. That sounds really good actually. She’d probably like that.”

She. Of course.

You nodded, trying not to let your smile—or your chest—collapse. “Yeah. Most girls would.”

He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the chain around his neck. He had no idea that you were cataloguing every piece of him, burning each detail into your memory like you’d need it later, like you were preparing for a life where you didn’t get to see him like this anymore.

Your mind spiraled again, like it had been doing for days now. You thought about the way he would look at the girl when she would enter the room, how effortlessly they would talk. You thought about how easy it must be for someone like her to be loved. How simple it must be to be the girl Steve Harrington never had to question wanting.

You thought about yourself in comparison. You’d always been the backup dancer in your own life, and standing here next to him, watching him dress for a date with a girl who wasn’t you, made that sting with humiliating clarity.

He turned then and held out two jackets.

“Okay, so—help me out here. Denim or the bomber?”

You took a breath so deep it hurt your ribs. “Bomber,” you whispered.

He laughed like you’d made his night.

“God, what would I do without you?” he asked, slipping into the jacket with a grateful grin.

The question lodged itself in your throat. You knew the answer. He’d live just fine. You were the one who’d fold without him, not the other way around. But he looked at you with such fondness, such blinding affection, that you couldn’t force the truth out. You could barely breathe around it.

You stood. Smoothed the hem of your shirt. Wiped away any stray emotion that might’ve clung to your face.

“Well,” you said softly, keeping your tone tight and controlled, “you look great. She’s lucky.”

Steve blinked at you, something in his expression flickering—confusion? Or maybe that was just your wishful thinking trying to make itself useful. “Thanks,” he said finally, nudging your shoulder with his. “Seriously. You always know how to make me feel… I dunno. Like I’m doing something right.”

Your laugh came out thin and brittle. “I try.”

He grabbed his wallet, checked the time, and with a nervous energy you’d never seen him carry for anyone else, he made for the door. He didn’t notice the way your hands shook. Didn’t notice the way your breath stuttered. Didn’t notice the way you stayed in his room long after he’d left, staring at the empty space he’d occupied like if you stared long enough, maybe you’d figure out how to unlove him.

But you couldn’t.

Because you did. Too much.

You wiped at your cheek before the tear could fall, furious at it for slipping free. You refused to cry in Steve Harrington’s room. You refused to cry in the room of someone who couldn't see you hurting. You refused to cry anywhere except the one place where you could fall apart without witnesses.

The walk home felt endless and directionless all at once. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you block after block while your brain played a highlight reel of every moment you’d ever mistaken for something more.

You hugged your arms around yourself, the cool evening air stinging your skin as if trying to keep you awake, keep you from spiraling any further. But your thoughts swarmed, relentless and hungry. You pictured him sitting across from some girl wearing the jacket you picked out, smelling like the cologne you told him suited him best, using the words and plans you knowingly crafted for someone who wasn’t you.

By the time your house came into view, something tight and exhausted inside you snapped. You slipped your key into the lock and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind you as though gentleness could keep the heartbreak contained.

And then the tears came.

Hot, furious, humiliating tears spilling over faster than you could wipe them. You pressed your back to the door, slid down until you were sitting on the floor with your knees tucked up, and sobbed into your palms. You cried like you’d been holding it in for weeks. Maybe you had. Maybe loving someone who didn’t even notice had been carving quiet, invisible cracks into you for so long that tonight was the first time you finally shattered.

You were grateful—so stupidly, overwhelmingly grateful—that the house was empty. If your dad had been home, he would’ve gone full protective-parent-mode, pacing the living room with a baseball bat, swearing vengeance on whoever broke you. If El had been home, she’d have gone full telekinetic vendetta before you could even choke out a name.

But it was just you. Alone with your aching ribs and your blotchy face and the sound of your own heart cracking in your ears.

You scrubbed at your cheeks, trying to get the tears under control—slow, shaky breaths, the kind that made your nose sting and your chest hiccup. You forced yourself back onto unsteady feet, ready to drag yourself upstairs and collapse face-first into a pillow.

And that was when you heard it.

A knock.

Your breath caught mid-inhale, your fingers freezing on their way to brush the last tear from your jaw. You stood there for a second, swaying where you stood, heart thumping unevenly as another knock followed.

You wiped your face with your sleeve, pushed your hair out of your eyes, and slowly turned toward the door, panic climbing your spine.

Your hand trembled on the doorknob as you cracked it open.

And then you froze.

Steve Harrington stood on your porch, shifting nervously from foot to foot, hair a little messed up from the wind, and in his hands—held awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to hold them—was a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

Your favorite. Down to the exact shades you always stopped to look at whenever you passed the florist downtown.

Your eyebrows pulled tight. Your breath hitched. “H-hey,” you managed, voice thin and scratchy from crying. “What are you… what are you doing here?”

Steve blinked, swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Uh… hey. Um, is your dad home?”

You shook your head slowly, confusion knitting deeper into your face. “No. He took El out to the carnival tonight.”

“Oh.” Steve nodded. Then nodded again. Then nodded a third time like he didn’t know what else to do with his body. “Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

You stared at him. He stared at you.

And then his eyes darted down to the flowers, and he jolted like he’d forgotten he was holding them.

“Oh! Right! Sorry, these are, uh… here.” He thrust them at you with both hands, almost dropping them in the process.

You automatically took them, looking down at the petals, then back up at him, utterly lost. “Steve… what? Why? You don’t have to give me flowers for helping you get ready. Seriously. You really don’t.” Your voice cracked in the middle, but you pushed through it. “It’s… it’s what a friend would do.”

The word friend tasted like metal in your mouth. You felt it slice something inside you just saying it.

Steve’s face twisted into the most baffled expression you’d ever seen on a human being.

“Uh, what?”

You hugged the bouquet closer to your chest, shrugging helplessly. “Friends help friends. You said you needed help, so I helped. And you don’t owe me anything for that, okay? I don’t need flowers, Steve.”

He blinked once. Then twice. Then his eyes narrowed, offended on a molecular level.

“Are you dumb?”

Your mouth fell open, outrage flaring hot. “Excuse me?!”

He winced immediately, raising both hands. “Wait—no—okay, that came out wrong. Really wrong. Horrifically wrong. Let me try again.”

You glared at him, still clutching the flowers like a shield, waiting.

“I meant,” he said, stumbling over his words, “are you… not smart? Like, in this one, extremely specific scenario? Because clearly something is not connecting here.” He gestured wildly between you and the flowers. “Because I’m not giving you these as, like— a thanks-for-the-fashion-tips thing. Or a hey-buddy-pal-champ thing. Or a cool-friends-being-cool-friends thing.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, exasperated, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted here.

You kept staring at him, brain buffering like a TV stuck between channels. Your fingers tightened around the stems of the flowers.

“Okay,” he said, dragging a hand down his face like he was seconds away from yanking his own hair out. “Right. I’m just, I’m gonna say it. Directly. Straight up.”

You nodded in the world’s slowest, most confused motion.

“I’m taking you out on a date,” Steve said.

For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe. Your mouth opened a fraction, mind blank except for a single thought: He didn’t say that. He did not say that. You hallucinated it. You’re dehydrated from crying. You’ve finally snapped.

“I… you… I—what?” you stammered, every neuron in your brain collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

Steve stared at you. You stared at him. His expression shifted from hopeful to confused to offended in under three seconds.

“I thought you’d get that,” he said helplessly, gesturing to the flowers like they were supposed to speak for him. “I mean, this is what people do, right? They show up at your house with flowers and ask you out and Dustin swore this would make sense!”

Your brain hiccupped. “I’m sorry— Dustin? Dustin Henderson? You took date advice from a thirteen-year-old?!”

Steve flinched like you’d physically slapped him with the truth. “Okay, probably not my best decision,” he admitted, waving his hands defensively. “But in my defense, he was very confident, and he used, like… charts! And color coding! And this whole thing about emotional wavelengths I didn’t fully understand!”

“That’s the worst decision ever,” you blurted out, too shocked to filter anything. “Who does that? Who goes to a middle-schooler for romantic guidance like he’s some kind of love guru?!”

“Apparently me!” Steve nearly shouted, equally mortified. “Can we maybe not focus on how much of an idiot I am right now? Can we circle back to that later? Like way later? Preferably never?”

You just stared, stunned and speechless and unbelievably overwhelmed. The flowers felt heavier in your hands. The knot in your chest loosened just slightly, like it wasn’t sure if it needed to hold on anymore.

Steve took a breath, steadier than before, and met your eyes with something soft and earnest that made your stomach flip.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said quietly, “is that I like you. And I’ve liked you for a while. And I… I really want to take you out. Like… properly. Like a real date. With me. And you. And not Dustin.”

You made a strangled sound that might’ve been laughter. Or maybe a sob. Hard to tell.

Steve stepped closer, but slow, like he didn’t want to spook you. “So… would you mind, um… getting ready? Really quickly? So we can go? Before I completely lose my nerve and Dustin ends up writing a breakup flowchart for me on Monday?”

You stood there in stunned silence, heart thundering, tears drying unevenly on your cheeks, flowers clutched to your chest like a fragile truth you’d been waiting your whole life to hold.

And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel like the universe was plotting against you.

It felt like it had just… finally let you catch up.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your head was nodding. A breathy, startled laugh escaped you. And then you were smiling, the first real one you’d managed all day, the kind that warmed your cheeks and loosened your shoulders.

Steve blinked at you, wide-eyed and nervous, as if he wasn’t sure whether your reaction was good or bad. And before he could spiral into whatever anxious loop Dustin clearly trained him into, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

His breath hitched.

For half a second, he stood frozen. And then, with this tiny, disbelieving exhale, he melted. His hands found the small of your back pulling you in like he’d been waiting for permission. His chin nudged your shoulder; you felt the smile pressed against your neck. He smelled like the cologne you picked, and something distinctly, stupidly Steve.

You held him tighter, burying your face against his collarbone. The flowers were still clutched in one hand, crushed slightly between you, but you didn’t care. For the first time that night, you didn’t feel like you were pretending or trying or reaching for something unreachable. You felt… held. Wanted. Seen.

When you pulled back, your palms skimmed the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing barely-there along his jaw. His breath stuttered again, like you’d short-circuited whatever brain cells he had left. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your mouth.

You leaned in, barely a whisper of space between you, and murmured against his lips, “I like you too, Steve Harrington.”

He made a sound that punched straight through your ribs.

And then you kissed him.

Slow at first, because you were afraid if you pushed too fast you’d wake up in your room and realize this was all a grief-induced hallucination. His lips were warm, hesitant, a little clumsy, like he wasn’t used to wanting something this much. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and something inside you sparked.

When you tilted your head and deepened it just slightly, Steve responded like he’d been waiting his entire life for that exact moment. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. His breathing went uneven. His lips moved with this stunned kind of reverence that made your legs feel like water.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a hysterical thought flickered: Oh my god, he’s so hot. Which was insane because you already knew that, had known it for months, but apparently kissing him turned the volume up on that realization by about a thousand.

You pulled back just enough for your lips to brush his cheek, warm and flushed and stupidly soft, and pressed a quick kiss there. Steve made a noise that he immediately tried to swallow and failed miserably.

His face went pink. Actually pink. Steve Harrington looked completely undone and flustered and like his brain had officially left the building.

You smiled up at him, breathless and glowing in a way you could feel all the way in your fingertips. “I’ll be right back,” you whispered, brushing your thumb once more along his jaw before stepping away.

He froze again, watching you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics in front of him. “O—oh. Yeah. Cool. Cool. I’ll just—um—stand here. Not move. Or breathe. Or… whatever people do when they’re not… doing anything.”

You bit back a laugh, gave him one last kiss to the cheek and slipped inside to get ready.

Behind, you heard him exhale shakily and mutter, “Henderson is never gonna let me live this down.”

“Neither is Robin.” You called back and he visibly groaned.