justsage

Masterlist ☕︎✍︎

☆ = No smut, regular fics.

★ = Contains SMUT and MATURE CONTENTS, 18+ ONLY MDNI!

WIP = Work in progress

A/N: Accepting requests! ♡

STRANGER THINGS

Steve Harrington

★ Not So Subtle

☆ Hard To Love

☆ Still Us (Hard To Love pt.2)

☆ The Long Way Around

★ Golden Boy, On His Knees

☆ Bossy? Hot

☆ I Am?

★ Back to Friends

☆ Rough Day

★ Tease

☆ The Set Up (WIP)

Eddie Munson

☆ Braincells Are Optional, Baby

★ You Yelled, I Fell (In Love..?)

☆ You Say Hate, I Say Chemistry (You Yelled, I Fell pt.2)

★ You Started It

☆ Wasted Confessions

☆ Practically Married

★ Jack

☆ Shared Spaces...and Feelings (Practically Married pt.2)

★ Roommates Premium (Practically Married pt. 3) WIP

☆ Excuse Me?! (WIP)

☆ With You (WIP)

Robin Buckley

☆ You Like Girls...?!

☆ Massive Crush (WIP)

Billy Hargrove

☆ Perfect Match

★ Is It Casual Now? (WIP)

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑬𝑹 𝑰 𝑻𝑼𝑹𝑵𝑬𝑫 𝑷𝑹𝑬𝑻𝑻𝒀

Conrad Fisher

☆ Distraction

Other shows: (SOON)

※I am working on adding some fics from other shows and you guys can also send a request, it's alway open! 🫶🏻

“Babe.” Steve’s voice already came sharp and tired, his hair all messed up from running his hands through it. He dropped his Family Video vest somewhere near the door, kicked his shoes halfway across the floor, and sighed the kind of sigh only Steve Harrington was capable of. Dramatic, theatrical, like the weight of the world had been tossed on his broad shoulders during a single Thursday night shift.

“Don’t even get me started,” he said, holding up a hand as though you had already asked. “Today was… insane. Crazy. Like do people not understand the concept of rewinding tapes? It’s literally be kind, rewind. It’s on a sticker. It’s not advanced physics.”

You crossed your arms, biting back a smile, because you already knew what kind of night it was going to be. “Hi to you too, Steve.”

But he didn’t even hear you. He had already kicked into Ramble Mode.

“And Keith? God, Keith was being Keith, right? Standing there with his hands on his hips like he’s some sort of manager from Wall Street or something, except he’s not, because he’s Keith, and he’s yelling at me about late fees like I invented the system. Like, dude, I just work here, I’m not the blockbuster overlord of Hawkins. Then you know what Robin did?”

You put your chin in your hand and watched him stalk into your apartment like he owned it, pacing back and forth like he was addressing a jury. “Robin decided it would be really funny to convince a customer that we had a secret ‘adult section’ hidden behind the horror movies. And I had to explain again that we do not have a porn stash in Family Video. I swear, she’s trying to get me fired. On purpose because she knows Keith's already after my ass.”

He finally collapsed on the couch, groaning as though his very soul had been wrung dry. He dropped his head back dramatically, looking at the ceiling.

“You look way too entertained by this.”

“I’m just letting you get it all out.”

“You should be pitying me,” he whined.

“Oh, I do.” You leaned over and kissed the tip of his nose. “But also… you’re kind of hilarious when you get like this.”

Steve blinked, affronted. “This is not hilarious. This is tragic. My life is tragic.”

“You survived Family Video,” you teased. “Barely.”

He huffed, reaching for you blindly and pulling you onto the couch with him. You landed against his chest, giggling when he tried to nuzzle into your neck.

Then came dinner that turned into half eaten pasta bowls because Steve couldn’t stop talking long enough to focus on the food. He twirled spaghetti around his fork, forgot about it, let it slide back into the bowl, then launched into another rant.

“And another thing, do you know how many times I had to explain the difference between VHS and Betamax? Like, what year do people think this is? I’m not a time traveler. I didn’t invent the VHS. And then Robin’s in the back, making hand puppets out of the tape boxes, doing little shows for the kids in the store like we’re Sesame Street rejects.”

You put your elbow on the table and just… stared at him.

He caught it mid-rant, his fork halfway to his mouth. “What?”

“You’re rambling.”

Steve frowned. “No, I’m… storytelling.”

You grinned, shaking your head. “Babe. You’re rambling. You don’t even breathe between sentences.”

“I breathe.” He puffed his chest. “See? Totally breathing.”

“You need to blow off steam some other way,” you muttered under your breath, more to yourself than him.

But Steve froze, eyes flicking up. Slowly, like a record scratch in real time, he lowered his fork.

“Some other way,” he repeated.

You looked at him. Blinked. “Yeah. Like… literally anything else. Watch TV. Go for a run. Take a shower. Just… stop talking for once.”

Steve tilted his head, a slow grin spreading. “Or…”

You narrowed your eyes.

And then, with zero warning, he was standing, grabbing your hand, and pulling you up from the table.

“Steve.” You warned, half heartedly.

“You said it. Blow off steam. I can do that.”

You were laughing before you even hit the hallway, stumbling as he dragged you toward your bedroom. “I didn’t mean whatever you're thinking right now, Steve!”

“Oh, I know what you meant,” he said over his shoulder, his grin cocky and boyish all at once. “But I also know what I mean. And trust me, sweetheart, my way’s better.”

You dissolved into giggles as he kicked the bedroom door open.

The night was a blur of tangled sheets and laughter, of kisses pressed into your skin between muffled jokes. Steve Harrington was many things, charming, golden, infuriatingly talkative but quiet? Never. Not even when he was supposed to be blowing off steam.

He whispered compliments, rambled promises, told you between kisses that you were perfect, that he didn’t know how he got this lucky. Every movement was punctuated with words, because Steve Harrington couldn’t not talk, even when he was worshipping you.

And you let him. You loved him.

Later, when you were curled against him, your head on his chest and his arm draped around you, the apartment finally quiet…

Steve sighed, long and content. “You know what else happened today?”

You groaned into his skin. “Steve.”

“No, listen, this one’s good. So there was this kid, right? And he asked me if we had E.T. on VHS. And when I told him we did, he asked if it came with the actual alien. I don't know if the kid's tripping or not."

“Steve,” you interrupted, poking his ribs. “Please. Just shut up for two seconds.”

He tilted his head down, mock-offended. “You don’t want to hear about my day?”

“I already heard about your day. Twice.”

Because with Steve Harrington, the rambling never really stopped.

At least, that’s what he told you when you knocked twice, then let yourself into his dorm room carrying two iced coffees and a bag of snacks like you owned the place. His desk was buried under open textbooks, highlighters uncapped, pen in his hand moving across the page in neat loops of formulas and notes.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned, dropping the coffees onto his nightstand and collapsing onto his bed like you hadn’t seen horizontal comfort in weeks. “Conrad, it’s our one free evening all week and you’re…” You gestured dramatically toward the desk. “…romancing a math book.”

“Differential equations,” he corrected without looking up.

“Differential who cares.” You rolled over on his comforter, burying your face into his pillow. “We were supposed to hang out. We talked about this."

Conrad let out a noncommittal hum, eyes scanning the text, pen tapping against the margin.

You peeked at him from where you were sprawled. “Seriously? That’s it? Just ‘hmm’?”

“Mm,” he hummed again, flipping a page.

You sat up, crossing your legs. “You’re the worst. Shouldn’t you have done all that last night instead of ruining our quality time?”

That made him freeze for a heartbeat. The pen stilled against the paper. His shoulders tensed. Because yes, that had been the plan. Finish everything last night so tonight could be easy, so he could watch a movie with you or listen to you talk about how your lit professor hated you or whatever else you wanted.

But instead he’d spent three hours staring at the ceiling, replaying the way your voice lilted when you FaceTimed him earlier, your laugh spilling out as you told him about a squirrel stealing your granola bar outside the library. He’d gotten nothing done.

And now you were here, sighing and pouting and curled up on his bed. He cleared his throat, adjusted his pen, and forced himself back into the problem. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it done.”

You flopped backward again with a groan. "I hate you, Fisher.”

He almost smiled at that. Almost.

Five whole minutes passed. Five minutes of silence except for the occasional scratch of his pen. Then you started.

At first it was humming. A low, absentminded tune, off key just enough to burrow into his concentration. He pressed his lips together, focused on the numbers.

Then came the tapping. Your foot against the wall, rhythmic, insistent. He shot you a look. You grinned innocently back.

“Stop it,” he muttered when you pulled your phone out and blasted the song you were humming.

“Oh, am I distracting you?” you said sweetly. “My bad.”

Conrad exhaled slowly through his nose.

You sat up, smirk tugging at your lips. “Wow, look at that. Mr. Genius Fisher, writing things down. What is that? A squiggly line? Revolutionary.”

"I swear to God-" He sighed, as if pissed.

“Ooooh, and now he sighs. So broody. So tortured. Stanford’s very own dark academia heartthrob.”

That was it. Conrad slammed the pen onto his desk and spun his chair toward you, blue eyes sharp.

You blinked at him, smiling like you’d won. “Hi.”

Conrad’s jaw flexed. His chest tightened. He could feel the words building in him like pressure in a shaken soda can, his patience threadbare. Because if you even had a clue how much space you occupied in his head, you wouldn’t be sprawled on his bed like you belonged there.

“You’re gonna drive me insane,” he said finally, voice rougher than intended.

“Good.” You popped a pretzel in your mouth from the snack bag. “That’s the goal.”

And then it slipped out. Low, unfiltered, before he could stop himself.

“Shut up, or I’ll shut you up myself with a kiss.”

The room stilled.

Your hand froze halfway to the bag. Your eyes widened. “What?”

Conrad blinked, realizing exactly what he’d just said. His ears burned. He leaned back in his chair, trying for nonchalance even as his pulse spiked. “I’m just saying. It’d work, wouldn’t it?”

You gawked. “Are you serious?”

A smirk tugged at his mouth, a poor disguise. “Relax. I’m kidding.”

“Oh.” You sat back, heart thudding unevenly. “Right."

But the air between you had shifted. It buzzed now, heavy, awkward, charged. Conrad picked his pen back up, fingers trembling. You fiddled with your sleeve, pretending not to notice how small his dorm felt with the two of you inside.

After a beat, you forced a laugh. “You’re so bad at jokes, Fisher. Negative points.”

His mouth twitched. “Yeah? You’re still talking, though.”

That cracked the tension. You snorted, shaking your head, and tossed a pretzel at him. He caught it mid air without even looking. Show off.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, smiling despite yourself.

The minutes stretched. You teased him softer this time. About how his handwriting looked like a doctor’s. How his eyebrows furrowed so intensely he was bound to get wrinkles by twentyfive. How he probably dreamed in equations.

Conrad bit back his smiles, forcing his focus on the page, but his chest felt like it might split open.

Then you leaned over his shoulder, peeking at his notes. Your hair brushed his arm. Your voice was low, teasing, right in his ear.

“God, you’re such a nerd.”

He snapped.

The pen clattered to the desk. He turned his head, and before his brain could warn him otherwise, he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough, wasn’t calculated, just soft, desperate, like something he’d been holding back for too long.

Your breath hitched. For a second you froze, stunned. Then your hand fisted in his shirt and you kissed him back, laughing breathlessly against his mouth because of course Conrad Fisher would cave like this, broody and dramatic and perfect.

When he pulled back, wide-eyed, like he’d gone too far, you grinned. “Guess you weren’t kidding after all.”

He swallowed hard, lips curling faintly. “Guess not.”

New town, new school, same story, the Camaro pulled up in the lot that first morning, his stereo blasting Motley Crüe loud enough to shake lockers a block away. Girls stared, boys muttered, and Billy smirked, knowing he’d already set the place on fire. By lunch, he was at the cool table with Tommy Hagan and Carol, trading cigarettes as if they were trading lunch food. Like actual food.

And then he saw you.

You weren’t dressed to impress, weren’t hanging off someone’s arm or vying for attention. Instead, you were leaned over a notebook at a cafeteria table, scrawling fast with one hand and stabbing a french fry into ketchup with the other. Surrounded by a couple kids from the school paper, you didn’t even glance his way.

Billy leaned back in his chair, chewing on his toothpick, smirk curling.

“Alright,” he said, nudging Tommy. “Who’s the girl with the pen?”

Tommy followed his gaze. “Oh, her?She’s in the school paper club. Total hard ass.”

Billy leaned back in his chair, popped his toothpick between his teeth, and smirked.

He was the new "king" of Hawkins High, surely, you've heard of him. But youu weren’t staring, whispering, or doing double takes. No. Your head was bent over a notebook, pen scribbling furiously while your tray sat forgotten. Around you, a couple other kids from the newspaper club were chattering about page layouts and deadlines, but you barely looked up.

He didn't approach you immediately. But after that very lunch, he started noticing you. Whenever you pass by him by the lockers, at the parking lot, just anywhere around the campus, even if he's on one side and you're on the other, he sees you.

He didn’t wait long to make his move. The next afternoon, he spotted you in the quad, sitting on a bench with your notebook again. You had that look, eyebrows furrowed, biting the end of your pen like you were solving world hunger instead of editing whatever article was in front of you.

Billy sauntered over, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, his shadow falling across your page.

He flashed his most practiced grin. “Billy. Billy Hargrove. New guy, Camaro out front. You’ve probably heard of me.”

You stared for a beat, then looked back down at your notes. “Okay.”

“Okay?” he echoed, caught off guard.

“Yeah.” You didn’t even glance up. "Cool car, whatever. You done?” You said. You'd rather pay attention on your notes rather than the new guy introducing himself out of nowhere.

Billy blinked. The easy smirk faltered just a fraction. People usually melted at that introduction. They asked where he was from, what he drove, if he wanted to hang out later. But you? You hadn’t even bothered to look impressed.

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly closer. “And you are…?”

“Busy,” you said without looking up, flipping a page like he wasn’t even standing there.

That made him laugh loud and incredulous. “Busy, huh? That your actual name?”

Finally, you looked up, eyes narrowing but not unkind. "Look, I’ve got an article due for the school paper, and I’m not really in the mood for…” You waved vaguely at him. “Get-to-know-each-other or whatever this is."

Billy tilted his head, golden curls brushing his forehead, grin tugging back into place. He wasn’t used to people brushing him off especially not with that kind of sass. “Damn,” he said, low and amused. “Guess Hawkins isn’t as boring as I thought. I thought girls here would be...easy.”

You raised a brow. “Guess not.” And with that, you shut your noteboom, slung your bag over your shoulder, and walked off, leaving him standing there gawking from a distance.

Billy watched you go, something twisting in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not annoyance though you’d definitely bruised his ego, but fascination.

For the first time since rolling into Hawkins, someone hadn’t fallen at his feet. And instead of brushing it off, Billy found himself wanting more.

The following morning, Billy pulled into Hawkins High with the Camaro roaring like a beast. He parked it clean and sharp, the way he always did, revving the engine just enough to draw looks.

Except this time, he wasn’t the only one making an entrance.

You pulled into the spot right next to him, your beat-up little car coughing out a sound that was more sputter than growl. The contrast was comical. Shiny muscle car and… whatever your car was. He leaned an elbow on the wheel, smirk tugging at his mouth as he watched you climb out, balancing a bag, that ever present notebook, and a travel mug all at once.

“You’re kidding me,” Billy called over, sliding out of the Camaro. “This your ride?”

You glanced at him briefly, adjusting your bag strap. “Yep. Why?”

Billy gestured between the two cars. “You park next to me with… that?”

You gave him a once-over, unimpressed. “Well, I didn’t realize this row was reserved exclusively for assholes. My bad.”

That one stung more than he wanted to admit. He barked out a laugh anyway, leaning casually against his Camaro like he hadn’t just been roasted. “You always this feisty first thing in the morning?”

“Only when someone’s blocking the sidewalk with their ego,” you shot back, brushing past him.

Billy straightened, eyebrows lifting. His usual audience would have laughed nervously or swooned, maybe even apologized just to stay on his good side. You? You didn’t even look twice.

He felt something coil in his chest, not quite irritation, but close. It wasn’t the rejection itself that got him; it was the fact that you didn’t even seem fazed. You weren’t intimidated. Weren’t impressed.

And for Billy Hargrove, that was… new.

Tommy jogged up behind him, snickering. “Dude, what was that? You're really hitting up with that prissy,school paper girl?"

Billy shoved him lightly, eyes still tracking you as you disappeared into the crowd. His jaw flexed before he finally smirked, slow and deliberate.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “She thinks she’s funny.”

Tommy tilted his head. “So what, you still tryna hit on her?”

Billy shook his head, grin sharpening. “Hell yeah. She wants to play hard to get? Fine. I like a challenge.”

For the first time in a long time, Billy wasn’t chasing after attention just because it came easy. He was chasing because you made it hard.

And he had every intention of winning.

• She made me soup when I was sick.

• We watched The Princess Bride and said she liked it "a little"

• She lets me borrow her shampoo. It smelled like lavender.

• She called me "baby" once while sleepy. I almost died.

Of course, the list also included entries like:

• She told me to stop watching her eat cereal

• She said, quote, “Eddie, I would die before dating you, you absolute clown,” but that was in reference to a very specific scenario involving horror movies and a remote control fight, so that one didn’t count.

One night, after a long day of classes, you came home to find Eddie already in pajamas , flannel pants and a Corroded Coffin tee, sitting on the couch with a mug of hot chocolate and a very serious look on his face.

You dropped your backpack, kicked off your shoes, and gave him a skeptical glance. “What did you do?”

“What? Nothing. Can’t a man just enjoy a cozy night with his platonic life partner?”

“You’re using your ‘I did something dumb’ voice.”

Eddie paused. “Okay. So. Hypothetically. Let’s say I enrolled us in a couples’ trivia night at the student union.”

“Eddie.”

“It’s free pizza! And a keychain! And eternal glory! And c'mon, don't tell me you'd rather stay here than the school fair?"

“You are insane.”

“You’re just mad I’m going to beat you at pop culture questions.”

“You are the pop culture question,” you muttered.

But you went. Of course you went. And you wore that fuzzy lavender sweater Eddie liked, the one that made you look like a soft little cloud.

The student union was buzzing that night, lit up with strings of fairy lights and the smell of popcorn floating through the air. The “Fall Welcome Fair & Trivia Night” banner hung across the entrance, swaying slightly as groups of students filed in. You tugged Eddie by the sleeve of his flannel, practically bouncing on your toes.

"Wow, you don't look too excited." He says sarcastically. "When I told you I signed us up, you were not so happy. Look at you now." He says with eyes squinted on you.

You didn't pay him any attention and dragged him to the cotton candy booth instead.

“You pick the color,” you told him, pressing a crumpled dollar into his palm.

“Pink or blue? Life altering decision, sweetheart.” Eddie tapped his chin, acting like he was weighing the fate of the world, before dramatically choosing blue.

When the vendor handed you the huge fluffy cloud of sugar, you immediately tore off a piece and held it up to Eddie’s mouth. “Say ahh.”

He grumbled, “I’m not five,” but opened his mouth anyway, his lips brushing your fingers for a second that made his brain short circuit. You didn’t notice, too busy humming happily as you tore off another piece for yourself.

By the time trivia started, you’d dragged Eddie to the front row of tables. The questions were a mix of pop culture and “how well do you know your partner?” stuff, which you tackled with alarming confidence.

“Favorite snack?” you scribbled down Funyuns without hesitation. Eddie peeked at it and smirked.

“Favorite movie?” You wrote The Goonies.

When Eddie saw the answers, he blurted, “Holy shit, you’ve been spying on me.”

“Or maybe I just listen to you?” you shot back, sticking your tongue out.

By round three, you were doubled over with laughter because Eddie insisted the capital of Canada was “Mapleville” just to make you snort soda out your nose.

And when you took first place, you whooped and jumped into his arms like it meant something.

It meant everything. To Eddie, anyway. Free pizza and keychains be damned.

It wasn’t until mid-semester that things got a little… tricky.

Eddie caught feelings harder. Deeper. Weirder.

It was a random Wednesday. You were both crammed together on the couch, sharing popcorn and watching some low budget horror flick Eddie had insisted on renting. You were in your usual spot tucked into the corner, Eddie sprawled beside you, one leg stretched across the coffee table, the other pressed firmly against your thigh.

It was fine. Totally normal.

Until it wasn’t.

At some point during the movie, you laughed at something dumb on screen and turned your face toward him, still smiling. He laughed too, just because you did, and then he realized how close you were.

Like, really close.

Your knee was pressed against his. Your shoulder brushed his arm. Your face was tilted toward his, eyes crinkled in joy, mouth soft and pink and too close. And idiot, dramatic Eddiie looked right at you, looked right into you, and thought, holy shit.

And you looked back.

The laughter died.

It was a moment that felt like a train slamming into both of you at once and sudden, loud, terrifying.

Neither of you let out a single word. Neither of you moved.

Then, in perfect sync, like choreographed cowards, you both snapped your heads back toward the TV.

Silence.

Popcorn crunching.

A half hearted chuckle from you, nervous and thin.

Eddie swallowed hard, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He’d never felt more aware of his own breathing in his life.

After that night, things shifted in tiny, unbearable ways.

Your knees still brushed under the kitchen table, but one of you would jerk back like the contact burned. When you passed each other in the hall, you’d both stutter-step awkwardly instead of just bumping shoulders like usual. Movie nights suddenly had a carefully placed throw pillow barrier between you.

Neither of you talked about it.

Eddie journaled about it instead. Scribbles in the margins of his D&D campaign notes:

She looked at me like she wanted to kiss me. Or maybe I imagined it. (Probably imagined it. I’m insane.)

It was bound to happen.

It was another movie night, safe territory, usually. Blankets, snacks, and whatever VHS you’d rented. Tonight it was The Princess Bride again, (your pick, not his)

You were nestled against the couch, your fuzzy socks nudging his thigh, when halfway through the movie, Eddie broke.

“Do you ever think about it?” he blurted.

You blinked, tearing your eyes from the screen. “Think about what?”

“Y’know…” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his fingers fluttering like he could physically grab the words out of the air. “Trying. With me.”

“…Trying what?”

“You know what.” His voice cracked just a little, and he tried to cover it with a nervous laugh. “Like… us. Together.”

The room went too quiet. Even the movie seemed to fade out, leaving only the pounding in your ears.

You stared at him, wide-eyed. He stared back, like he’d just jumped off a cliff and was waiting to see if he’d splat or soar.

Finally, you whispered, “Eddie…”

And he panicked. “I mean, not that I’ve, like, thought about it, well, okay, maybe I’ve thought about it a little but you probably haven’t and that’s fine, that’s totally fine.”

“Eddie.”

He shut up instantly.

You shifted, sitting up straighter, facing him fully. “Of course I’ve thought about it.”

His jaw dropped. “You...what?”

You gave a shaky little laugh. “You’re my best friend. My favorite person. You think I haven’t wondered what it would be like? To… you know. Be more?”

Eddie’s heart slammed against his ribs so hard it hurt. “Holy shit.”

“Holy shit,” you echoed, half-smiling, half terrified.

The silence stretched again, but this time it was different, charged, buzzing, almost unbearable.

Then Eddie leaned in. Just an inch. Testing.

You didn’t pull away.

And that was it. That was all it took for him to close the rest of the distance and kiss you.

The movie played on forgotten. Popcorn went stale.

All that mattered was the way you fit against him, the way your hands curled in his hair, the way his whole world tilted into place like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and wide eyed, Eddie laughed sofly, disbelieving, giddy.

“So, uh…” he said, forehead pressed to yours. “Roommates plus?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, kissing you again. “But now I’m your impossible.”

Eddie is swaying like a pirate on deck, hair tangled, flushed all over, and emotionally combusting in your living room like someone just played a breakup song at full volume inside his brain.

He points an accusatory finger past your shoulder.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” he slurs. “I saw the way you were talking about him tonight.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Drunken brain still processing.

You turn back to Eddie, only to find him fuming, chest heaving, curls bouncing with every impassioned breath.

“Who?” you manage, genuinely lost.

“Jack!”

“…What?”

“Yes, I’m talking about Jack! That sleazy, smooth-talking bastard you’ve been talking about all night!”

You freeze.

And the most dangerous thing of all happens next.

You try to think.

It goes poorly.

Because you are also very drunk.

The room spins just a little and Jack, whoever he is sounds familiar and threatening and maybe he did talk to you tonight, maybe he was really charming and you were too bubbly and now Eddie is upset and maybe you did mess everything up.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes going wide and niw tearing. “I’m so sorry.”

Eddie looks startled. “You… you are?”

You nod rapidly, bottom lip wobbling. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear. I don’t even know who Jack is, but if I did, I promise I’d tell him to go away. I didn’t want to fall in love with him. I didn’t even know I did and now you’re mad and I’m just... I’m a bad girlfriend, Eddie.”

You sniff, tears streaming dowm your flushed face, genuinely apologizing for something you don’t understand.

Eddie looks like he’s watching someone confess to a crime they didn’t commit.

“No,” he says, slurring a little but with increasing emotional vigor. “No, baby, you’re not the bad girlfriend. He is. That smug guy.”

You start to cry. Soft and pitiful.

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know I was cheating! I didn’t know who he was!”

“You didn’t cheat,” Eddie insists, dropping to his knees in front of you, both of you crumpling like two sad pancakes on the carpet. “You didn’t cheat, you just… you forgot I was right here. Loving you silently. Like an idiot.”

You cried even more. “Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“No, Eddie, I’m the villain in this story!” You wailed.

“No, you’re the tragic heroine,” he says, brushing a dramatic curl off his forehead. “You were misled by temptation.”

“I am a temptable person!” (I honestly don't know if this is a real word)

“I know!”

The two of you collapse into each other on the floor, emotionally exhausted by your own imaginary love triangle.

You wipe your nose on your sleeve. “I just… I just want things to go back to how they were before Jack came into our lives.”

Eddie nods solemnly. “Me too."

The bottle of Jack Daniels sits, inanimate and uncaring, on the table.

Neither of you notice.

Eddie throws an arm around you, sniffling like a war widow. “He took my girl and I let him.”

You cling to his denim vest like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic. “I didn’t mean to go.”

“You never meant to,” he whispers, pulling you tighter. “You just wandered.”

“I didn’t even see him coming.”

“Neither did I.”

Another long pause.

“Tell Jack I hope he chokes.”

You whimper dramatically. “Me tooooo.”

And that’s how the two of you end up falling asleep on the living room rug, limbs tangled and damp faced, united in your mutual hatred of an imaginary man.

Neither of you realizing that Jack never had a heartbeat.

Just a label.

And 40% alcohol by volume.

Except harmless didn’t exactly include the part where he kept calling you “babe” in front of the RA. Or how he bought two toothbrushes before you even moved in, one red, one black. “Yours and mine,” he said, totally casual, like you were an old married couple and this wasn’t your first day sharing a bathroom.

You? You thought Eddie was just being dramatic. He’d always been like this, loud, clingy, theatrical. You were used to it.

But Eddie? Eddie Munson thought he was living out his greatest fantasy, domestic bliss with the girl of his dreams, shared laundry and all.

You’d barely put your backpack down before Eddie kicked the door shut behind you, arms flung wide open like he was revealing a surprise party. “Welcome home, babe,” he grinned, eyes gleaming. “Look! I vacuumed.”

You blinked at the haphazard rugs, the lava lamp already plugged in, and the fact that he’d managed to hang a framed Dio poster next to what you hoped was a scented candle.

“You vacuumed the carpet once and suddenly you’re a house husband?”

He put a hand to his chest, wounded. “House partner, sweetheart. We’ll get to the husband and wife part later. Unless you want it that way, I ain't complaining..” Then he winks.

You dropped your backpack with a thud. “We’re roommates, Eddie. Just roommates.”

He saluted, completely ignoring you. “And I take my domestic duties very seriously. I already took the garbage out and I washed the dish you used for breakfast this morning. So, technically, I’ve been husbanding you for hours.”

You made a face, walking into the kitchen. “That’s not a verb. And stop saying ‘husbanding.’ You’re going to freak out the neighbors.”

Eddie leaned against the fridge with a smug look, still watching you. “You know, you’re lucky I’m this committed. Most guys don’t even make it past moving day without a breakdown. Me? I labeled our snacks.”

You opened the cabinet. Sure enough, a bright sticky note read “Eddie’s Secret Stash touch and DIE <3.”

“I see we’re off to a mature, healthy cohabitation,” you muttered, grabbing one of your granola bars.

Things only got worse (or better, depending on which one of you you asked) from there.

He insisted on walking you to class. He made your coffee in the morning, just how you liked it. He left notes on the fridge like Out of milk :( I’ll get some, don’t worry babe, as if you were a couple sharing groceries and not two broke college kids trying to survive Econ 101.

And the worst part? He looked so smug about it. Every time you rolled your eyes or called him ridiculous, Eddie just beamed at you like he was winning some secret game.

One day, you opened the closet to find his Hellfire shirt hanging next to your cardigans.

“Why is your stuff in my half?”

He shrugged. “Just trying out the married aesthetic. Feels more real when our clothes mingle, y’know?”

You chucked a slipper at him.

Then with laundry.

You don’t mean for it to. You really don’t. But one Saturday afternoon, your favorite hoodie is missing, and Eddie’s favorite band shirt is somehow tucked into your drawer, and before you know it, you were shouting.

“Did you put our clothes in the same load again?” you shout from the bedroom.

“Define ‘our,’” Eddie yells back, and you can hear the grin.

You storm into the living room. “Are you just washing everything together now? My delicates were in there!”

Eddie, curled up on the couch in your hoodie (your hoodie!), blinks up at you with zero shame. “What’s mine is yours, sweetheart. It’s just more efficient.”

You gesture wildly. “That is not how laundry or roommates work!”

He stretches his legs, bare feet propped on the coffee table like this is some kind of sitcom. “Okay, but consider: if you marry me,”

“I’m not marrying you.”

“you won’t have to worry about separate laundry loads ever again. Think of the savings.”

You deadpan, “You think this is a pitch?”

“It’s a lifestyle.”

You walk off muttering something about bleach and boy germs, but Eddie just smirks to himself and nuzzles deeper into your hoodie. He’s winning. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a fungus. A charming, metal loving fungus with a hopeless crush.

“It’s like we’re already married,” Eddie said, tossing a bag of off brand cereal into your shared shopping cart.

“We are literally just roommates.”

“Exactly. Roommates. The first stage of marriage.”

You gave him a look, the usual one. The one that said I don’t know what weird brain chemicals you’re running on today, Munson, but I’m too tired to argue. Then you just sighed, picked out your preferred kind of yogurt Eddie called it “girly parfait goop”, and turned the cart toward the freezer section.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like living with him. Honestly, you seemed pretty happy with your arrangement. You let him play Dio in the living room, you didn’t even yell when he forgot to take out the trash, and you always made a second cup of coffee in the morning, leaving it by his door without fail. You were sweet. You were golden. You were absolutely not in love with him.

Yet.

But Eddie had plans. Long game plans. Big, delusional, deeply unserious plans.

Your apartment wasn’t much. Just two bedrooms, a shared bathroom, and a tiny living room and a tiny kitchen with a microwave that sounded like it was dying every time you used it. But it was yours, and Eddie was thriving. His band posters were up in the living room. His guitar leaned permanently on the couch. And you, beautiful, radiant, confusing as hell, you left your fuzzy socks all over the floor like you were just asking him to fall harder for you every day.

“I fixed the shower pressure,” you said one night, walking into the living room drying your hair with a towel and wearing one of his old Hellfire shirts like it was no big deal.

Eddie, who was halfway through eating dry Cap’n Crunch and watching a horror movie, immediately forgot the plot and maybe his name.

“You did?”

You shrugged, plopping down beside him and stealing a handful of cereal. “It was just the nozzle. It was all gunked up.”

“My sexy little plumber,” he said, mouth full.

“Gross,” you replied, but you were smiling, and Eddie was pretty sure he saw God for a second.

Everyone knew that when the King of Hawkins High decided to open his doors and crank the stereo, the entire social structure of the town shifted. Jocks and drama kids, metalheads and cheerleadersall crammed into one house, into the warmth of Steve Harrington’s curated chaos.

And of course you were there.

You always were.

His best friend, his partner in crime. The girl who drank orange soda mixed with vodka and laughed at his dumb jokes even when they barely landed.

The girl who wasn’t supposed to mean more.

The one who did anyway.

You arrived late, wearing one of your usual half teasing, half girly outfits that made Steve feel like he might actually lose his mind. A tiny skirt. A shirt that had his name written across the front literally. His old basketball sweatshirt you claimed permanently.

“Steve! I want a drink!” you shouted over the music, pushing your way into the kitchen.

He grinned from where he was mixing something neon blue. “Make one yourself, lazy.”

“You invited me,” you said, batting your lashes, “and as your favorite person alive, I deserve to be served.”

“You're damn bossy.”

“And you’re stalling,” you smirked, reaching for the solo cup he handed you.

The drink was terrible. The burn made your nose crinkle.

“Jesus, Harrington, is this paint thinner?”

“You’re welcome,” he said proudly.

Hours passed in a blur of songs and sweaty dancing. Steve watched you all night. He always did, under the guise of protectiveness. Best friend rights, or whatever excuse he fed himself. But the truth was messier tangled between his chest and his throat, coiled with guilt and want and fear.

He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.

And he definitely wasn’t supposed to stare at the way you laughed against the fridge door, a second drink in hand, telling a group of guys a story he didn’t hear because he couldn’t stop looking at your mouth.

“You’re not even listening,” you said when you caught him staring.

“Yes I am.”

“What did I say?”

“Something about a raccoon and… pizza?”

You squinted. “Lucky guess.”

The house was a mess by midnight. People were either passed out on couches or making out in corners. You and Steve ended up sitting shoulder to shoulder on the kitchen floor, your fifth drink half finished, his arm slung lazily behind you.

You were both a little drunk. Buzzed and sleepy and content.

And then came the shift.

“D’you ever think about kissing me?” you asked out of nowhere, words soft but far too clear.

Steve blinked. “What?”

You smiled faintly. “You heard me.”

“I…” He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder. “Me too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then you did. Faces now inches apart.

Your lips brushed first. Tentative. Testing.

And then Steve was cupping your jaw, pulling you in. And you were crawling onto his lap, fingers in his hair, mouth on his like you’d been waiting years to find out if it would taste this good.

Spoiler alert: it did.

“Fuck,” he breathed into your neck, dragging you to your feet. “Upstairs. C’mon.”

You stumbled up together, laughing, kissing between every step. His bedroom door closed behind you like it was sealing in something electric.

Clothes hit the floor in a trail.

His bed creaked.

You straddled him, eyes wild, grinning like the shot of adrenaline that was his mouth on your throat. “I knew you had a thing for me,” you teased, hands trailing down his bare chest.

“Shut up.”

“You love it.”

“I love you.”

You froze. His breath caught.

“…Shit,” he whispered. “Forget that. I didn’t-”

You kissed him before he could spiral.

And maybe it was the alcohol or the months of tension finally snapping but that night, the kisses turned hungry. The way he moaned into your mouth when you rocked your hips down made you feel like you owned the entire world.

The whole thing was messy and breathless and tangled. And when it was over, he kissed your shoulder and held you so tight it almost hurt.

You fell asleep with his hand still in yours.

The next morning hit like a car crash.

You woke up with mascara smudged under your eyes and Steve’s arm around your waist. His face buried in your neck.

And suddenly, everything burned with clarity.

This was not supposed to happen.

Steve blinked awake beside you. “Hey…”

“Morning,” you whispered, scooting out of bed too fast.

“Wait..”

“I should go.” You said, not even looking at him.

Steve sat up, hair a mess, blanket falling from his chest. “We don’t have to make this a big thing..”

“Right,” you said quickly. “It’s fine. We were drunk. Just… a party thing.”

He looked like he might argue.

But then he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Back to friends.”

And that was that.

You grabbed your shoes. Your shirt.

Avoided his eyes.

The following weeks were a hell of pretending.

You still hangout. Still called. Still shared popcorn at movie night.

But you were both wearing masks now.

You didn't talk about the kiss. About the bed. The confession. About the way he’d whispered your name like a prayer.

And when he caught you looking too long at his mouth, you looked away.

When he stared at your hands like he missed touching them, you tucked them into your sleeves.

The silence between you was louder than it had ever been.

Because love is brave. But pretending it doesn’t exist?

That’s the real risk.

And both of you were still too scared to take it.

“Remember when I said I’d never date someone who owns Crocs?” you say one night on his couch, elbow nudging Steve’s side. “I think I’d make an exception.”

“Wow,” he deadpans, “I am honored to be the exception to your foot based morals.”

You grin, take a sip of his root beer, and don’t think too hard about how close you’re sitting. Or the way your knees are touching. Or the fact that when you laugh, Steve stares like he’s trying to memorize it.

It’s been two weeks since the party.

Since that night.

And you're both pretending so hard it’s almost convincing.

Almost.

There are hiccups, of course.

The way you both pause too long when your hands touch.

The way Steve nearly kisses you after a horror movie when you cling to him out of fake fear.

The way Robin keeps side-eying him when you come over in his hoodie and claim it’s “just comfy.”

He’s quieter these days. Like there’s something caught in his throat.

You’re louder. Filling the silence with stories and sarcasm. Hoping if you talk enough, you won’t hear your own heartbeat.

And still, neither of you talks about that night.

You bring a date to Family Video one afternoon. His name is Tyler or maybe Taylor, Steve doesn’t care. He watches from behind the counter as you laugh too loudly at something that definitely wasn’t funny.

“Is he a drummer or a dumbass?” Robin whispers.

“Both,” Steve mutters.

You wave at him on your way out. “See you later, Stevie!”

He gives you a thumbs up he doesn’t mean.

Then spends the next hour shelving tapes with too much force.

Then, you don’t mention Tyler again. Steve doesn’t ask.

But he starts showing up in your dreams.

Steve, not Tyler.

Steve with his stupid big eyes and his warm hands and the way he used to whisper things in the dark when he thought you were asleep.

You start avoiding sleep. Then comes the cabin weekend.

Dustin’s “surprise bonding trip” that’s anything but. You arrive to find that somehow and mysteriously, your name is paired with Steve’s on the sleeping chart.

“Robin,” you hiss, holding up the paper. “What the hell.”

She just sips her coffee. “Oops.”

Steve chuckles behind you. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

You don’t say you’re the one I’d pick anyway.

Because you’re trying really, really hard not to be that girl.

That night, you lie on opposite ends of the shared bed, back-to-back, tension thick as fog.

You can hear his breathing.

He can hear yours.

You both pretend to be asleep.

In the morning, you wake up tangled together. His hand on your waist. Your face pressed to his collarbone. His mouth inches from your temple.

You don’t move.

You just listen to him breathe. Feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your hand.

When he finally stirs, you pretend to be asleep until he pulls away.

He doesn’t mention it.

Neither do you.

You think you’re doing okay.

Then comes the week later.

You're at Steve’s house, helping him clean the garage. It’s hot, you’re sweaty, he’s shirtless, and it’s a problem.

“I hate you,” you say, chucking a sponge at him. "Can't you clean your own car on your own?"

He smirks. “Can’t handle the heat?”

“Can’t handle the ego.”

But you’re grinning. Because he’s glowing. Because his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you like that. Because you’re completely, utterly gone for him.

And then it happens.

You both reach for the same box. Your hands touch.

And something snaps.

He freezes. You do too.

Your breath stutters in your chest as he looks at you.

“Don’t,” you whisper. You’re not even sure what you mean.

But Steve’s already moving. Already leaning in. Already pulling you into him like he can’t not.

The kiss is sudden. Fierce. Tension crashing like a dam finally broken.

You don’t even know who grabs first, his jaw in your hands, your back against the wall, his hands on your waist, your shirt rucked up.

“God,” he pants against your mouth. “I tried to forget.”

You kiss him harder. “Don’t.”

It’s messy. Too much. Not enough.

He lifts you onto the workbench like it’s muscle memory, like your body’s the only thing he’s ever known how to hold.

You moan into his mouth and he pulls away just enough to whisper, “I’m sorry. For the morning after. I was scared.”

You blink. “Me too.”

His hand finds your cheek. “Can we just..can we not pretend anymore?”

You hesitate.

Then nod.

Robin looked up from stacking Uno cards. “He’s been like that for the last five minutes. Just… sighing.”

Then Eddie whispered, “God, you're so pretty.”

Robin snorted. “Oh no.”

Eddie leaned forward, eyes locked on something... or someone. “I can’t believe you're real. It’s like… you walked out of my daydreams and into this stupid living room.”

Steve glanced behind him. “Wait. Who is he looking at?”

Robin squinted. “Steve. He’s looking at you.”

“What?!”

But Eddie wasn’t listening. Eddie was enchanted. His gaze locked, expression lovesick. He clutched his heart dramatically.

“Hey,” he slurred. “C’mere.”

Steve pointed to himself. “Me?”

Eddie patted the floor beside him with a dopey smile. “Yeah, you.”

Robin blinked. “Oh my God. He thinks you’re her.”

Steve’s eyes widened. “Me?”

Robin nodded. “He’s that drunk.”

Steve hesitated, then cautiously sat down next to Eddie, who immediately grabbed his hand.

“Hey,” Eddie whispered, brushing Steve’s knuckles like they were made of silk. “D’you know… you ruin me?”

Steve’s whole soul left his body. “Okay…”

Eddie smiled softly. “Every time you smile at me, I feel like I’ve been hit by lightning. But, like, the good kind. Is there a good kind? Doesn’t matter. You’re it. You’re everything.”

Robin wheezed into the couch cushions.

Steve tried, “Uh… Eddie, maybe-”

But Eddie was in full spiral now, his eyes were even shut, “And your voice. Don’t even get me started. It’s like my favorite song and a bedtime story and a warm blanket all rolled into one.”

Steve's face scrunched. “Bro.”

“I think about you all the time. All the time. Like, when I eat cereal, I’m like, ‘She’d hate this cereal.’ And I eat it anyway, because I’m sad and in love.”

Robin was crying. Literally crying from holding back her laugh.

“Every time you walk into a room,” Eddie breathed, “I forget how to function. I’d build you a house. Out of, like, D&D dice and guitar picks. I’d learn to knit pretty sweaters and skirts for you, I’d die for you.”

Steve was frozen. “Okay, we need to-”

“And you smell so nice,” Eddie continued, practically moaning. “Like vanilla. Or flowers. Or flower vanilla. I don’t know. I’m drunk.”

“You don’t say,” Steve mumbled.

Eddie gripped his hand tighter. “Don’t ever leave me, okay? Even if you fall in love with a guy who’s better than me. Like a hot firefighter. Or a lawyer. Or, like, a guy with really nice handwriting. I’ll just be… here. Sad. Loving you from afar.”

Robin gasped, absolutely losing it.

Steve, trying to suppress the laughter crawling up his throat, gently said, “Munson, Buddy. You sure you’re talking to the right person?”

Eddie squinted. “Of course I am. Why would I say all that to someone else?”

“You are talking to Steve,” Robin managed, her face red from laughing.

“No I’m not,” Eddie said, fighting for his life to open his drunken eyelids, turning toward Steve with a sleepy smile. “I’m talking to her-”

Steve pointed at himself. “I’m Steve.”

Eddie blinked. Slowly.

Then blinked again.

“…No you’re not.”

“I am.”

Eddie sat up straighter, horrified. “Then where the hell is she?!”

Robin held up her hands, still laughing. “Literally not even here. She left an hour ago, dude.”

Eddie’s jaw dropped. “No. No! I saw her! She was right there!” he pointed wildly. “She was right there and I told her about the cereal and the house and sweaters!”

Steve nodded solemnly. “Yeah, you told me.”

Eddie looked absolutely destroyed.

Then he groaned, flopping backwards with his arm over his face. “I wanna die.”

Robin patted his leg. “We’ll let you live. But we are gonna tell her.”

“Please don’t,” he whispered into the carpet. “Please let me disappear.”

Steve laughed. “You called me flower vanilla.”

Eddie groaned louder.

Robin snickers, “She’s gonna love this.”

“I was confessing to the wrong person!” Eddie was drunkly reasoning out.

“At least you were sweet about it.” Robin added.

“I need new friends.”

Robin exhaled slowly. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes I do! She’s too perfect for me. Too sunshiney. Too good.” He sniffed loudly. “She needs a guy with a jawline and like... a motorcycle.”

Eddie sat cross legged across the room, lazily flipping through a magazine and sipping a beer. “You have a jawline.”

“Not a good one,” Steve said dramatically. “Not a jawline she’d marry.”

Robin leaned her head back against the couch and mouthed, I’m going to scream.

Steve, for his part, kept rambling. “She’s probably out right now. With that guy. You know, the one. The guy with the forearms.”

“Steve,” Robin said slowly. “She’s not seeing anyone else.”

“She better not be,” he said, very seriously. “Because I’d duel him. Like swords. Or nunchucks. Do people still do that?”

Eddie blinked. “Have you ever held a sword?”

“Metaphorically, yes.”

Robin sat forward. “Okay. Steve. Listen. She's-”

“I mean, we’re best friends, right? But like best best friends. Like, if we were in a movie, it’d be the part where I stare at her in the rain and whisper something dumb like, ‘It’s always been you,’ and she forgives me for being a total dumbass and then we make out.”

Eddie snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

Robin tried again. “Steve. Let me just say-”

“I can’t tell her, okay?” he shouted, as if someone had objected. “It would ruin everything. She’d laugh or... or worse. She’d pity me. And she deserves someone who’s, like, emotionally stable and... doesn’t cry at the end of The Neverending Story."

Eddie opened his mouth. “Dude, you’re-”

“I know!” Steve wailed. “I’m her idiot best friend. Her go to guy. The guy who shows up with fries and lets her rant about her stupid coworker and doesn’t kiss her even when he really, really wants to.”

Robin slapped her hands on her knees. “Steve. Shut up for two seconds-”

“She doesn’t need to know I’m in love with her. Okay? She’s got a good thing going. Probably dating some art history major who reads poetry in French. I’ll just stay out of it.”

Eddie looked at Robin.

Robin looked at Eddie.

Both of them looked at Steve.

Then they got up, dragged and forced him into Eddie’s van.

You opened your door in a tank top and pajama pants, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Steve?”

He blinked at you like you were a hallucination. “You’re home.”

“Yeah? It’s midnight. What’s going on?”

Robin shoved him gently forward. “Go on, Romeo.”

Steve stumbled inside, dazed. You reached for his hand instinctively. He gripped it like a lifeline.

“I came to say,” he began, very seriously, “that I love you.”

You paused. “Okay…”

“I know you’re taken,” he sighed. “And that’s fine. You deserve that. You deserve flowers and matching playlists and forehead kisses.”

“Steve-”

“No, it’s okay. I just had to say it once. So I don’t die with it inside me.”

You blinked.

Behind him, Robin and Eddie silently waved at you. Robin gestured wildly to say something. Eddie mimed a heart and pointed between the two of you.

“Steve,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He did, watery eyed and flushed.

“You’re my boyfriend, dummy.”

He blinked.

Then blinked again.

“…Oh,” he said.

You smiled. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“I am?” he asked, voice cracking with confusion and wonder.

“You’ve been my boyfriend for like, six months.”

He looked behind him slowly at Robin and Eddie, who both gave simultaneous we tried shrugs.

Steve turned back to you, face flushed red and stunned into silence.

"I am." He says, sheepishly and now giggling.

Steve woke up with the grace of a corpse dragged from the lake.

Groaning, he blinked into your ceiling, one arm flopped over his face, one leg shoved halfway off the bed, your pillow missing entirely from under his head.

“Kill me,” he rasped.

You were already up. In the kitchen, making coffee, humming something cheerful. Too cheerful.

He frowned into the sunlight slanting through your curtains.

Why were you humming?

You were never that happy before 10 a.m.

His stomach dropped.

You walked into the room holding a mug, your sleep shirt oversized and your smile borderline evil.

“Good morning, Romeo.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like you’re up to something?”

You sat beside him on the edge of the bed, handed him the coffee like you hadn’t been waiting to destroy him with it.

“No reason. Just wanted to see how my boyfriend’s head was doing.”

Steve winced, sipping carefully. “Feels like there’s a demon in it. One with a tiny drum set.”

You patted his hair. “Well, at least you weren’t dramatic or anything.”

“Don’t mess with me right now. My brain is literal soup.”

You shrugged. “Sure. I mean, Robin and Eddie dragged you to me like you were Frodo with the One Ring. And you did tell me you’d duel my imaginary boyfriend with nunchucks.”

Steve slowly turned to look at you, mortified. “...What.”

“Oh, and when they left, you cried. A little. About how I needed a man with a motorcycle.”

His face hit the pillow. “No.”

“And about your jawline.”

Steve groaned into the sheets. “Stop. Please. I’m too fragile.”

“I wish I recorded it,” you said, sighing. “Steve Harrington, prince of hair, heartbreaker of Hawkins sobbed because he thought he was ‘just the fries guy.’”

He peeked out from the blanket. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I earned this,” you said smugly. “Six months of going on dates, flirting, romantic drives, and homemade cookies, and my boyfriend forgot we were dating.”

“I was drunk!”

“You thought I had another boyfriend!”

“You said someone at work had nice forearms!”

“I was talking about a golden retriever named Max!”

Steve slumped, face pressed into your thigh. “I hate myself.”

You giggled, running your fingers through his hair. “It was kind of cute. You were very sincere. You said I deserved forehead kisses and little dates.”

He groaned again.

“And then you called me your sunshine girl and threatened to write a mixtape about your pain.”

“Okay,” Steve said, sitting up and wincing dramatically. “That’s enough. I’m cutting you off.”

You grinned, leaning in until your forehead touched his. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Steve huffed, cheeks pink. “Yeah. Lucky is one word for it.”

You kissed his cheek. Then the tip of his nose. Then his lips, soft and smiling.

And even with a hangover from hell, Steve smiled back.

“…Wait. Did I really say I’d use nunchucks?”

“Yup.”

“I don’t even own nunchucks…I take it back. I regret nothing.”

He’s halfway through brushing his teeth when you yell at him from the laundry room. Toothpaste foam clings to his lip like a rabid dog and he's already shrugging sheepishly even though you’re in a completely different part of the house.

You march in holding a single sock and a look of betrayal.

“You’re folding these inside out again.”

Steve spits into the sink. “Babe, they’re just socks.”

You raise one brow, a move so lethal Steve swears it could end a war.

“They’re my socks. Fold them right or don’t touch them at all.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And don’t call me ma’am.””

He watches as you leave the bathroom in all your fuming, perfect glory and mutters under his breath,

“So scary. But so hot.”

You boss him around like it’s your second job and he’s never once complained. Not when you tell him how to make your coffee. Not when you rearrange his closet by color again. Not even when you slap the back of his hand because he’s trying to eat raw cookie dough with a soup spoon.

“Steve,” you say, glaring at him from the kitchen counter, “that is not what the spoon is for.”

Steve, caught mid bite freezes like a kid stealing snacks before dinner.

“You’re gonna get salmonella.”

“But it’s got the little chocolate chips in it.”

“And your grave will be chocolate chip flavored. Congratulations.”

He huffs dramatically and puts the spoon down, sulking.

“Don’t pout. You can lick the bowl later.”

“You’re gonna let me lick the bowl?” he perks up.

“Like a dog.”

“Hot.”

You throw a dish towel at him.

He does your Target runs. He knows your favorite shampoo brand by heart. He keeps extra scrunchies in his glove compartment just for you.

When you say “Steve, I swear to god, if you put that flannel in the dryer it’s gonna shrink again,” he immediately drops it like it burned him.

When you say “Go warm up the car, it’s freezing out,” he doesn’t hesitate even if it means slipping on mismatched socks and rushing outside in the middle of January.

When you say “Hold my purse,” he grabs it like a sacred relic and guards it with his life.

And when you say “Steve,” in that voice, the one that sounds all serious but also a little fond, he always, always, answers,

“Yes, boss?” And he receives the infamous death glare.

You end up at a flea market on a Sunday. He buys you matching rings even though they turn both your fingers green.

You scold him for trying to haggle with a six year old selling probably his dad's Raybans. He insists he was just asking if those are real or dupes. You drag him away by the hand, muttering under your breath about grown men fighting with kids.

He carries all the bags.

You hold the list.

You’re trying to find a new lamp.

He keeps suggesting ugly ones on purpose just to hear you say, “Absolutely not, Steve.”

“Babe, look at this one. It’s got, like, horses on it.”

You glance at it. “Steve. That’s a nightmare.”

“It’s majestic. I feel like we could name them. This one looks like a Trevor.”

You fix him with a long, patient look.

“No horses. No Trevor. No lamp that looks like it was cursed by a cowboy ghost.”

He sighs, dream destroyed. “You're no fun.”

You walk three steps ahead. “And yet you follow me everywhere like a puppy.”

“Because I love you,” he calls after you.

He lets you pick the movie even when you pretend to ask for his opinion.

“Do you want action or drama?”

Steve shrugs. “Whatever you want, baby.”

“So, you’re saying Sixteen Candles again?”

“…Yes.”

You curl up beside him, legs over his lap. He doesn’t even flinch when you steal half his popcorn and all of his blanket.

Halfway through, you feel him watching you instead of the screen.

“What?” you ask, not looking away from the screen.

He just shakes his head, smiling like a dork. “Nothing. You’re just, like, really cute when you get all bossy.”

You elbow him lightly.

You fall asleep on top of him. You’re always the one bossing him around when you're awake, but when you sleep, you drool a little and cling like a koala. He loves it. He will never tell you.

He brushes the hair out of your face and whispers, “You’re such a menace.”

You snuggle deeper into his chest.

His arms wrap around you tight. Protective. Soft.

“Best menace in the world,” he adds, quieter now.

And before he drifts off too, he kisses the top of your head and mumbles:

Whether it was draped over your shoulders at the coffee shop, resting warm on your thigh during drives, or hooked around your waist as you leaned into him at parties, Steve made it abundantly clear: you were his. And he liked the whole damn world knowing it.

“You cold, baby?” he asked, pulling off his varsity-style jacket before you could even answer, draping it over your shoulders like it was instinct.

You blinked up at him with wide, grateful eyes. “Thanks, Stevie.”

He smirked, the smug little flicker of pride shining bright across his face as he kissed your forehead. “My girl doesn’t shiver on my watch.”

You both stood in line at the food truck outside the skating rink, stars overhead, music drifting faintly from nearby speakers. He looked like a golden boy straight out of a teen movie, all fluffy hair and tight jeans and protectiveness, and you? You looked like a damn dream in his jacket, your lips glossy and your fingers laced through his like they belonged there.

“I can order, babe,” you offered gently, reaching into your purse.

Steve just laughed. “You think I’m letting you pay for your own fries?” His nose scrunched in that way that made your heart do a cartwheel. “What kind of boyfriend would I be?”

You pouted playfully. “A modern one?”

“Nope.” He stepped closer, nosing at your cheek. “I’m a classic.”

He ordered for both of you, shot you a wink when he added your favorite drink without asking, and even made sure they salted the fries the way you liked. Prince Charming, all smirks and ease, tossing out confident nods and soft touches like it was second nature.

And you, all sunshine and 'thank you baby' and 'kiss on the cheek, played your part perfectly.

Because that was what everyone saw. Steve Harrington, confident and in charge. And you, his sweet, adoring girl who smiled pretty and let him dote on you.

But no one saw what happened when the door shut behind you at home.

Later that night, you were curled up on the couch in his lap, half a milkshake forgotten on the table, fries cold in the bag. Steve’s hand rubbed slow circles into your thigh, his face nuzzled against your neck.

“Can’t believe you wore that little skirt tonight,” he murmured, voice still low and cocky. “You trying to kill me or something?”

You hummed softly, fingers in his hair. “You liked it.”

“Liked it?” He groaned. “Almost had to drag you behind the truck."

Your fingers tugged, just slightly, at the back of his hair. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to signal something else.

He froze.

The shift was immediate.

You sat up slowly, slipping off his lap and smoothing your skirt with a quiet finality that made his chest rise a little faster.

You didn’t say a word.

Just looked at him.

And suddenly the cocky golden boy from earlier? Gone.

Steve sat straighter, like the air had shifted and he felt it deep in his spine. He followed you with his eyes like a dog waiting for a command. Breath catching. Hands twitching.

You tilted your head. “Something wrong, baby?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “No, I just… you looked at me like...”

“Like what?”

He swallowed. “Like you want something.”

You let the silence hang there, watching the flush crawl up his neck.

And then, slow and deliberate, you slipped off your cardigan. Tossed it to the side. Walked toward the bedroom without looking back.

You didn’t need to.

You heard him follow.

Behind closed doors, Steve was yours.

Not the charming prince.

Not the confident caretaker.

Not the cool guy with all the right words.

Just Steve.

Whiny. Overheated. Desperate to please.

He was all breathy *“please”*s and soft moans when you pushed him down onto the bed and climbed into his lap, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You take care of me all day,” you whispered, voice low and sugary against his jaw. “You spoil me, show me off, open all my doors like a gentleman…”

Steve exhaled shakily. “S’what you deserve.”

“And what do you deserve, sweetheart?”

He looked up at you with wide, begging eyes, chest heaving a little. “Whatever you give me.”

You smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“You’re such a good boy for me, Stevie,” you said, kissing just beneath his ear. “So strong for everyone else. And so soft for me.”

A soft sound left his throat, something between a whimper and a sigh and his hands clenched in the sheets behind him like he didn’t trust himself to touch without permission.

“You want me to take care of you tonight?”

He nodded frantically. “Yes, yes, please.”

“Take off your shirt.”

It came off in a flash.

You trailed your fingers down his chest, watched the muscles twitch under your touch, relished the way his breath stuttered like every inch of skin you traced was lit up.

And when you kissed him, slow and deep and full of promise, he melted into it, arms loose at his sides, letting you guide everything.

You weren’t just his girl.

You were his anchor. His undoing. The only person who knew the exact sound he made when he begged softly into your mouth, the exact way his thighs trembled when you praised him, the exact look he got when he came apart from your hands and voice alone.

And then it all went downhill when he tried to take the lead.

His hands braced beside your head. His mouth hot on your neck. His tone all cocky smirks and low, gravelly confidence.

“I’m in charge tonight,” he muttered, voice tight with want as he nosed at your jawline. “Got you all worked up in that cute little outfit. You’re mine tonight, baby.”

You smiled, soft, syrupy, because he was trying so hard.

“Yeah?” you asked sweetly, batting your lashes.

Steve groaned, rolling his hips into yours. “Fuck yeah.”

And for about four minutes, it almost worked.

He kissed you hard. Pinned your wrists above your head. Told you, voice rough and shaky, “You gonna be good and let me take care of you tonight?”

You didn’t move.

Just tilted your chin slightly, eyes meeting his, all soft and knowing.

“I always let you take care of me, Stevie,” you said, breath brushing his lips. “But you forget something.”

He swallowed. “What?”

“You like it more when I’m the one in charge.”

His grip faltered.

You pulled one hand free easily and let your fingers trail slowly down the front of his chest. Down to his belt.

Steve’s breath hitched.

“You like pretending you’re in control,” you whispered. “But look at you.”

Your fingers toyed with his belt, not undoing it yet, just brushing the edge, barely teasing him. “You’re already getting hard and I haven’t even touched you.”

“I—” he faltered, and you watched the bravado crack.

The way he bit his lip.

The flush rising to his ears.

The telltale tremble in his fingers as he tried to keep his grip firm on your waist.

It only took one slow push, a gentle reversal of your positions, and he let you turn him, press him back against the bed instead.

And now?

Now Steve was breathless.

Whiny.

Back against the mattress with you kissing down his neck, slow and possessive.

“You gonna be a good boy and let me touch you?” you murmured into his throat.

He nodded, already pliant, already shaking.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, fuck please, please touch me.”

You had him half-undressed before his head even cleared. Shirt gone, belt undone, breath ragged.

Steve Harrington, who looked like the guy everyone fell for, who everyone fell for, was clinging to you like he’d fall apart if you stopped touching him.

“Thought you were gonna take charge tonight?” you teased, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

He whimpered, literally whimpered, and let his head fall back against the soft foam.

“Fuck, I tried,” he groaned. “I thought I could, I wanted to, but you... fuck, you always get me like this.”

Your hand trailed lower, palming him over his boxers, and he gasped, bucking into your touch.

“Like what, baby?” you asked sweetly. “On edge? Needy? Desperate for me to take over?”

He made a choked sound. “Yes, yes, that...exactly that.”

You stroked him through the fabric, slow and firm, watching the way his knees started to buckle.

“Poor thing,” you cooed. “Just wanted to be the big strong boyfriend. And now look at you.”

He was moaning into your mouth, trying to kiss you and breathe at the same time, hands fisting helplessly at your hips. You didn’t even bother guiding them anywhere he couldn’t focus long enough to grab you right, not like this.

“Please let me come,” he gasped, and you smiled.

“You’re already close?”

He nodded frantically, face pink and ruined. “Mhm, m’always close with yo. Just please, I’ll be so good.”

You pulled back just a little.

Met his eyes.

“Take your pants off.”

He obeyed instantly.

Not a trace of hesitation.

Just his flushed, wrecked body obeying with a whispered, “Yes, ma’am,” and a soft whimper when you told him to get on the bed and wait.

And he did. On his back, thighs spread, eyes blown wide and mouth open like he was starving for you.

Your good, golden boy.

You spent the next stretch of time dragging him through exactly what he thought he could handle earlier.

Telling him what to do.

Making him beg.

Letting him think he’d get to finish then pulling back, whispering all the filth you knew would make his thighs shake.

By the time you finally let him come, he was wrung out and babbling.

Head tipped back.

Voice broken.

Hands useless at his sides.

Just your boy, dripping sweat and praise, body trembling as you stroked him through the aftershocks, whispering, “That’s it, baby. You did so good for me. Such a good boy.”

Steve could barely breathe.

Could barely talk.

Only managed a slurred, “Tried so hard to be in charge,” before he melted under your hands again.

You kissed his temple. Let him press into your chest, all soft and pliant.

“I know,” you whispered. “But you’re better like this.”

He nodded, humming sleepily.

Too blissed out to argue.

And in the quiet afterward, when your fingers brushed through his damp hair and you whispered every sweet thing you could think of he swore he could fall in love with you all over again.

Even if you’d just completely ruined him.

Then Steve hadn’t moved for at least five minutes.

Flat on his back. Hair a mess. Skin flushed pink and damp all over. His hand was barely clinging to your wrist, like if he let go, he'd float away completely.

“You okay?” you whispered, lips brushing his temple.

He nodded slowly.

Then again, firmer.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good." He let out a tired, shaky breath. “You wrecked me.”

You smiled, kissed his cheek. “You loved it.”

“Mhm.” He let his head tip toward your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut again. “So good, baby."

Your fingers traced down his stomach. Light. Barely a brush.

Steve shuddered.

You felt his cock twitch, not hard again yet, but not exactly soft either.

He flinched and gasped softly. “Wait...what’re you doing?”

“I’m not finished,” you murmured against his throat. “Are you?”

Steve’s eyes flew open.

You didn’t wait for an answer. Just slid your fingers slowly, torturously, between his thighs. Right over the sensitive, spit-slick skin, teasing him back toward hardness.

His hips twitched violently.

He groaned, not quite a moan this time, more like a broken plea. “Oh my god...wait, wait, I just came, baby.”

You kissed down his jaw.

“You can take it.”

His voice cracked. “I can’t, fuck, it’s too much!”

Your hand wrapped around him.

Just once.

Just barely enough.

Steve screamed into your shoulder, hips jerking up, the kind of desperate movement that came from reflex, not thought. His thighs were trembling. His eyes wide and panicked but so wet, glassy and wrecked.

You slowed your touch immediately, whispering sweet nothings to calm him. “Shhh. I’ve got you."

Steve panted like he’d run a marathon.

His voice was ragged. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, kissing the sweat at his temple.

“No,” you said. “Just ruin you a little more.”

The next ten minutes were a blur of ragged breath and muffled moans. You took your time.

Stroking him back to hardness.

Letting him squirm and twitch and beg, voice cracking with every whisper of “please” and “I don’t know if I can” and “fuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna...”

You didn’t even have to say much.

Just looked down at him with that soft, steady gaze and let your fingers work slowly over his oversensitive cock, gentle and relentless.

Steve was gasping by the time he was close again.

He gripped the sheets like a lifeline, head tossing side to side. “Can’t, can’t,baby, please, I c-can’t!”

“You will,” you said, low and firm. “For me.”

His whole body arched when he came again.

It wasn’t clean or controlled! it was messy, whiny, broken. A sound clawed out of his throat like a sob, and his thighs shook so hard you thought he might actually fall apart.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

You kept going. Soft strokes. Bare pressure. Just enough to keep him whimpering.

Steve was babbling now.

“Please please please, ohmygod, baby, please..”

He was crying a little, not from pain, just from too much, from giving you everything he had.

From being so loved, so wanted, so completely undone by you that he didn’t know how to ask you to stop. Or if he even wanted you to.

You slowed, at last.

Held his face gently, kissing his forehead.

“You okay?” you whispered, thumb stroking his cheek.

Steve blinked up at you, dazed and teary and completely gone. He looked like he didn’t even remember his name. Only managed to say, soft as a breath:

“You’re gonna kill me. I’m serious.”

You grinned. “Still think you’re the dominant one, Harrington?”

He let out a weak, wrecked laugh. “Shut up.”

You kissed his swollen mouth and pulled the blanket over both of you.

Later, when you helped him into clean boxers and curled up around him, Steve let out a soft sigh.

“Y’know,” he said sleepily, “I had this whole plan earlier.”

“Oh?”

He nuzzled your collarbone.

“Yeah. I was gonna tie you up, make you beg.”

You stroked his hair gently. “And what happened?”

Steve groaned into your skin. “You happened. And now I can’t feel my legs.”

You laughed softly, pressing your lips to his curls.

He was quiet for a beat. Then, quietly, almost bashful:

“Can we do it again tomorrow?”

You smiled against his hair.

“Anything you want, pretty boy.”

Neither of you mentioned it.

That’s how it always was with you and Steve. Hovering. Orbiting. A little too close, but never close enough to call it what it was.

You’d known each other since high school, though you weren’t part of his crowd back then. He was all hairspray and popularity contests. You were not. But now? Now you were best friends. He drove you to work sometimes. You brought him cookies shaped like bats for Halloween. He called you “trouble” with this stupid soft smirk that made your insides do jazz hands.

It was infuriating.

Because Steve Harrington was good at a lot of things hair flips, babysitting, putting his foot in his mouth but he was absolutely awful at feelings. And to be fair, so were you.

So, instead of talking about it like healthy adults, you did what any emotionally stunted duo would do:

You leaned hard into the bit.

“Morning, wifey,” you’d greet him when he brought you a coffee at Family Video.

“My favorite girl,” he’d reply, handing it over like it wasn’t slowly killing him that you weren’t actually his.

You called him ‘lover boy’ when you climbed into his car, and he played your favorite mixtape without being asked.

Sometimes, you’d steal his hoodie and he’d steal your hair clips which he’d try to pass off as “for the bit” until Robin found him sitting on the counter, spinning one around his finger and sighing.

One Saturday, you dragged him to the flea market outside town. You made him try on a too-small corduroy jacket and he made you wear round sunglasses and pretend to be celebrities on the run from a secret government agency.

“You’re Donna Stardust,” he told you, striking a ridiculous pose behind a table full of broken action figures. “And I’m your bodyguard slash secret lover.”

“Secret lover?” you snorted. “Bold of you to assume Donna doesn’t have standards.”

“Ouch.”

He looked so fake-offended that you kissed his cheek without thinking.

And then froze.

You both did.

“Oh,” you said.

He blinked. “Yeah.”

Neither of you brought it up again.

Instead, you talked about alien conspiracies the whole ride home and made waffles at your place while carefully not touching at all.

The pining got worse after that.

He’d stare at you too long when you weren’t looking. You’d mess with his hair just to see the way he shivered. He’d let you put glittery nail polish on one pinky finger “as a social experiment.” You’d pretend not to notice the way his gaze dropped to your mouth every time you licked frosting off your finger.

Robin knew. Dustin knew. Probably the entire Midwest knew.

But not you two.

Because every time you got too close, the fear kicked in. What if you ruined it? What if the friendship was all you got? What if he only liked the version of you that made him laugh and didn’t admit she stared at his stupid perfect mouth during movies?

And so it went. Days and nights filled with soft touches and stupid dares. With Steve sighing too loudly when you walked into a room. With you doodling little hearts next to his name in your notebook like you were 13 again.

Then, one rainy Thursday, you crashed on his couch after a movie marathon. You were halfway asleep, tucked under a blanket, and Steve was sitting on the floor beside you, your fingers tangled loosely in his hair.

“I don’t get it,” he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You hummed, eyes closed. “Don’t get what?”

“How I got so lucky. With you.”

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your eyes slowly.

He was still looking ahead, like he hadn’t realized he said it out loud.

You almost said something. Almost leaned forward. Almost ruined everything.

Instead, you just smiled. “Me neither.”

And he leaned back against the couch, right where your knees curled up behind him, letting your fingers slip gently back into his hair.

Neither of you said a word.

But his hand found your ankle under the blanket, and your thumb brushed the shell of his ear, and that was enough. For now.

Because yeah. Somebody was in love.

Two somebodies, actually.

And maybe someday, one of you would be brave enough to say it.

But for now, the bit was still good.

And neither of you wanted the story to end.

And then came the camping trip.

Dustin had this grand idea to get “everyone together for a bonding weekend,” and against all logic, you agreed. Even more surprising: Steve didn’t back out either.

You ended up in the same tent. Obviously.

Robin made a spreadsheet for sleeping arrangements, claimed it was randomized. (It absolutely wasn’t. She winked at you when she handed it over.)

“I snore,” you told Steve, holding up your sleeping bag.

“I sleep with one sock on,” he said, completely serious.

You blinked. “Psychopath.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

And that was that.

The first night, you played card games by the fire and watched Steve roast three marshmallows for you because you claimed his had the “golden brown touch.” When your fingers brushed as he handed one over, it was nothing. Except it wasn’t.

Later, in the tent, you lay side by side in your sleeping bags, talking softly about stupid stuff bad dates, favorite cereal mascots, which Muppet each of you would be.

“I’d be Gonzo,” you said.

“Why?”

“He’s a disaster but deeply romantic.”

Steve made a soft sound. “Yeah, that tracks.”

You turned your head. He was already watching you.

Your breath caught.

“I think you’d be Kermit,” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh. “Why’s that?”

“Because you care too much. And you keep getting dragged into chaos. And you have a cute voice.”

“A cute voice?”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t shut up. But he also didn’t move. Just lay there, close enough that you could count the little freckles on his nose. The tent was too warm. Or maybe it was you. Or maybe it was him.

The next morning, Robin found you sitting side by side, half-asleep, sharing a hoodie and a single cup of lukewarm coffee like it was a ritual.

“You two are disgusting,” she announced.

Steve just handed you the cup again, his fingers curling around yours a second longer than necessary. “She started it.”

You bumped his knee. “Did not.”

“Did too.”

It wasn’t love. Not technically. Because nobody said anything.

But it also kind of was.

Because later, when you got sunburned on your nose, Steve smeared aloe on with two fingers and said, “You’re still cute,” like it was nothing. And when he scraped his elbow trying to help set up the hammock, you kissed it better and pretended not to see the way his entire soul short circuited.

When the trip ended, he drove you home. You slept in the passenger seat, mouth half open, sunburnt and soft and safe. And he looked over at you like he was watching a movie he never wanted to end.

“Still not gonna say it?” Robin asked him the next day.

Steve just shook his head. “Not yet.”

Because maybe the thing about love, real love, is that you know it’s there, even if you don’t say it out loud.

Maybe someday. But not just yet.

It had been a month since the camping trip.

Since the half-asleep tent conversations. Since the burned marshmallows and the almost-kisses and the way you’d fallen asleep in the car with your head on Steve’s shoulder and drooled on his jacket, which he hadn’t even minded.

You were still best friends.

Still not kissing. Still not saying anything.

But the air between you? It was like living inside a slow song stuck on repeat. All yearning. All build-up. No release.

Every touch lingered.

Every joke felt like flirting.

Every shared look held a little too long made your breath catch like it might never come back.

You started noticing things. Stupid things. Like how Steve always stood between you and traffic, how he tied your shoes once without thinking, how he bit the inside of his cheek when you put on lipstick and acted like he wasn’t staring at your mouth the whole time.

You caught him doing it three times in one week.

“I’m going to kill you,” Robin muttered to him at Family Video one Thursday, arms crossed. “If you don’t kiss her soon, I’m gonna do it for you.”

Steve just groaned. “I can’t.”

“You can, Harrington. You’re choosing not to.”

“She’s… She’s everything, Robin.”

“Then maybe try saying that instead of channeling your sexual tension into alphabetizing the horror section.”

Meanwhile, you were suffering.

You were halfway through shaving your legs one Friday night when Steve called to ask if you wanted to watch The Princess Bride and eat curly fries. You stared at your mirror for five whole minutes trying to decide if this was a date or just Steve being Steve.

It wasn’t a date.

Of course it wasn’t.

But he put his arm behind you on the couch. And you leaned into it. And by the time the credits rolled, his fingers were in your hair and your legs were in his lap and your heart was somewhere in your throat.

Still. Nothing.

You were going to implode.

The crack came on a Tuesday.

You had a nightmare. A dumb on, too much coffee and too many horror movies and too little sleep. You called Steve at 1:23 a.m., not expecting him to pick up.

“I’m fine,” you said, "Just can't sleep."

He didn’t even pause. “I’m coming over.”

He showed up in a hoodie and pajama pants, hair a mess, looking exactly like someone who had run out the door without thinking twice. He brought Pop Tarts. Sat on your floor. Talked to you about anything but what you both wanted to say.

Then, as the silence stretched out, your legs touching under the blanket you’d dragged off the couch, something shifted.

“I think I’m in love with you,” you whispered, not meaning to say it. Not like that.

Steve blinked.

He blinked again.

And then?

He cracked.

Not gently. Not sweetly.

He surged forward and kissed you like he’d been holding back for years. Like he’d been dying to do it. Like every second since the moment he met you had been building to this.

It was messy. You bumped noses. You laughed into his mouth. He cupped your face with both hands and kept kissing you like he was making up for lost time.

“You’re in love with me?” he asked between kisses, slightly dazed.

You nodded, breathless. “You’re surprised?”

“I just thought… I thought you were waiting for me to say it.”

“Well, I was.”

Steve kissed you again. This time it was slower. Sweeter. Still a little wild.

“I love you,” he said into your neck. “God, I love you so much I think I’m actually stupid.”

“You are stupid.”

“You’re literally in love with me.”

“...Touché.”

Later, you lay tangled together on your couch, both of you in total shock that you’d finally said it. Finally kissed. Finally cracked.

“I feel like we were emotionally edging for months,” you said.

Steve groaned into your shoulder. “Please never say ‘emotionally edging’ again.”

“But that’s what it was.”

“…Okay, yeah. It was exactly that.”

You both laughed so hard you nearly fell off the couch.

And when he kissed you again, forehead, cheek, lips, you swore you could actually feel your heart exhale.

Because the thing about love? It’s terrifying. It’s messy.

But you weren’t clueless.

You knew exactly what you were doing because Eddie was also being a goddamn tease, not learning from his past mistakes that you're petty.

He had also been teasing you before you did too. Whispering pure filth even when you're out in public, getting handsy, and you know, the pervy Eddie habits.

So you teased him too. And by the time Friday movie night rolled around, Eddie had reached the end of his rope.

“You are such a tease,” he groaned, head falling back against the couch as you dropped down next to him, legs bare, hair up, lip gloss glossy.

You looked at him innocently. “Me?”

“Yes, you, you evil little thing.”

You grinned. “Thought you liked that. Weren't you the one who started all of this?"

He groaned again and threw a pillow at you.

But the thing is, he did like it.

So much that he couldn’t stop looking at you. So much that every time you shifted, crossed your legs, leaned forward to grab popcorn his hands twitched in his lap and he had to adjust his pants like a teenage boy.

He tried to keep it light. Teased you back. Called you a brat under his breath, bit his lip when you smirked like you knew exactly what you were doing.

You did.

So you took it further.

Halfway through the movie, you climbed into his lap. “Nowhere else to sit,” you said sweetly, like there wasn’t a whole couch.

Eddie looked at you like he was about to combust. “You’re killing me.”

“Mm,” you said, shifting just right. “You’ll live.”

Then you started moving. Not obviously. Just a little, hips rocking gently, just enough to make him clench his jaw.

“You’re evil,” he whispered, gripping your waist.

You turned and leaned in close. “You like it.”

And then you really went for it, slow grinding, lips brushing his ear, letting little gasps slip out like you weren’t even trying to make him lose it.

Eddie was breathing hard. Hands twitching like he didn’t know where to put them.

“You gonna do something about it, Munson?” you whispered, bratty smile on your face.

He blinked. “W-what?”

You grabbed his hand and slid it up your bare thigh, underneath your skirt.

“No panties,” you said sweetly. “Thought that might help.”

Eddie whimpered.

You pulled back just to watch his face.

“You okay?”

“I’m going to die,” he whispered.

You giggled and rolled your hips again, letting his fingers brush right where you wanted them. He gasped.

“Fuck. Please. Let me taste you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What happened to all that teasing, Munson?”

He was practically panting now. “It was a joke. You win. You win, okay? Just... please, get on my face or I’m gonna fucking explode.”

And you did win.

Because two minutes later, Eddie was flat on his back on the couch, moaning like a sinner in church with your thighs around his face, hands gripping your hips like a lifeline, tongue desperate to make you fall apart.

And when you did, when you tugged his hair and rode it out and laughed through your high, he looked wrecked underneath you.

You kissed his nose. “Still breathing?”

“Barely,” he rasped.

You kissed his lips and smirked. “Good. Because we’re not done.”

Eddie groaned. “I’m never teasing you again.”

You grinned. “Liar.”

Eddie was panting beneath you.

Sweaty, glassy,eyed, lips shiny with your slick and totally fucked out, despite still being fully clothed.

You were sitting on his chest, grinning, his hair stuck to his face like he’d just survived something cataclysmic.

Which, in a way, he had.

You leaned forward, slowly. Let your thighs squeeze his ribs, your hands press into his chest.

“You okay, baby?” you teased, voice sugary-sweet. “Need a second?”

He blinked up at you. “I think I saw God.”

You giggled and dragged your nails over his stomach through his shirt. “That wasn’t God, sweetheart. That was me.”

He let out a breathless groan, head flopping back.

You tilted your head. “You hard?”

He nodded. Dumbly. Pathetically.

You slid down between his legs and cupped him through his jeans... oh, still rock solid.

He twitched in your palm.

You smiled. “Want some help with that?”

“Yes. Please. Jesus Christ.”

“Beg nicer.”

He whined. Literally whined, and you unzipped him anyway, just to be merciful.

His cock sprang out, flushed and leaking, twitching like it had a mind of its own.

You stared. “You’re so hard it’s sad, Munson.”

Eddie’s breath hitched. “Then do something about it,” he whispered.

You raised an eyebrow. “Still giving orders?”

He swallowed hard.

Then you spit right on the head and wrapped your hand around the base. Slow strokes, twisting just enough to make him moan. His hips bucked and you slapped them back down.

“Uh-uh,” you said. “Be good.”

“Fuck... baby, please, I can’t—”

You leaned in and licked a stripe up the side of him. “Thought you could take it. You were talking all that shit before.”

“I was joking,” he gasped.

“You were cocky,” you purred. “You thought you were in charge.”

You wrapped your lips around the tip and sucked, just once and watched his eyes roll back like you’d knocked him unconscious.

“Oh my God,” he whined.

You pulled off with a pop. “That good already?”

“I’m gonna come if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smirked. “You don’t get to come yet.” You said as you gave him a short sloppy blowjob and then you climbed up and sat on him again, not his face this time.

You sank down on his cock, slow, thick stretch, inch by inch, until he was buried inside and shaking.

He let out a broken moan. “Oh my fuck!”

You leaned forward, nails in his chest, hips circling slow and cruel.

“You like that?” you whispered.

“Yes. God. Fuck, yes. You’re so tight... shit—”

You clenched around him and he whimpered.

And you just grinned.

Started rolling your hips in slow, grinding motions, letting him feel everything.

And you were mean with it.

Pushed his shirt up to scratch down his stomach. Bit his neck. Tugged his hair and told him how pretty he looked falling apart.

“You’re drooling, baby,” you cooed. “Didn’t know I’d break you this fast.”

Eddie gasped. “Please, baby... Let me cum..”

“Nope.”

You clamped down and froze, holding him there.

He screamed.

“Don’t be a brat,” you whispered. “Be good and I’ll let you come.”

“I’ll be good! I’ll be so fucking good, just please, I need it, I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

You rocked your hips once, hard, and his whole body jerked.

Then again.

Then again.

Faster now. Rougher. Until the sound of skin slapping and wet moaning filled the room, filthy and wild and perfect.

He was begging, sobbing almost. “Fuck! Please—”

And then you let him.

You kissed him and clenched around him and whispered “come for me, baby” into his mouth and he did.

Hard.

Like he’d been waiting his whole life.

Came with a cry, arms wrapped around you like you were going to disappear, hips stuttering as he pulsed inside you.

You held him through it. Slowed down. Stroked his hair.

Let him breathe.

Let him fall apart.

Then you leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Still think I’m the tease?” you whispered.

Eddie just stared at the ceiling.

Totally dazed. Completely spent.

And then he grinned.

Soft pink scrunchie in your hair. White sneakers. A pastel sundress that swished when you moved. Like the damn sun had decided to take human form and wander into her workplace.

Steve straightened instantly. “Okay, hold up. Now that’s a chick.”

Robin’s head snapped up even though she'd already clocked the sound of your walk, the exact shape of your silhouette in the glass, the way her heart always sped up just a little too fast when you were near.

She tried to play it cool. Really, she did.

“Oh. Yeah.” She shrugged like it meant nothing. “I know her.”

Steve turned to her, brows lifted. “You know her?”

Robin cleared her throat. “I mean… not really. Just... we’re in the same biology class. She’s the one who brings those glitter pens and always has, like, fruit-scented highlighters. And she knows all the answers but never makes you feel stupid. And she smells like strawberry shampoo and once she lent me a pencil when I forgot mine and said—” She stopped, color rushing to her cheeks. “I’ve seen her around.”

Steve blinked.

Robin turned back to the return log. Her ears were bright red.

You walked up to the counter and gave them both a polite, cheerful smile that made Robin’s knees feel like they could go rogue at any second.

“Hi! Do you guys have Heathers in?”

“Yup, sure do!” Steve was already halfway around the counter. “Robin, check the binder?”

She didn’t need to. She knew it was in. She’d shelved it herself two days ago. Still, she flipped through for show, fingers a little shaky.

“One copy,” she said, disappearing into the back to grab it.

When she returned and handed it to you, your fingers brushed, and your smile was even warmer than the weather outside.

“Thanks, Robin.”

She barely managed a “no problem” before you turned and walked out.

She watched until the door closed.

You came back the next day.

And the next. Each time, Steve greeted you like he was ready to date you yesterday.

And each time, Robin shrunk a little more behind the counter.

You always smiled at her, though.

Always lingered, just a second longer than necessary.

But that had to mean nothing, right? You were like that with everyone. Robin had seen you be just as kind to the postman, to the kid who ran the photo booth at the mall. You were sunshine. Friendly and open and... probably not into girls. And definitely not into her.

Each time with a movie in mind, or a question about release dates, or just to browse and chat about whatever tape Robin happened to be shelving. Steve tried his luck a couple times, always leaning on the counter, trying to be charming, but you always talked to Robin, too. Always said her name. Always gave her a smile that felt like it was just for her.

Still, Robin wasn’t stupid.

You were sweet with everyone. Friendly, warm, sunshine in a dress. You probably smiled at your mailman like that, too. It didn’t mean anything.

And besides, you were probably into Steve. Everyone was into Steve.

So she stayed quiet. Watched from behind the counter. Wrote dumb little notes in the margins of her bio notebook about covalent bonds and girls with cherry lip balm.

Then one Thursday, Steve was late.

Robin had opened the store by herself, cranky about it but trying not to let it show. She was rearranging the comedy shelf when the door jingled again.

You walked in, hair twisted up with a claw clip, jean jacket over your dress, a tote bag slung over one shoulder.

“Steve’s not here yet?” you asked, your eyes scanning the counter.

Robin shook her head. “He’s running late.” You're definitely into Steve. She thought.

You nodded but didn’t move to leave.

Instead, you stepped a little closer, resting your arms on the edge of the counter. “That’s okay. I actually, um… kinda came to see you anyway.”

Robin blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, eyes bright but nervous. “I, uh... I’ve got closing shift at the diner tonight. We stop serving around nine. And I was wondering…”

She swore her heart skipped three beats.

“…If you maybe wanted to come by? I could make you a shake? Or, like, fries? Or… I don’t know, if you’re not busy.”

Robin stared at you like you’d just asked her to marry you.

“You want me to?” she started.

“Yeah.” You tucked your hair behind your ear, clearly flustered. “I mean, I’ve been meaning to ask. I just… figured this is easier for our biology project.”

Oh, sure. The darned biology project.

Robin blinked. Then blinked again.

“I’d love that,” she said, barely managing not to squeak.

You grinned. “Then it is. Nine, okay?" And with a little wave, you turned and walked out the door.

Robin stood frozen, replaying the entire interaction on a loop, heart pounding so loud it was dizzying.

Five minutes later, Steve burst in, keys jangling, clearly out of breath.

“Sorry, sorry. I overslept. What’d I miss?”

Robin turned to him, eyes wild.

“She asked me out,” she whispered.

Steve blinked. “What?”

“She asked me out.”

Steve looked like he was shocked. “No way."

“She’s not... I mean it's for a project..” Robin shook her head, overwhelmed.

But like the idiots they were, Steve and Robin convinced themselves it meant something else. “She likes girls. She asked me. Out.”

Steve just clapped her on the back.

Robin was still standing there ten minutes later, shocked and smiling like an idiot.

Because biology class and highlighters and strawberry shampoo aside, you liked her. Or so she thinks so.

Not really.

You saw him in passing. In crowded spaces where the gang still hung out, though more carefully now. Like everyone could feel the shift but no one knew how to name it.

You stopped sitting next to each other. Your jokes didn’t land the same. You didn’t bring up movies anymore, and he didn’t offer to drive you home. The silence wasn’t angry, it was worse than that. It was resigned.

It wasn’t one big fight that broke you.

It was the echo.

That moment on the porch. The sound of Steve’s voice saying words meant for someone else. Words about a life you’d never be a part of, because he hadn’t pictured you in it.

And you’d been doing all the picturing.

God, that was the thing that hurt the most. You were all in. You’d imagined road trips, sharing apartments, staying up late and watching bad TV. You imagined watching him hold your kids. Watching him grow old.

You gave him every piece of your future.

And in the quiet of that pool party, you learned you’d never been part of his.

Steve felt it too.

Felt it in the way your name sat heavy in his throat, like it didn’t belong to him anymore. In the way he still saw your ghost in his car, in his house, in the songs you used to hum under your breath.

He hadn’t meant to hurt you.

But he had.

Not with malice. Not even with carelessness.

Just with honesty.

Because that version of the future he talked about? With Nancy? It wasn’t real. It was just a leftover dream he didn’t know how to stop carrying.

He didn’t want Nancy back.

But he wanted something simple. Something linear. Something familiar enough to not be scary.

And you were none of those things.

You were chaos and challenge and realness. You looked at him like you saw all his worst parts ,and still held out his hand. And he didn’t know how to let someone love him like that. Not fully.

So he’d held back.

And you’d noticed.

And now?

Now there was nothing to hold at all.

Robin asked about you once.

“Have you called her?”

Steve shook his head. “No point.”

“She didn’t ask for space, Steve. She asked for more. And you didn’t give it to her.”

“I didn’t know how.”

Robin frowned. “Then maybe she was right.”

Steve didn’t answer. Just swallowed hard and walked out the back door.

Your room felt different without him.

It wasn’t like you lived together, but his presence had seeped into everything. His sweaters were still in your drawer. His stupid tube socks were in your laundry. The corner of your mattress still dipped where he used to sit and pull off his sneakers.

He’d kissed you there once, soft and slow. Whispered something like “I think I could love you forever” into your neck.

You wished he hadn’t said it.

You wished you didn’t still believe it.

Two months later, Steve knocked on your door at 1:12 a.m.

It was raining, of course it was raining, and he looked like something out of a bad rom-com with his hair flat, shirt sticking to his chest, breathless like he’d run the whole way.

You opened the door before you even knew why.

And he said, “I can’t do this.”

You blinked, heart thudding. “What?”

“I can’t keep pretending like I didn’t screw everything up,” he said. “I can’t keep trying to go through my days like there isn’t this giant, gaping hole where you are supposed to be.”

You stared at him.

He took a shaky breath. “I was scared, okay? You were too good. Too real. You made me want things I thought I wasn’t allowed to have anymore. And I ruined it.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet.

“I said something stupid to Nancy. Something I didn’t even mean in the way it sounded. And if you heard it, and it made you feel like I didn’t see a future with you, then I failed. Because all I do is picture you. Us. A dog we both forget to feed on time. Kids that have your laugh and my hair and leave socks in the microwave or something stupid like that.”

You blinked, lips twitching despite yourself.

Steve stepped closer. “I don’t want that life with anyone else. Not anymore. Not even in my imagination. It’s you. It’s always been you, and I didn’t say it when it mattered. So I’m saying it now.”

“And if you never want to see me again, I’ll walk away,” he said, voice shaking now. “But if there’s even the smallest part of you that still loves me, I’m begging you...”

You didn’t let him finish.

You grabbed the front of his stupid soaked shirt and kissed him like you were starving.

Because you were.

And he kissed you back like he’d been drowning.

Three years later, you now stood in the backyard of a small two bedroom house just outside Hawkins.

The baby monitor sat on the patio table beside two half-finished drinks. The pool was quiet. The fairy lights Steve insisted on stringing every spring blinked lazily in the dark.

“Remember the last time we were at a pool party?” you teased, curling into his side.

He groaned. “Don’t remind me. Worst night of my life.”

“Could’ve been the last.”

“Was almost the last,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Glad it wasn’t.”

The baby monitor crackled softly.

You smiled.

Inside, your daughter, the little girl with Steve’s sleepy eyes, a head full of hair and your stubborn scowl turned over in her crib and sighed.

Steve glanced down at you.

“You know I still picture a future sometimes,” he said.

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But it’s not a dream anymore. It’s real. You, me, her. Maybe another one. A backyard. A swing set. You threatening to murder me if I forget to take the chicken out of the freezer again.”

You laughed, heart aching in the best way.

He squeezed your hand. “I know I was hard to love. But you did it anyway. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worth it.”

You kissed him, soft and slow.

“I already think you are.”

And under the string lights, with your daughter safe inside and Steve holding you like a promise, the future you once thought you'd lost bloomed around you, not a perfect one, not the one he once imagined with someone else.

But the one you built together.