But you had reassured Steve at least a hundred times that your dad was not actually going to use it. Still, Steve had his concerns. Very valid ones, in his opinion. Because there was intimidating, and then there was Jim Hopper leaning back on the couch with a firearm in his lap while Steve sat on the opposite end trying to keep a respectable three inches between himself and you like that tiny gap was the only thing preserving his life.

The rule, oh god, the rule itself was torture. If Steve’s hand got too close to yours, Hopper cleared his throat. If Steve leaned in to hear you better, Hopper shifted in his seat. If your knee brushed Steve’s for half a second, Steve could actually feel Hopper’s glare hit the side of his face like heat from the sun.

It was not like you didn’t try to defend his honour. You did, every time. You would roll your eyes and tell your dad he was being overprotective, that Steve was nice, that Steve had literally helped save the world more than once, which should have earned him at least a little trust and maybe the right to sit next to his friend without being treated like a criminal.

But Hopper was persistent in the way only fathers of daughters could be, especially daughters they loved enough to terrify teenage boys over. He would grunt, mumble something about manners and boundaries, and continue staring Steve down like he was waiting for him to do one wrong thing.

Steve, for his part, tried very hard to never do the wrong thing. He was so polite at your house it was actually pathetic. He sat up straight, said sir more than he had ever said it in his life, and once thanked Hopper for passing the salt which very clearly was pepper. And the worst part was that none of it helped.

Still, Steve kept coming over.

Because of you.

Because you were, very simply, the most amazing person Steve had ever met. Ever seen, ever heard about, ever talked with, ever laughed with, ever cried with, ever fought monsters beside, ever bled beside, ever stumbled out of the end of the world beside.

You made Steve feel seen in a way that still startled him sometimes. Like you had looked past all the old versions of him, the ones he was embarrassed by and the ones he still did not fully know what to do with, and decided he was worth keeping anyway. It was a terrifying thing, being cared for by you. Not bad terrifying, not Hopper’s-gun terrifying, but the kind that made his chest ache because he wanted to be worthy of it all the time.

Steve, for his part, liked to think of what he felt for you as admiration. Friendly admiration.

The kind a person might feel for someone they happened to enjoy spending every possible second with, someone whose voice he could pick out in a crowded room without trying, someone whose bad moods he could sense before you even said a word.

It was probably just admiration that made him remember every little thing you told him, like how you hated orange candy but liked orange juice.

It was definitely just admiration that made his chest go warm and oddly tight whenever you smiled at him. And if he thought you were the bravest girl he had ever known, if he found himself wanting to make you laugh even when he was exhausted, if every near-death experience only seemed to increase the thought that being near you mattered more than he knew how to explain, well, that was probably still friendly.

Steve was pretty sure. At least, he was sure enough to keep telling himself that, because the alternative felt a little too big to look at directly.

A hand suddenly snapped in front of Steve’s face, dragging him clean out of the mess of his own thoughts.

“Steve. Hey, Steve. Earth to Steven.”

He blinked hard, like he had just been caught doing something illegal, and turned to find you standing there with your eyebrows raised and your mouth twitching like you were trying not to laugh. “Huh? Hey. What?”

You tilted your head at him, amused in that easy way that always made him feel both warm and deeply ridiculous. “I need to go somewhere. It will only take half an hour. Do you want to stay here, or are you going home?”

Steve glanced automatically toward the living room and narrowed his eyes a little. “If I say stay, is your dad going to kill me?”

You huffed out a laugh. “No, I don't think so. And besides, he is not here today.”

And just like that, the relief on Steve’s face was almost embarrassing. His shoulders dropped, his whole expression loosened, and a smile came over him. “Oh. Okay. Then yeah, I can wait here.”

Your eyes brightened at once, pleased in a way that made something in Steve’s chest do a stupid little flip. You grinned at him, quick and pretty and impossible not to stare at. “Okay. I promise I will come quick. Also, Jane may come in between from school, but I think she will leave for Max’s immediately after. Could you just make sure she has her lunch first?”

Steve nodded without hesitation. “All right.”

You smiled even wider. “Thanks. I will be back. Watch a tape in the meantime?”

He gave you a small nod, still looking at you with a loopy smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

Steve had been sitting there for a while, half-watching Star Wars and half-thinking about you (in a friendly way, of course), which was lately how most of his afternoons went.

Then he heard the clicking at the door.

He barely looked up at first, just assumed it was Jane coming in from school. So he kept watching the tape, eyes still on the screen, waiting for the door to open fully. But when it did, the light from outside was mostly blocked all at once, swallowed by a figure much bigger than Jane had any business being, and Steve knew immediately that it was definitely not her.

For one brief, insane second, he secretly hoped it was a demogorgon.

At least with a demogorgon, he knew where he stood.

But the universe was clearly not on his side, because when he turned, it was Hopper.

Steve swallowed so fast it almost hurt and lunged for the remote, pausing the tape just as Hopper stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Hopper’s eyes landed on Steve in that exact way they always did, like he had come home and found a raccoon in his kitchen trying to act natural. He stared for one long second before grunting, “Where are my daughters?”

Steve opened his mouth. “Out.”

The second the word left him, he knew it was the wrong answer. Too vague. Too much like something a guilty man would say right before being buried in a shallow grave. He corrected himself so quickly he almost tripped over the words. “I mean, Jane is at school. Or at Max’s. And, uh, Y/N is out for some work.”

Hopper narrowed his eyes. “What kind of work?”

“I did not ask,” Steve said, trying for honesty and landing somewhere closer to panic.

Hopper kept looking at him for another second, then walked farther into the room. Steve followed every movement.

Hopper came over and sat down on the seat adjacent to the couch, close enough that Steve could smell cigarettes and general parental disapproval.

Steve stood up on instinct almost immediately, because that seemed like the safest thing to do, maybe the smartest, maybe the thing most likely to save his life expectancy.

Hopper looked up at him. “Sit down.”

Steve froze. “What?”

“I said sit down. I want to talk.”

“Cool,” Steve said, nodding too much, as he sat down and looked around. “Cool, cool. Uh, so. Crime, huh? Terrible.”

Hopper did not blink. “I want to talk about my daughter.”

Steve nodded immediately. “Oh, yes. Jane is a lovely girl. Very. . .” He faltered for a second under Hopper’s stare. “Sweet?”

Hopper’s face did not change. “My other daughter.”

Steve’s stomach dropped. “Y/N?” he said, then attempted a smile that came out strained and weird. “Oh, yeah. Y/N is amazing too. Really smart.”

Hopper leaned back slightly, still watching him with that unreadable expression that made Steve feel like he was being measured for a coffin. “There’s the problem.”

Steve stared. “Her being smart?”

“You.”

Steve went quiet, which for him in a bad situation was saying something. Hopper rested his forearms on his knees and looked straight ahead for a moment before speaking again.

“I don’t like you,” he said.

Steve let out one awkward breath. “Yeah, no, I got that.”

“I don’t like you around her. I don’t like how much time you spend here. I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

Steve’s hands tightened together. He looked down at them, then back up, then down again, unsure where it was safest to look. “We are just hanging out. As friends.” He added the last part quickly although he didn't believe it enough himself.

Hopper let out a humorless little sound. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

Steve did not answer, mostly because he had the strong feeling there was not a single correct answer available to him.

For a moment Hopper said nothing. Then, he continued, “You know why I don’t like it?”

Steve swallowed. “Because you think I am a bad influence?”

“No.” Hopper’s eyes moved to him. “Because I think you and me are too similar.”

That, somehow, was not what Steve had expected, and the confusion must have shown on his face because Hopper kept going.

“You walk around like you are trying real hard to be useful,” he said. “Like if you keep helping, keep showing up, keep making yourself necessary, nobody will notice all the things wrong with you. You act like a kid who already decided what kind of man he is and does not think much of the answer.”

Steve opened his mouth and then shut it again.

Hopper looked away for a second, jaw working. “And I know that look because I know what it feels like. Thinking you care about somebody enough should be enough. Thinking maybe if you want to do better bad enough, that counts for something. Sometimes it does. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

Steve’s throat felt dry. “I care about her. . .”

“I know,” Hopper said. “That’s not what worries me.”

Steve frowned a little. “Then what does?”

“Because I'm not good enough for my little girl,” he said. “And if you’re anything like me, then you’re not good enough for my little girl either.”

The words hit hard enough that Steve actually felt his chest go tight. Like he had reached down into the very worst place inside Steve and pulled out the thing Steve already feared most.

Steve laughed once under his breath, except there was nothing funny in it. “Yeah,” he said. “Okay.”

Hopper looked at him then, maybe expecting an argument, maybe expecting Steve to push back, to insist he was better than that.

Steve did not. Because the awful part was, he did not really know how to.

He thought about you laughing with him, trusting him, calling him when things went wrong, smiling like he belonged in your life, and all at once that felt less like something lucky and more like something temporary. Like maybe Hopper was just the first person cruel enough to say out loud what Steve should have figured out sooner.

“I am trying,” Steve said after a long moment. “I mean, I know I screw things up sometimes, but I am trying.”

Hopper shrugged. “Trying is a start.”

That was not comfort. That was barely even mercy.

Steve looked down at the paused television screen, at his own faint reflection in it, warped. “She should get somebody better than me,” he thought to himself.

The front door opened.

Both of them looked up at once just as Jane stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hello,” she said.

By the time you got back, the first thing you noticed was Steve’s car was gone.

You slowed in the driveway, frowning as you looked at the empty spot where it had been parked earlier, a small, confused crease forming between your brows.

For a second you just stood there with your keys in hand, staring at nothing, like maybe if you looked long enough the car would magically reappear and Steve would climb out with one of his sheepish smiles and some rambling explanation that would somehow make perfect sense because it was him. But the driveway stayed empty, and that strange little disappointment settled heavier in your chest than it probably should have.

When you stepped inside, you could smell the dinner, and the sound of conversation from the kitchen.

You slipped your shoes off and headed in, only to stop slightly when you saw your dad already there with Jane.

You looked at Hopper. “Hey. Uh, Dad, you’re early.”

Hopper just nodded once. “Come sit for dinner.”

You glanced between him and Jane, still half-thinking Steve might somehow appear from another room, but when he did not, you pulled out a chair and sat down. “Right.”

For a minute, you tried to ignore the odd feeling curling in your stomach. Then you leaned a little toward Jane and lowered your voice. “Hey, where’s Steve?”

Jane looked at you, then flicked her eyes over your shoulder in a quick glance toward Hopper before answering. “He left ten minutes ago.”

Your face fell before you could stop it. “Oh.”

It came out smaller than you meant it to. You sat back in your chair after that, quieting down a little, your earlier ease gone fuzzy around the edges.

It was not like Steve had to wait around forever for you, obviously. He had his own life. You knew that. Still, he could have stayed. Or at least left a note. Or told Jane something more than that. The whole thing sat strangely with you, like a sentence missing its last word.

Later, shut inside your room with the door closed, you called him.

The phone rang just long enough for you to start thinking maybe he would not pick up, and then there was the familiar click of the line connecting. “Hey,” you said at once, tucking one leg under you on the bed. “You left.”

There was a pause.

Then Steve said, “Yeah. Uh, Henderson called me with code red.”

You furrowed your brows immediately. That made no sense. You had literally been with Dustin earlier because he had forgotten something at home and needed it at school, and he had seemed perfectly fine. Nothing about him had said emergency.

Still, all you said was, “Oh.”

The word sat there between you, uncertain.

You stared at the wall across from your bed, turning the phone cord around your finger. You wondered, not for the first time, why Steve was lying to you. Because he was. You knew he was.

But you pushed the thought aside, deciding for the moment not to make something out of what might be nothing. Maybe there was a reason. Maybe he had just had one of those weird Steve moments where his brain tripped over itself and produced nonsense.

You took a small breath, already getting ready to ask him about the movie, already knowing the answer was probably Star Wars because Steve’s devotion to those tapes bordered on religious, but before you could say anything else, he cut in.

“Can we talk later?” Steve said quickly. “I need to go somewhere.”

You blinked. “Oh. Uh.”

The disappointment hit sharper this time, quick and stupid and annoyingly difficult to hide, but you swallowed it down anyway. “Okay.”

And before you could say bye, or even soften it with a laugh or ask one more question or make sense of the strange distance in his voice, the line clicked dead.

Your bye stayed there, useless, hanging.

The next day, you told yourself Steve had probably just been tired.

That was the easiest explanation, and the one that annoyed you the least, so you held onto it all the way to Family Video.

By the time you pushed open the door and stepped inside, you had managed to convince yourself that everything was normal, that you were not thinking too hard about the awkward phone call, and that Steve would take one look at you and immediately go back to being his usual sweet, slightly frazzled self.

Robin looked up from behind the counter when the bell above the door jingled. “Hey.”

You smiled and wandered over. “Hey.”

She leaned her elbows on the counter and gave you a look that was far too knowing for ten seconds into a conversation. “You here to see Steve?”

You widened your eyes in fake innocence. “I could be here to see you too.”

Robin raised one brow.

You lasted about half a second. “Yeah, I’m here to see Steve.”

“Thought so,” she said, not even pretending to be surprised. Then she jerked her thumb toward the back. “He’s in the back. You could wait here for some time.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

So you stayed there at the counter, trying very hard to look casual and very obviously failing, because every few seconds your eyes drifted toward the back room like maybe Steve would appear if you stared hard enough.

Robin noticed, of course. Robin noticed everything, which was one of the many reasons she was so deeply annoying.

“You know,” she said after a moment, “you’re not really subtle with your whole crush thing.”

Your head snapped toward her so fast it was a miracle your neck survived. “What crush thing?”

Robin looked at you like you were the dumbest person she had met all week, and she worked with Steve, so that was saying something. “The whole you having a crush on dingus thing.”

You let out an offended laugh that was entirely too loud. “I do not have a crush on Steve. Pfft. You’re delirious, Robin.”

She said nothing and kept looking at you with that patient, unbearable expression of someone waiting for you to finish lying to yourself in public. You crossed your arms, then uncrossed them, then sighed.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Ugh. I have a crush on Steve. Is that what you want to hear?”

Robin’s face lit up in immediate satisfaction. “Totally.”

You groaned, but now that it was out there, the words just kept coming, all tripping over each other in one giant embarrassing rush.

“I mean, it’s not like I planned it, okay? It just happened. He’s just. . .” You exhaled and glanced away, suddenly very interested in the tapes behind the counter.

“He’s Steve. He’s sweet, and stupidly brave, and always there when it matters, and he does this thing where he acts like he’s joking even when he’s being really sincere, and I know people think he’s all hair and idiot energy, but he’s not. Well, he is, a little, but he’s also so good. Like actually good.” Your voice softened without your permission. “And he cares so much. About everyone. About the kids. About me.” A dreamy sigh escaped you before you could stop it. “He just makes everything feel easier.”

Robin stared at you for a long second. “And you see all that in Steve Harrington?”

You frowned at her. “Yeah.”

She made a face. “Disgusting.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were still smiling a little despite yourself.

Then Robin’s gaze shifted past you, toward the back, and her expression changed into one of immediate delight at the chance to make things weird. “Anyways,” she said, “looks like he’s free.”

You turned and there was Steve, stepping out from the back.

You did not even think about it before you started walking toward him.

“Hey, Steven.”

For a second, you thought you imagined it. Hoped you imagined it, really. Because the moment he heard your voice, Steve tensed. Just for a second. A tiny thing most people probably would not notice. But you noticed. Your steps faltered slightly, that strange feeling from yesterday creeping back up your spine.

Steve turned to you, and the tension smoothed out so quickly you almost convinced yourself it had never been there.

“You’re here,” he said.

You nodded, smiling the way you always did when you saw him. “Yes. I wanted to see you.”

Steve blinked once. “Why?”

The question landed strangely, like a step where the ground was not quite where you expected it to be. Your smile stayed in place, but you suddenly felt awkward, unsure what exactly had happened between yesterday and today.

“Do I need a reason?” you asked lightly.

“No,” Steve said quickly. “No, of course not.”

The awkwardness eased immediately hearing his normal response, and you felt your shoulders relax again. That was the Steve you knew. The one who would never make you feel weird for showing up.

Then he added, a little too quickly, “I was just busy today. Rush hour, you know.”

You glanced around the store.

There were maybe five customers total, and two of them were arguing near the Holiday movie section.

You looked back at him. “Five is a rush for you?”

Steve paused. “. . . Yes?”

You tilted your head, concerned now. “Steve, is something wrong? Did I do something?”

His face softened instantly. “No. Of course not. You are perfect.”

The words came out so fast they almost tripped over each other.

You felt heat rush to your face before you could stop it, and you looked away quickly, trying very hard not to blush like an idiot in the middle of Family Video.

Unfortunately, Steve noticed.

Which made him immediately start stammering. “I uh well, I just—” He grabbed a stack of tapes beside him like they had personally called for help. “I just need to organize these tapes.”

You pointed at them. “I could help.”

Steve blinked. “Uhhh. . . okay.”

So the two of you ended up in the back room, standing side by side with shelves of tapes between you and the rest of the store.

At first the conversation was normal. Mostly. You talked about school, about Dustin complaining about science homework, about how Steve had apparently rewatched Star Wars again the night before because he was physically incapable of not doing that at least once a week. For a few minutes it almost felt like everything was back to normal.

But the strange tension never really left.

It hovered there, uncomfortable, like a conversation waiting to happen.

Eventually you took a breath. “Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

You kept your eyes on the tapes in your hands. “Do you maybe want to go out sometime?”

Steve stopped moving.

You continued quickly, words tumbling out before your courage could disappear. “Like a date. Nothing big. We could just get milkshakes or something, or watch a movie that is not Star Wars for once, which I know is a big ask—”

Steve did not say anything.

The silence stretched.

Your stomach twisted.

Suddenly you were not sure why you thought this was a good idea. Or why you thought the signs had meant what you thought they meant. Maybe you had just imagined it all. Maybe you had read too much into the way he smiled at you, the way he always showed up when you needed him, the way he said your name in that soft manner.

You let out a small, nervous laugh. “Or not. I mean, that’s fine too, I just thought—”

“No.”

You looked up.

Steve’s eyes were fixed on the shelf in front of him.

“No?” you repeated quietly.

He swallowed. “We can’t.”

Your fingers tightened around the tape case in your hand. “Why?”

Steve finally looked at you then, and something in his expression made your chest drop. “It’s just. . . a bad idea,” he said. “Us dating.”

“Oh.”

The word felt small leaving your mouth.

Steve looked miserable. “We shouldn’t be more than friends.”

The embarrassment came all at once. You laughed a little under your breath, even though you could already feel your eyes starting to sting.

“Right,” you said quickly. “Of course. That makes sense. Totally makes sense.”

You cleared your throat, trying to blink away the stupid tears that were threatening to show up at the worst possible time.

Steve shifted awkwardly. “We can still be friends?”

Even he grimaced a little when he said it.

You forced a smile. “Actually, I think I’m going to need some space,” you admitted.

Steve took a step toward you immediately. “Hey—”

“No, it’s alright,” you said quickly, waving him off before he could say anything comforting that might make you cry for real. “I just feel a bit silly, that’s all.” You attempted another small smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll get back to normal and we can go back to being. . . friends.”

The word caught slightly in your throat.

You looked down at the tape still in your hands before setting it on the shelf. “I just. . . I need to go.”

And before he could stop you, before he could say anything else that might make it harder to leave, you turned and walked out of the back room.

You rushed past the counter.

Robin looked up instantly. “What did you two finally—”

She stopped mid-sentence when you hurried past her, wiping quickly at the tears on your cheeks.

Robin’s expression immediately shifted to concern and she slowly turned her head toward the backroom.

Steve was standing there just inside the doorway, his head in his hands and Robin sighed at the sight.

“Oh, Harrington, what did you do?”

By the time Nancy came over, you had already cried enough to make your head feel heavy and your eyes sore, but the second you saw her standing in your doorway with two tubs of ice cream and that calm look on her face, it all came rushing back again like you had just opened the floodgates.

Now you were sitting cross-legged on your bed with the blanket tangled around your legs, clutching a spoon like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality while Nancy sat across from you with the other tub of ice cream resting in her lap.

“I just feel so stupid,” you said for what had to be the twentieth time, your voice thick as you scooped another bite you barely tasted. “Like actually stupid. It's not even the cute kind of stupid where I can laugh about it later. It's just. . . painfully, humiliatingly stupid.”

Nancy took another spoonful of ice cream, watching you.

“I mean,” you continued miserably, waving your spoon around, “who does that? Who just assumes someone likes them back without actually asking first? Me. Apparently. Because clearly I just decided to invent an entire romance in my head like some delusional idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Nancy said.

“Yes, I am,” you sniffed immediately. “I asked him out. Out loud. With actual words. And he just said no.”

Nancy winced a little in sympathy but let you keep going.

“Like immediately. Just no. Like it was obvious that it was a terrible idea.”

Nancy leaned back against your headboard, passing you another napkin. “Boys are idiots.”

You nodded emphatically, your voice breaking. “Boys are idiots.”

You took another shaky breath and stared down into the melting ice cream. “But he was my idiot,” you said weakly.

That was apparently the breaking point because suddenly your face crumpled and you leaned sideways until your head dropped into Nancy’s lap, clutching the ice cream tub as you started crying again.

Nancy immediately set her spoon aside and started absentmindedly running her fingers through your hair in soothing motions.

“I just feel so embarrassed,” you groaned into her sweater. “Like what if he tells everyone? What if Dustin finds out? Oh my god, Dustin is absolutely going to find out. He’s going to tell Mike and then Lucas and then they’re all going to look at me like I’m some pathetic lovesick idiot who can’t take a hint.”

“He won’t tell them,” Nancy said.

“You don’t know that,” you mumbled miserably. “He might. He might accidentally say something to Robin and then she’ll accidentally say something to someone else and suddenly the entire town knows that I asked Steve Harrington out and he rejected me in the back room of Family Video next to the horror tapes.”

Nancy huffed a laugh despite herself. “It sounds excessive.”

“But it could happen,” you said.

You sniffed loudly and wiped at your face again before continuing.

“And the worst part is that I really thought he liked me,” you said, your voice softening into something more wounded now. “Like actually liked me. I mean he’s always there, you know? And he remembers things I say and he always sits close to me and he smiles at me like. . .” You trailed off, your throat tightening again. “Like I mattered.”

“You do matter,” Nancy said immediately.

“I know,” you said weakly. “But apparently not in the way I thought.”

Nancy sighed softly but kept smoothing your hair.

“And now I feel like every moment I thought meant something was probably just him being nice,” you continued miserably. “Like maybe he was just being friendly this whole time and I turned it into this huge thing in my head and now he probably thinks I’m insane,” you groaned.

Nancy paused. “You just asked him on a date.”

“And got rejected,” you muttered.

There was a quiet moment while you both abe more ice cream and then another thought hit you.

“And he lied to me,” you said suddenly, lifting your head slightly from Nancy’s lap.

Nancy looked down at you. “What?”

“He lied yesterday,” you said, frowning as the pieces rearranged themselves in your mind. “When I called him. He said Dustin called him with some code red emergency.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow.

“But I had literally been with Dustin earlier that day,” you continued, sitting up now, your frustration rising again. “He just forgot something at home and needed it for school. There was no emergency. Nothing was wrong.”

Nancy frowned thoughtfully.

“So he just made something up,” you said slowly, realization dawning in a way that made your chest hurt all over again. “Which means he probably didn’t actually want to stay. Which means he probably left my house on purpose.”

You swallowed hard.

“And I should’ve known,” you whispered miserably. “That should’ve been the sign.”

Nancy reached over and squeezed your hand.

“I mean think about it,” you said, your voice cracking again. “He left early, he lied about it, and then today he basically panicked the second I showed up. I just didn’t want to see it because I liked him too much.”

Nancy squeezed your hand again, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You know,” she said, “we could go out tomorrow. Just the two of us. Get dinner somewhere. Somewhere far away from Family Video and idiotic boys.”

You let out a weak laugh, even though your eyes were still wet. “That’s really sweet, Nance.”

Your voice wobbled halfway through the sentence and suddenly the tears were threatening again, welling up despite your best efforts to keep them contained. You sniffed hard and pressed the heel of your hand against your eyes, shaking your head like you could physically shove the embarrassment away.

“I just can’t believe I asked him out,” you muttered miserably. “I feel like I should move to another country. Or at least another state.”

Nancy opened her mouth to say something else, but the door to your room creaked open slowly before she could.

You immediately buried your face back into her lap as Nancy looked up toward the door. “Hey.”

Jane’s head slowly poked into the room, her expression curious and slightly concerned as she looked between the two of you. “I heard crying.”

You groaned quietly into Nancy’s sweater.

“Why is she crying?” Jane asked.

Nancy glanced down at you before answering, but you spoke first.

“Steve rejected me,” you said miserably, your voice muffled.

Jane blinked. “Oh.”

There was a small pause as she processed that.

Then she turned to Nancy with complete seriousness. “What does that mean?”

You lifted your head just enough to glare weakly toward the doorway, your eyes still red and puffy. “It means he dumped my ass but we weren’t even dating.”

Jane stepped further into the room, clearly trying to piece together the logic of that statement and not having much success after the 'dumped my ass' part which she had learnt from Max.

Nancy gave a small shrug and then patted your shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”

You sniffed loudly.

Nancy turned back to Jane and lifted the ice cream tub slightly. “You want some ice cream?”

Jane’s face immediately brightened, and she opened her mouth to say yes but you suddenly peeked your head up from Nancy’s lap just enough to cut in. “She can’t,” you said hoarsely. “She’s having a cold.”

Jane narrowed her eyes at you instantly. “Buzzkill.”

Nancy blinked. “Did Dustin teach you that word?”

Jane smiled proudly and nodded.

You groaned and dropped your forehead back against Nancy’s leg. “He is a terrible influence on her.”

Nancy glanced between the two of you and smirked slightly. “I don’t know. They look cute.”

Jane’s smile widened at that.

You lifted your head again slowly, squinting at Nancy in disbelief through your tear-streaked face. “Oh my God.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You stared at Jane like you had just noticed something deeply disturbing about the universe.

“Oh God,” you said weakly.

Nancy frowned. “What?”

You gestured vaguely between Jane and the doorway, your voice cracking again in fresh disbelief. “I just realized my little sister is in a relationship. And I’m not.”

Steve was not doing any better.

He was sitting at Dustin’s desk, elbows planted on either side of a half-finished science project involving wires, cardboard, and something that looked mildly capable of exploding if handled incorrectly.

Dustin had been talking for at least ten minutes straight about voltage and signal amplification and something about how if they adjusted the coil just right it could pick up radio chatter from three blocks over.

Steve had not heard a single word.

He was staring at the same screw on the table. Every few seconds he would pick it up, rotate it between his fingers, then put it back down again like his brain had temporarily lost the ability to perform any more complex function.

Dustin finally stopped mid-sentence and leaned back in his chair and squinted at Steve. “Okay,” he said slowly, dragging the word out. “You have not been listening to a thing I’ve said for the last ten minutes.”

Steve blinked like he had just returned from another dimension. “What?”

“Exactly,” Dustin said, throwing his hands in the air. “What is wrong with you?”

Steve rubbed a hand over his face. “Nothing.”

Dustin stared at him. “Steve.”

“I’m fine.”

Dustin stared harder.

“It’s Y/N,” Steve muttered.

Dustin immediately leaned forward. “Oh, what happened?”

Steve dropped his head back against the chair. “She asked me out.”

“Wait,” Dustin said slowly. “Wait, wait, wait. Y/N asked you out?”

“Yeah.”

“And you look like this because. . . ?”

Steve stared at him. “I said no.”

There was a long, stunned silence, then Dustin slapped both hands on the table. “You what?!”

Steve winced. “Keep your voice down.”

“Why would you say no?” Dustin demanded, his voice climbing an entire octave anyway. “That is literally the opposite of the correct answer!”

Steve rubbed his temples. “It’s complicated.”

“It is not complicated!” Dustin said incredulously. “She’s amazing, you like her, she likes you back, that is what we call a win!”

Steve shook his head, his expression tightening again as the memory of Hopper’s voice crept back into his head. “It’s not that simple.”

Dustin crossed his arms. “Explain.”

Steve hesitated for a long moment before speaking again. “Hopper talked to me.”

Dustin made a face immediately. “Oh great. The chief himself.”

Steve let out a quiet breath. “He told me he doesn’t like me around her.”

“Well that’s obvious,” Dustin said. “He doesn’t like anyone around her.”

Steve shook his head again. “That’s not what he meant.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees as he stared down at the floor. “He said we’re too similar,” Steve said quietly. “That he knows what kind of guy I am because he’s the same kind of guy.”

Dustin frowned.

Steve shrugged weakly, but there was no humor in it.

“He said he wasn’t good enough for his daughter,” Steve continued. “And that if I’m anything like him, then I’m not good enough for her either. And the worst part is I kind of get what he meant,” he said. “I mean. . . look at me, man.”

Dustin frowned immediately.

Steve leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying to physically hold his thoughts in place before they ran off in ten different directions.

“I screw things up,” he said. “All the time. I mean, yeah, I try to help, I try to do the right thing now, but you remember how I used to be. Everyone remembers. Half the town probably still thinks I’m the same idiot who peaked in high school and can’t figure out what to do with the rest of his life.”

Dustin opened his mouth to protest, but Steve kept going. “And she’s. . . ” Steve exhaled. “She’s Y/N.”

He said your name like it meant something big, something impossible to explain in one sentence.

“She’s smart and brave and she actually knows where she’s going in life,” Steve said. “She walks into a room and people listen to her. She stands up to Hopper like it’s nothing. She makes everyone around her feel like things are going to be okay.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“And me?” he muttered. “I work at a video store and accidentally adopt children who get chased by monsters.”

Dustin blinked. “That sounds pretty heroic actually.”

Steve shook his head. “That’s not the point. The point is she deserves someone who doesn’t. . . mess things up.”

Dustin leaned forward, staring at him, frustrated. “So your solution,” he said, “was to break her heart before you had the chance to?”

Steve winced. “I didn’t break her heart,” he muttered weakly.

Dustin stared at him in disbelief. “Steve.”

Steve groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “Okay maybe a little.”

“A little?” Dustin said. “She literally asked you out and you rejected her.”

Steve peeked through his fingers. “I was trying to protect her.”

Dustin threw his arms up. “From what? Happiness?”

Steve rubbed his face again, looking completely exhausted now. “From me,” he said.

Dustin leaned forward again, squinting at Steve with the same expression he usually reserved for explaining extremely basic concepts to Lucas.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going to explain something to you very slowly.”

Steve sighed. “Great.”

“You are being,” Dustin continued, pointing at him for emphasis, “an idiot.”

Steve didn’t even argue.

Dustin leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “When Hopper tried to intimidate me,” he said, “I shrugged him off.”

Steve blinked. “You what?”

Dustin nodded proudly. “Yeah. He did the whole ‘I’m a scary dad with a gun’ thing and I just kept dating Jane.”

Steve stared at him. “You’re insane.”

“And guess what happened?” Dustin said.

Steve sighed. “What?”

“He gave up,” Dustin said simply. “Because that’s what Hopper does. He acts scary and protective and eventually realizes he can’t control everything.”

Steve frowned.

Dustin leaned forward again, lowering his voice slightly. “Also, you realize Y/N isn’t Hopper, right?” he said. “She gets to decide who she likes. And she likes you,” he contined. “You like her. The only person ruining this situation right now is you.”

Steve slumped back in his chair.

For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, letting Dustin’s words bounce around in his head along with Hopper’s and your tearful voice and the look on your face when he’d said no.

“I think I really screwed this up,” he muttered.

Dustin nodded. “Oh, absolutely.”

Steve dropped his head back down. “Great.”

“But,” Dustin added quickly, leaning forward with a spark of determination in his eyes, “that doesn’t mean it’s over.”

Steve looked at him warily.

Dustin grinned slowly. “We just need a plan.”

Steve frowned. “A plan?”

“Yeah,” Dustin said, already getting excited. “And I know just the someone who’s great at them.”

Steve should have been suspicious the moment Dustin said that sentence with that much confidence. There were only a handful of people Dustin trusted to solve complicated situations, and somehow every single one of them was either a genius, terrifying, or both.

Which was how Steve found himself half an hour later sitting stiffly on the Sinclair family couch while Erica Sinclair leaned back like a queen being forced to listen to the complaints of particularly stupid peasants.

The moment Steve finished explaining the situation, Erica slowly dragged a hand down her face and sighed the way someone did when their patience had been tested far beyond reasonable limits.

“Oh my God,” she said flatly. “You’re an idiot, you absolute dingbat.”

Steve turned toward Dustin who gave him a small nod that clearly translated to see, I told you.

Steve looked back at Erica. “That was unnecessarily aggressive.”

Erica crossed her arms and stared at him. “No,” she said. “Unnecessarily aggressive would be me throwing you out of my house for wasting oxygen with that story. What I said was a fact.”

Steve sank a little deeper into the couch.

Erica leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “The girl likes you. You like the girl. And when she asked you out, you said no because some grumpy middle-aged man scared you with his feelings.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I had other reasons.”

Erica leaned forward slightly. “Were those reasons stupid?”

Steve hesitated.

Dustin answered immediately. “Yes.”

“You made her cry?” she asked.

Steve winced. “Probably.”

Erica clicked her tongue in disappointment. “That’s bad.”

Steve blinked. “Bad?”

“Well yeah,” she said. “I actually like her.”

Steve and Dustin both looked at her.

Erica shrugged like it was obvious. “She’s cool. She brings snacks. And she doesn’t treat me like a child.”

“That’s because you are a child,” Steve muttered.

Erica pointed at him without even looking. “See? That attitude right there is why she deserves better.”

Steve slumped further into the couch.

“But,” Erica continued thoughtfully, tapping her finger against the armrest, “she also clearly has terrible taste in men.”

Dustin coughed to hide a laugh.

“So,” Erica said, straightening up slightly, “I will help you.”

“Okay,” he said cautiously. “What’s the plan?”

Erica leaned forward with a slow smile that immediately made Steve nervous. “The problem,” she began, “is that right now she thinks she imagined everything. She thinks you never actually liked her.”

Steve nodded slowly.

“So the solution,” Erica continued, “is not some big dramatic speech where you try to explain your feelings like a sad puppy because you will mess that up. So what you need,” she said, “is proof.”

Dustin leaned forward eagerly. “Proof?”

Erica nodded. “You’re going to show her that you pay attention to her.”

Steve frowned. “I already do that.”

“Good,” Erica said. “Then this won’t be hard.”

She began counting on her fingers.

“You’re going to bring things she’s mentioned liking before. Specific things. Maybe some flowers or something.”

Steve blinked. “You know a lot about this.”

Erica shrugged. “I read.”

Dustin coughed under his breath. “Nerd.”

“You’re going to apologize,” Erica continued, ignoring him. “And then you tell her the truth.”

Steve hesitated slightly.

Erica narrowed her eyes. “All of it.”

Steve sighed. “Yeah.”

“And if she still wants space,” Erica added, “you respect that.”

Dustin frowned slightly. “That doesn’t sound like a winning-her-back plan.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “That’s because the goal isn’t to trick her into dating him,” she said. “The goal is to prove he’s not the complete idiot he pretended to be.”

Steve looked at her for a moment. “. . . You really think that’ll work?”

Erica shrugged. “If she likes you as much as you claim,” she said, “then yes.”

Steve nodded, hope and nervousness mixing together in his chest in a way that made his stomach flip.

Dustin grinned. “See?” he said. “I told you she’d have a plan.”

Erica stood up and stretched slightly. “Well, that will be a month of free video tapes.”

It had been raining for hours by the time the tapping started at your window.

You almost ignored it at first, buried face-down in your pillow with the lights off, the room dim except for the occasional flash of lightning slipping through the curtains.

You had told yourself you were not crying anymore. Technically that was true. You had stopped. Mostly. But the dull ache sitting behind your ribs had not gone anywhere, and every time you thought about Steve’s miserable expression in that back room, your chest tightened all over again.

The tapping came again.

You frowned into the pillow, lifting your head slightly. For a second your brain, still fuzzy with disappointment and lack of sleep, tried to convince you it was just the rain hitting the glass.

Then it tapped again.

You sat up.

When you pushed the curtain aside and opened the window, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Steve was halfway through climbing in and he was completely soaked.

Rain clung to his hair, dripping down the ends and onto his jacket, his shirt, the floor under the window. His sneakers made a soft wet sound when he stumbled inside, holding a slightly crushed bundle of flowers in one hand looking like they had barely survived the journey.

You stared at him and he stared back, breathing a little hard like he had run here. “Hi,” he said.

You blinked at him. “You climbed through my window.”

Steve nodded once, like that was a normal thing to do on a rainy night after rejecting someone earlier that day. “Yeah.”

“You’re soaking wet.”

“Also yes.”

You looked at the flowers. “Did you steal those?”

He glanced down at them like he had forgotten they existed. “Technically I paid for them.” He hesitated. “I think the cashier pitied me.”

You stared for another long second, trying very hard to make sense of the situation. “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing here?”

Steve swallowed, suddenly looking much less confident than he had climbing through the window in the rain like some kind of very soggy romantic idiot. He ran a hand through his wet hair, immediately messing it up further. “I messed up,” he said.

You crossed your arms, still sitting on the edge of the bed. “You did.”

“I know.”

He stepped a little closer, careful like you might disappear if he moved too fast. The flowers were still clutched awkwardly in his hand, slightly bent but determinedly bright against the dim room.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this without sounding like a complete idiot,” he admitted. “But it turns out that’s kind of unavoidable.”

You watched him, your heart already starting to beat faster in a way you did not want to acknowledge yet.

Steve looked down at the floor for a second before continuing. “Yesterday. . . your dad and I talked.”

Your brows pulled together slightly.

“And he said some stuff,” Steve went on. “Stuff that kind of stuck in my head. About how I’m not good enough for you. And the stupid part is. . .” He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “I already thought that.”

Something in your chest tightened.

Steve looked back up at you then, eyes honest and a little raw. “You’re amazing,” he said simply. “Like, ridiculously amazing. You’re brave and smart and kind and somehow still patient with people like me who forget basic things like how tapes work or how to act normal when someone pretty, someone just like you, walks into the room. You save the world and then go home and help your sister with lunch like it’s nothing. And you laugh at my dumb jokes like they’re actually funny.”

Your throat felt tight.

“And I’m just. . .” Steve gestured vaguely at himself. “This guy who spent most of high school being a jerk and now works at a video store.”

“You’re more than that,” you said.

Steve shook his head a little. “Maybe. But when you asked me out today, all I could hear in my head was Hopper saying you deserved someone better. And the worst part was I believed him.”

He stepped closer again, placing the flowers on your table like they were something fragile.

“I said no because I thought it was the right thing to do,” he continued. “Like if I stepped back first, maybe I wouldn’t screw things up for you later.”

Your voice came out softer than you meant it to. “Steve. . .”

“But then you left,” he said. “And you looked so hurt, and Robin spent the next hour telling me I was the dumbest human being alive, which, fair, but also I realized something.”

He took another small step toward you.

“I realized that trying to stay away from you hurts way worse than any mistake I could possibly make.”

Your heart stuttered.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck nervously, water still dripping from the ends of his hair onto the floor. “I like you,” he said, voice almost shy now. “Like. . . really like you. In a way that makes me forget how sentences work and stare at you like an idiot whenever you walk into a room. In a way that makes every near-death monster situation a little less terrifying because at least you’re there too.”

You felt a small, disbelieving smile pulling at your mouth.

“And yeah,” Steve continued, glancing at you again. “Maybe I’m not the guy who deserves you. But if there’s even a tiny chance you’d still want me anyway. . . I’d really like to try to be that guy for you.”

For a moment you just looked at him standing there, soaked through, nervous, holding onto hope with the kind of stubborn sincerity that was so unmistakably Steve.

“You climbed through my window,” you said again.

Steve nodded. “Romantic, right?”

You shook your head a little, smiling now despite everything. “You rejected me six hours ago.”

“I know.”

“In the middle of Family Video.”

“I am deeply ashamed.”

“And now you’re telling your feelings in the rain.”

Steve hesitated, then cleared his throat slightly. “Actually I had a quote prepared.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He shifted awkwardly. “It’s from Star Wars.”

“Of course it is.”

Steve took a small breath, then said, very seriously, “You’re the Obi-Wan for me but in a less mentor and more girlfriend boyfriend way.”

You stared at him. “That’s not even—”

“I panicked,” Steve admitted quickly. “The other one was Han Solo.” He glanced up at you, a little sheepish before adding, “You know. . . the ‘I love you.’ ‘I know.’ thing.” He huffed a small laugh. “But that felt way too confident for someone currently dripping rainwater all over your floor.”

You tried very hard not to laugh.

Steve looked at you with a hopeful little shrug. “What I meant was. . . I can’t imagine a life where you’re not in it.”

Your heart softened so fast it almost hurt.

You stood up slowly from the bed and walked over to him, stopping just close enough that you could see the nervous flicker in his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” you told him.

“Yeah,” Steve said immediately. “That checks out.”

“But you’re my idiot.”

His breath caught slightly.

You reached up and brushed a drop of rain from his cheek with your thumb. “And for the record,” you added, “I never asked you to be perfect. I just asked you to be you.”

Steve looked at you like you had just handed him the entire universe. “You still want that date?” he asked.

You pretended to think about it for a second. “Maybe,” you said.

Steve’s shoulders sagged in relief.

You smiled and leaned forward, closing the distance between you and Steve froze for half a second before kissing you back, one hand lifting uncertainly to rest against your waist like he was still not entirely convinced this was actually happening.

When you finally pulled back, he was smiling in an amazed way he sometimes did after surviving something impossible.

“Wow,” Steve murmured.

Instead he stood there, pretending to scan the crowd while being very aware of the way your hand rested against his arm. The warmth of it soaked through the sleeve of his jacket, and he was trying extremely hard not to focus on how nice that felt.

You leaned slightly closer to him and lowered your voice. “Is it just me,” you said, “or is coming to your ex’s wedding actually everyone’s worst nightmare?”

Steve glanced down at you.

He let out a soft breath through his nose. “It is definitely not just you.”

He shifted slightly beside you, looking around the venue like someone trying to memorize escape routes so when this whole thing blows up in his face, he could easily leave with you.

“First of all,” he continued, “I don’t even know these people.”

You followed his gaze and immediately recognized several familiar faces scattered across the lawn. Your shoulders relaxed just slightly, though the nervous energy was still buzzing through you.

“Well,” you said, nodding toward a group near the drink table, “Okay, see the guy near the fountain?”

Steve squinted slightly. “The one holding the drink?”

“Yeah, that’s Daniel. He once tried to start a fight with a waiter because the restaurant ran out of onion rings.”

Steve nodded slowly, absorbing this information like it was part of an important briefing.

“And the woman next to him,” you continued, “that’s Melissa. She cries at every wedding. Even the ones where she doesn’t know the couple.”

“Good,” Steve said seriously. “I was worried I’d be the emotional one tonight.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.

You nodded. “It was. And the woman next to her in the blue dress? That’s her sister. She brings her own salad dressing to restaurants.”

Steve turned to look at you, deeply impressed and slightly horrified. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish. She brought it once on a double date with me and my ex,” you sighed. “And the couple near the table with the flowers? They broke up three separate times during the same Thanksgiving dinner one year.”

Steve let out a quiet whistle. “Wow. I think that should win a record for something.”

You kept scanning the crowd as you spoke, pointing things out here and there while Steve listened beside you. Or at least he tried to listen. For the first few seconds he followed along normally, nodding, but gradually his attention began drifting in a direction that had nothing to do with the guests.

Because you were talking.

And you could talk about paint drying and Steve, like right now, would find it very hard to focus on anything else.

He glanced down at you again.

Your hand was still resting on his arm, fingers absentmindedly playing with the cuff of his sleeve like you had forgotten it was even there. Your brows were slightly drawn together as you tried to remember another name, and every now and then you would huff out a small breath when something ridiculous from the past came to mind.

The light caught the pendant resting against your collarbone, the one he had helped you fasten earlier, and for a second he had to drag his attention away before he started staring too obviously.

His brain helpfully reminded him that this was a fake date.

His heart, unfortunately, had missed that memo several years ago.

He tilted his head slightly and spoke again, his voice carrying a dry edge of sarcasm. “So tell me again,” he said lightly, his gaze still fixed on you while you looked out toward the crowd, “why didn’t you two get married?”

You blinked slightly at the question, your eyes shifting back toward him. Your fingers stopped fiddling with his cuff for a second before you shrugged lightly, because the answer wasn’t as complicated as it had once felt.

“He wasn’t ready for marriage,” you said.

Steve stared at you for half a second.

Then he let out a low whistle through his teeth, his face twisting into a sympathetic grimace as the full irony of the situation settled in.

“Ooh,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “The irony really sucks, doesn’t it?”

You huffed out a quiet laugh, though it came with a small shake of your head that suggested you had already spent a long time making peace with the situation.

“Tell me about it,” you muttered.

You inhaled slowly and straightened your shoulders, your expression becoming determined. “Anyway,” you said, waving a small hand toward the entrance. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Steve nodded immediately, stepping slightly aside and sweeping one hand toward the arch with an exaggerated politeness that almost made you smile again. “After you.”

You started to move forward.

Your hand slipped from his arm as you stepped ahead, but after only a couple steps you suddenly stopped.

Steve nearly walked straight into you before catching himself.

You turned back toward him slowly, your eyes drifting over his face for a moment like you were studying him. Your gaze moved from the careful way he’d styled his hair, to the suit that somehow made him look both nervous and handsome at the same time, before finally lifting back up to meet his eyes.

Steve felt his stomach flip a little under that look.

You tilted your head slightly, your expression thoughtful. “Just promise me something,” you said.

Steve blinked in mild confusion. “What?”

You held his gaze for a second longer before speaking again, “Don’t fall in love with me.”

The words hit him like someone had quietly dropped a brick inside his chest.

For one brief second Steve’s brain went completely blank.

Because the first thought that rushed through his mind, deeply unhelpful, was too late.

It arrived so fast he almost laughed out loud.

He had been in love with you long before you had ever even considered asking him to be your fake date to your ex’s wedding.

Unfortunately, that information was not exactly helpful in this moment.

He forced himself to stay calm, his face settling into an expression that he hoped looked relaxed and normal and not like the emotional crisis currently happening behind his eyes.

He held your gaze steadily, even though his heart had started beating faster for reasons he absolutely could not explain out loud.

“Trust me,” he said, with an easy confidence that was only about seventy percent acting, “that won’t be a problem.”

You studied him for another moment, searching his face like you were making sure he meant it.

Then your shoulders relaxed slightly.

A quiet sigh left you as a small, grateful smile spread across your face. Your hand squeezed his arm, the gesture harmless and completely unaware of the effect it had on him.

“Thanks again for helping me out,” you said.

Steve felt that squeeze straight through his entire nervous system.

He smiled back at you anyway, easy and warm and a little helpless in a way he couldn’t quite hide.

“Anything for you.”

And if his voice held a little too much sincerity when he said it, you didn’t seem to notice.

You shook your head once like you were physically brushing away the nerves that had started buzzing under your skin, then took a breath and stepped forward through the open doors before you could change your mind.

For the first hour, things went better than you had expected.

You drifted from group to group through the room. Every now and then someone would recognize you and wave you over, and each time you’d pause, reaching back to tug Steve along with you before turning toward whoever had called your name.

“Hi! It’s been forever,” you’d say brightly, your hand briefly brushing Steve’s sleeve as you introduced him. “This is Steve.”

And every single time, Steve would stand beside you in the same polite, slightly awkward way that made something warm bloom quietly in your chest.

He stood with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, shoulders a little too straight, offering a smile that was both charming and nervous as he nodded at everyone you introduced him to.

It was kind of adorable.

You noticed the way he leaned just a little closer whenever someone spoke to you, the way his attention stayed completely on the conversation like he was determined to get this right. Once or twice, when someone asked a question about how the two of you met, Steve glanced at you quickly first like he was checking the script before answering, and every time your eyes met his you had to hide a smile.

Because he was trying.

He was trying so hard.

And it was working.

You caught yourself watching him more than once when he wasn’t looking, quietly amused by how seriously he was taking his role as your fake boyfriend. His ears had gone faintly pink twenty minutes in and they hadn’t really recovered since.

Eventually, after one last conversation with someone who insisted on telling you a long story about their new dog, you two were finally left alone.

You exhaled softly, turning toward Steve with a tired but genuine smile.

For a moment he didn’t realize you were looking at him.

He had been watching you again.

His gaze had drifted while you were talking, settling on your face with that same focus he kept losing himself in all night, the curve of your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you laughed. There was something almost dazed about it, like he had forgotten for a second that he was supposed to be acting normal.

“Hey,” you said, amusement slipping into your voice.

Steve blinked and snapped back into the moment.

“Yeah?” he said quickly, straightening like someone had just caught him doing something embarrassing.

You tilted your head at him, your smile growing.

“You’re doing really well,” you told him, fond in a way that made Steve’s brain immediately stop functioning. “Very convincing boyfriend material.”

The words landed like a small explosion somewhere behind Steve’s ribs.

His ears went fully red this time.

“Oh,” he said, letting out a short laugh that sounded a little too breathless to be casual. “Well, you know. I try.”

You hummed thoughtfully, crossing your arms as you gave him an exaggerated once-over like you were seriously evaluating him.

“Yes,” you said slowly, nodding. “The polite smile. The occasional nodding like you understand the gossip even though you absolutely don’t.”

Steve huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he protested. “I understand some of it.”

You raised your eyebrows.

“Do you?”

“Well,” he started, clearly stalling, “I understand that apparently Janet cheated on Mark with someone named Greg who might actually be Mark’s cousin but no one is fully sure.”

You stared at him for a second before bursting out laughing.

Steve’s chest did a stupid, warm flip at the sound.

“There you go,” you said, pointing at him with an impressed little grin. “You’re learning.”

He shrugged, trying to play it cool even though your praise was absolutely destroying him.

“Good teacher,” he said.

Your smile softened just a little at that.

Steve noticed.

At this point he noticed everything.

He noticed all of it and it was becoming a serious problem.

Because every time you smiled at him like that, something inside his chest pulled tighter. Like a quiet little reminder of the promise you had made him give earlier.

Don’t fall in love with me.

Yeah.

Great stuff.

He was doing a fantastic job with that.

You were about to say something else when your gaze drifted past his shoulder.

Your expression changed immediately as the amusement disappeared. “Oh no,” you whispered under your breath.

Steve frowned, instantly alert.

“What?” he asked, turning slightly to follow your line of sight. “Who is it?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead you grabbed his arm suddenly, fingers tightening around his sleeve as you leaned a little closer like you were about to step behind him for cover.

“Oh my god,” you muttered.

Steve blinked.

“Should I be scared right now?” he asked cautiously.

You swallowed and then looked back at him with wide eyes.

“That,” you said quietly, nodding toward the approaching couple across the room, “is my ex’s parents.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh.”

He turned his head just enough to see them. A well-dressed older couple was walking toward you through the crowd.

Steve slowly turned back to you.

You took a quick breath, smoothing your dress down with both hands before lifting your chin. “Okay,” you said.

Steve waited.

You glanced at the approaching couple again and then back at him, a tiny grimace pulling at your mouth.

“Wish me luck,” you murmured, your fingers tightening just slightly on his arm before you forced yourself to relax them.

Steve tilted his head, looking genuinely confused as he followed your gaze again for a second before returning his attention to you. He lowered his voice slightly, leaning closer.

“Why are you nervous?” he asked, sounding genuinely puzzled. “They’re not your parents.”

You let out a groan, shaking your head slightly as if that comparison alone was enough to make the situation worse.

“You’re right,” you said dryly. “That would’ve been worse. My dad hates you.”

Steve froze.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, his head snapping toward you with a deeply offended expression that was almost impressive in its speed. “Why?”

You waved a dismissive hand in the air like it was a completely unimportant detail, already turning your focus back toward the approaching couple. “It’s not a big deal.”

Steve looked extremely unconvinced, his eyebrows pulling together. “Not a big deal?” he repeated, his voice pitching slightly higher in disbelief. “Why does your dad hate me?”

You shrugged, still watching the couple walk closer.

“I don’t know,” you said breezily. “Something about hair products and stuff.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could further show his deeply taken offense and fuss over his hair, the couple had already reached you.

Your posture straightened instantly.

The grimace vanished and in its place appeared the most polite, charming smile Steve had seen all evening.

“Anna, John,” you said, your voice lifting just enough to sound pleasantly surprised. “It’s great to see you two.”

The older woman’s face brightened immediately.

“Oh sweetheart,” she said fondly, stepping forward and wrapping you in a light hug that you returned. “We’re so happy you came.”

John followed with a warm pat on your shoulder as you stepped back.

You smiled again, even though Steve could feel the slight tension in your arm where your hand still rested against his sleeve.

“Of course,” you said, your tone cheerful. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Then, remembering the person standing beside you, you turned slightly and gestured toward Steve with a small, confident smile.

“Oh,” you added quickly, turning slightly toward him and placing a hand on his arm. “Right. This is Steve. My boyfriend.”

Steve immediately straightened.

The word boyfriend did something strange to his brain every single time you said it out loud.

Still, he recovered quickly, offering them a smile as he stepped forward and extended his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

The man studied him for a moment as he shook his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly in recognition and suddenly his face lit up.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said with surprise. “I know you.”

Both you and Steve froze for a second.

“You do?”

“You’re Danny’s boy,” the man continued confidently, nodding.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise as you turned toward Steve.

Steve, meanwhile, seemed just as startled, though he recovered quickly enough to nod respectfully. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

John’s face softened into a pleased smile as he gave Steve’s shoulder a firm pat. “Your father is a good man,” he said approvingly.

Steve’s mouth twitched.

For the briefest second, his face did something incredibly specific—a tiny grimace flickered across his features with the beginning of an eye roll before he managed to smooth it over into a polite smile again.

“Yes, sir,” Steve repeated smoothly.

You smiled brightly at the two, but inside your head you were already making a very clear mental note.

Teach Steve how to hide his facial expressions better.

Because if he was going to survive the rest of this wedding as your fake boyfriend, that particular skill was going to be absolutely necessary.

You slipped your arm a little more comfortably through his, leaning into him just slightly in a way that looked casual but also conveniently kept him from saying anything too honest.

Steve felt the movement instantly.

His entire brain went a little soft around the edges.

The small gesture was clearly part of the act, but Steve’s brain was doing a very bad job remembering that. He tried to focus on the conversation instead.

Which was difficult.

Because you smelled nice.

And because your arm was still hooked through his.

And because every time you leaned slightly closer to him while talking, his brain briefly stopped processing anything else in the room.

Meanwhile, your ex’s parents seemed completely satisfied.

Anna smiled warmly between the two of you.

“Well,” she said fondly, looking between you and Steve, “we’re very glad you brought someone.”

You nodded politely.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice easy again. “Me too.”

Steve, still trying very hard to behave like a normal human being and not someone who had been emotionally compromised by a fake relationship, smiled politely beside you.

Inside, however, his brain had only managed to produce one extremely unhelpful thought.

Her arm is holding mine.

And unfortunately for him, that seemed to matter a lot more than it should have.

From the outside he probably looked fine. He was standing beside you with his shoulders squared and his hands politely folded in front of him the way he’d been doing all evening, nodding along as Anna spoke and occasionally answering John with a respectful, “Yes, sir,” or a quick polite smile.

If someone had walked by they might have thought he was calm. Maybe even confident.

Inside his head, however, things were. . . significantly less confident.

Because about thirty seconds ago you had looked up at him while Anna was talking, barely for a second, and your eyes had crinkled at the corners with the tiniest smile, the kind that looked like you were sharing a private joke with him even though you hadn’t said a word.

And now Steve was pretty sure his heart was beating wrong.

It thudded against his ribs so hard he was convinced someone standing nearby might hear it. His ears felt hot, his palms were damp, and there was this faint dizzy feeling in the back of his head like maybe maybe he was about to pass out in the middle of a conversation about how lovely the event was.

Which would be humiliating.

Steve swallowed and shifted his weight slightly, forcing himself to focus on John, who was currently explaining something about a work trip, but Steve’s brain refused to cooperate.

Get it together, he scolded himself firmly.

Seriously.

This was ridiculous.

You were just standing next to him. You’d been standing next to him all night. There was nothing new about that. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should be causing his internal organs to malfunction like he’d just run ten miles.

Pull it together, dingus.

He also realized his inside scolding voice was just Robin telling him to shut up and pull it together all the time. He sighed as his eyes flicked down to you again before he could stop himself.

You were listening politely to Anna, nodding along and smiling. Steve immediately looked away again like he’d been caught doing something illegal.

Jesus Christ.

He dragged a hand down the back of his neck and silently started scolding himself again.

You had specifically asked him to behave tonight.

He could still hear your voice from earlier in the evening, back when you’d been fussing with your dress in the mirror and he’d been standing behind you trying not to look like a lovesick idiot after you'd fixed his tie.

Your tone had been pleading as you glanced at him through the mirror and said something like, “Steve, please just act normal tonight, okay? I’m serious.”

And then Robin’s voice had immediately popped into his head right after that memory. “You’re whipped, dingus. Like embarrassingly whipped.”

Steve had denied that very loudly at the time.

But now he was starting to think she might have had a point.

Each time your hand brushed his sleeve, his brain short-circuited a little more.

This is a medical condition, Steve decided firmly.

There was no other explanation.

People’s hearts were not supposed to start racing every time someone looked at them. That wasn’t normal human behavior. There had to be some kind of scientific reason for it. Some weird biological thing where certain facial expressions triggered cardiac distress.

Yeah.

That had to be it.

Because otherwise the alternative explanation was that you were somehow responsible for the fact that he suddenly felt like he might faint.

And that would be. . . concerning.

Steve forced himself to focus on the conversation again, nodding politely while John spoke, but his brain had already wandered somewhere else entirely.

Backwards.

Way backwards.

Because the truth was, if he was being honest with himself, this whole problem hadn’t actually started recently.

It had started a long time ago.

Steve didn’t realize he was staring at the floor until Anna laughed softly at something you said, snapping him back to the present. He quickly looked up again, plastering on another polite smile, but his mind was already replaying the memory that had surfaced whether he liked it or not.

Billy.

The day Billy showed up at the Byers’ house looking for Max.

Steve could still remember the dull pounding in his head from the beating Billy had just given him. Everything had been hazy and tilted sideways, his ears ringing and his vision swimming as he tried to stay upright.

He’d been half-conscious at best.

Definitely dizzy. Probably about ten seconds away from passing out completely.

And then you’d stepped forward.

Steve remembered the moment weirdly clearly, even through the fog that had been clouding his brain at the time. Billy had been saying something nasty and before Steve could even process what was happening you had marched straight up to him.

And punched him.

Right in the face.

Steve had actually thought he was hallucinating for a second.

Because there was absolutely no way you had just decked Billy Hargrove like it was nothing.

Except you had.

Billy had stumbled back, stunned, and you had been standing there with your fists clenched like you were ready to do it again if he even thought about touching Max.

Steve remembered staring at you from where he was slumped against the wall, half-loopy from pain and blood loss and whatever mild concussion he probably had at the time.

And even through all of that dizziness he had one very clear thought.

Oh.

Not oh no.

Not that’s bad.

Just oh.

Because something about the way you’d stood there had done something weird to his brain. Something that, apparently, had never quite gone away.

Back in the present, Steve shifted slightly beside you, forcing himself to breathe normally.

Okay, he thought firmly.

That was fine.

That was totally fine.

Lots of people admired their friends for punching terrible guys in the face.

Totally normal reaction.

Totally healthy.

Steve nodded absentmindedly as John continued speaking, but then you glanced up at him again.

And smiled.

Steve’s brain immediately short-circuited again.

His heart did that stupid fast thing in his chest, his ears went warm, and he had to look away before anyone noticed the absolutely ridiculous expression that was probably spreading across his face.

Steve made a quiet mental note right then and there that he really, really needed to learn how to hide his expressions better.

Because apparently his face was doing things without his permission lately.

The kind of things that would absolutely get him roasted alive by Robin if she ever saw them. The kind of things that probably made it painfully obvious that his brain had stopped working every time you so much as glanced at him.

Seriously. He had to get that under control.

If he was going to keep standing next to you at events like this, pretending to be a competent, normal human being, then he absolutely could not keep looking like someone had unplugged his brain every time you smiled at him. It was embarrassing. Deeply embarrassing. And if he had any self-preservation instincts left, he would start practicing a neutral expression in the mirror or something.

He was so busy internally lecturing himself that he didn’t actually notice the exact moment John and Anna said goodbye.

One moment they were there.

The next moment they weren’t.

Steve blinked slightly, his brain catching up a few seconds late as he realized the conversation had ended and the two of you were standing alone again.

When had that happened?

He hadn’t heard them say goodbye. Hadn’t noticed the hug you’d given Anna or the handshake with John. His mind had been somewhere between panic and daydream the entire time.

Which probably wasn’t a great sign.

Steve turned his head just in time to see you sag a little beside him, the bright polite smile you’d been wearing for the last several minutes finally slipping off your face like it had been physically exhausting to hold there.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing the side of your neck as your shoulders relaxed for the first time since the couple had walked up.

“That,” you said with exhaustion, your voice dropping into something far more genuine now that the audience was gone, “was exhausting. I don’t think I’ve fake-smiled that much since my eighteenth birthday.”

Steve stared at you for a second before his brain finally kicked back into gear.

“Uh huh,” he said automatically.

You didn’t seem to notice how useless that response was.

You were already talking again, your hands moving slightly as you leaned a bit closer to him, clearly riding the moment of finally being able to complain without worrying about who might overhear.

“And did you see the way John kept looking at me like he was trying to figure out if I’d ruined his son’s life or something?” you continued. “Like, sir, relax. Your son did that all on his own.”

Steve nodded.

“Uh huh.”

“And Anna asking about me like she didn’t spend three years pretending I didn’t exist whenever I came over,” you added, scrunching your nose slightly in lingering irritation. “God, that woman has the memory of a goldfish when it comes to things she doesn’t like.”

“Uh huh,” Steve said again.

Your head tilted slightly as you looked up at him, your eyes narrowing with mild suspicion.

Steve, who had not contributed a single meaningful word to this conversation, blinked at you.

You squinted a little harder.

“Oh no,” you said slowly, realization dawning across your face as your shoulders dropped in guilt. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

Steve’s brain stalled.

You winced immediately, already apologizing before he could even process the accusation.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, one hand coming up to rub the back of your neck again. “I’m just ranting at you about my ex’s parents like a crazy person. I promise this whole thing will be over soon.”

Steve opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“I uh, yeah,” he said stupidly, the words coming out tangled as his brain tried to juggle embarrassment, panic, and the weird pounding still happening in his chest. “I think I just, uh, I think I need to go to the washroom.”

“Oh,” you said, nodding quickly. “Okay, sure.”

Steve nodded back, a little too fast, already stepping away before his brain could overthink it.

“Yeah. Just one second.”

He gave you what he hoped was a normal smile before turning and walking toward the hallway, his pace slightly faster than usual as he escaped the crowd.

The moment the bathroom door closed behind him, Steve let out a long breath.

He stepped up to the sink, gripping the edge of it with both hands as he leaned forward slightly, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

“You need to get a grip,” he muttered to himself.

His reflection looked unimpressed.

Steve sighed and dragged both hands down his face before looking up again.

“Seriously,” he continued under his breath, leaning slightly closer to the mirror like he was giving himself a serious pep talk. “You’re acting like a complete idiot tonight. Just act normal. It’s not that hard.”

He pointed at himself sternly.

“You are a normal guy,” he added. “You have talked to girls before. You have dated girls before. This is not a life-threatening—”

The bathroom door opened behind him.

Steve immediately stopped talking.

He straightened quickly, clearing his throat as he stepped back from the sink, trying to look like he had absolutely not just been whispering motivational speeches to himself.

The guy who walked in paused when he saw him.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

Steve blinked. He looked at the guy again, searching his memory for any sign of recognition, but came up completely blank.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said politely after a moment, gesturing slightly in confusion. “Do I know you?”

The man chuckled softly under his breath as he adjusted his jacket and leaned toward the mirror to check his hair.

“I’m Josh,” he said. “The ex.”

Steve froze.

“Oh,” He said quickly, straightening a little more as he nodded awkwardly. “Sorry, I—uh—congrats on the wedding, man.”

Josh smiled faintly at his reflection, smoothing his hair back. “Yeah,” he said with an easy shrug. “It’s great.”

Steve shifted awkwardly beside him, suddenly very aware of how strange this conversation was.

After a moment he cleared his throat.

“How did you recognize me?” he asked.

Josh glanced at him in the mirror, one eyebrow lifting slightly like the answer should have been obvious.

“Y/N had a photo with you and the others in her room,” he said.

Steve’s stomach did a weird little flip.

He managed to keep his face neutral, though it took effort.

“Oh,” he said lightly, nodding once like that was completely normal information to receive. “Right.”

Josh leaned back slightly against the counter, folding his arms as he studied Steve with mild curiosity.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m actually kind of surprised she came with you.”

Steve frowned slightly.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Josh shrugged.

“I always thought if she brought anyone to something like this it’d be Munson,” he said with a small amused huff. “Those two were basically attached at the hip.”

Steve blinked. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that.

Josh waved a hand dismissively. “I’m kidding,” he added with a smirk. “Kind of.”

Then his eyes flicked back to Steve again.

“So,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “Are you two dating?”

Steve straightened instinctively. “Yes,” he said firmly. “For some time now.”

Josh hummed, nodding as if that confirmed something in his head. “Good,” he said after a moment. “Good. I’m happy for her.”

His mouth twitched slightly as he added, almost as an afterthought, “And for you a little more.”

Steve frowned. “Why is that?”

Josh stared at him for a second then laughed.

“Wait,” he said, leaning forward slightly as he looked Steve over. “Are you serious?”

Steve’s confusion deepened.

“You’re really dating her?” Josh continued, sounding genuinely surprised now. “I thought you were just using her.”

Steve blinked. “Excuse me?”

Josh rolled his eyes like Steve was being deliberately naive.

“Oh come on,” he said casually. “You know what I mean.”

Steve did not, in fact, know what he meant.

Josh continued, completely unfazed. “Y/N’s not the type of girl you marry,” he said bluntly, inspecting his reflection again. “She’s the kind of girl you date so you can finally marry the one.”

Steve's brain struggled for a moment to process the sentence.

“Uh. . . how did I say this once?” Josh mused aloud. “Yeah. She’s a practice run.”

The words landed like a punch and Steve’s stomach twisted sharply.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he said with a dismissive laugh. “Didn’t you only ask her out for that?”

Steve felt something cold settle in his chest. “No.”

Josh tilted his head slightly.

“Huh,” he said. “Weird.”

He shrugged again.

“I heard from the guy she dated before me that he got married right after they broke up,” he added. “So I figured—why not try it myself?”

Steve stared at him but he was not angry yet.

Just. . . confused.

Deeply, genuinely confused.

Because he couldn’t understand how someone could say something like that so casually. Like it was funny and didn’t mean anything.

Josh pushed away from the counter then, clapping Steve once on the shoulder as he passed him.

“Anyway,” he said, already heading toward the door. “Hope you invite me to the wedding.”

He paused at the doorway, glancing back with a crooked grin.

“Not with her, of course.”

Slowly, dread settling in your stomach, you noticed shapes hovering just slightly too close behind your shoulder. The boys were attempting subtlety, which meant they were failing spectacularly at it.

Dustin was practically leaning sideways to read the card. Will stood beside Mike, who was mouthing him what he was seeing. Lucas was trying to peek and Gareth hovered near the couch like he might need to duck for cover at any moment.

You didn’t even have to turn fully to know Eddie was right there too, eyes narrowed in interest, already invested in whatever drama this was about to become.

You slowly glanced at them from the corner of your eye.

Every single one froze.

Your glare worked instantly. They scattered backward in clumsy unison, suddenly fascinated by walls, furniture, and absolutely anything that was not the invitation.

You sighed, shoulders dropping as exhaustion replaced irritation, and finally turned around to face them properly, the card still clutched in your hand.

It was honestly impressive how quickly a group of boys who regularly fought interdimensional monsters could become terrified of one mildly upset woman.

For a moment, no one spoke. The boys exchanged looks, silently nominating a spokesperson the way people did before approaching a wild person.

Eddie, unfortunately for him, seemed to win that silent vote.

He scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight as he eyed you cautiously. “So,” he started, gesturing vaguely toward the card, “uh. . . what’s wrong?”

You stared at him.

He winced a little but pushed forward anyway, or more correctly, was pushed forward by Garreth. “Well,” he added, “are you going to go?”

You planted your hands on your hips immediately. “Gee, I don’t know, Ed,” you said, pacing slowly across the room. “Do I want to go to the wedding of my ex who broke up with me because I wanted to get married and he didn’t?”

You turned, continuing before anyone could interrupt, frustration spilling out faster now.

“And now,” you added, gesturing at all of them, “now I’m here playing a stupid game with you stupid boys while he’s getting married to a probably gorgeous girl.”

Lucas slowly raised his hand like he was in class. “It sounds like you don’t.”

You stopped pacing and stared at him in disbelief.

“Of course I don’t.”

Mike blinked at you for a second before shrugging with complete sincerity. “Well,” he said, like the solution was painfully obvious, “then don’t go.”

You stared at him.

Then your face broke into the sweetest, most exaggerated smile imaginable, the kind that immediately made Dustin take one cautious step backward.

“Wow,” you said warmly, nodding slowly. “Why didn’t I think of that? You’re so smart, Michael.”

Mike straightened slightly, unsure whether he was being praised or threatened, but Dustin immediately clapped him on the shoulder with proud enthusiasm anyway. “That’s my boy,” Dustin said, beaming.

Your smile dropped instantly.

“Of course I have to go, you idiot!”

Dustin’s proud expression vanished as he smacked Mike lightly on the back of the head. “You ruined it,” he muttered.

You began pacing again. “Because if I don’t go,” you explained, “then it’s going to look like I still love him. Which I don’t. I absolutely do not. I am completely over him.” You paused, pointing at the card. “But I also can’t go because I’m not even dating anyone.”

The room absorbed this logic in silence.

Gareth frowned thoughtfully. “Since when did weddings become a thing people couldn’t go to if they weren’t dating someone?”

You turned your head slowly toward him and gave him a look.

Gareth visibly swallowed mid-breath, posture collapsing as survival instincts kicked in. “Okay,” he muttered quickly, sinking back into the couch cushions, “bad question. I see that now.”

Will spoke up cautiously. “Well. . . you could always pretend you’re dating someone,” he suggested. “Like take a fake date.”

Your head turned toward him slowly, eyes widening.

The boys immediately looked between the two of you. Dustin’s eyes went huge. “Abort, man. Abort,” he whispered urgently to Will, as if the suggestion could still be taken back.

Instead, you lit up completely.

A laugh escaped you as you crossed the room in two quick steps and pulled Will into a tight hug, nearly knocking him off balance. “I swear you’re the smartest person in this room,” you declared happily. “I always knew you were my favourite.”

Will turned pink instantly, awkward but pleased, while the rest of the boys protested at once.

“Rude,” Eddie said from behind you, sounding deeply offended.

You pulled back from Will and turned toward Eddie with mock innocence. “I’m sorry, do you have a problem, Edward?”

Eddie hesitated, clearly weighing his options very carefully. “I want to say no,” he admitted cautiously.

You stared at him for a moment, thinking, your gaze sharpening as an idea began forming. Slowly, your eyes traveled up and down him, assessing in a way that made Eddie immediately uncomfortable.

He pointed at himself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Your expression brightened suddenly. “Say, Edward,” you said sweetly, clasping your hands together, “how would you like to help out a girl in distress?”

Eddie recoiled instantly. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m out,” he said, shaking his head before you even finished. “I’m terrible at gatherings. You know this. People expect eye contact and normal behavior. I can’t provide that.”

He looked at you expectantly, clearly waiting for reassurance, for you to insist he’d be perfect, for emotional persuasion to begin.

Instead, you nodded thoughtfully. “No, you’re right.”

Eddie blinked, caught completely off guard.

You turned away from him immediately, scanning the room until your eyes landed on Gareth.

Gareth sat upright. “No,” he said quickly. “No, no, not me.”

You stepped toward him anyway, smile widening. “C’mon, Gareth. I thought we had something.”

“Yes,” Gareth said firmly, scooting backward into the couch like he might disappear into it, “we do. It’s called fear. I’m scared of you.”

You looked around the room at the collection of boys and felt a deep disappointment settle into your bones. Your shoulders slumped as you pointed accusingly at all of them, one by one.

“You’re terrible,” you announced. “The lot of you. I need new friends. Except you Will, you're an angel.”

Will grinned as Dustin gasped, hand coming to his chest as if personally wounded.

You sighed heavily, pacing again. “I cannot believe none of you are willing to help me avoid humiliation,” you muttered. “Unbelievable. After everything I’ve done for this group.”

“What have you done?” Mike asked genuinely.

You ignored him completely.

There was a brief silence while everyone thought. Then Dustin suddenly straightened, eyes lighting up with the unmistakable excitement of someone who believed he had just solved everything.

“I have an idea,” he announced.

Every head turned toward him.

He grinned proudly. “You could take Steve.”

You blinked. “Steve?”

“Yeah,” Dustin said eagerly, warming to his own brilliance. “He’s awesome. And he’s very good with the ladies.” He nodded confidently. “Like, he’s probably your best option.”

You stared at him for a second, processing.

Then your face slowly brightened, realization settling in.

“Well,” you said thoughtfully, pointing at him, “there’s another genius. Good job, Dust.”

Dustin puffed up immediately under the praise, looking unbearably pleased with himself as the others groaned.

You grabbed your jacket from the back of the chair with sudden determination. “I’m going to talk to him,” you declared, already heading toward the door like this plan had been inevitable all along.

“Right now?” Lucas asked.

“Yes, right now,” you said, slipping your shoes on without slowing down. “Before I can think about it too much and realize this is probably a terrible idea.”

Eddie watched you go with narrowed eyes. “Oh, this is absolutely a terrible idea,” he called after you.

You pointed at him without turning around. “Too late!”

And then you were out the door.

Dustin frowned, leaning closer to Will with clear disappointment. “I didn’t get a hug,” he muttered.

Will shrugged, a small smile tugging at his mouth.

The closer you got to WSQK, the more your confidence began quietly packing its bags and leaving without telling you.

At first, the walk had felt empowering. Of a woman with a plan. But somewhere between your street and the radio station, reality started creeping in.

This was, objectively speaking, a terrible idea.

Eddie had been right. Which was already upsetting enough on its own.

You slowed your pace as the building came into view, your steps losing momentum while doubts piled up one after another. You didn’t even know Steve that well. Sure, you existed in the same orbit. Group hangouts, occasional movie nights and there had been that one month at Scoops Ahoy.

But that was it.

You weren’t close-close.

Not fake-date-to-a-wedding close.

Steve Harrington had clearly moved on with his life. He had a job, responsibilities, hair that somehow always looked professionally styled despite zero visible effort, and absolutely no reason to get dragged into your revenge against fate.

The more you thought about it, the more ridiculous this felt.

By the time you reached the front steps, you were already mentally backing out. Maybe you shouldn’t ask Steve. Maybe you should just. . . move to another country. Yes. That was mature. Or, you could ask Nancy instead. Nancy liked you. You were almost certain she would let you borrow Jonathan for a day if you explained the situation properly. Jonathan had a calm, trustworthy face. Wedding-appropriate.

You nodded to yourself, fully convincing your brain this was the new plan.

Okay. Good. Crisis averted.

You turned slightly, already preparing to leave before anyone noticed you had even come, when a voice cut cleanly through your thoughts.

“Hey?”

You blinked.

Your brain took a second to catch up. You looked up, refocusing, and suddenly realized Steve Harrington was standing directly in front of you at the WSQK door, one hand still resting on the handle like he had just opened it.

You froze.

When had he gotten there?

More importantly, when had you gotten there?

You glanced behind you briefly, as if retracing your steps might magically explain how you had apparently walked all the way here, approached the door, and knocked without registering any of it.

“Steve— hey,” you said, still slightly disoriented. “When did you get here?”

Steve frowned at you immediately, concern replacing confusion as he looked you over. “Are you sleepwalking again?” he asked, completely serious. “I told you to go to a doctor about that.”

You stared at him.

Not because of the question itself, but because he remembered.

Out of everything, that was what caught you off guard. The sleepwalking thing had come up once—one single conversation months ago during a late group hangout when you’d mentioned waking up in your kitchen holding a spoon for no reason. You hadn’t even thought he’d been listening.

And yet here he was, looking genuinely worried about it.

“I’m not sleepwalking,” you said slowly, still trying to catch up with reality. “I think.”

Steve’s frown deepened as he watched you and he leaned a little closer. “Okay,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

You blinked at him like you had almost forgotten why you were there in the first place. The weight of the invitation in your pocket suddenly felt heavier than it had a minute ago. “I might want to sit down for this,” you admitted.

That was apparently all the confirmation Steve needed that something was seriously wrong, because his posture shifted instantly into full caretaking mode. “Yeah, okay, yeah,” he said quickly, stepping aside and holding the door open wider. “Come in.”

You walked inside as Steve guided you toward the small seating area near the lobby. Your brain, meanwhile, had already begun spiraling again, rehearsing possible ways to ask someone to pretend to date you without sounding completely insane.

You glanced around automatically. “Where’s Robin?”

Steve froze for half a second.

“She’s out to see V—” he started, then abruptly stopped himself. “—Venus.”

You blinked. “Venus?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, nodding too firmly. “She’s out to see Venus. The planet.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

You decided, very consciously, not to question it. Whatever that meant was a problem for another day. Right now you had a fake romantic proposal to survive.

You shifted on the couch, nerves rising fast. “Actually,” you said, glancing up at him, “you might want to sit down for this too.”

That definitely did not help.

His eyes widened slightly as he lowered himself into the chair across from you. “Is everything okay?”

You gave a small, helpless smile. “Not so much.”

Reaching into your pocket, you pulled out the wedding invitation and handed it to him Steve took it carefully, brows furrowing as he opened it and scanned the front.

There was a brief pause.

Then he looked back up at you, confused. “I think you got it wrong,” he said gently. “This is not mine. I don’t know this guy.”

You blinked. “What? No. This is my ex.”

Steve looked back down at the invitation, confusion deepening. “Then. . . why are you giving me your ex’s mail?” he asked. “Did the mailman send this to you by mistake and you want me to give it to him or something?”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “No, what are you talking about?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I’m just trying to understand the situation.”

You inhaled sharply, sitting up straighter. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself, hands gripping your knees as you forced the words out before courage could abandon you.

“Myexisgettingmarriedandineedyoutocomeasmyfakedate.”

Steve blinked.

Silence filled the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said, lifting a hand to his temple. “I think I just had a stroke hearing that. Could you say that more slowly?”

Your face burned, but you nodded, forcing yourself to repeat it, this time enunciating every word like it physically hurt. “My ex is getting married and I need you to come as my fake date.”

Steve stared at you.

“Okay,” he said faintly. “Wow. Okay. Uh.”

He leaned back slightly, processing.

“Uh,” he repeated.

You waited, hands clasped tightly together in your lap.

“Okay,” he tried again, nodding once like that might help his brain catch up. “Wow. Uh.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the ceiling like answers might be written there. “Okay,” he repeated again, voice drifting as he processed. “That’s. . . wow. That’s a sentence.”

You waited, hope and embarrassment wrestling violently inside your chest as he continued making small thinking noises.

“Okay uh. . . wow, fake date. . . wedding. . . okay.”

This went on for an impressive amount of time. He continued making variations of that exact noise for a solid five minutes, running a hand through his hair, blinking at the invitation.

Finally, he looked back at you.

Your expression must have betrayed exactly how much you were counting on this, because something in his face softened immediately.

He sighed.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

The relief hit you so fast you practically launched out of your seat, a delighted sound escaping before you could stop it. You moved forward instinctively, arms lifting to hug him and then realization slammed into you halfway there.

You froze.

Awkwardly, painfully, you stopped yourself and stepped back instead, clearing your throat like nothing had happened. “Thanks,” you said quickly, suddenly very interested in the floor.

Steve hid a small smile, pretending not to notice it. “On one condition,” he added.

You nodded immediately. “Okay.”

He pointed at you firmly. “You’re going to be the one telling Robin. Because she will actually kill me if I tell her.”

You considered that for approximately half a second. “Okay.”

Steve had been on the phone with Robin for exactly twelve minutes and forty-three seconds, which was approximately twelve minutes longer than he had hoped the conversation would last.

He stood in the middle of his living room in a half-buttoned suit, the phone wedged between his shoulder and ear while he aggressively polished one shoe against the back of his pant leg like the extra shine might somehow help his argument. His tie hung loose around his neck, crooked from multiple failed attempts at tying it properly, and every few seconds he paced a small anxious circle before stopping again.

“I know it sounds bad when you say it like that,” he insisted, lowering his voice even though you were still in the other room getting ready.

Robin’s voice crackled loudly through the receiver, disbelieving even from several feet away. She had been talking almost nonstop since the day you’d explained the situation.

“Steve,” she said, “it doesn’t just sound bad. It is bad. This is a terrible idea.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It’s just one wedding.”

“It’s a fake date to her ex’s wedding,” Robin corrected immediately. “Those words individually are terrible. You can imagine how they must be together.”

Steve hummed noncommittally, switching the shoe he was polishing. “Mm.”

“And don’t ‘mm’ me,” she continued. “You know why this is a disaster.”

He hesitated just long enough to give himself away.

Robin pounced. “Because you’re in love with her, Steve.”

He nearly dropped the shoe.

“I am not,” he said quickly, voice pitching higher than usual.

Robin laughed, the sound equal parts fond and exasperated. “You absolutely are. You have been for, like, forever. You do that thing where you pretend you’re not listening but then remember every tiny detail she’s ever said.”

“That’s just called being attentive,” he muttered weakly.

“You remembered her coffee order from that one time you brought it for her six months ago,” Robin shot back. “You don’t even remember my birthday half the time.”

“That’s different,” he said defensively, immediately regretting how guilty that sounded.

“Steve,” she said, “this is going to end terribly. You’re going to spend an entire night pretending to be her boyfriend while watching her deal with her ex, and then what? You think your feelings are just going to politely sit in the corner and behave?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was, he knew she was right. Every logical part of his brain had screamed that this was a bad idea the moment you’d asked. But then he remembered the way you’d looked at him—hopeful and nervous and trying so hard not to seem like you needed the help as much as you did—and something in his chest had completely folded.

“She just. . . needed someone,” he said.

Robin groaned. “You are unbelievable.”

He smiled faintly despite himself, continuing to polish his shoe, humming absentmindedly as she continued listing all the consequences he was absolutely ignoring.

“And when this blows up,” she went on, “I want it officially on record that I warned you.”

“Mhm,” he said, distracted now as he checked his reflection in the window, adjusting his collar.

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Mhm.”

“Steve—”

He never heard the rest because at that exact moment, your bedroom door opened.

He glanced up automatically and then completely forgot how functioning as a human being worked.

You stepped into the room in your dress, smoothing it nervously as you walked forward, clearly unsure whether it looked right, whether it was too much or not enough, whether this entire situation was as surreal as it felt.

Steve’s head snapped upright so fast it was almost audible.

The phone slipped straight from his shoulder and dangled by the cord, swinging gently near his chest.

His jaw followed shortly after.

For a long second, he just stared.

Every coherent thought left his brain at once. All Robin’s warnings, all his careful mental preparation, every argument he’d made about this being manageable vanished instantly. You looked. . . breathtaking.

He swallowed, attempting to stand straighter and immediately fumbling with his tie instead, fingers suddenly useless. “Uh—hi,” he managed, voice slightly hoarse.

You smiled shyly. “Is it too much?”

His brain short-circuited.

“No,” he said immediately. Then, realizing that sounded too fast, he added, “I mean, no. It’s— you look—” He gestured vaguely, words completely abandoning him. “Good. Really good.”

The phone swung slightly, and faintly, Robin’s voice could still be heard shouting through it.

“. . . Steve? Steve! Tell me you didn’t just zone out while I was making a very important point—”

She paused and there was a beat of silence.

Then, resigned and deeply unsurprised, her voice floated through faintly. “Oh my god, she walked in, didn’t she?”

Steve did not respond, still staring at you like he’d forgotten gravity existed.

Robin sighed. “Yeah. You’re on your own, dingus.”

A click followed.

The line went dead, the phone still hanging uselessly by its cord as Steve finally seemed to remember it existed, grabbing it awkwardly and setting it back in place without ever fully taking his eyes off you.

You shifted your weight nervously under his stare, suddenly hyperaware of every tiny detail about yourself. The dress had felt right when you picked it out, but now, standing in front of Steve while he looked at you like the concept of blinking had personally offended him, doubt crept in fast.

You smoothed your hands down the fabric for the hundredth time. “It’s not too formal, right?” you asked, turning slightly to check the hem even though you’d already checked it three times in the mirror. “I mean, it’s a wedding, but it’s not my wedding, so there’s probably like a criteria I’m supposed to follow.”

Steve nodded immediately.

Then realized he hadn’t actually processed a single word you’d said.

“Yeah,” he said vaguely. “Totally.”

You glanced at him, narrowing your eyes a little. “You’re not even listening.”

“I am,” he lied automatically, still staring.

Because he was, unfortunately, completely gone.

There was something deeply unfair about how you looked right now. Not just pretty—Steve knew pretty—but real and nervous in a way that made his chest ache. You kept adjusting the dress like you weren’t sure you deserved to feel confident in it, and all he could think about was how insane it was that anyone had ever let you feel unsure about yourself at all.

His brain kept supplying unhelpful thoughts like she’s trusting you with this and you get to be the one standing next to her tonight and do not ruin this by being weird.

He was already being weird.

You turned back toward the small table, picking up a delicate pendant necklace and frowning at the clasp behind it. “Can you help me with this?” you asked casually, holding it up. “I can never get these stupid things on.”

Steve froze for half a second before walking over, every step suddenly careful, like he was approaching something fragile.

“Yeah,” he said.

You turned around, lifting your hair away from your neck without thinking, exposing the soft curve of your shoulders. The movement was simple, absentminded even, but Steve’s brain immediately stopped functioning again.

Up close, he could smell your perfume and the faint warmth of your skin. His hands hovered awkwardly for a moment before he carefully took the necklace from you, fingers brushing yours briefly.

The contact was quick but it still sent a small shock straight through him.

“Okay,” he murmured, mostly to himself, focusing very hard on the clasp.

You stood still, waiting patiently, completely unaware of the internal crisis happening two inches behind you.

His fingers trembled slightly as he brought the chain around your neck. The pendant rested against your collarbone while he tried to line up the tiny hook, concentration intense but constantly disrupted by how close he was. Every small movement meant his knuckles brushed your skin and each touch made his breathing a little less steady.

“Sorry,” he muttered softly when his fingers slipped. “These things are. . . tiny.”

“It’s okay,” you said gently, smiling even though he couldn’t see it. “You’re doing great.”

That did not help him at all.

He swallowed, leaning closer without meaning to, breath brushing the back of your neck as he finally managed to hook the clasp into place. His fingers lingered for just a second longer than necessary, adjusting the chain so it sat neatly.

Neither of you moved right away.

His hands slowly fell away, but he didn’t step back immediately, caught in that small space between finishing and letting go. Steve felt something warm and overwhelming settle in his chest.

“Done,” he said softly, voice rougher than he intended.

You turned back toward him, smiling. “Thanks.”

And for a second, standing that close, Steve forgot this was supposed to be pretend.

You turned toward the mirror to check the necklace, fingertips brushing lightly over the pendant as you tilted your head from side to side, making sure it sat right. For a moment you were focused entirely on adjusting the chain, smoothing your hair back into place, trying to ignore the nervous flutter still bouncing around your stomach.

Then your eyes shifted slightly in the reflection and you paused.

Steve stood just behind you, still a little too close, looking like he had forgotten where to put his hands or how to exist normally. But that wasn’t what caught your attention.

His tie was, how do you put this politely, tragic.

It hung slightly crooked, the knot uneven and pulled too tight on one side while somehow still loose on the other.

You squinted at the mirror. “Oh my god.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

You turned toward him immediately, already reaching out. “Your tie. What did you do to it?”

He looked down defensively. “I tied it.”

“With what, hatred?” you muttered, stepping closer. “Hold still.”

He did.

Like someone had pressed a pause button.

Your fingers gently grabbed the knot, loosening it slightly before straightening the fabric. Steve’s entire body went rigid the second you touched him, shoulders locking as his brain short-circuited all over again.

Up close, you were focused, completely unaware of the effect you were having. You tugged lightly at the tie, smoothing it down his shirt, your brows pulling together in concentration.

“You were just going to leave it like this?” you asked, half amused, half horrified. “You’re supposed to be my impressive fake date.”

“I am impressive,” he said automatically, voice quieter than usual.

You hummed skeptically, adjusting the knot again. “Debatable.”

Your fingers brushed his collar as you fixed the fold beneath it, and Steve forgot how breathing worked for a second. He stood perfectly still, hands hovering awkwardly at his sides, terrified that moving even slightly might break whatever this moment was.

He could see every detail up close now—the small crease between your brows when you focused, the way your lips moved slightly as you muttered to yourself, the soft shine of the pendant he had just fastened resting against your skin.

His heart was beating embarrassingly fast and he just hoped it didn't burst out and embarrass him in front of you.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere just above your head because looking directly at you felt dangerously overwhelming. His brain supplied one very clear thought: I am down catastrophically bad and Robin is never wrong.

“There,” you said, giving the tie one last satisfied adjustment. You leaned back slightly to inspect your work, nodding approvingly. “Much better.”

Steve didn’t respond.

You glanced up at him, noticing the way he’d completely frozen. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said immediately, voice a little breathless. “Yeah. Totally.”

You smiled, oblivious, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from his jacket before stepping back fully. “Good.”

Steve nodded, still trying to recover, watching you with the same soft, helpless expression he hadn’t been able to hide all evening.

Like, the Superman. The cape, the flying, the saving-the-world-before-breakfast guy.

You don’t know that when you complain about how perfect Superman seems, he’s sitting right next to you trying not to combust. You don’t know that when you talk about your “ideal man” being strong, gentle, brave, and secretly soft, Clark has to look away so you don’t see his smile falter.

He’s smiling now, nervous and shy, trying to play it off. “Superman? Me?” He adjusts his glasses, heart pounding. “I don’t know, I think I’d look terrible in spandex.”

You grin. “I think you’d look great in spandex.”

And now you’re still laughing, leaning into him, and he can feel the warmth of you pressed against his side, and he’s thinking—

Yeah. Okay. Maybe he is in love with you.

Painfully, hopelessly, completely in love with you. So in love it’s ridiculous. So in love it’s stupid.

“Clark?” you ask softly, noticing how quiet he’s gone. “You good?”

He looks at you and it’s ridiculous how the world seems to slow down. How your lip gloss glints in the light, how your hair brushes your cheek. You’re so close he could count your freckles if he wanted. He probably has.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice a little too low. “I’m good.”

You smile, and it feels like flying without even leaving the ground.

Except, you know. He actually can fly.

You turn back to the TV and Clark follows your gaze. Old Yeller plays on the screen. He braces himself. He’s seen this movie before, it's his favourite movie, and so he knows what’s coming.

You, apparently, don’t.

“Oh no,” you whisper, voice already cracking. “Oh, no, they’re not gonna...”

Clark winces. “Maybe look away?”

“I can’t just look away, Clark! He’s.... he’s a good boy!”

He’s not sure what to do except nod solemnly. “He is,” he says softly.

Then, right on cue, there’s a scratching noise at the door. Clark’s head falls back against the couch with a groan. “Not now, Krypto,” he mutters under his breath.

You blink, turning your head toward the sound. “Was that—?”

Before Clark can stop it, the door nudges open and in trots Krypto.

You gasp, delighted. “KRYPTO!”

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great timing, buddy,” he says, deadpan.

Krypto, in typical Krypto fashion, ignores him entirely and pads over to the couch, hopping up beside you. You immediately start petting him, fingers sinking into his fur.

“Hey, big guy,” you coo, your voice soft and watery. “You came just in time, it’s getting so sad…”

Clark glances at the screen and steels himself. You sniff again, eyes wide and shiny, and it’s almost comical how fast Krypto melts against you.

You lean towards Clark, pressing your face into his neck. “I can’t do this,” you mumble. “Why do they always make the dog die?”

Krypto whines, sympathetic. Clark sighs. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

You’re fully sniffling now, talking to Krypto. “You’re such a good boy, aren’t you? You’d never leave me.”

Krypto nudges your cheek with his nose, and Clark watches the two of you with something soft tugging at his chest. He should probably be jealous—he is a little jealous—but mostly, he’s just… done for.

By the time the credits roll, you’ve gone quiet. Clark glances down and finds you fast asleep against his shoulder, one hand still buried in Krypto’s fur. Your lashes are still damp.

He lets out a quiet laugh under his breath.

“Guess it’s just us now, buddy,” he whispers to Krypto.

The dog looks up at him knowingly.

Clark exhales a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, “if she had my hearing, I’d be screwed.”

Because, really, if you could hear his heart right now, pounding out your name like it’s some kind of prayer, you’d know everything.

But thankfully, you don’t.

So, yes, he’s Superman.

But right now, sitting here with you curled against his shoulder, Clark Kent feels entirely, hopelessly human.

You wake up to the smell of pancakes.

For a moment, you’re confused. The ceiling’s too white, the sheets too soft, and there’s a familiar weight curled against your legs. You blink blearily down at Krypto, sprawled like a giant, overgrown marshmallow, tail flicking lazily in his sleep.

You blink against the sunlight, disoriented for all of two seconds before it hits you: Clark’s guest room.

Well. 'Guest' room.

It’s technically yours at this point. Your spare hoodie’s on the chair, your toothbrush is by the sink, and there’s a candle on the nightstand that Clark swears gives him a headache but he’s never once moved it.

Krypto’s ears perk up before you even get off the bed. He gives one happy bark and bounds toward the door, nearly tripping you in the process.

“Traitor,” you mutter, following after him.

Padding downstairs, you find Clark in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, spatula in hand. There’s a plate of pancakes already stacked, and he’s mid-flip on another.

He looks up as you walk in, and the sight of his small, crooked smile makes your chest do that annoying flutter thing again.

“You're up,” he says.

“I am. Though I’m starting to think I should start paying rent for that room upstairs.”

Clark chuckles. “You know Ma would kick my ass if I took rent from you.”

You grin, padding closer. “You made pancakes?”

“Yeah. You fell asleep before dinner last night,” he says, like that explains everything. “I figured you’d be hungry and also after the night, I fugured you deserved it.”

“Did I cry on you?”

“Only a little.” He grins, flipping the pancake. “Krypto took most of the emotional damage.”

You glance down at the dog, who lifts his head like he knows exactly what you’re talking about. “Sorry, bud.”

Krypto woofs, forgiving you instantly.

You grin turning back to the pancakes looking a little too tempting. “You spoil me, Kent.”

He chuckles, eyes darting down like he’s trying to hide the way his cheeks color. “Just trying to keep you fed, that’s all.”

You steal a pancake off the stack with your fork, earning a fake glare from him. “Hey, that’s for later.”

“This is later,” you argue, mouth already full.

“This is technically brunch,” he says. “You were out cold till ten.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “You could’ve woken me.”

“And risk you yelling at me for interrupting your beauty sleep? Not a chance.”

You laugh, sliding into a stool at the counter. “Smart man.”

Clark slides the last pancake onto the stack, sets the spatula down, and wipes his hands on a dish towel. You’re halfway through your stolen one, chewing happily, when he glances at the clock and lets out a quiet sigh.

“Hey,” he starts, voice a little rushed, “I, uh… actually have to head out in a bit.”

You pause, fork mid-air. “What? Why? It’s Saturday.”

He winces slightly. “Yeah, I know. Lois asked me to help out with a paper... something about that tech piece Perry wanted edited before Monday.”

You tilt your head. “Lois called you in on a Saturday morning?”

Clark shrugs, already moving toward the coat rack. “You know Lois. Once she’s got a lead, she doesn’t sleep until it’s done. I promised I’d meet her at the office to finish the draft.”

“Ah,” you say, nodding. “Makes sense. Lois Lane never rests.”

“Exactly.” He grabs his jacket, pulling it on, and crosses back to you. He places a plate of pancakes in front of you, perfectly golden, stacked high, with just enough syrup drizzled to make you grin.

“For me?” you tease.

He smiles, sheepish. “For you. And, uh…” He picks up his key ring, fiddling with it for a second before holding out a single silver key. “Can you lock up when you leave? Just in case you head out before I get back.”

You take it with a mock salute. “Aye aye, Kent.”

Clark laughs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s more syrup in the cupboard, coffee’s still warm, and Krypto’s already been walked, so you don’t have to—”

“Clark,” you cut him off, grinning, “I’ve been here enough times to know the morning routine.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes soft. “Right. Thanks.”

“Always.”

He hesitates by the door for half a second, like he’s about to say something else, but then just shakes his head with that familiar, lopsided smile. “See you later.”

“Bye, Kent,” you call as he heads out.

The door clicks shut. You take another bite of your pancake, humming contentedly, and Krypto settles at your feet with a sigh.

“Guess it’s just us, bud,” you say, reaching down to scratch behind his ear.

Krypto barks once, tail thumping.

You grin. “Yeah. I like it here too.”

A few hours later, you’re back in your apartment, hair still damp from a shower, pajamas on.

You’d left Krypto behind, of course, after spending a good ten minutes setting out a bowl of water and some leftover bacon. He’d watched you go with those big, soulful eyes that almost made you stay. Almost.

Now you’re perched on your couch, phone pressed to your ear. Clark’s contact photo is grinning up at you from the screen.

It rings. And rings.

Then goes to voicemail.

You sigh, dropping your head back against the cushions. “Come on, Kent. It’s not that hard to answer your phone.”

You wait a minute, debating whether to text, then decide to try again. Still nothing.

“Okay,” you mumble, pacing now. “Fine. Lois. Lois. Lois.”

You scroll down to her number and hit call. It rings twice before a familiar voice answers. “Lois Lane.”

“Hey, Lois! Sorry to bug you, it’s just... I was trying to reach Clark.” You laugh lightly, trying to sound casual. “Could you tell him I locked up his place and left food and water out for Krypto? I’ve been trying to call him but—”

“Wait,” Lois cuts in, confusion lacing her voice. “Clark? I’m… not with Clark.”

You blink, thrown off. “You’re… not?”

“No. Haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“Oh.” You freeze, pulse skipping. “Oh! Right, yeah, of course. My bad. I totally—he said something about, uh, groceries. Yeah.” You let out a nervous laugh, rubbing at your arm. “Must’ve mixed it up. Sorry.”

Lois goes quiet for a beat. You can almost feel her hesitation through the phone. “Okay…” she says slowly. “Well, if I hear from him, I’ll let him know you called.”

“Thanks,” you say quickly. “Sorry again!”

And before she can say anything else, you hang up.

You stare at your phone for a second too long, your stomach twisting.

Groceries. Really? That’s what your brain came up with?

You flop onto the couch, phone clutched to your chest, trying to shove away the sinking feeling starting to crawl up your throat. Maybe he just didn’t want you to feel bad for not being included. Maybe Lois forgot. Maybe—

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “God, I’m so dramatic.”

Still, your thumb hovers over his contact again. You hit call.

Voicemail.

Once. Twice.

You toss your phone onto the couch cushion and pull your knees up, overthinking everything.

Did you do something? Was it weird, how often you stayed over? Did you make him uncomfortable? Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe—

Your phone lights up.

It’s not Clark.

Just a random news notification flashing across the screen, something about Superman spotted over Metropolis.

You lean back, covering your face with both hands. The ceiling blurs a little as you exhale through your fingers. You’re not supposed to care this much—it’s Clark, he’s always fine, he’s Clark—but that sinking feeling in your stomach refuses to ease up.

You pick up your phone again, thumb hovering over his name. You hit “call.”

Voicemail.

You hang up, stare, and call again.

Still nothing.

By the third try, you’re laughing nervously to yourself. “Okay, so he’s busy. Totally normal. Maybe he left his phone somewhere.”

Before your brain can spiral any further, your phone lights up again, this time, an actual message.

Clark: hey, sorry i was busy. just doing the report with lois.

You: it’s alright. no worries :)

You set the phone down, but your fingers linger. A few seconds pass before you type again.

You: hey, clark… you trust me, right?

It takes a moment before the three dots appear.

Clark: of course i do. why?

You stare at his response, thumbs hovering above the keyboard. There’s no good reason you can give him, well not without sounding insane.

You: no reason. just wondering.

You put your phone down beside you, still smiling faintly even though your chest feels weirdly heavy. You grab the remote and flip on the TV, letting the background noise fill the apartment. The channel happens to land on the news again. SUPERMAN.... something.

You change the channel. And, somehow, because you never learn your lesson, you end up on Old Yeller. Again.

“Perfect,” you mumble, curling back into the couch. “Just what I need.”

Half an hour in, your eyes grow heavy. The movie blurs into a comforting hum, and before long, you’re asleep, face buried in your blanket, phone resting beside your hand.

You don’t know how long you’re out for. Just that when you wake up, the room’s dim again, your neck aches from the couch, and there’s a soft knock at your door.

You blink, sitting up groggily, brushing sleep from your eyes. Another knock, a little firmer this time.

You frown, glancing at the clock. It’s late. Way too late for a neighbor, or a delivery.

You stand, heart picking up pace, and take a reluctant step toward the door.

You hesitate for a beat before unlocking the door.

When you pull it open, the hallway light spills in and there Clark is.

He looks wrecked. Hair tousled like he’s been through a wind tunnel, tie hanging askew, shirt rumpled and faintly singed at one edge. His glasses are crooked, his expression tight, eyes darting over your face before flicking down to your pajamas and back up again.

Not exactly the picture of someone who’s just 'finished a report.'

“Clark,” you exhale, the name falling out of you somewhere between relief and irritation. “You look—”

He steps in before you can finish, shutting the door behind him with a soft thud. “I... sorry. I know it’s late. I just—” His words come out rushed, uneven, like he’s been holding them in the entire flight over. “You texted me earlier. About trust.”

You blink, still processing. “You came all the way here because of that?”

“Well, yeah!” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flustered. “You don’t usually ask me things like that, and I.... I didn’t know if something was wrong or if I’d—” He stops himself, exhaling. “You can talk to me, you know that, right? Whatever it is, you can just say it.”

You just stare at him, your brain scrambling to reconcile the image in front of you.

You swallow hard, arms coming up to wrap around yourself. “You said you were with Lois,” you whisper.

Clark freezes. “What?”

Your voice cracks a little when you repeat it. “You said you were with Lois. Working on a report.” You laugh softly, bitterly. “Funny, she told me she hadn’t seen you since yesterday.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. There’s something flickering in his eyes now, guilt, maybe. Or panic. You can’t tell, and that somehow makes it worse.

“Why would you lie to me?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

Clark’s breath hitches. He hadn’t even realized you’d said it aloud until his head tilts slightly, that tiny tell he has when he’s listening a little too well.

“Wait... what did you—?”

But you shake your head, your throat tight. “Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t do that thing where you act like you didn’t. You heard me.”

He stands there, still and unsure for once, the great Clark Kent looking like he has no idea how to fix this. His hands twitch like he wants to reach out, but he doesn’t.

“I didn’t mean to lie,” he says quietly. “It wasn’t—”

“Then what was it?” you cut in, hugging yourself tighter. “You show up like this, looking like you’ve been through hell, and you tell me you were doing a report? What am I supposed to think, Clark?”

He opens his mouth, then stops again, gaze flicking toward the window as though searching for an escape that isn’t there.

For a second, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the faint hum of the TV still playing Old Yeller in the background, the movie’s sad little score filling the silence between you.

When he finally looks at you again, his expression has softened. “I trust you,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”

And somehow, that just makes your chest ache worse.

You laugh, a wet, shaky sound that doesn’t match the weight in your chest. “Funny,” you murmur, blinking hard as your eyes start to sting. “’Cause it doesn’t really feel like it, Clark.”

He flinches like you’ve hit him. “That’s not—”

“No, seriously,” you cut in, your voice trembling as the words spill out faster than you can stop them. “You were supposed to be my best friend. My person. The one I could trust to always tell me the truth. No stupid excuses, no half-baked lies about reports or groceries or whatever.”

Your breath hitches, and the tears you’d been fighting finally slip free, hot against your cheeks. “You.... you tell me everything, Clark. Or well I thought you did. And I tell you everything. That’s how it’s supposed to be.” You gesture helplessly between the two of you, the motion wide and frustrated. “It’s us. It’s always been us.”

He looks stricken, guilt etched into every line of his face. His lips part like he wants to speak, but nothing comes out.

You shake your head, running a trembling hand through your hair, tears blurring your vision. “And now I just feel stupid,” you mumble, voice cracking. “Because you were never mine to be mad at. You don’t owe me every detail of your life. And here I am—” you let out a broken laugh, wiping at your eyes, “—acting like some clingy, insecure girlfriend when we’re just...”

The word sticks in your throat, but you force it out anyway. “—just friends.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there in your living room, arms wrapped around yourself, heart pounding so loud it almost drowns out the movie still playing behind you.

Clark steps forward once, hesitates, and then takes another step closer. His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

“You’re not stupid.”

You look up at him, eyes glassy. He swallows hard, something like regret tightening his features.

“You’re not acting like anything you shouldn’t,” he continues. “You care. That’s… kind of your thing.”

You want to be angry again, to cling to it because it’s easier than everything else, but your heart’s already softening, your voice small when you finally speak.

“Then maybe you could care enough to not lie next time.”

That hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t argue. Just stands there, jaw tight, eyes glistening.

For a long moment, neither of you move. Then you sigh, voice barely above a whisper.

“God, I need sleep,” you say, wiping your cheeks again. “I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.”

Clark nods, but he doesn’t move toward the door. He just watches you like he’s terrified if he leaves now, you’ll never let him back in again.

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose as the phone buzzes against the counter. He hasn’t slept — not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you. Standing there in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, tears on your cheeks as you whispered, “Why did you lie to me?”

He swallows the lump in his throat and answers before the third ring.

Clark blinks. “Lois?”

“Yeah, Lois,” she snaps. “The same Lois you supposedly spent all day doing a ‘report’ with.”

He straightens up, trying to sound casual. “Morning to you too.”

“Oh, don’t you dare pull that calm reporter act on me right now.” Her voice is sharp, cutting through his apartment. “What the hell did you do to her?”

He winces, already dreading where this is going. “You talked to her.”

“Of course I talked to her!” Lois’s tone is half-frustrated, half-disbelieving. “She called me yesterday thinking she’d interrupted your ‘big story.’ Clark, she sounded hurt. You lied to her.”

Clark feels his stomach twist. “Lois, I can explain—”

“No, please, by all means, explain!” Lois snaps. “Explain why you decided to drag me into your web of lies when you could’ve just said, I don’t know, ‘hey, I have to step out for a bit, don’t worry about it.’ Why did you have to make me your fake alibi?”

He exhales slowly, voice low. “I didn’t think she’d call you.”

“Oh, well, she did.” Lois’ tone turns biting. “She was worried. Worried, Clark. About you by the way. Because she’s a decent human being who actually cares about your big, secretive farm-boy self. And you? You made her think you were sitting in my office working on a story, while you were probably off getting punched through a skyscraper!”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, guilt pooling in his chest. “Lois—”

“No, don’t ‘Lois’ me,” she says, voice rising again. “You do this every time. You vanish, you make up some story about errands or interviews or groceries, for God’s sake, groceries and you think she’s not going to notice that you’re never around when Superman shows up? She’s not an idiot, Clark!”

Clark flinches, jaw tightening. “I know she’s not. That’s exactly why I’m careful.”

“Careful?” Lois echoes, incredulous. “You call lying to the one person who actually makes you human careful?”

He looks away, his throat burning. “I was trying to protect her.”

“From what?” Lois shoots back immediately. “From the truth? From knowing who you are? Because news flash, that’s not protecting her, Clark, that’s hurting her. You’re treating her like she’s fragile, like she’ll break if she finds out, when she’s literally the one person I’ve seen who could handle you at your absolute worst.”

He’s silent, eyes trained on the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know you didn’t,” Lois says, gentler now. “But you did. And you can’t just fly your way out of this one, okay? Not this time.”

He exhales shakily, rubbing the back of his neck. “Lois, I just... I can’t risk her getting caught up in any of it. If people knew how much she meant to me, she’d have a target on her back.”

Lois goes quiet for a long moment and then speaks again. “And you think she wouldn’t want to know that? That she wouldn’t want to understand what’s really going on with you?”

“You can’t keep both worlds separate forever, Clark,” She exhales. “Especially not when she’s in both of them.”

Clark stares at the floor, jaw set, his chest tight with guilt and longing and something he can’t name.

Lois sighs again. “Look,” she murmurs, “you’re allowed to love her. But if you do, you owe her honesty. Because one day, when she finds out — and she will find out — it’s not going to be the powers that scare her. It’s going to be the fact that you didn’t trust her with the truth.”

Clark closes his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The evening hums low and quiet in your apartment. You’re curled up in your bed, wrapped in a blanket, trying to distract yourself with a mindless sitcom that isn’t working. Your thoughts keep circling back to Clark, the awkward goodbye, the silence that’s stretched too long since.

You sigh and reach for your mug of tea and then freeze.

There’s a sound. A faint rustle. Not from the hallway, not from the door, but from your window.

You glance toward it, heart skipping. The curtains sway slightly.

Your brain immediately supplies murderer. Or maybe pigeon. Hopefully pigeon.

You stand slowly, setting the mug down, your bare feet padding across the floor. The closer you get, the clearer it becomes that the shadow behind your curtain is way too big to be a bird.

And then, as you tug the curtain aside, your brain short-circuits.

Because there, hovering a few feet outside your window, in full red-and-blue cape and all is Superman.

Like. Actually Superman. The real one.

Floating. In the air. Outside your third-floor apartment window.

He’s floating midair and for a split second, your brain completely short circuits. Because yes, you’ve seen him on TV. Yes, you’ve read the headlines. But seeing him this close is an entirely different level of holy crap.

“Hi,” he says sheepishly, raising a gloved hand in a small wave.

You don’t move. You don’t even blink. Because Superman is at your window, and if this isn’t a dream, then you’ve officially lost your mind.

Before you can speak, a tiny bird swoops past, wings fluttering frantically, and pecks at his shoulder.

Superman blinks, startled. “What the hey, dude!” He swats lightly at the air, glaring after it. “Not cool!”

You just… stare.

He looks back at you and gestures awkwardly toward the latch. “You know,” he says, tone absurdly casual, “it would really help if you opened the window. Kinda hard to explain why I’m out here like this.”

You blink, once. Twice. “You... what... why are you at my window?”

He winces, still hovering. “It’s… complicated. Can I just—” He gestures again. “Window?”

You hesitate but fumble for the latch anyway, sliding it open. The rush of cold air hits your face, and Superman ducks slightly to fit through, landing lightly on your floor.

He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering under his breath, “Golly, that bird is not cool.”

You blink again, because did Superman just say golly?

“Right,” you say slowly, voice climbing in pitch. “Because, you know, it's the not cool-one here. I’m sorry if, like those birds, I’m also not used to seeing Superman floating outside my house!”

His brows knit together, lips parting like he wants to say something, but you’re already spiraling.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, panic starting to creep in. “Oh my God, am I in danger? Is someone after me? Oh God, did I witness something? Oh my God, am I about to get kidnapped by aliens—”

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” he says quickly, taking a step forward, palms raised in what you assume is his best please don’t freak out gesture. “You’re not in danger.”

You blink rapidly. “Oh my God, that’s exactly what someone would say before I find out I’m in danger!”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “No, really, I just...”

“‘I just,’ what?” you interrupt. “You just thought, ‘Hey, you know who probably wants a surprise visit from a superhero at eleven p.m.? That random girl from Metropolis!’”

“Not random,” he blurts out. Then instantly regrets it, because your eyes snap to him, wide and suspicious.

“Not random?” you echo. “What’s that supposed to mean? How do you know my address? Have you been watching me? Oh my God, this is it. I’m gonna die, and my last words are gonna be ‘random girl from Metropolis!’”

“No!” he says, panic lacing his tone now, hands flailing slightly. “You’re not... I’m not— oh, boy.” He drags a hand down his face, muttering to himself. “This was supposed to go differently.”

You freeze mid-step. “This was supposed to go differently? What does that even mean? What are you talking about?”

He takes a deep breath, looking like a man very quickly realizing he’s made several consecutive bad decisions. “Okay,” he says softly, steadying his tone, “you’re right. I owe you an explanation. Just—please, don’t panic.”

You stare at him for a long beat, heart hammering in your chest. “You’re asking a lot from someone who just found Superman at their window,” you whisper.

He gives a small, apologetic smile that looks familiar, though you can’t place why.

But your mind’s too loud to catch it. “Okay, okay. Deep breaths. Superman’s in my living room. Superman knocked on my window. There is absolutely no rational explanation for this. Maybe I’m in a coma. Maybe I died watching Old Yeller and this is heaven’s idea of a joke—”

“Hey,” he interrupts gently, a little laugh breaking through despite your spiral. “You’re okay. I promise. Nothing bad’s happening.”

“Says the alien floating outside my window!”

He grimaces, murmuring under his breath, “Right. Forgot how weird that looks.”

You turn, mid-paniciking, gesturing wildly toward the window. “Okay, so that's gonna be sealed from no—”

And then you freeze.

Because Superman isn’t standing there anymore.

Clark is.

Clark, with his hair a little ruffled, glasses slightly askew, that same soft look on his face like he’s worried about you but trying not to spook you further.

Your eyes widen so much it almost hurts. “What the fuck—”

“Language,” he says automatically, and that is somehow the thing that snaps the world sideways.

Your heart is doing cartwheels in your chest. “Clark?” you breathe, staring at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. “Where’s... where’s Superman? He was just... he was literally right there!”

Clark blinks. “Uh. Superman?”

You point toward the window, voice pitching high with disbelief. “Yes, Superman! Red cape, blue suit, don’t play dumb, he was... he was right there!”

He gives you this look. This almost guilty kind of look that makes your stomach drop straight to the floor. “Kinda like the one I'm wearing right now.”

You take a step back, nervous laughter bubbling up. “No. No, no, no, no. You’re not. You can’t be.”

He opens his mouth, maybe to calm you down, but you’re already spiraling again, this time in an entirely different direction.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “You’re him.”

Clark looks like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I.. uh—”

“Oh my God.” Your hands are in your hair now. “You’re Superman.”

He flinches a little at the volume. “Okay, can we maybe not shout that part?” he murmurs, glancing nervously toward the window.

But you’re barely hearing him anymore. Your brain is doing somersaults, rewinding everything.

Every late-night disappearance. Every half-baked excuse. Every random injury he somehow didn’t have five minutes later. Every story about him 'running into Superman' or 'hearing about him from Lois.'

You stare at him, mind racing, connecting the dots you never realized were there.

“Oh my God,” you whisper again, almost laughing now. “You’re Superman. You’re actually Superman.”

Clark’s mouth opens, then closes. He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “…Surprise?”

You just gape at him.

Because of course it’s him. Of course the man who never lies, except, apparently, about being a literal alien god, would be Clark Kent.

You’re still staring at him like maybe if you look long enough, the world will start making sense again.

“Does…” Your voice comes out small. “Does anyone else know?”

Clark exhales slowly, hands shoved in his pockets like he’s bracing for impact. “Lois,” he admits quietly.

You blink, trying to ignore the tiny sting in your chest. “Right. Of course she does.” You force a shaky laugh. “Makes sense, you know? She’s obsessed with getting that Superman interview for her next big promotion. Figures she’d be first in line for the truth.”

Clark winces a little, eyes flickering to you, guilt heavy in them. “It’s not—” He stops, sighs, then gives a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. It figures.”

Then, hesitantly, he says, “Since we’re, uh… apparently doing confession time…”

Your brows lift. “Oh boy. Should I sit down?”

He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe.”

“Clark,” you warn, heart doing that stupid fast thing again. “What did you do?”

He swallows, gaze darting anywhere but you. “I just... there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you, and after all this, it feels kind of dumb not to anymore, but—” He stops himself, shakes his head, laughs softly under his breath. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“I.. wait—”

He’s rambling now, voice tripping over itself. “I know it’s probably the worst timing imaginable, and you probably don’t even want to see me right now after all the lying, but I just... I couldn’t not say it anymore. I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I kept telling myself I couldn’t, that it’d make things complicated, that you deserve someone normal, and—”

You cut him off with a breathless laugh, your hand flying to your mouth because you can’t stop smiling. “Oh, my God.”

His face falls. “Oh, my God what?”

“I love you too, Clark,” you say softly. “I was just wondering how long it would take you to finally tell me.”

His eyes widen. “You... what?”

You grin, stepping closer, your voice teasing but gentle. “Please. I don’t need Superman hearing to notice how fast your heartbeat gets around me.”

His cheeks flush a shade of red you’ve never seen on him before. “That’s… embarrassing,” he mumbles.

You laugh and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him in tight. He melts into the hug instantly, his arms coming around you like they were made to fit there.

For a long moment, you just stay like that.

You pull back just enough to look up at him, your voice light again. “You’re warm. Do you, like, generate heat or something?”

Clark chuckles, his dimples showing as he brushes a thumb over your cheek. “Super metabolism.”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Show off.”

He grins, but there’s this softness in it now. “So…” you murmur. “My best friend’s Superman.”

He dips his head a little, eyes meeting yours. “Your best friend loves you,” he says quietly.

Your heart skips. You smile up at him, leaning your forehead against his. “Yeah,” you whisper. “And I love him right back.”

The worst part in his opinion was that you were criminally good at pretending. At acting like Eddie was just. . . there. Someone you tolerated for Steve and Robin’s sake. Someone mildly annoying. Someone whose knee hadn’t been wedged between yours twenty minutes ago. Eddie, meanwhile, looked like a man actively resisting the urge to gnaw his own arm off.

Which was why Robin Buckley was currently psychoanalyzing him with narrowed eyes from behind the counter with the kind of look that made Eddie feel like confessing to crimes he hadn’t even committed yet. He slapped on a lopsided grin and gave her a little bow. “Buckley,” he said, hand to chest.

She rolled her eyes so hard he was pretty sure she saw her own brain, then turned back to the counter, organizing the stack of tapes you’d just dropped in her arms. Eddie sagged in relief and took a seat against the counter. Robin paused.

“. . . What do you need?” she asked without looking at him.

“Uh,” Eddie said, buying time. “Horror?”

She finally looked up. “You need horror?”

Eddie straightened, offended. “Wow. Love the confidence, Buckley.” He jerked his chin toward you. “Ask your coworker. I love horror.”

Robin’s brow arched. “Why would she know what you like?”

Words jammed up in Eddie's throat. “I— I mean—”

“Of course it’s because she’s the smartest and most emotionally evolved out of you three,” Dustin cut in at lightning speed, suddenly appearing at Eddie’s side and waving his hands vaguely between you, Steve, and Robin. “Like. Obviously.”

Robin gave Dustin a long, assessing look. “You and I have never really clicked, have we?”

“Uh,” Dustin drawled.

She stared at him another second, then huffed and disappeared into the storeroom.

Dustin leaned closer. “You owe me one,” he muttered.

Eddie exhaled and pointed at him. “I owe you several.”

Dustin grinned and wandered back to the rotating shelf.

Oh yes. Dustin Henderson was the only one who knew about you and Eddie. And it hadn’t been intentional. If Eddie had gotten to choose, he might’ve told Nancy — if only because he would have talked about you to her and she would just listen, not caring in the least. But the unfortunate incident had already occurred. You’d been over at the trailer. Dustin had, at that exact moment, decided to drop by unannounced. And well. He’d caught the two of you in a. . . compromising situation.

The secret had cost Eddie a science kit Dustin had been eyeing for weeks. Worth it, probably. Still unfortunate.

Eddie was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of your voice.

He turned just in time to see you leaning against the counter with Steve, who was pointing at the jacket slung comfortably over your shoulders. His jacket. The one Eddie distinctly remembered owning. The one that was very much not on his body anymore.

“Hey,” Steve said, squinting at you. “That’s not yours.”

You nervously laughed. “Wow. Gold stars for you, Steve.”

“No, I mean,” he laughed, scratching the back of his neck, “that’s not your style at all. Funny thing is,” He paused. “it is someone else’s style.”

And then, like the universe hated Eddie Munson personally, Steve turned to look at him like it was a genuine coincidence.

Steve’s smile faltered.

His eyes dropped to Eddie’s shoulders and to the absence of denim and patches. His eyes widened slowly, realization crashing in.

“Oh,” Steve said.

You and Eddie locked eyes. Yours went wide. Eddie’s probably fell out, he couldn't tell.

“Nope,” you said, clamping a hand over Steve’s mouth before he could finish that thought. You shook your head, your eyes begging, a little threatening, pleading all at once. Then you nodded sharply at Eddie like move, grabbed Steve by the arm, and hauled him toward the door.

Eddie scrambled after you, heart in his throat, while Dustin looked up from the rotating shelf just in time to see the three of you disappear outside.

“Wow,” Dustin muttered to himself. “Science kit paid for itself already.”

You dragged Steve far enough that the neon glow of Family Video buzzed behind you, then finally yanked your hand away from his mouth. He sucked in a breath like he’d been underwater.

His eyes bounced between you and Eddie. “You two?” he blurted, voice cracking like a kid going through puberty again.

You shook your head on instinct at the exact same time Eddie nodded, helpless and completely incapable of lying when it came to you. Steve stared at the contradictory answers.

“What? Okay, hold on,” Steve said, backing up a step and pointing between you. “So that’s why you’ve been acting weird. And you,” he pointed at Eddie, who waved weakly, “you’re always acting weird so I didn’t notice anything.”

Eddie perked up. “Hey.”

Steve laughed suddenly, then stopped just as fast. “Wait. How long? And does anyone else know?”

You hesitated. Eddie didn’t. “A while and yes, Henderson knows. He kind of walked in when we were uh. . .” he drawled and thankfully Steve put up a hand.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Okay!” He straightened, visibly puffing up. “First of all? I figured it out. Me. Not Robin. Not Henderson. Me.”

Eddie scoffed. “I told you Henderson knows.”

Steve waved that off immediately. “Yeah, but he didn’t figure it out. That doesn’t count. That’s like. . . accidental knowledge. I solved it. I’m a genius.” He pointed at his own head. “Brain like a steel trap.”

Before either of you could react, Steve stepped forward and wrapped both of you into a hug. You stiffened in surprise as Eddie froze entirely, arms hovering uselessly at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“Oh,” Eddie muttered, patting Steve’s back awkwardly. “There there, Harrington.”

Steve pulled back just enough to give him a look. “This guy. Seriously?”

Something in Eddie’s chest suddenly unlocked as he had a quick realization. If Steve knew then that meant Eddie could finally. . . He leaned in without thinking, instinct dragging him forward, nose brushing yours, heart thudding loud enough he was pretty sure Steve could hear it too.

“Hey, dude,” Steve said immediately. “I’m standing right here.”

Eddie froze mid-lean, eyes snapping open. “But, you know,” he said, like that explained everything.

Steve stared at him. “Yeah. I know. That does not mean I want to watch you two suck each other’s faces off outside my place of work.”

Eddie groaned, tipping his head back. “This is oppression.”

You laughed and patted Eddie’s chest in a traitorous way, like you weren’t the reason his brain had short-circuited entirely. Steve shook his head, lips twitching despite himself, and gave you both a lopsided, fond smile. He turned and headed for the door. You followed for exactly three steps.

Then you pivoted on your heel, grabbed Eddie by the front of his shirt, and kissed him. Eddie made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper and promptly melted, knees going weak.

When you pulled back, grinning, Eddie just stared at you, eyes blown wide, brain fully turned to static.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Yeah. I’m— I’m ruined.”

You squeezed his hand and slipped back toward the store before he could recover. Eddie stood there for a second longer, heart racing, smiling like an idiot, as he ticked off a second person off his list.

The third coming out came much faster than expected.

You had Nancy and Jonathan over for movie night from which Robin had bailed with a vague excuse about a headache that sounded suspiciously like people. You’d all piled onto the couch Somewhere around the halfway mark, you’d half-dozed off, cheek pressed into a pillow, brain blissfully empty.

You woke up to whisper-arguing.

Groggy and unconcerned, you brushed it off immediately. Nancy and Jonathan fought sometimes. You rolled over, eyes still closed when you heard Eddie’s voice.

“Oh shit,” you whispered, sitting bolt upright.

You scrambled off the couch, just in time to look toward the front door. Nancy stood with her hands planted on her hips. Jonathan stood beside her, looking sleepy. Eddie was trapped between them, glancing around, clearly assessing every possible exit — the door, the windows, maybe the floor could magically open up. Now would have been a great time for one of those demogorgons to come out.

“Hey,” you offered weakly.

“Hey? Hey?” Nancy repeated. “Would you care to explain this?” She pointed directly at Eddie.

You blinked. “That’s. . . Eddie.”

“Oh yes,” Nancy said flatly. “Thank you. That was exactly what I was asking.”

You winced. “There’s no way I’m getting out of this, is there?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Nope.”

What followed could only be described as an interrogation. Nancy was pacing the entire time as Jonathan offered Eddie some water who was answering far too honestly when directly addressed and clamming up the second she looked away. You tried to help. You really did. It did not help. At one point Nancy paused mid-lecture, eyes widening.

“Wait,” she said. “Steve figured it out before me?”

Eddie groaned quietly. You covered your face.

Eventually, Jonathan managed to steer Nancy toward the door, hand on her shoulder, murmuring reassurances and promises of later discussion. She shot one last suspicious look over her shoulder before leaving.

The door shut.

Eddie exhaled deeply which told you he’d been holding his breath for ten minutes straight. “She scares me,” he said faintly.

You nodded immediately. “Me too.”

The last coming out somehow managed to involve everyone.

It happened during one of the group’s meetings. Eddie was half-sprawled in a chair and you very pointedly sitting not next to him. Everything was fine.

Well, until you accidentally made a D&D reference.

Will’s head snapped up. “. . . Wait,” he said with narrowed eyes. “You hate D&D.”

You froze and shrugged, forcing a laugh. “I mean. I don’t hate it.”

Lucas squinted at you as he began assessing you and then his eyes dropped to your hand. “Is that a new ring?”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’ve actually seen that before,” he continued, leaning closer. “Eddie has the exact same one. Eddie, show her.”

All eyes turned to Eddie. He swallowed, then reluctantly held out his hand. The ring was gone.

Jonathan immediately tried to redirect the conversation so hard it almost qualified as cardio. Robin leaned forward, interest sparking.

“Hey, Munson,” she said. “Where’s your ring?”

Max’s eyes widened. “Holy shit.”

Everyone turned to her.

“They’re dating,” Max said, pointing wildly between you and Eddie. “They’re dating.”

“No!” You exclaimed before clearing your throat. “No. Eddie just. . . happened to give me his ring. Because I liked it.”

Max raised a brow at you which made you nervously twirl your hair.

Max gasped. “Oh my god—”

“Your hair is curly,” Mike cut in.

You deadpanned. “Yeah. I’ll tell you the secret later, Mikeala.”

Mike rolled his eyes as Max shot him a glare. “I was about to say that. Girls’ hair turns curly when they’re in love. See?” She gestured at her own hair. Lucas grinned proudly.

Across the room, Will and Jane exchanged a look.

“No,” Will said.

Everyone turned to them. “What now?” Dustin asked.

“Last week,” Will continued, “we saw her leaving Eddie’s trailer.”

Eddie spluttered. “Why are you snooping around my trailer, Byers?”

“We were going to Max’s house,” Jane said. “We thought we were hallucinating.”

Will nodded. “Because, well, she’s gorgeous. And you’re Eddie.”

Eddie paused. “. . . I’m not even gonna argue. That’s true.”

What followed was a long, exhausting debate with who almost caught them when. You exchanged a look with Eddie who had now been deemed the love coach by Max and Will for having to be able to get a girl like you while being like him.

Only Robin was quiet which was very unusual and mildly unsettled you. You nudged her when everyone got distracted by another argument. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

She sighed. “I just— I can’t believe the dingus figured it out before me.”

He gestured wildly, knocking over a stack of return cards, and Robin groaned without looking up. You laughed. Loud and pretty. Eddie almost flinched at how the sound hit him.

It wasn’t like you were totally enamored with Steve. You weren’t leaning over the counter, you weren’t twirling your hair, and the second the bell rang when Eddie walked in you had immediately waved at him and the gremlins beside him.

You’d even raised your brows asking, "Want me to help you find something?"

The offer was right there on your lips before Dustin elbowed Eddie hard in the ribs and dragged him toward the horror aisle with Lucas tagging along.

Eddie hadn’t protested. He was trying to be hard to get. That meant not going to you, not claiming his usual spot against the counter beside you, not stealing a pen out of your pocket just to annoy you, not calling you sweetheart in front of everyone because he could. His body refused to move toward you, even though every instinct screamed that you were where he belonged.

From where he stood, half-hidden by the shelves, he watched Steve keep talking, watched you laugh again, head tipping back, your smile so easy it made his chest ache. Steve laughed too, bumping your shoulder with his.

He forced himself to look away, jaw clenched. Playing hard to get wasn’t supposed to feel like swallowing glass.

Dustin and Lucas were choosing between two nearly identical horror movies, whispering loudly to each other. They absolutely were not actually picking tapes. They were watching Eddie watching you. Waiting for this whole stupid plan to magically work.

He had survived bats from literal hell. He had survived the entire town hating him. But watching you laugh at someone else’s jokes while he pretended he didn’t care?

That might actually kill him. No, he couldn't wait anymore.

He hooked two fingers into Dustin’s jacket sleeve and yanked him out of the aisle hard enough that the kid stumbled into his side. Lucas looked up from the tapes, startled, but Eddie didn’t care. His eyes were still locked on the counter where you were, now leaning closer to Steve to see something he was pointing at in the register.

Jealousy crawled up Eddie’s spine.

“Hey, Henderson,” he muttered under his breath. “You sure Harrington isn’t in love with her or something? Would make sense why he gave me that torturous advice.”

Dustin scoffed immediately. “Are you kidding me? Steve? In love with her? Nope. Steve loves Nance. It’s sad actually. I’ve given up on him.”

Eddie blinked down at Dustin. “The. . . the reporter girl? The one with the eyes that could murder a man?”

“Yes,” Dustin answered flatly. “He’s been in a weird life-or-death pining spiral for like a year.”

Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then frowned even deeper. “So he told me to act like I don’t care about the girl I like because he’s. . . emotionally stupid?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“You don’t see how that might be a problem?”

“Nope.”

Eddie stared at him, baffled.

“Listen, Steve doesn’t give sucky advice. Ever.”

Eddie snorted so sharply it sounded painful. “Henderson, the man gets rejected more often than the school janitor takes out the trash.”

“That’s because he keeps choosing girls he can’t have,” Dustin shot back. “Not because his strategies don’t work.”

Lucas chimed in reluctantly, eyes still on the tapes. “He’s not totally wrong. Steve actually knows what he’s doing with the whole. . . dating. . . thing.”

Eddie pointed toward you and Steve at the counter. “He knows what he’s doing? Look at him! He’s already in love with the way she organizes tapes!”

Dustin rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, man. That’s called friendship.”

“It’s called emotional intimacy and I don’t like it,” Eddie hissed.

“Dude,” Dustin said, grabbing him by both shoulders, eyes wide with older than his age confidence, “you play this right and she is going to be obsessed with you.”

Eddie swallowed hard. “She already was obsessed with me. Now she’s laughing at King Hair over there.”

“She laughed at you yesterday,” Dustin snapped. “In fact, she does that every day. Because she likes you.”

Eddie wanted to believe him. God, he wanted to. But the longer he watched you smile at Steve, the more something sharp twisted inside him.

Dustin tugged on his sleeve again, lowering his voice. “Look, man. If you want her to chase you, you have to stop orbiting her. Trust the process.”

Eddie breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. Trust the process. Trust the plan. Trust the child who didn’t understand taxes but apparently understood romance.

He watched as you tossed your head back laughing once more at something Steve said.

And then you looked over.

Your eyes found Eddie immediately. Your smile softened into something warmer. You lifted a hand and waved.

Eddie froze.

His heart was doing things medically inadvisable. He lifted his hand automatically to wave back before Dustin slapped it down.

“No!” Dustin whisper-yelled. “Hard. To. Get.”

Eddie grimaced, trying to school his expression into the neutral, vaguely mysterious cool-guy face Steve had demonstrated. It probably looked more like he was constipated.

You raised both eyebrows at his weird non-reaction, confusion slipping across your features for just a second before Robin pulled you away to help reshelve a pile of returns.

After a few minutes, Eddie saw you coming. You rounded the end of the aisle with that determined little stride you got when you were trying to figure someone out, and Eddie’s lungs stopped working. His eyes snapped to Dustin and Lucas in full panic.

They both gave him the most useless encouragement in the world—two enthusiastic thumbs up—and then immediately backed away.

You stopped right in front of him. “Hey. Is everything alright?”

Eddie straightened, trying to pull on the casual attitude he had practiced in the mirror. “Yes,” he said.

“You sure?” you asked, tilting your head. “Because you didn’t wave back just now.”

“Oh, yeah. . . I had a, uh. . . a fly on my hand.” He pointed vaguely at his wrist. “Henderson was just swatting it away.”

You blinked at him, totally not buying it. “Right. . . the fly.”

He nodded aggressively.

You let it go. “Well, did you get the movie you came in for?”

“The what?”

“The movie you came in for,” you repeated gently. “You know, the reason you’re here.”

“Oh,” he coughed, scratching the back of his neck. “That was just for Henderson and Sinclair. They were planning a horror movie night.”

You nodded slowly. Then silence settled between you.

The kind that made your stomach twist. Things had been weird between you lately. He’d been a little distant and it was not like he was fully pulling away, but just not orbiting you the way he used to. Conversations were shorter. His jokes didn’t land the same, mostly because he wasn’t really telling them.

You kicked the toe of your shoe softly against the carpet, trying to think of what to say next, but Eddie beat you to it.

“So you and Harrington have been spending a lot of time together.”

“Oh, Steve?” you asked, taken aback. “Yeah, you know we work together, silly.”

Eddie muttered something under his breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

You took him in and suddenly it clicked.

“Are you jealous?”

His head snapped toward you defensively, cheeks already blooming red. “Ugh, why would I be jealous? You can flirt with whoever you want. I don’t care.”

You stared at him. “Who said anything about flirting? You didn’t think that was flirting, did you?”

Eddie scoffed, scoffed again, then nodded with false confidence. “Of course I know what flirting is.”

“Are you sure?” you asked.

He blinked, narrowing his eyes in offense. “Yes, I’m sure.”

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. “Then why don’t you show me?”

Eddie froze.

“Huh?” he managed, voice cracking.

You met his eyes confidently because you were done with him pretending he didn’t want you. “If you know what flirting is,” you said softly, “show me.”

Eddie stood there, mouth opening and closing with absolutely no data processing happening behind his eyes. If an error message could appear on a human face, it would’ve been on his.

You waited, arms loosely crossed.

He cleared his throat, trying to remember every suave line he’d ever used in his life. Normally he could flirt with you without thinking. But now that you were asking for it? His brain emptied like someone had flipped a switch.

“So,” he started, leaning one elbow on a display shelf in what he hoped looked smooth. The shelf wobbled dangerously. “Uh. . . you come here often?”

You stared. “I work here.”

Eddie swallowed. “Right. So. That’s. . . that’s a yes.”

He tried again, standing up straighter, trying to channel his usual cocky grin. “You’re, uh. . . pretty. I mean, not pretty. I mean. . . you are pretty. Obviously. You’re so pretty it’s like. . .”

His hands waved helplessly in the air as if the right word might land on them.

“You know, sweetheart,” His voice cracked halfway through the word. “I’m. . . available. Like very available. Like, aggressively available.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Not because you wanted to make fun of him but because this was the worst flirting Eddie Munson had ever done. It was almost endearing how hard he was trying to act like he didn’t care while caring more than anyone ever had.

“Okay, I can’t do this anymore,” he confessed, eyes finally lifting to meet yours. “I. . . look, Dustin said I should play hard to get. And Steve backed him up. And they both looked very sure of themselves, which is stupid now that I say it out loud.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Play hard to get? With me?”

“Yes! Which is insane, because I am very easy to get with you. If you asked me to jump, I’d already be in the air.”

He took a shaky breath, words tumbling out before he could stop them.

“Anyways, they said it because apparently girls don’t like guys who are obsessed with them too fast. And I was trying but it’s like trying to pretend I don’t need oxygen around you. I thought if I didn’t talk to you as much, if I acted like I didn’t care, you’d chase me. Instead I just got to watch you laugh with somebody else and it felt like my ribs were being pried open.”

Your heart cracked right open.

He kept going. “I wasn’t flirting just now because I didn’t want to flirt. I couldn’t because I’m so crazy about you it breaks my brain. I don’t know how to flirt with you when you’re staring at me like that. I don’t know how to pretend with you. Not about anything.”

You stepped closer giving him every chance to retreat. He didn’t. If anything, he leaned in.

“So you weren’t jealous because you thought Steve and I were flirting?” you asked softly.

“Yes, obviously I was jealous!” he hissed like he couldn’t believe you even needed the clarification. “I’m jealous of the air you breathe. It’s disgusting.”

You smiled, warmth blooming deep in your chest. “You didn’t need to play hard to get.”

He nodded miserably. “I know.”

“You didn’t need to pretend you didn’t want me.”

“I know.”

“You could’ve just told me.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was scared.”

You reached forward slowly and took his hand, threading your fingers together like you’d done it your whole life. Eddie sucked in a breath like you were electricity.

“Why would you listen to them?” you whispered.

He swallowed hard. His voice was small when he answered.

“Because I like you too much. And I didn’t want to mess it up by. . . liking you too much.”

You squeezed his hand. “You didn’t mess anything up.”

Eddie’s face split into the kind of smile that could’ve powered the town if someone hooked him up to a generator.

“So. . . ” he said, “does that mean I can stop playing hard to get?”

“You never played it well to begin with.”

“Thank god,” he exhaled. “It was killing me.”

You tugged him closer by his hand.

“Now,” you teased, “you wanna try that flirting thing again?”

Eddie leaned in confident, the way he always was with you.

“Oh sweetheart,” he murmured, “now that I don’t have to hide anything? I’ll show you flirting.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hard to get. It was everything he’d been dying to give you all along.

Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”

Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.

You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.

The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”

Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”

Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”

“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”

The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.

Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.

Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.

Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”

Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”

You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”

The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.

The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.

Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.

Then you both burst out laughing.

You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.

“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”

“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”

“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.

“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.

He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”

Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”

You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”

“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”

Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”

“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.

“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”

Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.

That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.

Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.

“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”

You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”

“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”

“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”

“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”

You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”

You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.

It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.

“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”

He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”

You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”

You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”

He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”

You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”

He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.

Then he stopped abruptly.

You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.

“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”

He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”

You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”

He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”

You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”

“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”

You choked.

The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.

Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”

You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”

He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”

“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”

He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”

You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.

“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.

He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”

You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”

His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.

“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”

His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”

He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.

You exhaled, relieved.

Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.

“Your mom,” he said.

You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”

“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”

You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”

He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”

You blinked. “She did?”

“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”

He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”

He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”

Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”

You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”

He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”

You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.

He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.

“You’re really serious about this,” you said.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”

You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.

He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”

You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”

He nodded quickly. “Deal.”

You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”

He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”

You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”

He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”

“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”

He held up his hands. “I would never.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”

“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”

“Agreed,” he said.

“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”

You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”

“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”

He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”

You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”

He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”

You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”

He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.

A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.

“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”

Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.

The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.

On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”

You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.

Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.

The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.

The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.

Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”

Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.

Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.

Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.

Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.

Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.

“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”

You had both ignored her.

That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.

Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.

Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.

Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.

He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.

Steve visibly gulped.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.

Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”

“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”

Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.

You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.

“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”

Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”

Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.

Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.

You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.

You both turned to look at each other at the same time.

“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”

You blinked at him.

Your mother blinked at him.

Your father did not blink at all.

Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”

Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.

“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”

“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”

You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.

“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”

Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”

Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”

“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”

Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”

Your father stared at him.

You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.

“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”

You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.

Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.

“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.

Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.

That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.

You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.

You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.

Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.

By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.

He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.

Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.

“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.

You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”

He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”

Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”

Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.

A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.

Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.

You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.

You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.

Then you noticed the customer.

She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.

You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.

His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.

“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.

You stared at him. “What?”

He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”

Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.

“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.

He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.

Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.

Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.

You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.

You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”

You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.

Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.

Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.

By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.

You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”

You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.

You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.

Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.

You opened the door and immediately stopped.

Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.

He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”

He looked up.

He stopped talking.

For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.

You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.

He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”

You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.

“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”

He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.

“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”

Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.

You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.

You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”

You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.

The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.

You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”

Steve blinked at you. “What?”

“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”

He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”

“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”

You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”

He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”

You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”

He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”

You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”

He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.

He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.

You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”

He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”

You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”

He blinked. “That’s your move?”

“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.

“Hawkins,” he said.

“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.

He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”

You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.

He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”

You grinned. “Thank you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”

You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”

He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.

“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”

You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.

He froze.

For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.

You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.

You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.

You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.

“Hey,” he said.

You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.

He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”

There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”

You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.

His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”

“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.

He stopped. “The noodles?”

“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”

He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”

You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.

Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.

Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”

They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.

In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.

“I think I broke the rules,” he said.

Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”

“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”

Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.

“Finally,” she said.

Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.

“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.

Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.

Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”

She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”

“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”

“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”

She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”

He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”

He blinked. “You think she likes me?”

Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”

Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”

Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.

“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”

Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”

Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”

He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.

“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”

Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”

“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”

She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

He started for the door.

Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”

Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.

He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.

Steve opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.

You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.

He swallowed. Tried again.

Still nothing.

You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.

“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”

He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”

You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”

He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.

He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.

Except the opposite happened.

Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.

Much worse.

He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.

You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.

Instead, you started getting used to it.

Then you started liking it.

You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.

Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.

And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.

At group hangouts, it only got worse.

Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.

No one questioned it.

That was the wildest part.

One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.

And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.

He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.

He did not do that.

Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.

From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.

“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”

He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”

Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.

He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.

“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.

He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.

“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”

He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”

She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.

Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”

He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.

“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”

Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”

“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”

He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.

He knew what he needed to do.

He just. . . didn’t want to do it.

Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.

When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.

“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.

Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.

The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.

You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.

He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.

He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”

Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”

Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.

You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.

“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”

The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”

He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”

You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”

He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”

There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.

“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”

He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.

“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”

The words hung in the air between you.

For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.

“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”

He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”

You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”

He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”

Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.

You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.

“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”

He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”

“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”

There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.

“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.

“Everything good?” she asked.

“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”

Lucas frowned. “Already?”

“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”

Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.

Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.

He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The next few days were, in a word, terrible.

Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.

You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.

You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.

What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.

You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.

It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.

By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.

She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.

“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”

Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.

“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”

“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.

“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”

Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”

You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”

There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”

You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”

Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”

Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”

Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”

“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”

Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”

“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”

You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”

Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”

“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.

You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.

“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.

You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.

“Oh oh,” Robin said.

You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.

You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.

Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.

The door swung inward and there he was.

Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.

He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.

“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”

He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.

You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”

He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”

The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”

His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”

He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”

“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”

He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”

You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”

He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.

“You. . . what?” he said.

“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”

He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”

“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”

He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”

You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.

He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”

You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”

You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”

He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”

You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.

“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”

You stared at that note for ten full minutes.

And the worst part?

You couldn’t even be properly mad.

Because Steve never acted like someone who wanted to be anywhere but with you. Every time you did see him, he looked at you like you were oxygen. Like he had been holding his breath all day. His shoulders physically dropped when he saw you. The man exhaled like a soldier returning from war because you were standing by the vending machines holding Boppers.

If you didn’t know Steve Harrington, you would’ve suspected cheating weeks ago. The excuses were textbook. Last-minute cancellations. Random injuries he absolutely refused to explain. Phone calls he took outside.

But cheating required emotional distance.

Steve was the opposite of distant when he was actually there.

He hovered.

You couldn’t open a door. You couldn’t carry a bag. You couldn’t even mention you were cold without suddenly being wrapped in a jacket that still held his warmth and mild panic because he kept asking, “You sure? You still cold? What about now?” every forty seconds.

This was the same man who, before you ever started dating, had been catastrophically obvious about liking you.

Not subtle obvious. But ridiculous obvious.

Steve Harrington — former King of Hawkins High, owner of the world’s most carefully styled hair — once walked into Family Video, saw you reaching for a tape on a high shelf, and instead of simply grabbing it, dragged a step ladder across the entire store. The ladder squeaked across the tile for a full thirty seconds. Every person in the store watched. He climbed it, handed you the tape, and then stood there still on the ladder.

You said, “Steve, you could’ve just. . . reached it.”

He said, “Yeah. But uh . . . safety?”

Robin nearly passed away laughing behind the counter.

Before you dated, Steve developed a condition where he appeared anywhere you existed.

You mentioned liking a certain milkshake once and he began “coincidentally” eating at that diner four times a week despite being mildly lactose intolerant. You knew this because he drank the milkshake anyway while sweating and insisting, “I love it. Totally fine. Great even.” and then twenty minutes later he would be pacing the parking lot holding his stomach.

He volunteered to help Mrs. Henderson carry groceries. He offered to fix Mr. Clarke’s fence. He attended a middle school band concert. A middle school band concert. You didn’t even have a sibling in it — you were only there because your cousin was playing triangle — and Steve sat through forty-five minutes of off-beat clarinet shrieking with the supportive focus of a parent at graduation just because you were sitting three rows ahead.

And when Dustin asked him why he was there, Steve said, completely serious, “Community support.”

Dustin stared at him and went, “You have a crush.”

Steve choked on air.

Even after you started dating, the whipped behavior only evolved. He carried extra hair ties on his wrist because you once forgot one. He learned your snack order by heart. He watched a terrible soap opera with you and formed strong opinions about a character named Marlene just because you mentioned disliking her.

So yeah.

That was why you didn’t believe he was cheating.

Because Steve Harrington, who once drove twenty minutes back to Hawkins High at midnight because you casually mentioned you left your pen in your locker, simply wasn’t capable of acting normal about you long enough to hide another girl.

Which is why the distance hurt more.

Because you’d catch glimpses of him sometimes when he didn’t know you were looking and the second he noticed you, it was like a switch flipped.

He was still yours.

He just. . . wasn’t there anymore.

And you didn’t know what was stealing your boyfriend away but you were determined to find out.

So when Steve picked up his keys for the third time that day, you noticed.

You were sitting cross-legged on his bed, flipping through a magazine you had not actually read a single word of for twenty minutes because you’d been watching him pace.

Steve Harrington did not pace like normal people. Steve Harrington paced like a golden retriever who knew he had done something wrong but couldn’t stop himself from doing it again.

He grabbed his keys, looked at them, put them down, picked them back up, then finally walked over to you and leaned down to kiss you. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he was trying to memorize the texture of your face. It was like the kisses he'd been giving you for the past month like he's seeing you for the last time. When he pulled back, he didn’t move away immediately. His forehead hovered against yours.

“I gotta stop by the SQWK,” he said.

You nodded automatically. “Yeah. Okay.”

And there it was. The guilt. The kind that made his eyebrows pull together slightly and his mouth tilt like apologizing physically hurt him. Steve Harrington hated lying to you. You knew it. You could practically hear the apology he wasn’t saying out loud.

“Probably late,” he added.

You smiled anyway. You even helped him by pretending you believed it. “Tell Rob I said hi.”

His shoulders sagged in relief like you’d just handed him permission to breathe. He kissed you again, then left.

You waited.

At first you didn’t mean to go after him. You told yourself you were being mature. Trusting. A cool girlfriend. A healthy girlfriend who didn’t track her boyfriend’s movements like a detective.

You lasted forty minutes.

It wasn’t even jealousy at first — it was a feeling you couldn’t name. Like when you know a joke is about you but you weren’t in the room when it was told. A gnawing curiosity wrapped in worry.

So you grabbed takeout from the diner for him and Robin and convinced yourself this was a sweet gesture and not at all investigative behavior.

You spent the entire drive talking to yourself.

You’re not checking on him. You shut yourself up. You were bringing food. That was a normal girlfriend activity. Possibly award-winning behavior. If girlfriends had trophies, you were currently polishing yours.

At the next stop sign you tightened your grip on the takeout bag in the passenger seat.

You just happened to be in the area. You were not in the area. SQWK was twenty minutes in the opposite direction of your house.

Robin forgets to eat when she’s busy. True. Robin had once eaten popcorn samples at the movie theater for an entire afternoon and then fainted into a cardboard display of Indiana Jones. You were practically doing community service.

You stopped at a red light.

Also Steve has been tired lately. And Steve had a mysterious bruise on his shoulder the size of Ohio. And Steve had been disappearing constantly. And Steve had kissed you like he was leaving for war an hour ago.

Your stomach twisted.

By the time you pulled into the parking lot behind Scoops Ahoy, your brain had gone from supportive girlfriend to concerned friend to unstable investigator who absolutely deserved answers.

You got out of the car anyway.

You walked up to the door, balancing the drinks carrier in one hand and the paper bag in the other, and knocked.

Nothing.

You shifted your weight, waiting.

That’s when you noticed the car.

Parked just a little crooked near the curb, engine still faintly ticking from recent use. Not Steve’s BMW. Not Robin’s.

Your brows pulled together and knocked again.

At first there was silence but then came the obnoxious whispering.

The kind of whispering where multiple people were urgently whispering over each other, which completely defeated the purpose of whispering. You heard a sharp “Shh!” followed by what sounded like something metal clattering violently onto tile. Someone yelped. Someone else hissed a name you were ninety percent sure was Dustin.

You froze.

Your heart gave one heavy thud.

Then the door cracked open just an inch.

Just enough for Steve’s face to appear through the gap.

His hair was messy. His eyes were wide and he was breathing slightly harder than someone who worked at a radio station reasonably should be.

“Baby, what are you doing here?”

The suddenness of it made you feel awkward instantly, like you’d shown up uninvited to a party you didn’t know was happening. You held up the bag a little helplessly.

“I, uh. . . brought takeout. For you and Rob.”

He stared at the bag.

Then at you.

Then back at the bag.

And then he smiled. “Oh! Great. Thank you so much. I love you.”

Before you could even process the speed of that sentence, his arm shot through the gap and he gently but efficiently removed the food from your hands.

“I’ll see you at home.”

And he shut the door.

You stood there.

For a moment your brain didn’t react. It just. . . stalled. Like a record scratch in your head. Because Steve Harrington had just accepted food from you and dismissed you like a delivery service.

Confusion bloomed first.

Then anger.

You stared at the closed door, waiting for it to open again. It didn’t.

You knocked harder.

Your jaw tightened. The embarrassment hit you a second later. You knocked again, louder this time.

“Steve.”

Inside, the whispering started again. Something thudded into a wall. You distinctly heard Robin whisper-yell, “Move, move, MOVE!” followed by Dustin going, “I’m trying!”

Your stomach dropped.

Your fist hit the door again. “Steve Harrington, open this door right now!”

A long pause followed.

Locks clicked.

The door opened a little wider this time, and Steve stood there fully now, blocking the entrance completely. He looked stressed, guilty, and terrified all at once.

“Hey,” he said weakly.

You crossed your arms.

“You shut the door in my face.”

“I didn’t shut— it was—” He stopped, clearly aware this was a losing argument. “Okay, I shut the door.”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. “Who’s here?”

“. . . No one.”

Right behind him something crashed loudly and someone whisper-shouted, “Ow!”

You blinked slowly. “Dustin is literally in there.”

Steve stared at you for a long second after you said Dustin’s name.

You watched the exact moment the fight left his body.

His shoulders dropped. His head tipped back slightly. He exhaled a deep, defeated exhale of a man who had just realized the universe was not, in fact, on his side tonight. Then he closed his eyes.

“. . . okay,” he muttered.

You pushed past him.

Steve made a small panicked noise behind you as you stepped into the SQWK.

And immediately stopped.

There was some kind of . . . meeting going on. A very bad meeting. The worst organized meeting in the history of meetings.

Behind Steve’s counter, Dustin and Jane were whisper-arguing, leaning over a pile of papers and what looked suspiciously like walkie-talkies.

“I told you that’s not how relationships work,” Dustin hissed.

Jane crossed her arms. “He should just tell her the truth.”

Across the room, Mike and Will were pressed against the wall, each with a hand clamped over the other’s mouth like they were mutually preventing each other from making a sound, eyes wide as they stared at you like you were a substitute teacher who had just caught them cheating.

Near the curtains, Lucas and Max were attempting to hide.

Attempting being the key word.

Lucas’s shoes were fully visible. Max’s hair was sticking out from the side of the curtain like a bright red flag announcing teenagers behind this fabric.

On the seating area, Jonathan, Nancy, Mrs. Byers, and ( unbelievably ) Chief Hopper were sitting in chairs. None of them were even trying to hide. Hopper was holding a cup of water and watching the situation unfold with the exhausted patience of a man who had seen too much.

You slowly turned back toward Steve.

“. . . What,” you said, very calmly, “is going on in here?”

Steve rubbed his face with both hands. “Is it too obvious of a lie to say. . . your birthday surprise party?”

You glared at him.

Hopper immediately pointed at Steve. “Shut up, Harrington. You’re not helping yourself.”

You put your hands on your hips and looked around the room again, waiting for literally anyone to explain. No one spoke. The hiding kids slowly emerged one by one like guilty raccoons realizing they’d been discovered.

Mike removed his hand from Will’s mouth. Will removed his from Mike’s. Neither said anything.

Nancy looked like she wanted to say something but also like she didn’t want to be the one responsible for whatever came next.

And then you noticed the absence of a particularly talkative friend of yours.

“Wait.” You scanned the room again. “Where’s Robin?”

Silence.

Everyone looked at each other. Will glanced just for a second toward the shelving unit.

The shelving unit you knew had a hidden room behind it because Steve had, on multiple occasions, pulled you behind it to make out.

You narrowed your eyes.

Steve saw the realization happen in real time. “Wait—” he started.

Too late.

You walked to the shelf, grabbed the side, and slid it aside. There, crouched inside the hidden room, was Robin Buckley. She stared back at you like a raccoon caught inside a kitchen cabinet.

You crossed your arms. “Robin Buckley. Come out of there this instant.”

“I’m sorry, I swear!” she blurted immediately, scrambling out.

She walked straight past you and immediately pointed at Steve. “This is entirely the dingus’s fault, I promise you, babe.”

You raised an eyebrow slowly.

Steve turned to her with pure betrayal. “Thank you, Robin. Really. Incredible loyalty.”

She held up her hands. “Self-preservation.”

You looked back at Steve.

He swallowed.

His voice softened. “It’s. . . a long story, baby.”

You didn’t move. “I’ve got time.”

Steve looked at Robin.

Robin raised her hand immediately. Steve gave her a look of absolute disbelief, like she had just abandoned him on a battlefield. She winced apologetically and exhaled, nodding.

He sighed and gently reached for your hand. “. . . Okay,” he said.

And together, Steve and Robin led you into the hidden room.

What Steve and Robin told you next could only be described as the kind of fiction you’d roll your eyes at in a late-night movie and then complain about for two days straight because the plot holes were unrealistic.

Except they were not telling it like a story.

You stood in the hidden room and listened while they explained alternate dimensions, some demo-bats/dogs, government labs, psychic children, tunnels, and a very upsetting amount of times Steve had apparently been in mortal danger while still somehow remembering to call you “sweetheart” on the phone that same evening.

You didn’t interrupt.

Mostly because your brain had stopped choosing reactions and was instead cycling through them rapidly.

“. . . so when I said I walked into a door,” Steve finished weakly, rubbing the back of his neck, “It was technically a demodog that used the door.”

You stared at him.

“Our home was attacked by a monster.”

He hesitated. “A little bit, yeah.”

You pressed your hands to your temples.

Robin, pacing, added, “We weren’t keeping it from you because we didn’t trust you. We were keeping it from you because you are — and I say this lovingly — someone Steve would absolutely run headfirst into danger for without hesitation, and we were trying to limit the amount of danger in his life.”

You looked at Steve.

Steve looked very caught.

“I mean I would,” he admitted quietly.

And that was the part that made your chest hurt.

It was the fact that he’d been carrying this alone while still trying to be your normal boyfriend — still taking you to movies, still listening to you ramble about school, still bringing you snacks — like he could exist in two worlds at once and somehow protect you from one of them.

You exhaled slowly.

“I have so many questions,” you said.

Robin nodded sympathetically. “We know.”

“But,” you continued, looking at Steve, “I’m guessing right now is not question time.”

Steve visibly relaxed in relief.

“Right now is definitely not question time.”

You nodded once.

“Okay.”

That was it.

About twenty minutes later, the three of you stepped back into the main room.

Everyone was already moving.

You exchanged a look with Steve, then you turned to Nancy.

“So,” you said, walking toward her, “I heard you were on lookout and shoot duty, Nance.”

Nancy blinked, confused for half a second. “Yeah?”

You held out your hand. “Great. I’ll join you.”

She looked around the room, surprised, then slowly grinned, the kind of grin that meant she had instantly decided she liked you even more now. She nodded enthusiastically and tossed you the gun.

You caught it awkwardly.

“I regret how confidently I asked for that,” you admitted.

Nancy chuckled. “I’ll show you.”

Across the room, Dustin leaned toward Steve, eyes wide with admiration. “She’s awesome,” he whispered. “Watch out. I might steal her.”

Steve didn’t even look at him.

“C'mon, man,” he said immediately, eyes still on you as you focused on Nancy’s instructions. “Not my girlfriend.”

He held doors open for you even when you were twenty feet away and then just stood there waiting like an idiot. He memorized your schedule 'by accident' and somehow always ended up near your locker. He started hanging around Mr. Clarke’s classroom after school even though science made his brain hurt, just because you were there.

He’d stare during lunch, chin in his hand, smiling like a complete loser while you rambled about scholarships and college applications and how you couldn’t wait to see the world outside Hawkins.

Tommy caught him once and snapped his fingers in his face. “You’re doing the heart-eyes thing again.”

“The what?”

“The pathetic, princess-in-love look. It’s disgusting. I need you to get it together.”

He didn’t get it together.

If anything, he got worse.

The whole school knew. The way he lit up when you waved at him like you waved at everyone else. The way he’d drop whatever he was doing if you so much as looked like you needed help.

Everyone knew.

Except you.

You, apparently, were immune to the obvious because in your head, Steve Harrington was just. . . Steve Harrington. Popular. Nice, lately. Weirdly friendly. Probably like that with everyone.

You never noticed how his entire world tilted toward you.

You had bigger things to think about.

Like getting out of Hawkins.

Mr. Clarke had stopped you after class a week ago, papers tucked under his arm, glasses sliding down his nose. He’d cleared his throat in that hopeful way teachers did when they were about to ask for a favor.

“I’m starting a peer tutoring program,” he’d said. “Colleges love community involvement. It would look very good on scholarship applications.”

You’d said yes before he even finished the sentence.

Anything that helped you leave.

You didn’t hate Hawkins. It just never felt like it belonged to you. It felt small, like a sweater that shrank in the wash. Your dreams didn’t fit here. You wanted big libraries and campus buildings covered in ivy and lecture halls and cities where no one knew your last name.

Your family supported you completely. Your mom already saved college brochures in a neat stack on the kitchen counter. Your dad bragged about you to the neighbors like you’d already made it.

Leaving didn’t feel sad.

It felt necessary.

So you signed up to tutor, figuring maybe a freshman or two would show up for help with algebra or biology. Maybe no one at all. You wouldn’t have blamed them.

Which is why, when you walked into the library after school and followed the little handwritten sign that said PEER TUTORING →, you weren’t prepared to see Steve Harrington sitting at one of the tables.

Waiting.

For you.

For a second, you genuinely thought you’d walked into the wrong place.

Steve didn’t belong here. The late sunlight through the windows caught in his hair, turning it gold, and he looked so out of place it almost made you laugh.

Then he saw you.

And his whole face changed like someone had flipped a switch inside him. He sat up straighter so fast he almost knocked his chair over.

“Hey,” he said, a little breathless, like he’d run here. “Hi. You’re— uh. You’re the tutor, right?”

“. . . Yeah,” you said slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Are you lost?”

His heart actually stuttered.

Lost. God. If only you knew.

“I mean,” you added quickly, “this is the tutoring area. If you’re looking for the magazines or—”

“No,” he said too fast. “No, I’m supposed to be here. I signed up. For tutoring. With you. I mean— not with you specifically. I mean— I guess it is specifically. But like, academically. For school. Obviously.”

You blinked at him.

Steve Harrington. The guy who once asked if The Great Gatsby was a real person.

You stared at the neat pile of books in front of him.

“. . . You need tutoring?” you asked, genuinely confused.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Turns out if you don’t pay attention for, like, three years straight, stuff catches up with you.”

You laughed softly and that sound hit him straight in the chest.

God. He’d do anything to hear that again.

“Oh,” you said, pulling out the chair across from him. “Yeah, that makes sense. Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at explaining things. What do you need help with?”

Everything, he almost said.

But not the homework.

He needed help with how you were sitting across from him, sleeves pushed up, pen tucked behind your ear, already focuse like this was the most important thing in the world. He needed help with how you bit your lip when you concentrated. How you leaned closer to his side of the table without even realizing it.

Instead, he slid the biology book toward you with slightly shaky hands.

“Cells,” he said. “They’re. . . confusing.”

You smiled at him like this was totally normal. Like he was just another student.

And Steve swore he’d never wanted to be anything more and anything less at the same time.

“Okay,” you said. “We’ll start easy.”

Easy. Right.

Except nothing about this was easy for him.

Because every time your fingers brushed his while passing a pencil, his brain short-circuited. Every time you leaned over to point something out, your shoulder bumping his, he forgot what planet he was on. He nodded along to explanations he barely heard because he was too busy staring at your mouth forming the words.

You thought he was struggling with science.

He was struggling with you.

“You’re actually catching on pretty fast,” you said after a while, surprised. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re trying. That’s, like, ninety percent of it.”

Trying.

If you only knew.

He’d rearranged his entire schedule to be here. Asked Tommy to quiz him the night before so he wouldn’t look completely clueless. He’d even read the first two chapters so you wouldn’t think he was hopeless.

All because you were here.

Because the idea of you leaving Hawkins one day, chasing some big, shiny future, while he stayed behind. . . it twisted something ugly in his chest.

He wanted you to fly.

He just selfishly wished he could go with you.

“You know,” you said absently, scribbling notes for him, “I didn’t think anyone would actually sign up for this.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said with a little laugh. “But I’m glad you did. It’s nice helping someone.”

He swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

You kept talking and Steve just. . . stared.

Not in a creepy way. Not on purpose.

He just couldn’t help it.

You had this little crease between your brows when you concentrated. You explained things with your hands, fingers tapping the table, drawing invisible diagrams in the air, and every time you leaned closer to underline something in his book, your shoulder brushed his and his brain turned to static.

He tried, really tried, to look at the page.

Cell membrane. Cytoplasm. Nucleus.

None of it stuck. All he could think about was how close you were.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the paper, “so think of the cell like a tiny city. The nucleus is like the mayor’s office. It controls everything. Does that make sense?”

Steve blinked.

You were looking at him so earnestly, waiting for his answer.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that actually. . . helps. A lot.”

Your face lit up, proud and pleased. “See? I told you. You’re not bad at this.”

God.

He thought, distantly, that this had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Hawkins High’s former golden boy reduced to putty because you told him he understood a metaphor.

Pathetic.

He’d fought monsters. Literally. And this, this tiny smile from you, was what took him out.

You kept teaching, and he kept pretending to follow along, nodding at the right times, scribbling down notes you handed him. But half the time he was just memorizing you instead. The soft little “okay” you said when he got something right.

By the time the session ended, his chest hurt. Not in a bad way. Just. . . full. Like he’d swallowed too much feeling and didn’t know where to put it.

“Same time tomorrow?” you asked, packing your bag.

He tried not to sound too eager. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

Great. Like this wasn’t going to be the highlight of his entire day.

The week after that, something was different. You didn’t notice it at first because you were busy, always busy but Steve Harrington started showing up in your life.

The first time, you were juggling way too many textbooks outside your locker, stack wobbling dangerously, and before you could even adjust your grip, a pair of familiar hands reached out and took half the weight.

“I got it,” Steve said.

“Oh— thanks,” you said, surprised. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine. I’m strong. Carrying books is kind of my thing.”

You knew it was not but you laughed, and he swore he’d carry the entire library if it meant hearing that again.

Then you started noticing him at your debate competitions, leaning awkwardly against the back wall of the classroom, pretending he was just “walking by” even though debate club met on the opposite side of the school from literally everything he did. Every time you looked up mid-argument, there he was, watching you like you’d hung the moon, clapping a little too hard when you finished.

In class, he’d somehow snag the seat next to you before anyone else could, sliding into it with an almost shy, “This taken?” even though he knew you’d never say no. He’d save you a chair at lunch, push it out with his foot like it was nothing, cheeks pink when you thanked him like he’d done something special.

And the tutoring sessions. God, the tutoring sessions.

He started getting good. Like, actually good.

He showed up having already read the chapters. He remembered things you’d explained days ago. Once, he even corrected himself mid-problem and you just stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Wait,” you said, leaning closer to check his work, “this is right. Steve, this is completely right.”

“Yeah?” he asked, trying to sound casual, failing miserably.

“Yeah. That’s really good. Good job, Steve.”

Good job, Steve. It was such a normal thing to say.

You said it the same way you’d say it to anyone else. But to him, it felt like you’d reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. He actually stopped breathing for a second.

Heat crawled up his neck, ears burning, stomach flipping stupidly like he was thirteen again.

“Oh. Uh. Thanks,” he muttered, staring very hard at the paper so you wouldn’t see the way his smile went soft and helpless.

You didn’t notice, just kept going, already onto the next question.

He thought, distantly, that if you ever said you were proud of him, he might actually die on the spot.

He thought about asking you out a hundred times.

Every single session.

When you leaned over him to point at a diagram. When your knees bumped under the table. When you smiled and told him he was improving. When you got excited explaining something and grabbed his sleeve without thinking.

The words sat on the tip of his tongue.

Do you maybe want to get coffee sometime?

Do you want to go to the movies?

Do you want to go out with me?

But then he’d look at you talking about scholarships and universities and all the places you were going to go, all the things you were going to be, and something scared inside him would whisper, She’s out of your league.

You were brilliant. The kind of person teachers wrote recommendation letters for without being asked.

He was. . . Steve.

Former jerk. Former king. Current disaster with questionable grades.

Even if no one else believed it, even if the whole school thought you were lucky to have him hovering around, Steve secretly thought the opposite.

He felt lucky you even talked to him.

So instead of asking you out, he did the only thing he knew how to do.

He tried harder.

He memorized your favorite authors after overhearing you talk about them with Nancy, went home and borrowed the books from the library just so he’d have something to say. He stayed up reading half-asleep, underlining sentences he thought you’d like. The next day, he’d casually drop, “Oh, yeah, I started that book you mentioned,” like it was no big deal while internally panicking.

Your face would light up every time. “Wait, really? You’re reading that?”

“Yeah,” he’d shrug. “It’s pretty good.”

You smiled at him, completely oblivious, and launched into a ten-minute rant about the book and he listened like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

And Steve sat there every single day thinking the same hopeless, aching thought. If he was brave enough, maybe one day you’d finally see what everyone else already did.

How completely, ridiculously, stupidly in love with you he was.

The opportunity came wrapped in cheap tinsel and paper snowflakes taped crookedly to the hallway ceiling.

You were hunched over the library table with Steve again, pencil tapping against your lip while you explained balancing equations for what felt like the fifteenth time, when the intercom crackled to life with some overly cheerful announcement about the Snowball Dance.

You barely registered it beyond a vague mental note that the gym would be unusable for the next week because student council would inevitably turn it into a dance zone.

Steve, on the other hand, heard the words Snowball Dance and nearly swallowed his tongue.

He tried to act normal, nodding along while you talked, but his brain had completely abandoned chemistry and latched onto one thought like a dog with a bone.

Dance.

Dance meant dates.

Dates meant asking someone.

Which meant maybe, possibly, if the universe was feeling merciful, he could finally ask you. His palms started sweating so bad he had to wipe them on his jeans.

You didn’t notice. You were busy drawing little diagrams and saying, “See? You just move the coefficient here.”

When the session ended, you both started packing up, you sliding your color-coded notes into neat folders, him shoving books into his bag with way too much nervous energy, when a familiar voice drifted over.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite nerds.”

Nancy.

You looked up immediately, smiling. “Hey.”

Nancy leaned against the table, eyes flicking between the two of you in a way that felt suspiciously knowing. “I was actually looking for you,” she said to you. “What are you wearing to the dance?”

You blinked. “The dance?”

“The Snowball,” she said patiently. “This weekend. You are going, right?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I think so. My mom found this amazing blue dress in the back of her closet. It’s kind of old, but it’s nice.” You shrugged, like it didn’t matter.

“And who are you going with?” Nancy pressed, way too casually.

You laughed. “No one? I mean, I’m not entirely sure anyone’s even going to ask me, so I’ll probably just show up and hover near the snack table or something. It’s fine. I mostly just want the extra credit for attendance.”

Steve felt like someone had just set off fireworks inside his ribcage.

Nancy’s gaze slid to him slowly and then she gave him the look.

It was long and pointed and screamed, If you don’t ask her out right now, I will personally strangle you, Harrington.

Steve panicked.

Nancy patted your arm. “Well, you’ll look pretty no matter what,” she said. “Jonathan’s dragging me, so at least we’ll all suffer together.”

You smiled. “Have fun.”

She shot Steve one last sharp stare before walking away.

The silence that followed felt deafening.

Steve’s heart was beating so hard he was convinced you could hear it. You were still organizing your bag, completely unaware that this was possibly the most stressful moment of his entire life.

Just ask her.

It’s not that hard.

It’s literally just words.

He opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“So,” he started, voice cracking like a middle schooler’s. He cleared his throat. “So. Uh. The dance.”

“Yeah?” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“You said you didn’t have a date.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s fine though. I’m not super big on dances anyway.”

Right. Cool. This was fine. He was dying.

“Well,” he rushed out, words tripping over each other, “maybe you. . . I mean— if you wanted we could, uh, like go together? If you want. Totally cool if you don’t. I just thought, you know, since we’re already tutoring and yeah.”

He wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

You just stared at him for a second. Then you smiled. Like he’d just offered you something nice and simple and not the entire fragile state of his heart.

“I’d like that,” you said. “Yeah. I’ll go with you, Steve.”

He stopped breathing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you laughed. “I mean, you’re basically the only person I talk to after school anyway. Might as well.”

Might as well.

It shouldn’t have made him that happy.

But it did. It really, really did.

The days leading up to the dance were unbearable for everyone around him.

Because Steve would not shut up.

He talked about it constantly. At his locker. In the hallway. During lunch. To Tommy H. and Carol. To random freshmen. To literally anyone who made eye contact for longer than two seconds.

“Do you think blue is, like, a flower color? Should I get her a flower? Is that too much? Do girls still like flowers? What if she hates flowers? Oh my god, what if she hates dancing—”

“You’ve been on actual dates before,” Carol groaned. “Why are you acting like this is your first crush ever?”

“Because it kind of is,” Tommy muttered, annoyed. “He’s gone full loser. It’s painful to watch.”

Steve didn’t even argue. He just grinned like an idiot and kept talking about you.

They were sick of it but he couldn’t help it. He felt like his life was about to start.

When the night finally came, everything felt. . . good.

And then you walked in and you looked like the only thing in the room that mattered.

Steve forgot every single word he’d ever learned.

You smiled when you saw him, waving a little.

“Hey.”

The night blurred after that. He held your hand during slow songs. You talked in the corner about everything and nothing, about college applications and your favorite books and stupid childhood stories. He told you things he didn’t tell anyone, about feeling lost sometimes, about not knowing what came after high school, about being scared of messing up.

You listened and for the first time, Steve felt seen.

You laughed together, danced badly together, shared terrible punch and even worse cookies. At one point your head tipped back when you laughed and he thought, distantly, If this is all I ever get, it’s enough.

Walking you home felt like the end of a movie. His heart was so full it almost hurt.

At your doorstep, you turned to him, smiling, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said softly.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Then you leaned up and kissed his cheek.

His brain shut off completely. He thought he might actually pass out.

And then you smiled at him. “Thank you for being such a great friend, Steve.”

Friend.

It hit harder than anything else. Harder than a punch. Harder than rejection.

Friend.

His heart didn’t just drop. It shattered.

He stood there, frozen, mouth open, watching you disappear inside.

The door clicked shut.

He didn’t move. Just stood on your porch for ten whole minutes, staring at the wood grain, replaying everything in his head and feeling stupider with every second. Of course. Of course you only saw him as a friend. Why wouldn’t you? You were you. He was just some guy who needed tutoring and followed you around like a lost puppy. What made him think you’d ever look at him the way he looked at you?

He laughed once, bitter and quiet.

Idiot.

Absolute idiot.

But then something in his chest twisted, stubborn. If he walked away now, he’d regret it forever. So before he could talk himself out of it, he turned back and rang the doorbell again.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please don’t be her parents.

Please—

The door opened.

It was you.

Hair slightly messy, earrings gone, rings off which told him you were already winding down for the night.

“Steve?” you said. “Did you forget something?”

You stood there in the doorway looking at him like this was the most normal thing in the world, like boys didn’t usually show up on your porch ten minutes after dropping you off at midnight looking like they were about to either confess their love or throw up.

Your hair was half falling out of whatever you’d done to it for the dance, little pieces soft around your face, earrings gone, makeup smudged just enough to make you look real and tired and warm instead of polished and perfect. You had on an old sweater, sleeves too long, swallowing your hands, and Steve thought, distantly, that this version of you might actually kill him faster than the dress did.

“Steve?” you asked again, gentler this time. “Are you okay?”

He opened his mouth.

Nothing.

Closed it.

His brain was screaming at him to abort mission, go home, save whatever dignity he had left, but his heart was louder, pounding so hard he swore you could probably see it through his shirt.

“I— yeah. I mean. No. I don’t know,” he said, running a hand through his hair, messing it up for once. “Can we— can we talk for a second?”

Your brows pulled together immediately, worried. You stepped out onto the porch and closed the door softly behind you so you wouldn’t wake your parents.

“Of course. What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Yeah, he thought. I fell in love with you and you called me your friend and now I feel like I got hit by a truck.

Instead, he just looked at you.

God.

You were looking at him like you cared.

Like you were already bracing to help him.

It made everything worse and better at the same time.

“I just—” He exhaled hard, hands on his hips, pacing once like he was about to give a presentation. “When you said that thing earlier. The friend thing.”

You tilted your head. “What thing?”

“When you said thanks for being such a great friend,” he said.

“Oh.” You smiled a little. “Yeah. Because you are. You’ve been really sweet lately, Steve. Like, really sweet. You didn’t have to come to my debate stuff or help me carry books or—”

“That’s the thing,” he blurted.

You stopped.

He looked at you like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t do this for my friends, okay?” he said. “I don’t match ties and memorize your stupid study schedule and wait outside tutoring for forty minutes just to walk you there for my friends.”

You blinked.

“. . . You wait outside tutoring?”

“Yeah,” he said helplessly. “All the time. Because you always show up early and I didn’t want you sitting alone.”

Your brain stalled.

“I don’t read Jane Austen and whatever that other one is— Brontë?— for my friends. I don’t buy strawberry milk when it’s disgusting just because you like it. I don’t sign up for tutoring I don’t even need just to sit across from someone for an hour for my friends.”

Your mouth fell open a little.

“. . . You hate strawberry milk?”

“It’s terrible,” he said immediately. “I don't get how you drink it.”

You stared at him. “Huh,” you said faintly. “So you didn’t match your Snowball tie to my dress on accident?”

Steve froze.

“. . . You noticed that?”

“It was literally the exact same shade of blue,” you said. “I thought it was a coincidence.”

He let out this small, broken laugh and covered his face with his hand. “Oh my god. I spent two hours at the store trying to match it. Nancy almost killed me.”

“Oh,” you breathed.

Oh.

All those times he showed up. All those little things. The books. The seat saving. The tutoring. The way he looked at you like you were saying something important even when you were just rambling about mitochondria.

Your stomach flipped.

Steve dropped his hand and looked at you again, eyes wide and terrified and so soft it made your chest ache.

“I like you,” he said, finally, simply, like it cost him everything. “Not like a friend. Not even a little. I’ve liked you for months. I just— I didn’t think you’d ever look at me like that. You’re. . . you’re you. And I’m just me.”

You frowned immediately. “Steve.”

“No, let me finish before I pass out,” he rushed. “I just needed you to know. Even if you don’t feel the same. I just— I couldn’t go home with you thinking I was doing all this because I’m nice. I’m not that nice. I’m selfish. I do it because I want to be around you all the time. Because you’re my favorite person. Because when you talk about leaving Hawkins, it freaks me out because I can’t picture this place without you in it.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears.

He swallowed.

“So yeah. That’s it. I like you. A lot. Like, embarrassingly a lot.”

For a second, neither of you said anything.

And then you stepped closer.

Steve immediately tensed like you were about to reject him and he was bracing for impact.

Instead, you reached out and grabbed the front of his jacket.

He short-circuited.

“Steve Harrington,” you said slowly, “you absolute idiot.”

His heart dropped. “Oh.”

“I thought you were just being nice,” you continued. “I thought you felt bad for me or something. I didn’t think. . . I mean, why would I think you liked me?”

He stared at you. “Why wouldn’t you?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself. “I’m me. I carry six books at all times and talk about scholarships for fun.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Exactly.”

Your throat tightened.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Oh.

The way he looked at you suddenly made sense.

Everything did.

You laughed a little, shaky and fond. “Steve, you’re such a dork.”

He smiled nervously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“But,” you said, stepping even closer, “for the record. . . I don’t go to dances with just friends either.”

His brain stopped working.

“. . . What?”

“I said,” you murmured, cheeks warm, “I wouldn’t have gone with you if I didn’t like you too.”

The hope that lit up his face was so bright it almost hurt to look at.

“Wait. Really?”

“Really.”

“Like. . . like like me?”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Yes, Steve. Like like you. You’re cute. And you carry my books. And you listen to me talk about boring stuff without falling asleep. That’s basically marriage material.”

He laughed, breathless, disbelieving.

“You’re serious?”

“Steve,” you said softly, “I’ve liked you for a while. I just thought you were out of my league.”

He stared at you like you’d just told him the sky was purple.

“Out of— are you insane?”

You both laughed, nervous and giddy and a little overwhelmed.

And then you were just. . . standing there.

Close.

Really close.

His hands hovered awkwardly at your waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch you.

You noticed. So you took pity on him and slid your hands up into his jacket, gripping the fabric.

His breath hitched.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like it was the most fragile question in the world.

You smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You can.”

He leaned in slow, like he was scared you’d disappear if he moved too fast, one hand cupping your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. His lips brushed yours soft.

When you pulled back, you were both smiling like idiots, foreheads touching, noses bumping.

Steve let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “So. . . not just friends?”

You smiled, kissing him again. “Definitely not just friends.”

Of course he did. Hair perfect (as always), smile easy, sleeves rolled up. He had greeted you like it was the most normal thing in the world, like you had not spent a year pretending not to stare at him in the hallways. He had thanked you for picking Dustin up, stepped aside to let you in, and just like that you were standing in his living room trying to remember how to exist as a human being.

You had survived it. Barely. You had collected your brother, endured a very pointed look from him when you tripped over absolutely nothing, and left with your dignity mostly intact.

Two days later, you had gone back.

That time, Steve had walked you to the door while Dustin grabbed his bag, and somewhere between polite conversation and you nodding too much, Steve had scratched the back of his neck and asked if you wanted to go out with him sometime. You had said yes a little too fast, then immediately worried you sounded desperate, then worried you sounded rude when you tried to correct it.

The date itself had been. . . good. Actually more than good. It had been easy. You laughed. He laughed. He told you a story about him and Dustin that sounded suspiciously like babysitting. You had watched him talk with his hands and thought, very clearly, that this was a mistake because you were absolutely going to get attached.

And then it ended with a promise to call.

But he had not called.

Which is how you ended up here, fighting with a ribbon bow and trying not to overthink the silence. You had avoided asking Dustin about it, mostly because the one time you had mentioned the date and if Steve liked you, he had made a face like you had just told him you were joining a cult. He had muttered something about Steve being awesome and then changed the subject to Dungeons and Dragons. You took the hint.

You let out a breath and stepped back from the mirror, hands dropping to your sides. Maybe the bow was too much. You tilted your head, squinted at your reflection, and felt the familiar itch of second guessing crawl up your spine.

Maybe the ribbon made you look like you were trying too hard. Maybe the summer dress was too soft, too hopeful. Maybe the whole thing screamed girl who thought this meant something when it probably did not. You smoothed the fabric anyway, fingers restless, heart louder than it had any right to be.

Maybe you had mistaken kindness for interest. It would not be the first time. You had always been very good at romanticizing moments that were never meant to be more than moments.

Maybe you had been too much.

You swallowed.

That thought settled in quietly, the way the worst ones always did. Maybe Steve Harrington had gone on one nice date, laughed a little, enjoyed the company, and then gone home and realized it was easier if you stayed exactly where you had always been. Dustin Henderson’s sister. You could not even blame him. It made sense in a way that hurt more because of how reasonable it felt.

The door creaked open behind you.

You turned, startled, and immediately felt guilty when you saw Dustin. He was taller. When had that happened? His hair was messier than usual, his backpack slung over one shoulder. You realized, with a small sting, that you had not actually had a proper conversation with him in days. Weeks, maybe. Everything lately had been rushed hellos and distracted goodbyes.

He looked less like the kid who used to burst into your room to tell you about every tiny detail of his day and more like someone who had started keeping pieces of his life to himself.

“Oh,” he said, lips twitching. “Is Steve taking you out?”

You shot him a glare. “Do not start with me, Dustin.”

That wiped the smile off his face. He hesitated (the sight made your heart sting a little), then stepped fully into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. “Okay,” he said. “Sorry. You just look nice.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, turning back to the mirror even though you did not want to look at yourself anymore.

There was a pause. You could feel him watching you.

“So,” he said, “is Steve taking you out?”

You groaned and spun around. “Oh my God, Dustin.”

“I’m just asking,” he defended. “You’ve been dressing up a lot lately.”

Your chest tightened. You had not realized it was noticeable. “I just. . . I thought maybe,” you started, then stopped. The words tangled in your throat. You laughed weakly. “This is silly.”

His grin faded just a little. “Wait. Did he not call?”

Your silence answered for you.

Dustin winced. “Oh.”

You sank down onto the edge of the bed before your legs could give out. “I know this is probably annoying,” you said quickly. “I know I shouldn’t keep asking you. I just. . . you’re around him a lot, and I thought maybe he said something. About me.”

You picked at a loose thread on your dress, not looking up. “Did he?”

You expected the usual answer. A vague “he’s busy” or “he’s just Steve.” Something to keep you afloat.

But this time it did not happen.

When you finally looked up, he was chewing on his lip, eyes fixed on the floor like it held the answer he did not want to give. He walked over and sat beside you.

“Dustin,” you said softly. “What?”

He sighed. “I think. . . maybe Steve still likes Nance.”

“Nance?” you repeated, a little numb. “Nancy Wheeler?”

Dustin nodded. “I mean, not like he’s trying to get back together with her or anything. She’s with Jonathan. But he still talks about her sometimes. Not in a weird way. Just. . . I don’t know.”

You forced a smile that did not quite work. “You’re close with her now?”

His face lit up instantly.

“Yeah,” he said, a little too fast. “I mean, she’s awesome. She’s like. . . really smart. And brave. And she doesn’t freak out when things get scary. She’s kind of the coolest person I know.”

You swallowed. You were close with Nancy. You liked her. Which somehow made it worse. Listening to the way Dustin talked about her, the genuine admiration in his voice, you realized he looked up to her. Looked to her in a way that used to be reserved for you. You wondered when that had changed. You wondered if you had missed it. And that realization made something twist uncomfortably inside you.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

Dustin kept talking, unaware of the spiral forming behind your eyes. “Steve talks about her sometimes. Not a lot, but he does. I think he just doesn’t know how to stop feeling stuff.”

That did it. The last bit of air left your lungs, leaving you hollowed out and aching. It was not just Steve anymore. It was the way Dustin had found comfort somewhere else. The way you had missed it. The way you wondered if you had not been around enough, if you had been too busy with your own life to notice him growing up and leaning on other people.

“So,” you said, forcing a smile that did not reach your eyes. “That’s great. Good for him.”

Dustin finally looked at you and his expression faltered. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “I’m fine.”

He nodded slowly, unconvinced, then stood. “I’m gonna go. You, uh. . . look nice. Even if it’s not for Steve.”

“Thanks,” you said, voice small.

He left, door clicking shut behind him, and the room felt too quiet afterward. You stayed where you were for a moment after the door shut.

Eventually, you pushed yourself up and walked back to the mirror.

Up close, the bow looked ridiculous. You reached up and untied it slowly, letting the ribbon slide free and pool into your hands. The moment it rested there, something in your chest tightened. It felt wrong, like it had never belonged on you in the first place. Like you had pinned on a version of yourself that wasn’t real and then acted surprised when it didn’t hold.

You stared at your reflection. The dress suddenly felt like a costume. It clung where it shouldn’t, hung where you didn’t want it to, like it had been designed for someone else that was definitely not you. Someone who didn’t have to think this hard about being liked.

You swallowed again.

You had always thought being soft was the answer. Smiling first. Listening more than you spoke. Being warm, understanding, positive even when it cost you something. You thought if you were gentle enough, people would want to stay. That they would choose you because you made things feel easy.

But Steve had loved Nancy. Still loved her, maybe. And Dustin, your baby brother, looked up to her now. Trusted her.

And you couldn’t stop the thought from creeping in, sharp and ugly.

Maybe being soft hadn’t made you approachable. Maybe it had made you forgettable.

Maybe you had made yourself too easy to overlook. Someone safe. Someone who didn’t ask enough, didn’t push, didn’t demand to be seen. Someone who smiled through things instead of being real about them.

Your reflection looked back at you, eyes a little too bright, lips pressed together like they were holding back words that had been swallowed for years. You barely recognized her. She looked like someone who didn’t know how to take up space without apologizing for it.

“I don’t even know how to be mad,” you whispered to the mirror. “I don’t even know how to want things properly.”

That hurt more than anything else.

You sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed the ribbon into your palm until it wrinkled. You thought about Dustin. About the way he had hesitated before answering you. About how careful he had been with the truth, like he was already used to protecting people from disappointment.

You hated that you had become someone he thought needed protecting.

You hated even more that you might have helped make that happen.

You knew then that you couldn’t keep pretending nothing was wrong. You couldn’t keep swallowing things until they turned into quiet resentment and self doubt. You needed to talk to Dustin. Really talk to him. And maybe, if you were brave enough, you needed to talk to Steve too.

The next day, when Dustin asked you to pick him up again, it still stung.

You stared at the note he’d left on the counter, your name scribbled. Yesterday, you had been spilling your heart out to him, and today he was asking like nothing had happened. Like maybe he assumed you’d already moved on. Like your feelings were something temporary, something that faded if ignored long enough.

The thought made your throat ache.

But then you realized something else. He didn’t think you wouldn’t care. Maybe he thought you’d already learned how not to.

Maybe he thought you were the kind of person who didn’t feel things deeply enough for it to linger.

You grabbed your keys anyway and after a heavy drive you pulled up outside Steve’s house with your hands clenched tight around the steering wheel.

You knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, and for half a second, your brain forgot how to work.

Dustin stood there, blinking up at you, but behind him was what caught your eye. Steve on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. Mike and Lucas arguing over something in low, heated voices. Will perched on the armrest. Nancy sitting beside Jonathan, her hand resting comfortably on his arm. Max sprawled on the floor and a bald girl you didn’t recognize sitting cross-legged.

Everyone froze when they saw you.

You froze right back.

“Oh,” you said, dumbly.

Before you could even process what you were looking at, Dustin stepped outside and shut the door behind him a little too quickly. The sound echoed louder than it should have as you pushed down the heavy feeling settling in your stomach.

You straightened, the motion stiff. “Hey,” you said. “Uh. You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” he said fast, already moving past you toward the car.

You followed, heart thudding, questions piling up so fast they tripped over each other. You waited until he slid into the passenger seat and buckled in before getting behind the wheel yourself.

You started driving.

Silence stretched. It pressed against your ears, against your chest, until it felt unbearable.

“So,” you said finally, keeping your eyes on the road. “What was going on back there?”

“Nothing,” Dustin replied instantly.

“Oh,” you said. You nodded once, like that settled it. It didn’t. Your hands tightened on the wheel. You wanted to ask more. You wanted to demand it. Instead, you swallowed and cursed yourself for always backing down, for always being afraid of pushing too hard and breaking something fragile.

You took a shaky breath. Your throat burned. “Hey, Dust?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ll tell me if anything’s going on, right?”

You hated how small your voice sounded. Hated that it wobbled. Hated that your eyes were already stinging.

There was a pause. It was just a second long but it broke something inside you.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

You nodded again. “Good.”

You pulled into your driveway moments later. Dustin was out of the car before you’d even turned the engine off, backpack bouncing against his shoulders as he hurried inside. The front door shut behind him with a familiar thud, but this time it didn’t feel comforting.

You followed him in slowly.

He was already halfway up the stairs when you spoke again, your voice barely louder than a whisper. “Dustin?”

He stopped, turned around, impatience flashing across his face. “What?”

Your chest tightened painfully. You gripped the stand near the stairs, fingers digging into the wood like it might anchor you. Your lower lip trembled, and you bit down hard, trying to keep yourself together. It didn’t work. Tears blurred your vision anyway, slipping free despite your best effort.

“Would you,” you started, then had to stop and breathe. “Would you tell me something?”

His expression shifted immediately. Concern replaced irritation as he took a step back down. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, shaking. “Am I a bad sister?”

He stared at you like you’d spoken in another language. “What? No.”

You laughed weakly, the sound breaking halfway through. “I think I am,” you said. “I think I messed up somewhere and I don’t even know when.”

Dustin rushed down the rest of the stairs and stood in front of you, hands hovering awkwardly like he didn’t know where to put them. “You’re not,” he said quickly. “You’re not bad at all.”

Tears spilled freely now, sliding down your cheeks. You wiped at them with the heel of your hand, frustrated and embarrassed. “You don’t tell me things anymore,” you whispered. “You used to tell me everything. I used to be the first person you came to. And now I find things out by accident, or not at all, and it feels like I missed something important.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I see you looking up to other people,” you continued, voice cracking. “And I get it. I do. They’re amazing. They’re brave and smart and strong. And I’m proud of you for finding people like that. I just. . . I didn’t realize I’d become someone you didn’t need anymore.”

“That’s not true,” he said, immediately.

“Then why does it feel like it?” you asked.

He hesitated, shoulders slumping. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

That hurt more than anything else.

“That’s not your job,” you said quietly. “It’s not your job to decide what hurts me,” you continued, voice trembling now that you’d started. “Or to protect me from things just because you think I won’t be able to handle them. I’m your sister. I’m supposed to be in it with you. Even the hard parts.”

He swallowed hard.

“I just. . . I feel like I don’t know you anymore,” you admitted. “And that’s terrifying. You used to come home and tell me everything. About school, about friends, about things that scared you and things that made you excited. I knew who you were becoming because you let me see it.”

Your vision blurred again, tears sliding down without permission. You didn’t wipe them away this time.

“And now,” you whispered, “I see it in the way you rush past me, or in the way you stop yourself before saying something. Like you’re erasing your life around me. Like I don’t get full details anymore.”

Dustin’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His face crumpled, guilt written all over it. “I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“I know,” you said, nodding. “But you did. And I kept telling myself it was normal. That you were growing up. That I should be proud and give you space. But it still hurts. It hurts feeling like I’m the last person to know things about you.”

You let out a shaky laugh that held no humor. “I feel like I blinked and suddenly you had this whole world I’m not part of anymore.”

“That’s not true,” he said again, but his voice wavered now. “You’re still important. You’re always important.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” you asked. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He wiped it away roughly, clearly upset with himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize I was doing that. I swear I didn’t. I feel awful. I didn’t mean to make you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You pulled him into a tight hug, holding him like you used to when he was smaller. He clung to you just as hard, burying his face into your shoulder as quiet sobs wracked his body.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated over and over.

You pressed a kiss to his hair, eyes closed. “I know. I'm sorry too.”

That night he told you everything.

About Jane. About how she wasn’t just a girl with a shaved head but someone who could snap a person with her mind. About the Upside Down. Demogorgons. Vecna.

You nodded through it all.

You listened, even when your brain struggled to catch up.

But strangely, horrifyingly, the thing that shook you the most wasn’t the monsters or the danger or the way your brother had been risking his life while you thought he was just staying late with friends.

It was Steve.

Dustin hesitated before saying his name, eyes flicking up to gauge your reaction. “He wasn’t ignoring you because of Nancy,” he said. “That was. . . kind of an excuse.”

You stilled. “What do you mean?”

He rubbed his hands together, nervous. “Steve didn’t want you anywhere near this. Any of it. He said if something happened to you because of us, he’d never forgive himself.”

Your breath caught.

“He asked me,” Dustin continued. “Like. . . a lot. If you were okay. If you seemed upset. If you’d asked about him. He kept saying it wasn’t fair to drag you into danger just because he liked you.”

Your heart twisted painfully. “He liked me.”

“Yeah,” Dustin said quickly. “Likes. A lot. He just didn’t know how to explain why he was pulling away without telling you the truth. And we couldn’t tell you the truth. We decided it was too dangerous.”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “So he ignored me to protect me.”

Dustin nodded. “Pretty much.”

You leaned back in your chair, staring at the ceiling. Relief flooded through you so fast it made your chest ache. You weren’t imagining it. You hadn’t been too much. You hadn’t been a mistake. He had cared.

And then the anger followed close behind.

“You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that you both decided to lie to me. For my own good.”

Dustin winced. “When you say it like that—”

“I trusted you,” you interrupted. “Both of you. And you just. . . decided I didn’t deserve to know what was happening.”

“We thought you’d be safer,” he said, guilt heavy in every word.

You stood, pacing the kitchen, running a hand through your hair. “Do you know how stupid I felt? Standing in front of a mirror thinking I’d scared him off. Thinking I wasn’t enough.”

“I’m sorry,” Dustin said again. “I really am.”

You stopped pacing and looked at him. He looked smaller somehow.

“I’m relieved,” you admitted. “And I’m mad. And I don’t know which one is more.”

“That’s fair,” he said.

You exhaled slowly. “Next time,” you said firmly, “you don’t get to decide for me. I don’t care how dangerous it is. I don’t want to be protected by being pushed out.”

He nodded immediately. “I promise.”

You sat back down, exhaustion washing over you. Steve Harrington had cared enough to stay away. Your brother had cared enough to carry secrets alone.

You pressed your palms together and laughed softly. “I’m going to kill him,” you said.

Dustin cracked a weak smile. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Robin leaned over, grabbed your milkshake, and took a obnoxiously loud sip through the straw. “I genuinely don’t know why you don’t just ask him out,” she said, licking whipped cream off her lip. “It’s not like he can do better than you. Actually, scientifically speaking? He cannot.”

You opened your mouth to argue but Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Speaking of the dingus,” she muttered, turning her head toward the counter.

You followed her gaze just in time to see Steve swinging his ice-cream scoop. A gaggle of ten-year-olds watched with awe as he attempted some kind of Scoops Ahoy–themed trick.

He spun it once. Twice.

On the third swing, it slipped straight out of his hand and clattered across the floor. The kids burst into laughter. Steve just stood there, hands on his hips like that had been the plan all along.

Robin pointed with the straw still between her fingers. “Really? That guy? That guy is the one you’re down bad for?”

A soft, helpless smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Yeah,” you breathed, chin dropping into your hand again. “Isn’t he amazing?”

Robin jabbed you in the ribs with her elbow. “C’mon,” she said around another mouthful of your milkshake, “go. Hit your chance before the universe smites you for being a coward.”

“You really think—?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding so aggressively her hair bounced… though the effect was slightly ruined by how she was giving you a distracted thumbs-up while still sipping through the straw.

You pushed yourself out of the booth before your brain could stop you, smoothing your shirt. By the time you reached the counter, the ten-year-olds had dispersed, leaving Steve standing alone.

“Cool trick,” you said, leaning an elbow on the counter because Robin always claimed it made you look ‘effortless.’

Steve brightened immediately. “Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me?” he intoned in that ridiculous nautical voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh, matching his grin. “Depends, sailor. What flavor do you recommend sailing on today?”

His eyes flicked to where Robin was sitting with your half-finished milkshake.

“Uh—why don’t you just… have that one again?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You tried again, leaning in just a bit. “But you haven’t told me your favorite. C’mon, what’s your go-to?”

“But you didn’t even finish that one,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward Robin with a soft frown. “You should try it properly this time.”

God. He really didn’t get it.

You watched his brows pinch in that soft, boyish confusion—like he thought he was helping, like he genuinely believed he’d cracked the code of what you wanted. And maybe that was the worst part. That he cared enough to try but not enough to see.

Your smile faltered for half a second. “Right,” you said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll just have that again.”

“Great!” Steve said, already turning to gather ingredients.

You turned your head just enough that Steve wouldn’t notice, giving Robin the smallest shake. Robin’s face fell around the straw. She mouthed what happened?but you only shrugged, because how were you supposed to explain something that felt stupid and small and somehow enormous all at once?

Your eyes drifted back to Steve, watching the easy way he moved behind the counter, the way his stupid hat bobbed with every step. He looked so completely unbothered, so far from the storm brewing in your chest. And the thoughts started piling up like dominoes you couldn’t stop tipping over.

Maybe he just didn’t see you like that, maybe he never had. Maybe every smile you’d memorized and every laugh you’d tucked away like a pressed flower had been nothing more than… friendliness. Harmless, casual affection he gave to everyone. Maybe you’d taken crumbs and convinced yourself they were a meal.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on anything else, but your brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept pulling threads until everything began to unravel.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for someone new. Maybe his heart was still snagged on something old, someone familiar. You remembered the way his voice softened every time Nancy’s name slipped into conversatio. How he never talked about her, not really, but the silence said more than any words could.

Robin had sworn up and down he’d moved on, but maybe she only said that because she hated seeing you hurt. Because she was trying to protect you from the obvious truth.

Because why else would he look so confused by your flirting? Why else would he never meet you halfway?

Your fingers curled against the countertop. Suddenly the whole picture felt painfully, humiliatingly clear. Of course Steve didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t see you trying. Of course he wasn’t picking up on hints, he wasn’t looking for any.

He was still in love with Nancy.

Steve turned around with a blinding, boyish grin and set the milkshake on the counter

“Here you go!” he said, like he hadn’t just unknowingly stepped on every fragile feeling you’d spent months trying to hide.

You forced your lips into something resembling a smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Steve.”

You carried it back to the booth, sliding into the seat across from Robin without a word. She sat up straighter, ready to ask a hundred questions, but you just nudged the milkshake toward her with two fingers.

“I’m… not in the mood anymore,” you muttered.

Robin stared at the glass, then at you, her expression softening as your gaze drifted somewhere far away. You tried to drown out your thoughts, tried not to replay every moment of confusion on his face, every hint he’d never picked up, every dream you’d apparently made up alone.

“Hey, Steve!”

Nancy Wheeler’s voice cut through the air like a needle scraping off a record.

You closed your eyes for half a second, exhaling through your nose. Of course. Because the universe didn’t just hate you, it wanted to make you suffer.

You looked over just in time to see Nancy walk up to the counter, and Steve—God, Steve—lighting up in that easy, familiar way. Like slipping into a jacket that used to fit perfectly.

You watched them talk, your heart deflating in slow, measured beats. That was it then. The conclusion you’d spiraled into was right, he wasn’t confused because he was oblivious. He was confused because he wasn’t looking for anyone. Because he’d already loved someone with everything he had once, and even if he wasn’t stuck in the past, he definitely wasn’t stuck on you.

“Rob?” you said softly, reaching for your purse.

She startled, glancing up. “Wait, where are you going?”

You stood, forcing another weak little smile. “I’ll… see you later, okay?”

You walked away, hearing Robin mutter Stupid dingus under her breath but you ignored it. Cause maybe this time, you were the stupid one.

You lay sprawled across your bed, the landline cord wrapped twice around your wrist because you kept fidgeting with it. Down the hall, your dad and El were in the middle of World War III over… cereal? curfew? Who knew. Their voices rose and fell like badly-tuned radio static behind Robin’s sighing in your ear.

“I don’t know, Rob,” you said, rubbing your temple. “Maybe he just… hasn’t moved on from Nancy yet. And even if he had, what’s the guarantee he’d ever like me?”

Robin made a noise like she’d just been stabbed. “Oh my God, I can’t do this. I’m actually aging, I hope you know that. I have wrinkles now. Actual wrinkles.”

“And besides,” you continued, ignoring her dramatics, “I don’t even think I’m his type.”

Robin sucked in a breath so sharp you could practically picture her clutching her imaginary pearls. “Not his—not his type? Are you kidding me? What type do you think he has? Do you think his type is ‘random girl who breaks his heart in a bathroom’ because that didn’t exactly work out for him!”

“I’m being serious,” you argued softly, curling onto your side. “He deserves someone… I don’t know. Someone like Nancy. Someone who fits.”

“You fit!” Robin practically shouted, then lowered her voice when she remembered your dad could be lurking. “You fit so stupidly well it makes me want to scream. I promise you, he—ugh—he likes you. Like, capital-L likes you.”

“Then why doesn’t he act like it?” you shot back, voice small. “If he really liked me, wouldn’t he… I don’t know… notice when I’m flirting? Or maybe flirt back? Or at least look at me the way he looks at—”

“Nancy?” Robin groaned. “Oh my god. We are back to Nancy. We’ve made a full lap.”

You hugged your pillow tighter, eyes stinging. “He still lights up around her, Rob. I saw it today. The way he smiled? It was so easy. Like they still just… clicked. And I—”

“You click with him too!” Robin argued. “Better than Nancy ever did! He goes dumb and sparkly around you!”

Your laugh came out tired and hollow. “He goes dumb around everyone. That’s Steve’s natural state.”

“That is true,” Robin admitted. “But he’s sparkly around you.”

“How can you even say it so surely?” you whispered, a pathetic little laugh catching in your throat. “You don’t know what he feels.”

“Yes I do!” Robin insisted, voice pitching high. “Because he to—”

A door slammed somewhere in the house, loud enough to rattle your bedroom window. You winced, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

Robin’s voice fuzzed on the other end, drowned out as Hopper’s booming bass echoed down the hall and El shouted back, something about ‘you never listen’.

You sighed, pressing your eyes shut. “Rob,” you murmured, “I’ll… talk to you later, okay?”

“No—wait, don’t you—”

But you’d already clicked the receiver back into its cradle.

Robin was already waiting for you the next morning at Scoops Ahoy, pacing behind the counter. You barely stepped through the door before she lunged at you, grabbing your shoulders like she was about to deliver life-changing news .

“Okay,” she whispered urgently, dragging you behind the counter so fast you nearly tripped over a mop bucket. “Today is the day. Today. I’m doing this. I’m setting you two up, and I’m not letting you run away, and I’m not letting him be an idiot, and if anyone tries to stop me—God help them.”

You blinked at her, still emotionally hungover from everything you’d spiraled through last night. “Robin… what are you talking about?”

She held up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t even start.”

You opened your mouth and Robin slapped her hand over it. “Shh. Do not ruin this for me. I am dying. A shell of a woman. But I will go out with dignity and possibly a concussion when I knock your two thick skulls together.”

Before you could respond, Steve emerged from the back room, hair perfect, swinging his keys around his finger like he’d never been the source of ninety percent of your emotional turmoil.

“Hey!” he chirped brightly when he saw you. “You’re early today.”

Robin lit up like a nervous bomb. She shoved you forward, “Yeah, because we have something to ask you.”

“Robin—” you hissed, mortified.

But she marched on, committed to the bit. “So! Dingus! She and I were thinking, you know, since you’re free tonight—”

“Oh!” Steve cut in, his face lighting up even more, if that were possible. “Right. I actually meant to tell you guys. I’m… uh… I’m not free tonight.”

You froze.

“Oh?” Robin said tightly, voice straining like a crack in glass. “Why not?”

Steve leaned casually against the counter, cheeks slightly pink. “I have a date.”

Your heart stuttered. Like something inside you tried to stand up and then immediately sat back down.

“A… oh,” you said, throat suddenly too small. “A date?”

Robin went rigid beside you. You could practically hear her internal screaming.

“Yeah!” Steve continued obliviously, grinning like he hadn’t just punched a hole through your ribcage without noticing. “She’s really cool. So I figured why not?”

Why not. Why not. The words echoed inside you, mocking, hollow, sharp around the edges.

Robin stared at him like she was seriously, genuinely contemplating committing a felony. “You… have a date,” she repeated, as if her brain needed time to reboot.

Steve nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! And actually—” He turned to you with that same bright, easy smile he always gave you, the one your heart stupidly stored like a treasure. “I was actually hoping you could help me get ready?”

The world tilted. Painfully.

“You… want me to—”

“Well yeah!” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “You’re good at that stuff. You always tell me when my hair’s doing that weird flippy thing, and you know what shirts make me look less like a suburban dad, so I figured you could help me pick something out?”

Robin made a sound beside you that could only be described as the noise someone makes when witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.

You swallowed, smiling even though it burned. “Sure,” you said softly. “Yeah. Of course.”

His grin widened. “You’re the best.”

And with that, he went back to reorganizing cones like he hadn’t just peeled another layer off your already bruised heart.

Robin pulled you aside the second his back was turned, gripping your shoulders.

“I’m going to die,” she whispered. “I’m actually going to die. I can’t do this anymore. I’m retiring from matchmaking. I refuse to witness this level of obliviousness for one more day—”

You barely heard her. Because your brain was looping one thought, over and over, louder and heavier each time:

Of course he had a date. He wasn't in love with Nancy anymore. Of course he moved on. Just… not with you.

And you were going to help him get ready for her. You were going to stand in his room and pretend your heart wasn’t folding itself into smaller and smaller shapes just to survive being near him.

Robin stared at you, eyes softening into heartbreak for you and secondhand exhaustion for herself. “Please,” she murmured, “for my sanity, tell me you’re not going to make this hurt worse.”

But you already knew you would. Because it was Steve.

And loving him hurt no matter what you did.

Steve’s room looked exactly like you would think a boy-in-denial-about-his-feelings room would look. He held up two shirts—one blue, one a softer green—and looked at you with that expression that always, always managed to knock the wind out of you.

“Okay, so… which one says ‘cool but not trying too hard’?” he asked, brows raised, lips pursing.

You swallowed and pointed at the green one. It made his eyes brighter. Made him look unfairly good. Made your stomach twist into something sharp and stupid and agonizing.

He grinned, delighted, and tossed it onto the bed. “Knew you’d pick that one. You have good taste.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, fingers curling in your palms, “sometimes.”

He didn’t hear the wobble in your voice, of course he didn’t. Steve could hear a twig snap in the woods from twenty feet away and mistake it for Nancy calling his name, but he couldn’t hear you cracking right in front of him. He turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair, fussing with the collar, stepping back and forth like he was trying to solve himself.

And there you were behind him, reflected in the glass, sitting on the edge of his bed holding a pair of his sunglasses you’d been fidgeting with. You looked like someone pretending to be composed. Someone pretending they weren’t guiding the boy they loved into someone else’s arms.

You cleared your throat lightly. “So… what’s the plan? For the date.”

He nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Dunno yet. I want it to be good, though. Like… memorable? Y’know?”

Your heart turned over so painfully you had to look down at your hands. “Well,” you said, keeping your voice light and steady despite the ache climbing up your throat, “if it were me… I’d want something easy. Something that doesn’t feel like a performance.”

His eyes flicked up to the mirror, catching yours. He listened the way he always did. It almost made you dizzy.

“Like what?” he asked.

You shrugged, swallowing hard. “Just… I dunno. Something small. Ice cream, maybe. Or records. Or a late drive with the windows down. Stuff that feels like you… not something you read in a magazine last minute.”

He grinned again. “Yeah. That sounds good. That sounds really good actually. She’d probably like that.”

She. Of course.

You nodded, trying not to let your smile—or your chest—collapse. “Yeah. Most girls would.”

He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the chain around his neck. He had no idea that you were cataloguing every piece of him, burning each detail into your memory like you’d need it later, like you were preparing for a life where you didn’t get to see him like this anymore.

Your mind spiraled again, like it had been doing for days now. You thought about the way he would look at the girl when she would enter the room, how effortlessly they would talk. You thought about how easy it must be for someone like her to be loved. How simple it must be to be the girl Steve Harrington never had to question wanting.

You thought about yourself in comparison. You’d always been the backup dancer in your own life, and standing here next to him, watching him dress for a date with a girl who wasn’t you, made that sting with humiliating clarity.

He turned then and held out two jackets.

“Okay, so—help me out here. Denim or the bomber?”

You took a breath so deep it hurt your ribs. “Bomber,” you whispered.

He laughed like you’d made his night.

“God, what would I do without you?” he asked, slipping into the jacket with a grateful grin.

The question lodged itself in your throat. You knew the answer. He’d live just fine. You were the one who’d fold without him, not the other way around. But he looked at you with such fondness, such blinding affection, that you couldn’t force the truth out. You could barely breathe around it.

You stood. Smoothed the hem of your shirt. Wiped away any stray emotion that might’ve clung to your face.

“Well,” you said softly, keeping your tone tight and controlled, “you look great. She’s lucky.”

Steve blinked at you, something in his expression flickering—confusion? Or maybe that was just your wishful thinking trying to make itself useful. “Thanks,” he said finally, nudging your shoulder with his. “Seriously. You always know how to make me feel… I dunno. Like I’m doing something right.”