Dakota

It’s making your stomach churn and when Jonathan physically sticks his fingers in El’s leg you feel yourself gag. The wooden spoon in El’s mouth does little to hold back her screams and she nearly breaks your fingers as he digs deeper. There’s blood everywhere, on the floor, all over Jonathan, on El, it seems to splatter onto everything. 

“Stop!” El squirms in your hold as she spits the spoon out of her mouth. “Stop! Stop! I can do it.” She cries out as she tries her best to sit up, but Mike and you end up having to help her. 

El holds her hand over the now giant gash on her leg, her fingers shaking as she channels every ounce of energy she has to rid this thing from her body. Her screams only seem to amplify the more she pushes and then suddenly the windows in the store behind you shatter and glass rains down onto everyone. You jump at the sound and the feeling of the shards hitting your back, but you focus your attention quickly back on El, your hand still steady on her shoulder. 

You can see the start of whatever is in her leg starting to peek out of the surface of the wound and then all it once it flies out and El suspends it in the air for a moment before flinging it across the mall. The sight of it was disgusting, some little meaty alien looking thing, clearly something very Upside Down related. 

It scurries across the tile floor and then just as fast as it gets away it’s crushed under someone’s boot, the remains splattering out from under it. Your eyes trail up from the floor and you find Hopper standing there alongside Joyce and some guy that looks awfully familiar. 

It’s a bittersweet reunion between Hopper and El as he practically scoops her up and whisks her away to patch her up as best as he can with Joyce’s help. Then in true fashion you all start to debrief and a wave of deja vu washes over you, except this time you aren’t in the Byers home, instead you’re all gathered around the fountain in the middle of the food court. 

“The Mind Flayer, it built this monster in Hawkins to stop El. To kill her and pave a way into our world.” Mike explains. 

“And it almost did. That was just one tiny piece of it.” Max adds. 

Hopper speaks up from the bench he’s sitting on as he holds El. “How big is this thing?” 

“It’s big– thirty feet at least.” Lucas replies. “And it sorta destroyed your cabin. Sorry.” 

Hopper makes a face, but it falters before it can turn into any true emotion. You glance over at Julie not believing that they’d all faced this thing by themselves. You thought you were going through hell down in that shit hole, but little did you know the kids were facing a giant flesh monster on the surface. It has you pulling her closer to you, grateful that she’s still here, and you think she feels the same as she wraps her arm around your waist and leans her head on your shoulder.

“Okay, so, just to be clear–” Steve interjects. “This big fleshy spider thing that hurt El, it’s some kind of gigantic weapon? But instead of like screws and metal, the Mind Flayer made its weapon with melted people? And Billy of all people is its puppet?” 

“Yeah exactly.” Nancy responds like this doesn’t sound absolutely insane. 

“Are we sure this thing is still out there, still alive?” Joyce questions. 

“El beat the shit out of it, but yeah, it’s still alive.” Max brings the bad news and silence falls over the group as you all sit with the fact that this thing is surely on its way here. 

Julie slowly lifts her head from your shoulder, as if she’d suddenly thought of something. “But if we close the gate again…” She starts and that gets everyone's attention. “We could cut the brain off from the body and kill it.” 

She wasn’t wrong, theoretically speaking at least, but this was different than before. This was a beast you weren’t familiar with, plus you’ve got Russians in the mix now, and suddenly a lone demogorgon seemed like a walk in the park. But what else were you guys supposed to do?

“We’ve done this before, at least, a version of it.” You glance around at everyone. “It’s nuts, but do we have any other options at this point?” 

No one says anything for a moment, it’s just quick glances shared and heads hung low. You can tell the reality of what you guys are facing, the fact that you’re going to have to fight to end this again, it’s started to settle in for everyone. 

You hear a groan and out of the corner of your eye you see Hopper standing up from the bench. “Alright, what’s the plan?” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It doesn’t take long to come up with one if you’re being honest, it all boiled down to Hopper, Joyce, and Murray, who you eventually realized was the man who was hired by Barb’s parents once you heard Erica mouthing off to him. How he’d gotten involved in this you weren’t exactly sure yet, but nonetheless the three of them were going to go down into the base and close the gate. Dustin and Erica would guide them from his radio tower at Weathertop and well everyone else was banished to Murray’s safehouse just across the state line.

Seems simple enough right? Like there wasn’t some giant flesh monster still out there searching for El, Russians after you, and according to everyone that was on the surface for the last 24 hours a flayed Billy Hargrove that is surely going to be a problem.  

Steve and Robin were given the task of taking Dustin and Erica to Weathertop in whatever vehicle Hopper had tossed him the keys to and were told to not dilly dally around about getting there. The message was received loud and clear from Hopper and Steve trails behind the other three without question.

That is until he turns his head on instinct, expecting you to be there, sticking to his side like you always do, only to find you nowhere near him. He stops and fully turns around thinking that maybe you were just catching up to him, but you aren’t even in his general vicinity. You’re with Julie and Max talking to them, not even looking in his direction.

It shouldn’t put such an ugly feeling in his chest, the fact that you’re not coming with him, or that you don’t even seem interested in going with him. He should know you’d want to stay with Julie, but you would have at least said bye to him, told him to be careful, told him to keep his promise, and you’ve done none of that. 

“Harrington lets go!” 

Robin’s hollering breaks Steve out of his trance, but he doesn’t turn around, he walks backwards, eyes still on you hoping that you’d turn around and at least make eye contact with him after hearing Robin yelling. By the time his back hits the door you still haven’t turned around and Steve realizes right then and there that things may very well never be the same between the two of you. He knows communication works both ways and he could have gone and said goodbye, but he doesn’t and maybe it’s for the better. 

You two were constantly blurring the lines between your friendship and while he was the one to finally cross it. You were the one who redrew it twice as thick. So, Steve takes the message for now, not wanting to push the envelope any further, but that doesn’t mean it’s changed how he feels about you. 

He slowly turns, giving you a second longer to even just glance his way, but you don’t. So, he pushes open the door and leaves you behind, but he can’t seem to shake the feeling that’s settled in his gut. The one that tells him he shouldn’t be leaving you. 

Once Hopper says his goodbyes to El and Joyce says her to Will, you all pile into the Wheeler’s station wagon, ready to hit the road and hopefully not encounter any bumps along the way. 

You guys don’t even make it out of the parking lot.

Nancy’s turning the ignition like her life depends on it, which it does, but she’s gonna flood the engine if she doesn’t stop. Thankfully Jonathan gets her to cool it for a second and the two of them get out of the car to check the engine. 

You guess you could be out there helping, but you don’t know jack shit about cars, so you’d just be standing there like an idiot and in the way. You hear Jonathan mention something about an ignition cable missing and then suddenly you hear the sound of an engine revving and bright headlights shining your way. You’d know the sound of that car anywhere and the California license plate on the front confirms your suspicions. 

It was Billy. 

Nancy starts hollering and you join in telling the kids to get the hell out of the car and back into the mall. Billy undoubtedly was the one who took the ignition cable, trapping you here, and that could only mean one thing. The Mind Flayer was on the way. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The night air billows through Steve’s hair as he drives this Cadillac with the top down to the middle of nowhere. He probably shouldn’t be driving, given his multiple blows to the head he suffered from earlier, but Robin can’t drive, and his only other option is two kids. So, this was the best option. 

The whole drive his mind has been preoccupied. He can’t stop thinking about you, wondering if you’re alright, wondering what’s going to happen with you two after this is over with. He’s in his own little world as fields and trees pass by in a blur. 

“So, you gonna tell me what happened with Y/N and you?” Robin asks suddenly, causing Steve to take his eyes off the road for the first time since leaving the mall. 

“It’s complicated.” Steve mumbles, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror to see Dustin and Erica obviously listening in.

Robin rolls her eyes at his vague response. “It shouldn’t be complicated. I’ve never seen two people more in love than you guys. Shouldn’t that be enough?” 

“Yeah you’d think…” Steve trails off, not really wanting to get into much detail about this right now. 

Steve’s response tells Robin everything she needs to know, it was clear that you’d been the one to make things complicated, and for once in her life Robin knows when to shut up. She doesn’t know exactly what happened, but from what she walked in on earlier it was clear nothing good came from what she had instigated. And as she looks over at him she can’t believe she’s thinking this, considering how awful Steve was in high school, but she feels bad for him. 

Back at the mall things aren’t going great. Mike’s calls for help over the walkie have gone unanswered and without a ride out of here you guys are screwed. That is until Jonathan suggests taking the ignition cable from the car El had flung at those Russians earlier and while it seems like a great idea, you guys unfortunately can’t push it right side up. 

“Let me try.” El suggests after your guys have practically exhausted yourselves trying to push this car over. 

“El…” Mike warns, knowing she’s injured and drained already. The last thing she needed to be doing was trying to lift a car again. 

“I can do it.” 

You knew she was going to try one way or another, that’s just the kind of girl she was. So, you all stand behind her and watch the sad scene unfold. She tries her hardest, her body shaking, and her nose bleeding, but in the end it’s not enough. She lets out a muffled yell and drops her arm, the car hadn’t even moved an inch. She turns to face everyone and your heart breaks for her, she looks so defeated, like she’s failed everyone, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

With El not being able to move the car you guys are back at square one, but when Mike suggests using the posts that held the velvet rope where the car used to be as leverage against the car, it actually ends up working. 

Nancy and Jonathan work on getting the hood of the car open and you can’t seem to figure out why El is digging through the trash can. “What’s she doing?” You ask Julie and Max who stand on either side of you. 

“No idea.” Julie mumbles as she sees El pull an empty coke can out and set it on the ledge in front of her. 

The three of you decide to go see what she’s up to and of course Mike has to tag along as soon as he sees where you three are headed. El is just standing there staring at the coke can and you wonder if she’s lost her mind. 

“El, you okay?” You ask gently, your hand hovering over her shoulder, not wanting to startle her. 

She turns to look at you and you notice that her nose is bloody again and it’s apparent she was trying to use her powers. “I can’t even crush the can.” 

Her voice sounds so broken and she looks to be on the verge of tears. It had to be terrifying to her, to not be able to do the one thing she’s only ever known. “Hey it’s alright, you just need to rest, quit pushing yourself okay?” 

El practically falls into your arms, her head resting on your shoulder like it was the only thing that could bring her comfort right now. Over the last seven months you’d grown close to the girl, became somewhat of a big sister to her, and to El you were family. Even if she didn’t understand the intricate workings of what being family actually meant, she knew she cared about you and you cared about her so to her that meant family.

You were there for her when Mike was on her nerves or when she had questions about anything she didn’t want to ask Hopper about. Being around you, having sleepovers at your house with Julie and Max, it made her feel normal, like how a fourteen year old girl should feel. 

You hear a rumbling noise in the distance, but you don’t think much of it. You figured it was just thunder from an incoming storm, but the speed at which it gets closer and louder doesn’t resemble one of a storm, it’s something else. The whole mall suddenly shakes and you all look up at the glass ceiling to see what you can only assume is the Mind Flayer about ready to fall through. 

The glass starts cracking and if you guys don’t move, that thing is going to crush you in a matter of seconds. “We gotta go!” You usher the kids in front of you, making sure they get out the way before you do. Not even thirty seconds later the ceiling caves in and glass and metal rain down as the floor shakes beneath you. If all that didn’t let you know it’s arrived, the deafening roar it lets out definitely does and you pray that this nut stand you five are huddled behind is enough to protect you. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve’s been pacing this hill ever since they’d arrived, waiting for the relay over the radio that you guys have made it to Murray’s hideout, but all he’s been hearing is Dustin and Erica guide Murray through the air vents. He can’t seem to shake this worry that’s settled deep into his chest and it’s eating away at him. The only thing on his mind right now is you and it scares the shit out of him that you aren’t right next to him right now, that he didn’t tell you bye earlier, it puts ideas into his head that something is going to happen to you and he’s not going to be there to try and stop it. 

His conjured up nightmare becomes a reality in the blink of an eye and Steve feels the panic starting to spread throughout his body. “Hey guys…” He calls out as he looks out at the mall in the distance, lights flashing like it's a goddamn rave, which could only mean one thing. 

“Oh shit.” Dustin mutters as they join Steve at the edge of the hill. 

Steve’s the first to turn back towards the radio, but Dustin beats him to it, immediately sending out a message. “Griswold Family, this is Scoops Troop! Do you copy? Over.” 

Nothing. 

“Griswold Family, I repeat, this is Scoops Troop. Do you–” 

There’s static and then a shriek echoes through the receiver. “Griswold Family, do you copy?” Dustin hollers, but the only reply he gets is a loud roar and Steve feels his blood run cold. Dustin keeps trying to get a response from you guys, but it’s useless, all they can hear is static and more snarling from the Mind Flayer. 

Steve doesn’t even think twice before getting up and running back towards the car. He wasn’t going to just sit here and do nothing, he was going to save you, no matter what. 

“Where are you going?!” Erica yells out. 

“To get her the hell outta there! Stay here, contact the others!” Steve yells over his shoulder, not wanting to waste any time stopping to explain himself. 

“Shit.” Robin mumbles before chasing after him. She wasn’t about ready to let this idiot drive off towards his death alone. 

“Wait Robin!” Dustin calls out to her and then throws her an extra walkie. “Stay in touch!” 

“Got it!” 

She has to nearly jump into the car so Steve doesn’t leave her behind and as he backs down the hill at an alarmingly fast speed Robin still can’t help but stir the pot even in a time of crisis. 

“So, we’re only going to save Y/N? Everyone else just has to fend for themselves?” 

Steve harshly whips the car around to face the road and Robin damn near gets whiplash. He knows he had a slip on the tongue earlier, but it’s true, you were all he was thinking about then and you still are. As they get back onto the main road Steve puts the pedal to the floor and his hands grip the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. 

He glances over at Robin with a crazed look in his eye. “She’s my number one priority.” 

You’d heard Dustin’s radio messages and then the desperation in his voice as he realizes the only thing that’s going to reply is the Mind Flayer. You’re glad Steve’s far away from here and that the possibility of him sacrificing himself for your safety is out of the question, but you want to kick yourself for not saying bye to him earlier, for not making sure he keeps his promise, because as you sit curled up behind this stand you know there’s a good chance you’ll be breaking yours before this is all over. 

Julie’s got such a tight grip on your hand you think she’s about ready to break it, but you don’t care, she’s scared, and frankly so are you. You’re trying your hardest to put on a brave face for the kids, be the rock they need right now, but everytime you hear the monster growl or its ground shaking steps get a little too close, your composure slips. 

You aren’t sure where the other half of the group has chosen to hide, hopefully it’s better than this damn nut stand Mike led you guys to. Either way it’s clear they’ve chosen someplace good because you haven’t heard any screams yet and hopefully you never do. 

Mike pops his head up over the counter and you’re immediately grabbing at him, pulling him down back to safety. “What the fuck are you doing?” You whisper in a far from friendly tone, annoyed that he’d put himself in danger like that. 

“It’s turned away. If we go up the stairs now, we’ll make it.” He whispers back. 

“No way, not with El’s leg.” Max replies. 

“We have to try.” 

And as much as you hate to admit it– Mike was right. You guys were exposed here and this wasn’t a situation that you could ride out, you needed to get the hell out of this mall.

“There’s another way to get out.” El interjects. “Through the Gap.” 

You glance between the kids, verifying that this is what you guys were going to do, and with no objections or other ideas, it’s final. Your head peeks over the counter like Mike did and when you see that it’s still facing the other way you know it’s now or never. 

“Okay.” You whisper, your heart nearly beating out of your chest. “Now.” 

The five of you quickly round the corner to the Gap, careful not to make a sound, but on the way in El bumps into a display and a metal rack clambers to the ground. The sound travels and you feel your stomach drop at the roar that comes from the monster. You grab Julie and Max and tuck them behind a display and shove El and Mike behind another. Which leaves you the most exposed, but as long as they're hidden it doesn't matter.

You can hear the sound of its tentacles hissing and weaving through the store, grabbing anything that might resemble El and then throwing it once it realizes it’s not. There’s not really anything you can do except sit there and pray it leaves, but when you see the very front of the tentacle peek out from the edge of the aisle you prepare yourself for the worst. You just hope it’s over with fast or that your brain protects you and you black out before the pain sets in. 

You end up not having to worry about any of that though, what sounds like a balloon popping immediately gets the attention of the monster and its tentacle retracts out of the store as it stomps towards wherever that sound came from. You don’t waste any time once the coast is clear and you push the kids towards the back door and into the service hallway. 

Steve’s body is radiating with anxiety, fear, dread, every horrible emotion known to man, the closer they get to the mall. He’d tried to calm himself down, tried to reassure himself that you’d be fine and that you’d be waiting for him without a scratch on you, but the human brain is a strange thing, and nothing he does seems to calm the horrible fears that it conjures up. 

As he pulls into the parking lot he sees the Wheeler’s station wagon still parked out front and Nancy standing in front of it– with a gun? 

“Is that…?” Robin mumbles. 

Steve’s eyes follow the direction in which Nancy’s aiming and finds Billy in his car, revving the engine, and then suddenly he’s driving towards Nancy at full speed as she shoots at him. It’s not one of Steve’s smartest decisions, but he wasn’t about ready to see Nancy get mowed down, so he presses his foot on the gas and tells Robin to hold on. 

The crunch of metal and the screeching of tires fills the air and as the car comes to a harsh stop Steve can’t believe he’d just done that and survived. Billy’s car bursts into flames over to the side and Steve feels like he’s just jumped out of a plane without a parachute. 

“Are you okay?” He asks Robin as smoke starts to come out from under the smashed hood of the car. 

“Ask me tomorrow.” She replies, shell shocked. 

From the roof of the mall comes a loud screech and then suddenly Steve and Robin see a large shadow looming in the distance. They both stand up on their seats, hands gripping the edge of the windshield of the convertible so they can get a better look. 

“Oh shit!” Robin gasps as the creature comes into full view now, its meaty limbs climbing over the front of the mall and towards them. 

The honk of a horn breaks them from their shocked state and they both turn to see the station wagon pulling up next to them. “Get in!” Nancy hollers from the passenger seat. 

She doesn’t have to tell Robin and Steve twice. In the blink of an eye they stumble into the back of the wagon and watch out the window as the creature follows behind them. 

Steve had been in such a state of shock after crashing the car and seeing this monster up close and personal for the first time that you’d slipped his mind. The one person he’d come here for. They aren’t very far from the mall when he realizes it and his head whips around towards the front, looking for you, but you’re nowhere to be seen. 

“Where’s Y/N?” He asks, a little panicked. 

“We got separated when that thing fell through the ceiling. She’s probably still at the mall with Julie, Mike, El, and Max.” Nancy replies. 

“You just left her there? Left all of them there? Turn the car around, I'm not leaving her again!” Steve feels like he’s going to throw up. 

“Incase you haven’t noticed we’ve got this fucking monster chasing us right now Steve. So no, I’m not turning the car around!” Jonathan hollers, eyes flickering back at Steve through the rearview mirror. He can see the distraught look on his face and he feels for him, but there’s no way he’s driving this car towards the thing chasing them. “Listen as long as this thing is chasing us, it’s not a threat to Y/N or anyone back at the mall. She’s safer there than she would be with us.” 

At least that’s what he thought. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The back hallways through the mall are a bit of a maze, especially when your mind is already a little frazzled, and you’re helping El walk. But eventually you make it to the exit door and as you reach the gates you think you’re finally home free, only to be met with Billy standing next to his car in flames. 

“Shit!” 

“Go, go, go, go!” Mike exclaims, turning you and El around back towards the mall. 

Max slams down on the button for the gate and you all hope it closes before he reaches it. 

The lights begin to flicker as you try your best to run back down the halls with El between Mike and you. It’s a struggle, but you eventually make it to the service elevator and vigorously press the button like it will make it arrive faster. 

“Billy.” You hear Max call out and everyone’s heads whip around to find her standing out in the hall. “Billy, you don’t have to do this. Your name is Billy, Billy Hargrove. You live on 4819 Cherry Lane. Billy, please, I’m Max, I’m your–” 

In an instant Billy has smacked Max upside the head and she crumbles to the floor. You immediately put yourself between the other kids and Billy, your arm outstretched to try and stop him. 

“Billy come on, don’t do this.” You plead out, but it does nothing as he grabs onto your arm and flings you into the wall. You try to fight back, but he’s too strong. His hand tightly grabs ahold of your hair as he pulls you back from the wall and then with one hard bang your head hits the solid concrete. Your vision starts to go black and you find yourself meeting the same fate as Max as you fall to the ground. 

Steve is a man crazed as Jonathan pulls back into the parking lot of the mall, he hadn’t even put it park yet and he was opening the back hatch and climbing out. Ever since the Mind Flayer had turned around and stopped chasing them all he could think about was getting back to you. Everyone else had devised a plan to use the fireworks Lucas had borrowed earlier against the Mind Flayer, but Steve had a plan of his own. No one said anything as he went off on his own, they knew it was no use wasting their breath when it came to anything regarding you. 

He decides to go through the side entrance, the gate already open, and it would be faster to go through the halls instead of straight into the action, but what he doesn’t expect to find in his journey through the back hallways is you out cold on the floor. His heart drops and he immediately falls to his knees in front of you. 

“Y/N, baby come on wake up! I need you to wake up!” He doesn’t even care that he’s used the term of endearment again. You were his baby, his love, no matter what had happened in the bathroom earlier. His hands shake you harder and his loud pleas must have woken up Max and Mike because they’re groggily sitting up and trying to understand what’s going on. 

Steve cradles your head in his lap, trying anything to get you to wake up, but when he pulls his hand from the back of your head and finds it stained red, he loses his shit. 

“No, no, no.” His voice cracks and he feels like his whole world is slipping out of his grasp. “Please wake up! You made a promise. We made a promise. Now keep yours and come back to me please.” 

He’s got tears streaming down his face as he holds you. He glances over at Mike and Max, silently asking for their help, and they're on their feet and over to you in an instant. 

“Y/N wake up, we need you!” Max begs, starting to panic with each minute that passes. 

Steve never pegged himself as a religious man, but right now he was praying to every God or higher power known to man to bring him back to you. He couldn’t lose you, he doesn’t want to know what life is without you in it, and he feels his heart physically breaking as you lay here in his arms with your head busted open. 

Then ever so slowly your eyes flutter open and Steve feels his lungs fill back up with air. 

“Steve?” You ask, a little disoriented. 

He smiles down at you, his hand moving to cradle the side of your face. “Yeah baby it’s me, I’m here. You’re okay.” 

Even in your altered state you clock the term of endearment that slips past Steve’s lips, but you don’t say anything, you’ll save it for after all this is over. You slowly sit up and the pain rushes to your head causing you to gasp. “Holy shit my head hurts. That asshole really did a number on me.” 

Steve helps you stand up, his hands never leaving your side, especially when you stumble a bit. He’d never been so scared in his life and there was no chance he was ever going to leave you alone again like he had tonight. His arms wrap around you, pulling you into his chest and you lean your head against it. It calms you, the beat of his heart, and the feeling of him holding you in general. “I thought I’d lost you. Don’t ever scare me like that again.” He mumbles into your hair. 

“I’ll try.” You pull your head back and give him a little smile, trying to lighten the mood, but you can tell him finding you in the state you were in is going to haunt him for some time. 

You look over at Max and Mike who have their own battle scars from Billy. “You guys okay?” 

“Yeah, we’re fine. You were the one that gave us a scare.” Max replies. 

“I’m fine, just a little bump on…” You pause as your eyes scan the area and panic floods your system. “Um, where’s El and Julie?” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

When you were four years old your parents brought home Julie, wrapped in a pink blanket with a little white bow on her head. You don’t remember much from when you were that young, but you remember the day she came home from the hospital.

According to your parents you were a jealous toddler, when they’d told you that your Mom was pregnant you’d taken the news horribly, claiming you didn’t want to share your parents with anybody else. They’d tried to involve you in the pregnancy, get you to pick out clothes for her, help decorate the nursery, hell they’d even offered to let you pick out her middle name. But their attempts were futile and you didn’t care how much your parents tried to prove to you that you weren’t being replaced, you still didn’t want anything to do with the baby. 

But then the day had come and your Mom had gone to the hospital and you were stuck at your grandparents house until they came home. You were mad that they’d dumped you off at your grandparents while they went off and got to get their new daughter. When your Dad had called later that day to let them know your baby sister had arrived you’d turned your nose at the news. 

The whole drive back to your house your grandparents talked about how excited they were to meet their new grandbaby and that you’d surely come to love her too, but it made you even more upset because not only were your parents replacing you, but so were your grandparents. 

So, when your parents enter the house with her you want no part of seeing her. In fact you’d rather be in your room playing with your toys right now. But then your Mom and Dad sit on either side of you on the couch and your Mom asks you a question that changes your life forever. 

“Do you want to hold your baby sister?” 

You don’t want to, but she’s already moving her towards you and so you hold out your little arms and for the first time ever you lay your eyes upon your little sister. “Whats her name?” 

“Julie.” Your Dad says softly. 

Your eyes widen as you look between your Mom and Dad and then back down to baby Julie. “Really?!” 

Your Mom nods and for the first time since they’d announced they were expecting they’d gotten a smile out of you regarding something related to the baby. When they had offered for you to pick out her middle name you didn’t want any part of it, but a couple days later you’d thrown out a name randomly, claiming that it should be her middle name. So, they’d promised to keep their word, and they had, until they took one look at her in the hospital and knew that Julie fit her better for a first name instead of a middle name. 

It’s then that something clicks in your four year old brain. As you look down at the little baby with the white bow and the pink blanket you feel a lot of big emotions for a four year old and you start to cry. Not sad tears, but happy tears.

Now that she’s here and she’s not some big bad monster you’d conjured up over the last nine months, you’d come to realize that you actually love the idea of being a big sister. You couldn’t wait to play with her, and do her hair, and have Mom teach her the special night time song for when the monster under the bed shows up. 

You loved her and even at four years old you knew you’d always be there to protect her. 

Which is something you’ve done for the last fourteen years, even when she’s being a little shit and wearing your makeup or teasing you about Steve. You’re always going to be there for her when she needs you. 

Except tonight you were a minute too late. 

It all seems to happen in a blur as you finally make it back to the food court. From what you can tell Julie was trying to help El get away from Billy, but he grabs ahold of her and tosses her aside like she weighs nothing, but that’s not what shatters your whole world. 

In an instant one of the tentacles of the Mind Flayer reaches out and snatches up Julie, probably thinking she was El, but once it realizes she’s not, it flings her across the mall. Her body hits the ground hard and you feel like all the air has been sucked from your lungs. Your legs move faster than your brain and you find yourself standing over her lifeless body before you realize it. 

You don’t see fourteen year old Julie laying there, blood seeping through her shirt from the teeth on the tentacle piercing her skin, you see baby Julie. The little girl who loved when you’d braid her hair or begged you to play doll house with her even when you’d outgrown dolls. All you see is your baby sister, the one you made a promise to protect and tonight you’d broken that promise. 

The broken sob that comes from your mouth is earth shattering and as you drop to your knees at her side, calling out to her, you’d give anything to take her place. 

Steve had been right behind you the whole time, watched the same exact thing you had, and now stood behind you with tears in his eyes. He’d already gone through the possibility of losing you tonight and the idea of losing Julie has him in nearly the same state as you. He’d grown up with Julie too, the annoying little sister that he never had, the little girl who always had to tag along with you and him. 

“She’s not breathing Steve!” His eyes break away from Julie for the first time since he’d seen her lying there and they land on you. You’re looking up at him with the most gut wrenching look on your face. A look that says why did it have to be her? “Steve, help. Please help, I can’t lose her!” You’re inconsolable, sobs wracking your body, words a jumbled mess. 

Steve scrambles onto the floor on the opposite side of Julie and checks her pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there. “She’s alive, her pulse is weak, but she’s fighting to hang on.” 

Fireworks start raining down from the upper level, but it doesn’t phase you, not when your little sister is on the verge of dying. In fact nothing else is on your mind right now, the Mind Flayer, Billy, none of that matters anymore. Your only focus is making sure Julie makes it out of here alive. 

“We gotta stop the bleeding.” Steve mumbles and without a second though you take off your shirt, thanking the lord you always wear a tank top under your work shirt. Steve easily rips it down the seam on the side to make a big enough bandage to wrap around her torso. You help move her on her side so you can wrap it all the way around and pray that this stupid Scoops Ahoy uniform helps until you can get her some real help.  

You grab ahold of her hand, holding it tightly in yours, and press a kiss to her forehead. “Come on Jules, you gotta pull through this, please.” 

Steve moves back around to you and wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly against him, trying to take some of your pain away. 

“She’s tough, she’ll hold on. I know she will.” Steve tries to reassure you, but from the amount of blood she’s lost it’s not looking good. 

The fireworks eventually stop and then suddenly you hear screaming and it breaks your attention away from Julie for the first time. The sight you turn your head to see is not at all what you expect and it has your jaw dropping in shock. 

The Mind Flayer had Billy strung up in the air with every tentacle it had piercing into him. Had Billy sacrificed himself? There was no way, but you could see El still on the ground behind him. You watch as the monster lowers him to the ground and you think that maybe it’s letting him go, but then it opens its mouth and pierces a hole straight through his chest with another one of its tentacles. You hear Max scream out his name as he drops to the ground, blood covering his body, and you sit there stunned. 

“Oh my god.” You mutter. 

Max’s screams for Billy are heart wrenching and you know exactly how she feels. And even though Billy was a down right asshole, you feel bad for her.

The Mind Flayer starts going crazy, bumping into the upper level and the columns, until it finally falls to the ground with a whimper. And it’s clear then that they’ve managed to close the gate down below, but this is far from over. The Mind Flayer might be dead and the gate might be closed, but there’s things that still need to be dealt with, things that are going to be dealt with for the rest of your life. 

“Y/N?” You hear your name being called softly and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest. 

You turn back to see Julie looking at you, eyes half lidded, her hand still limp in your grasp. 

“Oh my god, Jules. Hey, everything's gonna be alright okay? Help is on the way, just hold on a little longer.” 

Your other hand reaches out for Steve’s as the tears continue to fall from your face. Tonight had been hell, but your two people were okay, and that’s all you could ask for. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The military arrives shortly after the Mind Flayer falls and you’re all being ushered out towards the ambulances before anybody can even comprehend what's just happened. Steve and you end up having to carry a half conscious Julie out, but you don’t mind, you’d do anything for her. EMTs are waiting by the doors as you guys exit and they immediately take Julie from you and load her onto a gurney. 

It’s chaos in the parking lot, firetrucks, ambulances, and military personnel everywhere. You feel overwhelmed as they wheel your sister further from you and you start to panic. “I’m her sister! I’m coming with her!” You tell one of the EMTs before they get too carried away. 

You look over at Steve, who still looks like hell. “Let them check you out before you leave. Please.” 

“Could say the same to you!” He replies, pointing to the gash you’re still sporting on your head as you climb into the back of the ambulance with Julie. 

The doors close behind you and Steve stands there watching as the ambulance drives off. The constant adrenaline that’s been coursing through his veins for the past 24 hours is starting to wear off and he feels like he’s been hit by a freight train. 

“Sir let us take a look at you.” He hears someone say from behind him and he just lets them guide him to the back of another ambulance without a fight. 

The constant sound of machines beeping and the antiseptic smell of Hawkins General Hospital had been your life for the past twelve hours. Julie was rushed to surgery as soon as you arrived at the hospital and while she was in surgery you were getting stitches in your head.

Your parents had arrived not too long after you guys and you’d never felt more relief in your life to be held in their arms. It made it feel like it was all going to be okay. Of course you couldn’t tell your parents what really happened. The story was that everyone was seeing a late night movie and you were waiting for Julie after your shift ended when the fire broke out. She’d gotten trapped and well the rest was pretty self explanatory. They seemed to buy it and that’s honestly all you could ask for at this point. 

It hadn’t been that long since Julie had come out of recovery and was in her own room when you heard a gentle knock on the door frame. You turn back to see Steve standing there, his face still didn’t look great, but he’d clearly gone home and changed, taken a shower. Something you so desperately needed to do. Your eyes travel down and see that he’s holding a bouquet of flowers with a little get well soon balloon stuck in with them. 

“Hey.” He says softly, waiting for you to invite him in. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see your parents abruptly get up from their chairs. “We’re gonna go get some coffee, do you want anything sweetie? How about you Steve?” Your Mom asks. You both decline and Steve shuffles out of the way and into the room as your parents leave. 

“How’s she doing?” Steve asks as sets the bouquet on the table next to Julie’s bed and then sits in the empty chair next to you. 

“Doctor says she’s lucky. She’d lost a lot of blood, but she should be fine, should wake up anytime now.” 

“That’s good.” 

You glance over at him and you can tell he wants to say something, can tell from the way he’s slightly squirming in his chair. “If you’re here to talk about us Steve I can’t right now. I don’t have it in me. The shit we’ve been through in the last two days, almost losing Julie, I just don’t think even getting into a relationship right now is a wise thing to do. We both are gonna have shit we need to work through and we should focus on that.” 

Steve opens his mouth and closes it multiple times, not being able to find the right words. He’d not come here to talk about the two of you and it makes him a little upset that you’d think that lowly of him. That all he cared about was the two of you and what you were when your little sister almost died right in front of him.

He loved and respected you and frankly he knew things were going to take some time to get back to normal between the two of you. You’d just gone through hell and back together, watched someone die together, of course he wasn’t going to show up to the hospital and beg to be with you. What kind of person did you think he was? 

“Just because I bared my heart to you doesn’t mean you get to stomp on it repeatedly. I didn’t come here to talk about us by your little sister's hospital bedside. Jesus Christ what kind of person do you think I am?” 

You’ve struck a nerve and you honestly didn’t mean to, you’re exhausted, and not thinking clearly. “Steve, I’m sorry I didn’t mean–” 

He scoffs and then abruptly gets up from his chair. “No I get it, message received loud and clear.” He pauses in the doorway, but doesn’t look back at you. “Let me know when she wakes up.” And then he’s gone. 

You sink lower into your chair, god how much more could you fuck things up? Why do you keep pushing away the one guy who would do anything for you, who loves you so unconditionally. Why can’t your brain just let you have him? Your heart already has, but your brain is scared, and it doesn’t help that you’ve piled on all this other trauma. It should be easy to let him in, to love him like he deserves to be loved, but you’d almost lost your little sister today.

The idea of letting Steve in fully, letting him actually live in the home your heart already has reserved for him– it scares the living shit out of you. Because if you ever have to go through with Steve what you just went through with Julie you don’t think your heart can take it. In the end it’s better for you to keep him at a distance. 

Julie wakes up a couple hours later and your worries about Steve wash away the second you see her pretty eyes staring back at you. You call the kids and let them know she’s awake and they show up an hour later. These kids shouldn’t be visiting their friends in hospitals like they do, but here they are, smiles beaming as they reunite.

Max though, lingers behind everyone else, her smile not quite reaching her eyes, and you don’t even say anything to her. You just wrap your arm around her shoulders and pull her into you. You’re surprised she even showed up, but she did, and that says everything about the type of person Max is. 

“Who brought the flowers?” Julie eventually asks once everyone’s left. 

“Steve.” 

“You tell him you love him?” 

You hesitate, but then decide what’s the point of lying. “Yep.” 

“And how’d that go?” 

The girl had nearly died, just had extensive surgery, yet she’s asking about your love life. God, being fourteen really is something. 

“I fucked everything up.” 

“You? No way.” Julie says sarcastically. 

You pick at your cuticles, a nervous habit you’ve picked up over the past year. “Yeah, well believe it.” 

“Steve loves you more than life itself Y/N. Whatever happened or whatever you did I’m sure it doesn’t matter. Just talk to him.” 

“I wish it was that easy, Jules.” You sigh

“Then give it some time. Time heals all wounds.” 

You roll your eyes at her. “Alright Shakespeare, I think they’ve got you on the good stuff.” 

“I do feel like I’m on a cloud.” 

Time may heal all wounds, but some wounds never heal correctly, and while Steve wasn’t necessarily a wound. The ones you did have would eventually come to affect things with Steve down the line.

Three Months Later 

Everything that had gone down at the mall was covered up as just a freak accident, a fire that got out of control, and everything included Hopper’s death. Only a handful of you knew what actually happened, but he’d been painted a hero, and well that’s the best thing you could ask for. 

It comes to be that for everyone’s best interest it would be wise for El to move out of Hawkins and with Hopper dead the Byers had taken her in, which meant the Byers were moving too. They’d been relocated to California with the help of one of Hopper’s government contacts. You guess California was as far away from Hawkins as you could get, but it still seemed a little extreme to you. 

Julie and you had gone over to help them pack the last of their things and say goodbye. It was weird being back at the Byers house after all the things you’d experienced there and as you all say your final goodbyes it felt like a chapter of your life was closing, yet it wasn’t even you that was moving across the country. 

“Promise to keep in touch? Write me letters yeah? I want to hear all about your life in California.” You tell El as she cries on your shoulder.

“I promise.”

You glance over at Jonathan and wrap your arms around him. “Don’t go finding someone else in California to hunt demogorgons with okay?”

He only laughs at you and you think that’s the best thing you can give him right now. You aren’t the closest with Will, but you give him a hug anyways, the poor kid clearly needed it.

You all stand there and watching as they drive down their driveway one last time and leave their lives, everything they’ve known behind them.

If you are being honest, things had felt different ever since that 4th of July night and even with the closure of the gate, things still felt dark for you. Like something was still looming around every corner. Like things were never going to be the same and they weren’t because a part of the group of people that you’d been through hell with were leaving. And suddenly you wondered if leaving Indiana was what you needed to do too. If starting somewhere fresh would get you out of this personal hell you’ve been experiencing. 

It didn’t help that things with Steve were still weird. You want to let him in so badly, but things had gotten a lot worse for you, the reality of what you guys had gone through down there in that base had finally really set in once the dust had settled and it had truly fucked you up. You loved Steve and you know he loved you, but you were in no shape to be letting him in when you were struggling to get through the majority of your days.

You know talking to him about it would help, he’d been through the same thing, in fact even worse than you, but you love him too much to burden him with your demons.

You keep telling yourself that you have to give yourself time and that eventually things will get better and that maybe one day in the near future you can let Steve in and you can be happy with him, love him like he deserves to be loved. 

But sometimes things have to get worse before they get better and in your case they’re about to get a lot worse.

Morning comes slowly. Not gentle, not abrupt, just a gradual spill of light through your half-open blinds, cutting across the room in thin, hazy lines that land right across your bed, across him.

You wake up before you move. Awareness first. Warmth at your back, the steady weight of an arm draped over your waist. The faint rise and fall of someone else breathing in your space like they belong there. They don’t, usually.

Your eyes open slowly. Eddie’s still there.

Curled in behind you like he never left, hair a mess against your pillow, one arm hooked around you like he fell asleep mid-thought and didn’t bother to move after. His face is softer like this, less sharp, less guarded, the usual edge worn down by sleep and something quieter you don’t quite name.

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary.

Then, “You’re still here.”

Your voice is rough with sleep, just enough to break the silence.

He doesn’t startle, doesn’t pull away. Just hums low in his throat, eyes still closed, grip tightening slightly like he heard you but doesn’t feel like moving yet.

“Mm,” he murmurs. “Thought about sneaking out.”

You shift slightly, turning just enough to face him, brow lifting. “Yeah?”

His eyes crack open, dark and slow, settling on you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“Yeah,” he says. “Then I remembered I like it here.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weaker than it should be, sleep still clinging to you, your guard not fully back in place yet.

“Careful,” you mutter. “You’re getting sentimental.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, thumb brushing absent circles against your side under your shirt.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You hum, studying him for a second, gaze flicking over his face, his hair, the way he’s still too comfortable in your bed.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who followed me home,” you point out.

“Pretty sure you invited me in.”

There’s no hesitation in it. No room to argue. You squint at him slightly, like you’re debating it, like you might push back. Instead, you shift closer, just a fraction, enough that your leg brushes his, enough that it feels intentional.

“Don’t make it a habit,” you say.

He grins, slow and easy.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “You’d have to ask me again.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than you mean to, something quiet settling in before you break it, pushing yourself up with a soft exhale.

“Alright,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “Since you stayed, you’re buying us coffee.”

He groans immediately, dropping his head back into the pillow.

“Jesus, you don’t waste time, do you?”

You glance at him, already moving toward your closet. “Thought you liked that about me.”

He watches you for a second, something amused flickering there again. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

The coffee place is small, tucked on the corner like it’s been there longer than it should’ve survived, the smell of espresso and something sweet lingering in the air as you step inside. It’s quieter here. Morning quiet.

You order like you’ve done it a hundred times, not even looking at the menu, and Eddie just watches, leaning against the counter like he’s trying to figure you out in a different setting.

“You always this predictable?” he asks.

You glance at him, unimpressed. “Only in the mornings.”

He hums, nodding like that makes sense. “Good to know.”

You grab your drinks, sliding one toward him before heading for a table by the window, the light softer here, less harsh than your apartment.

For a second, it almost feels normal. Like a date. You don’t comment on it.

“So,” you say, stirring your coffee idly. “Big rockstar day ahead?”

He leans back in his chair, stretching slightly like he’s already settling into the role again.

“Something like that,” he says. “Soundcheck, show, same routine.”

You nod once, like you’re filing it away.

“Try not to suck,” you add, taking a sip.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“Wow,” he mutters. “You’re really good at the encouragement thing.”

“I try.”

He studies you for a second, something softer lingering there again before it fades back into something more familiar.

“You coming tonight?” he asks.

You don’t answer right away. Just glance out the window, tapping your fingers lightly against your cup.

“Maybe,” you say finally. “If I’m bored.”

He smiles at that, like he expected it, like he knows better than to push.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You keep saying that.”

Work feels louder than usual. Or maybe you’re just more aware of it. Phones ringing, keyboards clicking, conversations overlapping: it all hits you the second you walk in, the quiet of the morning gone just like that.

You drop your bag at your desk, already slipping back into it, into Misty, into the version of you that doesn’t linger on nights like that. You don’t even make it five minutes.

“Misty.”

Your manager’s voice cuts through the noise, already halfway to your desk, that same look on his face that means he has something lined up.

You glance up, unimpressed but attentive. “What?”

He doesn’t even bother easing into it this time. “How’d the interview go?”

You shrug lightly, spinning your pen between your fingers. “Usable.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You meet his gaze, expression flat. “It went fine.”

He studies you for half a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to read something there, then lets it go with a small nod.

“Good,” he says. “Because I need you on them again tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

“The show,” he continues, already moving like it’s a done deal. “We want coverage. Full piece. Atmosphere, performance, crowd—everything. And since you already broke the ice—”

You let out a quiet breath, leaning back in your chair. “You mean since I’m the only one who can ‘handle him’?”

He smiles slightly. “Exactly.”

Your eyes flick down to your desk for a second, then back up, something unreadable settling there. “Tonight,” you repeat.

“Tonight.”

There’s a pause. Then you nod once, slowly.

“Fine.”

Your manager claps lightly, satisfied. “Knew you’d say yes.”

You don’t respond. Just reach for your notebook, flipping it open like it’s any other assignment. Like you didn’t just spend the night with the frontman. 

Your apartment feels different when you walk back in. Quieter than last night. Colder, somehow. You move toward your closet.

Outfits get pulled out, discarded, and thrown across your bed in quick succession. Something too safe. Something too obvious. Something that looks like you’re trying, which is exactly what you’re not supposed to be doing.

Your fingers land on one and pause. Black. Fitted. Just sheer enough under the right lighting, just structured enough to hold shape while still letting the metal of your piercings catch through if anyone’s looking close enough.

You stare at it, then grab it.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, already changing, tugging it on with more force than necessary. “Why am I trying so hard?”

You’re not. You tell yourself that immediately. You’re not trying. You just, know how to dress for a room, that’s all.

You adjust it once in the mirror, smoothing it down, checking how it sits, how it hits, how it looks like you didn’t overthink it at all. 

You exhale sharply, grabbing your jacket. “Get a fucking grip,” you mutter to yourself, like that solves anything. And then you’re out the door.

The venue is already alive by the time you get there. Bass thumping faintly through the walls, a line forming outside, the buzz of anticipation thick in the air like something electric just waiting to snap.

You don’t wait in line. Of course you don’t. You flash your credentials at the side entrance, barely slowing your pace as security lets you through, already slipping back into it—into Misty, into the version of you that belongs in places like this.

Backstage is chaos. Wires, crew, movement, voices overlapping, someone shouting about sound levels, someone else rushing past with a clipboard: it’s messy, loud, familiar in a way that settles something in your chest.

And then—He sees you. It’s immediate, like a switch flips. Eddie’s halfway through saying something to Gareth when his gaze catches on you across the room, and he stops. Mid-sentence. Mid-thought.

Perks up in a way that would be embarrassing if anyone else noticed. You take your time walking over. Measured. Unhurried. Like you didn’t just catch that reaction, like you didn’t dress for exactly this moment.

By the time you reach him, his grin is already there, slow and knowing, eyes dragging over you in a way that lingers just a second too long.

“Well, look who got bored,” he says, pushing off whatever he was leaning against, attention fully locked in now.

You glance at him, unimpressed—but your lips twitch.

“Work,” you correct, holding up your notebook slightly. “Try not to make this difficult for me.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, stepping a little closer without even thinking about it.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Funny, didn’t think you needed the excuse.”

You raise a brow, letting your gaze flick over him briefly before settling back on his face.

“Wow, Munson,” you reply, deadpan. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re excited to see me.”

He grins at that, wider now, not even trying to hide it. “Maybe I am.”

You tilt your head slightly, like you’re considering him, like you might believe it. 

Then, “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you murmur.

There’s a second where the noise of backstage fades just slightly, like everything else is still happening, but it’s distant, secondary, not nearly as interesting as whatever this is.

Eddie tilts his head, eyes still dragging over you, slower this time, more deliberate.

“You dress like that for all your assignments?” he asks, voice lower now, just for you.

You don’t even glance down at yourself. “Only the important ones.”

That gets a quiet laugh out of him, something pleased, something a little too knowing.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Would’ve been a shame if this was just for me.”

You step a fraction closer, just enough to tilt the balance again, to remind him you’re not the only one being watched here.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say lightly. “You’re just part of the story.”

His grin sharpens. “Yeah?” he says. “Feels like I’m your favorite part.”

You hum, tapping your pen once against your notebook like you’re considering it. “Don’t ruin it.”

He exhales through a grin, shaking his head slightly, like he knows exactly what you’re doing and doesn’t mind in the slightest.

“After this,” he adds, quieter now, leaning just enough that you catch it, “you’re not disappearing again, right?”

You glance at him, something unreadable flickering there. “We’ll see how you do.”

Before he can answer—“Five minutes!”

The stage manager cuts through everything, loud, urgent, already moving past them.

“Five minutes, guys, let’s go!”

The energy shifts instantly. The room tightens, crew moving faster, bandmates snapping into place, instruments getting checked one last time.

Eddie’s attention flickers back to you for half a second longer, like he’s reluctant to break it.

Then—“Watch close, Meadows,” he says, backing up toward the stage entrance, grin returning, but there’s something sharper underneath now. “Wouldn’t want you missing anything.”

You lift your chin slightly, unimpressed. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”

He laughs at that as he turns away.

The front of the stage is chaos. Bodies packed tight against the barricade, lights low but buzzing, anticipation thick, loud, and alive. The kind of energy you can feel in your chest before the first note even hits.

You slip through easily, flashing your credentials again, ducking past security until you’re right where you need to be: front and center, pressed up against the barricade with the rest of the press. The photographer from Rolling Stone is already there, camera slung around his neck, adjusting lenses with practiced speed.

“You’re late,” he mutters without looking at you.

“I’m right on time,” you correct, already scanning the stage, already slipping into it.

You nod toward the left side. “Start there when they come out. Lighting’s better, you’ll get cleaner shots before they start moving.”

He glances at you, then follows your line of sight, adjusting without argument.

“Then switch center when he comes forward,” you add, flipping open your notebook. “He will. He likes the crowd too much not to.”

The lights drop. The crowd erupts. And then, they’re on.

The first note hits hard, loud, vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, through everything, and suddenly the chaos makes sense, everything snapping into place in a way that feels almost controlled despite how wild it is.

Eddie steps out last, of course. Like he knows exactly what kind of entrance he’s making. And for a split second, his eyes find you. Right at the barricade, like he expected you to be there.

Your pen stills against the page. Just for a second. Then you recover, already nodding toward the photographer again.

“Now,” you mutter. “Center. Go.”

He moves. You stay. Watching. Working. Not distracted. You tell yourself that immediately. Not distracted. 

But Eddie is different on stage.

Bigger. Louder. Unrestrained in a way that doesn’t exist off it, every movement sharper, more deliberate, like he’s feeding off the crowd and giving it right back twice as hard. It’s not just performance. It’s control. And he’s very, very good at it.

You jot something down, quick, barely legible, eyes flicking between your notes and the stage, keeping track of everything: the sound, the crowd reaction, the pacing. And then, the music shifts.

Slows just slightly. Builds. Eddie steps forward, guitar slung low, fingers moving with a kind of precision that feels almost lazy until you realize it’s anything but.

The solo starts. And this time, he doesn’t look at the crowd. He looks at you. Direct. Unmoving. Like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. Your breath catches, just slightly. Your pen hovers over the page, unmoving now.

The lights catch him just right, casting shadows across his face, curls falling into his eyes as his fingers move faster, sharper, the sound pulling tighter, louder, building into something that feels almost intentional. Like he’s playing for you.

You swallow, forcing yourself to move, scribbling something down just to prove you can still do your job, but your eyes don’t leave him. Not once.

“Get this,” you say under your breath to the photographer, voice steady despite it. “Don’t miss this.”

But he doesn’t need the direction. Because even he can tell this moment is different.

And Eddie? Eddie knows exactly what he’s doing.

The moment should pass, but it doesn’t.

The solo fades into the next song, the tempo snapping back up, the crowd surging like a wave breaking, but something’s already shifted.

You feel it in the way your chest hasn’t quite settled, in the way your pen moves a little slower now, like your brain is catching up to something your body already registered.

You shake it off. You always do.

“Angles,” you mutter to the photographer beside you, nodding toward the right. “He’s going to start moving more now—don’t lose him in the lights.”

He adjusts immediately, lifting the camera again. You stay planted. Watching. Working.

Eddie moves across the stage like he owns it, every step loud with intention, feeding off the crowd, throwing energy into them, and dragging it right back. He’s all motion now, hair wild, hands rough against the strings, voice cutting through everything like it belongs there.

And every so often, his eyes flick back to you. Not constant. Not obvious, but just enough. Enough to be intentional. You catch it the second time. The third. By the fourth, you stop pretending it’s a coincidence.

Your jaw tightens slightly, pen tapping once against your notebook like you need something to ground you, but your lips twitch anyway, betraying you just a little.

“Focus,” you murmur to yourself.

It doesn’t work. Midway through another song, he turns back toward the front, crowd roaring as he leans into the mic, voice rough, grin sharp, and then he glances down at you again.

This time, he smiles. Not the stage grin. Not the one for the crowd. Something smaller. Crooked. Just for you. Your eyes narrow slightly, like you’re unimpressed, like you didn’t just feel that land somewhere it shouldn’t.

You don’t smile back. But you don’t look away either.

“Get that,” you say under your breath, not breaking eye contact as you nudge the photographer with your elbow. “Now.”

The camera clicks rapidly beside you. You finally glance down at your notes, scribbling something quick, messy, trying to keep up, trying to stay in it, but your gaze keeps drifting back up. Keeps finding him. And every time it does, he’s already looking.

The set builds. Song after song, louder, faster, the crowd getting wilder, sweat and noise and light blending into something overwhelming and electric. By the final track, the entire room feels like it’s vibrating.

Eddie’s at the edge of the stage again, breath heavy, hair stuck to his forehead, grin wide as the last notes ring out, the crowd screaming like they’re not ready for it to end.

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice—Then he reaches into his pocket. Guitar picks.

He tosses a few into the crowd, easy, careless, the usual routine, people scrambling, hands reaching, shouting. And then, he stops. Right in front of you.

You look up, already expecting something, already bracing for whatever he’s about to do.

He crouches down, close enough now that the noise dulls just slightly, like the moment tightens around the two of you. Up close, he’s flushed, breathing hard, eyes still sharp, still locked in.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then, he holds out the pick. Not thrown. Not tossed. Given. Specifically. To you.

You stare at it. Then at him. One brow lifts, slow, unimpressed, like this is ridiculous, like he’s doing the most right now.

“Really?” you say, just loud enough for him to hear.

He grins, a little breathless, a little smug. “Thought you’d want a souvenir,” he shoots back.

You roll your eyes, taking it from his hand like it’s nothing, like this doesn’t mean anything at all.

“Don’t push it,” you mutter.

But your fingers close around it tighter than necessary. And when he stands, backing away toward the rest of the band, flashing one last look down at you, you hold his gaze. Just for a second longer than you should.

Your expression doesn’t change. Still cool. Still controlled.

But inside? You’re absolutely, completely shaken. And you hate it.

The shift from stage to backstage is always jarring. One second it’s noise, bodies, heat,  the next it’s dim hallways, buzzing fluorescents, and the kind of chaos that feels more controlled, more contained.

You slip through easily, flashing your credentials again, already spotting the photographer setting up near a blank stretch of wall, lights getting adjusted, camera clicking in test shots.

“Give me two minutes,” he says without looking at you.

“You’ve got one,” you reply, flipping your notebook shut, attention already elsewhere.

Because Eddie’s there. Fresh off stage, hair damp, shirt clinging slightly, adrenaline still clinging to him in a way that hasn’t worn off yet. He’s mid-laugh with Gareth, but it cuts short the second he sees you. Again.

That same immediate shift. Like he tunes everything else out.

“Well,” he says, stepping toward you, voice still a little rough from the set. “You survived.”

You glance at him, unimpressed, though your fingers are still curled loosely around the guitar pick tucked in your hand.

“Barely,” you deadpan. “You almost lost me at that second verse.”

He laughs, shaking his head, stepping closer like it’s instinct now, like there’s no space between you that isn’t meant to be closed.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze.

“Occupational hazard,” you say lightly. “I have to pay attention.”

“Felt like more than that.”

Instead, you glance over his shoulder toward the photographer, who’s now waving the band over impatiently.

“Go,” you nod. “You’re needed.”

Eddie glances back, then at you again, reluctant but amused. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You raise a brow. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

He grins at that, backing up toward the setup.

“Yeah,” he calls over his shoulder. “That’s not gonna stop me.”

The next few minutes blur into flashes. Camera clicks. Direction. Movement. You hover just off to the side, occasionally stepping in, adjusting positioning with a quick word here, a gesture there.

“Turn slightly—yeah, that’s better.” “Lose the arm, it looks stiff.” “Look at him, not the camera.”

The photographer follows your lead without question. 

Eddie catches it. The way you shift from observer to control without even thinking about it, the way you command the space just as easily as he does on stage.

When the last shot is taken, the photographer lowers his camera with a satisfied nod.

“Got it,” he says.

“Good,” you reply, already stepping back.

The energy loosens again, bandmates peeling off, crew moving in and out, the night settling into that post-show buzz that feels almost unfinished. Eddie finds you again. Quick.

“There’s a thing,” he says, not bothering with a greeting this time, stepping in close like you’re already mid-conversation. “Some party, our manager mentioned it. Couple big bands are gonna be there.”

You glance at him, curious despite yourself. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Thought you might wanna come.”

There’s something casual in the way he says it. But not really. You study him for a second, weighing it, tapping your fingers lightly against your arm.

Then, “Fine,” you say. “But I’m not going like this.”

His eyes flick over you again, slower this time, like he’s already disagreed before you even finished speaking. “You look fine.”

You scoff. “I look like I’ve been working,” you correct. “I’m going home first.”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’ll come with you.” It’s immediate. Easy, like it’s obvious.

You blink once, caught off guard just enough to notice it, before your expression smooths out again.

“Didn’t realize this was a group activity,” you say lightly.

He shrugs, completely unfazed, already reaching for his jacket.

“Didn’t think you were getting rid of me that easily, did you, sweetheart?”

You hold his gaze for a second. Then tilt your head, something amused flickering there.

“Who said I was trying to?”

His mouth curves, slower now, something a little more satisfied settling in. “Good,” he says.

You kick the door shut behind you, slipping off your jacket without looking at him, tossing it somewhere careless as you move further inside, already unzipping your boots like you’ve done this routine a hundred times.

Eddie lingers near the door for a second. Watching. Always watching.

“You always bring your ‘work’ home twice in one day?” he asks, voice low, amused, but there’s something underneath it now, something a little more interested.

You don’t turn around. “Only the ones that behave,” you toss back, already moving toward your room, fingers tugging at the hem of your shirt.

He huffs a quiet laugh at that, pushing off the wall, following you just enough to keep you in sight. “Pretty sure I didn’t.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, a slow once-over, unimpressed.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s why you’re still here.”

You don’t wait for a response. Just disappear into your room, grabbing something from your closet before heading straight for the bathroom.

The door doesn’t close all the way. It never does. Just left slightly open. Enough.

Steam builds quickly, the sound of water filling the space, soft, steady, and Eddie? Eddie notices. He tries not to.

Tries to stay where he is, pacing once through your apartment, dragging a hand through his hair like he’s debating something, like he’s giving himself a second to not be obvious about it. But then, he passes the hallway again. And the mirror catches it. Just a glimpse.

Your silhouette through the haze of steam, blurred but unmistakable, movement slow, deliberate in a way that feels intentional, even if it’s not.

He exhales sharply, jaw tightening slightly as he looks away, then doesn’t. Not immediately.

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than anything.

He leans back against the wall after a second, arms crossing loosely, like that’ll help, like distance fixes anything. It doesn’t. The water runs. Time stretches.

And by the time it shuts off, he’s already gone still again, listening without meaning to. You don’t rush. When you step back out, it’s slow, deliberate.

Hair damp, skin still warm from the heat, something effortless about the way you move that feels anything but accidental.

Eddie straightens immediately. Eyes on you. No shame about it now. Not even trying.

“Thought you said we were leaving,” he says, voice rougher than it was a minute ago.

You don’t answer right away. Just walk past him, back into your room, like he’ll follow.

By the time you’re done, you look like you belong somewhere louder. Somewhere darker.

The leather tube dress fits like it was made for you, clean lines, sharp edges, hugging just enough to make a statement without trying too hard. The black boots hit just below your knees, spiked, heavy, grounding the whole look in something a little more dangerous.

Your hair falls into loose curls, highlights twisting in a way that’s beyond perfect, framing your face in a way that softens nothing, just sharpens it differently. Makeup darker than before. Smudged in the right places. Intentional.

When you step back into the main room, Eddie actually goes quiet. Not one joke. Not one comment. Just stares. Slow. Thorough. Like he’s recalibrating all over again.

“…you’re kidding,” he mutters finally.

You lean casually against the doorframe, arms crossing, like this is nothing, like you didn’t just shift the entire atmosphere.

“What?” you ask lightly. “Too much?”

He shakes his head once, quick, like he’s trying to clear it.

“No,” he says, stepping closer without realizing it. “No, it’s—”

He trails off. Because there isn’t a word for it. Your lips curve slightly.

“Spit it out, rockstar.”

He exhales a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair again, but he doesn’t back up.

“If we stay any longer,” he says slowly, eyes still on you, “we’re gonna be late.”

You tilt your head. “Mm.”

He steps closer. Closer. “Could be worth it,” he adds, quieter now. 

There it is. 

You hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary. Let it sit. Let him think, just for a second, that maybe you’re considering it. Then you push off the doorframe, brushing past him, close enough that your shoulder grazes his.

“We’re gonna be late,” you say simply.

And just like that, you’re walking toward the door. Leaving him to catch up, again.

The party is loud in a different way than the venue. Less chaotic. More indulgent.

Low lighting, expensive liquor, bodies pressed too close together in corners, laughter that lingers a little too long, conversations that don’t really mean anything but feel important in the moment. You fit here. 

Eddie notices that immediately. The way people clock you the second you walk in. The way heads turn, recognition flickering in real time, like your name travels faster than you do.

“Misty Meadows,” someone calls from across the room.

You don’t even flinch. Just glance over, already smiling like you expected it.

“Don’t call me that,” you say easily, but you’re already walking over, already slipping into it, into them, into the version of yourself that belongs in rooms like this.

Eddie hangs back at first, watching. Because the people you’re talking to? He knows them. Of course he does.

Bigger bands. Louder names. The kind of guys he grew up listening to, the kind he’s still technically climbing toward. And they know you. Not just professionally. Comfortable. Too comfortable.

A hand on your arm. Someone leaning in a little too close when they talk. A laugh that feels a little too familiar.

“You never called me back,” one of them says, grinning like it’s a joke that isn’t really a joke.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile there. “I was working,” you reply smoothly.

“Yeah?” he shoots back. “Didn’t seem like work.”

Eddie’s jaw tightens slightly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you—You notice. Still, you don’t disengage. Not yet.

You lean casually against the table, taking the drink someone hands you without question, slipping into conversation like you’ve done it a thousand times. Probably because you have.

“Here, we got some good shit for you, Meadows,” one of the others says, holding up a little baggie of snow.

You chuckle, leaning down above the table and ripping a line, handing the rolled bill to Eddie. He takes it without hesitation, head sliding horizontally across the table before tilting back slightly as he inhales deeper. 

The conversation continues, Eddie hanging a little closer now. And then, a small comment. Nothing big. Nothing dramatic.

Someone asks, “So what, you and Munson a thing now?”

And you laugh. Light. Easy. Dismissive.

“We’re not anything,” you say, shrugging like it’s obvious.

It shouldn’t land, but it does. Eddie stills. Just slightly, but enough. Enough that something shifts behind his eyes, something quieter, sharper, like something just clicked into place in a way he doesn’t like.

He looks away first, grabs a drink, and doesn’t come back.

By the time you notice him again, he’s across the room. Surrounded. Girls this time: not subtle, and sure as shit, not casual. Hands on his arms, one leaning against his shoulder, another laughing too loudly at something he didn’t even say, fingers brushing over his chest like they’ve done it before.

Like they expect to. He’s not pushing them away. Not really. Not enough.

Your jaw tightens slightly. You don’t rush over. You take your time, finishing your drink, setting it down with a soft clink before moving through the crowd, steady, controlled, like nothing’s wrong. Like you’re not bothered.

But your eyes stay on him, the entire time. One of the girls laughs again, leaning closer, her hand sliding up his arm—And that’s when you reach them.

You don’t look at them. Not at first, just hyperfocused on him.

“We’re leaving,” you say, calm, even, like it’s already been decided. The girls go quiet.

Eddie glances up at you, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles into something else entirely. Something familiar. Sharp.

“Oh yeah?” he says, leaning back slightly, one arm still draped lazily behind one of them. “I'm a little busy at the moment.”

Your gaze flicks briefly to the hands still on him. Then back to his face.

“You are,” you agree.

“I’m with my playthings,” he adds, voice just loud enough, just pointed enough. “We aren’t anything, remember?”

It hits exactly where he wants it to. You go still, just for a second. The girls glance between you, confused, sensing something but not understanding it.

Eddie watches you: waiting, testing. And then, you step forward. Close.

Your hand grabs his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, yanking him forward just enough that the girls fall away automatically, startled, hands dropping like they were never there.

You lean down, bringing your face level with his, close enough that he can feel your breath, your voice low, controlled, and not up for discussion.

“Let’s. Go. Now.”

Something in his expression shifts instantly. The attitude? The bite? Gone. Replaced with something darker, quieter. Interested in a different way now.

The girls don’t touch him again. No one says anything. Eddie holds your gaze for a second longer. Then, he stands, and you grab his hand, leading him out of the party. 

The tension snaps the second the apartment door clicks shut behind you.

Eddie barely has time to shrug off his jacket before you’re on him: pushing him back against the wall with both hands flat on his chest, mouth crashing into his in a kiss that’s all teeth and hunger. 

The coke is still buzzing under your skin, sharp and electric, turning every nerve ending into a live wire. Everything feels amplified: the scrape of his stubble, the metallic tang of his tongue piercing when it flicks against yours, the low groan he feeds you like he’s been starving for this since the party.

He tries to flip it immediately. Hands sliding down to grip your ass, attempting to spin you so he’s the one pinning you. Classic Eddie; always fighting for the reins.

You break the kiss with a sharp laugh, low and mocking, and shove him harder. 

“Cute,” you murmur against his mouth. “But no.”

Before he can argue, you grab a fistful of his curls and yank his head back, exposing his throat. You bite down just hard enough to make him hiss, then soothe it with your tongue—slow, deliberate—while your free hand yanks his belt open.

The taxi ride here had been foreplay on its own. Your regular driver, stoic as ever, hadn’t even blinked when Eddie’s hand slid up your thigh under the hem of your dress, fingers teasing along the edge of your panties like he thought he could get away with it. 

You hadn’t stopped him at first—just spread your legs a little wider, letting him feel how wet you already were. Then, when he tried to push a finger inside, you’d caught his wrist, voice calm and loud enough for the driver to hear every word: 

“Not yet. Keep your hands to yourself until I say otherwise.”

Eddie had groaned, half-frustrated, half-turned on, but he’d obeyed. Barely. The rest of the ride had been him shifting restlessly beside you, cock straining against his jeans, while you stared out the window like nothing was happening.

Now, in your apartment, that same control is back in full force.

You drag him toward the bedroom by his shirt, kissing him the whole way—messy, demanding, your tongue sliding against his in filthy strokes that make him whimper into your mouth. 

The moment the backs of his knees hit the bed, you push him down hard. He lands on his back with a surprised laugh that cuts off when you climb over him, straddling his chest.

“Strip,” you order, already peeling your dress up and off in one smooth motion. The leather hits the floor with a soft thud, leaving you in nothing but the spiked boots and the silver barbells glinting through your nipples.

Eddie’s eyes go dark, pupils still blown wide from the bump you both did. He yanks his shirt over his head, then shoves his jeans and boxers down, kicking them away. His cock is already hard, flushed dark and leaking at the tip, but you don’t touch it. Not yet.

Instead, you crawl higher up his body until your knees bracket his head. You look down at him, one hand braced on the headboard, the other threading through his messy curls.

“You’re going to use that pretty pierced tongue on me,” you tell him, voice low and steady, the coke making every word feel sharp and commanding. “And you’re going to keep going until I come. Understand?”

He nods fast, tongue darting out to wet his lips: flashing the silver barbell that’s going to ruin you in the best way. “Fuck yes.”

You don’t ease into it. You lower yourself onto his face, thighs spreading wide, and grind your soaked pussy right against his mouth.

The first swipe of his tongue is heaven; hot, wet, the cool metal of the piercing dragging perfectly over your clit. Eddie moans like he’s the one getting eaten out, the vibration shooting straight through you. 

He doesn’t hold back, tongue fucking into you, then flattening to lick long, messy stripes from your entrance up to your clit, the barbell flicking and pressing in ways that make your hips stutter.

You ride his face without mercy, rolling your hips in deep, filthy circles, using his mouth like it’s yours to ruin. One hand stays fisted in his hair, holding him exactly where you want him. The other braces on the headboard as you grind harder, chasing the spark that’s already building fast thanks to the coke buzzing through your veins.

“Fuck— just like that,” you breathe, head tipping back. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Eddie’s hands come up to grip your thighs, but you slap one away. “Hands on the bed,” you snap. “You don’t get to control anything right now.”

He obeys instantly, fingers twisting into the sheets instead. His tongue works faster, pressing firm against your swollen clit on every pass, sucking and licking like he’s trying to drown in you. 

The wet, obscene sounds fill the room—your slick coating his chin, his nose, his cheeks—while he groans desperately beneath you.

The high makes it intense. Every sensation is dialed up: the cool metal dragging over your most sensitive spots, the heat of his mouth, the way his pierced tongue curls inside you before flicking back up. You ride him harder, thighs trembling, grinding down until you’re practically smothering him.

When you come, it hits like a freight train—sharp, blinding, your whole body locking up as you grind through it, moaning low and throaty while you pulse against his tongue. Eddie keeps licking you through it, greedy and messy, until you finally lift off him just enough to let him breathe.

His face is wrecked—lips swollen, chin shiny with your arousal, eyes glassy and wild from the combination of coke and being used.

You slide down his body slowly, dragging your wet pussy along his chest and stomach on purpose, leaving a glistening trail. Then you settle over his cock, hovering just above it, and look down at him.

“Beg,” you say simply.

Eddie’s voice is hoarse, wrecked. “Please— fuck, I need you. Ride me. Use me. Whatever you want, just—”

You sink down onto him in one smooth, relentless motion, taking every inch until he’s buried to the hilt. The stretch is perfect. You don’t give him time to adjust. You ride him hard—deep, punishing rolls of your hips that have the bed creaking, your pierced nipples bouncing with every thrust.

Eddie’s hands fly to your waist on instinct. You pin them above his head with one hand, leaning down so your breasts brush his chest, your face inches from his.

“I said you don’t get to control it,” you remind him, voice breathy but firm. You clench around him deliberately on every downstroke, watching his face twist in pleasure.

You keep him like that—riding him with slow, grinding circles that drag the head of his cock against that spot inside you, then faster, snapping rolls that make your ass slap against his thighs. His tongue darts out, licking at his own lips like he can still taste you, and the sight makes you smile, sharp and satisfied.

“Those little playthings at the party,” you murmur, voice low and taunting as you roll your hips deep, taking him to the hilt and grinding there, “the ones you let touch you just to get under my skin?” 

You clench around him again, tighter, watching his eyes flutter. “They could never fuck you like this. Could never take you apart the way I do.”

Eddie groans, his hips twitching like he wants to thrust up, but you keep him pinned, controlling every inch of the pace.

“You can pretend all you want, Munson,” you continue, leaning down to bite his bottom lip hard enough to sting before soothing it with your tongue, “but we both know I’m the best you’re ever going to have. The only one who can make you this fucking desperate.”

His cock throbs hard inside you at the words, a broken sound escaping his throat. You ride him harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room as you use his body exactly how you want—chasing your own pleasure while keeping him right on the edge.

You feel yourself getting close again, thighs starting to tremble, but this time you don’t chase it alone. You slow your movements to a torturous grind, leaning down until your lips brush his ear.

“You’ve been so good letting me use you,” you whisper, voice husky. “So now I’m giving you permission. Fuck me silly, Eddie. Ruin me.”

The switch flips instantly.

Eddie’s control snaps with a low, feral growl. In one fluid motion, he flips you both, slamming your back into the mattress. He doesn’t give you a second to adjust—just grabs a thick fistful of your dark hair, yanking your head back sharply as he drives into you with one brutal thrust.

“Fuck, that’s what I thought,” he rasps, voice rough and filthy as he sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping hard and deep. “All that big talk about being the best I’ll ever have… and now you’re gonna let me wreck this pretty pussy?”

He pulls your hair tighter, arching your back so he can lean down and bite the side of your neck, sucking a mark into your skin while he fucks you harder. 

The angle is devastating—every thrust dragging the head of his cock right against that spot that makes your vision spark.

“Yeah?” he taunts, breath hot against your ear, that crooked grin you can hear in his voice even as he pounds into you. “You’re gonna cum again already? Thought you were supposed to be in control, baby. Look at you—falling apart on my cock like you didn’t just spend the last twenty minutes using me.”

You moan, nails raking down his back, but he doesn’t let up. He yanks your hair again, forcing your eyes to meet his as he drives deeper, faster, the wet slap of skin echoing obscenely.

“Tell me,” he demands, voice edged with dark amusement. “Tell me how bad you need it. Gonna cum all over my dick like a good little slut for me?”

The combination of his dirty words, the sharp tug on your hair, and the relentless way he’s fucking you sends you crashing over the edge. You nod and come hard, clenching around him with a broken cry, thighs shaking as pleasure rips through you.

Eddie doesn’t stop. He fucks you straight through it, hair still fisted in his hand, grinning down at you like he’s won.

“That’s it—fuck, just like that,” he groans, voice breaking as his own release hits. He buries himself deep, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, groaning your name against your neck.

For a long moment, the only sound is both of you breathing hard, bodies slick and tangled. Eddie finally releases your hair, smoothing it back almost gently as he collapses half on top of you, still buried inside.

He presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, then lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes, that familiar crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice completely shot. “Remind me never to make you jealous again.”

You laugh breathlessly, dragging your nails lightly down his spine.

“Too late,” you murmur, pulling him down for a slow, filthy kiss. “I already won.”

Eddie’s still half on top of you, breath uneven, curls sticking to his forehead, his hand lazily tracing down your side like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now that the fight’s over.

You shift first. “Get up,” you murmur, nudging him lightly with your knee.

He groans immediately, dramatic, rolling onto his back instead.

“Absolutely not,” he mutters. “I think I died.”

You sit up anyway, completely unbothered, already sliding off the side of your bed.

“Shower,” you say simply.

He cracks an eye open, watching you for a second, something amused flickering there.

“You bossy all the time,” he rasps, “or is that just for me?”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “Get up.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging himself upright with a wince that’s only half real, following you toward the bathroom like he doesn’t even question it.

The shower starts hot. Steam building fast, fogging the mirror, turning everything hazy and soft around the edges. Eddie steps in behind you, already shaking his head as he looks around.

“…what is all this?” he asks, picking up a bottle like it personally offended him.

You don’t even turn around. “Products.”

“No shit,” he mutters, squinting at the label. “Why do you need—what is this—” he flips it over, reading slowly, “—‘sulfate-free hydrating repair mask’?”

You glance over your shoulder, one brow raised. “Put it down.”

“This is insane,” he continues, grabbing another one. “You got, like, fifteen of these.”

“They do different things.”

He scoffs. “They all look the same.”

You turn then, stepping closer, plucking the bottle from his hand with ease.

“Congratulations,” you say flatly. “You’ve just discovered basic hygiene.”

He grins at that, shaking his head. “Rockstars don’t need this many steps.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, turning back to the water. “I can tell.”

He laughs, loud, real, and then, a second later, you feel him reach past you. Grabbing one anyway. You don’t comment, but you notice.

By the time you’re done, the steam has settled into something thick and warm, the mirror completely fogged over, the room smelling faintly like whatever overpriced thing he definitely just used despite complaining about it.

Eddie steps out first, grabbing a towel, dragging it through his hair as he watches you move around like it’s your space. Probably because it is.

You disappear into your room for a second, then come back with something balled up in your hand, tossing it at him without warning.

He catches it automatically, glancing down. A band tee. Worn. Soft. Faded in the way only something you’ve had forever gets.

He holds it up slightly, squinting. “…whose is this?”

You blink at him. Then laugh.

“It’s mine,” you say, shaking your head as you move past him. “Relax.”

He looks at it again, then back at you, skeptical. “You wear this?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t look like you wear this.”

You pause, turning just slightly, something sharp flickering back in.

“Put it on or don’t,” you say simply. “I don’t care.”

He smirks at that, already pulling it over his head. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You care a little.”

You ignore him, but your lips twitch anyway.

He pulls the shirt down, smoothing it once like he’s testing it, then glances at you again.

“…still think this isn’t yours,” he mutters.

You roll your eyes, already climbing into bed. “Get over yourself.”

He snorts quietly but doesn’t argue, just follows a second later, dropping onto the mattress beside you with a low exhale, stretching out like he’s done this before, like he belongs there. 

The room settles again, dim and warm, the city noise faint through the window, everything slower now, the sharp edges of the night finally dulling.

Eddie shifts onto his side, propping himself up slightly on his elbow, watching you in that same way he’s been doing all day—curious, a little too focused.

“You’re different,” he says after a minute.

You don’t even look at him. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” he presses, quieter now. “Earlier. At the party. And then, uh, here.” His gaze drags over you, slower this time. “You don’t do this with everyone.”

You huff softly, turning onto your side, facing away from him. “You don’t know what I do.”

There’s a pause. Then the mattress shifts, his hand finding your waist again, not pushing, just there.

“Then tell me,” he says.

You go still for a second. Then you scoff lightly, shaking your head like he asked something ridiculous.

“Why?” you mutter. “So you can write a song about it?”

He lets out a quiet laugh at that, but he doesn’t drop it.

“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe I just wanna know why you act like you hate every guy with a guitar.”

You exhale slowly through your nose, eyes fixed somewhere ahead of you, like you’re debating whether to shut it down or not.

“Occupational hazard,” you say. “Most of you are insufferable.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “But you don’t treat everyone like you treated me.”

You almost smile at that. “Maybe you earned it.”

“Maybe,” he agrees easily. “But that’s not the whole thing.”

His thumb traces a slow line along your side, absent, patient, like he’s not going anywhere, like he’s fine waiting you out.

You sigh. 

“There was someone,” you say finally. It’s quieter than anything you’ve said all night.

He doesn’t interrupt.

“In a band,” you continue, voice flat, like you’ve told yourself this story enough times that it doesn’t hit the same anymore. “Thought he was going somewhere. Thought I was part of that.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. “Turns out I was just convenient.”

Eddie’s hand stills. You don’t turn around.

“He lied,” you add, quieter now. “A lot. About everything. Girls, deals, where he was—didn’t really matter. I kept believing it anyway. He needed someone in the press to make a big deal about him.” 

There’s a small pause. Then, sharper, “Won’t make that mistake again.”

The room goes quiet around it. Eddie shifts slightly behind you, closer now, but not crowding.

“So now you just assume we’re all like that,” he says.

You shrug faintly. “Saves time.”

That gets a quiet huff of a laugh out of him, but there’s no real humor in it.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess that’s fair.”

Then his arm tightens just slightly around you, grounding, not claiming.

“Still,” he adds, softer now, “kinda sucks for me.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite left in it, not really. “Don’t make it about you.”

“Too late,” he says.

That pulls a small, real smile out of you. You shake your head, shifting just enough to settle back against him again, this time without thinking about it.

“Get some sleep,” you murmur.

He hums quietly, pressing his face lightly into your shoulder. “Yeah.”

Morning doesn’t come gently. It comes in the form of someone pounding on your door, apparently. Loud. Repetitive. Aggressive enough that it echoes through your apartment like it has a personal vendetta.

Your eyes snap open immediately. “What the—” you mumble, voice rough, already annoyed, already knowing this isn’t normal.

Behind you, Eddie groans into your shoulder, not even opening his eyes.

“Tell them we’re dead,” he mutters.

The knocking gets louder. “Misty!”

You freeze. Then groan. “Oh. My. God.”

Eddie cracks an eye open at that, just in time to watch you drag yourself out of bed, already running a hand through your hair, irritation written all over your face.

“Don’t move,” you mutter, grabbing the first pair of shorts you can find. 

He props himself up on one elbow, smirking slightly. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You shoot him a look, then storm toward the door. The second you yank it open, your manager is already mid-knock, hand raised again like he fully intended to keep going.

“You have got to start answering your—”

He stops, looks at you, then immediately walks past you. Just veers straight into your apartment like he owns it.

“Are you—”

You turn sharply, already annoyed. “Do you mind—”

But he’s already halfway down the hall. And then, he sees him. Eddie. In your bed. Shirtless. Hair a mess. Looking very comfortable.

There’s a pause. A very deliberate one. And then your manager—grins. Slow. Wide. Absolutely insufferable.

“Well,” he says, turning back to you, thoroughly entertained now. “That’s new.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he says, hands up in mock surrender, though the grin doesn’t fade for a second. “I’m just...processing.”

Eddie, meanwhile, leans back slightly against your headboard, completely unbothered.

“Morning,” he adds, like this is normal.

Your manager lets out a quiet laugh. “Oh, this is fantastic.”

You walk past him, grabbing your notebook off the table, flipping it open like this is just another morning, like nothing about this is worth addressing.

“Here,” you say, shoving it lightly into his chest. “Notes from last night. Full set breakdown, crowd response, standout moments—everything you asked for.”

He takes it, but he’s still looking between you and Eddie like he’s watching something unfold in real time.

“Impressive,” he says, flipping through a page. “You work fast.”

“I always do.”

He hums, glancing up again. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Just usually not… like this.”

You shoot him a look. Sharp.

He just laughs, holding up a hand.

“Okay, okay, I’m done.”

(He’s not.)

“Just—” he glances back at Eddie once more, still grinning. “—never thought I’d see the day.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh from behind him, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Me neither.”

Your manager snorts. “Oh, I like him.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Please leave.”

He backs toward the door, still flipping through your notes, clearly satisfied.

“I’ll call you later,” he says, pausing just long enough to throw one last look and chuckle over his shoulder. “Try not to make this a habit.” 

The door shuts behind him. You stand there for a second, then turn slowly back toward Eddie. He’s already looking at you. Grinning.

“‘Don’t make this a habit,’” he repeats, amused. “That one’s got opinions.”

You glare at him. “He’s not supposed to have material.”

Eddie laughs, dropping back against your pillows. “Too late.”

The apartment settles again. Not quiet exactly, just back to normal. You stand there for a second longer than necessary, then turn, already moving toward the kitchen without saying anything.

“Coffee?” you call, like it’s routine, like he didn’t just get caught in your bed by your boss.

“Yeah,” Eddie answers immediately, voice still rough with sleep.

You move through it on autopilot: grabbing mugs, measuring without thinking, the soft hum of the machine filling the space while the rest of the morning slowly catches up with you. It feels domestic in a way you don’t usually allow. 

By the time it’s done, you’ve already slipped back into something steadier, more composed, carrying both mugs back toward your room.

Eddie hasn’t moved much. Still sprawled across your bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting over his stomach, hair somehow worse than before, like sleep only made it more chaotic.

He watches you walk in.

“You’re spoiling me,” he mutters as you hand him the mug.

“Don’t get used to it,” you reply automatically, climbing back into bed beside him, pulling the covers up just slightly as you settle in.

He takes a sip, sighing like it’s the best thing he’s had all week. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m definitely getting used to this.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Instead, you shift slightly onto your side, facing him, studying him in a way that feels a little more intentional now.

He notices.

“What?” he asks, brow lifting slightly.

You don’t answer right away. Just take a slow sip of your coffee, then set it down on the nightstand.

“Where’re you from?” you ask finally.

He hums, like he’s deciding how to answer, then shrugs.

“Indiana,” he says. “Small town. Nothing exciting.”

“Hawkins,” you clarify.

His eyes flick back to you, a little more alert now. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You don’t seem like someone who stayed small-town.”

That gets a quiet huff of a laugh out of him.

“Didn’t really have a choice for a while,” he says. “Kinda got stuck there.”

You don’t push. You let him keep going.

“My uncle took me in,” he adds after a second, voice a little more grounded now. “Wayne. Good guy. Kept me outta trouble. Mostly.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “Mostly.”

“Hey,” he mutters. “I tried.”

You smile faintly, then shift slightly, pulling your knees in just a little, still watching him.

“There’s a song,” you say, tone casual, but your eyes stay on him. “Freak.”

He stills, just a little. You catch it.

“Crowd seemed to love it,” you continue, like you’re just doing your job again, like you’re not poking at something a little deeper. “What’s that about?”

Eddie exhales through his nose, tipping his head back against the pillow for a second, staring at the ceiling. “High school,” he says simply.

“Yeah, I figured that much.”

He glances back at you, something wry pulling at his mouth. “Real insightful, Meadows.”

You nudge his leg lightly under the covers. “Shut up and answer.”

He laughs quietly at that, then sighs again, like he’s giving in.

“People there,” he starts, slower now, “they decide what you are pretty early. Don’t really give you a chance to be anything else.”

Your expression doesn’t change, but you’re listening.

“They called me a freak,” he continues, shrugging like it doesn’t matter, even though it clearly did at some point. “Metalhead, druggie, whatever they felt like that day.”

Your jaw tightens slightly.

“Wasn’t all bad,” he adds quickly. “Had my people. Hellfire club, band, all that. Just…” he trails off, searching for the word.

“Loud?” you offer.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Loud. In a way that sticks with you.”

“Song’s just me owning it,” he finishes. “Taking something they used to throw at me and making it mine.”

You nod slowly, something thoughtful settling in your expression.

“That’s why you play it like that,” you murmur.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re daring someone to say it again.”

Eddie looks at you a little differently after that.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Something like that.”

You hold his gaze for a second longer than usual, something softer flickering there before you look away, reaching for your coffee again.

“You’re not what I expected,” you admit, almost under your breath.

He smirks slightly. “Yeah?” he says. “You keep saying that.”

You glance at him, unimpressed, but there’s something lighter there now. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You huff softly, shaking your head, but you shift closer anyway, settling back into the pillows beside him like it’s natural now.

You don’t mean to ask it. It just slips out.

“How long are you here for?”

Eddie’s still half-laying beside you, one arm behind his head again, the other loosely wrapped around his mug, watching you over the rim like he’s already clocked the shift before you even realize it happened.

“Two more shows,” he says. “Then we’re out.”

You nod. Too quickly. “Where to?”

“Philly, then down south somewhere. Tour schedule’s a blur,” he mutters, shrugging like it doesn’t matter, like it’s all just movement and noise and the next thing.

You hum softly, gaze dropping to your coffee, thumb tracing the rim of the mug without thinking. “Busy.”

“Yeah.”

Silence settles for a second. Not heavy. But not nothing either. And he notices.

“Hey,” he says, nudging your leg lightly with his under the covers. “Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, sweetheart.”

His tone is teasing, mostly. But there’s something under it—something quieter, something that doesn’t quite land as a joke.

You glance at him, brows knitting just slightly. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he counters easily, but he’s watching you closer now. “That little face thing you just did? That’s new.”

You scoff softly, looking away again. “I didn’t do a face thing.”

“Yeah, you did.”

You roll your eyes, shifting slightly onto your back now, staring up at the ceiling instead of at him. “It’s two shows,” you say. “Relax.”

“Yeah,” he echoes.

But he doesn’t sound convinced. Then he shifts too, turning onto his side, propping himself up just enough to look at you properly, like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying out loud.

“Didn’t think you were the type,” he adds, quieter now.

That pulls your attention back. You glance at him, something sharper slipping in again.

“The type for what?”

He shrugs, but it’s not careless this time. “Getting used to things,” he says.

You hold his gaze for a second, something unreadable flickering there, something you don’t let sit for long.

“I’m not,” you say simply.

Then he leans back slightly, like he’s letting it go, like he’s choosing not to push.

“Good,” he murmurs. But there’s a faint edge to it. Something almost like disappointment.

But instead of calling it out, you reach for your coffee again, taking a slow sip like that settles anything. It doesn’t.

Your office feels too bright. Or maybe it’s just you.

You’re halfway through your coffee, flipping through your notes from last night, pretending you’re not still thinking about the way Eddie looked at you while lying in your bed, when your manager drops a file onto your desk like it’s nothing.

“You’re back on them tonight.”

You don’t look up immediately. “I figured.”

“Good,” he says, already moving like he’s mid-thought. “Because you’re not just covering Corroded Coffin anymore.”

That makes you pause. Slowly, you glance up. “What?”

He taps the file once, like that should explain everything.

“Opening act,” he says. “We want full coverage. Rising bands, industry crossover, the whole angle. You’re the best one to handle it.”

You stare at him for a second, then reach for the file. Flip it open. And the name hits you before you even finish reading it.

Your fingers still, just slightly. Not enough for anyone else to catch, but enough. Your manager notices.

“You know them?” he asks, tone casual but watching you closer now.

You close the file smoothly and controlled.

“Yeah,” you say, like it doesn’t matter. “I know them.”

He studies you for a second longer than necessary.

“Good,” he says. “Makes it easier.”

You nod once, but your grip on the file tightens just a fraction. You don’t open the file again. Not right away. You don’t need to.

You already know exactly what’s inside. Mack. Mackenzy, if you wanted to be formal. You don’t.

You haven’t said his name out loud in a long time, but it sits there anyway, sharp and familiar, like it never really left. Your jaw tightens slightly as you lean back in your chair, staring at nothing for a second.

Of all the bands. Of all the shows. It had to be this one.

You let out a quiet breath, dragging a hand through your hair, already feeling the shift, the way this stops being just another assignment and turns into something else entirely. Something messier.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath.

But you don’t say no, you never do. Instead, you grab your notebook, your bag, your jacket, and you go.

Backstage is already alive by the time you get there. Different from last night. Less familiar. Less yours. You move through it anyway, confident, steady, like you belong—because you do, no matter who else is in the room.

You don’t look for him, you don’t have to. You feel it before you see it. That shift in energy. That awareness.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

His voice is the same. Maybe a little smoother, maybe a little more practiced.

You turn slowly.

Mack is leaning against a table like he’s been there a while, like he’s been watching you longer than he should have been, a half-smile pulling at his mouth that feels just as familiar as it does irritating.

He looks good, of course, he does. They always do.

You don’t react, not really. Just take him in once, quick, efficient, like you’re assessing, not reminiscing.

“Work,” you say simply.

His smile widens slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Figured.”

Then he pushes off the table, stepping a little closer, just enough to test the space between you.

“You still doing the whole ‘I don’t get involved’ thing?” he asks, voice light, but there’s something under it.

You hold his gaze, unblinking. “Still doing the whole ‘you think you’re more important than you are’ thing?” you shoot back.

He laughs, low, like he enjoys it.

“Missed that,” he says.

You don’t answer. You don’t give him anything. And that bothers him more than if you had.

“You disappear on me for five minutes and already making friends?”

Eddie’s voice cuts in from behind you, easy, familiar, but there’s an edge there now, something sharper as he steps into your space without asking.

You don’t turn immediately, but Mack does. His eyes flick over Eddie once, quick, assessing. Recognition hits a second later.

“Munson,” he says, like it’s casual. “Heard the set last night.”

Eddie stops just slightly beside you, close enough that you feel it.

“Yeah?” he replies, tone even. “Hope it lived up.”

Mack shrugs, like he’s unimpressed, even if he’s not. “It was loud.”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s kinda the point.”

There’s a pause, a small one. But loaded. And then Mack’s gaze shifts back to you.

“Didn’t know you were covering them,” he says.

You shrug faintly. “Didn’t know you were opening.”

That’s when Eddie looks at you, really looks. And then—

“You know each other?” he asks.

There it is, the moment. You could dodge it. But you don’t.

“We used to date,” you say, like it’s nothing. Like, it didn’t just change the entire temperature of the room.

Silence. It’s brief, but loud. Eddie’s expression doesn’t change much. But something behind it does.

Mack smirks slightly, like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

“Small world,” he mutters.

You don’t react. You won’t give him that. Instead, you glance at Eddie, expression flat, controlled.

“Don’t read into it,” you say lightly.

Eddie straightens slightly, attention flicking back to Mack, something cooler settling in his expression now, less playful, more deliberate.

“So you’re opening for us tonight,” he says, tone casual, but it doesn’t quite land that way.

Mack nods. “Yeah.”

Eddie hums. “Hope you can keep up.” It’s light, technically. But it’s not.

Mack’s smile tightens just slightly. “Think we’ll manage.”

“Good,” Eddie says, already turning slightly away, like he’s done with the conversation. “Wouldn’t want the crowd getting bored.”

Mack leans in just slightly as Eddie steps away, voice dropping just enough that it doesn’t carry.

“You always pick ‘em like this?” he murmurs.

Your eyes snap back to him. Sharp.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, too casually.

“Just saying,” he says. “You’ve got a type.”

Your jaw tightens. “I don’t have anything,” you reply flatly.

His gaze lingers on you for a second longer.

“We’ll see,” he says.

You don’t answer. Because across the room, Eddie’s watching. Not obvious. Not dramatic. But watching. And something in his expression tells you this isn’t over, not even close.

The second Corroded Coffin hits the stage, the energy shifts. Not just louder—bigger. Like the entire room tilts in their direction whether it wants to or not.

You’re at the barricade again, notebook in hand, pen already moving, doing your job, tracking the crowd, the pacing, the reaction, but it’s different tonight. Because now he knows you’re watching. And he knows who else is, too.

Eddie doesn’t look at you right away, not this time.

He paces the stage first, feeding the crowd, letting them build, letting them scream themselves hoarse before he even gives them anything real. It’s calculated. You notice that immediately.

“Get wide shots,” you murmur to the photographer beside you. “Crowd’s louder than last night—capture that.”

But your eyes don’t leave him. Midway through the second song, something shifts.

He’s already worked up, sweat starting to cling to his shirt, curls sticking to his forehead, voice rougher, sharper—and then, without warning, he grabs the hem of his shirt. And pulls it off. The crowd goes feral.

Screaming, surging, hands hitting the barricade hard enough you feel it through your arms. You don’t react, not outwardly. Just scribble something down, quick, controlled—but your pen presses harder than it should.

Eddie tosses the shirt aside like it’s nothing, guitar settling back against his bare chest, skin flushed under the lights, all movement and noise and control. And then he turns, just slightly. Not even intentional, but just enough. And you see it.

The scratches. Faint, but there. Trailing down his back, catching under the stage lights in thin, uneven lines that you recognize immediately. No one else would. No one else could.

Your breath catches, just for a second. Your pen stills. Then moves again, faster this time, like you need to ground yourself in something, anything. 

But when you look back up, he’s already facing forward again. Already playing. Already owning the room like nothing else matters. Like he doesn’t even know what you just saw.

Except, he glances back. Just once. Quick. And this time his grin is sharper. Like maybe he does. Like maybe he wants you to.

You narrow your eyes slightly, unimpressed on the surface, but your grip tightens around your pen anyway.

Across the stage, Mack is watching too. Not the same way. Not with the same understanding. But watching. And something about that makes the moment twist just a little tighter.

Eddie leans into the next song harder. Louder. More aggressive than before. Like he’s proving something. Like he’s not just playing for the crowd anymore. And for the first time tonight, you don’t write anything down. You just watch.

Backstage after the set is louder than it should be. Not from the crowd, from everything else.

Voices overlapping, gear being hauled, laughter cutting through the noise like it belongs there, adrenaline still hanging thick in the air. The kind of chaos that comes right after something big ends, and no one quite knows where to put all that energy yet.

You move through it easily, like always. Notebook tucked under your arm, expression already reset, already back to something controlled, professional, like you didn’t just spend the last hour watching him like that. Like you didn’t notice the scratches. Like you didn’t feel anything at all.

The photographer is already waving someone over, lights getting set up again for post-show shots, and you spot Eddie across the room, half-turned toward the camera, someone adjusting something at his shoulder while he laughs at a comment you don’t hear.

He looks looser now. Still riding the high, still electric. You don’t go to him right away. You never do.

You linger just off to the side instead, scanning, observing, letting the room settle around you before stepping into it. And that’s when—

“Didn’t think leather was your thing.”

Your shoulders don’t tense. Not outwardly. But you recognize the voice immediately.

Mack steps in beside you like he belongs there, like this is normal, like there isn’t history sitting between you that never really got resolved.

You glance at him, slow, measured.

“It’s not new,” you say. “You just weren’t paying attention.”

He smiles at that, like he expected it, like he likes it.

“Still sharp,” he murmurs.

You don’t respond. Your attention drifts past him, briefly, toward where Eddie is still mid-photo, still laughing, but his eyes flick up for a second, scanning the room, landing on you.

Then on Mack. Something shifts, subtle, but there. You look back at Mack before it can linger.

“What do you want?” you ask.

“Can’t say hi?” he replies lightly, stepping a fraction closer, like he’s testing the space again.

“You already did.”

Then his gaze drags over you, slower this time, more deliberate.

“You look good,” he says. “Different. I like it.”

You don’t react. Not really. Just hold his gaze, unreadable.

“Good for you.” That should end it. It doesn’t.

His hand lifts. Casual, too casual. Like it’s instinct. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Fingers reaching toward your face, brushing toward your hair—And you catch his wrist.

Fast. Firm. Not aggressive, but final. His hand stops mid-air. Your grip is steady, controlled, your expression calm in a way that makes it worse.

“Don’t,” you say quietly.

Mack stills. Something flickers across his face: surprise, maybe, or something closer to realization. Then he exhales a quiet laugh, easing his hand back the second you let go.

“Right,” he mutters. “Still like that.”

You don’t answer. Because across the room, Eddie’s not laughing anymore.

The photographer is saying something, trying to get his attention back, but his focus is locked in your direction now, eyes narrowed just slightly, taking in the distance between you and Mack, the way you’re standing, the way he was standing.

You don’t have to look to know he’s coming. You feel it. That shift in the air, that quiet recalibration of the space like something just walked into it that demands attention whether anyone wants to give it or not.

“Everything good over here?”

Eddie’s voice cuts in easy, casual, but there’s something underneath it now, something a little too controlled as he steps up beside you.

Close. Closer than necessary. Mack glances at him, slowly, sizing him up again like he didn’t already try to previously.

“Yeah,” he says. “We were just catching up.”

Eddie hums, nodding slightly, like that checks out.

“Yeah?” he replies. “Didn’t seem like much catching up.”

Mack’s smile sharpens. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Eddie shrugs, easy, like he’s not even trying.

“Just saying,” he says. “You looked a little… stuck.”

Mack lets out a short laugh, but it’s tighter now.

“Careful,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

Eddie tilts his head, like he’s considering that.

“Which one?” he asks. “The part where you think she still cares, or the part where you think I don’t?”

You don’t move,  don’t interrupt. You let it play out. Mack’s gaze flicks to you, then back to Eddie, something colder settling in.

“You always like this?” he mutters. “Or just when you’re trying to impress someone?”

Eddie huffs a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair.

“Man, if I was trying to impress her,” he says, glancing at you briefly before looking back at Mack, “I’d be doing a hell of a lot better than this.”

Your lips twitch, just slightly. Mack catches it.

“Right,” he says. “Because this is working so well for you.”

Eddie grins at that, slower now, sharper.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

The confidence in it, easy, unshaken, lands harder than anything else he’s said.

Mack exhales through his nose, jaw tightening just a fraction.

“You know,” he adds, glancing between the two of you, “she’s not exactly the settling type.”

Eddie nods once, like he already knew that.

“Good,” he says. “Would’ve been real boring if she was.”

That pulls something out of you, a quiet breath of a laugh you don’t quite stop. Mack notices that too. His expression shifts, just slightly.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “She’s got a habit of keeping things… temporary.”

Eddie’s grin doesn’t drop. If anything, it deepens.

“Sounds like a you problem,” he says simply.

That’s the one. Mack goes quiet. Not defeated. But not winning either.

And Eddie doesn’t push it further. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he turns to you, shifting just slightly closer, like the conversation is already over, like Mack doesn’t matter anymore.

“C’mon,” he says, voice softer now, back to something just for you. “Let’s get outta here.”

You study him for a second. Then glance at Mack. Then back to Eddie.

“…bar?” you ask.

He nods once. “Yeah.”

Then you shrug lightly, like it’s whatever. “Fine.”

That’s all it takes. You turn first. And he follows immediately, falling into step beside you like it’s instinct. Like it’s already been decided.

His hand finds your waist as you walk: low, settling at the small of your back, not asking, just there.

You don’t pull away, and you don’t acknowledge it. But you don’t stop him either. Halfway to the door, you feel him slow slightly.

Just for a second. You don’t turn, but he does. Glances back over his shoulder. Catches Mack still standing there. Watching.

Eddie grins. Wide, sharp, and completely unbothered. And flips him off. You feel it more than see it, your hand coming up immediately to smack lightly against his chest.

“Really?” you mutter, but there’s no bite to it, not even close.

He just laughs under his breath, leaning in slightly. “Had to.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling now. Just a little. And neither of you looks back again.

i hope you all enjoyed!!! i have a light weekend workload wise so lot's of fun things coming out, stay tuned >:)

tag list is open for this series, comment to be added <3

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Robin is antsy beside you. You can feel her restless energy radiating off her in waves—the way her leg bounces under the desk making the whole row of connected seats vibrate slightly, the way she keeps shifting her weight, the constant clicking of her pen cap on and off until you want to reach over and take it away from her.

You glance over and see her writing something in her notebook, but it's clearly not notes about "The Sun Also Rises." Her handwriting is messier than usual, more frantic, crossing out and rewriting the same lines over and over.

You lean slightly to peek at what she's written.

Nancy... I've been trying to find the perfect time to tell you...

Robin grunts in frustration, scribbling it out so hard the pencil nearly tears through the paper. She scratches at it with aggressive strokes, then throws her pencil down with more force than necessary. It rolls off the desk and clatters to the floor.

She puts her head down on the table with a soft thunk, sighing so heavily you feel the gust of air. Then she turns her head, cheek pressed flat against the fake wood grain surface, looking at you with those big, expressive eyes.

"How do you do it?" Robin asks, voice low enough not to disturb the handful of students actually paying attention up front.

"Do what?" you whisper back, genuinely confused.

Robin sighs again, breath stirring the loose papers on her desk. "How do you not feel things intensely?"

You're startled, brows furrowing together, a little offended by the question. You snort. "What?"

Robin shrugs, as much as she can while still laying on the desk like a deflated balloon. "I don't know... even when you're mad or upset, you don't—" She pauses, searching for words. "I don't know how you're always kind of cool about it. Like, sure, you can say things that let me know you're pissed, but I don't think I've ever seen you yell. Or cry in front of people. Or have a total meltdown." She groans, lifting one hand to place it on top of your head like she's actively trying to merge your souls together through physical contact. "Can we share a brain? Or like, swap bodies? Just for one day?"

You laugh—awkward and slightly too loud. Professor Morrison glances back at you with a disapproving look, and you duck your head apologetically. You move Robin's hand away from your head, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself.

You lean in closer, voice dropping even lower. "Rob, saying 'I love you' doesn't have to be a huge deal."

Robin's face immediately transforms like you've said a curse word in church. Her eyes go wide, scandalized. "But it's my first time ever!" she hisses. "I want it to be special. I already have it all planned out." Her voice goes dreamy, wistful, and she props her chin in her hand, staring off into the middle distance with a soft smile. "A late-night walk on the beach. The waves crashing. Maybe the moon reflecting on the water. And I'll turn to her and say it, and she'll say it back, and it'll be perfect."

You pretend to pay attention to Professor Morrison, who's now drawing something on the chalkboard that might be a timeline or might be abstract art—you honestly can't tell. You chew on your bottom lip, not looking at Robin when you ask quietly, "What does it feel like?"

"What?" Robin asks, startled like she's been pulled from her daydream mid-kiss.

"Being in love," you clarify, voice even softer now, almost shy. "What does it feel like?"

Robin turns her whole body in her seat to look at you, eyebrows raised. "You've never been in love before?"

You shrug, shaking your head, suddenly very interested in the corner of your notebook where the pages are starting to come loose from the spiral binding.

Robin's expression softens, going tender in a way that makes your chest tight. "It feels like..." She pauses, thinking, then smiles. "Like coming home after a really long day and everything is exactly where you left it. Like being understood without having to explain yourself. Like laughing so hard your stomach hurts and knowing the other person thinks you're funny even when no one else gets the joke." Her smile grows wider, more radiant. "It's terrifying and safe at the same time. Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing someone will catch you if you fall, so you're not afraid to jump."

You try very hard not to think about the way Steve flashes across your mind as Robin explains this. Try not to picture his smile when he sees you, the way his whole face lights up. Try not to remember how it felt waking up in his arms in the tent, or the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he says your name.

You fail spectacularly.

"You okay?" Robin asks, nudging your shoulder. "You look weird."

"I'm fine," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just thinking about all the packing I still have to do."

Robin accepts this with a nod, going back to staring at her ruined confession in her notebook, and you spend the rest of class trying very hard not to think about Steve Harrington and failing at that too.

After class finally, mercifully ends, you and Robin step out of the building into the warm afternoon sun. The campus is already half-deserted, groups of students loading cars with suitcases and coolers, excited chatter about beach destinations and ski trips filling the air.

Steve is waiting off to the side of the building, leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He's wearing his glasses and you can tell the exact moment he spots you because his posture changes—shoulders straightening slightly, the corner of his mouth lifting.

He catches your eyes first, and you both break into huge smiles simultaneously. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing it's been doing lately, and you almost forget yourself—almost forget that you're not the one "dating" him, almost start running up to give him a hug the way your body is screaming at you to do.

But you catch yourself, stopping short when Robin brushes past you and goes straight to him. She plucks the cigarette out of his mouth and grinds it out under her sneaker with more force than necessary.

"What the hell?" Steve complains, looking down at the crushed cigarette with genuine mourning. "I just lit that."

"I'm not going to be stuck in a car with you smelling like cigarettes," Robin says firmly, brushing ash off her fingers.

"You've never complained before," Steve grumbles, pouting at the cigarette on the ground like it personally betrayed him. Then he looks up, and his eyes find yours over Robin's shoulder. His pout transforms into a smile—soft and private and meant only for you. "Hey, Hot Shot."

You feel your face heat up immediately, a bashful smile taking over your features before you can stop it. "Hey, you."

God, you want to mentally kick yourself. You've had this man inside you multiple times in multiple positions, and now—just because you've realized you have a crush like some ridiculous teenager—you're acting like this? How pathetic.

But also, how is he so attractive? Standing there in his navy blue polo that brings out the blue in his hazel eyes, that mustache you spent twenty minutes kissing yesterday, his honey-brown hair catching the sunlight and turning golden at the ends. His glasses gleam in the afternoon sun, and you can see the smile lines at the corners of his eyes.

He chuckles—low and warm and knowing—like he can read exactly what you're thinking. Then he turns to Robin, slinging an arm across her shoulders in that easy, familiar way they have. "Ready to go pick up your sweetheart?"

Robin beams, her whole face lighting up like she's been plugged into an electrical socket. She turns to you, bouncing slightly on her toes. "Hot Shot, you sure you don't want to come?"

Your eyes go wide, panic fluttering in your chest. Steve and Robin are driving to the bus station to pick up Nancy so she'll be in town for the weekend, and then you're all leaving together for the airport Sunday morning for Miami.

But the idea of being trapped in a car with Steve for that long sounds like actual torture. And that's not even considering the dread of the spring break trip itself. A whole week of this. Of pretending you’re not feeling what you’re feeling. 

You shake your head quickly, maybe too quickly. "Uh, no. I'm gonna finish some last-minute things before break. Laundry and packing and stuff."

You glance at Steve, who's still grinning at you, hazel eyes twinkling. There's something in his expression—amusement, maybe, or affection, or something else you're too afraid to name.

"Guess I'll see you at the party tonight?" he says, and you hate how much your stomach flips at the casual way he says it, like you're just friends, like you haven't memorized the taste of his skin. "It won't be that big, but some of the guys wanted to have one last blowout before everyone ditches town for the week."

You nod, not trusting your voice to come out normal.

Robin leans over and kisses your cheek, her lips warm and slightly sticky from lip gloss. "See you in two hours, babe! We'll come grab you before the party!"

And then you watch Steve and Robin walk off, hand in hand, his thumb rubbing circles on the back of her hand the way he does with you when he thinks no one's looking. They're laughing about something, heads bent close together, and they look perfect. They look real.

You know it's fake. You know it's not real, that it's all an elaborate performance for parents and society and the future they're building together.

But standing there watching them go, a part of you wishes it was you holding Steve's hand in the sunshine, you making him laugh, you walking to his car with the promise of two hours alone together.

You turn and walk back to your dorm, and you absolutely do not let yourself think about how Steve's hand felt in yours, or how he smiles differently when it's just the two of you, or how many days you have left before this crush becomes something you can't ignore anymore.

Two hours later, Robin and Nancy show up at your dorm, but something is off immediately.

Robin's mood is completely different than it was earlier—all the nervous, giddy energy from class has been replaced with something darker, more agitated. She's snapping at nothing, moving with jerky, frustrated movements as she rifles through her closet looking for something to wear to the party.

Nancy, on the other hand, is still chipper, seemingly unbothered. She's sitting on Robin's bed, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine and humming softly to herself.

"How was the drive?" you ask casually, pulling your own outfit from your closet—a simple top and jeans, nothing special.

Robin huffs loudly, yanking a shirt off a hanger so hard the hanger goes flying. "Fine."

Nancy looks up from her magazine, gives you a look that clearly says don't ask, and goes back to reading.

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, but apparently it's not between Robin and Nancy because Nancy seems completely at ease. So what happened?

You open your mouth to ask, but Robin disappears into the bathroom with her clothes, slamming the door harder than necessary. You hear the shower turn on, the water pressure making the pipes groan.

Nancy catches your eye and shakes her head slightly. Later, she mouths.

So you get ready in silence, the only sound the running water and the occasional curse from Robin when she drops something in the shower, and you wonder what could have possibly happened in two hours to change her mood so completely.

.-.-.-.

Robin, Nancy, and you walk up to the Pike house as the sun is setting, the sky streaked with orange and pink. You can hear the muffled roar of voices and laughter spilling out onto the front lawn. The smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mixing with the scent of recently mowed grass.

You're shocked to see a miserable Eddie stationed at the front door, playing bouncer. He's slouched against the doorframe, looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else, barely glancing at people as he waves them through. His usual manic energy is completely absent, replaced with a kind of defeated exhaustion that sits wrong on his features.

When he sees the three of you approaching, his frown deepens, carving lines around his mouth.

"I thought you wouldn't have to do this anymore since Steve became president," Robin laughs. She has her arms looped through yours and Nancy's—her excuse to touch Nancy in public without raising suspicion, though anyone paying attention would notice how her thumb keeps stroking Nancy's wrist.

"Yeah, well, your boyfriend is PMSing or something," Eddie grumbles, pulling a cigarette from behind his ear and sticking it between his lips without lighting it. "He's been a total dick since he got back from dropping you two off. Snapping at everyone, drinking like it's his last night on earth."

Robin rolls her eyes, but there's tension in her shoulders that wasn't there before. "He's still pissy? Don't worry, Eds. He's mad because I told him something he didn't want to hear on the way to pick up Nancy."

"That's why he was acting like that?" Nancy asks, a small laugh escaping despite the concern evident in her voice. "What did you tell him?"

Robin opens her mouth, then gives you a sideways look—quick, furtive, guilty. "Nothing important. The truth about something. He didn't like it, so now he's acting like a baby." She tugs at both of your arms, pulling you toward the door and effectively ending the conversation. "Eds, where is he?"

Eddie shrugs, finally lighting his cigarette and taking a long drag. "Probably out back doing another keg stand. Been at it for the past hour."

"Oh my god," Robin says, exasperation coloring her voice with frustration and something that might be worry.

Robin cuts through the side gate to the backyard, pulling you and Nancy along with her. The moment you step through, you're hit with the full force of the party—the air thick and humid with body heat, drenched in the smell of spilled beer and weed and cigarette smoke layered so thick it's almost visible. The music thrums against the windows, bass so heavy you can feel it in your chest, vibrating through your ribcage. You wouldn't be surprised if the neighbors called in a noise complaint within the hour.

There's chanting and hollering coming from the middle of the yard, voices raised in drunken unison.

"Steve! Steve! Steve! Steve!"

You can only see a pair of feet in the air at first—New Balances with the laces untied, dangling loose. Robin pulls you and Nancy toward the crowd, bodies pressing close as you push through the ring of onlookers.

Closer now, you see Buck holding Steve up by his legs, Steve's face red from being inverted, his navy blue polo riding up from gravity to expose his stomach. His happy trail. The scars on his torso glistening with a mixture of sweat and amber liquid, like someone had sprayed him with beer. His arms hang down toward the ground, hands gripping the keg, throat working as he chugs.

Finally, he jerks his legs forward, signaling Buck to bring him down. Buck helps him right himself, and the crowd erupts in cheers. Steve is smiling—grinning, really—licking beer off his lips, more of it rolling down his chin and soaking into his collar. You can't deny how attractive he looks, flushed and pleased with himself, hair falling into his eyes.

But then you notice it.

His hair is shorter. Much shorter than you've ever seen it, cropped close on the sides and longer on top, parted down the middle instead of swept back. The blonde highlights are completely gone, cut away, leaving only his natural dark brown. And his face—he's clean-shaven again, the mustache you'd spent the better part of this week kissing completely gone.

He still looks attractive, objectively handsome in that way Steve Harrington has always been handsome. But you're grieving the old look, the version of him you'd woken up next to Wednesday morning, the one who'd made you Eggo waffles and kissed you goodbye in his car.

Robin lets go of you and Nancy, crossing her arms over her chest. A scowl settles on her face, jaw tight.

You're still staring at him—ogling him, really, unable to help yourself—when a girl materializes at his side. She's blonde, wearing a tight top and high-waisted jeans, and she places her hand on his chest like she has every right to touch him. Her smile is wide, practiced.

"Steve, that was so awesome," she coos, voice pitched high and breathy.

You can hear him through his smirk, words slightly slurred. "Hey, Amanda. How are you?"

The name clicks into place. Amanda. One of Steve's old hookups—you remember Robin mentioning her once, remembered seeing her at a party months ago hanging off Steve's arm.

You're waiting for him to remove her hand, to step back, to do literally anything to create distance. He doesn't push her off. Amanda sees Robin's glare and lets go of his chest, but she doesn't step back, doesn't leave. If anything, she moves closer.

"I'm good," she says, batting her eyelashes in a way that would be comical if it wasn't making your stomach twist. "How are you?"

He looks her up and down—slow, assessing—and even though Steve told you he ended things with all of them, Amanda clearly didn't get the memo. She's biting her lip, looking him up and down in return, playing the game they used to play.

You don't have time to fully process the sharp pang of jealousy that shoots through your chest, or to question why it hurts so much to watch, because Steve's eyes flicker over to Robin. His face falters, the smile slipping for a fraction of a second.

Then, for the briefest moment, his gaze shifts to you.

Your breath catches. His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you can't read—something dark and hurt and angry all at once. Then he looks away.

"Yeah... good. I'll see you later, yeah?" He pats Amanda's shoulder dismissively and starts walking toward you, Robin, and Nancy, a grin spreading across his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

He immediately embraces Robin in a hug, and you're close enough now to smell him—that deep musky scent that is distinctly Steve, but mixed with beer and weed and something sharper, more acrid. Desperation, maybe. Robin grimaces when he plants a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek, his hands gripping her waist, only looking at her like you and Nancy aren't even standing there.

He puts his forehead against hers, swaying slightly.

"Steve—" Robin scolds, trying to pull back.

"What?" He draws the word out, lazy and defiant. "I'm playing the part, right?" His voice drops lower, meant to be private but still audible. "Isn't that what you want?"

Robin and Nancy exchange a look—awkward, uncomfortable, like they're witnessing something they shouldn't. Your stomach twists tighter.

Robin's jaw tightens, muscles flexing under her skin. "That's not what I'm talking about," she hisses in a whisper. "How much have you had to drink already?"

Steve blows a raspberry, the sound wet and childish. "What? You're the only one who can have fun?"

Nancy steps in, voice gentle but firm. "Steve, that's not why she's concerned."

He rolls his eyes, head lolling back dramatically. "Relax. I'm having fun, yeah? Not going to do anything stupid." He leans his head back forward, hands running up Robin's arms, squeezing. "Come on, let's go dance, Rob. You always want me to dance with you. I feel like dancing..." His words run together, vowels blending, consonants softening, and you don't know how he manages to sound drunk and coherent at the same time.

You realize with a sinking feeling, Steve has not once looked at you. Not directly. Not acknowledged your presence at all.

Robin sighs, defeated. "Okay, but you're drinking water first."

Steve kisses her cheek again—wet and loud—already pulling her away toward the coolers by the back porch. Robin looks over her shoulder at you and Nancy, and the expression on her face is pure apology, eyes saying I'm sorry and help me all at once.

"What was that all about?" you ask Nancy, unable to tear your eyes away from Steve and Robin. He's forcing down a bottle of water now, Robin's hand on his shoulder, both of them bobbing slightly to the music pumping through the outdoor speakers.

Nancy sighs, watching them too, but her expression is distant, eyes glassy with unshed emotion. "Apparently they've been fighting all day. She won't tell me what about. But she mentioned something about people noticing they've been distant lately, asking questions about whether they're okay."

You look over at them. Robin's back is pressed to Steve's front now, his arms wrapped around her waist, both of them swaying awkwardly to a song that doesn't match their rhythm. They're both staring off in different directions—Robin toward Nancy with naked longing, Steve toward nothing in particular with empty eyes. Neither of them looks like they want to be touching the other.

Your heart flips violently when Steve's eyes catch yours across the yard. His jaw flexes, muscles jumping under skin. Then he looks away again, pulling Robin closer in a way that looks more like desperation than affection.

"I thought things were better," you say out loud, voice small.

It was true. You thought everything had improved since you helped fix the spring break situation with Robin's parents. You thought it was better now that Steve was making choices for himself, declaring his major, standing up to his father in his own way.

Nancy swallows hard, throat working. "I think they forget they're not really together sometimes."

The words hit you like cold water.

You think about your own feelings—the ones you only admitted to yourself last night, staring at the ceiling of your dorm room while Robin snored softly in the bed next to yours. You don't know how long you've actually felt this way. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since the first time Steve kissed you and you realized kissing him was different from kissing anyone else.

Last night you couldn't stop smiling, caught in the memory of the planetarium, of Steve's hands on your face, of the way he said your name like it meant something. And then you'd looked over at Robin sleeping peacefully, and the guilt had settled over you like a heavy blanket.

Nancy's observation sits uncomfortably in your chest because she's right. Even you forget they're not really together. It feels like betrayal—like cheating—to entertain the idea that maybe, possibly, you could change Steve and Robin's minds about their arrangement, about their promises to each other.

But you're not different. You're not special. Nothing will change.

"Can I tell you something, Nancy?" you ask softly, still watching the couple that's not really a couple swaying in the middle of the lawn.

Nancy looks at you, and when you turn to meet her gaze, her expression isn't pity. It's sympathy—soft eyes, gentle understanding, the look of someone who already knows what you're about to say.

"I know," Nancy offers quietly, saving you from having to speak it into existence. Because if you say it out loud, it becomes real. Undeniable.

You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat. You've never been quick to emotion—or maybe you've never allowed yourself to be. The same way you've never allowed yourself to feel this way about anyone, to get close enough for it to hurt.

Your chest feels like it's caving in, ribs pressing toward your lungs, making it hard to breathe.

You think about the rule Steve made—that if either of you caught feelings, you'd end it. But then he'd said the rules didn't apply to you, that there were never really rules when it came to you. So does that mean all of them? Or none of them? Or only the ones that were convenient?

You chew on your bottom lip, tasting cherry chapstick and uncertainty. "I need to end it, don't I?"

For a second, you think Nancy might tell you no. Might tell you to go for it, to fight for what you want, to be selfish for once in your life.

But Nancy closes her mouth. Looks back at Robin and Steve—his arm slung over her shoulder now, talking to a group of Pike brothers like they belong exactly like this, like they'll always belong like this.

"Before you fall in love with him," Nancy says slowly, carefully, each word deliberate. "Before it's too late to turn back, then yeah. You should."

Her honest truth hits you like a million tiny blades, each one finding a different soft spot to sink into.

And then Nancy's eyes light up, something hopeful sparking there. "Do you..." She pauses, choosing her words. "Do you love him?"

The same clouded, confusing thoughts that ran through your head when Max asked you this question on Tuesday come rushing back. You look at Steve across the yard—at the way the string lights catch in his newly short hair, at the strong line of his shoulders, at his hands that know every inch of your body.

You think about the pieces of yourself that belong to him now. The ones you gave freely, the ones he took without asking, the ones you didn't even know you had until he found them. Pieces you've refused to give anyone else because they were his before you knew what you were giving away.

It started because of trust, because he was your friend, because it was safe and uncomplicated. Something he wasn't six months ago when he was someone you actively avoided at parties.

Your heart races looking at him. Your stomach flutters. Heat pools low in your belly even from across the yard, even angry at him, even knowing this can't go anywhere.

You open your mouth to answer—not really sure what will come out, not ready to hear yourself say it—when a voice calls out.

"Hey, Hot Shot! You want a turn?"

You look over to see Buck grinning at you, pointing at another keg that's been set up near the fence. The crowd around it is already chanting, waiting for the next victim.

Suddenly, the idea of standing upside down chugging cheap beer out of a questionable spout seems infinitely better than answering Nancy's question.

You see Steve look over the moment Buck touches you—Buck's hand on your lower back, helping you up onto the keg platform. Steve's face transforms, features twisting into something dark and possessive. His nostrils flare. His jaw clenches so hard you can see the muscle jump from across the yard.

And it pisses you off. He let Amanda touch him. Let her flirt with him, look at him like that, put her hands on his chest. You're not dating—you've never been dating—but how could he say the things he said to you and then ignore you tonight? How could he touch you the way he touched you and then pretend you don't exist?

You don't only get drunk on the keg stand—though you do, Buck's hands firm on your stomach as you chug, the crowd counting, your vision swimming when he rights you and everyone cheers. You don't only get drunk on the cheap tequila shots that burn going down, or the beer pong game you lose against one of the Tri Delt sisters who's wearing a "Spring Break or Bust" tank top.

You get drunk on something worse, something more dangerous.

You get drunk on the pathetic, inevitable realization that you're going to have to talk to Steve tonight. That you're going to have to tell him this isn't working anymore. That you can't do this—can't keep pretending you don't feel what you feel, can't keep being his secret while he plays boyfriend to your best friend.

But finally—finally—he's looking at you.

You're dancing with Robin and Nancy now, the three of you pressed close, giving Robin and Nancy the excuse to touch each other, to be close in a way they can't be normally. Nancy's hands are on Robin's hips, Robin's head thrown back in laughter, and you're moving with them, lost in the music and the alcohol and the heat of too many bodies in too small a space.

And Steve is watching you from across the room.

His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, tracking your every movement. You can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, sliding over your exposed collarbone where your shirt has slipped off your shoulder, down to where your jeans sit low on your hips, back up to your face. The air between you feels electric, charged with something dangerous and inevitable.

You dance harder, throwing yourself into it, letting your hips sway in a way you know drives him crazy. You run your hands through your hair, tilt your head back, expose your throat. You're playing a game you know you shouldn't be playing, weaponizing your body against him the same way he's weaponizing his indifference.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip. His fingers tighten around the red Solo cup in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure. He shifts his weight, adjusting himself in his jeans in a way that would be subtle if you weren't watching for it.

The song changes—something slower, bassier, all rhythm and want—and you turn, putting your back to him, rolling your body in a way that's absolutely, unquestionably meant for him to see. Nancy and Robin are lost in each other now, foreheads pressed together, swaying more than dancing, and you're alone in the crowd but you don't feel alone because Steve's eyes are burning holes in your back.

You glance over your shoulder, find him still staring, and the look on his face is pure hunger mixed with something that might be anger or might be desperation or might be both.

Steve crosses the room.

He moves through the crowd like he has a purpose, shouldering past people without apology, eyes locked on you the whole time. When he reaches your group, he slides in next to Robin, his hand grazing across the small of your back as he passes. His fingertips find the sliver of exposed skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch is electric, sending shivers racing up your spine.

"I'm going upstairs to lay down for a bit," he tells Robin, voice rough and low. But his hand is still on your back, fingers pressing slightly, a message meant only for you.

He walks over to the makeshift bar someone has set up on the porch table, pours a shot of something clear—vodka or tequila, you can't tell—and shoots it back without a chaser. His eyes find yours as he swallows, throat working, and he jerks his head toward the foyer where the stairs are.

"Gotta... pee," you announce to Nancy and Robin, trying to sound casual even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

Nancy and Robin nod, barely hearing you, completely entranced in each other now that the alcohol has lowered their inhibitions. Nancy's hand is tangled in Robin's hair, Robin's lips close to Nancy's ear, and you leave them to it.

Steve has already started making his way inside. You trail behind him, keeping enough distance that it won't be obvious you're following him, but close enough that you won't lose sight of him in the crowd.

Your core is already warm, heat pooling low in your belly at the thought of what's about to happen. Your heart hammers against your ribs—anticipation and dread in equal measure.

Steve says something to the two pledges guarding the stairs—PJ and someone whose name you don't remember—and they look back at you still a few paces behind. Steve must have said something convincing because they part immediately, letting him through, then stepping aside for you when you reach them.

You climb the stairs, legs unsteady from alcohol and want and the weight of what you know you need to do. Steve is ahead of you, taking the steps two at a time, and occasionally he glances back over his shoulder—checking that you're still following, eyes dark with intent.

Neither of you says anything. Not when you reach the second floor, not when he leads you down the familiar hallway to his room, not when he opens the door and holds it for you to enter first.

The moment the door closes behind you, shutting out the noise of the party below, you're on each other.

Your lips crash together with the force of tension finally breaking. It's not gentle—it's desperate and messy and tastes like beer and tequila and want. His hands are immediately in your hair, gripping, angling your head to deepen the kiss. Your fingers scrabble at his shoulders, his chest, trying to pull him closer even though there's no space left between your bodies.

He walks you backward until your back hits the door, the solid wood cool against your shoulder blades. His body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is already, pressing insistent against your hip.

He breaks the kiss to mouth at your jaw, your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks you'll have to hide tomorrow. His hands slide down your sides to grip your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

But then he stops. Pulls back slightly, breathing hard, and his hands move to the hem of your shirt. He pauses, fingers just under the fabric, eyes searching yours.

"Do you want this, Hot Shot?" His voice is rough, wrecked, but the question is genuine. Even drunk, even desperate, he's checking. Making sure.

And even though you're both drunk, even though this is probably a terrible idea, even though you know you should end this before it goes any further—you want him. You want this. You want him so badly it physically hurts.

"Yes," you breathe. "Of course I want you, Steve."

Something flashes in his eyes—relief or pain or something else you can't name—and then he's pulling your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere behind him. His mouth finds your neck again, sucking, biting, marking you as his in a way he has no right to do but you're letting him anyway.

Your feet don't work properly as he tries to pull your jeans down, fingers fumbling with the button. You're both too drunk, too eager, coordination shot. You stumble, and he catches you, but the momentum sends you both tumbling to the floor.

You land on the carpet with an "oof," Steve's weight half on top of you, and you should probably be more concerned about the fact that you're on his floor, but instead you're pulling him back down into a kiss, refusing to let the moment break.

"Where's your glasses?" you ask between kisses, breath hot against his lips. You're used to them now, used to the way they press against your face when you kiss, the way he pushes them up his nose when he's concentrating.

"They broke earlier," he says, and the casual way he says it—like it doesn't matter, like they were disposable—makes something pinch in your chest. "Fell off during a keg stand. Someone stepped on them."

The way he says it, the tone of his voice, the emptiness in his eyes when you pull back to look at him—it all feels wrong. Different.

He's touching you differently too. His hands are on you—sliding under your bra, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples—but there's a hesitation to it. A heaviness. Like he's memorizing rather than discovering. Like this is the last time.

The thought sends a spike of panic through your chest, sharp enough to cut through the alcohol haze.

"Steve—" you start, but he kisses you again, swallowing whatever you were going to say.

You ask if you can take off his pants, and he nods, helping you, both of you too eager to do it properly. You only manage to drag them down to his thighs—those thick, hairy thighs you've become intimately familiar with—his cock springing free, already hard and leaking.

Your bra is still on, your breasts spilling over the top, nipples hard and visible through the thin lace. Your jeans and panties are somewhere across the room, abandoned in your haste.

You straddle him right there on the floor, the carpet rough under your knees, and his eyes are drunk—from weed, from alcohol, from lust, from all of it. He bites his lip watching you spit into your hand, pump him a few times, watching the way his cock twitches in your grip.

Then you're sinking down onto him, taking him in slowly, and your head lulls back at the stretch, at the familiar burn and fullness. You sit there for a moment, completely still, just feeling him inside you. His warmth, his thickness, the way he twitches like sitting still is torture for him too.

His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, but he doesn't make you move. Doesn't thrust up into you. Like this moment—being buried inside you, connected in the most intimate way possible—is enough. Like he's trying to make it last.

It's nearly sobering, the intensity of it grounding you through the alcohol. The stretch of him, the way he fills you so completely, the way his eyes are locked on yours like he's trying to memorize your face.

Finally—finally—you lift up almost all the way off him, and then slam back down. The sound you both make is obscene—half moan, half sob, pure desperate pleasure. You bounce on him, setting a punishing rhythm, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest. You push his shirt up with your fingers, revealing his soft stomach first, then his chest, pushing the fabric all the way to his collarbone but not removing it entirely. Holding it there while you continue to ride him, his skin hot and damp with sweat under your palms.

The pace gets more erratic, sloppier, your thighs burning from the exertion but you can't stop, won't stop. He's hitting spots inside you that make you gasp for air, that make stars burst behind your closed eyelids, that make you forget why this is a bad idea.

The usual banter is lost—no teasing words, no challenges, no playful arguments. Just moans and whimpers and the obscene sound of skin on skin, of wetness, of your bodies coming together again and again.

You lean down, changing the angle, and the new position sends pleasure pulsing through you both. Steve's hips buck up involuntarily, back arching off the floor.

"Fuck!" he whines, voice high and wrecked.

You lean further, putting your mouth right over his pec, and bite. Hard. Your teeth sink into his skin, and Steve lets you, lets you mark him, a moan torn from his lips.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispers under his breath, the words running together. He says your name—your actual name, not Hot Shot, not baby, not anything else. Your name like a prayer, like a confession, like goodbye.

You kiss the spot like you can fix it, like you can erase the damage, but you can already see the teeth marks in his skin, the tiny bit of broken skin surrounded by red that will absolutely bruise by morning. Evidence. Proof. A mark that says I was here.

"Baby," he whimpers, eyes squeezed shut as you put your hands back on his chest to steady yourself, to get more leverage.

Steve's grip tightens on your hips, fingers grabbing at the soft flesh there before one hand moves between your bodies to find your clit. He slaps it once—sharp and surprising—and you mewl, the sound embarrassingly needy.

He rubs it with his thumb, sloppy and uncoordinated but still good, still enough. The pressure builds in your core, winding tighter and tighter like a spring about to break.

You feel your walls start to clench around his cock, fluttering, and Steve groans at the sensation.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he pants. "So fucking good, baby. Come for me, please,” he begs. 

Until finally you can't hold back anymore, crying out his name, "Steve!" Your orgasm crashes through you. Your whole body goes taut, back arching, stars bursting white behind your closed eyelids.

Steve grips your hips hard, keeping the brutal pace, thrusting up into you through your orgasm, chasing his own. He groans, head lulling back, and you can see the tendons in his neck, the veins protruding, his mouth falling open as he gasps through his own release. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you with warmth.

His hand comes up to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair at the base, gripping and pulling you down into a heated kiss. Desperate and messy and tasting like salt and want and ending.

Then, even though you're both still buzzing with alcohol and endorphins, the kiss settles into a steadier rhythm. Slower. Softer. Small pecks that feel more intimate than anything that came before.

You're still hovering over him, both of you breathing hard, when you look into his hazel eyes. He brushes a strand of hair back behind your ear, his touch gentle, reverent.

And you can see it. The emptiness in his eyes. The finality.

You have to tell him. Have to let him know what you're feeling. Or maybe—maybe you need to make sure this is the last time before you say something you can't take back.

"I'm going to go clean up," you say, voice shakier than you'd like.

You hurry to his bathroom, gathering your clothes as you go, not looking at him because if you look at him you might start crying and you refuse to cry over Steve Harrington.

You clean up mechanically, movements robotic. You sit on the closed toilet seat after, face in your hands, breathing hard—either from the exertion of sex or the dread pooling in your stomach or both.

When you finally gather the courage to leave the bathroom, your stomach drops at the sight that greets you.

Steve is fully dressed again. Sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers threaded through his short hair. Clearly thinking. Clearly working up to something.

When he looks up at you, you know from his eyes—from the set of his jaw, from the way his shoulders are tensed—that he has something to say.

Your throat tightens. You lean back against the wall, not looking at him directly, focusing on a spot just over his shoulder because if you look at him you'll break.

Steve rubs the back of his neck, the gesture so familiar it hurts. "I think this is the last time we'll be seeing each other," he says quietly. Almost too quiet, like if he said it any louder he would mean it more, and he's not sure he can handle meaning it more.

And even though you were thinking the same thing downstairs with Nancy, hearing him say it out loud makes you realize you didn't actually want this to happen. That some part of you hoped you could have both—could keep sleeping with him and keep your feelings and somehow make it work.

Your defenses slam into place immediately—anger, deflection, anything to find blame in him rather than face the complicated mess you've brought upon yourself.

"But I didn't break any rules," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

A curl falls on his forehead when he looks up, and he straightens, jaw tense. He's looking you up and down, evaluating you, scanning your face like he's trying to figure something out, solve an equation that keeps changing.

"Yeah, we did," he says slowly. "And we—I think we took it too far."

"You're kidding me." You can hear the venom in your own voice, the way it drips with hurt disguised as anger. "You told me—" You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "I followed your rules. You were the one who told me it was okay. That I was the exception."

"Yeah, well..." He trails off, searching for the right words. He groans, putting his face in his palms before standing up to face you properly. "Maybe I said that so I could see what it was like to be normal for once."

The words hit you like a slap.

You nod slowly, mechanically. "So you wanted one last fuck? Is that it? String me along until you got what exactly?"

Steve shrugs, his expression stony, unreadable. His tongue presses into his cheek, a habit you've come to recognize as him holding back words he doesn't want to say. "Look, Hot Shot, I'm sorry. I really tried to see if it would work for me, but it doesn't. Can't."

You cross the room in three strides, closing the distance until you're right in front of him, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, close enough to see the way his pupils dilate when you get near.

"You don't get to call me that anymore," you snap, finger jabbing into his chest right over where you bit him.

Steve rolls his eyes, looking away, arms crossing over his chest in a mirror of your defensive posture. He lifts one hand in a placating gesture that makes you want to hit him. "Look, this doesn't mean we can't still be friends—"

"Oh, fuck off, Steve." You press your finger harder into his chest, feeling his heartbeat against your fingertip, fast and erratic. "Friends don't fucking cum inside other friends. Friends don't say the shit you said to me. Don't look at me the way you look at me." Your voice cracks, and you hate yourself for it. "Admit you're an asshole who can't decide what he wants."

"Or maybe I'm an asshole who's bored of you," Steve snaps back, and his eyes burn with something dark and empty and hurt all at once.

The words steal the air from your lungs.

Your face falls, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind only the raw, exposed hurt underneath. Tears brim in your eyes, hot and unwelcome, blurring your vision.

"Go to hell, Steve," you whisper, voice breaking on his name.

You take a deep breath, trying to hold yourself together for a few more seconds. Your lip quivers despite your best efforts. You take one last look at him—really look at him, memorizing his face because this is it, this is the end—and your heart breaks into a million pieces, each one cutting you on the way down.

Then you turn and walk out, leaving him standing alone in his room, and you don't look back.

.-.-.-.

Your eyes are caked with crust when you finally wake, eyelids heavy and stuck together like someone glued them shut while you slept. You peel them open slowly, immediately recognizing you're not in your own bed. The sheets are wrong—navy blue instead of your floral pattern, softer than the scratchy dorm-issue linens. The room smells different too—like laundry detergent and cologne you don't recognize, masculine and clean.

You know where you are before you're fully conscious. Sammy's room. The minimal furniture, the textbooks stacked neatly on his desk, the clothes strewn on the floor that aren't yours.

You sit up, still wearing your clothes from last night—jeans twisted uncomfortably around your legs, shirt wrinkled and smelling like cigarette smoke and spilled beer and something else underneath that makes your stomach turn. Steve's cologne. You can still smell him on you.

On cue, Sammy walks in, already dressed for the day in jeans and a sweater, hair a little messy like he slept on the couch and didn't bother with a mirror. He's holding two mugs of coffee, steam curling up from both. He smiles at you—awkward, uncertain, like he's not sure what the protocol is for this situation.

"Good morning," he says, handing you one of the mugs.

"Morning." Your voice comes out rough, throat raw from crying or screaming or maybe both. You can't quite remember.

The coffee is hot against your palms, almost too hot, but you hold onto it anyway because it gives you something to focus on that isn't the pounding in your head or the hollow ache in your chest.

"You sleep okay?" Sammy asks, hovering near the door like he's afraid to come too close, like you're a wild animal that might bolt.

You nod, not trusting your voice yet. "Yeah... thank you. For letting me crash here."

"Of course," Sammy mutters, looking down at his own mug.

The memories from last night come back in fragments, disjointed and painful. Leaving the Pike house through the back gate, tears streaming down your face, mascara probably running in black streaks. Finding Eddie smoking by his van in the driveway, asking him to tell Robin and Nancy not to worry about you. The look on his face—concern mixed with understanding, like he knew exactly what had happened upstairs even though you didn't say a word.

You didn't want to face Robin. Didn't want to see the pity in her eyes or hear her try to make excuses for Steve or worse—didn't want to hear her say she'd warned you this would happen, that getting involved with Steve was always going to end badly.

And you didn't want to face anyone else either. But someone who felt safe enough, someone who wouldn't ask questions or demand explanations, was Sammy.

You'd arrived at his frat house around midnight, still crying, and he'd seemed surprised to see you. Especially since you still hadn't really talked to him except for that one awkward encounter in the library and the brief exchange about picking up your things.

But he didn't ask questions. Didn't demand to know what happened or who hurt you. He pulled you inside, gave you a glass of water, and told you that you could take his bed. That he'd sleep in the common room downstairs.

You'd crawled into his bed fully clothed and cried into his pillow until you finally passed out from exhaustion sometime after two in the morning.

He slept on the couch in the common room, and you don't know whether to feel guilty, relieved, or disappointed about that. Guilty because he gave up his bed for you. Relieved because you couldn't handle anything more complicated last night. Disappointed because—

You cut that thought off before it can finish forming.

You rub your face with one hand, the other still clutching the coffee mug like a lifeline, and swing your legs off the bed. Your feet hit the cold floor, and the shock of it helps clear your head slightly. You chew on your bottom lip, and your stomach sours at the memories flooding back.

Yesterday morning feels like a lifetime ago. Waking up happy, excited about spring break, thinking about Steve and the planetarium and the way he'd looked at you like you hung the moon. Everything had been honey and sweet and perfect, and you had no idea it was all about to crumble.

What changed? What did you do wrong? What did Robin say to him in the car that made him look at you like you were nothing?

Sammy clears his throat, pulling you back to the present. "I, uh... need to leave soon. Going home for spring break. Not trying to rush you out or anything—you can stay as long as you need. I don't mind."

You look over at him, really look at him for the first time this morning. He's a good person. Kind, patient, understanding. All the things you should want.

"Sorry, yeah. I'll leave now." You stand up, and the movement makes your head pound harder, dehydration and hangover and heartbreak all mixing together into one miserable cocktail.

You hate that you can still smell Steve on you—his cologne mixed with the smell of sex and sweat, clinging to your skin, your hair, your clothes. It makes you want to vomit. Makes you want to scrub yourself raw in the shower until every trace of him is gone.

You feel tears pricking at your eyes again, and you rub them aggressively, refusing to cry in front of Sammy. You put on your shoes—the ones you'd kicked off carelessly last night, now sitting neatly by the door where Sammy must have moved them.

"Hey," Sammy says your name gently, softly, like you're something fragile that might break. "Everything okay?"

"What?" You shoot up too fast, and your head pounds in protest. "Oh... yeah. I'm fine. I'm—" You look at him, really look at him, and you wonder what's wrong with you. Here's someone who is simple and easy and showed genuine interest in you. Someone who wanted to know you, who asked you out properly, who didn't play games or set up impossible rules.

"I'm sorry," you say, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

"What for?" He tilts his head, still looking hesitant, unsure.

"For never really allowing us to have a shot." You mean it to a degree, though your feelings are so clouded and confused right now that you're not sure you mean anything you say. 

Sammy looks taken aback, eyebrows rising. He shrugs, trying for casual but not quite hitting it. "It's okay. Really."

"No... I..." And then you understand why you feel so horrible, why the guilt is sitting so heavy in your stomach. "It's not cool what I did to you. Making you feel disposable or used. I'm really sorry."

Sammy doesn't argue against it, which somehow makes it worse. He nods in acknowledgment, arms crossing over his chest. "Look, I... know I wasn't the best either. I wanted to know things about you, but I didn't want you to feel smothered or pressured or anything like that. I was trying to give you space, but maybe I gave you too much."

You can't help it—feeling vulnerable and raw and desperate for something that makes sense. "Do you still want to know things about me?"

Sammy laughs, a real smile breaking through the awkwardness. "Of course I want to know things about you." Then his expression shifts, going shy, earnest. "But... not like the way before. Not casual. Properly, like..." He pauses, gathering courage. "Like dating. Like... I don't know. Like a boyfriend."

Your breath hitches, caught in your throat.

You feel a flash of anger at Steve for breaking his own rules, for making "once a month" meaningless, for letting you get close enough to fall. If he'd kept his distance, if he'd stuck to the original arrangement, maybe you'd feel less confused. Maybe you could see yourself as Sammy's girlfriend. Sammy, who knows what he wants. Sammy, who isn't afraid to say it.

"I..." You don't know what to say. Don't know what you want. Don't know anything except that everything hurts.

"You don't have to answer now," Sammy says quickly, seeing the panic on your face. "Think about it. Over break. And when we get back, you can let me know."

You nod, grateful for the escape, and leave before he can say anything else.

When you get back to your dorm, Robin and Nancy are both there, and they visibly relax when you walk through the door.

"Oh thank god," Robin says, launching herself at you and pulling you into a tight hug. "Eddie said you left with him but wouldn't say where you went. I was worried."

"I'm fine," you lie, extracting yourself from her embrace. "Sorry I disappeared."

"Where'd you go?" Robin asks, and there's genuine concern in her eyes, no judgment.

For once, you're honest. "Sammy's."

Nancy, who's been sitting quietly on Robin's bed, perks up. "Who's Sammy?"

Robin grins, immediately latching onto the distraction, her voice going sing-song. "Hot Shot's boooyfriend."

Nancy looks confused, glancing between you and Robin.

"He's not my boyfriend," you say quickly, turning away to hide your expression. Then you sigh, because you need at least one thing out in the air, one burden not sitting solely on your shoulders. "But he did ask to be. This morning."

Robin gasps, bouncing slightly. "What'd you say?"

Nancy's expression stays neutral, but her eyes are sad, knowing.

You turn away from both of them, pretending to look through your suitcase for tomorrow's flight, organizing clothes you've already organized three times. You chew on your bottom lip, the skin already raw from nervous biting. "I told him I'd think about it over spring break and let him know."

Your words come out soft, uncertain, and when you turn back around Robin is squealing like it's the best news she's heard all year. But Nancy is looking at you with sad, sympathetic eyes that see right through you.

The next morning, everyone is packed into Eddie's van again—bright and early to drive to the nearest airport. The sun is barely up, the sky still that pale gray-pink of dawn, and you're all moving like zombies, running on coffee and determination.

Steve looks rough. Rougher than you've ever seen him. He's wearing sunglasses even though the sun isn't up yet, a baseball cap pulled low over his forehead, and he hasn't said a word to anyone. His jaw is tight, shoulders tense, and he radiates an energy that says don't fucking talk to me.

You hear Eddie tell Robin in a low voice, "He's got a hangover. Drank more beers than I could count last night. Found him passed out on the bathroom floor around three."

Robin winces, glancing at Steve with concern, but she doesn't approach him.

In the van, Steve puts headphones on and plays his Walkman, sitting in the front passenger seat with his head pressed against the window. You can see his reflection in the glass—eyes closed, jaw clenched, looking like he's in actual physical pain.

You're in the back with Robin and Nancy, trying not to stare at the back of his head, trying not to notice the way his shoulders curve in like he's trying to make himself smaller.

Before you take the highway to the airport, Eddie makes one last stop. Your heart sinks when you see bright red hair, a cheerful wave, a familiar face standing on the curb.

Polly.

Steve is the one who gets out, greeting her with a side hug that looks stiff and uncomfortable. He takes her luggage—a large pink suitcase covered in stickers—and throws it in the back of the van. The force of it hits the back of your seat hard enough that you feel it, and you snap around to look at him.

His jaw tightens when he sees you looking. He slams the trunk shut without a word.

Polly crawls into the van, all smiles and sunshine, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thank you guys so much for letting me join last minute!" She turns to you specifically, beaming. "Especially for letting me room with you! We're going to have so much fun."

You look at Robin and Nancy, and neither of them looks surprised by this news. They already knew. Everyone knew except you.

Finally, Steve turns and looks at you—still wearing those sunglasses so you can't see his eyes. "Shit, sorry. Must have slipped my mind to mention it. Hope you don't mind."

You could punch him. For putting you in this position, for making you the bad guy if you say anything. How did they even manage to find another plane ticket so last minute? Spring break flights are always booked solid.

But you can't tell Polly no. Can't say you do mind without looking like a petty bitch. So you force your best smile, the one that doesn't reach your eyes but looks convincing enough. "Of course not! We're going to have a blast."

Polly squeals and throws her arms around you, and you catch Steve's expression over her shoulder—something that might be guilt or might be satisfaction. You can't tell with the sunglasses.

Polly ends up sitting next to you on the plane, chattering away about how excited she is and how she's never been to Miami before. Steve sits next to Eddie several rows ahead, and Nancy and Robin are somewhere in the back—you can hear Robin's laugh occasionally, bright and happy.

You watch Steve flag down the flight attendant for his third glass of whiskey, even though it's not even noon yet. He and Eddie are the only ones old enough to order alcohol on the flight, and Steve seems determined to take full advantage.

Polly is a talker, and you find yourself not shying away from the conversation. In fact, you hate how much you actually like her. She's studying to be a STEM major, still figuring out if she wants to go into pre-med eventually. She's smart and funny and kind, and under different circumstances, you could see yourself being friends with her.

Which somehow makes everything worse.

The plane lands in Miami in the early afternoon, and the moment you step off and into the airport, you're hit with a wall of humid heat. It's different from the heat back home—thicker, wetter, smelling like salt and tropical flowers and jet fuel.

Outside, palm trees sway in the breeze. The sky is impossibly blue, dotted with white puffy clouds that look like they were painted on. You can hear the distant sound of car horns, music playing from someone's radio, the chatter of tourists in a dozen different languages.

They all pile into a bus that will take them to the resort, bags shoved into the overhead compartments. Nancy tells everyone that Jonathan will meet them for dinner that night—he's been on set all day but will be done by six.

The resort is huge, sprawling across what looks like several acres of beachfront property. It's packed with other college-aged students, all in various states of undress—bikini tops and swim trunks, sunglasses and flip-flops. The lobby is chaos, people checking in and out, bellhops rushing around with luggage carts, the smell of chlorine from the pool mixing with sunscreen and coconut.

It's not a fancy hotel, but it's not trashy either. It seems designed specifically to encourage partying—the staff all look young and fun, wearing Hawaiian shirts and leis, and there's already a group doing shots at the tiki bar even though it's barely two in the afternoon.

Eddie manages to flirt with a bellhop—a cute guy with dark curly hair and dimples—into sneaking a bottle of rum into his room without charging for it. Eddie winks at him, slips him a twenty, and the bellhop grins and promises to "take good care" of him.

You're able to forget about the tension and anger and sadness for a few minutes, caught up in the energy of the place, the excitement of being somewhere new.

Until you get stuck in an elevator with Steve and Polly, heading to the same floor because of course you are. Because someone—you and Steve—made the stupid decision to have his room and your room right next to each other.

The elevator is small, mirrored on three sides, and you can see infinite versions of yourself standing stiffly in the corner while Steve and Polly chat. He's taken off his sunglasses now, and you can see his eyes are bloodshot, the skin underneath dark and puffy.

Steve only talks to Polly, catching up about school, asking about her classes. She mentions his big test next Thursday, and he motions to the backpack slung over his shoulder that apparently contains his textbooks.

"Gotta study," he says, and his voice sounds rough, damaged. "Can't fuck this up."

You stare at the elevator numbers, watching them tick up. Third floor. Fourth floor. Fifth floor.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Polly bounds out first, already digging in her purse for the room key. You follow more slowly, and you can't help but watch Steve over your shoulder.

He glances at you briefly—so quick you almost miss it—and there's something in his expression you can't read. Then he turns and disappears into his room, letting the door swing shut behind him with a decisive click.

"Oh my god!" Polly squeals, and you turn to see her standing in your doorway, looking inside with wide eyes. "We have a balcony!"

She runs inside, and you follow, dropping your bags just inside the door. Polly is already sliding open the glass door to the balcony, the sound of crashing waves immediately filling the room along with the smell of salt and seaweed.

She steps out onto the balcony and leans over the railing, breathing deeply. "We don't have water this pretty in Texas," she sighs dreamily, looking out at the ocean—turquoise and sparkling in the afternoon sun, waves rolling in steady and hypnotic.

She turns back to you, beaming. "Do you want to go down to the beach with me? I'm dying to feel the sand between my toes."

You look at the clock on the nightstand. It's barely three. Dinner isn't until six. You should go, should say yes, should try to have fun.

"Oh... uh... I'm feeling a little tired. I think I might take a nap before dinner."

"Okay!" Polly shrugs, already stripping off her clothes right there in the middle of the room. "I'll ask the others."

You look away quickly, startled by her lack of self-consciousness.

Polly gasps. "I'm sorry! I should've asked if that makes you uncomfortable."

"Oh, no... I didn't expect it, is all." It's not like you and Robin don't get dressed in front of each other. But you and Robin are best friends. You barely know Polly.

Polly continues to undress, and you try not to look, try to give her privacy. But you catch a glimpse anyway as she pulls on her bikini top—a fresh purple hickey on her breast, just visible above the line of her swimsuit.

Your stomach drops. Tears prick at your eyes, hot and unwelcome.

"I think I'm going to take a shower first," you manage to say, stumbling toward the bathroom without waiting for an answer.

You run the shower as hot as it will go, strip off your clothes, and finally let yourself cry. Really cry, the way you've been holding back since last night. Ugly, gasping sobs that echo off the tile, mixing with the sound of running water.

Two hours later, the phone on the nightstand rings, jarring you awake. You'd fallen asleep without meaning to, curled up on top of the covers in your towel, hair still damp.

You grab the receiver, groggy and disoriented. "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Nancy. We're meeting at the restaurant downstairs in forty minutes. The one off the lobby. You can't miss it."

"Okay," you mumble, still half-asleep. "I'll be there."

You hang up and drag yourself out of bed, finally bothering to put on actual clothes. You wander over to the balcony, sliding the glass door open and stepping out into the warm evening air.

The sun is lower now, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink and purple. The beach is still packed with people—students playing volleyball, couples walking hand in hand at the water's edge, groups gathered around bonfires even though it's not dark yet.

The breeze is warm and smells like salt and sunscreen and grilled seafood from one of the beachside restaurants. Seagulls cry overhead, wheeling in lazy circles.

Then you hear laughter—familiar laughter—and your eyes are drawn down to the beach below your balcony.

Steve and Polly are walking together, close enough that their arms brush with every step. Steve is wearing a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, unbuttoned enough that you can see his chest, and black swim trunks. His hair is messy from the wind, and he's smiling—actually smiling, not the fake one he's been wearing since yesterday.

Polly is wearing jean shorts and her bikini top—purple, the same one from earlier—and her breasts bounce perfectly with each step. She's laughing at something Steve said, head thrown back, hand coming up to touch his arm.

The jealousy bubbles up inside you again, hot and acidic and all-consuming. You watch Steve look up, like he can feel you watching, and your eyes meet for a fraction of a second before you quickly back away from the railing, heart pounding.

You're out of tears. All cried out. Nothing left but this hollow, aching anger.

Dinner with everyone is surprisingly normal, or at least everyone is pretending it is. The restaurant is open-air, right on the beach, with tiki torches and string lights and a live band playing reggae covers of popular songs.

Robin and Steve seem to have gotten over whatever they were fighting about—or at least they're pretending they have. Though you notice they're not sitting next to each other, not touching the way they usually do when they're playing couple. Maybe it's because they finally don't have to pretend here, where no one knows them.

Robin does lean over occasionally to tell Steve to slow down on his drinking, giving Nancy a knowing look whenever he mutters bitterly, "It's vacation, Rob. I can do what I want."

Before dinner started, Robin had pulled you aside and quietly informed you that Polly knows everything—about the fake relationship, about Robin and Nancy, all of it. "You can trust her," Robin had said.

And that makes more jealousy bubble up inside you. Polly gets to be in on the secrets now. Gets to be part of the inner circle. Gets to be close to Steve in a way you never will be again.

Why did she have to come? Why is she here, inserting herself into this trip, into your room, into your life? Why is she so fucking nice? 

Jonathan spends most of dinner telling everyone about what filming in Miami is like. Which is him spealing most of his day in a golf cart driving different crew members to different sets, but he seems to genuinely love it. He can't talk about the movie—signed an NDA—but maybe he could sneak them onto set one night if they wanted.

Eddie immediately perks up at that. "Hell yes. I want to see behind the scenes of a real movie."

"It's not that glamorous," Jonathan warns, laughing. 

Eventually, as dessert is being served, Polly leans forward with a conspiratorial grin. "So, a boy from UCLA told me about this party on the beach tonight. Like a huge one. Apparently they do it every year during spring break."

"Count me in," Eddie says immediately.

Robin and Nancy exchange glances, some silent communication passing between them, and they both nod.

"We're in," Robin says.

Everyone looks at you. At first, you almost tell Polly you're not going. The thought of going to some massive beach party, of watching Steve flirt with other girls, of pretending everything is fine—it sounds like torture.

But later, back in your room while Polly is getting ready, she insists. "Come on! This is the perfect time to let loose. Get drunk, dance, make out with random people you'll never see again."

She's slipped into another bikini top—red this time, equally small—and jean shorts that sit low on her hips.

And suddenly, the thought of making out with some random stranger to get the lingering taste of Steve Harrington off your lips sounds incredibly appealing.

"Okay," you hear yourself say. "Yeah. Let's go."

The beach party is exactly what you expected—chaos barely contained. There must be two hundred college students packed onto this stretch of beach, music blaring from speakers the size of refrigerators, a bonfire so large it looks dangerous, red Solo cups everywhere.

The air smells like beer and weed and salt water and smoke. The music is so loud you can feel it in your chest, bass thumping with each crashing wave. People are dancing, making out, playing drinking games, swimming in the ocean despite the darkness.

Nancy and Robin disappear into the crowd almost immediately, finally able to dance together and kiss without anyone batting an eye. You catch glimpses of them occasionally—foreheads pressed together, Robin's hands on Nancy's waist, both of them smiling so wide it makes your chest ache. They look free. Finally, truly happy.

Eddie has somehow already made friends with a group of stoners, sitting in a circle and sharing stories about the craziest people he's sold to before. You even take a hit of a joint being passed around, letting the smoke fill your lungs, make everything softer around the edges.

But your focus keeps drifting to Steve, who's drinking a beer and letting some girl roam her hands over him—fingers in his hair, touching his chest, his arms, his face. They're dancing, or what passes for dancing when you're drunk. More like grinding, really.

You notice Steve isn't really paying attention to her. His eyes are distant, unfocused, and he's not touching her back. She's all over him, and he's standing there like a mannequin, letting it happen but not participating.

You can't help it. Angrily, you stand up from the circle, brushing sand off your shorts. You need to get away from this, need to find a drink yourself, need to do something other than watch Steve let that girl touch him.

Instead of finding the makeshift bar, you find yourself walking toward the water's edge, away from the noise and the people and the chaos. You stand there staring at the empty dark sky—no stars visible through the light pollution and cloud cover—with the music still blaring in your ears but more distant now.

You wish you could melt into the water, let the tide carry you out to sea, drift away from all of this. You regret coming on this trip. Regret every choice you've made this year. Regret Steve Harrington and his stupid rules and his beautiful face and the way he made you feel things you didn't want to feel.

You see Jonathan off to the side, away from the main party, nursing a beer and looking out at the ocean. And you can't help it—you walk up to him, and he looks startled when you appear at his elbow.

"What did you mean?" you ask without preamble. "At the camping trip. You said Steve talks about me all the time. Why?"

Jonathan's eyes widen, and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "Oh... uh... what?"

"You told me that he talks about me. Why does he talk about me, Jonathan?"

Jonathan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I... I don't think it's my place—"

"Please, Jonathan." Your voice comes out teary, desperate, and you hate yourself for it. You're buzzed from the drinks and the joint, and everything feels too big, too raw.

He looks at you for a long moment, clearly debating whether to tell you. Then he sighs again, deeper this time.

"I don't know exactly. He brings you up a lot when we talk. Tells me about things you do, things you say. How cool you are and you don't even know it. How you're different from other girls he's—" Jonathan cuts himself off, looking uncomfortable. "He told me that you're pretty. That if things were different, he'd ask you on a date. But..."

"But?" you demand, voice shaky, tears threatening.

Jonathan looks down at the sand, digging his foot into it. "You know why. Robin."

"But Robin isn't even—" You stop yourself, because Jonathan knows. He knows it's fake. "Right. Robin."

Jonathan looks at the ocean, giving you privacy for your pain. "I'm sorry. I really am."

You look out at the dark water, waves rolling in steady and relentless. "I fucking hate him."

"No, you don't," Jonathan says quietly.

You snap your head toward him. "Yes, I do."

He gives you a knowing look, sad and sympathetic. "Our brains can get hate and love mixed up sometimes, you know? The wires cross."

The tears burn hot against your cheeks, and you don't bother wiping them away. The ocean breeze is cool on your wet face.

"Let me take you back to your room," Jonathan says gently. "You look exhausted."

You don't argue, and you let him guide you back across the beach, trudging through sand that keeps getting in your shoes, making each step harder.

Polly spots you halfway to the hotel and runs up, slightly out of breath, giggling. "Hey, uh..." She looks sheepish. "Don't worry about me if I don't make it back to the room tonight, okay?" Then her expression shifts, concern creeping in. "Wait, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine. I'm tired. Jonathan's walking me back." You nod, and you're not sure if you're pissed that Polly gets to enjoy her night with whoever she wants while you feel alone and miserable, or if you're grateful she won't be there to witness your breakdown.

Jonathan walks you all the way to your door, and you thank him quietly.

Before he leaves, he stops you with a hand on your arm. "If you need anything—anything at all—let me know. I'm in room 412."

You nod, watching him walk back down the hall toward the elevators, his footsteps muffled by the hallway carpet.

You end up actually taking a shower this time, sand everywhere making you feel uncomfortable and grimy. You scrub your skin until it's red, wash your hair twice, trying to wash away the feeling of Steve's hands on you, the memory of his skin against yours.

You take one last look outside from the balcony, down at the party still raging on the beach a few hundred yards away. You wonder if Steve is making out with that girl he was dancing with. Wonder if he's thinking about you at all, or if you've already been completely erased from his mind.

A feeling of resentment toward Robin arises—sharp and unexpected and unwelcome. But you quickly push it away, not ready to examine the complicated depths of your friendship with her, especially when she has no idea what's been happening. None of this is her fault. She didn't know. She couldn't have known.

You can't sleep. You toss and turn, tangling yourself in the sheets, punching the pillow, trying to find a comfortable position. You tell yourself it's because of the music from the beach, still faintly audible through the closed balcony door. But really, you can't stop your brain from thinking.

Around two in the morning, you hear the door to the next room—Steve's room—finally close.

You try to talk yourself out of it. Try not to get up, not to open your door, not to stare at the door next to yours. But you fail. You find yourself standing in your doorway in your pajamas, staring at Steve's door like it holds all the answers.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you knock three times. Quick, light, barely audible. You're already turning to run back to your room when the door opens.

Polly stands there in a towel, hair wet, face flushed. She looks surprised to see you, but she's smiling that bashful smile that means something just happened.

Inside, you can hear the bathroom door open, the shower still running. Someone—Steve—humming in the shower. Some song you don't recognize, voice slightly off-key, and it's so painfully domestic it makes your chest constrict.

Your eyes widen. "Oh... sorry!"

Polly looks at you questioningly, head tilting. "It's okay... do you need something?"

Your mind blanks. You can't tell her the truth—that you wanted to see Steve, to yell at him or kiss him or both. "Is there an extra pillow? There weren't any in our room."

It's a terrible lie. You have plenty of pillows.

Polly's smile widens. "Oh! Yeah, hold on." She closes the door, and you stand there in the hallway feeling like an idiot, listening to Steve's muffled humming through the wall.

She comes back with a pillow—one of the decorative ones from the bed. "Here you go!"

You stand there for a moment, both of you looking at each other awkwardly. You can smell Steve's cologne wafting out from the room, mixed with steam from the shower and something else. Something that makes your stomach turn.

"Right. Thanks. See you... tomorrow," you manage, and then you bolt back to your room like something is chasing you.

You wrap yourself in your bed, pulling the covers over your head like you did as a kid when you thought there were monsters in the closet. Hiding from things that couldn't actually hurt you, except this time the monster is real and it's wearing Steve Harrington's face.

You listen to the distant music from the beach party still going, gradually getting quieter as people filter back to their rooms.

And then you hear it.

The wall across from your bed starts thumping. The rhythmic sound of a bed hitting against thin plaster, over and over. Creaking springs. A high-pitched moan that definitely isn't Steve.

Then Steve's voice, low and rough, saying something you can't make out. Another moan, louder this time. The unmistakable sounds of two people coming together, of pleasure, of intimacy.

The thumping gets faster. The moans get louder. And you lie there in your bed, covers pulled up to your chin, choking on a sob you refuse to let out.

The sounds reach a crescendo— Polly’s whines, Steve groaning, the bed slamming against the wall one final time before everything goes quiet except for heavy breathing and low murmurs.

You know with absolute certainty now that you would never be the exception. That what Steve said was true—he was bored of you. That everything he made you feel was a lie, a game, a way to pass the time until something better came along.

And you know with equal certainty that you do fucking hate Steve Harrington.

You hate him for making you fall for him. Hate him for every soft word and gentle touch. Hate him for the planetarium and the tent and the way he looked at you like you mattered.

dustin gets up from the desk chair and crosses the room, looking through the peephole on the door just to see you standing there. only dustin has no idea who the hell you are, or why on earth you’re standing outside of steve’s door with what looks like a container of… cookies?

but dustin unlocks and opens the door anyway, eyeing you suspiciously, and it doesn’t take a genius (though dustin is one) to notice the way your face falls upon seeing him.

“oh,” you pause right away, blinking a few times with a confused expression before you seem to collect yourself. “uh, hi.”

“hi?” dustin glances back over his shoulder, towards the computer monitor where the live feed from steve’s suit was still playing, and from here it looks like he’s getting his ass kicked. “uh, sorry, who are you?”

“oh, um,” you chuckle a little awkwardly as you introduce yourself, almost like you’re embarrassed.

dustin nods, but your name isn’t familiar to him. steve’s definitely never mentioned you, and yet here you are at his door. he introduces himself anyway as dustin, steve’s brother (maybe not biologically, but they’re brothers in every way that matters).

“sorry, is steve here?” you ask and dustin stops.

steve isn’t here, obviously. steve’s currently on patrol, probably getting the shit kicked out of him by a guy in a rhino costume, dressed up like a spider. dustin doesn’t know that you know about it, so naturally, he searches for a believable lie.

“uh, no. he’s out tonight,” dustin replies, adjusting the cap sitting over his head of curls. 

“do you know if he’ll be back soon?” you ask again and dustin is quick to shake his head. “oh, is he–”

“he’s on a date,” dustin blurts out. a date, right, that’s believable isn’t it? steve used to go on dates all the time, so surely you’d believe that. “yeah, he’s on a date. so, who knows? might not even come home tonight.”

“oh,” a frown sets itself on your features, a flash of disappointment crossing your face for just a moment before you collect yourself, clearing your throat. “um, well, here you go then.”

you hand dustin the container of cookies you had been holding, and he lifts the box to examine it.

“they’re just chocolate chip,” you explain to him. “feel free to have some. just save some for steve.”

your voice is sweet in a way that dustin can tell you only talk that way around strangers; it’s eerily similar to a customer service voice, overly polite and cheery. it throws dustin off. it’s forced cheerfulness, but you weren’t talking that way before.

“oh, thanks.” dustin’s sweet tooth has a mind of its own, and he thinks steve’ll be lucky if he even gets one.

“alright,” you smile widely, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, not really. “well, i’ll go then. tell steve i stopped by, or something.”

“will do,” dustin nods and you begin retreating back down the hallway, toward the elevator. “uh, thanks for the cookies!”

you give dustin a wave, then disappear around the corner. dustin steps back into the apartment, returning to the quiet, the front door locking behind him with a ‘click’ as he sets the container of cookies down on the computer desk beside his mouse and two empty energy drink cans.

settling back into his chair, dustin pulls his headset back on just to be met with the sound of steve groaning in pain.

“wait, steve, what’s happening?” he asks, pulling his hand away from the cookie container he had been reaching into. he squints at the monitor in front of him, trying to make out the scene still unfolding before him.

“oh, you’re back,” steve grunts as his foot collides with the rhino’s face, sending him flying backwards as he flips over the villain just to kick him in the back, his boot landing between his two very large shoulderblades. “this guy just won’t give up. but he’s about to, right aleksei?”

a roar of anger follows steve’s voice over the comms, making him laugh. dustin watches as steve holds out both hands, his wrists pointed towards rhino before two thick lines of web fly out from his shooters and hit him in the chest. steve’s gloved hands grab ahold of the webs, then he yanks them forward, causing rhino to stumble forward. 

“lame,” dustin responds, now grabbing at a cookie in the container and lifting it in his hand, a few crumbs dropping onto his keyboard that he does his best to wipe away. “this dude just gets worse every time.”

“tell me about it, man,” steve chuckles, now running along one of the walls, pulling the webs along with him to wrap them around the rhino’s body. “at least it sounds like hopper’s gonna get this asshole back in the raft tonight.”

“yeah, then he’s just gonna break out again, steve,” dustin points out, then takes a bite from the cookie and immediately lets out a delighted moan. “holy shit, steve, your neighbor makes the best cookies.”

on the monitor dustin watches as steve finishes webbing up the rhino, who now looks unconscious–or just too dazed to get up from the ground–and then pauses.

“my neighbor?” he asks dustin hesitantly.

“yeah, she just came by and brought you cookies,” dustin explains, already reaching for another one of the baked goods. “she said i could have some, so you better get home before i eat them all.”

“dude, i gotta wait for the cops to get here,” steve scoffs. “wait–which neighbor?”

“i dunno, some girl your age,” dustin shrugs, speaking through a mouthful of cookie and accidentally spitting crumbs onto the desk in front of him. he swallows and wipes his mouth before saying the name you had introduced yourself with. “she asked if you were home, so i just told her you’re out on a date.”

the silence on the other end of the line was deafening, except for the sound of sirens drawing nearer that steve’s microphone was picking up. dustin stares at the monitor for a moment to see steve wasn’t moving.

“steve, dude, is there a problem with the signal? you froze–” dustin’s cut off mid sentence by steve questioning him aggressively, like he’s interrogating some criminal.

“you told her i’m on a date?!” steve groans, and dustin can see he drags his hands over his mask like he would with his face when he’s stressed. “dustin!”

“what? i don’t see the big deal, i couldn’t tell her that you’re spider-man and you were fighting some giant, ugly rhino guy, could i?”

“yeah, you could! she knows, dickhead,” steve exclaims, and dustin starts to realize his mistake, but he doesn’t apologize, he argues back.

“well i didn’t know that, asshole!” dustin rolls his eyes and proceeds to grab yet another cookie. “i still don’t see the big deal, man, so what if she thinks you’re on a date?”

“henderson, you gotta be kidding me,” steve whines, leaning against a brick wall and staring over at the rhino. “you’re seriously such a moron, dude.”

that’s when dustin realizes, and he lets out a cackle. “oh, my god, you like her! oh, shit! wait ‘til robin hears–”

“you’re not telling robin shit, dude, she will never let it go,”

“but you admit it?”

steve falls silent, and dustin can hear the sirens growing louder on his side, meaning they’re probably only a minute or so away from steve now. dustin starts laughing again, almost hysterically, and steve sighs.

“whatever, henderson, let me just wrap shit up over here, and i’m coming home to kick your ass,” steve says and dustin snorts.

“just tell her you weren’t on a date the next time you see her,” dustin shrugs, crossing the room towards the kitchen and grabbing another can of drink from the fridge

“yeah, ‘cause that’s really subtle,” steve replies sarcastically as dustin returns to his chair again, popping open the pull tab with a sizzle that echoes around the empty living room. “dude, is that one of my energy drinks?”

“no,” dustin lies, taking a long sip and grinning as he swallows down the third of the caffeine-filled drinks he’s had in the last two hours.

“uh-huh. i gotta go, the cops just got here,” steve says and dustin rolls his eyes.

“i’m missing collarbones, not eyes, steven,” he quips and steve mocks his voice over the comms.

“yeah, yeah, whatever man. i’ll see you in ten.”

–

a/n: damsel in distress reader next??? i’ve gotten a few requests for this series already and i’m sooo excited to write them you guys have no idea… comments and reblogs are always appreciated <3 love u all.

you weren’t sure if he thought he was being subtle, but he absolutely wasn’t. you were surprised no one else had noticed like you had, but maybe you were just paying too much attention.

you never told anyone, not even steve himself, because how on earth do you approach the neighbor you hardly know and accuse him of being a superhero?

which leads you to now.

sitting on your bed, typing away on your laptop, finishing some last minute work documents before tomorrow morning, because you had spent the entire weekend procrastinating for no reason other than the fact that you just didn’t want to do it.

it’s late, past midnight now, when you hear the same usual sounds signifying spider-man was headed home and steve was returning. it’s almost like a song you’ve memorized now; each beat is always the same.

that is, until your window slides open, rather than steve’s upstairs, and spider-man awkwardly crawls through your window.

you watch silently, shock evident on your features as he sits his hands on his hips, facing your window as his shoulders heave. he hasn’t taken off his mask yet.

you notice the way he slowly looks around, then one hand drops from his side and reaches up to the back of his head as he lets out a muffled, “shit.”

“hi,” you speak up and he jumps, spinning around with his fists out, ready to fight. you raise your hands up in surrender. “jeez, i’m sorry, i thought you were supposed to be able to sense things.”

“this is not my apartment.” spider-man sighs, and despite the fact his voice is muffled by the material of his mask, you can recognize steve’s voice. it’s definitely him.

“nope. you’re the next floor up,” you tell him, almost absentmindedly, with a shrug like it was no big deal.

“thanks,” he nods, then freezes in place. though his mask doesn’t do much to convey emotion, you imagine he looks like a dear caught in headlights. “wait. how do you know that?”

“i know it’s you, steve,” you answer, going back to typing on your laptop like nothing happened. “you’re not exactly subtle.”

“i don’t know what you’re taking about,” spider-man, definitely-not-steve-harrington, states awkwardly, his voice deepening suddenly, and you let a snort of laughter escape.

“right, right,” you nod, though your face looks more amused than convinced. “of course.”

“i’m not, i have no idea who this ‘steve’ guy is,” spider-man says and you hum in response.

“of course not,” you reply sarcastically. “there’s no way he’d fit all of that hair under that mask. right?”

“you think you’re funny, don’t you?” spider-man asks and you stand up, pushing your laptop onto your bed to approach him.

“yeah, i do,” you shrug, then cross your arms, now standing before him with your brows raised. “you gonna prove me wrong?”

“it’s kind of called a secret identity for a reason, lady.”

you scoff. “it’s not very secret when your neighbor figures out your ‘secret identity’ within a month.”

he sighs, you watch his shoulders deflate, then he raises his hand to the back of his head again, pulling off the mask and revealing steve harrington himself. that handsome face, those beautiful eyes, and that head of thick, wavy brown hair.

“hi,” you smile at him, already proud of yourself, trying your best not to totally drool, and he shakes his head at you.

“you better not tell anyone about this,” steve tells you, like he’s attempting to threaten you or sound annoyed, but it comes out gentler, almost like he’s pleading as he stares into your eyes.

“please, if i wanted to tell people i would’ve done it already,” you reply, dropping your hands to your sides and taking another step closer. “i just wanted proof for my own ego.”

steve scoffs, looking down at the mask in his gloved hands, then back up at you. you just raise your eyebrows, wondering what he’s going to do next.

“i, uh, should probably head up to my apartment, then,” he says, awkwardly shuffling towards your window again, carding a hand through his tangled hair.

“see you tomorrow morning, steve,” you grin, and he glances back at you over his shoulder with flushed cheeks.

“uh-huh,” he replies, then gives a little sarcastic wave. and you just can’t stop grinning as he clambers out onto the fire escape and ascends to the floor above yours, climbing in through his own window.

—