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There was a time your designated spot was shoulder to shoulder, fingers intertwined, with Steve and now you stand on complete opposite sides of the room without a single second or eye contact – it almost felt like a piece of you had be taken away.

Actually, that’s how you felt ever since the breakup.

Your relationship with Steve came almost suddenly. You were in the same grade, you practically grew up together, but never actually interacted in school. Until senior year and he broke up with Nancy and the kid you babysat ran to you for help after his new pet alien ate his cat.

A strange friendship formed between you, Dustin and Steve but it was something real. Even when the younger kid wasn’t around, you and Steve became glued to each other. Where he went, you followed and when you moved, he moved.

What started as platonic quickly morphed into romantic.

He’d changed so much from the popular boy in high school and became someone softer. He still had that same charm and personality, but he tried to let go of all the superficial things he used to cling to.

A part of you felt like maybe he’d never get over Nancy but after those months together, everything else except you and him disappeared. The two of you were together for eight months before you both started working at Scoops and then you were thrown into a whirlwind of more aliens and evil Russian soldiers.

Fighting off Demodogs with Steve at the junkyard and in the tunnels was scary enough – more scary than either of you would actually admit – but watching Steve get nearly beaten half to death and taking a few blows of your own? That was different.

You still had a scar across your cheekbone from the back of a guard’s gun after you mouthed off one too many times.

What should’ve been a time when the two of you really leaned on each other, almost like a trauma bond, Steve vanished. It was small at first – he would cancel on plans, he started calling less and less, he’d give you vague excuses for his sudden absence. You could feel it in your bones, the way he was slowly pulling away.

At first, you thought maybe he was just having a tough time moving past things. After all, he’d gotten the brunt of the soldiers anger and he had the bruises to prove it. But it wasn’t just temporary space he wanted and two weeks after the Battle of Starcourt, Steve broke up with you. Over the phone.

Devastated couldn’t even begin to describe how you felt. You tried to reason with him, even begged him not to do it, but he was firm. He insisted you two weren’t right for each other and there was ‘no point in prolonging the inevitable.’ He was clear in what he didn’t say – he didn’t love you anymore and honestly, you weren’t sure he ever did.

Almost a year had passed since the breakup and Steve has made sure to stay no contact. The only time you’ve ever spoke after was when he returned your things from his house and asked for his own. The only thing you were left with was the heart shaped locket he gifted you for your birthday a few months after dating. 

Even though it tore you apart, you respected his decision and didn’t try to push him. You kept your distance from him but in turn, that meant distance from everyone.

Until a few days ago.

Max and Dustin showed up on your doorstep, scared and out of breath – rushing to beg for help about Eddie Munson and the newly deceased Chrissy Cunningham. There wasn’t a chance you could say no.

So you drove them to Family Video and for the first time in months, you were around Steve again. At the sight of him for the first time in months, your fingers clutched the locket still around your neck for some sort of comfort. But even in the same room, he wouldn’t look at you. He hardly acknowledged your presence. It cracked your already broken heart even more.

You guys have spent the last couple of days tracking Eddie down and then listening to his recount of Chrissy’s death. Your stomach turns at the confirmation that it wasn’t a regular run of the mill murder and instead, you’re all now sucked back into monsters and chaos.

Things began to feel really scary when Nancy’s assistant turned up dead in the same manner. Not only were you faced with some inter-dimensional psycho, but also had to deal with what looked like Steve having feelings for Nancy. You didn’t miss the way he tried to follow her on her lead or the disappointment he felt when Robin took his place instead. The locket around your neck felt like a weight around you instead of providing comfort.

Everything worsened when Max connected the dots between the latest victims and confessed she’s been dealing with her own symptoms. The already high stakes raised even higher at the risk of Max being in danger.

Now, the entire group gathers around the living room of the abandoned Creel home as everyone begins to split off into groups.

You’re standing off to the far side of the room. It feels weird being back here – everyone seems to have their own reason for being here. Nancy wants to find justice for her assistant, Dustin wants to clear Eddie’s name, Max needs to survive and Lucas is hellbent on making sure that happens, and Steve and Robin are here to protect their friends. You feel like the odd one out.  

Maybe it’s not the time to be worrying about that – it definitely isn’t – but the small reminders that you’re not really apart of the group stings.

Max and Lucas pair off together, Steve and Dustin together in the opposite direction and Nancy pulls Robin along with her. As scary as the run down house seems to be, trying to sneak into one of the pairs scares you more – so you go off alone without a hitch.

You do your best to inspect the house and every room you come across but it’s hard when you’re not even sure what you’re supposed to be looking for. You continue through the house for a few minutes until you make it upstairs. When your round the corner, you still.

Because a few feet in front of you, Steve and Nancy stand extremely close. They face each other, eyes locked and gentle smiles along their faces. You can’t hear exactly what they’re saying but Steve looks peaceful. Happy.

It makes your heart bleed and instinctively, your hand reaches for your heart locket again. You recognize that look in his eye, it’s the same way he used to look at you but hasn’t in so long. Seeing them like this feels like torture but you can’t seem to look away. And more than that, it feels like an extra confirmation that Steve broke off the relationship because he didn’t feel the same way anymore.

You’d heard the whispers and the rumors about how he never really got over her and maybe this just proves it.

Your silent pity party halts to an end when Robin makes her way up the stairs and easily slides into the conversation. Steve and Nancy share a look of exasperation and she gives his arm a gentle squeeze before walking away. It’s only then that Steve’s eyes trail from hers and flick up, locking with your own.

Something unreadable flashes in his eyes – surprise, maybe? Or possibly guilt. Whatever it is, it’s gone just as fast as it appeared and he follows the other girls down the hall without a word.

There’s a pang in your chest at his indifference. It’s hard to see him act so careless about everything but maybe you should have expected as much.

Suddenly, you hear Max’s voice coming from the other room and you’re reminded of the situation you’re actually in. If heartbreak was the worst thing you had to deal with then so be it – because the alternative is Max losing her life and you be damned if you let that happen.

The rest of the time spent in the house passes in a blur. You all came to the realization that whatever Vecna is doing, he has some sort of connection withlights and uses that to almost travel between dimensions.

It’s hours later when everyone gets back to the Wheeler home and Nancy decided on using the late hours to regroup and plan for the next few days. How to break the bad news to Eddie, how to successfully avoid Jason and the police, how to make sure Max stays safe by enforcing what Dustin coined as Max Watch.

The basement fills with overlapping chatter. Dustin and Nancy argue over which crisis is more important, Lucas is trying his best to comfort Max – who doesn’t seem to be all that interested in talking anymore – and Robin looks torn between staying silent and joining the argument.

Yet all you can focus on is Steve.

He’s let out his own fair share of input throughout the night and even made some arguably ill-timed jokes with Dustin. You’d like to be infuriated over the fact that he seems fine being around you and not talking but you’re not. You’re just.. hurt.

You’re sitting on a singular chair close to the stairs – the spot furthest from Steve. You’re trying to ignore the loud noises coming from everyone and before your mind catches up with your body, your hand reaches up for your locket.

Except your fingers grasp around air.

Your spine straightens in your seat and you glance down as your palm glides across the fabric of your shirt.

Nothing.

You swipe your hand across your neck, hoping it slipped under your shirt, except it’s not.

Nothing but bare skin.

Panic rises in your chest almost immediately. Every sound coming from the others drowns out of your ears as you shove your jacket off, shaking it erratically in front of you in case it tangled itself there.

Nothing.

You jump to your feet in the blink of an eye and pull the cushions from the small seat – fingers gliding across every inch of fabric in case it slipped through.

Nothing.

This cannot be happening. You couldn’t have lost it. You just had it.

Your stomach twists with anxiety as you search for it. Robin is the first one to notice the change in your behavior.

She calls your name gently. “What’s wrong?”

There’s a lump in your throat that makes it hard to respond. You drop to your knees, snatching your purse from where it sat on the floor. Without a second thought, you dump everything out and onto the floor.

“My necklace – it’s gone,” You respond quietly. There’s a waver in your voice and you know it doesn’t go unnoticed.

Your fingers push apart every item from your bag. Your wallet, your keys, useless receipts, loose change.

No locket.  

Your heart is hammering in your chest and there’s a burning feeling coursing through your veins.

“What necklace?” Robin asks and without looking back, you can feel everyone’s eyes on you. It’s embarrassing but the fear of having lost one of the most important things to you overpowers that.

“My locket. It was just here, I just had it,” You explain. She approaches you and offers a small smile.

“It’s okay, we’ll find it. Where was the last place you had it?”

“I don’t – I don’t know. I felt it at the Creel house and that’s.. that’s the last time I can remember,” Your voice is quiet and broken but you keep sifting through the pile of useless things from your purse.

It’s not there. It’s not in your pocket. It’s not around your neck. It’s gone.

Nancy speaks up from behind you next. “Look I’m sorry about your necklace but that’s not really important right now.”

Her tone isn’t unkind but it is impatient. She’s not wrong but the reminder hits a nerve inside you.

“It’s my necklace,” Your response is curt but she doesn’t let it bother her.

“We have to focus on saving lives right now. It’s just a necklace – you can always get another one,” Nancy says.

“No it’s not just a necklace,” You snap, your fingers shake as you shove everything back into your bag and your voice trembles. “It’s from St –“

You freeze before you can finish saying his name. Everything around you feels too small and suffocating. Knowing how much the breakup has been affecting you is different from admitting it to everyone around you.

The hard truth is you’ve been holding onto this single piece of jewelry like it was still a piece of him – but it’s not and it never will be. There was no relationship with him anymore and whether you lost the necklace or not, there never would be again.

Your eyes burn with tears as you kneel against the hardwood floor, sitting over the messy pile that’s your purse. Your shoulders drop and curl into yourself – every ounce of fight drains from you and you finally accept what’s been right in front of you.

The necklace won’t bring him back.

You quietly clean up the mess you made and Robin gives your shoulder a soft squeeze.

“We’ll look more tomorrow, yeah?” She assures but you both know it’s futile. Tomorrow, things with Eddie and Max could worsen. Vecna could make a real appearance. Or Jason and his wild pack of goons could become really dangerous.

You give her a small nod and then the moment passes.

Nancy insists everyone gets rest, saying tomorrow (and however long after that) will be a long day. Everyone does their best to get comfortable in the small space and without a word, you set off upstairs to find a bathroom.

As soon as the door clicks shut, your back leans against the door and tears fall freely against your cheek. They’re thick and hot against your skin and your shoulders rack with sobs.

Your nails dig into the bare skin where the locket used to lay as you let yourself feel it all. The heartbreak of it all and the pain of feeling like it’s happening all over it.

It’s stupid. It’s a single piece of metal. There’s a million other things for you to be worrying about right now but it’s also not just a necklace. It’s that beautiful loving moment you and Steve shared when he gave it to you. It’s his nervous hands shaking as he clasped the chain around your neck. It’s the way his eyes landed on the pendant everyday after. It’s the comfort it’s given you. It’s the last piece of proof that love between you two truly existed.

And now it’s gone.

Steve Harrington feels like the shittiest guy on the planet.

Not only has he spent the last few days acting like he didn’t care about you, he also had to watch you panic over losing the necklace and not comfort you.

Except that was nobody’s fault but his own.

He’s been the most miserable he’s been over the past few months after breaking up with you but he truly felt like it was the right thing to do. He watched you get hurt and face danger head on all because of him and his connections to the Upside Down.

It was his last straw when he woke up in the underground bunker, vision blurred from his swollen eye, and saw the deep cut across your cheekbone. It was still gushing blood but you didn’t even care – you were fussing over him instead of yourself.

That’s when he knew he couldn’t be with you anymore. Because you cared more about his wellbeing instead of your own and he’d be damned if he let you get hurt to save him.

He knew it was cruel doing it over the phone and his ‘reasons’ were even more cruel but selfishly, he couldn’t stand to see the look of agony that would wash over your face if he did it in person.

His fingers gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white and when he heard the trembles in your voice as you begged him not to, he had to slam it onto the receiver before you could hear him cry.  

Everyday since then has been hell on earth for him – but he told himself it was worth it if it kept you safe.

And then suddenly, and without him with you, you were in it all over again. Only this time he couldn’t comfort you. He couldn’t hold your hand or kiss your forehead. He gave all that up.

Steve didn’t think you’d still wear the necklace he bought you but his happiness from the confirmation was short lived once you began to panic over losing it.

He came to a realization he subconsciously already knew was true. That breaking up with you didn’t make things easier for you or keep you safe – it just hurt you emotionally instead of physically and he’s made you suffer for months.

He glances down at where you lay across the floor. You’re curled into a ball, knees tucked tight to your chest and one arm bent under your head. You seem to be asleep but you still look restless. He can still see the tear stains on your cheeks and his heart cracks.

He can’t fix what he did months ago, but he can fix this.

Steve stands quietly and his eyes dart across the room to make sure everyone is asleep. Everyone but Lucas is, he jumped for first shift of Max Watch, and he doesn’t seem to be at all interested in what Steve is doing.

He quietly gathers his things and makes his way to his car.

The Creel house is even more intimidating at night. It was once a beautiful home, there’s no denying that, but now it’s covered in boarded up windows and vines growing across every inch. The air around the house is eerily quiet – not even crickets chirp nearby.

Steve stands on the porch – not a single street light offering him any comfort – as he calms himself down enough to enter alone. It’s probably a dumb decision, no definitively a dumb decision, but the memory of your tear stained face, kneeling defeated on the floor is enough to make him move.

He wanders through the house with his flashlight. The floorboards creek beneath his feet and the tall grandfather clock almost mocks him. He fights every instinct to turn tail and run, and moves further into the house.

He retraces your steps the best he can. He looks through the main hallway, spends minutes at every single step of the staircase, he makes his way to the second story and examines every inch of the floor.

He makes it to the end of the hall – the same place you stood frozen at the sight of him and Nancy. He feels guilt settle heavy in his chest. It wasn’t what you were thinking but at the time, he thought it was best to let you believe that. He was so stupid.

Steve swallows down his regret and continues moving.

He spent an hour at the house, rummaging through every corner of the rooms you stepped even a foot in and can’t find it. He’s on his last leg of hope when he enters the attic. He wanders the room, flashlight beaming across the floor as he looks for it.

He’s just about to give up when the light catches something. The reflection bounces off the metal, glaring into his eye, and before he knows it, he rushes to it.

It’s a metal chain hanging from a broken floorboard and he can’t see if there’s a pendant attached to it. He drops to his knees, careful not to shake the broken wood, and holds the flashlight over it.

His fingers gently wrap around the metal and with a little tug, he pulls the metal free. Hanging from the bottom of the chain, is the heart shaped locket. It’s a scratched now and tiny pieces of splintered wood are stuck in the clasp but he found it.

He found it.

Steve breathes out a heavy breath of relief and squeezes the jewelry in his palm. He doesn’t spend another second inside the house and rushes outside – back to his car and back to you.  

By the time Steve makes it back to the Wheelers house, it’s almost three AM. He knew you’d still be asleep and he’d spent the whole car ride back debating if he should wake you up to give it to you, or wait till morning.

His debate solves itself when he steps out of his car, the locket still clutched tight in his fist, and sees you sitting on the front porch of the house.    

He freezes at the sight of you so close to him. It’s the first time you were alone and without distance in months. Everything he thought about saying flies out the window and all he can do is look at you.

You look up when you hear him approaching and surprise flashes in your eyes. He’s not sure what you thought when you saw he was gone – if anything at all – but it’s clear you weren’t expecting to see him like this.

Your hands fidget with the hem of your shirt and he can tell you’re uncomfortable. He never thought he’d see you like that because of him. He hates it.

Your mouth parts like you’re about to say something but he beats you to it.

“I have something for you,” He says.

His voice fills the tense air but the sound of it is like music to your ears. It’s soft and cautious – a hint of exhaustion blanketing it. You blink up at him from where you still sit on the porch step.

“For me?” Your brows furrow. He takes a step closer to you and holds his hand out.

Sitting in the center of his palm is a necklace. Your necklace.

You jump to your feet once recognition hits. A relieved gasp slips past your lips and you rush towards him, fingers tenderly cradling the metal.

“You found it?” You breathe out and hold the necklace in your own hands. Your voice is thick and tears line your eyes again. “I don’t – I don’t understand, how did you find it?”

Steve feels his heart pound when you look up at him with shiny eyes.

“It was at the Creel house, stuck in the attic.” He explains quietly. He’s almost too lost in the way you look right now. Undoubtedly exhausted and heartbroken over the necklace but still so fucking beautiful.

“You went back?”

He nods and watches the way your eyes glance down, taking in the state of him. He almost feels subconscious.

“Why would you do that?” Your voice rises with concern and it takes him aback. “Steve, you could’ve been hurt! We have no idea what’s going on and Robin created the whole no-going-off-alone thing for a reason. Why would you do that just for a necklace?” You chastise him.

It’s ironic that you’re saying it’s just a necklace now when a few hours ago, you were ready to bite Nancy’s head off for saying the same thing.

But this time Steve risked his life for it and that was stupid.

“Because it’s important to you.” Steve says easily. Your breath hitches as he stares down at you. There’s a finality in his voice that makes your heart ache. He says it like it’s obvious – only it’s not obvious and it hasn’t been for a long time.

You shake your head and inhale shakily. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you squeeze the necklace in your palm. You have no idea how to respond and nothing feels adequate anymore.

“Steve..” Your shaky voice trails off but he fills the silence.

“You have a scar,” Steve nearly blurts out.

Confusion flashes across your face but he raises his hand to stroke against your cheek. His fingers trace the raised scar across your skin and you fight the instinct to lean into his hold.

You know without more explanation that whatever his reason is for mentioning the scar, it has to do with the breakup.

“So what,” Your eyes searched his as you spoke. “You’re – you’re grossed out because of my scar?”

Insecurity fills your chest and you move to pull away from his hold. It almost feel like it burns now. His eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head.

“No! No – no that’s not what I mean,” He raises both hands to grab your hands and hold you in place across from him. He says your name gently and you can see his hazel brown eyes swirl with so many emotions. “What I meant is you have a scar because of me,”

You faltered for a moment. “Steve, I got it from the blunt end of a pistol,”

“Exactly!” He exclaims and your brows pinch together. “You literally got pistol whipped because you were trying to protect me. You got hurt because of me,”

It slowly begins to dawn on you what he’s saying but he doesn’t let you offer any defense before he continues.

“Baby, you have no idea what it felt like to see you hurt like that and how it felt to know it was because of me,” You barely have a chance to bask in the slip of a pet name because he keeps going. “I thought I was doing the right thing back then. I thought I was keeping you safe by walking away – that’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, because I’d rather live in a life time of agony alone than drag you into danger. I can’t do that – I won’t do that.” Steve’s voice cracks and your chest tightens. “But you got dragged into it anyway and this time, you’ve been alone and that’s my fault. I hurt you worse than you’ve ever been hurt before and I’m sorry, baby – I’m so fucking sorry,”

By the time Steve finishes, his palms have somehow found home holding your face. The tears that threatened to fall have spilled down your skin and wet his hands. Unaware to himself, his own eyes gloss over with tears.

It’s a terrible reason to have broken up with you and a deep part of you is angry that he didn’t just have a conversation with you but the biggest part of you is so fucking relieved to hear those words come out of his mouth.

Because it’s not that he didn’t love you anymore, it was that he loved you too much.

You breathe in a shaky breath and bring your freehand up to grip his wrist. “Steve..”

He leans his forehead against your own and his eyes flutter shut – a few stray tears slide down his cheeks and your heart shatters at the sight. You’ve spent so much time thinking he didn’t care but in reality, he was living the same hell you were.

You whisper his name but when he doesn’t move, you gently pull yourself away from him to bring the locket up to view. “Steve, look at me,” You murmur. He doesn’t take his hands off your face but he obliges. “You didn’t open it, did you?”

His eyes glance at the chain in your hand. “The necklace? No,” He shakes his head.

You give him a tearful smile and nudge it towards him. He doesn’t seem to get the hint. “Open it,”

He looks hesitant to let you go but when you give him another gentle encouragement, his hands move from your skin to hold the locket. He sniffles as he opens the metal.

His fingers still once it’s laid open in front of him.

Tucked inside the hearts are two pictures – one of the two of you on a date and the other of just him smiling softly into the camera.

His heart constricts in his chest at the sight of it. It wasn’t just that you still wore the necklace – you still carried him with you. Everyday since he gave it to you.

You let the silence sit for a moment before speaking up.

“Steve, it never mattered if we were together or not. I would follow you into danger every time. You could’ve been dragged to hell right now and I would still jump in after you because I love you, Steve. So mu –“

You’re suddenly cut off when he slams his lips against yours. The feeling of his lips fitting perfectly with yours is dizzying relief and your hands cling to his shoulders. You hold onto him so tight, like you’re afraid he’s about to slip away, and his hands cradle your face just as tight.

Steve is overwhelmed with every ounce of love he’s ever felt for you and you feel just the same.

His mouth slots against yours as he pours everything into this one kiss. He feels warm and fuzzy against you and it’s like all the torturous moments away from him completely fade away.

“I love you so – so fucking much,” Steve whispers against your lips, careful not to break contact, and you don’t even pretend to fight the smile that breaks out on your face. “So much baby, so so much,”

He continues to repeat it even as his lips travel from your lips and across your skin. He leaves messy kisses to your cheek, along your jaw, even over your eyelids until he lands back on your lips.

You hold each other close and breathe in each others air for as long as you can until he finally breaks apart from you – but he still doesn’t go far and rests his forehead against yours. You both nearly struggle to catch your breath but you’re both smiling wide.

It all feels right again. Perfect.

You carefully pull the necklace from his hand and hold it up again. “Will you put it on me?”

Steve nods without hesitation and carefully turns your hips to face away from him. Your pull your hair over one shoulder as he pulls the chain around your neck. His warm finger tips brush against your skin and tiny goosebumps erupt over you. The metal is cool against the warmth of your body – right where it belongs – and Steve’s hands glide across your shoulders after he clasps it in place.

You turn in his hold and wrap your arms around his middle. You look up at his beautiful eyes and he stares back down at yours. “I missed you,” You confess softly.

He nods above you and his thumb glides across your cheek. “I’ve missed you even more, sweet girl.”

There’s a million and one things to worry about tomorrow. The state of the world, Max’s safety, Eddie’s freedom and so much more but there’s not a sliver of doubt inside you that you can’t deal with it if he’s by your side.

By the time the bathroom light flickers on above him, buzzing faintly in the silence, everyone else is already gone or close enough to it. Hopper has driven Dustin home with a hoodie shoved under the kid's nose to stop the bleeding. Nancy has taken Robin to get her wrist looked at properly, despite Robin insisting with increasingly thin patience that it was fine, no, seriously, Wheeler, she was pretty sure bones were supposed to look like that. Max had stood in the hallway for twenty minutes refusing to leave until she knew everybody else had, arms crossed hard over her chest, mouth set in that stubborn line she wore whenever she was scared and furious about it.

And Steve had let all of it happen around him.

He had nodded when people spoke. Had answered questions when someone needed him to. Had said, yeah, yeah, I'm good, with enough convincing exhaustion that nobody argued with him for long. He had watched the house slowly empty, listened to car doors slam out on the street, heard voices fade into the thick summer night until the only thing left was the hum of the bathroom light and the sound of you turning on the tap.

Now he sits on the closed toilet lid in your bathroom with his jacket still on, one elbow braced against his knee, one hand hanging uselessly between his legs. His shoulders are hunched like he's waiting to be hit again. His hair is a mess, sweat-damp at the roots and pushed back from his forehead in a way that would normally make you tease him, except nothing about him looks funny right now. He looks too still. That is the thing that unsettles you most. Steve is never still like this, not really. Even when he's quiet, there is usually some restless little sign of life in him, fingers tapping against a counter, knee bouncing under the table, mouth pulling into a half-smile before he has even decided whether he means it.

Tonight, he looks as though the smallest movement might make something in him come loose.

You stand in front of him with a clean flannel dampened under warm water, trying to decide where to start.

His knuckles, probably. They are the easiest thing to fix.

"Give me your hand," you say softly.

For a second, you think he hasn't heard you. Then his eyes lift, unfocused, and he looks at you like he's returned from somewhere much further away than the bathroom floor.

"What?"

"Your hand." You repeat gently, holding yours out between you. "Let me clean it."

Steve looks down at his own fingers as if he's only just noticed them. There is dried blood caught in the creases, rust-coloured under his nails, smeared across the back of his hand where he'd wiped it thoughtlessly against his jeans and made everything worse. His mouth tightens.

"It's not mine."

"I know."

Something fast and ugly flickers across his face before he lets you take his hand.

You kneel in front of him because there is nowhere else to sit, settling carefully on the tiled floor between his feet. He doesn't make the joke he might have made on any other night. Doesn't say something stupid about you being on your knees for him, doesn't raise an eyebrow, doesn't reach out to tug fondly at your sleeve. He just watches as you cradle his hand in both of yours and begin wiping the blood away.

The first pass of the flannel turns pink. Steve stares at it.

You work slowly, partly because his skin is split and swollen in places, but mostly because you don't know what else to do with all the silence. It sits heavily around you, filling the bathroom until the room feels too small for the two of you and whatever Steve has brought back with him. You clean between his fingers, then across the bruised rise of his knuckles, then underneath each nail as carefully as you can manage. Every so often his hand twitches, not quite a flinch, but near enough that you pause and glance up at him.

"Sorry," he says automatically.

"You don't have to be sorry."

His eyes drop back to your hands. "Yeah."

The word means nothing. It is just sound. A shape his mouth knows how to make.

You rinse the flannel in the sink and return to him, taking his other hand. This one is cleaner, though his palm is scraped badly near the heel, skin roughened and angry where he'd caught himself against the pavement. You remember seeing him stumble. Remember the horrible jerk in your chest when he went down and the immediate relief, almost painful in its sharpness, when he got back up.

You had thought, then, that the fear would leave once everyone was safe.

It hasn't. It has only changed form.

Steve inhales, slow and uneven. "I should've seen him."

Your fingers still around his wrist. "What?"

His gaze remains fixed somewhere past your shoulder, on the towel rail or the wall behind you or maybe nothing at all. "The guy. The one who grabbed Robin."

"Steve."

"I should've seen him." His voice is quiet. Worse than if he were angry. Worse than if he were shouting. "He came from my left. I knew there was someone there."

"You were trying to get Dustin behind you."

"I know."

"You were trying to keep three different people from getting hit."

"I know."

"Then you couldn't have-"

"I should've."

The interruption is not loud, but it lands hard enough to close your mouth. Steve still doesn't look at you. His jaw works once, a muscle jumping near the hinge, and for the first time all night you realise he is not calm. He is holding himself so tightly that calm is simply the shape it has taken from the outside.

You set the flannel aside. "Robin's going to be okay."

"I know."

"Dustin's okay."

"I know."

"I'm okay."

His eyes move to yours then, and there's something in them that makes your throat tighten before he even speaks.

"You almost weren't."

The bathroom feels suddenly colder despite the heat still trapped in the walls from the day. Outside, a car passes slowly down the street, headlights sliding briefly through the frosted window before disappearing again.

You shift closer on your knees, ignoring the ache beginning to bloom in them against the tile. "But I am."

Steve looks at you for a long moment, and you can see him trying to accept the sentence. You can actually see the effort of it. His eyes move across your face with the same frantic attention he had carried all evening, checking you in pieces: forehead, cheekbone, mouth, throat, shoulders. Looking for damage. Looking for proof. Looking, maybe, for some version of events he can survive remembering.

"Steve," you say softly.

His lashes lower. "I just stood there."

"No, you didn't."

"I froze."

"You turned around."

"Too late."

"You got to us."

"After."

The word comes out scraped raw.

You reach for his face before thinking better of it, your fingers brushing the line of his jaw. He is warm under your touch, too warm, flushed from adrenaline and exhaustion and whatever else is still burning through him. For one brief second he leans into it. Then he seems to realise he has done it and pulls back half an inch, not away from you exactly, but away from comfort, as though he doesn't think he has earned it.

That hurts more than you expect.

"Hey," you whisper.

He shakes his head.

"I keep seeing it." His voice breaks slightly on the last word, and he clears his throat like he can force it back into place. "I keep seeing him reach for you. And I keep thinking, if Robin hadn't-"

"Don't."

"She got hurt because I didn't move fast enough."

"Robin got hurt because some asshole hurt her."

Steve lets out a humourless little laugh. "Yeah, well."

"No." Your hand tightens gently against his cheek, not enough to force him, just enough to ask him to stay with you. "No, listen to me. That is not yours to carry."

He finally looks at you properly, and the expression on his face is so young for a moment that it steals the breath straight from your chest.

Steve Harrington, who has spent years placing himself between other people and whatever wants to hurt them. Steve Harrington, who has turned his body into a shield so often that everyone has almost stopped recognising it as a choice. Steve Harrington, who can take a punch, swing a bat, crack a joke with blood in his mouth, and then sit in your bathroom afterwards looking shattered because somebody else got hurt in the same room as him.

"Feels like it is," he says.

You don't know what to say to that. Not because he's right, but because the feeling in his voice is too old to be argued out of him in one conversation. You understand, suddenly and terribly, that this is not just about tonight. It is about the Demogorgon in the Byers' living room. The tunnels. The junkyard. Starcourt. Every locked door, every scream, every time a child had looked at him like he was supposed to know what to do next. It is about all the years Steve has been terrified and useful at the same time, and how nobody ever told him those were not the same thing as being responsible.

So instead of arguing, you rise onto your knees and wrap your arms around his neck.

For a second, he doesn't move.

Then he folds.

Not in some great collapse. He simply leans forward until his face is pressed against your shoulder and both of his arms have gone around your waist, tight enough that you feel the desperation in it. His breath leaves him in a long, unsteady exhale. One hand fists in the back of your shirt.

You hold him.

The bathroom tile digs into your shins, the tap drips once into the sink, and Steve clings to you like something still might reach through the wall and take you if he loosens his grip.

"I'm right here," you murmur into his hair.

"I know."

"You got me home."

"I know."

"You always do."

His arms tighten.

For a while, neither of you says anything else.

By the time Steve finally lets you pull him up from the bathroom and into bed, the house has settled into the strange quiet that only comes after something frightening has passed and left everything else untouched. The lamp on your bedside table paints the room in low yellow light. His jacket ends up on the floor, his jeans folded badly over the chair because he insists he's fine, he can do it himself, then stands there for nearly thirty seconds holding them without moving until you take them gently from his hands.

He doesn't argue when you give him one of the clean T-shirts he keeps in your drawer. He doesn't make the soft, pleased noise he usually makes about the fact that you have a drawer for him now. He just changes, mechanically, and sits on the edge of the bed with his head bowed while you turn off the overhead light.

When you crawl under the covers, he comes with you, though even then he seems uncertain what to do with himself. Usually, Steve reaches for you first. Usually, he tugs you back against his chest or lets his head fall heavily into your lap until you laugh and tell him he is crushing you. Tonight, he lies on his back with one arm bent over his stomach, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

You turn onto your side to face him. "Steve."

"Hm?"

"Come here."

He exhales softly through his nose. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"You sure?"

It is such a ridiculous question, asked with such quiet sincerity, that your heart almost breaks cleanly in two.

"I'm sure."

Only then does he move. Slowly, carefully, as though your body might be bruised somewhere he has missed, he turns onto his side and lets you fit yourself against him. His arm comes around you, tentative at first, then firmer when you tuck your face beneath his chin and press your hand against his chest.

His heart is still beating too fast. You listen to it for a while.

"Can you sleep?" you ask.

"Yeah."

It's an obvious lie. You let it pass.

His fingers move once against your back, a small restless flex. Then again. Then his hand smooths over your shoulder, down your arm, across your ribs, not sensual, not even especially deliberate. Checking. Making sure. Reassuring himself with the shape and warmth of you.

You close your eyes.

For a little while, you let him.

When his hand travels up again and pauses lightly at the base of your skull, you open them.

"Steve."

He goes still. "Sorry."

"Don't apologise."

"Okay." There's a pause. Then, barely audible, he asks, "Is this annoying?"

You could just say no. It would be easier. Kinder, maybe. But there's something fragile in his voice that makes you careful.

"It's not annoying," you say. "But you don't have to keep checking."

His throat moves against your forehead as he swallows. "I know."

There it is again. The empty answer. The one he gives when knowing something has not made him believe it.

You lift your head just enough to look at him.

In the low light, he looks exhausted. Not just tired, not just shaken, but worn down in some deeper place he has probably been ignoring for too long. There is a bruise beginning near his cheekbone, shadowed purple beneath the skin. A small cut sits at the corner of his mouth. His hair, for once, has given up entirely.

"You're allowed to be scared," you tell him.

His eyes flick over your face. "I'm not scared."

"Steve."

His mouth opens, then closes. You watch the lie die before he can make himself say it.

After a moment, he looks away.

"I hate it," he says quietly.

"What?"

"How fast it happens." His eyes stay on the window, on the thin gap in the curtains where the streetlamp outside bleeds gold into the room. "One second everything's fine, and then it's not. And there's no warning, there's no time to think, you just have to-" He stops, jaw tightening. "You just have to be fast enough."

You slide your hand across his chest until your palm rests over his heart. "And nobody is fast enough every time."

Steve closes his eyes. He doesn't answer. The silence that follows feels less like agreement than defeat.

You wish, with a sudden fierceness that almost frightens you, that you could reach inside him and take the thought out by the root. That you could remove every awful equation he keeps making between love and responsibility, between fear and failure, between being there and being enough.

Instead, you kiss the edge of his jaw.

Steve's eyes open.

"You're here," you whisper. "That's what matters."

His gaze searches yours, desperate and disbelieving.

Then he nods once, because he wants it to be true.

And for that night, wanting will have to be enough.

The first time it happens, you almost don't notice.

A few days later, you leave the house together to pick up milk and coffee and the kind of sugary cereal Steve pretends he's buying for Dustin even though Dustin is not there and has never once asked for it. The afternoon is bright and hot, cicadas buzzing somewhere in the trees, the pavement shimmering faintly where sunlight has spent all day collecting in the concrete.

Steve locks your front door behind you. Then checks it. Then checks it again.

You glance back from the bottom step, amused despite yourself. "You expecting it to unlock itself?"

He looks over his shoulder, keys still in hand. "What?"

"The door."

"Oh." He jiggles the handle once more, then steps away. "No. Just making sure."

You smile faintly. "Okay."

It's nothing. People check locks.

Steve has always been a little fussy after bad nights anyway, prone to checking the back seat of his car before letting you get in, prone to insisting you wait inside until he has pulled into the driveway properly, prone to acting like chivalry is a normal personality trait rather than an ongoing attempt to disguise anxiety as manners.

So you don't think much of it when he walks on the roadside of the pavement either.

He's done that before.

You do notice, maybe, that he switches sides when you turn the corner, his hand settling briefly at the small of your back as he guides you inward, away from the traffic. But the gesture is so smooth, so familiar, so easy to mistake for affection, that you let it become that.

In the shop, he stays close.

Close enough that his shoulder brushes yours near the fridges. Close enough that when somebody reaches across you for a carton of juice, Steve's hand appears at your waist before you have time to register the movement.

The man murmurs an apology. Steve smiles politely. Everything is normal - almost.

You look up at him - he is still watching the man walk away.

"Steve."

His attention snaps back to you immediately. "Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Too quick. Then softer, with an attempt at a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine."

You believe him because you want to. Or maybe because it's easier, in that moment, to believe that fear leaves people simply because danger has.

At the till, Steve pays before you can argue, making some throwaway comment about how you paid last time, which is not true but is also not worth disputing while the bored cashier scans cereal and milk and a packet of plasters he slipped into the basket without asking.

On the walk home, his hand finds yours before you reach the first crossing. Again, nothing. Steve holds your hand all the time.

Only this time, his grip tightens when the light changes. Only this time, he looks left and right twice even after the cars have stopped. Only this time, when you reach the opposite pavement safely, he doesn't let go.

You glance down at your joined hands, then up at his face. Steve is looking ahead, expression carefully neutral, thumb moving over the back of your hand in a slow, repetitive stroke.

You say nothing, and his hand stays around yours all the way home.

The thing about habits is that they never arrive announcing themselves.

If Steve had started insisting you never left the house alone again, you would have argued. If he'd refused to let you out of his sight, if he'd demanded you text him every ten minutes or tried to convince you the world had suddenly become too dangerous for ordinary errands, you would have recognised it for what it was.

Instead, it happens quietly. So quietly, in fact, that for the better part of two weeks you mistake it for affection.

It begins with the car.

Steve has always opened your door before walking round to his own side. It isn't performative - not really. Half the time he does it while complaining about how old-fashioned it makes him look, rolling his eyes whenever you tease him about being born in the wrong decade.

Now, though, he doesn't just open the door. He waits until you've climbed in before closing it. Checks your seatbelt is actually clipped. Waits until you've clicked the lock. Only then does he walk around to the driver's side.

The first time, you smile. The fifth, you start noticing.

Then there are the phone calls.

Not clingy or excessive, per se.

Just, "So you got there okay?"

"...Steve, I texted you ten minutes ago."

"I know."

"So why are you calling?"

"...Just wanted to hear your voice."

It's sweet. It really is.

Until one afternoon, you tell him you're popping to the corner shop while he's at work, and by the time you've picked up milk and bread, there's already a missed call waiting for you.

Then another. Then a voicemail.

"Hey... just checking you're alright. Call me when you get this."

Nothing urgent. But when you ring him back, he answers before the first ring has even finished.

"Hey."

"You okay?"

"...Yeah."

"You sounded worried."

"No." A pause. "Just... hadn't heard from you."

"I've been gone twenty minutes."

"I know."

Three weeks after the fight, you're standing in Family Video trying to decide whether the horror section deserves another chance when Robin finally says it.

Steve disappears into the stockroom to hunt down a copy of The Princess Bride for an elderly customer who insists somebody returned it without the case.

Robin waits until the stockroom door swings shut.

Then she looks at you. "...You've noticed it too."

You glance up. "Noticed what?"

"The hovering."

"What hovering?"

She blinks. "The Steve-shaped cloud permanently hanging about three feet behind you?"

You laugh. "He doesn't hover."

Robin simply stares. You look back. Steve is still in the stockroom.

"...Does he?"

"Oh my God." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I thought you were pretending not to notice."

"Robin."

"He watches every entrance."

You say nothing.

"He always stands closest to the doors now."

You frown. "He didn't used to."

You think back.

Friday. The diner. Steve had insisted on sitting facing the entrance.

Saturday. The cinema. He'd quietly swapped seats with you halfway through the trailers because he'd wanted the aisle.

Yesterday. Bradley's Big Buy. He'd waited outside the changing rooms instead of browsing.

Not strolling or wandering. Waiting, like he'd been expecting something. Something you'd never questioned.

Robin folds another videotape into its sleeve. "I don't think he even realises he's doing it."

"What?"

"He keeps checking where you are."

You laugh again, only this one doesn't come as easily. "I think you're exaggerating."

Robin's expression softens. "I wish I was."

You try not to think about it.

For approximately six hours.

Then Steve offers to walk you to the post office.

It's raining. The post office is literally visible from your front window.

"...Steve."

"What?"

"It's literally there."

"I know."

"I can see it."

"I know."

"It's a two-minute walk."

"I know."

"So..."

"I'll come."

You stare at him. "...Why?"

He shrugs. "I need stamps."

"You hate buying stamps."

"I've... grown."

You burst out laughing. He smiles too, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

It gets harder not to notice after that.

Because once Robin has pointed it out, the pattern is everywhere.

Steve always lets you walk in front of him when you're climbing stairs. Not because he's admiring you, but because he wants to see where you're putting your feet.

Whenever somebody walks past too quickly, his hand appears automatically against the small of your back.

When you stop to tie your shoelace in the supermarket, he turns around completely, placing himself between you and everyone else pushing trolleys down the aisle.

You don't even think he knows he's doing it.

The moment that finally unsettles you happens on a Thursday.

It's busy. School's just finished. Half of Hawkins seems to have decided they desperately need cereal and toilet paper at exactly the same time.

You and Steve are arguing over pasta.

"You absolutely cannot tell me every shape tastes the same."

"It literally does."

"It doesn't."

"It does."

"Steve."

"It's wheat."

"It's architecture."

He laughs. "Architecture?"

"You heard me."

You reach up towards the top shelf.

At that moment, someone brushes past you. Nothing unusual, just another shopper.

Before you've even registered the movement, Steve moves.

Not aggressively. Just instantly.

One second he's beside you.

The next he's standing between you and the stranger, one hand finding your elbow as though he'd done it without asking permission from the rest of his body.

The man mutters an absent-minded "Sorry." Keeps walking.

Steve doesn't answer. His eyes follow him. Not suspiciously. Automatically.

Then, slowly, he looks back at you. Realises where he's standing. Realises his hand is still around your arm.

The colour drains from his face. "...Sorry."

You blink. "What?"

"I..." His hand falls away. "I don't know why I..." The sentence dies halfway through.

For the first time since the fight, Steve looks genuinely frightened. Not of the man. Of himself.

The drive home is unusually quiet. Steve keeps both hands fixed at ten and two on the steering wheel. The radio plays quietly between you, but neither of you is listening.

Eventually, you reach over and rest your hand lightly on his arm.

He startles, only slightly, but just enough for you to notice.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You've said 'yeah' or to every question I've asked for the last month."

"I have?"

"Mhm."

"...Sorry."

"Don't apologise, baby."

That earns the smallest smile. Tiny. Gone almost immediately.

That night, after Steve's fallen asleep beside you for the first time in what feels like weeks without jolting awake every hour to check you're still there, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.

Robin's words won't leave you alone.

He keeps checking where you are.

You think about the supermarket. The post office. The seatbelt. The phone calls. The way he always reaches for your hand before crossing roads now. The way he waits outside every public toilet. The way his eyes flick instinctively towards every doorway whenever you enter somewhere new.

None of it had felt controlling. Not once.

It had all felt careful. Painfully, desperately careful.

As though Steve believed the world only needed one tiny opening, and if he looked away at exactly the wrong second, it might happen again.

You turn your head. Steve is asleep on his side, one hand still loosely curled around your wrist above the duvet. Even unconscious, he's holding on.

Your chest aches. Because suddenly you realise something Robin had understood before you did.

Steve isn't trying to stop anything from happening to you.

He's trying to convince himself that if he pays enough attention, nothing ever will.

It happens on a Tuesday.

Not because anything goes wrong.

Because, for the first time in nearly a month, nothing does.

The afternoon settles over Hawkins in that slow, lazy way late August afternoons always seem to, the worst of the heat finally beginning to bleed from the pavements as the sun drifts lower behind the trees. Steve has the day off. You're both halfway through reorganising the shelves in your spare room, though "reorganising" has quickly become an excuse to sit cross-legged on the floor surrounded by old photo albums and cassette tapes you haven't touched in years.

Steve is reading the back of an ancient Ghostbusters VHS with an expression of complete seriousness.

"This says 'high-octane family fun.'"

"It is."

"They're hunting ghosts."

"Very fun ghosts."

"They kill people."

"They don't, actually."

"They try."

"They're bad at it."

He looks up from the back of the VHS, finally abandoning whatever argument he'd been having with the blurb. "You'll defend any film if I give you long enough."

"I absolutely will."

"I know."

The corner of his mouth lifts, small and unguarded, and you find yourself clinging to it more than you'd like to admit. It's the first smile you've seen from him in days that doesn't look like he had to remember how.

"You know," you say, nudging his knee lightly with yours, "I was thinking..."

Steve hums, still turning the tape over in his hands.

"My mum asked if I'd pop over this evening."

"Okay."

"I thought I'd walk."

The smile disappears so quickly you almost wonder if you'd imagined it.

"So I'll probably head off around six?"

His eyes lift to yours. "I'll drive you."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"It's literally twenty minutes."

"I know."

"It's still light."

"I know."

You watch him for a moment. He simply watches you back.

"...Steve."

"I'll drive you."

You let out a quiet sigh, setting the VHS carefully beside you. "I wasn't asking."

"I know."

"You've got work tomorrow."

"So?"

"You've got to get back afterwards."

"So?"

"It's completely out of your way."

"So?"

Something twists uncomfortably beneath your ribs.

It's the exact same conversation you've had three times already. Different destinations. Different excuses. Exactly the same ending.

"No."

His eyebrows lift. "No?"

"I'm walking."

"I'll come with you."

"I want to walk on my own."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "...Why?"

The question catches you off guard, because he doesn't sound offended. He sounds frightened.

"I just do."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to."

"I do."

The words leave him too quickly this time, sharper than either of you expected. The room falls quiet almost immediately afterwards, and Steve seems to hear it a fraction of a second after you do. He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand across his face.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No," he says quietly. "No, it's not."

The silence stretches between you. Somewhere down the street, somebody starts mowing their lawn, the steady drone drifting lazily through the open window as Steve stares at the floor without really seeing it. You don't rush to fill the quiet. Eventually, he does it himself.

"I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?"

"You think I'm hovering."

You don't answer immediately. "I think you're tired."

A tiny, humourless laugh escapes him.

"I've been hovering."

"...A little."

"A little?" He finally looks at you. "I'm suffocating you."

"No."

"I am."

"No, you're not."

"I can see it." His hands are clasped so tightly together his knuckles have turned white. "I keep following you around."

"You've been worried."

"I keep checking where you are."

"I know."

"I don't even realise I'm doing it anymore." He lets out another hollow laugh. "I followed you to the bathroom at Family Video."

"I know."

"I waited outside."

"I know."

"I stood outside the fitting rooms at the mall."

"I know."

"I called you twice because you went to buy milk."

"I know."

Every confession seems to take something out of him. By the end of it he looks smaller somehow, shoulders rounded beneath the weight of words he's clearly been carrying around for weeks.

"I'm sorry."

You shift a little closer across the floor until your knees touch.

"I know."

"No." His voice cracks. "I don't think you do."

He gets to his feet before you can answer, not angrily but restlessly, pacing once across the room before stopping at the window. His hands settle on his hips, leave them again, fold across his chest, then drop uselessly by his sides. He can't seem to find a position that feels comfortable.

"I keep thinking..."

He stops.

Starts again.

"I keep thinking..."

Nothing.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"When we were kids..." His voice is quieter now. "My dad used to leave me places."

You blink. "What?"

"He'd forget." One shoulder lifts in a shrug that doesn't quite disguise how much it still hurts. "Country clubs. Golf courses. Hardware stores."

A hollow laugh escapes him.

"I got really good at waiting."

You don't interrupt.

"I used to think..." He stares out through the window. "I used to think if I was... quieter..."

His throat bobs.

"...better..."

Another pause.

"...less annoying..."

Your heart aches.

"...he'd remember."

The room feels impossibly still. Steve has never told you this before. Not like this.

"I know that's stupid."

"It isn't."

"It is." He shakes his head. "Because now every time something bad happens..." His eyes drop to his own hands. "...my brain immediately goes..." He clicks his fingers once. "'You missed something.'" Another click. "'You should've noticed.'" Another. "'You weren't paying attention.'"

His hand falls back to his side.

"So now..." His voice is barely above a whisper. "...I'm trying to notice everything."

You rise quietly to your feet and cross the room until you're standing beside him. Neither of you says anything for a while. Outside, the lawnmower finally falls silent, and somehow the sudden absence of noise feels even louder.

"I know it isn't rational."

"I know."

"I know you can cross roads by yourself."

"I know."

"I know you don't need me to walk you everywhere."

"I know."

"I know."

Each repetition grows quieter, less convincing than the last.

"I know."

He closes his eyes.

"I just..." His shoulders finally cave beneath the weight of it. "...I can't survive watching someone I love get hurt because I wasn't paying attention."

The words leave him in one long breath, as though he's been holding them inside for weeks.

"I can't do it again."

Again.

Not for the first time.

Again.

That's when you finally understand.

This was never just about Robin. Or you. Or the fight.

It's Barb. Bob. Billy. Eddie. Every person Steve has ever watched disappear while wondering if there had been one tiny moment - one tiny thing - he could have done differently.

You step in front of him. He still won't meet your eyes, so you lift your hands and gently cup his face, asking for nothing except somewhere for his gaze to settle. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are already wet.

"I've been trying so hard," he whispers.

"I know."

"I thought if I just..." A broken laugh catches in his throat. "...paid enough attention..." His voice finally gives way. "...maybe nothing bad would happen."

You feel your own eyes sting. "Oh, Steve."

"I know it doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"It does?"

"To me."

He searches your face desperately. "Really?"

You nod. "Because you love people. And loving people means you've convinced yourself it's your job to stop every bad thing that could ever happen to them."

A tear slips free before he can stop it. Steve closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, and you feel the faint tremor running through him.

"So when something slips through..." Your thumb brushes gently across his cheek. "...you don't blame the person who hurt them."

Another tear follows.

"You blame yourself."

His breathing catches.

"I was supposed to-"

"No."

"I was supposed to get there."

"You did."

"Too late."

"No."

His eyes open again.

"I don't think the story starts where you think it does."

He frowns. "What?"

"You keep replaying the moment Robin got hurt."

He says nothing.

"But that's not the moment I remember."

His breathing begins to steady.

"I remember looking up..." You smile sadly. "...and seeing you."

He doesn't move.

"I remember you getting to us. Not the shouting. Not the blood. Not the fear. I remember thinking..." Your fingers slip gently into the hair at the nape of his neck. "...Steve's here."

His eyes fill completely.

"And then I knew we'd be okay."

For a long moment neither of you speaks. Steve simply looks at you as though he's trying to reconcile your memory of that night with his own.

Eventually, almost too quietly to hear, he asks, "...You weren't angry?"

You almost laugh. "No."

"You didn't think..." He swallows hard. "...I failed?"

Your heart breaks.

"No, baby." You lean forward and kiss his forehead. "I've never once looked at you and thought you failed me."

Steve finally cries, one quiet, exhausted tear after another, as weeks of vigilance finally begin to loosen their grip.

And for the first time since the fight, when you wrap your arms around him, he doesn't hold you because he's afraid you'll disappear.

He holds you because he needs somewhere safe to fall.

Things don't change overnight.

You know that before Steve does, because healing has never looked particularly spectacular. It rarely arrives in great sweeping gestures or tearful promises that everything will be different from now on. More often, it's embarrassingly ordinary. It lives in the tiny decisions people make over and over again, until eventually those decisions become easier than the fear that first inspired them. Steve still reaches for your hand when you leave the house. He still checks the lock twice before bed. He still glances towards every doorway when you walk into a restaurant. The habits don't disappear. They simply stop deciding everything else.

Three days later, the two of you are wandering through Hawkins' Saturday market. It isn't anything special: a handful of stalls selling vegetables, second-hand books, homemade candles and knitted jumpers despite the fact it's still far too warm for anyone sensible to be thinking about wool. Families drift lazily between them, children chase each other around folding tables, and somewhere nearby somebody plays an acoustic guitar badly enough that nobody quite knows whether to clap when he finishes each song.

Steve buys you strawberries because you stop for half a second too long looking at them.

"They're expensive."

"I know."

"We literally have strawberries at home."

"I know."

"So why are you buying more?"

"They looked at you."

You laugh. "They looked at me?"

"Mhm."

"Steve Harrington."

"They wanted to come home with us."

"That's the stupidest thing you've ever said."

He grins. "I know."

It is the easiest you've seen him smile in weeks.

A few minutes later you stop outside a little stall selling old records. The owner, an elderly man with silver hair tied back into a ponytail, is enthusiastically explaining to a teenage boy why Fleetwood Mac always sounds better on vinyl while Steve wanders a few feet away to look at a display of old film posters hanging from a washing line. Not far - just far enough that, for the first time in weeks, he isn't instinctively keeping pace with you.

You lose yourself amongst the records for a minute. Then two. Then three. They smell faintly of old paper and dust, your fingers trailing across worn cardboard sleeves until you find Rumours tucked neatly between Bowie and Joni Mitchell.

"You found it."

The voice makes you turn.

Steve isn't standing beside you.

He's still over by the posters, crouched slightly to speak to a little girl who's trying very seriously to convince him that The Goonies is actually a horror film because, as she explains with complete certainty, "there's a dead body."

He catches your eye across the market.

Smiles.

Then turns back to the conversation.

Something inside your chest loosens.

Because three weeks ago he would've noticed you'd drifted away before you'd even realised you'd done it yourself. He would've crossed the distance without thinking, apologised afterwards without understanding why, and spent the rest of the afternoon quietly angry with himself for letting you wander three feet out of reach. Instead, he's letting himself stay where he is. He's letting you exist somewhere he isn't. You know it can't be easy for him, and somehow that makes it all the sweeter.

On the walk back to the car, you deliberately slow your pace. Steve is halfway through explaining why Dustin is objectively wrong about Back to the Future Part II when you stop altogether. He takes another three steps before realising, turning almost immediately.

There it is. That tiny flash of panic. Quick. Instinctive. Gone almost as soon as it arrives.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You stopped."

"I know."

"...Why?"

You smile. "Come here."

His eyebrows knit together, but he walks back without questioning it. "What?"

Instead of answering, you simply slip your hand into his. His fingers close around yours automatically, warm and familiar, and the two of you start walking again.

"I like this," you say quietly.

He glances sideways at you. "What?"

"Holding your hand."

His shoulders relax by almost nothing. "You do?"

"Mhm."

"I thought maybe..."

"I know." You squeeze his hand gently.

"I just don't want you holding it because you're scared."

He doesn't answer straight away.

"I want you holding it because you want to."

Steve looks down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing slowly across your knuckles.

"I think..." A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "...I'm still figuring out which one it is."

You laugh softly. "I know."

A week later, you tell him you're walking over to Robin's.

He looks up from the sofa. "What time?"

"Now."

"I'll-" The word catches before it ever leaves his mouth.

You watch it happen. You actually watch the thought arrive.

I'll come.

His mouth opens. Then closes again.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

"...Okay."

You blink. "Okay?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

He nods once. "I'll... see you later."

There's something painfully vulnerable about it, as though he's handing you something fragile and trusting you not to break it. You cross the room, cup his face, kiss him once, and smile.

"I'll see you later."

His own smile wobbles. "Call me when you get there?"

You grin. "That one I can do."

Robin opens the front door to find you trying not to smile. "...What?"

"He let me leave."

"...Jesus."

"I know."

Robin looks genuinely impressed. "Did he cry afterwards?"

"Not in front of me."

"Hm."

She nods thoughtfully. "Growth."

It's only later that evening, curled together on Steve's sofa with the television humming quietly in the background, that you realise how difficult it had actually been for him. Neither of you is paying attention to whatever's on screen. Steve's head rests comfortably in your lap while your fingers wander absent-mindedly through his hair, and after several long minutes of comfortable silence he says, almost to himself,

"I almost followed you."

Your hand stills. "What?"

"When you left." His eyes remain fixed on the ceiling. "I got as far as putting my shoes on."

Your chest tightens.

"I stood in the hallway for..." He laughs quietly. "Honestly? Maybe five minutes."

"...Steve."

"I kept thinking..." His voice softens. "...if I just happened to be walking the same way..."

You smile sadly. "I know."

"I almost did it."

"But you didn't."

"No." He closes his eyes. "I sat back down."

You run your fingers gently through his hair again. "What changed your mind?"

He's quiet for so long you almost think he's fallen asleep.

Then, finally, "I realised..." He swallows. "...if something happened..." Even now, the words hurt him. You can hear it. "...I'd blame myself anyway."

Your hand stills again. "So..."

He lets out a slow breath before finally looking up at you.

"...Following you wasn't actually protecting you. It was trying to make myself feel less scared."

You smile. "There he is."

"What?"

"The guy I fell in love with."

His forehead creases.

"You've always wanted to protect people," you say, brushing his fringe away from his eyes. "But that's different."

"How?"

"Because protecting someone means being there when they need you." Your thumb traces lightly along his temple. "Not carrying responsibility for every bad thing that could ever happen to them."

Steve simply stares at you, as though he's trying to commit every word to memory. "I don't know if I'll ever stop worrying."

"You won't."

He lets out a small laugh. "You sound very certain."

"I am." You smile. "Because I know you."

His expression softens.

"I don't need you to stop worrying."

"No?"

"I just need you to remember..." You lean down until your forehead rests gently against his. "...that loving me doesn't make you responsible for fate."

The room falls quiet again. Outside, the cicadas have begun singing somewhere beyond the open window, a warm evening breeze carrying with it the smell of cut grass and somebody's barbecue several gardens away. Steve reaches up slowly until his hand finds yours - not urgently, not desperately, but simply because it's there.

"I think..." he says quietly, intertwining your fingers, "...I'm gonna need reminding of that sometimes."

"I know."

"You'll tell me?"

"As many times as it takes."

He smiles then. A real smile this time, the kind that reaches his eyes before it reaches his mouth. After a moment he turns your hand over in his, presses a kiss against your knuckles, and asks, almost sheepishly,

"...Can I still walk on the roadside?"

You laugh so hard you nearly knock him off the sofa. "Steve."

"What?"

"It's not statistically safer."

"It is."

"You have absolutely no evidence for that."

"I don't need evidence."

"You literally do."

"I have vibes."

"Vibes aren't peer-reviewed."

"They should be."

Shaking your head, you can't help smiling. "Fine."

"Really?"

"You can walk on the roadside."

His grin immediately widens.

"But."

He waits.

"If I want to walk on that side sometimes..." You squeeze his hand. "...you have to let me."

He holds your gaze for a long moment before finally nodding.

"...Deal."

It isn't a promise that he'll never worry again. It isn't a promise that he'll never wake in the middle of the night just to check you're still breathing, or instinctively reach for your hand crossing a road, or feel his heart lurch when you disappear into another room for longer than expected.

It's something much smaller, and much harder: a promise to recognise the difference between loving you and believing he has to outrun the entire world to deserve it.

dividers: saradika-graphics

Weeks passed. Your friends tried to do the best they could for you. But you knew they were grieving too. Especially Dustin, so you held back your tears until the door closed behind him and Steve after every visit. And when they left you went back to bed. The sheets were yet to be changed since the day you lost him. Your hands wrapped around your pillow, your face pressed into it while you sobbed and wailed.

A lifetime without him. You wanted to pull out your heart, arteries and all, and never put it back. It would never beat the same for anyone else but him anyway.

Then more weeks passed. Each one more wretched than the last but somewhere in the middle of your mourning something changed.

You were ready to visit him now.

In the dead of night you went there, wearing that dress he liked. Even if he couldn't see you, you still wanted to look nice for him. Your hair done. Your skin smooth with cocoa lotion. Your nails glossy with a new coat. Your lips pretty with pink lipstick. Your neck spritzed with magnolia perfume. And a bouquet of black dahlia's in your arms.

You weren't afraid of walking through the cemetery under a pitch black sky. Now that you'd lost him, nothing else feels frightening anymore.

You found his grave, grass already sprouting up above the soil. There wasn't even some kind of marker to let you know it was his. You just knew.

Your legs buckled under you as you managed to sit by his grave, the tears came quickly as you cried onto it, placing the bouquet of flowers on top of the earth.

You're unclear of how long you'd been sitting there. It could have been anywhere between fifteen minutes to over an hour. It all felt so foggy. You just wept the whole time. You apologized and apologized and apologized

Apologizing for not coming sooner. You apologized for not having kept him safe though there was no way you could have known to prevent it in time. You apologized for every little fight, every little spat, every time the two of you were at odds, no matter how big or small. You apologized for everything. Every single moment you took for granted.

By the time your face turned puffy and there wasn't a tear left to squeeze out of you, you go to get up on sore legs and that's when it happened.

Something rises up from the ground and clutches your ankle. Something strong.

You screech, like nails dragging down a chalkboard, falling to the ground where you try to pry yourself free, screaming for help even though you know there's no one around.

It maintains its hold on you, the soil rising up into a mound and then breaking apart as a figure comes into view. A confetti of dahlia petals fan out on the ground as they rip from the stem underneath your frantic body.

Looking over your shoulder you recognize those eyes. you recognize that hair even with all the dirt stuck to it. You recognize those clothes despite the state they're all in. Instead of trying to get away you begin to pull him closer, frantically cleaning the soil off his face.

"Eddie?", you choke up, his cheeks so cold under your palms.

He spits out a mouthful of dirt, clearing his throat.

"You came", he manages a smile. Did his teeth always look so...pointed?

"How- how did you...how are you- how???", you ask in a frenzy, not stopping to help clean him off, dusting off as much of the dirt as you can, noticing more and more how cold he feels to the touch all over.

"I felt something. It was like something woke me up" he tries to explain, placing his hand on your chest, over your left breast where your heart was pounding underneath.

"This. Sounded just like this", he explained, looking so longingly at you, you can barely believe you've been blessed with the chance to be looked at like that by him once more.

You pull him close, desperately like he might turn to dust and mist at any moment. Like you might have to feel the heartbreak of losing him again.

You slant your mouth over his in a kiss, tongues rolling over each other until yours catches on his sharp teeth.

"Oh shit, I'm sorry", he apologizes, swiping the blood off your lip with his thumb when you break apart. He looks at it so intensely, just the two little droplets, his pupils filling out his iris' with a bottomless bleak black.

"Eddie?", you ask, his body becoming eerily still.

You place a hand on his cold cheek again, thumb skimming gently just under his eye back and forth in an attempt to gently coax his attention back to you.

"Eddie? is something wro-?!

It happens so fast. It knocks the wind out of you when your back makes contact with the grassy ground, your eyes moving from Eddie's unresponsive stare to the pitch black sky prickled with winking stars.

You cough some air back into your lungs, trying to help yourself back up but unable to do so when your chest meets with Eddie's, the weight of him keeping you pressed down in place. His knees on either side of your hips and one chilly hand holding both of your own above your head.

"Eds?"

A shudder wracks through you when his lips separate and you see them. Sharp, thick fangs. It's unmistakable this time as he begins to salivate, drops and strings of spit dripping down onto your neck where it collects in the dip of your throat.

"Eddie, you're scaring me", you begin to whimper, tears welling up in your eyes.

"...stay still"

That voice. You don't recognize it at all. That's what scares you the most.

And then it happens. His head dives down and his fangs plunge into the side of your neck and all you can do is shriek. Legs kicking. Arms straining. Throat bleeding. You feel it being sucked out of you. A rapid gush of heat as you begin to go lax, no longer struggling, and just when you think you might pass out, he rips away from you.

"Baby? baby? I'm so sorry, baby please.. get up"

Conscious still but groggy. When your eyes fall open again you see that the frightening darkness in his eyes is gone. That warm, amber brown you fell in love with is looking down at you now, glossy with tears.

"Angel? Please?" he gathers you in his arms. His warm arms, you notice

"Eddie? what happened?"

He squeezes you with relief. "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, you're okay? Yeah? you- I didn't...I hurt you. I didn't want to, baby. It's like something took over...something hungry...I...I think there's something wrong with me."

He trembles into you and you find the strength to wrap your arms around him back. "I'm okay. It's okay. we'll figure it out, alright?". You stroke his hair gently while he mutters into your skin, promise after promise to never hurt you again. To never drink from you again.

Still holding each other like it might be the last time again, you end up in Eddie's lap. You soothe him with your words, reassuring him that you don't love him any less. That this is just another thing that needs figuring out, that's all. You'll find a way, you promise.

But as you whisper sweet sincere words to him you can't help but notice something. Or more like feel something. Something that'd begun to swell underneath you. Something that can't be ignored because now it's quite literally poking you between your legs.

"Um, Eddie? are you hard right now?"

"I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

"Wouldn't notice?? Eddie, it's huge!"

You scramble in his lap until you can see it for yourself. The thick print of it threatening to split the threads of his jeans apart. It wasn't that he wasn't already blessed below the belt. But his dick feels like it's got its own pulse now. And you don't think Eddie's done feeling hungry yet.

"Does it hurt?", you guess, leaning closer to him with your knees on either side of his hips, sinking into the grass while you cup his face in your hands.

"...kind of"

You notice his jaw tense, his eyes trying to avoid yours as he attempts to downplay whatever it is that's happening with his body.

"It's just that...I think it's because I can...smell you."

"Smell me?", you tip your head to the side. There's the perfume and the lotion and the shampoo but he's never had a problem with those ever before but the look on his face alone looks painful as he um's and ah's his way to an answer

"Down there. I can um. I can smell your pussy."

"Huh?"

You stare blankly at him. It would be just like him to make some kind of ill timed joke but given what's happened tonight you suppose there might be some truth to this.

"Everything was foggy before but after I drank it's all so fucking clear and crisp, baby. I feel like I can hear colors or some shit and you..."

"Me?"

"Yeah. Fuck, you smell incredible."

Once again you're forced onto your back but he's coherent enough to be gentle about it, laying you down on the grass while his hands make it to your thighs, just below the hem of your skirt.

"Can I? Please?"

You don't know how much control he has over these new urges. He's trying so hard but he seems a thread's breadth away from snapping again. Only this time it doesn't scare you.

"Yeah. Please"

You attempt to pull up your skirt for him, all the way up to your waist but he's quicker, dragging his needle tipped nails down it, cutting your skirt to ribbons.

He pulls a yelp out of you, pushing your thighs apart enough to dive between them, the blunt tip of his nose pressing so insistently at your clothed cunt, panties digging in between your folds.

You thought you'd never feel his touch ever again. Thought his fingers would never warm your skin ever again. Thought your cunt would never weep for a man again. So it's visceral for you both when he licks and sucks at the damp cotton, nudging at your clit, nosing your panties to the side before pretty much snipping them off you with a single pointed nail.

Something you begin to notice is how big he suddenly seems. Big veiny forearms, biceps bulging under his sleeves, thighs straining against his jeans where they seem twice the size they were when he first broke out of the earth.

The more he moves the more his clothes begin to stretch over his swelling size, tearing. Seams splitting, cotton ripping, denim pulling apart. But he doesn't seem to notice it himself, too busy dragging his tongue up your clit, lapping insatiably.

"Oh- Fuck!", you shout, hips twitching under Eddie's grasp but you manage to thrust yourself further against his mouth, grinding against his tongue which he manages to slither into your hole.

"mmhpf...so fuhcking gwood."

He drinks from between your legs as fervently as he had from your neck, his tongue so wild inside you, soaking in your juices and sucking them down like the finest wine. Who could let such a thing go to waste?

It's when he focuses his attention on your clit again that things get really intense. You scream through every orgasm he sucks right out of you because everything feels like shooting stars and searing, soaring fireworks. And it's while pleasuring you that you both work to peel his clothes away as they come apart even more, revealing all the firm, throbbing muscle that's begun to shape him.

"Need this off too", he grunts, dragging a nail down the middle of what's left of your dress, your breasts spilling free for him to see again. The last time you'd both been naked with each other feels too long ago. He always made you feel so adored in your bare skin. You always returned the feeling with how fondly you caressed him back. And while you carry so much of that love still in every touch, this will be anything but gentle, you gulp, when you get a look at his cock.

It's so much thicker. Longer. Leakier.

His bulbous rosy tip drools onto your inner thigh, warm and sticky as he cups the side of your face with one large palm. "I know I look different. We don't have to do th-"

"Eddie." you cut him off firmly, placing one palm on his strong, sinewy chest.

"I want to fuck. Now put it inside me".

His fangs begin to show as he smiles and already, you can feel yourself getting used to the sight of them, placing that same hand on the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss. Long, very sloppy and somehow safe from getting your lip nicked again. He's getting used to it too.

His mouth moves lower, taking a moment to kiss tenderly where he'd bitten you, inching his way to lick and suck at your nipples until they turn all hard and puffy, long fingers pinching and flicking so boldly.

It's a lot, so many sensations and he hasn't even got his cock in you yet. A small part of you wonders if he'll split you just like he'd split all his clothes. The rest of you screams for it because if there's one thing you're determined to do in this moment is to make it fit.

So, you don't try to wriggle away when he guides the head of his cock to you, your folds parting for him, your ankles locking in place at the not so small of his back. You're ready.

It starts as a dull throb. Then it develops into a pinch, sharper and sharper, your nails in his hair, scraping along his scalp.

"Shit. Should've known you could do it...my tough girl.. almost there...go on, bite down."

You do so when he notices your discomfort, teeth clamping down on his wrist where his hand is planted by your head, not even wincing when you break the skin.

This time it's his blood in your teeth. Black and syrupy, you suck it out from between your gums, the strange new taste of him enough to distract you long enough for him to finally fit his tip inside you.

The feeling has you gasping, pushing your ankles down on his back to make him inch the rest inside too.

"Don't. stop. keep. going."

It's so much. But it's what you want, this pulsing, throbbing thing stretching you open wider than you ever have before, rubbing along parts of you that have never been touched before, it's bulging print showing through your stomach.

"Oh my fucking god, Eddie", you cry, head thrown back against the grass.

"G-uh. I can't believe I almost never...never got to see you again...to feel you again"

His thrusts come hard and fast in a way you know he can't help himself. Not that you're against it, marveled at how well your body is taking this new version of him. You guess this is what it means to be made for each other.

"Pr-promise me- Promise me...you'll never leave again."

"I'm never going to leave again. No matter what", he answers, completely unwavering and invigored.

With that confirmation voiced, both of you embrace, limbs entangling like vines, thrusting and grinding away in the dirt and grass like animals, completely uncaring of drawing any attention. Completely uncaring of how wrong it must be to fuck where others have been laid to rest. To you, no one else existed outside of this one abused patch of ground.

"I'm gonna- I'm gonna", you try to warn him minutes later.

"Me too", he replies, his clammy skin smacking against yours so urgently.

It's so much. Literally.

So filling, feeling him cum inside you. This new body of his drapes over your own, still joined with his cock inside you, still spurting all over your insides. With how deep he's got, you know for certain that you're going to still be leaking with him tomorrow. Not that you consider that a problem.

In the moments that follow you can't help but take in how surreal it all is. You're both naked. Clothes in useless tatters around you in a place made of death and yet here you both are, alive again in each others' arms.

"How are we going to get through this?"

"You could use my-"

"No. I can't do that to you again."

"Hm then...we'll just have to find someone else."

"How?"

You thought about it. This was Hawkins. A town full of people who, aside from your small group of friends, who were cruel to him. A town full of people who could sustain him.

"Don't worry. I know how", you kiss him on the crown of his head smiling because now they'll all pay with every drop that coursed through their veins. That's how much you loved Eddie, the devastation of losing him once already enough to make that love burn so much hotter and brighter. Things like morals didn't mean fuck all to you anymore if it meant he was at stake. You'd sacrifice a million towns, all of them kicking and screaming and weeping for mercy just to keep him close.

Hellfire was going over…again. It often did, but it had been nearly an hour over schedule today, and you were bored out of your mind. Usually you would meet at the drama room at 7, when Hellfire was supposed to be over, and you’d ride home with Eddie. It was 8 now and you could still hear the raucous laughter and cheers from the room.

Time ticked by, and you decided to let yourself in. Eddie glanced up from the table as you walked into the room, flashing you a small grin before he was right back in character. It was fascinating to watch him DM - and kind of hot.

The game ended with the guys beating Eddie’s sadistic campaign - the room erupted in cheers as Gareth, Jeff, Grant, Dustin, Mike, and Lucas celebrated. Eddie sat back with an appraising grin - he was proud of the ruthless campaigns he came up with, but nothing was better than watching his friends just narrowly succeed in his world.

The guys all cleared out, wishing you a goodnight. You helped Eddie pick up his stuff, taking your time as you admired the little figures on the table.

“Good game tonight?” you asked Eddie, knowing it was.

“Incredible game,” he said, like he was reliving it in his head. “I can’t believe they didn’t all die.”

You laughed. “Did you go easy on them?”

“Don’t insult me,” he said, giving you a look. “I would never.”

“Took you guys forever tonight,” you said, leaning against the table. Eddie looked at you from over his books.

“It was an important game,” he said simply.

“More important than spending time with me?” you teased, walking up close to him, your fingertips dancing on his chest.

“Maybe,” he said, a smile spreading across his lips.

“Maybe?” You pretended to be offended. “Ouch.”

“Maybe I could make it up to you,” he said, taking a step forward and closing the distance between your bodies. It pressed your back up against the table, trapping you between them.

“Maybe you should,” you said, his lips hovering inches from your own.

He moved forward and pressed his lips to yours. You were absorbed into the kiss immediately, arms sliding around Eddie’s neck and a little moan spilling from your lips. Eddie squeezed your hips, grinding into you.

“So hard right now,” he mumbled, and he was definitely telling the truth. You could feel his erection through his tight jeans, pressing against your core through your own jeans. There were too many layers between you - you needed to feel more of him.

Your hands reached for his belt buckle, and Eddie reluctantly pulled back from your lips, your lower lip caught between his teeth as he backed up. “Really? Right here?”

“Why not?” Your voice was breathy from his kisses. “We’re alone?”

“Yeah, but someone could walk in…”

“That won’t happen. Everyone’s gone home. It’s just us.” You looped your fingers through his belt loops and pulled him closer. “You’re so sexy, Eddie.”

Eddie blushed. “That’s you.”

He lowered his head and captured your lips in another kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You pressed your tongue against his, kissing passionately, your stomach buzzing with butterflies. His kisses never affected you any less than the first time.

His hands slid down your sides and around to cup your ass, squeezing it hard. You moaned again, clit throbbing between your legs, soaking wet and needing him.

“Gonna fuck you right here,” he muttered against your lips. “Gonna get these clothes off and fuck you like you deserve to be fucked, right here in school.”

You whimpered, his dirty words making your knees weak. He was practically holding you up, leaning you against the table so you wouldn’t collapse. It was getting to be too much, you clung to Eddie tightly, feeling like you’d drift away if you let go.

You undid his belt, fingers working on his button and zipper while he pulled your shirt over your head. You got his pants undone and shoved them down to his thighs, his boxers the only thing covering his raging hard on at this point. He groaned as it brushed against you.

“So big, Eddie,” you cooed, wrapping your hand around his clothed cock and drawing a moan from his pretty lips.

“Need it inside you, now,” he grunted, making quick work of undoing your jeans and pulling them down your legs, tossing them to the ground. He pulled you up and flipped you over so you were bent over the table. His hands caressed your ass, admiring the view in your red lace panties. The perfect shape of your ass was only enhanced by the way the material of your panties hugged your shape. Eddie was practically drooling at the sight. “Need it,” he grunted again.

He pushed your panties to the side, swiping his finger through your folds to collect your wetness. He brought it up to his lips, sucking it clean with a moan. “Always so sweet, baby.”

“Quit teasing,” you whined.

“Greedy slut,” he hissed. “Desperate for cock.”

He pressed his tip against your entrance then, and before you could do or say anything he was pushing inside. You let out a little “Ah!” as he filled you so abruptly, sinking his full length into your cunt.

“Fuuuck yeah,” Eddie said. “Takin’ it so well. Just like a good little whore. Bent over the table for me, where anyone could walk in on us - but she was too desperate to wait, wasn’t she, sweetheart?”

You whined, a weak “Mmhmm,” which satisfied Eddie. He pounded into you ruthlessly, grabbing your hips and pulling you back into his thrusts as if you might try to escape. Your mind was spinning as you were pushed into the table again and again, tits pressed against the game below you. Eddie would surely be thinking about this every D&D game for the foreseeable future.

“God, what a perfect body,” Eddie mused, looking at you spread all out for him, all for him. “Can’t believe it’s mine. Can’t believe I get to fuck you, get to put my thick cock in your little pussy. Any time I want.”

While Eddie was thinking out loud to himself, you were quickly coming undone around him. You could feel every ridge and vein of his cock, every inch of his massive length. He was pressing right into your bundle of nerves with every thrust, and you weren’t sure how much longer you were gonna last.

“Such a pretty little pussy,” he continued. “So tight and hot and wet. Perfect for my cock. Fuck- feels so good, baby.”

Eddie’s pace increased in speed, fucking into your cunt so hard the table was shaking beneath you, scraping against the floor. His figurines shook and fell off the table, clattering to the floor. Eddie didn’t care. All he cared about was how deep he was inside you, how deeply he was going to fill you.

“Eddie- Eddie, Eddie, Eddie!” you cried, not caring if there was anyone else still in the school who might hear you. Let them. Let them know how the Freak fucks his girl.

“Filthy cunt,” he said just before he slapped your ass hard. “So desperate and needy. I can feel you practically suckin’ me in. Desperate to keep me inside you. Don’t worry, baby, I’m gonna fill you up real good.”

The sounds of your skin meeting became louder, filling the quiet room. He was so deep in you you could feel his balls pressed tight against your ass with every movement. His thrusts were getting tighter and shallow, just quick rutting into you as he chased his high. His eyes were rolling back, fingers tightening on your hips, diving into you with frantic passion.

“Cum,” he gasped out. “Need you to cum.”

You weren’t far. A couple more ramming thrusts to your bundle of nerves and you were falling over the edge, crashing violently, crying out Eddie’s name again and again as lights exploded behind your vision, your ears ringing.

“Oh, shit!” Eddie thrusted in hard one more time and then he was spilling into you, pumping so much cum into your tight pussy that it dripped out from around his shaft, creating a sight that had Eddie groaning, cumming just a bit more into you.

When he pulled out, some of his cum slipped out of you. He dropped to his knees, making you gasp as you felt his tongue on your tired and sore pussy, cleaning you up. He stood up and pressed his lips to yours, letting you taste the mixture of the two of you.

Eddie gave your ass one final slap, fixing your panties to keep the rest of his cum inside and tossing you back your jeans. You both got dressed, looking at each other and giggling like you couldn’t believe what you’d just done.

There was a knock at the door - you both froze. The door slowly opened, revealing Gareth, who looked absolutely mortified. “Just…forgot my book…” he said, walking inside and picking up his book, holding it up to show you both before nearly sprinting back to the door. “Uh…see you guys tomorrow.”

Eddie froze. “How much did you hear?” he called after his friend.

“All of it, unfortunately!”

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Something was wrong with Eddie. He came back from the Upside Down…different.

You had been grateful he came back at all. He had nearly died there, Dustin crying his eyes out as he slowly dragged Eddie’s unconscious, mutilated body back to the trailer. You had nearly collapsed when you saw him, your boyfriend, covered in demobat bite marks and bleeding profusely. You didn’t understand how he was still alive. He shouldn’t be alive.

He spent weeks recovering in the hospital, you by his side the entire time. He was the old Eddie once he woke up, cracking jokes and making you smile even before he was out of the woods, as the doctors put it. But he made a full recovery, much faster than anyone expected. It was a miracle.

Then, something about Eddie began to change.

For one thing, Eddie had always been hot. But now he was otherworldly. His brown curls shined in the light in a way they never had before, never frizzy and always perfect. His chocolate doe eyes had darkened. His skin was clear and pale. And he never left the trailer anymore.

You assumed it was the trauma of what he’d been through, but he seemed in fine spirits whenever you’d visit. In fact, he was always in a good mood, happy to see you. But he wouldn’t leave.

You laid in bed with him now, cuddled beneath his arm and under his blankets. He always felt cold now. You wondered if he had developed some sort of anemia or some complication from the blood loss. But he was still your Eddie, and he still gave the best cuddles.

You had your leg thrown over his hip, and his hand rested on your thigh, rubbing small circles into it. You had been laying there in silence this whole time, just enjoying each other’s company.

Eddie moved then, placing a hand on the side of your head and turning you to look up at him. He gazed into your eyes with his nearly black ones, a gentle smile on his lips. “I love you. So much,” he said, and then he leaned in, pressing his soft lips to yours.

You kissed him back happily, and it didn’t take long for him to deepen the kiss, tongue dipping into your mouth and hand gripping onto your hip. You moaned into his kiss, and he moved on top of you, slotting his lithe body between your legs. His lips trailed down your jaw and to your neck, where he stopped.

“Baby,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble against your neck. He nuzzled into it, breathing in your scent, his lips just barely grazing your skin.

“Hmm?” You hummed, eyes closed as you were lost in the feeling of Eddie’s body on yours.

“Do you trust me?” He asked, his voice just as low as before. You could barely hear him.

“‘Course I do,” you said. Your hand absentmindedly played with Eddie’s hair as he continued nuzzling into your neck.

“Good,” he said. “I’m going to try something, okay? I need you to trust me.”

You nodded lightly. “Okay, Eds. I trust you.” And you did, wholeheartedly. You would follow Eddie to the ends of the earth.

“Okay. Just…okay.” Eddie nuzzled into your neck again, tongue darting out to taste your skin. You moaned at the feeling, as Eddie hummed in approval at the taste.

Then, you felt two sharp pricks impaled into your neck.

Your eyes went wide and you gasped, your instinct to push him away, but Eddie wasn’t moving. The pain shot through your body, but less than a few seconds later, it faded. Not only faded, but turned into the most warm, all encompassing bliss you’d ever felt in your life.

“Oh,” you moaned, eyes falling closed from the pure ecstasy of the feeling, of whatever it was Eddie was doing to you. Your mind went hazy, your brain clouding.

You felt the sharp pins disappearing from your neck, and all too quickly the bliss faded away. You were confused. Eddie pulled back, and looked you in the eyes.

He had blood smeared all around his mouth. His lips were parted, and you could see the sharp points of his canines. They had not looked like that five minutes ago. Your eyes were wide, fear struck into your heart. What the fuck?

“Do you still trust me?” He asked, nuzzling his forehead against yours. “Do you want me to continue?”

“I…” You had no idea what was going on, and you were pretty convinced you were dreaming. But with everything you’d seen in the Upside Down, nothing surprised you anymore. You would ask questions later. “You can keep going.”

Eddie smiled, and it looked sinister with the blood all over his lips and chin. He slowly lowered his lips to your ear.

“I’m going to make you feel so good, my little dove.”

He quickly peeled both of your clothes off, leaving you both completely naked. He lowered his head back to your neck, and you shivered, from the cold or from anticipation you weren’t entirely sure. “Ready?” He asked quietly.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed again, hands wrapped around his broad shoulders. You felt the pain again, making you jump, but then the bliss washed over your body a second time, relaxing every muscle.

Eddie drank from your body, the taste like nothing he’d ever experienced. Like the finest wine in the world, the sweetest nectar. It made him impossibly hard.

He reached between your bodies as he continued to drink, dragging his tip through your folds. You were wet, so wet, and you moaned at the feeling of him pressed up against your hole. He pushed inside, sinking every inch of his length into you. Did he get bigger?

Eddie slowly pulled his hips back before rolling them back into you. You let out a mix between a moan and a gasp, never having felt something so incredible in your life. He filled you perfectly as he drained you at the same time, it was…indescribable. The most perfect feeling that ever could have existed. The kind of full body bliss people chased their whole lives and never achieved.

Eddie moaned loudly as he continued his movements, his cock throbbing inside of you. It was like every drop of blood he drank from you was rushing straight to his pulsing cock. He fucked you slowly though, every single centimeter of movement absolute heaven. He wanted to savor it.

You could feel an orgasm quickly approaching already, and it had only been a few minutes. Your pussy was clenching around Eddie’s cock, only drawing hotter moans from him. “Eddie…I’m gonna…”

You didn’t even get the sentence out before an orgasm washed over you, turning your vision white, your ears ringing from the intensity. Your mouth dropped open in a silent scream of pure pleasure, back arching into Eddie’s body.

He sped up his thrusts, fucking into you a little harder and faster now. Eddie had never felt something as incredible in his life, this was nothing like any sex he’d ever experienced. The feeling of your hot blood running down his throat, into his body, filling him with warmth, pure euphoria. He never wanted this to end.

“Eddie, Eddie, oh god, oh god,” you moaned. You could feel that tension building in your belly again. You had never cum so close together like this, never experienced such an intense orgasm as the one you’d just had. You would think you’d need to recover, but no, oh god, you were-

“Eddie, baby, I’m gonna cum again, oh fuck-!”

You came even harder the second time, and you really did scream this time. If you had been less out of it, you might have worried about the entire trailer park hearing you.

Eddie let out the most sinful moan, fucking into you hard and fast now. His hips snapped into yours at a brutal pace, and your body felt weak beneath him, like you couldn’t even move, could do nothing but lay there and take the pleasure he was giving you.

Eddie’s free hand gripped bruises into your hip as he thrusted in one, two, three more times, before letting out a primal groan as he came inside of you more than he ever had before. His cock throbbed inside of you as he shot rope after rope of cum into your tight, wet, perfect pussy. It seemed endless, and you had never felt so full and blissed out in your life.

You felt Eddie remove his teeth from your neck first, his tongue licking up the excess blood that dripped down your skin, savoring every drop. Both of your bodies shuddered as he held you tight, his face still buried in your neck, breathing in your scent as he caught his breath and composed himself.

Finally he pulled back, looking down at you with his big dark eyes. “Are you okay?” He asked gently. “Was that okay?”

“That was…I don’t know what that was.” You laughed, breathless. “The most incredible thing I’ve ever experienced? The best sex I’ve ever had?”

He laughed, licking the blood off his lips. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I didn’t know how to, uh…bring it up.”

“It’s okay,” you said, gently brushing his hair out of his face. “I’m glad you trusted me with it.”

“I’m glad you trusted me, enough to let me do this.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, fangs gone now. “I love you. In life and in death.”

You smiled. “I love you, Eds.”

tagging some besties who may be interested :)

You freeze. And you swear your heart stops pumping blood through your arteries. Terror taking over as your blood runs cold. 

Moonlight slashes across half his face, illuminating one sparkling brown eye and a slice of that slowly spreading grin. Sharpened canines slide over dark lips, pleased to find you here. 

Pinkish-red scars decorate his flesh, shredded skin healed unevenly, giving them this odd webbed effect. They begin at his jaw and crawl down his neck only to disappear beneath tattered clothing. His bat tattoo, your favourite, is present but marred by the deep scars where the demo-bats tore away at his flesh. The irony is not lost on you, but the sight is too grim to dwell on.  

When he leans in closer you can smell him. An odd mimicry of Eddie. Different from before when his heart pumped blood through his veins. Something in your body naturally resistant to it, but simultaneously lured to him—an unadulterated pull. With every erratic inhale you crave more, like a smoker greedily sucking nicotine into their lungs.

You loathe to admit its intoxicating effect. Because this—this thing—can’t be Eddie. Not your Eddie. But some spectral version, warped by the mirror world. 

It’s only when he speaks that you have any sort of visible reaction to him at all. Like he could’ve been some figment of your interminable grief—unbelieving in him until his acknowledgment of you.

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

Stupidly, you gasp in surprise, stumbling backward, hand reaching out behind you for something to tether you to this earth because surely you must have gone mad.

The rough and textured feel of bark scrapes against the sensitive skin of your palm. Though it does little to ground you. 

He moves swiftly toward you again, this bona fide creature keeping close, commanding the fog to shift around you. Invading your senses. That grin is ever-growing and increasingly self-satisfied.

You’re breathing hard, eyebrows scrunched together—confused, intrigued. 

Though his scent is somehow subtly altered, his voice remains much the same, but with richer notes of darkness. An almost imperceptible difference. His tone differs too. It’s mocking, yes—not in the same playful way Eddie used to be—but it’s also curious, unfamiliar. 

It presses the heavy implication over your heart that he doesn’t recognize you. How could that be?

The way he examines you reveals his unfamiliarity, though his eyes remain unchanged—the same shade of dark chocolate. And it is this which elicits an aching longing. One that burrows deep in your heart.

Though he looks like him. Sounds like him. And almost smells like him. It isn’t him. You know this to your marrow, like you know that the sun will rise tomorrow. It’s his body, yes. But not his mind. At least, not all of it. Clearly, it does not carry his memories. 

When he reaches up, cold fingertips ghosting past your chest, your collarbones, your neck, you have to suppress a shiver. But the renewed goosebumps rising on your skin betray you. 

His lips curl into a smirk, this one self-satisfied and hungry as the knuckle of his index finger grazes the sensitive flesh of your cheek. Try as you might not to, you flinch. He pouts at you mockingly, his touch unyielding.

“I could devour you, sweetheart,” he whispers, like the thought has only just come to him as his flesh met yours. Like it excites him to no end and sends the fresh scars pressed into his flesh thrumming. 

“You won’t,” you say shakily, not because you know this, but because you’re hoping. 

But your heart is beating out of your chest like a bunny that’s been caught between the sharp teeth of a fox, who knows it’s only a matter of time before its heart stops pounding and its blood ceases to pulse through its veins. 

You wonder if he can hear it with the way his face twitches and he appears to stop and listen, savouring some near silent thumping. This has you suppressing another shiver. 

Do you want him to devour you? 

No. 

You want him to try.

“I won't?” he retorts with a tilt of his head, his voice suddenly taking on a sharper quality. A dangerous edge to it like he’s responding to a challenge—provoked by the suggestion that he could be merciful. 

He could tear you to shreds right here and now and you’d let him–couldn’t stop him. He wants to. You can see it in his eager gaze. While this incites deep seated fear, it’s also a thrill. Something which awakens you after the nightmare that the last few weeks have been. Spending your days sleepwalking, rather than living. You realize it’s the first time you’ve felt alive since he took his final breath in your arms. 

He must see it in your face—as perceptive as he was in life.

“Watch me,” he spits. Watch me tear you apart. 

You swallow, throat dry. 

He leans in and you almost bear your neck to him, seemingly ready for him to take you from this earthly plane. 

Suddenly, his gaze snaps sharply down to his left. Your heart lurches in your chest, stomach flipping as your eyes flit over his shoulder to the left. Then to the right. Has he heard something? Possibly, a presence that could put an end to this? Oddly, the thought does little to relieve you. Instead, panic surges—a need to keep him here with you, if only it will result in your end–burning bright in your body. 

The treeline remains empty and dark, save for the still hovering fog choking the trees. 

If you were going to escape, this moment offers an opportune window. But that panic of losing his presence keeps you as rooted against his chest as these very trees are to the ground. 

Of course, you don’t hear it. The disembodied voice only falls on his sharp ears when it hisses, “She serves a grander purpose.” 

His sword, sheathed in its scabbard, speaks. He is ever bound to its command, whatever it calls for.

Your eyes return to his—finding with a shock that his gaze has already fallen upon you again—when he speaks. 

“A greater purpose than a meal?” 

His gaze rests upon you, but the question is evidently not for you—who it is for, you may never know. 

Whatever one-sided conversation he was having must yield unfavourable results because his jaw ticks and nostrils flare. Frustration, maybe even anger, bubbles behind dark eyes. 

He must obey. 

But he’ll still have his fun. 

Eddie decides right then and there that if he cannot satisfy his blood lust for you—if he cannot indulge in his thirst—then he will instead seek to satiate an alternatively carnal form of hunger. 

Drinking your blood is not the only method of sowing terror. There are other means. He can get creative.

He leans in then, teeth bared, and you catch his canines growing sharper, protruding further from his gums when he whispers, “I'll give you a head start…run.” 

When he says it it’s like the forest goes silent. Like all those tiny, near undetectable noises cease when he speaks. It’s eerie the way you don’t notice them until they’ve quieted. 

At that moment, you tear through the woods, blowing past his memorial. Leaves crunch and twigs snap underfoot. You’re the opposite of stealth. Something this Eddie seems to be well-versed in. You’re clumsy in your terror, easy prey.

Having spouted falsities, he gives you no head start, immediately tracking you effortlessly through the fog. 

You ignore the stitch quickly cutting into your side and keep running. But your sense of direction fails you quickly, everything beginning to look the same–all looming trees, dappled moonlight, and menacing shadows. All you can do is keep moving forward.

Then there’s movement to your left. 

Is your mind playing tricks on you? Morphing the shadows of great oaks in your periphery to resemble the creature that’s hunting you? Or is he right there, just waiting for the ideal moment to strike? Letting the fear build in your gut before he pounces. 

You just need to keep moving. 

One moment it sounds like he’s hot on your tail, but when you chance a look, he isn’t there. 

There’s the quick scratching against bark like an animal hurriedly climbing a tree, traversing it as effortlessly as a duck floats on water. 

But you can’t look again, unwilling to tear your eyes away from the winding paths to see him scaling trees. Just the idea raises the hair on your arms. 

The road. Only a sliver of it, gently illuminated by a dull street lamp, is visible through the dense wood. But it’s there. Just a hundred feet or so ahead–freedom and safety coming into view. 

Despite your terror though, your all-out sprint fades into a jog. Hesitating in the densest part of the forest. 

You lost Eddie once. This would be like losing him all over again, wouldn’t it?

You crave just one more glimpse of him because running from him after weeks of yearning to hold him in your arms again feels wrong. But you know your grief is clouding your judgement, and a voice of reason pops up, telling you to run, go!

When you realize what he’s done–lead you into the densest part of the woods on purpose–it’s too late. 

Your moment’s hesitance costs you.  

He led you here so you could hardly revel in the warm embrace of safety before coldly tearing it from your grasp.

Nearly nose-to-nose, Eddie seemingly materializes from the mist in front of you. “Boo!” 

“Shit!” You jump, falling hard onto the dirt floor of the forest. You groan–heart hammering and tailbone aching, just laying there, willing your heart to calm. 

Then he’s gone. There, in terror-induced vibrant clarity. And then a vanishment so swift you can’t be sure he was ever really there to begin with. 

Laughing darkly from somewhere above–a sinisterly, amused sound–you venture a hesitant look upward, into the dense branches above. 

Eddie is in the tree. There, he crouches on a thick branch as he observes you with the tilt of his head. His curious smile seemingly glowing in the darkness with the top half of his face shrouded in shadow. 

And then once again, he manifests by your head. 

He’s more menacing like this. Always was taller than you. But from this vantage point he’s a leering predator appraising injured prey. An easy meal. He could make quick work of you. 

“That stupid, huh?” he laughs as if the prospect is the most amusing thing in the world. “Thought you’d get away easy?” 

He continues to taunt you as he stalks around you, now standing at your waist.

You try to raise up onto your elbows, but to no avail as searing pain shoots up your spine. 

“Hm?”

It should be the last thing to spring to mind right now. But his tone strikingly resembles the condescending one Eddie would use in bed. When he’d ask: That feel good? Hm? And he knew it did.

It forces you to look at him—like Pavlov’s dog drooling at the sound of the bell. A conditioned response.

Eddie’s practically glowing in the soft moonlight. 

He’s so…alive. 

It chokes you up a bit. A lump forming in your throat as unshed tears sting your eyes. You tear your gaze from him, guilt sinking into your belly like an anchor in the ocean. 

“Look at me,” he demands immediately, voice proud and controlled. Despite the guilt, you cannot reject your body’s reaction to him. It’s that tone. It sends shivers up your spine and warmth into your gut—a pleasant ache for something raw and intense. 

You obey. 

Maybe it’s the grief. The sudden loss of someone so dear. But as you lay here—bruised and tired, and gazing up at him—you don’t mind that he has no memory of you. He’s still right here, standing in front of you, isn’t he? You think you’re still trying to convince yourself. 

You are a tangled, contradiction of feeling. Fear continues to nip at your neck while intrigue licks at your spine as you observe this freakishly orphic creature observing you. He’s…enchanting, captivating.

Eddie sighs deeply, gazing up briefly at the moon peeking through the leaves. It hangs bright above you, branches extended toward it, as though worshipping it. 

The sound he makes is like savouring relief. Upon feeling the open air on his skin, thankful for the reprieve from the shadows that the moonlight brings. Though you can’t know this—that he is confined to the darkness for all eternity.

You’re finally able to push yourself up on your elbows–not without wincing–when he returns his gaze to you. Your breathing slows and deepens as another pleasant and warm feeling twists in your belly. 

“What am I going to do with you?” he ponders sardonically, excitedly. 

You find the answer comes out of your mouth without thought. Another involuntary response from your body. 

“Anything.” It sounds so needy. Feathery, as your response floats off into the trees. 

Were you crazy or desperate? Or maybe just so haunted by his ghost that what he is–what he’s turned into–is irrelevant? Whether he be an apparition of your own imagining or a real monster twisted by the mirror world. Maybe he doesn’t have Eddie’s soul. But he has his face. His body. Is it so wrong to want him?

When he leans over you, you whimper, “Please.” 

He pouts at you in faux sympathy.

Is the mercy you seek defined by his departure? Or does your version of “mercy” mean letting him devour you like he’d promised?

When he flashes those pointed canines and a mischievous dimple carves into his cheek you have your answer. You no longer need to question or analyze your thoughts. You just want to feel. 

As Eddie leans in and strokes your cheek with the back of his index finger, you press gently into his touch. Feeling warm all over, buzzing with electricity. 

Strangely, you feel safe under his scrutinizing gaze. A crease forms between your brows as he leans in even closer. Your parted lips brush his tenderly. You might catch fire. 

Just as your eyes fall shut in anticipation of his kiss—your first with him in weeks—you hear his humorous scoff. Your face heats as your eyes open to find him leaning back. 

“Pathetic,” Eddie whispers. 

“I-” you’re not sure what you’re going to say in your defence, but he cuts you off anyway, with a curt: 

“Lie down.”

His hand is a firm pressure against the center of your chest, pushing you toward the ground after stooping down next to you. Your back presses into the cool dirt floor of the forest. 

Will he devour you now? Take you without another word? 

No. He isn’t done teasing you yet–another similarity between the human Eddie and the creature Eddie. Always itching to get you writhing and whining beneath him. Never satisfied until he could make you beg for it.

The hand that pushed you to the ground remains on your body, cold as it drags slowly down in quiet curiosity. As if feeling you for the first time, just getting used to the way your body curves and trembles beneath his touch.

Calloused fingertips just barely brush your tits on his way down, raising goosebumps beneath your top. When you gasp and arch into his hand imperceptibly, he pauses just as the rough skin of his palm ghosts over a sliver of your exposed belly, above your navel. 

His eyes flit to your chest, only remaining there for a single inhale before returning to his hand which continues to skate painstakingly down your body. Studying you.

The path of his hand ends at the edge of your skirt, caressing the skin there with a tender touch. You have to bite the inside of your lip to keep from making an embarrassing noise. Not wanting to seem too desperate. Although you’ve probably already failed at that.

“Eddie,” you sigh, head lolling over to look up at him. He meets your gaze, hand curving over your hip. 

Humming thoughtfully, Eddie tilts his head at you. Like you’re the one who’s become a creature. Morphing into a small thing, bursting with need and a deep desire to be taken care of. 

All the while, his hand continues its path down until he meets the skin of your thigh where he squeezes the doughy flesh roughly. Like he can feel the thrumming of your veins beneath your skin, yearning to take a bite out of you. 

“Oh, God.” Your skin tingles delightfully. A soft moan, as quiet as the sound of skin brushing against skin escapes your throat. 

The barest hint of a satisfied smile cracks his features. 

You may be so haunted by him that you’ll entertain this potential dream or nightmare, or whatever this is. But you are also undeniably desperate. To feel his touch on your skin again is transcendent. Like the very first time he touched you, it feels as though every single one of your nerves is exposed. Readily available for him to toy with. 

Excitement courses through your veins, a drug only able to be injected by his hand, as it curves over your leg. Hand pressing into the flesh of your inner thigh, he squeezes again, his blunt nails scratching sensitive skin. He pushes them open, giving him the easiest access to slide his hand up your skirt. 

When he finally tugs your panties down, and finds the soaked mess between your thighs, he releases a breathy, “Oh.”

Stroking his fingers through the mess, he says, “Look at this…”

Your hips flex when he dips gently into your dripping hole, collecting the sticky stuff before pulling his hand from you to put your desire on display. 

When his now sodden fingers come into view, and he pulls them apart to show you just how wet you are, you whine high in your throat. Embarrassed that you’re this worked up when he’s hardly done anything to elicit your lust. 

Thin lines connect his fingers, your essence seemingly sparkling in the moonlight as gentle waves of humiliation crash over you. Watching on as he savours the taste of you on his fingers, you huff impatiently. 

The moment his hand returns to your heat, his fingers swipe through your wetness again, dragging it to your sensitive clit where he rubs his middle finger in a dizzying circular motion, the slide smooth. Upon the second circuit of his fingers, you’re gushing around him, getting wetter by the second. A fire blazes in your belly and your hips twitch, finding it difficult to remain still when he’s working you up so. 

“Fuck, look at you. Could probably make you cum from just this,” he laughs, applying more pressure as he continues his torturous circles over that magic little button. 

The lewd sounds from your pussy fill the still night air as the lustful haze in his eyes grows more determined–his teeth sinking into his bottom lip in concentration. 

It’s all too much and on pure instinct your own hand wraps around the wrist of the hand up your skirt. That you’re still fully clothed—sans underwear—makes this feel all the more dirty. Let alone that you’re in the woods on the filthy ground, the exposed sliver of your back likely coated in a thin layer of dirt. 

Though your grip is loose on his wrist, he doesn’t let you get away with it. Grabbing both of your wrists in his free hand, he pins them above your head. 

“Stay,” he orders. 

You watch helplessly as he presses his two middle fingers into your pussy, curving them on the first stroke. If this were months ago, and Eddie had you like this in his bed, you might think the squeeze he gives your wrists—bound by his own hand–was an act of reassurance. Now, you know it is solely an act of dominance. I have you at my mercy. 

“Fuck,” you whimper. “Eddie…”

You forgot how nicely his fingers filled you. How you feel like a bright, burning star when he touches you like this. Deep and slow, like he’s forcing you to savour each stroke. How the tips of his fingers, longer than yours, caress parts of you that you couldn’t fathom. How he works in earnest to pull noises from you that you didn’t even know you could make. 

The pace he sets is simultaneously torturous and delicious, his aim clearly being to tease and overwhelm. Tears burn behind your eyes as his thumb rolls over your clit and you whine, that familiar feeling slowly beginning to build in your belly. Like you’re on the incline of a rollercoaster. 

“That feel good? Hm?” he asks with a syrupy tone as he watches you fuck yourself on his fingers like you’re in heat. With your hands pinned, it’s all you can do to writhe in his grasp.

“I-yes!” 

You’ve never seen him more smug and satisfied. 

“Yeah?” you nod furiously, mouth occupied by wanton moans. “I know, I know, baby…Know you’re dying to take my cock.” 

A delicious heat twists in your belly. “Please!” 

Before you reach the peak of your rollercoaster, he pulls his fingers from you, releasing your wrists simultaneously–though they remain above your head. You whine in protest, feeling suddenly cold and empty without a part of him inside of you. Though this feeling does not last for long as he moves quickly. 

Eagerly, Eddie swiftly removes his scabbard and undoes his jeans and fly, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. It bobs, hard and leaking so much pretty precum your mouth waters for it. Beautiful as ever. 

The sigh he releases when he strokes his dick is euphoric as he smears your wetness from base to tip. Already soaked with you. You shift your hips, fidgeting in place, impatient. Wishing it was your warm mouth encircling his girth instead of his own hand. 

Just as quickly as he’d tugged his jeans down, he’s on top of you again, slotting himself between your thighs before flipping your skirt up. Getting his first proper look at you. 

“Fuck, look at the mess you’ve made, sweetheart. All for me?” He says it like he’s mesmerized by the sight, eating up the way your body unabashedly calls for him. 

Grasping himself at the base, he lines himself up, your breathing growing shallow and quick. Anticipating the feeling of him inside you, desperate to feel every ridge and vein. The warmth as he fills you. 

You hold your breath. 

Meanly, he paints the flushed red tip up and down your soaked folds, causing you to whine and writhe against him. When it glances your clit you gasp and your hips jump as white hot pleasure zips up your spine. 

Your eyes are on high branches now, but you hear his low, satisfied chuckle. He wants for you to experience a unique kind of anguish before he rewards you for your perseverance. 

You’re about to lose it completely when he smacks the head of his cock heavily against your clit. The sticky sound it elicits is vulgar. It forces your eyes to roll into the back of your skull and groan. 

He is not merciful. But, eventually, he puts you out of your misery. A sharp inhale marks the moment he finally slides the first inch of his cock inside of you. 

Bracing for the inevitable fullness and slight sting that comes along with it proves unnecessary as he does not nudge himself any further. It only takes you a moment to realize he’s still teasing and you release another low whine. Just his weeping tip penetrates your fluttering hole, making your head spin.

He is going to make you earn it. 

“Jesus, it’s like she’s suckin’ me in,” he mutters under his breath in disbelief. “Beg for it, sweetheart.” 

You don’t waste any time. Not a single second before you begin to plead with him, cutting him off before he gets the pet name out. 

“Fuck me, Eddie! Need it so bad. So, so bad,” you mewl pathetically. “Please, please, please, please-” you might be embarrassed if you weren’t an absolute wreck, distraught on account of his teasing. Right on the edge of intense pleasure, feeling like you can’t take it anymore and might-

His cock sinks into you fully, not slowly but roughly. His heavy balls slap against your ass as he tugs your legs up to sheath himself even deeper inside of you. 

Twin groans float into the air, his eyes locked on yours. His become impossibly dark, like the slow spill of black ink across a page. Pleasure explodes in your belly as stars seemingly explode in the night sky. You are a live wire casting sparks in every direction. 

He is all that matters right now. The world could be ending around you, and you would be ignorant to it, lost in the feeling of his cock sliding home inside of you. 

His large palms pin your thighs back, as close to your chest as they can stretch while he stretches you out on his cock. And, fuck, is it a stretch after all these weeks. 

Your pleasure errs on the side of pain, but you savour it nonetheless and let him devour you. The sensations commingle and soon, you cannot tell the difference between the two. The pleasure is pain and the pain is pleasure. 

On a particularly rough thrust, as his balls collide with your ass with a sharp smack, you cry out, moaning his name freely into the open air. The sound gets trapped in the thick trees, as do his groans. 

For the first time since he pinned your hands to the ground, you wrap them around his neck, exploring his back, heavily textured by scars. Feeling the way his muscles flex beneath your hands as he continues to pound into you. Slowly, they find their way up into his hair, feeling his waves between your fingers. Somehow soft and knotted at the same time. 

But he doesn’t let your hands roam free for too long before pinning them back above your head again, one palm still pressing firmly into the back of your right thigh. When you try to wrap your legs around his waist, he simply presses them back toward your chest, his throbbing cock reaching deeper inside of you as the obscene squelching sounds amplify. 

Your own sounds rival the distant symphony of insects–somewhere far off in the meadow, the chirping crickets and singing cicadas are drowned out by your moans. The tiny creatures may as well be silent with how loud your wails have become. But how could you be quiet when you can feel him in your belly?

“Take it,” he growls, as if you are not laying here fucking yourself back onto his throbbing dick. Meeting his deep thrusts with your own, feeling his tip kiss your cervix and whining. “Tell me how good my cock feels inside of you.”

All you can do is whine and gaze up at him, barely registering his words as your heart unexpectedly swells at the sight of his gorgeous, pleasure-stricken features. 

Every minute detail is identical to your Eddie. Every freckle–including the tiny one just below his eye. His cheeky dimples. The sparse trail of hair below his navel that you used to trail your tongue down, causing his hips to jump in response.

Predictably, you get lost in his beauty and the overwhelming sensations, barely recognizing when his hand abandons the task of binding your wrists. Abruptly, you are snapped back to the moment when that same hand lands a sharp slap to your clit. It only causes you to squeal, your pussy fluttering around his dick as the sting quickly merges into pleasure. You get more lost in the haze of dizzying pleasure-pain.

Realizing that he only succeeded in further blurring your thoughts, Eddie grasps your face in one large hand. He squishes your cheeks until your lips pucker, smearing your wetness across your face. “Tell me.”

Dizzying pleasure continues to cloud your mind, making it difficult to recall what he’s asking of you, let alone produce a response. 

You must take too long to answer as he squishes harder, your teeth pressing harshly against the inside of your cheeks. The feeling borders on pain, causing you to whimper again as heat sinks into your belly. 

With a jolt, you remember what his question was.“Tell. Me.”

He needs to know. 

“It’s g-” you choke when he thrusts deep, kissing that sweet spot deep inside. 

With the hand still gripping your cheeks, he shakes your head a little, like he’s trying to shake the thought free. “Huh?”

“Good!” you squeal. “L-love your cock!”

“You ‘L-love’ it?” Eddie laughs dryly, clearly enjoying the praise and the way you struggle to give it to him. 

That sweet humiliation warms your chest, feeling almost as good as the way he presses inside of you. Hot and heavy. 

You agree with a moan, lacking the wherewithal to respond coherently. When he removes his hand from your face, it travels to grope your tits greedily over your thin top. Arching into his touch, you close your eyes and revel in the sweet sensation. 

His groans and the filthy sound of skin slapping against skin fill your ears as he repeatedly strokes that wonderful spot inside of you. Pleasure bursts in vivid colour behind your eyelids.

When his hand travels further down your body, middle and marriage fingers pressing into that tender bundle of nerves at the top of your cunt, your pleasure surges to new heights. The coil which has been tightening slowly while he fucks you threatens to snap. 

Pace slowing in favour of deep, calculated thrusts, Eddie leans down to your ear. “Gonna make such a mess of you,” he whispers, sending shivers straight down your spine. The promise is like molten lava on your skin. 

More reckless moans spill from your lips as he nips at your earlobe, then drags his teeth slowly down your neck. A reminder that he could easily sink his teeth into your flesh. It sends a thrill through your body–not unlike the one that licked at your spine as he hunted you through the woods. 

“Promise?” you ask breathlessly. A fucked-out smile on your face. 

He stares hungrily, longingly, at your neck for just a moment before returning to your eyes after registering your words. A challenge that quirks his brow. 

Bracing himself with an elbow dug in the dirt, his pace quickens again as he works furiously at your clit. His rhythm is clumsy, but successful at continuing to send shockwaves of twisted pleasure through your body. His hips slam so hard against you that it would be unsurprising to find light green bruises pressed into your ass tomorrow morning. 

You gasp, tossing your head back on a particularly deep and perfectly angled thrust. He dangles you over the cliff’s edge, keeping you on the precipice of release. It’s all you can do to tighten your hands into fists as you twist your them in his unrelenting grasp. 

He doesn’t even have to ask you to beg this time. The pleas for release simply tumble out of your mouth with little thought. “Please! Gonna cum, Eddie! Please, please can I cum?”

Hot, overwhelmed tears threaten to spill over in anticipation of his permission. You doubt you’ll be able to hold on much longer with that perfect pressure on your clit and incredible fullness. His heavy panting indicates he isn’t far behind you. 

“Cum all over my cock…Let me ruin you for anyone else.” He’s breathless as he says it. 

It’s his words that inevitably shove you over the edge, pleasure swelling inside of you. Your clit numbs and you cry out, cunt clenching around him as you drench his cock. It is not a soft, gentle climax that graces your body, but an intense thing that seems to carry on forever. 

“I love you,” you whisper into the cool night air, your body still twitching with your orgasm as tears slip down your cheeks. The phrase so easily blurts from you and it’s then that he groans and begins to spill inside of you too. Face pressed into your neck as he shoots hot spurts of cum into your cunt. Rope after rope of the stuff, warming your belly fulfillingly. 

His thrusts slow and eventually stop as he collapses on top of you. 

Aftershocks flow through you in raw, euphoric waves as you pant into his curls. A sated smile tugs at your mouth and you tremble against him, boneless when he’s done with you. A blissful giggle escapes your throat. 

The both of you lay there for moments, just listening to each other’s heartbeats slow as the insect’s song replaces your moans. The moon gleams in the sky, spinning stars winking at you.

All too soon Eddie pulls away from your neck and observes the damage. You’re sure he finds he succeeded in making a mess of you. Your wetness still smeared across your cheek, hair completely mussed, and your bottom half covered in dirt as you draw in heaving breaths, still coming down from your mind-numbing orgasm.

There’s a small smirk that reaches his eyes more than his mouth before he tugs his hand from between your bodies. Lewdly, he shoves his two middle fingers between your lips. “Hmph!” 

Once the surprise wears off and you cup his hand in both of yours, you allow your eyes to drift shut. The mild taste of your own cum pervades your mouth as he presses his fingers deeper. Your tongue swirls around them, sucking softly. He continues to test the waters, pressing in further until the pads of his fingers grace the back of your tongue, causing you to gag lightly around them. When he pulls them out, they’re wetter than before. He smears the spit over your cheeks, just as he had done with your wetness. An act of dominance which leaves you breathless and twists your stomach into knots.

As you open your eyes, you watch him push himself away from you, sitting back on his haunches. 

“Clean up your mess.” The meaning of his statement only briefly eludes you. 

With wobbly limbs you stumble a step or two on your knees closer to him, intoxicated by your co-mingling scents before his palm finds the crown of your head and he presses you down against him. 

You gaze lovingly up at him and you’re sure the sight from above is simply obscene. 

It’s been too long since you’ve done this which makes it all the more satisfying when your lips wrap around his slowly softening cock. The gentle weight of him in your mouth, the best feeling in the world. Warm and heavy on your tongue as the salty taste of his cum graces your tastebuds and the musky scent of him reaches your nose. 

He inhales sharply on the first suck, then groans as he pushes your head down more. The scent of him here–with your nose nearly nestled against the dark curls above his dick–is dizzying. You try not to gag around him this time before he lets up a bit and allows you to move more freely, greedily licking up your combined juices as his warm cum slowly drips down your thighs. 

Eddie allows you to slurp happily up and down his cock for a few more moments before he decides you’ve cleaned him up sufficiently. When he pulls you off, wetness drips down your chin. He thumbs at the spit there and you watch as he licks it off his own thumb, like he’s savouring chocolate ice cream that dripped off the cone. 

Then, he pets the top of your head gently in appreciation. “Good girl.” 

Your heart simply glows in your ribcage. This blooming feeling is quickly stamped out and replaced with rising panic when he goes to leave. Your heart reaches out for him and comes up empty, as it had when the life had drained from his eyes. It is not the panic from before which left you frightful at the prospect of being caught between claws and sharp teeth. But a panic which urges you to capture him, to keep him in your grasp, even if just for a little while longer. 

When you catch his wrist, he spins around and bares his teeth like an abused animal anticipating harm and hurt–one who has never experienced a soft touch. What’s happened to him? What has he gone through these past few weeks while you’ve been grieving him, unable to eat or sleep or think at all? 

Now that you’ve had him, back again in your arms with a beating heart and warm skin, you couldn’t bear to part with him again. 

This panic, the terror of being clouded with grief again, is what drives you to stutter out, “W-will I see you again?”

Guarded features soften a touch as he stares into your face, trying to determine your motivations. To decipher that hopeful look in your eyes. 

When he leans down to caress your chin softly, you know he’s come to a conclusion. You look imploringly from his left to his right eye, awaiting his response as your heart hammers in your chest. 

"On the next night that the fog creeps over the hills...maybe I'll sneak into your bedroom...and devour you."

You sigh as he gently licks your top lip, close enough now that you could kiss him easily. 

Gently, he grabs your face, his thumb resting on one cheek and his other four fingers on the other. Just before he kisses you you ask him softly, lips brushing, “Promise?”

It’s then he presses his lips to yours, and it’s almost tender before he drags his teeth over your bottom one. A final kiss is pressed to your mouth, soothing the gentle sting that you savour. 

For the briefest of moments you linger in the feeling after he’s pulled away. 

And when you open your eyes, he’s disappeared into the fog. Evaporated into the mist. And it’s like he whispers back to you, Promise.

⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆⋆⁺₊⋆

You wait for him.

All the while, thinking only of him and nothing else. It’s like your grief has intensified—worse the second time around—and after a while you begin to wonder whether you imagined the whole thing. It isn’t much of a stretch to say so. 

After he died, you often took to lying in bed for all hours of the day, staring out the window and watching the shadows grow long before drifting off into a fitful slumber. Tortured by your grief, even in sleep. 

Could it have all been a dream? 

As the days and weeks stretch on and you begin to question your grasp on reality—you return to this schedule. Lying in bed. Watching the world move as you remain still. Nightmares. Repeat. 

You always dreamt of him. Nothing else. Watching the light drain from his eyes. The blood pool around his body. 

He rots until he becomes pearly white bones. And the skeleton comes to life, badgers you with questions. He would ask you, Why didn’t you save me? Why aren’t you dead instead? This is all your fault! I’ll never forgive you!

Your encounter in the woods must have never occurred. It was just another fucked up way for you to torture yourself over his death.

Some nights you never slept, trying to keep the nightmares at bay. And, despite yourself, watched desperately for the fog to roll in. 

It’s weeks before the fog returns to Hawkins.

When it does, and you hear the slow and steady creak of your window being opened as you lie in bed, you know it was all real. 

And Eddie kept his promise. 

Eddie's mind has been turning inside out.

He thought he knew for sure where he put the engagement ring.

What if she found it?

He's looked everywhere in the damn house, even his uncle's.

"Hey, uh. You didn't happen to see a ring box around here, did you?"

"This house doesn't have much space for shit." Wayne jokes, then softening when he sees Eddie's truly worried expression. "I don't think I have, son."

"It's only been a day since I lost it and I've been beating my own ass over it."

"Is it for you?"

"...It's an engagement ring, Wayne."

Wayne sets his coffee mug down, his brows furrowing in disbelief of his own son being all grown up and reaching a milestone.

"You're getting married?"

"Yes, Wayne. I love her."

"Where'd you have it last?"

"Everything's been going on so fast. I've been trying to hide it from her but I got distracted and I'm just... I'm really beating myself up. I can't ask her for ya know... obvious reasons."

"Then we both search every inch of this place until we've copied it to our memory."

Wayne and Eddie do just that. Flipping pillows, searching shelves and under places, everywhere.

When nothing turns up, Eddie's eyes look like those of a lost puppy.

"I'm sorry, Eddie."

"Maybe it is home? I can look there, probably. Thank you Wayne."

"We're family. And Eddie?"

Eddie stops his pursuit to the front door to look at his uncle.

"Good luck."

"Thanks."

___________________________________________________

Eddie's been out for some time now, giving you the perfect opportunity to think hard about what you found.

An engagement ring. Or at least, you hope it is.

You've had it in your purse, too afraid to tell Eddie you found it out of fear of disappointment that you're jumping the gun.

You look at the ring again, hoping the pretty little thing is really meant to be yours this soon.

Maybe he wants to wait. Maybe he meant to save it for a couple of years later.

You take the ring and slip it on right before you hear the front door open and close. You get up from the bed to greet Eddie.

You frown when you see he looks sad. Very sad.

"Hi, honey." He says, his voice deflated.

"You look like you've been hit by a truck, Eddie."

Eddie looks at you, then scratches the back of his neck as he contemplates before asking you something.

"Did...you see a jewelry box around here? I lost it yesterday."

You swallow.

"I did."

Eddie's face regains some of it's spark. "Thank goodness, where is it?"

"I have it. I've had it."

"What do you mean?"

You remove your hand that's overlapping the one that was hiding the ring, and you show him.

Eddie looks at you, trying hard to read the situation.

"If this is what I think it is...I want you to know that my answer will always be yes. And that I'm with you one hundred percent, Eddie Munson."

"Then...will you marry me?" He asks, his voice shy and hopeful.

"Yes, Eddie. I will."

He releases a sigh of relief, taking you and sweeping you into a hug.

"As always, you've saved me once again."

"But Eddie, I stressed you out-"

He gives you a peck and a devious smile. "Hush it. Come here."

“I’ll be back in an hour or so, okay love?”

Her words went completely unnoticed by her boyfriend, currently sitting on the carpet trying to fix the broken chair, an opened toolbox beside him and various hand tools she didn't care enough to name scattered around him. He had fallen– hard, she might add– on his ass when he took a seat on it that morning, and he had been trying and successfully failing to repair it since then.

Ironic how he could keep up with a demogorgon and a whole ass disgusting and slimy version of Groot armed with only a nailed bat, but could not fix up a chair for the love of god.

With his head bent down to inspect whatever damage was on the wooden leg, eyebrows furrowed as if he was solving a second degree equation, and his gorgeous hair falling over his focused brown eyes, he looked ridiculous. Ridiculously handsome. And so ridiculously hers.

Nothing was gonna distract him from his mission to restore his damaged ego and the chance to prove his manliness. And so, with a fond look in her eyes she shook her head at the sight of her boyfriend and headed outside, the door clicking softly behind her.

Steve’s complete unawareness of his surroundings wasn't necessarily a negative thing. It allowed her to grab his car keys undisturbed without him looking up not even of an inch. The roar of his dear BMW that she had kindly borrowed without an explicit consent went over his head, like it was just another background noise. But oh well, given how he had been glued to the same spot on the living room’s carpet all morning, by the time she'd come back he'll still be tinkering with screwdrivers and hammers.

As expected, she had been right once again.

When she pulled on the driveway an hour and a half later, she could make out his brown mop of hair peeking from behind the curtains, in the same spot she had left him when she left the house. A sigh escaped her lips, fondly rolling her eyes at her boyfriend’s stubborn antics with a soft chuckle. Same old Steve.

She killed the engine and grabbed her bag, placing it on her thighs. Lowering the sun–blocker with her lipgloss in hand, she quickly touched up her makeup and fluffled her fresh out–of–salon hair. Eyes focused on her reflection in the small mirror in front of her, she rubbed her lipgloss–coated lips together, wrapping up the motion with a smacking sound. And when she was satisfied with her appearance, she flashed a last smile at her reflection and stepped out of the red BMW, walking up to the front door with spring in her step.

She could not wait to see Steve's reaction to her new hairstyle. What would he think? Would he like it? Love it? Would he even notice?

She stepped inside, hanging her coat and leaving her bag at the entrance. “Love? I’ve got a surprise for you!”, she called out with a big smile on her face, reaching for the living room’s door handle.

The sight she was met with when she twisted it and spread the door open left her baffled. Mike and Will were reading out loud instructions on a piece of paper on the couch. Max, Lucas and El were rummaging through the toolbox in search of who–knows–what. Dustin was beside Steve, busy trying to stick back together the chair, while Robin was rambling by the table.

However, everything quieted down when she appeared by the door. All eyes were on her; some confused, some greeting her. While one stare in particular was glued to her form.

Steve. Still sat criss–crossed on the carpet, he was looking up at her with his jaw slack and his big brown eyes widened with just as big hearts inside. His hair was messy, and she immediately knew he had been running his hand through it while huffing with his cute little pout.

Dustin broke him out of his trance, glancing at him with confusion. “Dude, are you okay?”

Steve quickly nodded, throat bobbing while his eyes were still on her. “Yeah, totally fine”, he replied distracted.

“Nah man, we thought she had broken you for a second there”, spoke up Lucas.

“Is it because she cut her hair?”, asked El smiling lightly, innocent as ever.

“As if he'd noticed!”, scoffed from the couch Mike, sitting snugly beside Will, their hands intertwined together.

“Please. He's not called ‘Steve the Hair Harrington’ just because of his chest hair”, said Robin with a teasing smile, leaning on the table.

The comment lit their spirits, and the living room was turned into a chaotic mass of teenagers chatting and arguing over Steve’s chest hair. That definitely left her even more baffled than before.

However Steve didn't seem affected by the discussion going on about him, at all. He put aside the screwdriver, not even caring to put it back inside the toolbox, and got onto his feet. In only two strides, he crossed the living room and stood in front of her, the loveliest smile tugging at his lips.

“Baby”, he whispered over the loud chatter, hands reaching out to cup her face as if she was made of pure gold. “You look… Is it even possible for me to have fallen in love more with you?”, he mumbled with adoration glittering in his big eyes.

His words only made her cheeks and ears get covered by a pink dust of blush. “I love you too, Stevie”, she muttered back, her own grin tugging on her shiny lips.

“You cut your hair, huh? You didn't tell me?”

“It's a surprise, baby. 'Couldn't tell you”, she replied smiling up at him through her fresh bangs, her hands resting comfortably on his shoulders.

“You look gorgeous, baby. Bangs really suit you well”, he muttered under his breath as leaned in for a kiss. His lips softly brushed her, just to feel her close to him, to relish in the feeling of having his girlfriend melted in his arms.

Her grin lit up, brushing her hair behind her shoulders, leaning up to leave another lingering kiss to his soft lips.

“Get a room, dude! Your house's full of 'em!”, suddenly complained Lucas, a devilish smirk on his face as he said so.

Steve begrudgingly broke away from his girlfriend with a groan and turned around, hands flying to rest on his hips by habit to glare at the group of kids– plus Robin, but he guessed he could count her in– wiggling their eyebrows at them.

“Thanks for your helpful insight, Sinclair. Get back to your own girlfriend now, yes?”

Mike snickered from his spot beside Will, and his glare immediately fell upon him, making his smile drop in a matter of seconds. “You shut up, Wheeler”

“What the hell, Harrington?”

“Should I remind you of the time when you were staring at Byers jr like a puppy in love while an alien world was falling on our heads?”

“It's called Abyss, man” corrected Dustin under his breath.

“Yeah, whatever dude”

“I don't remember doing that…”, mumbled Mike, avoiding his boyfriend’s amused stare.

“Yeah, sure you do, buddy”

“What are you doing here anyway, guys?”, asked she, coming to stand beside Steve, who immediately melted and pulled her into his side.

“Uh… Back up?”, answered Dustin after a few pregnant seconds.

She burst out chuckling, looking between him and Steve, who looked like he was sweating cold. “... Yeah, back up”, he echoed, chuckling uncertain.

“Back up? To fix a chair?”, she asked again, amusement swirling freely on her glowing face.

“... Yeah?”, he cringed at himself. “I know it sounds stupid, but I swear that goddamn chair is making it difficult on purpose!”, he exclaimed to preserve his ego.

“Yeah, sure it does, Stevie”, she smiled up at him teasingly before crouching down next to the chair missing one leg. She held up the leg and inspected it quietly for a few seconds. Then, she hummed and turned to El with a hand reached out. “Pass me the hammer, please?”

Albeit a tad confused, she did as she was asked and placed the tool in her outstretched manicured hand. She thanked her and picked up a nail, holding it in place against the chair. Done that, she tightened her hold on the hammer and planted the nail like it was nothing.

“Here, all done”, she said with a satisfied sigh, passing the tool back to El with a grateful nod. Everyone was staring at her like she had just grown enormous muscles and superpowers.

“How– What the fuck?”, sputtered out Lucas, the other nodding along.

“You guys didn't try nailing it?”

“We opted to adopt more scientific means, that's all”, said Dustin, trying to save face.

She rolled her eyes fondly and got up, dusting her jeans with a delighted hum. Robin snorted, her arms crossed on her chest, “I might steal your girl, dingus”

“Not in a million years, Robs”