that was fun, shit

You're twenty minutes late to your first mandatory meeting with the new Dean of Graduate Studies, and you don't even have a good excuse.

Well, that's not entirely true. You do have an excuse—your advisor's lecture ran over, and then there was a line at the coffee shop, and honestly, you'd forgotten about the meeting until you got the reminder notification—but whether it's a good excuse is debatable. Probably not good enough for someone like James Buchanan Barnes, whose reputation preceded him by about three weeks and several strongly worded emails.

The administrative assistant gives you a disapproving look as you breeze past her desk, still juggling your coffee and bag.

"He's been waiting for you for almost half an hour," she says, voice clipped.

"I know, I know. Traffic sucks."

It's 10 AM on a Wednesday, there was no traffic. She knows it. You know it. But you flash her your most charming smile anyway and knock twice on the heavy oak door before pushing it open.

"You're late."

His voice is deeper than you expected. Rough around the edges, like gravel and smoke. You take the opportunity to study him while his attention is elsewhere—dark hair that's a bit longer than typical administrator— short, sharp jaw, broad shoulders that fill out his button-down shirt in a way that's frankly distracting. He's younger than you pictured too. Mid-thirties, maybe. Which seems impossibly young for a dean, but then again, you'd heard he had an impressive background. Former military, something classified, then a PhD that he'd blazed through in record time.

Great. An overachiever with something to prove.

"Sorry," you say, not sounding particularly sorry. "My advisor's—"

"Save it." He finally looks up and you're struck by the intensity of his blue eyes. They sweep over you once, assessing, cataloging. You have the distinct impression he's already formed an opinion and it's not favorable. "Just don't let it happen again."

You bite back the retort on your tongue—yes, sir delivered with just enough sarcasm to be insubordinate— and instead, drop into one of the chairs across from his desk.

He watches you settle in, one eyebrow slightly raised. "I didn't say sit."

Oh, this is going to be fun.

"I assumed, since this is a meeting, we'd be sitting." You take a deliberate sip of your coffee, maintaining eye contact. "Unless you prefer to conduct business standing? I'm flexible."

Something flashes in his expression. Annoyance, maybe. Or disbelief that you'd speak to him like this in the first ten seconds of knowing him. "Ms—" He glances at his computer screen, confirming your name, even though you both know he already knows it. He called this meeting, after all. When he says your full name, it sounds like an indictment.

"You can just use my first name," you interrupt. "We're all adults here."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I've asked you here because your academic record has come to my attention."

"Oh good, I love being noticed for my achievements."

"That's not—" He stops, taking a deep breath through his nose. Patience, you realize. He's already exercising patience with you and you've been in his office for less than two minutes. "Your grades are exceptional. Some of the highest in your program. Your research proposal was brilliant, according to Dr. Morrison. Which makes the rest of your file particularly… concerning."

You wait. Let him say it.

"You've missed 40% of your mandatory seminars this semester. You've submitted three separate assignments past deadline. You were given a verbal warning last month for—" he checks his notes"—'disruptive behavior during a guest lecture'. And apparently, you've been avoiding your advisory meetings."

"I haven't been avoiding them… Dr. Morrison and I have an understanding."

"An understanding." He repeats it like he's tasting something sour. "What kind of understanding allows a master's student to simply not show up to scheduled meetings with their advisor?"

You shrug. "The kind where he knows I'm working and doesn't need me to hold his hand through every stage of the process. I send updates, he responds. It's very efficient, actually."

Dean Barnes closes his laptop with a decisive click. He leans forward, palms flat on the desk, and you notice for the first time that his left hand has some scarring across the knuckles.

"Let me be very clear," he says, voice low and controlled. "I don't care how brilliant your research is or how high your GPA sits. At this university, under my administration, you will attend your required seminars. You will meet deadlines. You will show up to your advisory meetings and you will conduct yourself professionally. Are we understood?"

The reasonable part of your brain—the small, usually ignored part—suggests that maybe you should just nod and agree. This man has the power to make your academic life substantially more difficult. He could put you on probation, revoke funding, even recommend dismissal in extreme cases.

But there's something about his tone, the way he's looking at you like you're a problem to be solved, a recruit to be disciplined, that makes your spine straighten and your chin lift.

"I understand that you've been dean for all of three weeks and you're very eager to make your mark," you say sweetly. "But micromanaging graduate students who are already producing exceptional work seems like a waste of everyone's time. Maybe focus on the students who are actually failing?"

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

Dean Barnes straightens slowly and you notice he's tall. Really tall. The kind of presence that would be commanding even without the title and the office and the obvious military bearing.

"This meeting is a courtesy," he says, each word precisely enunciated. "The next one won't be. You have two weeks to demonstrate significant improvement in your attendance and professional conduct. If I don't see that improvement, we'll be having a very different conversation about your continued enrollment in this program."

Your heart kicks against your ribs with anger—not fear, you tell yourself— but you keep your expression neutral.

"Is that all, Dean Barnes?" You load his title with just enough emphasis to make it clear what you think of this entire conversation.

"Yes, you're dismissed."

You stand, gathering your bag with unhurried movements. At the door, you pause and glance back. He's already focused on his computer again, effectively erasing you from his attention.

"See you around," you say lightly, but don't wait for a response.

Outside, the administrative assistant gives you a knowing look.

"How'd it go?"

"Oh, you know. Just another power-hungry administrator on a mission." You adjust your bag on your shoulder. "I give him six months before he burns out."

She actually laughs at that. "I wouldn't underestimate Dean Barnes. He doesn't strike me as the burning-out type"

"Everyone's the burning-out type eventually."

But as you walk back across campus, coffee gone cold in your hand, you can't quite shake the memory of those sharp blue eyes and the controlled anger in his voice.

Two weeks. He'd given you two weeks.

You'd show him improvement. Just… maybe not the kind he was expecting.

You make it exactly five days before you're back in Dean Barnes' office.

To be fair, this time it's not entirely your fault. Well, it's mostly not your fault. The seminar was mind numbingly boring, the visiting professor had clearly not updated his research since 2015, and when he'd made a factually incorrect statement about recent developments in your field, you'd… corrected him.

Publicly.

Perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. And maybe you'd rolled your eyes when he'd tried to double down on his outdated information.

"Please tell me," Dean Barnes says as you walk into his office—on time, you note, which should count for something—"that you didn't tell Professor Whitmore that his keynote address was 'a fascinating glimpse into how people thought about this subject a decade ago."

You hover near the door. He hasn't invited you to sit, and you're not about to make the same assumption twice. "I was complimenting his historical perspective?"

"Sit down." It's not a request, so you sit.

He's wearing a different shirt today—still button-down, still perfectly pressed, but this one's a dark henley that makes his eyes look even bluer. He's also skipped the jacket, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and you can see more of that scarring on his left forearm.

"Professor Whitmore," Dean Barnes continues, voice tight with controlled frustration, "is a respected scholar who has published over forty papers and—"

"Thirty-seven," you correct automatically. "And only twelve in the last ten years, most of which were just rehashing his—"

"That's not the point," he interrupts as he closes his eyes, like he's praying for patience.

"Then what is the point? That I'm supposed to sit there and smile while someone spreads misinformation to a room full of graduate students who might actually—"

"The point," he says, leaning forward, "is that you cannot speak to visiting faculty like they're undergraduates who got a question wrong on an exam. There's a way to engage in academic discourse that doesn't involve public humiliation."

"I didn't humiliate him. I just corrected—"

"You told him he should consider 'updating his references to include something from this century."

"And that's accurate feedback!"

"In front of sixty people!"

You're both on your feet now, though you don't remember standing. The desk is between you, but it feels like no distance at all.

"So what?" Your voice rises to match his. "I'm supposed to just sit there and nod along with bad science because his ego is too fragile to handle being challenged?"

"You're supposed to conduct yourself like a professional!" He slams his hand on the desk, and you actually flinch. Not from fear—from surprise at the crack in his controlled demeanor. "Do you have any idea how many complaints I've fielded about you in the past five days? Five days! You've been late to three more seminars, you got into an argument with Dr. Burns about her grading criteria, and now this!"

"Dr. Burns' grading criteria are arbitrary and—"

"I don't care!" He runs his hand through his hair. "I don't care if you're right. I don't care if every single person you've argued is wrong. You are a master's student at a prestigious university, and you will show respect to the faculty, or you will be gone. Do you understand me?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

You can hear your own heartbeat, can see the muscles ticking in his jaw, can feel the anger radiating off him in waves. "You want me to be a good little student," you say quietly, voice sharp as glass. "Smile and nod and never question anything, even when it's wrong."

"I want you to think before you speak. I want you to consider the consequences of your actions. I want you to act like someone who actually wants to be here."

"Jeez, Dean. I worked my ass of to get into this program, of course I want to be here!"

"Then act like it!" He's around the desk now, closing the distance between you. "Because from where I'm standing, you're doing everything possible to get yourself kicked out. Late, disruptive, insubordinate—"

"Oh, here we go." You laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Insubordinate. There it is. You know this isn't the military, right? You can't just bark orders and expect everyone to fall in line."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I think you're so used to people following your commands that you can't handle someone who pushes back."

"Pushes back?" He's close now, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. "You're not pushing back. You're acting like a spoiled brat who's never been told 'no' in her life."

The words hit like a slap. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." His voice is lower now, but no less intense. "You think your intelligence gives you a free pass to treat everyone around you like they're beneath you. You think because you're smarter than most people in the room, the rules don't apply to you."

"That's not—"

"When's the last time you actually listened to feedback? When's the last time you considered that maybe, just maybe, someone else might have a point? Or are you so far up your own ass that you can't see how you're sabotaging yourself?"

Your hands are shaking from anger… at least that's what you tell yourself.

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." He's not yelling anymore, which somehow makes it worse. "I know you're brilliant and talented and completely wasting it because you'd rather prove you're the smartest person in every room than actually accomplish anything meaningful. I know you're going to talk your way out of this program within the semester if you don't get your act together. And I know—"

He stops abruptly, jaw clenching.

"What?" you challenge. "You know what?"

"I know I'm done trying to help someone who doesn't want to be helped."

The words settle between you like stones.

"I never asked for your help."

"No," he agrees, voice flat. "You didn't, which is why, effective immediately you're being placed on academic probation. You'll meet with me every Monday at 9 AM to review your attendance and conduct for the previous week. You'll submit weekly progress reports, and if I receive one more complaint about your behavior you're out."

Your mouth goes dry. "You can't—"

"I can, and I am." He steps back, putting professional distance between you again. When he speaks, his voice is completely detached. "You have potential, but potential means nothing if you can't work with other people. Consider this your last chance."

You want to argue, tell him exactly where he can shove his probation and weekly meetings and his condescending concern. But the look on his face stops you. He doesn't look angry anymore, he's disappointed. And somehow, that's so much worse.

"Fine," you bite out.

"Fine," he echoes.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, see you Monday 9 AM. Don't be late."

You turn on your heel and walk out, managing to keep your composure until you're halfway across campus. Then you find an empty classroom and let yourself feel the full weight of what just happened.

Academic probation. Weekly meetings with Dean Barnes. One complaint away from expulsion.

You should be terrified.

Instead, all you can think about is the way his eyes had blazed when he called you a spoiled brat, the way he'd gotten close enough that you could smell his cologne, the way your heart had raced you when he'd challenged you.

You're in so much trouble, and not just the academic kind.

The Monday meetings become a special kind of torture.

On week one, you show up on time with printed documentation of your perfect attendance and professionally worded emails to faculty. Dean Barnes reviews them with barely a nod, asks if you have anything else to report and dismisses you in under ten minutes.

Week two, you're three minutes late because the printer jammed. He doesn't say anything, just marks something in his notes while you apologize. You hate how the silence feels like criticism.

Week three, you're early. You bring coffee— one for you, one for him, because maybe if you try being nice, this will be less awful. He looks at the cup you set on his desk like it might be poisoned, but he drinks it anyway.

By week five, you've developed a routine. Monday mornings, 9 AM, sitting across from Dean Barnes while he reviews your week. You've been perfect. Perfectly punctual, perfectly polite, perfectly compliant.

You hate every second of it.

"Your attendance has been flawless," he notes, scrolling through something on his laptop. It's mid-October now, and he's traded the henleys for sweaters that somehow make him look more approachable and more intimidating at the same time. "Dr. Morrison says you've been attending all your advisory meetings."

"As required."

He glances up at that, catching the edge in your tone.

"Is there a problem?"

Yes, you want to say. The problem is that you've spent five weeks performing like a trained seal, and he hasn't once acknowledged that maybe, just maybe, his assessment of you was harsh. The problem is that you lie awake at night replaying your arguments, thinking of better comebacks, sharper retorts. The problem is that you've started noticing things about him—the way he drums his fingers on the desk when he's thinking, the small scar through his eyebrow, how his entire demeanor softens when he talks to the administrative staff.

The problem is that you can't stop wondering what it would take to crack that professional facade.

"No problem," you say instead.

He studies you for a long moment, and you have the unsettling feeling that he sees right through you.

"You seem…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Subdued."

"I'm being professional, isn't that what you wanted?"

"I wanted you to engage constructively, not to shut down completely."

You laugh—a short, bitter sound. "I literally cannot win with you, can I? I'm disruptive, I'm a problem. I'm quiet, I'm shutting down. What exactly do you want from me, dean Barnes?"

His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering across his features.

"I want—" he stops, jaw tightening. "I want you to find a balance between being yourself and being respectful, that's all I've ever wanted."

"Right, because you know so much about who I am from our what, six conversations? All of which have been you telling me everything I'm doing wrong."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" You're leaning forward now, exhaustion and frustration bubbling over. "You decided who I was in our first meeting. Spoiled, bratty, someone who needs to be put in her place. You never once considered that maybe there are reasons I am the way I am."

"Then tell me." He matches your posture, leaning in. "Explain it to me."

"Why should I? So you can use it against me? Add it to your little file of everything that's wrong with me?"

"That's not—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard through his nose. "I've never wanted to use anything against you. From day one, I've been trying to help you succeed."

"By threatening to kick me out?"

"By giving you clear expectations and boundaries! Which, apparently, no one else in your academic career has bothered to do!"

"Don't pretend you know anything about my academic career!"

"I know you've been coasting on raw talent without even learning how to work with people! I know you alienate everyone around you because it's easier than being vulnerable! I know—"

He stops abruptly, like he's said too much. The silence is suffocating.

"You know what?" Your voice shakes, and you hate it. Hate that he's gotten under your skin like this. "I've done everything you asked. I've been to every seminar, every meeting. I've smiled and nodded and played the part of the good little student and it's still not enough for you."

"That's not true."

"Then what do you want from me?" The question comes out raw, almost desperate. "Just tell me what you want, and I'll do it, so we can both stop pretending these meetings are anything other than you reminding me how much of a disappointment I am!"

You're standing now—when did you stand?—and so is he, and the desk between you feels like both a barrier and the only thing keeping this situation from spiraling completely out of control.

"You're not a disappointment," he says, and his voice has gone quiet in a way that's more affecting than any of his anger. "You're brilliant and passionate and you care so deeply about your work that it scares you, so you hide behind sarcasm and antagonism, because if you don't care, you can't fail. But you do care. I see it every time you argue about methodology or challenge outdated thinking. You care so much it's destroying you."

The accuracy of it steals your breath.

"You don't know me," you whisper, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.

"Don't I?" He's moved around the desk—when did he do that?—and suddenly he's close, closer than he's been since that first argument. "You think I haven't noticed? The way you're first to arrive at seminars now but you sit in the back and never speak up? The way you flinch every time I ask if you have anything to report? It's like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop. You're miserable, and I—"

He stops, something warring in his expression.

"You what?" The challenge is automatic, but your voice is barely above a whisper.

"I hate that I did that to you." You weren't expecting that. "I thought I was helping," he continues, and he sounds tired. "I thought structure and discipline were what you needed, but I've been taking out my own frustrations on you. Every time you pushed back, it reminded me of myself before the army beat it out of me… all that fire and certainty and refusal to back down.."

His eyes meet yours, and there's something in them you haven't seen before. The confession hangs between you.

"I'm sorry," he continues. "I'm sorry for calling you a brat and making you feel like you had to change who you are. For not seeing until now that I've been the problem just as much as—"

"Stop." Your hand comes up, almost touching his chest before you catch yourself. "Don't apologize. I've been… god, I've been awful. To you, to the faculty. You were right about me coasting on talent. You were right about a lot of things.""

You don't know who moves first.

Maybe it's simultaneous, gravity and inevitability pulling you together. But suddenly there's no space between you at all, and you can see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes.

"This is a bad idea," he says, but he doesn't move away.

"Terrible idea," you agree, and then his mouth is on yours.

It's not gentle. There's too much pent-up frustration, too many weeks of tension for it to be anything but desperate and consuming. His hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back, and you grab fistfuls of his sweater. When he breaks away, you're both breathing hard.

"We can't—" he starts, but you cut him off.

"Your door is locked."

"That is not the point."

"Then what's the point?" You're using his words from earlier, and from the way his eyes darken, he knows it.

"You're my student."

"I'm a graduate student. An adult." Your hands slide up his chest. "And you're not my professor or my advisor. You're an administrator who's been making my life hell for six weeks."

"Making your life hell," he repeats, and there's something dangerous in his voice now. "Is that what I've been doing?"

"Yes..."

His hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "You've been making mine hell too. Do you have any idea how hard it's been, sitting across from you every Monday, watching you perform this perfect student act when all I can think about is—"

He stops himself, but you see the want in his eyes, the same want that's been eating you alive.

"Say it," you challenge.

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, harder this time, backing you up until your legs hit his desk. His hands span your waist, lifting you onto it with an ease that makes something hot coil in your stomach.

"You've been driving me crazy," he says against your mouth. "Every argument, every time you pushed back, every time you looked at me like you wanted to either kill me or—"

"Or what?"

His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher. "Or this."

You should stop this, you should think about the consequences, the professional boundaries, the fact that you're literally on academic probation. But when his fingers trace a way through your inner thigh, all rational thought evaporates.

"James," you breathe, using his first name for the first time.

"Bucky," he corrects, and the intimacy of it makes your heart stutter. "Call me Bucky."

"Bucky," you try out, and he makes a sound low in his throat that goes straight through you.

His fingers move higher, teasing, and when he brushes against your underwear, his eyes go wide. "Fuck, you're soaked."

The embarrassment is immediate and scorching, but before you can form a defense, he's kissing your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point.

"All those arguments," he murmurs against your skin. "All that fighting… and this whole time?" His fingers press more firmly, and you gasp. "Oh, sweetheart, who would've thought being such a brat make you this wet?"

"I'm not—" you start, but he slides your underwear to the side and touches properly, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a moan.

"Not what? Not a brat?" His thumb finds your clit and he circles it. "That's all you've been, baby. Running that smart mouth, pushing every button, getting yourself all worked up." He slides one finger inside you, and your head falls back. "Getting me all worked up, is this what you wanted? Every time you argued with me?"

"No," you lie, but your body betrays you, your hips roll against his hand.

"No?" He adds another finger, and the stretch makes you whimper. "Because you're gripping my fingers like you've been thinking about this. Like maybe every Monday morning, you sat in that chair and wondered what it would take to make me snap."

"You're so arrogant," you manage, but it comes out breathy and weak.

He laughs, dark and low. "Says the woman who's about to come all over my desk during her probation meeting."

The worlds should be humiliating, instead, they make everything tighter, hotter. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur.

"That's it," he encourages, his other hand coming up to wrap loosely around your throat. "Let go, stop performing for once and just feel."

You come while his fingers are still working inside you, he kisses you through it, swallowing your moans. When you finally come down, you find him looking at you with something that might be awe.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers slowly.

You watch dazed, as he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you. The sight makes you clench around nothing.

"We're not done," you tell him, reaching for his belt.

His hand catches your wrist. "Are you sure?"

"Dean, if you don't fuck me on this desk right now, I swear to god—"

He kisses you hard. "There she is, there's my stubborn girl."

He makes quick work of his belt, and when he frees himself, you can't help but stare. He's big—bigger than you expected— and the intimidation must show on your face because his expressions softens slightly.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," you cut him off. "I want you."

Something in his expression changes, and then he's pulling you to the edge of the desk, lining himself up. "Last chance to be sensible," he offers, but he's already pushing forward, just the tip.

"When have I ever been sensible?"

He laughs, breathless and pushes in slowly. The stretch is intense, almost too much, and you grab his shoulders for leverage.

"Breathe," he instructs, stilling. "Just breathe, baby."

You do, and he slides in further, inch by inch, until he's fully seated inside you. For a moment, neither of you moves, just adjusting to the overwhelming intimacy of it.

"Okay?" He asks, and the gentleness in his voice nearly undoes you.

"More than okay," you roll your hips experimentally, and his grip on your waist tightens.

He groans, and then he's moving, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in, settling a rhythm that's deep and deliberate. Each thrust hits something inside you and you can't keep quiet.

"That's it," he murmurs, one hand sliding up to cover your mouth. "As much as I love hearing you, we need to be quiet, can you do that for me?"

You nod against his palm, and he rewards you by picking up the pace. The desk rattles with each thrust, papers scattering to the floor, but neither of you care.

"All semester," he says. "I've been trying to figure out how to handle you… turns out what you needed was this needed someone to put you in place."

You bite is palm in retaliation, and he actually laughs.

"Still got that mouth on you, even now" He pulls out suddenly, and you whimper at the loss. "Turn around"

You obey without thinking, and he bends you over is desk, one hand between your shoulder blades, the other hiking your skirt up around your waist.

"Much better," he says, running his hand over the curve of your ass. " Now I don't have to watch you try to be defiant while I'm fucking you senseless."

He pushes back in with one smooth thrust, and the new angle makes you cry out into your folded arms. It's overwhelming—the fullness, the angle, the sound of skin against skin, his words washing over you. You're helpless to do anything but hold on as he drives into you again and again.

"Touch yourself," he orders. "Make yourself come on my cock."

One of your hand slides between your legs, finding your clit and the additional stimulation makes everything tighten impossibly.

"That's my good girl," he praises, and his words combined with his relentless pace push you over the edge. You come hard, muffling your cries in your arms, and he follows moments later with a choked groan, spilling inside you.

For a moment, there's only the sound of harsh breathing. Then slowly, he pulls out and helps you stand, stepping back like you've burned him.

"Fuck," he says, running his hands through his disheveled hair. "Fuck."

You slide off the desk on shaky legs, pulling your skirt down. Your heart is still racing, but the way he's avoiding to look at you, makes dread pool in your stomach.

"Bucky—"

"This can't happen," he says, finally meeting your eyes. And god, the regret in his gaze nearly breaks you. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, but this— we can't."

"I know it's complicated, but—"

"It's not complicated, it's wrong." He's already tucking his shirt back in, rebuilding is armor. "You're my student, I put you on academic probation, I have direct oversight of your academic career… this is exactly the kind of ethics violation that ends careers."

"Then we'll figure it out," you say, hating how desperate you sound. "We can't disclose it, or—"

"No." The word is final. "Your probation is over, effective immediately. You've met all the requirements, but that's— that's all this can be."

You feel like you've been slapped. "All this can be? Are you serious right now?"

He won't look at you. "I need you to leave."

"Bucky—"

"Dean Barnes," he corrects and the formality is cruel. "Please, just go."

You grab your bag with shaking hands, blinking back the tears burning your eyes. "Right, okay. Got it."

"Wait," his voice stops you at the door. When you turn, there's something in his expression you can't quite name, but he just says, "This stays between us, no one can know."

"Don't worry," you say, voice brittle. "I'm very good at keeping secrets for men who regret me."

You don't wait for his response.

Six weeks later

The remaining weeks of the semester are torture.

You see Bucky exactly three times: once across the quad (he changed direction), once at a departmental meeting (he didn't make eye contact), and once in the administrative building when you had to drop off paperwork (he disappeared into his office before you reached the desk).

The message is clear, whatever happened in his office was a mistake he wants to forget, and you're a problem he's solved by simply avoiding.

Fine. You can take a hint.

You throw yourself into finals, spending sixteen-hour days in the library. Your research proposal gets accepted for publication, Dr. Morrison nominates you for a prestigious summer fellowship. You're thriving academically.

But you're also miserable.

You finish your last exam on a Tuesday afternoon, exhausted and emotionally drained.

One more paper to submit tomorrow and you'll be done and free for the summer. Free to leave the campus and not think about Bucky Barnes and his blue eyes and the way he'd made you feel before calling it all a mistake.

Dr. Morrison finds you packing up your carrel in the library.

"Heading out for the summer?"

"Yeah, got that fellowship in Boston. I'll be leaving next week."

"Boston's far."

Something in his tone makes you look up. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no. I'm happy for you, just… you're gonna be missed, that's all."

You're too tired to reply or try to deepen in his words, so you just nod and go back to packing.

You submit your final paper at 3 PM. It's done. The semester from hell is officially over.

You're heading to your car, already mentally planning your escape from this campus and all its memories, when you see him.

Dean Barnes, leaning against your car in the parking lot, and he's holding flowers. Peonies, specifically, though you can't remember ever telling him that. He straightens when he sees you, and even from a distance, you can see how nervous he is.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, stopping a few feet away.

"Waiting for you," he holds out the flowers. "These are for you."

You don't take them. "Mr. Barnes, what—"

"The semester's over," he says quickly. "Grades were submitted this morning, you're no longer under my administrative oversight—I transferred that six weeks ago to Dean Bell, which means I can finally tell you what I should have said that day in my office."

Your heart is pounding hard against your chest. "Which is?"

"That calling it a mistake was the real mistake, that I've spent six weeks working behind the scenes to remove every professional barrier between us because I couldn't stop thinking about you. That I'm sorry I hurt you, sorry I made you think I regretted you, when the truth is—" He takes a breath. "The truth is I've been falling for you since the day you walked into my office late and challenged everything I thought I knew about myself."

You can't breathe. "Six weeks? You've been planning this for six weeks?"

"I couldn't approach you before, it wouldn't have been ethical. But I've been getting my ducks in a row—transferring oversight, drafting new policies, making sure that when I did this, I could do it right." He steps closer, still holding the peonies. "I know I have no right to ask,but I'm asking anyway. Can we start over? For real this time?"

"I don't know… you kind of broke my heart," you whisper.

"I know, and if you tell me to leave right now, I'll accept that I fucked this up beyond repair." His voice drops. "But if there's any chance you feel even a fraction of what I feel for you, I'm asking for one more shot. To do this properly, take you on actual dates and tell everyone who'll listen that you're the most brilliant woman I've ever met and stop hiding how I feel about you."

You look at him. The dark circles under his eyes suggest he's slept as poorly as you have. The flowers in his hands are perfect, your favorite, a detail you don't even remember telling him. And the vulnerability in his eyes is so raw it makes your chest ache.

"You got me peonies," you say finally.

"I asked Dr. Morrison," he admits and manages a small smile. "He said you mentioned once they reminded you of your grandmother."

"You were doing research about my favorite flower?"

"I was doing research on everything about you." He takes another step closer. "And taking notes, paying attention to your coffee order, the way you tap your pen when you're thinking, which professor makes you roll your eyes, how you light up about your research. I've been memorizing you for months and trying to pretend it wasn't."

Tears prick your eyes. "I thought you regretted me."

"Never, not a single second." He finally closes the distance, his free hand coming up to cup your face. "I regretted how it happened, I regretted that I couldn't do it right the first time, but you? Never you."

"This is insane," you say, but you're leaning into his touch.

"Completely." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Is that a no?"

You take the flowers from his hand, bringing them to your nose. "Take me to dinner, somewhere nice."

The smile that breaks across his face is like sunrise. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. But Bucky? If you ever shut me out like that again—"

"I won't, I swear to god I won't." He pulls you closer. "From now on, complete honesty."

"Good," you fist your hand in his shirt. "Now kiss me, we've wasted six weeks already."

He does, and it's different from your first kiss. This time is soft and sweet. When you break apart, you're both smiling. "So, there's this Italian place downtown. How does 7PM sound?"

"Like you've been planning this."

"For six weeks," he admits. "I have the whole evening mapped out. Dinner, then a walk by the river, then maybe coffee if you're not sick of me yet."

"You made an itinerary for our first date?"

"I'm a planner, you know this about me."

You laugh, and it feels like breathing for the first time in weeks. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're brilliant and infuriating and I'm gone for you." He kisses you again. "So, 7PM?"

"Pick me up at 6:45, and Bucky?" You smile against his mouth. "Wear the henley, the blue one."

"The one you kept staring at during meetings?"

"I was not staring—"

"You absolutely were,but don't worry." His grin turns wicked. "I was staring too, those skirts you wear should be illegal."

"Dean Barnes," you mock-gasp. "How inappropriate."

"I'm not your dean anymore," he reminds you. "Which means I can finally tell you that you've been driving me crazy since day one."

"Good," you say and kiss him again.

The date was perfect, because of course it was—Bucky had spent six weeks planning it.

The Italian restaurant was intimate and elegant, the kind of place with cloth napkins and wine lists that didn't make you feel judged. Over pasta and wine, he laid out everything he'd done in those six weeks: the ethics board meetings, transferring your academic oversight to Dean Bell, consulting lawyers, drafting new university policies.

The food was incredible, but you barely tasted it. You were too focused on him—how he listened, how he remembered details from months ago, how this felt like your old arguments but without the anger. All that intensity, channeled into something that made your skin warm.

After dinner, he took you on the promised walk along the river. The sunset painted everything golden, his hand warm in yours, and for a few minutes neither of you spoke.

"Boston," he said finally.

Your stomach dropped. "You heard about that?"

"Dr. Morrison mentioned it, the MIT fellowship." He stopped walking, turning to face you. "You're going to go, you're going to take that fellowship and be brilliant, and I'm going to be incredibly proud of you."

"But?"

"But nothing, that's it." He squeezed your hand. "I'm not going to ask you to stay, you've worked too hard for this opportunity."

"It's three months," you said quietly. "I leave next week."

"I know."

"And you're okay with that? We just got our shit together and now I'm leaving for the entire summer?"

"Am I okay with it? No." His laugh was hollow. "I hate it, actually. But that's my problem to deal with, not yours."

You searched his face for resentment, pressure, anything that would make this complicated, but you only found sincerity.

"You're serious."

"Completely." He cupped your face. "I waited six weeks to do this right, I can wait three months to keep doing it right. Boston's only four hours away, I can visit you on weekends, you can come back when you have breaks… we'll figure it out."

"You'd drive four hours to see me?"

"Sweetheart, I'd drive a lot further than that." He kissed you softly. "Besides, by August I'll have planned approximately twelve more perfect dates."

"You're ridiculous."

"And you're brilliant and leaving for an incredible opportunity, and I'm not going to be the guy who makes you feel guilty about it." His voice turned fierce. "I fucked up once by pushing you away, I'm not going to fuck up again by holding you back."

You kissed him then, there on the river walk with the sunset painting everything golden. This one was different than the others, it felt like a promise.

"Three months," you whispered against his lips.

"Three months, and then you come back to me."

"What if MIT tries to recruit me for their PhD program?"

"Then I guess I'm moving to Boston."

"You'd leave your job?"

"For you? In a heartbeat."

You walked for another hour, drinking a coffee he bought from the a street place, talking about everything and nothing. He told you about his time in the military, the injury that led to his discharge, the way the academia had saved him. You told him about your family, the pressure to be perfect, the fear that you were all potential and no follow-through.

"You know what I thought when you walked into my office that first day?" he asked as you circled back toward the parking lot.

"That I was a nightmare?"

"That you were magnificent," his smile was soft. "Completely infuriating and magnificent, twenty minutes late, coffee in hand, looking at me like I was the inconvenience. I knew right then you were going to be trouble."

"Good trouble?"

"The best kind." He opened your car door again. "Can I take you home? Or is it too presumptuous to assume the date should end?"

Your heart kicked. "Take me home… but Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"You're coming upstairs."

The drive back to your apartment was charged with a different kind of tension. His hand found your thigh, resting there casually, and you couldn't stop thinking about his office, his desk, the way he'd called you his good girl.

"You're thinking very loudly," he observed.

"I'm thinking about your desk. Specifically, how you bent me over it."

He cursed under his breath. "You're going to kill me."

"Promises, promises."

He pulled into a spot near your building with slightly more speed than necessary. When you reached for your door handle, his hand shot out to stop you.

"Wait."

"For what?"

"I need a second." He was gripping the steering wheel with his other hand, knuckles white. "You can't just say things like that and expect me to function normally."

"Who said anything about normal?" You leaned across the console, lips brushing his ear. "I've been very well-behaved all night, Dean Barnes. Don't you think I deserve a reward?"

The sound he made was almost a growl. "You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?"

"Being a brat."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." You bit his earlobe gently. "I'm being perfectly sweet."

You didn't make it past the entryway.

As soon as the door closed behind you, Bucky had you pressed against it, his mouth on yours with six weeks of pent-up hunger. Your hands went to his hair, his found your waist, and for a moment, there was just kissing and breathing and the relief of finally being able to touch him.

"Where's your bedroom?" he managed between kisses.

"End of the hall."

He lifted you easily and you wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you down the hallway. You were kissing his neck, probably leaving marks, definitely not caring.

Your bedroom was a mess of final papers and half-packed boxes for Boston, but Bucky didn't seem to notice. He set you down by the bed, hands going to the zipper of your dress.

"Can I?" he asked, and the courtesy of it made your heart clench.

"Yes, please, yes."

He unzipped you slowly, pushing the dress off your shoulders and letting it pool at your feet. His eyes went dark as he took you in—matching navy lingerie that you'd definitely chosen with this possibility in mind.

"You wore this for me," he said, not a question.

"Maybe I just like matching sets."

"Liar," his hands skimmed up your sides. "You wore this hoping I'd get to see it."

"Presumptuous—"

He kissed you hard, cutting off the word. "Stop being difficult."

"Make me."

Something shifted in his expression. "Careful what you wish for, sweetheart."

"I'm not scared of you."

"No," he agreed, backing you toward the bed. "You never have been, that's the problem."

"Problem?"

"Yes," he confirmed, and suddenly you were on your back and he was over you, fully clothed while you were nearly naked. "You walk around with that smart mouth, challenging everything, pushing every button—"

"You love it."

"I do," he admitted, lips brushing your collarbone. "Drives me absolutely insane, but I love it."

His mouth traveled lower, between your breasts, across your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your underwear, he paused.

"These are pretty," he observed. "Would be a shame to ruin them."

"Then don't—"

The sound of fabric tearing cut you off. You gasped as he literally ripped your underwear off and tossed the ruined lace aside.

"Bucky!"

"I'll buy you new ones." He was already moving lower, spreading your thighs, then his mouth was on you and coherent thought became impossible.

He took his time, building you up with long, slow strokes of his tongue, pulling back whenever you got close. It was methodical, deliberate, designed to drive you crazy.

"Stop teasing," you demanded, rolling your hips against his face.

He pulled back, and the sight of him between your thighs, lips wet, eyes dark with want, almost finished you off right there.

"What was that?" he asked, voice dangerous and smooth. "Did you just give me an order?"

"I—no, I just—"

"Because it sounded like you were being bratty again." His thumb pressed against your clit, circling too lightly. "And we both know what happens to brats."

"Bucky, please—"

"Please what?" He slid one finger inside you, and you clenched around it. "Use your words, you're usually so good with that mouth."

"Please make me come," you gasped out.

"Better," he added a second finger. "But I don't know if you've earned it yet. You've been so difficult all night. Testing me, pushing boundaries…"

"I'm sorry," you tried, but it came out too breathless to be sincere.

"No, you're not." He curled his fingers, finding that spot that made you see stars. "You love making me work for it, love seeing how far you can push before I snap."

It was true, god help you, it was true.

"So here's what's going to happen," he continued. "You're going to come on my fingers like a good girl, and you're going to get on your knees and show me how sorry you are for being such a brat. Think you can do that?"

You nodded frantically.

"Words."

"Yes, yes I can—"

"Good girl."

He worked you with his fingers, fast and relentless, while his other hand held your hip down to stop you from bucking up. The praise combined with the rough handling pushed you over the edge embarrassingly fast, and you came with his name on your lips.

Before you'd fully recovered, he was pulling his fingers out and standing up, working his belt buckle.

"On your knees," he instructed. "Now."

You scrambled to obey, still shaky from your orgasm, and knelt in front of him. He freed himself from his jeans, and your mouth watered at the sight.

"Open," he commanded, and you did.

He pushed into your mouth slowly, giving you time to adjust, but his hand tangled in your hair with clear intent. This wasn't going to be gentle.

"That's it," he praised as you took him deeper. "Such a good girl when you want to be, why can't you be this obedient all the time?"

You hummed around him in response, and his grip in your hair tightened.

"Don't get mouthy now," he warned, but there was amusement in his voice. "Just take it."

He set a rhythm, not quite rough but definitely demanding, and you focused on breathing through your nose and relaxing your throat. When you looked up at him through your lashes—a move that was absolutely calculated— he groaned.

"Fuck, look at you. So pretty with your mouth full." His thumb traced your stretched lips. "Been thinking about this since that day in my office, wanted to bend you over my desk and then have you on your knees, show you what happens to bratty girls who talk back."

The degradation should have been humiliating, instead, it made you moan around him and his hips stuttered.

"You like that, don't you? Like being called out for being difficult." He pulled out suddenly, leaving you gasping. "On the bed, hands and knees."

You moved quickly, assuming the position, hyper aware of how exposed you were. You heard him stripping off his clothes, the rustle of a condom wrapper—when had he gotten that?—and then he was behind you, hands running over your ass appreciatively.

"Look at you, so eager now." One finger traced through your wetness. "After all that attitude, all that pushing back, this is what you wanted all along, isn't it? Someone to put you in your place."

"Yes, sir," you said, past the point of pride.

"Sir?" he repeated, his voice rough with arousal. "That's new."

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologize," he lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

He pushed in slowly, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully seated. You dropped your head to the pillow, overwhelmed by the fullness.

"You okay?" he asked, the care cutting through the scene.

"So okay."

"Good girl," he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, making you cry out. "Because I'm not going to be gentle. You've been asking for this all night, and I'm going to give you exactly what you've been begging for.

He set a punishing pace, each thrust deep and hard, the sound of skin against skin obscene in the quiet apartment. One hand stayed on your hips, controlling the rhythm, while the other reached around to find your clit.

"You're going to come again," he told you, circling that bundle of nerves with practiced precision. "Going to come all over my cock while I fuck this attitude out of you."

"Can't," you gasped, even as you felt yourself building toward another orgasm.

"Yes, you can." His voice was firm. "Come for me. Now."

His relentless pace combined with his fingers on your clit pushed you over, and you came with a muffled scream into the pillow. He followed moments later, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom.

You stayed like that for a long moment. Then slowly, carefully, he pulled out and disposed of the condom before collapsing beside you on the bed. You lay there in comfortable silence, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder, your leg thrown over his. This was new too—the aftercare, the intimacy beyond the physical. With Bucky, everything came with attention and care.

"I'm going to miss you," he said quietly. "These three months."

"I'm going to miss you too." You propped yourself up on your elbow to look at him. "But we'll figure it out. Weekends, video calls, way too many texts…"

"I'm going to text you constantly. Fair warning."

"Good, I expect detailed reports on campus gossip."

"I'll send you care packages. What do grad students need? Coffee? Stress balls?"

"Your worn t-shirts," you admitted, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "If we're being honest."

His expression softened impossibly. "You want my shirts?"

"Shut up, it's not weird."

"It's not weird, it's adorable." He kissed you softly. "I'll pack you a whole suitcase of them, you can build a fort."

"Now you're making fun of me."

"Never," he pulled you back down against his chest. "I'm serious about this, you know. About us, I know it's fast and probably complicated, but—"

"It's not that complicated," you interrupted. "We like each other, we're both adults, we're going to make it work."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." You kissed him. "Unless you're already having second thoughts?"

"Absolutely not." His arms tightened around you. "You're stuck with me now, even when you're being bratty."

"You'll do great too," you say. "You're funny and nice and my best friend. People will like you."

"You think?" 

You nod. Steve turns his head and closes his eyes again. 

"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks. 

The floaty squeaks as you move to sit up. You paddle to Steve so you can look at his face. 

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I dunno." His eyes are still closed. "You might make super smart friends. And I'll just be a dumbass holding you back."

You shove Steve's shoulder lightly. 

"You are not dumb, Steve."

One muggy June night had had Steve admit he wasn't thirteen, like you and all the kids in your class, but fourteen. He had been held back in third grade after his parents moved from Illinois. It's why my brain's mush, he'd said. I was born dumb.

He had made you swear not to tell anyone. 

"You're not dumb," you say again. "Say it, Steve. Say you're not dumb."

His frown deepens, but he still won't look at you. 

"Tommy says I am."

"Tommy Hagan is a shithead," you shoot back with so much venom, Steve's eyes fly open. "It's not true, whatever he tells you."

You hate that they've been hanging out more this summer. You can't tell Steve that, because it's not like you own him. He can be friends with whoever he wants. But you can't help that your skin crawls when Tommy and his stupid girlfriend, Carol, drops by and pulls Steve away from you. 

“Promise?” he asks.

“Yes, Steve. I promise.”

“‘Kay.” Steve smiles a little. “Thanks.” 

You nod and lay back on the floaty. 

“Wanna get ice cream after this?” he asks. 

“Just us?” 

“Just us.”

Now. (January, 1987)

You slam the phone back onto the receiver. A girl playing Pac-Man carefully glances at you. 

Whoops. Right. You're still at work. 

You smile and give a thumbs-up. She turns around. You return to your wallowing. 

You’ve called three different video rentals. Jewel Films, which is about to go out of business; More Movies, whose attendant hung up on you before you could say Molly Ringwald; and finally, Blockbuster, which is thirty minutes outside of Hawkins. None of them have a copy of Pretty in Pink. 

And okay. You could just watch another movie. You don't need that specific one. But this year has been shit. You'd thought after starting college, you'd finally break out of the Hawkins forcefield that had limited your social life. You'd thought you'd make friends and not be so terribly lonely. Life is supposed to get better after high school, isn’t it? 

Obviously, whoever said that is a big, fat liar. 

“Dude!” you hear a familiar voice exclaim. “Stop hogging the game!”

Tawny curls peek from under a green and yellow hat. The hat hovers over an older boy who’s glued to the Tempest booth. You go to them. Dustin Henderson lights up when he sees you. You can read his hat now; it says Camp Know Where ‘85.

“Hey, Y/N!” he greets brightly. “This guy has been here for a half hour. I left to get nachos and when I came back, he was still here.”

“I’m this close to beating my score!” the kid insists.

“Come on, guy," you say, one arm on the machine. "You gotta give other people a turn."

The kid, evidently demon incarnate, sneers at you.

“Who’s gonna make me? You?” 

You lean against the side of the game, considering.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” he says.

You snort. 

“Sixteen? And you’re still on Tempest?”

He glances at you. 

“So?”

“Everybody your age is playing Rampage, that’s all.” 

You wink at Dustin. He beams.

“And, uh, I saw a couple girls hanging around Rampage,” you add. 

The kid turns to you. You tilt your head innocently. 

“Seriously?” he asks.

“Seriously. People always flock to the new games.”

Which is true. The girls part is not, but he doesn’t need to know that. With that attitude, he won't be getting many phone numbers anyway. 

You drum your fingers on the game like you have all the time in the world. And sure enough, the kid takes his quarters and heads towards Rampage. Dustin jumps in delight. 

“You’re awesome, Y/N!" 

You grin. “I try. Where are the others?”

Dustin sours.

“They ditched me. To hang out with their girlfriends! Can you believe that shit?” 

“No way!"

He shakes his head.

“I know, right? My friend told me that that’s what happens in high school. People change, y’know? And he’d know, I guess. He’s old like you.”

You scoff. “You make me sound like some kind of ancient. I’m not that old, Henderson.”

“It’s okay, Y/N.” He pats your arm. “In many cultures, the elderly are wise. Now in my experience, this hasn’t been the case. But I think you’re wise.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Dustin smiles like the little shit he is and puts his change in the slot. 

“Well, contrary to what this other friend says, I’m sure it’ll pass,” you say. “You guys will hang out again." 

You swallow your acidic truth. Dustin's a good kid, and so are his friends. You don't want him to turn cynical like you have. He's too young. 

Dustin shrugs, starting the game.

“I guess so. I got a copy of The Lost Boys for us to watch on Friday. They said they’ll be there.”

“Whoa, seriously? That one just came out, how’d you get a copy?”

“My friend,” he says. “The one I mentioned. He works at Family Video and reserves stuff for me.”

“Huh. I thought Family Video was closed."

You'd applied to work there last year and never got a call back. You'd gone by once and it had looked abandoned. Hence why you now work at the arcade across town. 

"It almost did, but Keith took over so now it's barely scraping by."

"Ah. Sweet deal on the movies."

“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, eyes crinkling. “My friend's pretty cool. You'd like him."

"Would I now?"

"Absolutely," he gushes. "He's a total badass too. He won his first fight last year. He used to be a jock but he's recovered." 

"Wow. Impressive."

"Mmhm. I could ask him to hold stuff for you too, if you wanted.”

“You would?”

The game makes a sad game over noise. Dustin sighs and takes a gulp of his slushie.

“Yeah, totally,” he says through a mouthful of blue raspberry ice. “Which one do you want?”

“Pretty in Pink? I missed it in theaters."

“Sure. I’ll tell him to hold it tonight and tomorrow you can pick it up.”

“Cool. Thanks, Dustin.”

Dustin gives you an apple-cheeked grin.

“Gotta stay in good graces with the arcade attendant who lets me play Tempest as long as I want.”

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, walking away. "Don't get slushie on the game."

"'Kay!"

Dustin only gets a little bit of slushie on the game, but he cleans it up with about a million of the cheap snack bar napkins. When he leaves, he tells you to mention his name at Family. 

"Who do I ask for?" 

"You can talk to either of them," Dustin says. "Doesn't matter. Except Keith. You know Keith, right?"

"Unfortunately.” Keith used to terrorize the arcade before he blessedly moved on. “He works there?"

"Barely." Dustin scoffs. "He's almost never there, so don't worry. And feel free to ask for more movies. They owe me one."

Your sole interactions are with professors and a gaggle of high school freshmen. But now you get to watch any movie you want. Maybe this year won't totally suck. 

The bell rings pleasantly as you step inside. There's a few people on line, so you take your time walking in. There's a movie display with about thirty copies of RoboCop. A cardboard cutout of RoboCop stares back behind his red helmet.

"Can I help who's next?"

You go to the counter. A girl about your age with a choppy haircut smiles at you but it's sort of strained. She has a pin on her green work vest that says Ask me!

"Please don't ask for Adventures in Babysitting," she says. 

"Oh. No, I'm, uh, Dustin's friend?" 

You can't believe you're name-dropping a high schooler. 

She nods in realization. 

"Oh, yeah. God, I keep telling that dweeb not to promise holds."

You wince. 

"Sorry. If it's going to get you in trouble…"

Her brows raise. She smiles a bit. 

"No, it's okay. Usually my coworker deals with it but, well. He's taking an extra long break today. So, what movie was it?"

"Pretty in Pink," you say. 

"Classic," she replies. "John Hughes fan?"

"Somewhat. I didn't get to see it in theaters. I like Molly Ringwald."

She grins.

"Me too. She's pretty."

"Super pretty," you agree. 

The girl considers you, then sticks out her hand. 

"I'm Robin," she says. "Nice to meet you."

You take her hand. "Y/N.”

"Did you go to Hawkins High?"

"I did. Graduated last year."

"Oh, cool. Are you in college?"

You nod. 

"Hawkins State. Twenty minutes from here."

"Sweet! I'm taking a gap year, but afterwards, I’m gonna apply there. It's cheap. College is college, right?"

"College is college," you agree. "But I wish I'd gone away for school."

You don't know why you're telling her this. You've known Robin for all of two minutes. But she seems friendly. And her sense of style is cool. She wears a blue blazer and tie underneath her vest. 

"How come?" she asks. 

"Everybody from Hawkins is there," you say. "And I… I just want a new start."

Robin smiles sympathetically. 

"They're jerks," she says. 

You huff. "Yeah."

You'd turned yourself into a social recluse a million years ago. It's your own damn fault you can't befriend anybody in this town. At least, not anymore. 

Robin types into the computer, then smacks the monitor. She groans. 

"Ugh. Gimme a second," she says. "Stupid technology."

"No problem," you say, smiling. You like her. Maybe you can integrate Family Video into your regular routine, become friends. You can see Robin becoming a good friend. One you wouldn't grow apart from. 

She disappears into the back room. You browse the old releases and stop at Die Hard. This one you saw in theaters. John McClane is a badass. 

You think of Dustin, and his supposedly badass new friend. It's too bad you didn't meet today. Dustin has a good sense about people. If he says so, it's possible you and this friend really would get on. 

The bell rings again. You're slow to look up. The entrance is empty when you do. You keep reading about John McClane's adventures. 

"Have you been waiting long?"

You turn at the new voice. The video slips out of your hand and clatters onto the counter. 

Steve’s hair has grown since you last saw it. He looks different too, though he has yet to break out of his signature church boy polos. There's a smattering of stubble on his jaw. His arms are lean with muscle. He wears a matching work vest like Robin's, name tag printed Steve in blocky font. 

He looks at where you've dropped Die Hard and smiles. 

"This is a good one," he says. "John McClane is a total badass."

You blink.

"Did you want to rent that one?" he continues, meeting your eye. 

"No," you manage. 

"Okay, no problem. Just browsing?" 

He doesn't remember you. 

You stare and stare. Steve leans in, concerned. He's changed, but he hasn't. He's still handsome with his swoopy hair and big, dark eyes, but the Steve you knew wouldn't have been caught dead working at a video store.

And he doesn't remember you. 

"Are you okay?" he asks, sounding genuine.

You take a step back from the counter. The blood roars in your ears. Robin comes back in, Pretty in Pink in hand. She looks at you, then at Steve. 

"Got it!" she tells you. "Computer should work now."

"I have to go," you say. 

You don't look at Steve again, instead focusing on Robin. 

Her brows rise. 

"Oh. Is everything—"

"I forgot my wallet," you blurt. "I can't pay for the movie. Sorry."

"That's okay, we can just—"

You run. The bell chimes over her words. You keep running until you get to the bus stop, three blocks away. 

Only there do you stop to catch your breath. 

And then you cry. 

February 1982

"What do you think about Marie?" 

You look up from your textbook. Steve is doodling in the margins of his notes. You gently prod his arm. He returns to reading but his leg starts to bounce under the table. 

"Marie Iverson?" you ask.

"Yeah." 

Steve glances at you. He pushes his hair back. It had taken him freshman year to get his bearings with all the gels and creams, but now, his hair is a point of pride, always perfectly coiffed. Seniors call him "The Hair" and high-five him in the hallway. You hate it. 

"I don't know. I don't know her that well."

"She's cute." 

"I guess so," you say. 

It's harder to get Steve to focus on homework these days. Last year, he happily made flashcards with you and even bought fancy gel pens to share for your notes. Now, he prefers to talk about girls or—

"I was thinking of asking her out."

The tip of your pencil breaks. You really ought to start using pens, but you don't like being unable to erase. 

"Shit, here. Take mine." 

Steve offers his still perfectly sharpened pencil. You stare at it. 

"Y/N?" 

"Yeah." You take the pencil. "Thanks."

"Sure. So what do you think?" 

"I don't know, Steve. I thought you talked about this stuff with Tommy."

"I would, it's just…" Steve shifts uncomfortably. "He can be rude about it sometimes. He doesn't even get why we're friends, y'know? Doesn't understand why I don't just date you."

Tommy is a moron, but you've said that since last year, and Steve's never listened before. 

"Some people don't get it," you say mildly, because you have an upcoming French test and there's no use in getting upset over Tommy Hagan right now. 

"But you do. And you know about this stuff better than me. Girls and all."

"Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I know what girls are best for you to date, Steve. It's weird to talk about."

Steve deflates. 

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so. Sorry."

You sigh and rub your temple. 

"I thought you knew all about that," you say, extending an olive branch. "Asking girls out and stuff."

"Well, I mean, I've kissed girls but I've never… you're, like, the only girl I really know."

Something like pride swells in your chest. Selfishly, you want to keep Steve. You don't want to help him if it means losing him. Oh, you're so greedy, aren't you? You watch Steve run off with Tommy and Carol and nameless seniors and seethe, because Steve was yours first. Steve is yours.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah." You give him back his pencil and fish for another one in your bag. "Did you ever think about writing how you feel?" 

"Writing?"

"Yeah, like a poem or a letter."

"I'm terrible at writing," Steve laments. "The letters get all jumbled and I never spell a damn thing right."

He'd told his mom once how letters melt into each other, how b's become d's. She'd taken him to get his eyes checked, and when the doctor said Steve was fine, Deborah Harrington had told her son to stop begging for attention. 

"Someone who really likes you won't care about spelling mistakes, Steve," you tell him. "As long as you write from the heart. Don't do that cheesy shit and quote Romeo and Juliet. They're young, impulsive, and they die at the end, and that's not romantic."

Steve laughs, nose scrunched. 

"What!" you demand. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing, 's just—of course you'd have something to say about quoting Shakespeare."

"It's overdone," you say, crinkling your nose. "And girls would much rather read your own words." 

"So you think I should write Marie a letter?"

"If you really like her," you say. "Only write letters for girls you really like. Otherwise they lose their meaning."

Steve frowns. "I don't know if I should write her a letter, then."

Don't, you want to say. Don't write any of them letters.

You shuffle your papers into a stack. 

"Can we study now?" you ask.

"Oh, sure, yes. Sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing, Steve."

He shifts closer to you. His leg has stopped bouncing.

"Lemme take you out," he says. 

You nearly swallow your tongue. 

"Wh–what?"

"For ice cream," Steve clarifies. "Like we used to. Dairy Queen."

"Oh. Okay, sure. But after we study."

Steve beams. "I'll drive you."

Steve's dad had bought him the BMW as a birthday present this year—not that Richard Harrington actually knows when his own son's birthday is, considering the gift was three months early. Still, it's another point of pride for Steve and about all anybody talks about whenever his name comes up. Steve is the only person in your grade with a car. Junior girls hit him up for rides. You make yourself scarce when they do. 

You don't care. You liked Steve before the car. And the clothes. And the hair. 

Your throat feels tight. You want your best friend back. 

"Just us?" you check. 

You can't tell these days. Steve seems to hang out with everybody but you. You're shocked he'd even asked to study together. 

"Oh, sure," Steve says. "I just have to drop off Tommy and Carol first, okay?" 

You check your watch and close your book. 

"I have class," you lie. "I'll see you later." 

Steve catches your wrist. He looks at you and you're struck by how sweet his face is. It's not like you didn't understand why girls want him but it's Steve. Your Steve, who still sleeps with a nightlight and who framed a picture of a sports car he cut out from a magazine because he'd thought it would make him cooler (it didn't. You still tease him about it.) 

"Please," he says. "For helping me."

Your eyes slit. "I didn't help you to get stuff, Steve. I helped you because you're my friend."

Steve blinks like he's forgotten what it's like to be friends with someone just for the sake of being friends. 

"You're right," he agrees. "You're not like that. I'll tell Tommy and Carol to find another ride. It'll be just us. I promise."

You perk up at that. "Really?"

"Really. You can sit in the front with me and we'll play Bruce Springsteen, like we used to. Please?" 

"Okay, Steve." You ache. You’ve never been very good at telling him no. "I'll meet you in the parking lot."

And maybe… maybe your best friend is still in there after all.

Now

You ask your shift manager if you can work at the snack bar today. It's in the back and you won't have to deal with any game hogs. 

"You didn't put enough syrup in my slushie."

You might have overshot the perks, though. 

Slushie Girl's hair is bleach blonde and hairsprayed to God. You want to tell her that all that hairspray doesn't keep friends. Or brain synapses. 

"I don't make the slushie," you say for the third time. "That's how it comes out of the machine."

She shoots you a mean look. 

"I'm complaining to the manager."

You paste on a smile. 

"You do that. Have a nice day."

She finally walks away, probably on the hunt for your manager, who's definitely smoking a joint outside to avoid this exact situation. 

Dustin comes around the corner and this time, he's with the rest of his party. You smile. 

"Hey, Y/N!" Dustin greets.

Lucas waves at you. Max and Mike are arguing and therefore are in their own world. And there's their newest addition, El, whose story you're still not clear on, as well as Will, quiet as always. 

You lean your elbows on the countertop. 

"What'll it be, gang?"

"Six nachos and six slushies, please. One blue raspberry, three cherry, and two Coke."

You fill up the slushies first. Dustin dances on his toes. 

"So did you pick up the movie?" he asks.

"Oh." You try to smile. "I went there but I couldn't. I forgot my money. Pretty dumb of me."

Dustin accepts this with no argument. 

"Well, you can go back. They'll hold it for a few days."

You're never setting foot in there again, but you don't tell Dustin that. 

He takes his slushie and immediately starts drinking. 

"Slow down, dude. You'll get a brain freeze," you say. 

"You sound like Steve," Dustin informs you. "Doesn't Y/N sound like Steve?" 

Lucas nods. 

"Yup. They're both parents."

You feel queasy. You focus on making the nachos, the cheese pouring out thick and gooey. 

"Did you meet Steve?" Dustin asks. "You probably know him from high school, but he's different now."

"Yes," you say quietly. "I knew him."

"I promise he's different. Even Mike likes him, and Mike hated his guts. Right, Mike?"

Mike pauses in his animated discussion with Max and looks at you. 

"What?"

"I'm telling Y/N about how Steve is cool now," Dustin explains. 

"Oh." Mike shrugs. "He's fine. Much better now that he's not dating my sister."

"He's not?" you ask. "But they were in love. I–I mean, that's what I heard, at least."

"She dumped his ass," El says, and it sounds a little ridiculous in her soft monotone. 

Max scoffs, taking her Coke slushie. 

"Did you live under a rock? It was a huge thing."

"Now Steve is lame," Mike says with a snort. 

"Getting dumped doesn't make somebody lame," you say with an old ferocity you'd thought had disappeared. 

"Okay, jeez." Mike holds up his hands. "Steve's alright. He's different, that's for sure."

"He's our paladin," Lucas says. "A protector." 

Dustin nods eagerly.

You blink. "He protects you guys?"

Max elbows Lucas. You have no idea what that's about. El steps forward and smiles softly. 

"Yes," she says. "He's our babysitter."

"Aren't you guys freshmen? I thought you were too old for babysitters."

"Oh no, Steve doesn't get paid for it or anything," says Mike. "He just does it 'cause he has nothing else to do."

"That's not true!" Dustin argues. Then he shrugs. "Well, it's a little true. But he does like us. He's a good guy. He cares about his friends."

You bite your tongue, not wanting to reply to that. 

"That's great, guys. The girl, Robin? She seems pretty cool too."

"That's Steve's best friend," says Dustin. "She's great."

"Oh." You wince. "Best friend?" 

Dustin huffs. “Yeah. They don’t date. He won’t say why."

"Platonic with a capital P," Max confirms. “It’s obviously because he’s in love with somebody else.”

“Not Nancy!” Lucas protests.

“There are other girls besides Nancy, Sinclair.”

You busy yourself with serving the last set of nachos. The kids pull out crumpled bills and coins in return. You count the money and stack it directly into the register; you know there won't be any change. 

When you turn, they're still there. Dustin has his signature grin on, eyes squinty. 

"Yeees," you drag out. "Can I help you?"

"We need a favor," Lucas says. "Please."

"Hmm." You lean over the counter. "What's up?"

"They're showing Prince of Darkness on Friday," Dustin explains. "But it's rated R."

"So just sneak in. Isn't that what you guys did at Starcourt?" you ask.

"We had an inside man then. They're a lot stricter at the new one," Lucas frowns. "They ask for IDs 'cause some mom complained after her kid snuck in to watch Risky Business." 

"And why can't your babysitter take you?"

You sneer at the thought. Steve spending his Friday nights herding a bunch of adolescent teens into a movie theater. There's a reason you consider Dustin affectionately delusional. 

"He has a stupid date," Dustin groans. "He's a serial dater, Y/N. It's terrible. He gets lucky once and totally ditches us."

Now that sounds like the Steve you knew. 

"I see. I don't really like horror stuff."

"You don't have to stay!" Dustin insists. "You can watch whatever you want after we’re in. I'll pay you back for the ticket."

“This would be so much easier if Steve still worked at Scoops,” Mike grumbles.

You blank for a moment, the image of Steve in a sailor’s hat and those ridiculous shorts whiting your brain.

“Um,” you begin. “You know I don’t have a fancy BMW to cart you guys around in, right?”

“It’s cool. We’ll get there,” Max says.

“So?” Dustin bounces on his toes. “Sooo?”

You sigh. It’d been nice of Dustin to get you the movie, even though you’d chickened out and ran. And it’s not like you have anything better to do.

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll get you guys in.”

Dustin pumps his fist. “Thanks, Y/N! You’re my favorite old person.”

You roll your eyes. “Funny. Any funnier, and I might rescind my help, Henderson.”

“Byeeee!”

They all disperse to the arcade. You wonder how on earth Steve got involved with them.

March 1983

“Okay, but if you had to choose.”

“Pass. I would literally rather swallow pennies than kiss Principal Coleman’s bald-ass head, Steve.”

Steve takes a triumphant swig of beer. “So you’re saying you’ve got the hots for Benny the janitor.”

“No!” you insist through giggles. “I don’t. God, you’re gross. Can’t believe I’m being treated like this on your birthday.”

“Exactly! My birthday.”

He rolls onto his side in his deck chair and nearly faceplants on the cement. You reach out, reaction time delayed.

“Steve!” you yell. “Careful.”

“I am, I am,” he mumbles, and rights himself on the chair. “Jus’ wanna see you better.”

“I keep telling you you need glasses.”

“I do not,” he whines. “My vision’s ten outta ten. Could a guy who needs glasses do this?”

He crumples up a Twinkies wrapper and throws it towards the garbage. The wind picks up and sends the wrapped into the pool. 

“Shit,” he says.

You belly laugh in delight.

“Wait, wait, redo. Go fish it outta there.”

“Oh, as if. I’m not going in there. I told you you need glasses. Even Mother Nature agrees.”

"She does not. Mother Nature thinks I'm a doll."

You hum and close your eyes. Alcohol always makes you sleepy. 

The chair scrapes against the concrete. You hear a crinkle of a chip bag. Those are your only warning before you’re crushed by two hundred pounds of drunk boy. 

“Steve!” You wheeze, squirming as his hair tickles your face. “Get off!”

"’M sleepy,” he mumbles.

“Well, don't sleep on me, weirdo.”

“‘S cold.”

“You run, like, a hundred degrees, don’t lie.”

He lifts his head. “So you’re saying I’m hot?”

“I’m saying all that booze cooked your brain,” you reply sweetly.

“I’ve been wounded,” he moans and plops onto your shoulder.

“Ugh.” You resign to your fate and lean back. Steve’s not actually that heavy; even drunk, he has a lot of control over his weight and he’s situated himself so he isn’t crushing anything important. No, you squirm underneath him for a very different reason. 

“Steeeeve,” you whine. “You’re gonna squish me into a pancake.”

“Can’t believe no one else came.”

You still. Steve’s face remains buried in your shoulder. His body is beside yours, and he has an arm slung over your belly.

“I didn’t—didn’t want a party,” he continues. “I always throw parties. I thought I’d do somethin’ different. An’ none of them even wished me a happy birthday. ‘Cept you.”

You rest your hand on the back of his hair. It’s wind-blown and messy from the drinks, free of his heady hair gel. You’ve never loved it more.

“Did you tell them your birthday is today?” you ask gently, even though you know he did.

“Yeah,” he says. “Told all of ‘em. Guess they weren’t listening.”

“I listen.”

Steve looks up at you. His eyes are glassy.

“God, I miss you,” he says.

You feel the wall you’ve built this year crumble, just a little. 

“I’m right here, Steve.”

“I know but—been a jerk lately. I know I have. You’re my best friend, okay? Nothing’ll change that. I–I love you so much.”

Your breath hitches. Steve barrels on, not noticing.

“And I’ll be better. We’ll hang out more. Not–not here, drunk. But for real. We’ll go to the movies. Y’wanna see a movie?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I wanna see a movie.”

“‘Kay, what movie? Anything you want. We’ll get popcorn and Raisinets.”

“You hate Raisinets,” you choke through a watery laugh.

“I’d eat Raisinets anytime with you.”

You lay there, in the dark, the only sound being the pool filter.

“Let’s watch the new James Bond.”

“Hmm, okay. But you’ll have to say the name eventually.”

Your nose crinkles. “I am not calling it by its name.”

His laugh is warm in your neck. 

You don’t tell Steve to get up again. He snuggles into you, leg over yours. You fall asleep like that, curled underneath him.

Now

“Wait.” Max stops. “Shouldn’t we have, like, a game plan?”

“Game plan?” El asks quietly.

“Yeah. Some of us aren’t so great at playing it cool.”

She stares at Lucas.

“I play it cool!” he squawks. “I am so cool!”

“Right.”

“Just let Y/N do the talking,” Will says. “She’s technically the adult so she should act like this is a conscious choice.”

You shrug. “Makes sense to me.”

Dustin beams. “This is gonna be great!”

“Or a total disaster,” Max says.

You go to the counter, the kids trailing behind like ducklings.

“Six tickets for Prince of Darkness, please,” you say. “And uh, one for Dirty Dancing.”

The attendant looks at you, then at the kids.

“Don’t you mean seven tickets for Prince of Darkness?” she asks. “It’s rated R.”

Shit. “Right, yes. Sorry. Seven tickets. And one for Dirty Dancing. We have another friend who’s late.”

“Uh-huh.” 

The attendant, whose bored expression you’ve recognized on your own face after long days in the arcade, hands you your tickets without any questioning. 

“I think we’re in the clear,” Lucas whispers when you enter the concession area. 

You wait for them to buy their snacks. Max persuades Lucas to let her mix M&Ms into their bucket of popcorn. He agrees and shuffles closer so they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder while they share. 

“Okay, last stretch,” Mike says, shoveling a frighteningly large handful of sour worms into his mouth. “We just have to get past the ticket guy.”

Said ticket guy is a kid who can’t be much older than you. You think you might’ve gone to school together, but you’ve made it a point to eviscerate everything about high school from your mind.

“Hey,” you say, trying to act cool. Maybe you’re the one Max should’ve been worried about, instead of Lucas. “Uh, here are our tickets.”

He takes the tickets, then looks behind you.

“Prince of Darkness is only for people seventeen and older,” he says.

“I’m an adult, so I’m with them,” you explain. “I’m, like, their guardian?”

“Yeah, uh—” He hands you your tickets. “No can do. There needs to be an adult for each person under seventeen.”

“Come on,” you cajole. “They’re high schoolers. It’s not like they’re gonna be scarred for life watching some zombies, or whatever.”

He shrugs. “Rules are rules.”

“She’s an adult!” Dustin argues.

“Look, if you’re gonna hold up the line, I’m gonna have to—”

“Yo, Gillespie! That you?”

Dustin turns and lights up. The seven of you part for Steve Harrington and his date, a pretty strawberry blonde you think you had biology with.

“Harrington, man, what’s up!” 

Ticket Prick gets up to slam Steve into a bear hug. You barely resist an eye roll.

“Shit, I haven’t seen you in a year! Where’ve you been all this time? Hey, did you hear about that shit with Munson?”

Steve flinches. It’s a tiny movement, indiscernible to the trained eye. But it’s there all the same.

“Gillespie, c’mon. Don’t bring the party down with that,” Steve says, all sweet charm. 

“Sorry, sorry. Daisy,” he greets the girl attached to Steve’s arm.

“Gil,” she replies with a giggle. “You smell like popcorn butter.”

America’s future taxpayers. Terrifying. 

“Are you gonna let us in or not?” Max interrupts, arms folded. 

You feel a burst of pride.

Gil shoots her a dirty glare and puffs up, ready to fight a fourteen year old. Steve cuts in smoothly.

“Gillespie, listen. I know her.” He points to you. You bristle. “I can personally vouch that she’s just trying to do right by these kids. They wanted to see Prince of Darkness, y’know? Get away from the parents.”

“It’s a sick film,” Gil agrees. “You seen it?”

No, of course Steve hadn’t seen it. He hates horror. 

“Planning on it,” Steve says, the ultimate image of playing it cool. “Look, you remember sneaking into the movies. Fast Times? Ring any bells?”

Max rolls her eyes. You’re inclined to do the same.

Gil laughs dopily, and nudges Steve. “Hell yeah, I do. That was a crazy night, Harrington.”

Steve smiles thinly. “Sure was. So whaddya say? For old times’ sake?”

Gil considers your little troupe. Then he shrugs.

“Why not. Manager’s not here anyway.”

He takes the tickets and tears them to stubs, then gives them back.

“Theater six. On your left. Enjoy.”

The kids stampede into the left theater wing. You hang back with your own ticket. 

“Appreciate it, man,” Steve says, all smiles. “Take care, alright?”

“Hey, you too, Harrington! We gotta catch up!”

Steve and Daisy go in. You expect them to walk right past you, and Daisy does, predictably. But Steve stops.

“I’ll catch up, okay?” he tells her. “Find us some good seats?”

She paws at him a little, then goes, sodas in hand. You stiffen as Steve walks and stops three feet away from you. 

“Hey,” he says. “Sorry about that. Gil’s an asshole.”

“I know. He yawned during my poetry reading sophomore year. And then you guys went to the movies together.”

Steve shrinks. “Your poems were great.”

You’re suddenly exhausted.

“What do you want, Steve?”

“I just… I wanted to see you. Say hi.”

“Okay.” You cross your arms. “Hi.”

“You forgot your movie,” he says. “The other day.”

“I didn’t want it that much.”

“Dustin said you looked everywhere for it.”

“Well, in the end, it didn’t really matter,” you say. “Not enough to stay.”

“Y/N—”

“I think your date’s waiting for you,” you interrupt. “Better get back to her. Wouldn’t want to taint your reputation.”

Steve makes a noise like he’s been wounded. You turn on your heel before you can think better of it. 

“Wait.” He catches your wrist. Steve’s grip is light, like you’re something precious to hold. You wrench your arm away. “Y/N, I want to apologize. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you ask. “For forgetting me? I didn’t expect you to remember, Steve.”

“I didn’t forget you,” he insists. “I could never forget you. I wasn’t—please, can I just explain?”

“I don’t need your explanations,” you snap. The hurt corrodes your tongue like acid. “I know what happened. We were both there. You left.”

Steve’s eyes are huge and dark. He looks like you just stabbed him in the heart, and that makes you feel worse. You’d thought telling him how much it hurts would put you back together, but all it did was break you more.

So you run. Again. 

You slam through a back exit and rip your ticket into a million pieces. The wind is cold and unforgiving. Your eyes sting. 

You call out sick for two days in a row. You kind of expect to get fired, but then again, people have been leaving Hawkins and if you’re not here to serve the masses their slushies, who will be?

So, after lying in bed not thinking about movies and strawberry blonde girls and how sick you are of this town, you get up and put on your arcade vest.

Now it is two in the afternoon. You’d heard it was supposed to snow today.

Robin eyes the snack counter like it holds the next plague outbreak. You don't blame her; you make it a point to wash up to your elbows after work.

"Slushie?"

She looks at you like she’d forgotten you were there. "What?"

You point a thumb at the machine. "Are you here for a slushie?"

"Oh. No, sorry. Red dye makes me insane in the brain. Steve actually—"

Robin stops, grimaces. So he's told her. Probably everything, if the kids had been telling the truth. 

You're honestly surprised she's here. Unless it’s to, like, swirlie you in the vat of artificial cheese. 

"Are you here to drown me in nacho cheese?" you ask.

Robin's eyes go wide as dinner plates. "What? No!"

"Just checking." You lean against the counter. "What can I do for you, Robin?" 

Robin suddenly looks like she's never interacted with a human being before. You like her a lot. Steve probably does too. 

"I came to drop off your movie." She holds the tape over the counter like it's a pool of lava. 

"But I didn't pay for it." You shove your hand in your jean pocket; you only have a couple dollars on you. "I guess I can get you the money tom—"

"It's on the house. For a fellow Molly fan."

Robin wiggles the tape with two fingers. You take it and wait for a catch. There is none. 

"Thank you," you say. "You didn't have to do that."

"Actually, it wasn't me," she confesses. "I'm just the mailman."

You prepare to hand it back but Robin shakes her head. 

"He's not going to pop out of the slushie machine, okay? He's just trying to make it up to you."

"He doesn't need to make it up to me," you bite, except those aren’t the words you mean. "Why does he even care? We're not in high school anymore."

Robin smiles a sad smile. 

"I know," she says. "We’re not. I know he should've known to fix things earlier. He's received a lot of blows to the head, though, so he's still catching up."

The thought turns your stomach. More? More you weren’t there to protect him from?

"He doesn't owe me anything," you say and wave the tape again. "You can take it back and leave it for somebody else."

"Y/N, I know we don't know each other, like, at all. But it's important to me you know that Steve cares about you, because you’re important to him. And you knew him way before I did, and you probably know a lot of stuff I don't, and that's good because he has a friend like me, but he should also have a friend like you too, Y/N."

"I don't want to be his friend," you mumble. 

"Yeah," Robin says. "I figured. But I don't think that's a confession he should hear secondhand."

You look at her, stunned. She's such a clever girl. You hope she treats Steve well.

"If you two are—"

"We're not," she says, like this is a regular explanation she goes through. "Steve and I are friends. Steve has crashed and burned with every single date since his fall from regency. Steve is the best person I've ever met." 

"Yeah, I’ve heard. You and Dustin are his biggest fans."

Robin snorts. "Trust me, I'm not proud of it."

You shake your head. Your eyes feel hot. 

"This town is so shit," you say. 

"Yeah," Robin agrees. "It really fucking is. But I'm not asking you to give this town a second chance. Just him."

"Why are you trying so much?" you ask. "You don't even know me."

Robin shrugs. "No, but you're the one person Steve used to be friends with who's not an asshole, and I think us non-assholes need to band together."

"I can sometimes be an asshole."

"Me too. So are those little dweebs. How about calling ourselves the Semi-Assholes Club?" 

You laugh. "We'll get jackets."

"With partially drawn butts on the backs," Robin says with a giggle. 

You look at the tape in your hand. 

"Does Steve like John Hughes?" 

"He does. He's a total sap for those. He thinks he's in his own coming-of-age movie because he's delusional."

He sounds perfect. He sounds like the friend you loved. 

"I did want to watch this one," you say. 

"It won't hurt you to," Robin promises. 

You suppose not.

December 1984

You don't believe the whispers. All week, the rumor mill spins tales of Billy Hargrove finally pushing the King off his throne. There's no way he'll show his face, a girl at the adjacent lunch table astutes. I sure as fuck wouldn't.

Steve Harrington is a loser. Steve Harrington got dumped for Jonathan Byers. Steve Harrington may as well be dead, and on and on. 

Every line gets you angrier. A boy who sits behind you in chemistry taps his pencil like he always does. Tap, tap, tap. 

Halfway through class, you snap at him to quit it. He does, but not without a tinge of embarrassment. You’re so angry this year. Angry at your loneliness, angry at the unfairness of said loneliness. You might’ve done this to yourself, and that fact only gets you angrier.

You see Nancy Wheeler in the hallways with Jonathan Byers, and the confirmation of that rumor should make you happy. It doesn't. 

A week later, most of the excitement has died down. Everybody’s moved onto the next big thing, which is to deduce who fucked in Vice Principal White's office. One look at V.P. White, and it had been decided that it can't have been White himself. 

You can't care less. Once upon a time you might’ve laughed about it with a friend, but you don't have any more of those, and high school is bullshit with or without them. So.

Steve walks in twenty five minutes into the period. Mrs. Kaplan gives him a downright beastly glare and demands to know where he had been. 

"I'm sorry," is all he says. "If you give me detention, I understand."

There are a few snickers that rub at an old hurt, one that had flared up whenever somebody dared to make fun of your best friend. It doesn't bother me, he'd said, and you'd known it was a lie. 

It bothers me, you’d replied, and Steve had hugged you tight.

Mrs. Kaplan seems more stunned Steve hadn't swaggered past her like a peacock escaped from the zoo and lets him go sit down without a fight. He takes the only empty desk, two rows across from you. You stare. You can't not. 

Half of his face looks like it was mashed in a garbage disposal. It's purple and a sickly yellow. His eye and lip are still swollen. You stare and stare. You feel queasy. 

Billy had done that. You're so angry. You think you might never get past this grief, this loss of a once permanent fixture in your life. 

No one wished Steve a happy birthday this year, you realize out of nowhere.

You stare and stare and stare until Steve looks right back. You're blindsided by thick guilt, like blinking through a milkshake. And then the familiar curl of anger returns because why the fuck should you feel guilty? You aren't the one who fucked everything up, who mascerated this good thing. Steve did this to himself. Steve deserves to walk the halls alone. It's Steve's fault. 

But when you look at him, at his raw wounds, at his bruised knuckles, you know that he already believes he deserves every punch Billy Hargrove gave him. 

You hate Steve Harrington. But you really wish you'd been there to drive him to the hospital. 

Now (And Forever)

The tape sits buried in your drawer for three days. You don’t know what Family Video’s return policy is, but you hope you’re not racking up late fees. You doubt name dropping Dustin will work again.

It’s Saturday when you decide to watch Pretty in Pink. You remove the video from its sleeve. An envelope falls out.

The front has your name printed in squished, loopy script. You remember January at Steve’s house, a stack of thank-you cards courtesy of his mother awaiting the Harringtons’ sign-off. Steve’s hand would cramp and you’d take over while he made grilled cheese for the both of you. Love, The Harringtons, and there was no love in that house, but you think maybe Steve loved enough to make up for it. 

Hi, the letter begins. I hope you’re good. Robin told me you’re going to Hawkins State.

That’s fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you. Are you still writing poetry? I liked that one you wrote about the birds who shared a branch and kept each other warm. I still have it in my notebook in my room.

I’m sorry for the other night. I’m sorry for every night since freshman year, honestly. I’m kind of a dumbass, but you know that, so it doesn’t really excuse anything. I think I’ve actually lost brain cells since we drifted apart.

You crumple the corner, suddenly hot with anger. Who keeps telling him he’s dumb? You want names.

I didn’t forget you, you know. I got scared and I thought maybe I could ease into it, but then you recognized me and… well. I don’t blame you for running.

Anyway. I’m talking too much about myself, when there’s nothing to say. I’m really sorry about what I did, or, actually, what I didn’t do. Somebody told me I was living on autopilot, and that it wasn’t really living at all. I think it was you. 

I’m not living on autopilot anymore. I woke up. And I realized that you’re the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me. I love Robin and the kids and this little family that has apparently invayd invaded your life too. Sorry about that. They never leave and they eat all your food. Good luck. 

But I miss you. I always have.

Shit happened these last few years that I’ll tell you about one day, if you want. I’d rather not, though, because you’ve always been the paranoiac (like that one? Robin said it’s an SAT word) of the two of us and I feel like this would just make you even more of one. But I will tell you, if you want to hear it. I want to tell you everything. I want you to tell me everything too. Like we used to.

I want you to tell me how college is going. Who the annoying jerks in your classes are so I can go beat them up (kidding). I want you to stop by to rent movies so I can lend them for free and you’ll yell at me about taking advantage of fre friendships. 

Fuck, I miss you. It’s always been there, bubbling below the surface. I never stopped missing you. I never stopped loving you. I’m sorry I didn’t write this sooner. I know you said writing is how we express things we can’t say. You were right. You always are. Can’t believe I forgot that. 

It’s okay if you don’t want to be friends. I mean, it hurts, but I respect it. I understand. Most days, I can’t believe people can bear to be around me. But then I hear your voice in my head, telling me that most people are shitheads and that I’m golden and. Well, I don’t know if I believe that, but you were right that most of the people I surrounded myself with were shitheads. Except you, of course. And then I went ahead and fucked that up.

I’ve been working on finding the non-shitheads of the world. I think I’m doing pretty well. And I wrote this because I realized that while I will probably end up buried in this fucking town, you’re going to do something incredible. And nothing incredible ever happens in Hawkins, so I figure you’ll be far away when you do it. 

I didn’t want to miss this chance to write things I never said. So here they are. And you can do whatever you want with them. You’ve always been the best of the two of us. I trust you.

You should watch Dirty Dancing. You’ll like it. I did. I’ll see it again if you want. I’ll watch anything with you.

Did you know there’s another Bond movie coming out in the summer? We could watch that one together too. If you wanted more time to decide.

Sincer

Lo

Your friend,

Steve

You don’t bother ejecting the tape. You run all the way to the bus stop, Steve’s letter in hand. 

You have to see him. No other thoughts register except that one. You have to know if Steve wrote these words because he can’t say them or because you won’t listen.

It isn’t too late when you get to Loch Nora. The neighborhood is dead, which is weird. Steve’s house looks frozen in time: his parents’ car isn’t in the driveway. You wonder if they’ve ever come back since you’ve been gone. You wouldn't be surprised if the answer is no.

There’s a tarp over the pool. The gate is locked with a chain. You can’t sneak in through the fence like you used to. Not that you would. You don’t think strangers can sneak through pool gates.

You knock on the door three times. And wait.

Steve’s car is in the driveway, a duller burgundy than when he first got it. There are a few scratches in the paint. No longer a prized possession. Maybe well-loved instead.

The door swings open. 

Steve says your name like a prayer. You swallow and steel your spine. 

“I got your letter,” you say.

“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. His hair is damp like he’s just showered. It curls around his ears. Waves of want hit you. 

“I don’t want to be friends,” you continue before he can speak. “I don’t—I can’t do that again.”

Steve’s mouth draws into the saddest frown you’ve ever seen.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Thank you for telling me.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, that’s not—I don’t mean it like that.”

His brows knit. “What?”

“I…” You pull out the letter and wave it. “Did you mean it? Do you love me?”

“Yes,” Steve whispers. It’s like a shout in the quiet street. “I meant it.”

“Like a friend?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Will you love me like a friend forever?” you ask. 

“Always.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“I love you as something more,” you blurt, watery. “I have for a long time.”

You hear the door shut. This is it: your heart on the line, all for nothing—

“Then I’ll love you as something more back,” Steve says. “I’ll love you any way you want me to.”

And he holds you the way you’d held him so many times. You inhale and wrap your arms around his neck. You’ve got an iron grip around the letter. Tears slip down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you confess.

Steve nods against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, and it sounds a little wet. “I missed you too.”

“You were wrong,” you say into his neck.

“Hmm?”

You pull back to look at Steve.

“Incredible things do happen in Hawkins.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve smiles, cheeks blotchy. “Like what?”

It took Eddie all of five minutes to get hard again. Even if he wasn’t trying it would have been difficult not to when he was completely losing himself in you. He lay on top of you between your open legs as you engaged in a series of heated and needy kisses. Lips desperate to touch every inch of skin they could reach. Your hips ground into each other in sync, both of you craving the feeling of him finally being inside of you more and more with each passing minute. 

“Eddie,” you whined breathlessly. “Condom.”

“Uh yeah, yeah,” he muttered between kisses, his shaky breaths fanning hot across your face. 

He blindly reached for the handle of the drawer of his bedside table, not willing to pull his lips from yours. When he felt the knob he gripped it and yanked it open with so much enthusiasm the entire drawer dislodged from the dresser and went clattering to his floor. After a second of initial shock you erupted into a burst of laughter as you watched Eddie’s eyes grow wide, obviously surprised by his own strength. 

“Jeez Eds,” you poked at his ribs gently, still giggling. “That eager?” 

“What do you think?” He teased back, rolling his hips hard into yours so his naked cock glided along your glistening folds. 

You gasped in shock at the confident move, while you thought the nervous, fumbling Eddie was the cutest fucking thing in the whole entire world, assertiveness suited him more. You would take anything he was willing to give you but you really hoped he wouldn’t see this as a one time thing, you’d love to experience what he’d be like in bed after you’d helped melt away all of his self doubt. He reluctantly pulled away from you and leaned over to rummage on the ground for the box of condoms. He returned to you with a triumphant look when he finally found them under the mess of socks and boxers he kept in that drawer. 

“So when did you get these?” You asked out of curiosity. 

“I didn’t, Wayne got them for me years ago when he tried to give ‘the talk’” Eddie laughed at the memory, while he found the situation amusing it was probably the most uncomfortable Wayne had ever been in his entire life. “Said as much as he loves me he wasn’t raising another kid that ain’t his.” 

“Are they still in date?” You checked, you might just cry with frustration if you’d gotten to this point and you couldn’t have sex with him. 

“Condoms expire?” Eddie’s face dropped so quickly it was almost comical. 

“Yes,” you exhaled, trying to hide your slight impatience as he scanned the box for the expiration date. 

You stared at his disheartened expression, his brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. You didn’t even realise you’d been holding your breath until you saw the excitement rush back onto his face. 

“We’re good to go,” he grinned. 

You bit your lip as you watched him tear open the box. His fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled with the little foil packaging, it made your heart melt. He ripped one open with his teeth and rolled the condom down his length, giving himself a few strokes for good measure. A deep ache settled between your legs as you watched him shudder under his own touch, still sensitive from his previous orgasm. 

You reached out to him, tugging on his arm until he fell forward onto you. You squealed and laughed beneath him as he crushed you with his weight, his hand gripping your chin as he attacked your face with tiny kisses. You pushed at his ribs gently until you had flipped him onto his back. Straddling him you captured his lips, he immediately deepened the kiss, tongue tangling with yours. You rolled your hips in a steady rhythm, your wetness gliding along his cock. He grunted softly into your mouth and you were overcome with the carnal need to have him inside of you. 

“Eddie,” you panted against his lips. “I need you, I need you.” 

“Fuck, okay” he muttered more to himself in preparation than you. 

“Ready?” You whispered breathlessly as you took hold of him and lined him up with your entrance. 

He nodded his head eagerly and you sank down onto him, just the tip at first but Eddie’s jaw still dropped. He watched himself disappear slowly inch by inch until he bottomed out, he threw his head back into the pillow and whined at the feeling of being engulfed by your warm, wet heat. Eddie was bigger than you were used to but the stretch was divine, you braced your hands on his chest and stayed still for a moment while you let your body adjust to him. 

“You okay?” You asked shakily, you reached a hand up to stroke the side of his face where his head was still thrown back. 

“Mmmhmmm,” he hummed tipping his head forward into your touch, it sounded strangled as he fought to gain some self control. 

You rocked your hips experimentally, both of you gasping at the sensation, he felt so so deep. You linked your hands with his, fingers intertwined and set a steady pace. Eddie was struggling, he thought he would do better this time since he had cum no more than 15 minutes ago but this position was proving to be too much for him. You looked like a fucking goddess above him as you rode his dick, your tits bouncing in his face with each movement of your hips, tiny soft moans catching in your throat each time he brushed against your g-spot. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to not blow his load so fast but he was fast approaching the edge, the blow job you had given him was amazing but your pussy was like nothing else he had ever felt in his life. He felt the familiar heat beginning to build and his hands suddenly flew to your hips, his fingers gripping like a vice to still your movements. 

“Stop, stop, stop,” he whimpered, his eyes now wide with desperation. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?” You panicked as you stopped bouncing your hips, worried that you had done something to hurt him. 

“Can we swap?” He pleaded. “Wanna set my own pace or I’m gonna cum.” 

You were about to tell him that was okay but you knew he wouldn’t accept it after the way he reacted to your blow job. This was all about him and you wanted to give him whatever he needed. So instead you nodded, leaning over to place a kiss against his swollen lips as he slipped out of you. 

You took his place on the mattress while he settled between your open legs. You cried out in surprise when he scooted back and you felt his lips attach themselves to your clit again, his fingers sinking inside you in the way that you had shown him you liked. He wanted you to cum again before he did and he wasn’t confident he’d get you there using his cock before he exploded. 

“Fuuuuuuuck,” you sighed as you raked your fingers through his chestnut curls. 

His fingers didn’t fill you quite as satisfyingly as his cock had been doing but he was stroking you wonderfully in all the right places. You really were impressed by how quickly he’d perfected it. 

“Eddie, ohhhhh Eddie,” you arched your hips into his face and he moaned into you, the vibrations making you squirm in his hold, you were getting close. 

“I can feel you,” he choked, his lips temporarily leaving your clit as he picked up the pace of his fingers. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers so tight.” 

The thickness of his digits dragging in and out of you had your thighs trembling around his head, you looked down at him to find his hooded gaze already staring up at you. He smiled when your eyes locked, his lips and chin slick with your arousal. 

“C’mon baby,” he whispered before he lowered back down to lick back over your clit, his wrist twisting as he doubled his efforts with his fingers. 

“Ohhhhh my god,” you clenched down on him as you felt the coil tightening in your belly, you couldn’t take it any longer. 

Your back arched as you saw stars, pushing his fingers even deeper into you. You tugged his hair harshly as you fell apart, your body curled in on itself as your legs clamped down around his head. Eddie kept moaning through your orgasm, his fingers slowing their pace a tiny bit at a time until you were whimpering and patting at the now tangled curls you had caused. 

He chuckled into your skin as he pulled away to press kisses against your thighs, your hipbone, your tummy. Eventually making his way up to your lips, you tasted yourself for the second time that night as he licked into your mouth. 

“You make the cutest little noises when you cum for me,” he sighed between kisses. “I can’t get enough of you.” 

His words gave you violent butterflies and you grinned against his lips. He kneaded the doughy flesh of your still shaking thighs in his hands before he bent your knees to wrap your legs around his waist. He gripped his painfully hard cock and dragged the tip up and down your soaked folds, you shivered every time he nudged your sensitive clit. 

“Do you need a minute?” He asked, his impatience showing through the waver in his voice. 

“No,” you shook your head. “Fuck me please.” 

He kissed you again soft and sweet as he effortlessly filled you up. Both of your eyes grew wide, mouths dropped open in a silent “oh” as he was buried to the hilt. His tremoring breath fanned out across your face as he gave an experimental thrust of his hips. He fell forward onto his forearms, one resting by the side of your head where his fingers combed through your hair, the other had his bedsheets tightly gripped in his fists. 

“Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” Eddie mumbled against your temple, his hips finding a steady pace as he thrusted into your heat. 

He pressed more tender kisses to your forehead, your nose and cheeks, the corners of your mouth, the occasional whimper slipping from his lips as he rapidly started to increase his speed. 

“Fuck, hmmmm,” he breathed so quietly. “Ohhhh fu-“ 

His face was fucking angelic, a light blush scattered across his cheeks, pupils blown before he squeezed his glassy eyes shut, jaw hanging slack. He was so beautiful. 

‘How could no one else want him like this?’ You thought. ‘I’m so fucking lucky.’ 

You could tell he was close from the way his hips started to falter, his face was now buried in your neck as he rutted desperately into your pussy. His lips skimmed across your neck and down across your skin before he suddenly sank his teeth into your shoulder. 

“Did you just bite me?” You gasped at the sudden sting. 

“Sorry,” he panted, a hint of guilt in his voice. “Got a little carried away.” 

“No, no, I liked it,” you assured him. “Mark me.” 

Eddie grunted into your flesh as he bit down on you once more, your request making his cock twitch inside your walls. 

“You want me to mark you?” He panted. “Show everyone your mine?” 

“I’m yours,” you whined, you wound your arms around him to rake your nails down his back, delighted when you felt him shudder under your touch. “I’m yours.” 

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he grunted, his hips fucked into you at a near brutal pace, you grabbed his ass in both your palms in an attempt to pull him even closer to you. 

For the first time in your life you wished you were on the pill, you were aching to feel his hot seed spilling into you, you wanted every part of him. 

“Eddie, baby,” you cooed next to his ear. “Gotta feel you, ohhh-“

“M’gonna cu- uhhh,” Eddie’s entire body went rigid against yours as he lost control and came undone in your arms, his face tucked tightly into the crook of your neck as you pressed kisses against the crown of his head. “Oh fuck, baby, baby, baby.” 

Your nose nudged softly at the side of his face as your fingers drew invisible shapes across the expanse of his back. Minutes passed before either of had the energy to move. He slipped himself out of you with a wince before lifting his face from its place in your neck and rested his chin on your chest. His hooded eyes gazed up at you, a lazy grin spread across his blissful features. 

“Hi,” he breathed, his head spinning from the happiness coursing through his veins. 

“Hey,” you giggled, booping him on the nose with your pinky finger. 

He scrunched his face and leaned up to kiss you on your lips. This one was different, hot and desperate had turned to loving and tender. 

“Wow,” you sighed as he touched his forehead to yours. 

“Wow,” he agreed, unable to keep the smile off his face. 

He promised he’d be right back as he excused himself. He disposed of the condom and ran to the kitchen to get you a glass of water. He pulled on a fresh pair of boxer shorts and pulled out one of his oversized band t-shirts for you to wear with your panties. He pulled back his duvet and climbed into bed, his arm wide open for you to snuggle into his side. He pulled you so close to him, his hand cupping your chin as he brushed his thumb softly across your cheekbone. If anyone could see you now they’d probably throw up from how sickeningly in love you both looked. 

“I’m so glad it was you,” he mumbled as he pressed his lips to your forehead, his voice so quiet you could have missed it. 

“I’m glad it was me too,” your heart soared as you beamed up at him, you didn’t regret any of your past relationships but a small part of you wished he had been it for you too. 

“Did you mean it? When you said you were mine?” He asked, anxious that it might have been said in the heat of the moment. 

“I’ve always been yours,” you confessed. 

“Fuck, you mean we coulda been doing that for years?” 

“Oh don’t worry,” you smirked. “We’re definitely gonna make up for lost time.” 

“If I knew you finding my crappy porno collection would lead to this I’d have left it out in plain sight a long time ago.” 

You laughed and hid your face in his chest. “Well maybe I’ll forget to call at Family Video more often too.”

“Aha!” He wrapped his arms fully around you so you couldn’t move and crushed you to him. “So you admit it was your fault.” 

“I didn’t say that!” You argued back trying to wriggle free of his vice-like grip but it was no use, he was holding you too tight. 

“Too late, you said it,” he laughed, pinching your sides and kissing the top of your head. 

You accepted defeat and laughed and made out until you settled into a comfortable silence, the soft rise and fall of his chest and his steady heartbeat lulling you to sleep. 

…

The first thing Wayne did when he got home from work in the early hours of the morning was kick back in his armchair with a steaming cup of coffee and turn on the news. He shrugged off his overalls and made his coffee while he tidied the kitchen, pizza from last night still leftover on the counter. He knew Eddie had friends over for movie night on Fridays but he usually did a better job of tidying up after himself. It wasn’t a big deal, the trailer wasn’t much more messy than it usually was. He placed his mug down on his favourite coaster and picked up the remote from where it was flung on the coffee table. 

You had started to stir when you heard movement in the kitchen, Eddie’s bedroom door still slightly cracked open from the night before. You groaned at the sunlight streaming through the cracks in his blinds, you hadn’t meant to stay the whole night but you’d done a pretty good job at tiring each other out. 

“Eddie,” you whispered, shaking his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him where he snored softly next to you. “Eddie, I think Wayne’s home.” 

Eddie’s eyes fluttered open sleepily and you couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he looked, you brushed back the stray locks that had fallen in his face while he slept. 

“Morning sweetheart,” he whispered too, pulling you closer to his chest again. 

You shared a couple of sweet lazy kisses before you were harshly torn from your bubble by the sounds of obnoxious moans coming from the living room. 

“What the fuck?” You heard Wayne cry out as you both scrambled into a sitting position. 

“We forgot the fucking tape!” 

You loved Eddie’s room, there was something so homey about it. Pictures and band posters covered almost every inch of his walls. Knick knacks and odd little trinkets scattered across his desk and cabinets along with magazines and various things that probably belong in the bin. Guitars and amps in every corner, maybe the only things in the room placed with care. Clothes lazily tossed on the carpet. It was messy sure but it was Eddie, a perfect picture of his mind. You lay on his bed with an old baseball you had plucked up from his bedside table, tossing it into the air and catching it. 

Eddie was your best friend, you had spent every Friday night for the last three years over at his trailer once Wayne had left for work. The two of you would smoke, order pizza and chill out with some crappy movie from Family Video. You had graduated first try while Eddie was repeating senior year for the third time but it never affected your friendship, if anything it made you hang out with each other more since you missed seeing each other all day every day. He stayed behind for Hellfire on Fridays which often ran late, you didn’t mind though, you knew how much this club meant to Eddie. You knew where the spare key was kept so you came to the agreement that you could just let yourself in and wait for him. 

Which is why you were here now, alone on his bed, trying to keep yourself entertained until his return. Your next throw was a little off, you almost tumbled off his bed as you stretched out to catch the ball and missed. It hit his bedside table and rolled underneath his bed. You groaned and shuffled yourself off the bed onto his floor. You felt around blindly knocking several things that weren’t ball shaped before giving up and sticking your head under to have a proper look. Your eyebrows raised in surprise and curiosity when you spied a stack of magazines and two or three videotapes, you immediately suspected they were porn, why else would they be hidden under his bed? You pulled out the first magazine and lo and behold you were right on the money. You smirked and started to flick through the pages, taking note of which ones seemed more crumpled than others. 

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t wondered what Eddie was into, you’d thought about it on multiple occasions. He might be one of your best friends but there was no denying that he was a very attractive boy. You had settled for friendship but you were certain that if he had ever tried to make a move you definitely would have let it happen. You looked through a few of the magazines but didn’t find anything too scandalous, they were pretty generic, just your average girly mags. You had always been under the impression that Eddie was into some kinky shit, sure he was a huge dork but there was something about his confidence that gave him an edge, and you were well aware of the handcuffs hanging from the wall beside his closet. You reached back further until you had hold of one of the tapes, you scoffed at the title ‘In Diana Jones and The Temple of Poon’.

“Jesus Christ Eddie,” you laughed as you stretched your arm to grab the other two. 

‘Erotic Nights of the Living Dead’ and a more normal looking one called ‘Insatiable’. You were so engrossed in reading the covers of the tapes you didn’t hear Eddie return until the trailer door slammed shut. You jumped at the noise and scrambled to shove the porn back under his bed but you weren’t quick enough. Eddie sauntered into his room and froze when he realised what you had in your lap. 

“Have you been snooping?” He asked, his hand over his heart in mock insult. 

His tone was teasing so you knew he wasn’t mad but part of you still felt guilty for invading his privacy. 

“Yes,” you admitted. “But it was an accident, the baseball rolled under the bed I swear.” 

“Mmhm,” he hummed, arms crossed over his chest disapprovingly, lips pressed into a thin line. 

“It’s like nothing ever happened,” you held your hands up once the last tape had been flung back under the bed. 

“I don’t care that you found my self care stash,” Eddie shrugged casually as you stood and followed him through to the front room, you pulled a face at the phrase. “But I fully expect to see yours next time I’m in your room, fair’s fair.” 

“I don’t have a stash,” your preferred choice of porn came in the form of erotic novels instead of tapes but he didn’t need to know that. 

“Sure you don’t,” he shot you an over-exaggerated wink to let you know he didn’t believe you and flopped himself down on the couch. 

You sat down on the opposite end and changed the subject, you asked him how Hellfire went and he launched into a whole story about the campaign. You weren’t really into DnD so a lot of the time you never fully understood what Eddie was talking about but you could listen to him talk about it for hours. You loved hearing the passion in his voice and you couldn’t get over how cute he looked when his eyes lit up with excitement the way they were doing right now. It was clear how much Eddie loved Hellfire so you loved that he wanted to share parts of it with you. You asked him about school, he asked you about work, you gossiped about a few people around town and laughed as you told each other stories. A while had passed before your stomach started to rumble and Eddie suggested ordering the pizza. 

“What movie did you get?” You asked as he walked over to the phone. 

“I didn’t get the movie, you were supposed to get the movie,” he said, you furrowed your eyebrows as you thought for a moment. 

“Nope, you definitely said you would call at Family Video on your way home from Hellfire,” you told him confidently. 

“Why would I say that when I was already running late?” 

“It was before you were running late.” 

“Well I guess we aren’t watching a movie then,” he shrugged, you could argue back and forth all night, he knew you were both too stubborn to admit fault so he may as well cut the bickering short. 

“I dunno we could always watch Erotic Nights of the Living Dead,” you joked. 

He spun around with raised eyebrows and stared at you. 

“Kidding,” you laughed only half telling the truth. 

He scoffed and picked up the phone to order the pizza. You smoked while you waited for the food to arrive and then flicked through the channels on the tv, you had to settle for cartoons while you ate as nothing else appealed to either of you. Once you had both finished eating you cycled through the channels one more time and still found nothing. 

“It’s Friday night!” You complained. “How is there not a single good thing on TV?” 

Eddie stretched and blew a raspberry with his lips as he stared blankly at the soap opera currently on screen. 

“I mean, we actually could watch the zombie porn?” You suggested. 

“Are you serious?” He laughed with a hint of nervousness. 

“Yeah,” you shrugged like it was no big deal. “I’m kinda curious, is it good?” 

“No,” he laughed properly this time. “It’s fucking terrible.” 

“Then why do you have it?” You questioned. 

“Dunno? Also out of curiosity I guess?” He wasn’t lying, he loved horror movies so the title piqued his interest but it was probably the worst porno he’d ever watched, he didn’t even bother sticking it out to the end. 

“Okay so we could watch one of the other ones then?” You countered. 

“You really wanna watch porn together?” He couldn’t believe you were actually suggesting this, sure you guys were pretty close but you never discussed sex. 

He didn’t have much to discuss, he was a virgin, the only stories he would have to tell you were of him and his own right hand. He knew that you weren’t a virgin but he was glad you never told him about your experiences, they would only make him jealous. He had thought about asking you out before but you seemed pretty content being his friend. 

“It doesn’t have to be that big of a deal?” You shrugged again. 

You didn’t even know why you were pushing this, you had been curious about the tapes but they weren’t worth making things weird between you and Eddie. Maybe you were just more stubborn than you liked to admit, you had committed to the idea now and you weren’t turning back unless he was completely against it. Eddie was staring at you with his big chocolate eyes open wide and his jaw slack with shock. 

“Alright fuck it,” he matched your shrug as he hauled himself up from the couch and made his way back to his room.

Your stomach flipped with a mixture of excitement and nerves as you waited alone on the couch. He came back waving his copy of Insatiable and you bit your lip. He’d chosen the one that looked like actual porn without a funny plot you could laugh your way through if it did feel awkward. You played with your fingers in your lap while he crouched down in front of the VCR and got the tape set up. He pressed play and flopped down next to you, shuffling around to get comfy on the sofa. You didn’t miss that he had picked up one of the cushions and placed it over his lap, the thought of Eddie sitting right next to you with a raging boner had you clenching your legs together. 

The film opened with a scene of a woman masturbating, you kept your gaze locked on the screen but you could see Eddie’s knee start bouncing with nervous energy out the corner of your eye. You had been watching for all of two minutes and the energy in the trailer had already turned electric. Eddie was watching you more than he was watching the TV, he focused on the subtle changes in your facial expressions, the way your mouth formed a soft oh as you watched the woman pumping her perfectly manicured fingers in and out of her pussy. He took note of the way your chest was rising and falling a little faster, the way your hips were shifting ever so slightly. This was turning you on. Which in turn made Eddie’s cock strain even more painfully against his zipper than it already would have done. 

The scene had now switched to two women eating each other out. Eddie was in hell. He was desperate to undo his jeans just to give himself a tiny bit of relief. Your expression had changed to one he couldn’t quite read, you still looked like you were into it but your brows were knitted together in a slight frown. 

“You okay?” Eddie choked, immediately embarrassed by how raspy his voice sounded. 

“Uh huh,” you nodded, still not taking your eyes off the tv. “I was just wondering what it felt like, you know, guys don’t actually like doing that.”

“What?” Eddie asked incredulously. “No one’s ever gone down on you?” 

“Nope,” you sighed, you hadn’t slept with many people but of the ones you had you didn’t have much luck, they were all pretty selfish lovers. “I suggested it a few times but none of them were into it.”

“Pussies,” Eddie scoffed. 

“Do you do it?” You questioned, your voice had risen in pitch as the image of his messy curls buried between your legs flashed through your mind. 

Shit. He walked himself right into that one. Eddie would love to eat pussy, he’d just never been given the chance. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously as he tried to think of a quick response. 

“Eddie? Are you okay?” You asked at his silence. 

“Yep, yep, I just uh-“ he huffed a laugh nervously. “I’ve never done it either, I’ve never done anything actually.”

“What?” Your attention was completely off the film now as you turned your entire body in your seat to face Eddie. “You’re still a virgin?” 

Eddie felt his face flaming with embarrassment at your words. He knew this whole thing was a fucking stupid idea. 

“Not by choice,” he snapped, a little hurt when he misread your shock for you poking fun at him. 

“No no no, I didn’t mean it as a bad thing, not at all,” you assured him scooting closer to him so you could place a comforting hand on his forearm, he tightened his grip on the cushion still hiding his erection. “I’m just surprised because, well - have you seen you?” 

Eddie raised his eyebrows and wondered what you meant by that. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re hot,” you stated plainly. 

“You’ve been out in public with me,” he laughed. “Girls actively move out of the way to avoid me.”

They did, you had seen it and you hated it. It had nothing to do with his looks though, it was the false “devil worshipping” rumours that had spread around like wildfire. You couldn’t believe you still lived in a town where 90% of the population were complete morons. 

“Doesn’t mean you’re not hot.”

“Okay,” he scoffed. “Even so, no one is lining up to fuck the town freak.” 

“Don’t,” you told him sternly, you had made it a habit to chastise him anytime he referred to himself by the title he’d been unfairly burdened with. “Don’t call yourself that.” 

He gave you a sad smile and placed his hand over yours, giving your fingers a grateful squeeze. You sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds echoing through the trailer were the moans coming from the tv. It was very distracting during what was supposed to be a tender moment and you couldn’t help bursting into a fit of laughter, only making it worse when you chanced a look at the screen to see the main woman now giving a blow job to what looked like a delivery man. Eddie joined you in your laughter at the ridiculous situation you had ended up in until you were clutching your stomach for air. You leaned forward and rested your forehead on his shoulder as your laughs died down to soft giggles, his shaky shoulder jostling your head every now and again. 

“I wonder what it feels like too,” he blurted out suddenly. 

You lifted your head to look at him in question, he jutted his chin towards the screen where the woman was currently gagging on the man’s cock. 

“Oh,” you breathed, your mind racing as you saw the opportunity to finally make your move. 

Little did you know Eddie’s head was in exactly the same place. The amount of times he’d dreamed of even just kissing you, he’d never felt like he had the chance to explore his feelings for you deeper but weirdly enough this bizarre idea you had created the perfect opening. He sucked in a shaky breath and prepared to shoot his shot. 

“Here’s a crazy idea,” he started. “Just tell me to shut up if I’m getting the wrong vibe here.”

Your insides fluttered as you realised he was about to suggest exactly the same thing you were. 

“We both wanna know what it feels like,” you finished for him. “We could help each other out.” 

“You don’t have to-“ he stuttered before he started rambling. “I mean I really wanna eat you out, if you’ll let me, but I don’t expect you to suck my dick if you don’t wa-“

“Of course I want to you beautiful idiot,” you cut him off placing a hand over his mouth to make him stop talking, you felt him smile against your palm. 

You removed your hand and shuffled even closer until you were almost sat in his lap, he turned his body slightly so he was facing you head on. 

“Do you wanna kiss first?” He asked hesitantly. 

God. He thought scolding himself. Why do you sound so awkward you’ve wanted this for years. 

“Of course,” you giggled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “C’mere.” 

You placed your palms on either side of his face and pulled him towards your lips. It was slow and gentle at first, curious as you got a feel for one another. His lips were warm and soft, just as you’d always imagined them. The kiss deepened when you felt him tease your lower lip with the tip of his tongue, you granted him access, the wet muscle with your own. His hands which had at first been twisting in his lap awkwardly found purchase on your thighs, squeezing the doughy flesh there, you grinned against his lips when he released a soft sigh of content. He pulled back ever so slightly to give you both the chance to breathe a little, staying close enough for the tips of your noses to still be brushing. 

“Does it feel weird?” He asked, his hot breath fanning delicately over your skin. 

“Yes,” you nodded with another giggle. 

“You wanna stop?” He asked a little dejected, not expecting your answer, to him kissing you felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

“Fuck no,” you dived straight back in for his lips, smothering him with a fierce kiss that had him inhaling a sharp moan, the sound sent butterflies straight to your stomach. 

You took your time lazily tasting one another, your hands ended up tangled in his messy locks, nails digging into his scalp which only spurred on his intensity. He still had the cushion covering his lap which was the only thing stopping you from straddling him and grinding against what you knew he was trying to conceal. Not that it mattered now, you’d be more disappointed if he wasn’t hard at this point. A loud, guttural moan from the tv tore your attention away from one another, you looked to see the woman on screen now being fucked over a snooker table by two guys at once. 

“Can we turn this shit off now?” Eddie asked breathlessly. 

“Oh yeah,” you agreed, sliding from the sofa. 

You fiddled with the button on the VCR until the screen went black. You stood and turned around gasping when you bumped into Eddie who’d walked right up behind you. 

“Sorry,” he laughed softly, taking you by the elbows and chasing your lips with his again. 

It was so gentle it made you light headed, when he took a step forward and you felt his very prominent erection digging into your lower stomach you whimpered into his mouth. He was desperate to make you make that sound again. He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against yours, never breaking the contact he walked you backwards towards his bedroom. 

The back of your knees hit the edge of his bed and you squealed as you fell backwards. He attached his mouth to your jaw, following your movements as you shuffled to lay back against his pillows. He gripped your chin and tilted your head back, lazily sucking a messy trail down your throat and across your collarbones. He rocked his hips into yours and you both gasped at the delicious friction. 

“You first okay?” He mumbled against your skin as he sucked a bruise onto the tender skin just below your ear. “S’probably gonna be over pretty quickly for me.” 

He laughed but you could hear the insecurity in his tone. You stroked his face and placed a peck against his temple. 

“You know that’s okay right?” You assured him. “It’s actually kinda sexy.” 

He pulled a face that said you were full of shit. 

“I’m serious!” You promised. “Knowing that I made you feel so good that you just couldn’t hold back, hotter than most guys think.” 

“If you say so,” he smiled, thinking you were just trying to make him feel better.

He pushed your shirt up to pepper kisses across the soft expanse of your stomach, licking the spot just above the button of your jeans. His fingers fumbled with the button and he worked to remove them, feeling a sudden rush of timidity you covered his hands with your own. 

“Can we like, undress together?” You asked. “At the same time?” 

“Sure, yeah sure,” he nodded, leaning back on his heels. 

His shirt was the first to go. Then yours. Next was his jeans, the clinking of his belt buckle made your mouth go dry, his cock sprang forward as he pushed the denim down over his ass, your eyes widened at the sizable tent in his blue boxers, a darker spot visible that was wet with his precum. 

“Your turn,” he laughed snapping you out of your trance, you had been staring. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, pushing your own jeans down over your legs. 

Once you had tossed them to the carpet beside you he wasted no time kissing you senseless, pushing you back against his mattress. This was a whole different feeling, his warm, soft skin pressed against yours. The outline of his dick so much more apparent now there was only the two thin layers of your underwear separating you. You whined and swallowed each others moans as you got lost in the tangled limbs of the other. He palmed your breast over the cup of your bra before pulling back a panting, desperate mess. 

“Can I take this off?” He pleaded pulling at the strap. 

You arched your back and reached behind you to undo the clasp quickly. You ripped it down your arms and tossed it to the floor along with the rest of your clothes. Eddie stared down in awe at your bare chest, he had pictured what you looked like naked countless times but none of them compared to the real thing. You were fucking perfect. 

“Eds?” You asked, feeling shy under his intense gaze. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, eyes still trained on your chest. 

If he was this hypnotised by your tits what would he be like when his face was buried in your pussy. He rested his palms on either side of your waist, brushing his hands upwards over the delicate skin of your ribs before cupping a breast in each hand. He leaned down for more kisses as he kneaded and pinched your sensitive nipples. He moaned softly into your mouth and it made a deep ache settle between your legs. 

“Eddie please,” you whispered with a roll of your hips. 

He grunted at the friction against his leaking cock, his name had never sounded so beautiful leaving your lips. He kissed his way quickly down the valley between your breasts and along your soft stomach before he inched back on the bed, his face now level with your clothed cunt. 

“Oh fuck,” he sighed as he eyed the big wet patch that had soaked through the material of your cotton panties. “Did I make you this wet or were you just really enjoying the film?” 

You leaned up on your elbows and smiled down at him, whether he was joking or not he really had no idea the effect he had on you. 

“You,” your heart skipped at the flash of pride that crossed his face. “All you.” 

He took a minute to run his middle finger up and down the wet patch, your hips shifting of their own accord every time he bumped over your clit. You soon became impatient and lifted your hips to rid yourself of your panties, Eddie’s fingers met yours as he reached to pull them the rest of the way down your legs. His cock twitched in his boxers when he laid his eyes on your bare pussy for the first time. He gawked in awe at the pretty pink folds swollen and glistening with your arousal, he was almost drooling when he snapped himself out of his trance once again. 

“Promise if it’s bad you’ll stop me?” His voice laced with self doubt, his fingers tracing lazy patterns across the skin on your thighs. 

“I won’t stop you,” you reached down to stroke under his chin forcing him to look up at you. “I’ll guide you, forget everything about that film and just do what feels natural.” 

“‘Kay,” he nodded, he tipped his chin to press a thankful peck against the palm of your hand. “Ready?” 

“Mmhmm,” your sigh comes out trembling from the anticipation as you lay back against the pillows. 

He slid his arms beneath your thighs so your legs were over his shoulders where he lay. The first touch was experimental, a quick swipe of his tongue across your clit but it made you whimper still. His eyes fluttered shut as he explored you, flicking and suckling as his confidence built from your reactions. Your hands flew down to tangle in his hair when he shook his head back and forth between your legs, the soft curls tickling the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. He moaned into you as your nails raked across his scalp and the vibrations caused you to gasp and buck your hips into him. 

“Fuck, holy fuck,” he pulled away panting, his chin shiny with your slick. “You taste so fucking good.” 

He pressed his thumb against your clit, fumbling through a couple of misses at first until you threw your head back against his pillow and whined. He focused on the spot that had caused you to make that noise and rubbed small fast circles, your hips wiggled against his touch until he replaced his thumb with his lips and sucked hard. He ran his middle and ring fingers along your slit, gathering your wetness before plunging the digits inside you. You winced a little as his movements started as harsh jabbing motions and he immediately noticed your discomfort. 

“Like this,” you showed him how to curl his fingers in a come hither motion. 

He was a fast learner, once he was using his fingers the way you had shown him it didn’t take long for him to find your g-spot. His tongue lapped at your clit as he carried on working his fingers inside of you, your back arched off the bed as you felt the heat of your impending orgasm build faster and faster. Eddie could tell you were close, the way you were grinding yourself against his face had him thrusting his own hips against his mattress. If you didn’t finish soon he was probably going to cum in his pants and then he really would want the ground to swallow him up. 

“Eddie,” you whimpered as your grip on his locks tightened. “Eddie, feels so good.”

He growled into you when you said his name, it was one of the best fucking sounds you had ever heard in your life. A few more flicks of his tongue and a stroke against your spot and the dam broke. You cried out as your hips writhed against his face, Eddie tightened the grip he had on one of your thighs to hold you down to him. He didn’t relax his strokes until you were a trembling, mewling mess, weakly pulling at his hair as you became overstimulated. 

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” 

You were whimpering his name, he pulled his lips away and gazed up at you with glassy, lust blown eyes. He had a proud smirk pulling at his lips, his fingers still moving inside of you lazily. He grinned when he pulled them out of you and examined the slick coating the digits. 

“Was I okay?” He asked you with a cheeky grin, his earlier doubt well and truly washed away, he felt the intensity at which you clenched around his fingers when you came. 

“Very, very, very much okay,” you laughed breathlessly. “More than okay Eds you’re fucking amazing.”

He laughed with you, a slight blush tinting his cheeks at your praise. He shifted to his knees and groaned at the ache in his cock, the tiny movement alone almost pushing him to the edge. Fuck he thought. Your eyes widened as you looked at the precum stain on his boxer which has almost tripled in size since before he went down on you. You rose to your knees and crawled towards him. You pulled his face towards you for a searing kiss, your tongue gliding against his own so you could get a taste of yourself. You reached down ever so lightly to run your fingers up his cock from base to tip. He whined into your mouth and bucked forward. 

“Fuck, fuck don’t do that, sorry” he panted. “‘M so close already and you haven’t even touched me.”

The desperation in his voice was making you melt. You gave him a peck on the tip of his nose and encouraged him to lie back where you had been against the pillows. You pulled his boxers over his hips and watched as his cock sprang free slapping against his stomach. Holy. Fucking. Shit. You couldn’t help the way your jaw hung open as you stared at his full length. You had thought it was cute but funny the way he had been staring at you earlier but you were certainly mimicking his expression right now. You had never thought that a dick looked pretty before but christ Eddie was fucking beautiful. 

You had an idea that he was big from when he was grinding against you but actually seeing him was a whole other thing. You shouldn’t have been surprised, everything else about Eddie was so goddamn perfect why wouldn’t his dick be too. The shaft was long and velvety, a few delicate veins showed faintly beneath the skin, the bulb of his sticky, red tip blotted with precum that leaked just below his navel. He was starting to get nervous again the longer you didn’t speak. He hugged his arms to himself praying for you to just make a move, any move. 

“What?” He muttered so quietly. “It’s not weird or anything is it?” 

His voice brought you back to reality and you looked up at his blotchy cheeks, wide brown orbs full of worry and you were overcome with the need to kiss him again. You launched forward and attacked his lips with your own, swallowing his gasp of surprise. 

“No,” you said in between kisses. “Not weird - just so - fucking pretty.” 

You feel the stiff press of his erection against your ass as you continue to make out with him, the leaking tip smearing wet streaks across your skin as he bucked against you. 

“Please - sweetheart,” he croaked against your lips. “Begging you.” 

You showed him mercy and pulled away from his lips, open mouthed kisses now trailing down his chest and abdomen until you reached his painfully swollen cock. You decided not to tease him any longer, you didn’t think he’d be able to take it. 

“Fuuuuuuuck,” Eddie cried, the palms digging into his eye sockets as you wrapped your lips around the tip of his dick, your hand jerking the silky smooth base. “Fu- baby, feels so goo- gonna make me cum.”

The way he was choking on his words was adorable. You open your throat and bob your head within a centimetre of your gag reflex. Up and down, up and down your lips become a mess of precum and spit, his hips jarring upward to drive himself deeper into your mouth. You feel his thighs shiver beneath where your forearms are resting, he’s so close you can tell. You cup his sack gently with your free hand and take him to the back of your throat with a quiet gag. Eddie’s orgasm rushed over him so violently he didn’t have a chance to pull you away. 

You choke a little as a thick, hot spurts of his cum paint the back of your throat. You compose yourself and swallow him down, allowing the rest to rope across your tongue. Eddie whimpers incoherently while he combs his fingers through your hair, his hips still rocking as he humped your face through his release. You breathed harshly through your nose as you focused on taking him all down. He shudders as you give him a squeeze to lap up the remainder of cum before you release him with a pop, the back of your hand wiping the drool from the corners of your lips. His feeling of bliss quickly turns to humiliation as he realised all of that can’t have lasted more than 2 minutes. He threw his arms across his eyes, terrified of looking down at you and seeing disappointment. 

“Sorry, I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “Fuck - Couldn’t hold it back, you just felt so good.”

Oh Eddie. Sweet Eddie. 

“It’s okay, hey it’s okay,” you whispered against his skin as you kissed your way up his body. 

You peppered your lips over every inch of his forearms in an attempt to coax them away from his face. When that wasn’t working you slipped your hands into his own and yanked them away, your forehead falling forward to press against his. 

“It’s okay,” you assured him softly.

He leaned into your touch, his fingers intertwining with your own. 

“Thank you,” he simply said. “Not just for making me feel better but for even agreeing to this.” 

“Eddie, you seriously think I wouldn’t want this?” 

His brows knit together with an anxious look that said yes, he absolutely thought there was a chance you’d say no to this. 

“Well, put it this way,” you placed his hands on your hips while you reached yours up to cup his face. “If you want to give me your virginity, you know fully, I’d be more than honoured to take it.” 

“Are you serious?” He chuckled breathlessly in joyful disbelief when you nodded with a grin. “When?” 

“Whenever you want,” you laughed at his eagerness. “I know you already have condoms in that draw.” 

“Oh so you do snoop,” he accused playfully, tightening his grip on your hips to flip your positions. 

“Sometimes,” you admitted sheepishly.