He don't hang around with the gang no more

“Dadadada.” Lizzie babbles and rubs her face grumpily into the skin of your chest, her tiny fists clenched around the fabric of your t-shirt at either side.

She’s exhausted from crying. Barely ate any of her oatmeal, or the array of other breakfast foods you tried to tempt and plead with her to eat. 

Not even Rosie could properly distract the baby today- the older sheepdog is normally very tolerant with noise but had to call it quits halfway through the disaster of a meal in favor of sleeping somewhere quieter. 

You’d freed Lizzie from the confines of her highchair and have been at the window ever since. There’s the distant figure of Eddie on Shadow, two smudges on the sunlit horizon moving the cow herd to the northern pasture. 

Lizzie understands, now, having seen the evidence for herself- she’s smart and catches on quick to the rhythms of your days together.

Understanding the timeline doesn’t mean she’s any happier about it. 

You rock her back and forth and still she clings and kicks indignantly, tiny heels thunking into the meat of your hips; caught in that frustration loop of a baby who wants but can’t have. 

Elizabeth Munson, much like her namesake, loves music. You start humming the melody of her personal lullaby- Sweet Dizzy Lizzie- but this seems to frustrate her more, serving only to remind her of the guy who wrote her the song who still isn’t here. 

You swing with her into the living room. At first Lizzie gristles at being taken from her window view, but calms when you crouch with her to flip through the milk crate of records.

“How ‘bout Dolly, hm?” 

Real Love gets loaded in and soon Dolly Parton is crooning over the speakers while you rock-dance your baby across the stretch of carpet. 

So when you think about love, think about me, I can give you more than you’ll ever need…

Lizzie is still sniffling but her legs now kick in time to the song beats. She snuggles into you and takes shuddery, hiccupy breaths. 

There are wet tears seeping into your skin- you shift the weight of her to one arm so you can lift a hand to wipe them from her cheeks.

Three more Dolly songs, countless paths carved back and forth across the carpet, and Lizzie is mostly soothed. She’s still gripping the fabric of your shirt as you walk to the front porch, holding the screen door open for Rosie to follow. 

There are a few far-off barks, sharp in the otherwise quiet forested air. Rosie’s ears prick up briefly before she shambles to the end of the porch to lay in her favorite spot, while Lizzie lifts her head from the cradle of your neck with interest. 

“Ba?” Lizzie asks, tearfully. Extending one dimpled fist to point, dark brown eyes watching the end of the dirt path that runs all the way to the barn.

“Yeah, baby, it’s Goblin. Means Daddy will be back soon.”

The sleek black body of the shepherd appears, racing down the path while barking to announce his own arrival. He prances once he gets to the gravel, showing off, tongue lolling, yipping as if catching you all up on the shift he just worked. 

Lizzie knows her dad isn’t far behind, and she’s right- Eddie appears through the treeline and his daughter, subsequently, loses her shit.

Kicking with delight, smacking her hands at your shoulders, babbling and screeching in ecstatic excitement- she’s the human personification of I’m glad you're home!

It puts a pep in Eddie’s step. He’s got to be tired from the early work but hearing his kid be so happy to see him really makes the hours melt away.

Eddie grins, sweeping his cowboy hat off with a flourish before his boots hit the deck. He pulls you into a sideways hug so he can bury his face between you and the baby, laughing as Lizzie gets her hands immediately tangled in his hair. 

You take advantage of the closeness and dip to kiss the crown of his head. “Someone missed you this morning.”

“Yeah?” Eddie carefully unfastens the tiny hands from his hair and kisses the palm of each one. “Was it you, sugar?”

Lizzie shrieks. Kick kick kicks some more, babbles a string of syllables that sound awfully close to “dada”, and clumsily pulls at the collar of Eddie’s button down. 

“She been cryin’?” Eddie asks, taking the baby into his own arms and putting one big palm to the side of her face with gentle concern. 

“Yeah. Didn’t eat her breakfast, either. Just wanted you.”

If Lizzie knows you just tattled on her, she doesn’t show it. Too overjoyed to care, she fits one fist to the nape of Eddie’s neck and the other in the direction of the barn, forehead pushing into Eddie’s cheek like she’s trying to steer him. “Ba ba ba. Ba!”

Eddie’s cheek is squished as he smiles over her head at you. “I’ll take the little princess to see the horses, give you a few minutes to get some breakfast in.”

“I can start a fresh pot of coffee for when you’re back-”

With the same hand holding the brim of his hat Eddie reaches to slip a finger through your back belt loop, pulling you in for a kiss. He tastes like sweetgrass and home. 

“Coffee, fine. Cleanin’ up, no.” Eddie keeps Lizzie as close as she wants but also leans to kiss your cheek, then just below your eye, his thumb slipping beneath the confines of your shirt to pet at your spine. “Want you to be off your feet and eatin’ the whole time we’re gone- Buck left some good sourdough. Can watch us from the window.”

“Ma ma ma ma.” Lizzie babbles next to the stream of Eddie’s words, her face still pressed as close to her dad’s as physics will allow.

“Fine.” You pretend to be annoyed with the both of them, poking at Lizzie’s cheek and delighting in the twin sets of dimples that greet you. 

“Take this inside for me, will ya.” Eddie straightens with Lizzie to set his hat on your own head, then winks. 

You give the two of them a courteous hat tip. Eddie laughs again, taking a step off the porch and jostling Lizzie around until she squeals happily. 

“Oh, and this-” Eddie jabs a finger at Goblin, who has taken to rolling in the patch of grassy lawn. “-inside. Chewed up what’s left of all the good rope and nearly took his own goddamn head off running into a fence earlier. Useless.”

This last word is met with a fond pat to the side of the dog’s head, betraying the soft spot Eddie still has for the less-helpful animals in his care. 

“Problem child,” you sigh. Goblin’s mouth splits into a pink-tongued pant, pearly canines on display as he trots up the porch steps to lean heavily into your side. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Good fuckin’ luck,” Eddie grouses, giving Goblin (none the wiser) a squinted glare.

Lizzie finds this most hilarious, the pink feet of her pajamas a blur as she continues to kick her excitement into being. She babbles the whole way to the treeline, Eddie her captive audience and keeping up his own end of the conversation.

There’s a sunbeam that arcs across their path, and for just a moment, Eddie and Lizzie are both illuminated. The same shade of deep chestnut in their hair catches the light- and then they disappear into the copse of trees. 

You’re so full of love this morning, it feels like a physical weight in your chest.

Goblin licks a gross, grass-streaked stripe of spit against your hand to break the moment. You rub behind his ear and call to Rosie. 

“Come on, you two, inside- might even sneak you some sourdough. Don’t tell your dad.”

The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard. 

You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.

You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.

You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.

It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.

You don’t.

You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.

By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.

You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.

El walks in about twenty minutes later.

You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.

You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.

Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.

You don’t look up.

“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.

“Yes.”

You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”

She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.

“I was with Mike.”

You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.

“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”

Her brows pull together. “You saw.”

“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”

“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”

You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. 

“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”

Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”

“I know I am.”

You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.

“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”

You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.

“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”

You go still.

“And now you want me to be alone too.”

There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.

“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”

The front door opens before she can respond.

Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.

“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.

You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”

“Hey—”

“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”

“Dinner’s in twenty—”

“Then eat it without me.”

You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.

“I was with Mike.”

Slowly, you turn back.

Hopper frowns. “You were what?”

El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.

“We were walking together. We are… dating.”

Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”

El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”

You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.

He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.

“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”

El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.

And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”

Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.

“…Fine,” he says.

“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”

“Dad—”

“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.

And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”

“And why would that be?” 

You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”

Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”

El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.

You point at her. “This is on you.”

The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.

Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.

Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps. 

People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.

A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.

El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.

She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.

She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.

His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”

El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.

“Hi.”

Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”

“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.

“It is worse,” El cuts in.

Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”

“Hopper made a new rule.”

Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”

“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”

Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”

El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.

Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not kidding.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”

“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”

Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”

Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”

El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”

“…At all?” Dustin asks.

El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”

Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”

Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.

“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”

Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”

Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”

Mike groans. “Dustin—”

“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”

Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Dustin says quickly. “I’m saying it’s… possible.”

El tilts her head slightly. “How?”

Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.

“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”

Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”

Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”

Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”

“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”

“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.

“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”

El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”

Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”

“That is what you are saying.”

Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”

El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger. 

“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”

Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”

Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.

“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”

There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.

Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.

They don’t move right away.

For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.

Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.

“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.

Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”

Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.

He sighs. “…Fine.”

The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.

“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”

“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.

That gets his attention.

Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.

“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”

Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”

Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.

“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”

“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.

“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”

Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”

Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”

Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.

“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.

Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”

Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.

“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”

“Yes,” Mike says.

“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.

Mike hesitates.

Dustin doesn’t.

“Hopper’s daughter.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.

“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.

Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.

You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit. 

You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.

Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.

The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.

“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”

“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.

Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”

“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”

Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”

Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”

“Why?” he asks.

Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.

“Because I want to be with him.”

All three of them turn.

El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.

“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”

Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.

Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.

“…And you’re paying me,” he says.

Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”

Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.

“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”

“Probably,” Mike admits.

Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.

He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“…Alright,” he says.

Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”

Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”

Dustin grins. “And the money.”

Eddie points at him. “And the money.”

Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.

“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”

Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”

Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”

The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.

You don’t rush, you never do.

You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.

You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.

Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.

“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”

You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.

“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”

“Tragic.”

He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting. 

“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.

He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.

“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.

You keep walking.

“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”

“No.”

He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”

“I didn’t need you to.”

That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.

“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”

“You shouldn’t.”

You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.

He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”

You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”

“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”

You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”

“I don’t care about your pitch.”

“Not even a little curious?”

You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.

“…No.”

He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.

“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”

You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”

He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”

You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.

“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”

“You’re already bothering me.”

“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”

You stop again, slowly.

“…You have one sentence,” you say.

His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.

“Go out with me.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.

And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.

“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.

Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.

“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”

By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.

The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.

The boys follow more cautiously.

Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.

“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.

“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”

El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”

“That’s worse.”

They find your room easily.

The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.

Dustin pushes it open anyway.

“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”

The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.

It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.

Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.

There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.

Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.

“…Huh,” he says quietly.

Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”

Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”

“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”

“You’re holding it.”

“That’s part of observing.”

El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.

Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.

Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.

“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.

Mike glances over. “What?”

Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”

Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.

There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.

On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.

“Ooh, what’s this—”

“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.

Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.

“No way.”

“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.

Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.

“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.

Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.

“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.

El tilts her head. “What is it?”

Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.

Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”

Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.

“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”

Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”

Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”

Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”

Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”

Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.

“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.

Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”

Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”

But it’s not just that anymore.

“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”

The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.

The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.

“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.

“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”

You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.

Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.

Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”

“No.”

“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You weren’t.”

“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”

You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.

“Then leave.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”

That stops you.

“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.

He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.

“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”

You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.

“Name three songs.”

He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”

“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.

He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”

You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.

“…Lucky guesses.”

“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”

You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.

But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”

You don’t turn around. “What about them?”

He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”

“I’m not.”

He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”

You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”

“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.

“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.

“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.

He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”

You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.

“You’re not getting a discount.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”

You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”

“Good,” he says.

That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”

He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.

“Makes it easier to come back.”

You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.

“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.

Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.

Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.

You’re at your locker when he spots you.

Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.

You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.

He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.

You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”

He grins. “Debatable.”

You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”

“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”

That makes you pause, just slightly.

“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”

You blink once. “…And?”

“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”

Then you laugh.

“I’d rather die.”

He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”

You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”

“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”

That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”

You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.

“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.

He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.

“Alright,” he says.

You turn away again, done with it.

“Pick you up at eight.”

You stop.

“…I didn’t say yes.”

“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.

You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.

“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”

You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.

That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.

Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.

She makes it halfway to the door.

“Where are you going?”

She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.

“…Out,” she says.

“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”

She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”

“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”

She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.

“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”

“She is going.”

Both of them turn.

You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.

Hopper frowns. “She is not—”

“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”

You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”

El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.

That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.

“…No,” you repeat.

She doesn’t look away. “Please.”

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.

“You don’t even know those people.”

“I know Mike.”

Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”

You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.

“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.

Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”

Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.

You close your eyes briefly.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”

Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.

“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.

When you open it, there he is.

Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.

He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.

“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”

You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.

“…What the hell is this?” he asks.

Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”

You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”

The drive is louder than it needs to be.

Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.

You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.

He doesn’t push it, not yet.

The house is already packed by the time you pull up.

Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.

El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.

“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.

Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“…After you.”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.

The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.

It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.

Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.

It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.

A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.

“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.

“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”

You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”

He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”

You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

For Eddie, that’s new.

Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.

You glance up at him.

“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"

He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”

“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.

He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”

You almost smile, and he catches it.

“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”

You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.

“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”

You glance at him. “No?”

“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”

That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.

Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks. 

But Eddie sticks by your side.

The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.

Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.

“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.

“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”

You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He grins. “That’s leadership.”

You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.

“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”

You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.

“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”

“Children scare easily.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”

You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.

“…You talk a lot,” you say.

“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”

“It’s not.”

“Agree to disagree.”

There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.

It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.

Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”

You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.

“Hey—” You both turn.

Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”

Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.

“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”

You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”

Eddie snorts into his drink.

Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”

He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”

“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”

He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”

Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.

The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.

Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.

It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.

It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…

You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.

Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.

You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.

“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.

You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.

He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.

Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.

It’s disarming. You don’t like that.

“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”

“Don’t push it.”

He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.

“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.

His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.

“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.

You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.

The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.

This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.

And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.

You hear it before you see them.

“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”

You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.

“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”

Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.

Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.

He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.

“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.

They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.

“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”

You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”

He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”

“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”

“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”

“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”

“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”

You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”

“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”

“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.

You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”

“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.

You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.

“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.

Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.

The next morning feels different.

Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.

You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.

People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.

Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.

He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”

You don’t slow.

“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”

“No.” Not even a glance.

He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.

“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”

“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.

He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.

“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”

“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”

“You lied,” you say simply.

“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”

“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”

A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.

Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that.”

You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.

“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”

And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.

He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.

“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.

Dustin startles. “Jesus—”

“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.

Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”

El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”

Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”

Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”

“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”

Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.

“You apologize,” Mike says finally.

“I did.”

“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”

“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.

“You definitely did that,” Mike says.

Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”

El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.

He looks up at her. “I did.”

She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.

“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”

“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.

Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”

Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”

Eddie glances between them. “How.”

El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.

He frowns. “Like what.”

She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”

Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.

Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.

But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.

You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.

It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.

A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.

“Go away.”

A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”

You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.

“I said go away, El.”

The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.

Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.

You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.

“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”

You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.

And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.

“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”

El looks between the two of you.

“He wants to talk,” she says.

“I don’t.”

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”

You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”

“I gave it back,” he says.

You glance at him. “…What.”

“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”

You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.

“…Why.”

He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.

“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.

You don’t react.

“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”

You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”

“No,” he says immediately.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”

El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.

You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.

“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.

“I know.”

“Before.”

“I know.”

“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.

He doesn’t fill the space.

“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.

You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”

“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”

You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.

“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.

Your eyes flick back up to his.

“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”

“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”

You don’t move, and you don’t respond.

Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.

Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.

You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.

“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”

He glances at El. “…Yeah.”

“And she broke into my room.”

“She did.”

You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”

It’s not a question. He shakes his head.

“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”

“…That was stupid,” you decide.

A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”

“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.

His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”

You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”

A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”

“Fair.”

“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”

He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.

Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.

“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.

You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.

“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.

You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.

You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.

It’s just a date. A real date.

You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.

After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.

You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.

“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.

The knock comes right at eight.

You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.

Hopper gets to the door first.

“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.

You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.

Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.

“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.

Hopper eyes him up and down.

“I know you,” he says.

Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”

“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.

Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”

Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”

Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.

You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.

“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.

“Yes, sir.”

Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.

“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”

Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”

“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”

“Of course.”

“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”

“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.

That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.

“…Alright,” he says finally.

He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re already there when he steps back inside.

Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.

His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.

Something soft crosses his face.

“…Wow,” he says quietly.

You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The drive is different this time.

“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”

He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”

“I hate surprises.”

“I figured.”

“Then why—”

“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.

You study him for a second, then look back out the window.

“…It better be.”

The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.

You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.

“…No way.”

Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”

You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.

“…Descendents?”

He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”

“You got tickets.”

“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.

“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.

“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”

“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.

That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”

He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.

The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.

You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.

“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”

You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.

Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.

“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”

You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.

“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.

His grin widens. “Good?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”

“I said don’t push it.”

He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”

“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.

“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.

You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.

“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.

That catches him.

“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.

You nod slightly. “Yeah.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”

“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”

You scoff. “Respectable.”

“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”

You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.

There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.

And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.

Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.

You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.

You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.

Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.

“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”

“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.

“I’ll take that,” he says.

You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.

The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.

Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.

And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.

The ride home feels softer than the one there.

The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.

The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.

You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.

“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”

You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”

He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”

You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”

“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”

You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.

“…Seven.”

He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”

“Seven,” you repeat.

He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”

“You bought tickets,” you cut in.

“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.

“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”

He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”

“At what.”

“Dating you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.

You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”

“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.

It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.

“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he murmurs.

You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.

By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.

He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.

“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.

“Don’t say that.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s weird.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”

You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.

The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.

Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.

You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.

For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.

“…I had a good time,” he says.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

“…Eight,” you add.

His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”

You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.

But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.

It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.

You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.

He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.

“…Wow,” he breathes.

You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.

You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.

“…Goodnight, Munson.”

A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You disappear inside before he can say anything else.

And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.

Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.

“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.

AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3

taglist is open!

beasbugs:

@bitterestwillow@kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses@meadows-ofasphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @sisteramycatherine @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullstevepeachpuffs25 @abirdinthehouse @m-art000 @enne02

She scoops the crayons into her backpack — carefully, carefully, like they're made of glass — and Steve watches her small fingers close around each one, watches the concentration on her face, and his heart aches with how much he loves her.

Steve crouches down to help his girl with her shoes when she fumbles with the laces. Steve's fingers are big compared to hers, but he's gentle — always gentle with her — and he redoes the laces carefully, pulling them tight, tying a double knot so they won't come undone.

"All done," he says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Her hair smells like strawberries. "Let's go, bug."

Ellie's school has hallways lined with artwork and spelling tests, and the air smells like chalk dust and floor wax. Steve has been here before — for drop-off, for pickup, for the time Ellie fell off the monkey bars and needed ice and a hug — but never for a parent-teacher conference.

Ellie's hand is small and warm in his. Her fingers curl around his, trusting, and Steve walks a little slower so her shorter legs can keep up.

"You're going to the library," he says. "Remember? They have books and puzzles and... Well, I guess you don't need crayons, do you?"

She grins up at him, pleased. "Yup."

He walks her to the library door, kneels down one more time, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She squirms — she's seven, she's too old for this, she's told him so — but she doesn't pull away.

"Be good, bug."

"I'm always good."

"I know." He kisses her forehead. "I'll be back soon."

She nods and disappears into the library, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, and Steve watches her go until he can't see her anymore. Then he takes a breath and rounds the corner to your classroom.

The door is open.

You're inside, sitting at a small table covered in papers and drawings and a mug that says World's Okayest Teacher. You're writing something, your head bent over the page, your hair falling out of its ponytail.

Steve knocks on the doorframe, you look up, and suddenly, Steve's whole world stops.

Because you are beautiful.

Admittedly, he's been in the presence of very many beautiful women before, but you are the kind of beautiful people have the privilege to look at in art galleries. You are beautiful in the way sunlight is beautiful when it comes through the windows on a quiet morning. You are stunning. You are the most beautiful person Steve has ever seen.

And he feels like he's spinning.

"Mr. Harrington," you say, standing up, and your voice is warm, a little breathless, like you're surprised to see him even though this meeting has been on the calendar for two weeks. "I was starting to think you might not show."

Steve realizes he hasn't said anything. He's been standing in your doorway, frozen, staring at you like a teenager with his first crush. His heart is pounding. His palms are sweating. He is twenty-nine years old, he is a father, he has faced down monsters and survived, and he cannot form a single word.

"Sorry," he finally manages, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended. He clears his throat, steps inside, shoves his hands in his pockets so he won't do something stupid like reach out and touch your cheek. "I'm late. Ellie had a crayon situation. I'm sure you know how it is."

Your smile widens. "I do know how it is. Please, take a seat." You gesture to the chair across from you, the one that's too small for his long legs. "Please, sit."

Steve sits. His knees bump the underside of the table, and you hide a smile behind your hand, and he feels his ears go pink.

"Sorry," he says again. "I'm not — I'm not great at these."

"Parent-teacher conferences?"

"Chairs that are made for children."

You laugh. It's a soft sound, warm and genuine, and Steve watches the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crinkle, the way you look at him like he's funny instead of awkward.

"Noted," you say. "Next time, I'll make sure there's adult-sized ones."

"You must get that a lot," he says, trying to sound casual. "Dads who can't fit in the chairs."

"I get all kinds." You lean back in your seat. "More moms, though, I have to admit. So it's cool to see a dad. You're the first one today, actually." You scrunch up your nose like you're trying to remember. "Actually, maybe the first this year."

Steve's smile flickers, just for a moment. He's good at hiding it — years of practice, years of being fine when he wasn't, years of telling people everything was okay when it was falling apart. But something about the way you're looking at him — soft and curious and unguarded — makes it hard to keep the mask in place.

"Yeah," he says, looking down at his hands. His thumbs are tracing the edge of the table, back and forth, back and forth. "It's just been me and Ellie for a while. Her mom isn't really... in the picture."

He doesn't say it with anger. He used to, in the beginning — used to feel the bitterness rise in his throat like bile, used to lie awake at night thinking about all the things he'd say if she ever came back. But that was years ago. Ellie was a baby then, small and soft and completely dependent on him, and Steve didn't have time for anger. He had diapers to change and bottles to warm and a tiny human who needed him to be okay.

So he let the anger go. Most of it, anyway. What's left is something quieter — a resignation, a weary acceptance. A shoulder shrug in words.

"She doesn't help?" you ask, and your voice is gentle. Careful.

Steve shakes his head. "Never has. She left when Ellie was six months old. Said she wasn't cut out for it." He pauses, looks up at you. Your eyes are soft, and there's no pity there, just understanding, and something in Steve's chest loosens. "I think she was right, honestly. She wasn't cut out for it. But I was. I am."

"Clearly." Your voice is warm. "Ellie is one of the happiest kids in my class. That doesn't happen by accident."

Steve feels heat rise to his cheeks. He's not used to compliments—not real ones, not about this. People see him with Ellie and they say things like you're so brave or that must be so hard, but they don't often say you're doing a good job. They don't often look at him like he's something more than a single dad surviving.

"Thanks," he says, and his voice is rougher than he intended. "That means a lot. Coming from you."

You tilt your head, and Steve watches the way your eyes catch the light. "From me?"

"From her teacher." He clears his throat. "You spend more time with her than almost anyone, except me. If I was screwing it up, you'd be the one to know."

You're quiet for a moment. Then you reach across the table and touch his hand — just a brush of your fingers, light and quick, but Steve feels it all the way down to his bones.

"You're not screwing it up," you say. "From what I've seen, you're doing everything right."

Steve looks down at your hand. Your fingers are small and warm, resting on the back of his. "I don't know about everything," he says. "But I'm trying. That's got to count for something."

"It counts for everything." You pull your hand back, and Steve misses the warmth immediately. "She's lucky to have you."

Steve wants to say something—wants to tell you that he's the lucky one, that every day with Ellie is a gift, that he can't imagine his life without her small hand in his and her laugh echoing through the house. But the words feel too big, too heavy, too much for a parent-teacher conference with his daughter's beautiful teacher.

So he just says, "Thanks," again, and you smile, and he thinks he could sit here forever.

You talk about Ellie for twenty minutes.

Or maybe it's an hour. Steve isn't entirely sure. Time moves differently when he's looking at you.

You tell him about the time Ellie shared her snack with a boy who forgot his, about the drawing she made of "daddy and me" that's just two stick figures, one that has very large hair, about how she helped water the class plant and took her job so seriously that she watered it three times and they had to have a talk about moderation.

"She's wonderful," you say, and your voice is so sincere that Steve's throat tightens. "She's kind and curious and so, so smart. You've done an amazing job with her."

Steve opens his mouth to reply when a small head peeks around the doorframe.

"Dad?"

Steve turns. Ellie is standing in the doorway, her backpack hanging off one shoulder, three crayons clutched to her chest. She looks at him with those big brown eyes like she's not quite sure she's allowed to interrupt.

"Bug," Steve says, and his whole face softens. "What are you doing here? I thought you were in the library."

"The librarian said the conference was supposed to end ten minutes ago." Ellie looks at you, then back at Steve. "She said I should come find you."

Steve glances at his watch. Then at you. You look flustered, and you're biting your lip, and Steve feels his own ears go warm.

"Sorry," he says. "I didn't realize—"

"Don't apologise," you breathe. "I lost track of time too. Thank goodness you're my last session."

Ellie crosses the room, her sneakers squeaking on the tile, and Steve watches her small figure navigate the classroom. When she reaches him, she doesn't hesitate to climb up into his lap.

Steve's arms come around her automatically. His hand finds her hair, smoothing down the tangles, and he presses a kiss to the top of her head without thinking.

"Hi, bug," he murmurs.

"Hi, Dad." She tilts her head up to look at him, and Steve's heart does that thing it always does when he looks at her—swells and aches and overflows all at once. "Are you done?"

"Almost." He shifts her in his lap, making sure she's comfortable, and looks up at you.

"Miss Y/N," Ellie says, twisting in Steve's lap to face you. "Did you tell my dad I'm good at math?"

You smile, and Steve watches the way your whole face lights up. "I did. I also told him you're good at sharing, and watering plants, and asking questions that make me have to look things up."

Ellie grins. "I asked her what clouds are made of," she tells Steve. "She said water droplets, but then I asked why they float, and she had to think about it for a long time."

"A very long time," you agree. "And then I looked it up, and you were right to ask. It's a good question."

"I have lots of good questions."

"You do." You lean forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table. "What's your favourite thing you've learned this year?"

Ellie considers this. Her brow furrows in concentration, and Steve feels her small hand find his under the table, her fingers curling around his thumb.

"Chameleons," she says finally. "They can change color because they have special cells under their skin. But they don't just do it to hide. They do it to talk to each other too."

"That's right," you say. "They do. What else?"

"They're not very fast. So they use their tongues to catch bugs. Their tongues are longer than their whole bodies."

Steve watches you nod, watches the way you're looking at Ellie like she's the most interesting person in the world. There's no impatience in your expression, no hint of hurry or distraction. Just genuine interest. Just care.

"That's one of my favorite chameleon facts," you say.

Ellie beams. Steve feels it—the way her whole body lights up, the way she sits up straighter in his lap, the way she looks at you like you've just given her a gift.

"I drew a chameleon once," Ellie says. "For the art project. It was purple. Do you remember?" She asks shyly.

"I remember." Your voice is soft. "You used seventeen different shades of purple."

"Seventeen," Ellie confirms, nodding seriously.

Steve laughs. He can't help it. Ellie looks up at him, confused, and he just shakes his head and pulls her closer.

"You're something else, bug," he says.

"I know," she says, and you smile, and Steve feels something shift in his chest.

"Ellie," you say, and her attention snaps back to you. "I'm really glad you're in my class this year. You make every day more interesting."

Ellie's cheeks go pink. She ducks her head, hiding her face against Steve's chest, and he feels her smile against his shirt. "Thank you," she mumbles.

"We should probably go," Steve says, and his voice is softer than he intended, eyes flickering to you over the top of Ellie's head.

You nod. "Probably."

Ellie lifts her head. "Can I say bye to the class fish?"

"The class fish is asleep," you say gently. "But you can say bye to me."

Ellie considers this. Then she climbs off Steve's lap and walks around the table to where you're sitting. She's so small standing next to you—the top of her head barely reaches your shoulder—and Steve watches as she looks up at you with those big brown eyes.

"Goodbye, Miss Y/N," she says.

"Goodbye, Ellie," you murmur, smiling at her, and she curls herself around your middle, and you tuck her against your front. Steve feels his heart ache in his chest.

"See you Monday," Ellie says.

"See you Monday." You release her from your hug, and Ellie walks back to Steve and slips her hand into his.

Steve stands up, the chair scraping against the floor. "Thank you," he says. "For everything."

"Of course." You stand too, and you're close enough that Steve can see the freckles scattered across your nose, the small scar on your chin, the way your eyes are a little bit sad and a little bit hopeful all at once. "Have a good weekend, Mr Harrington."

"Steve," he corrects softly.

"Steve," you parrot gently, and his name sounds different on your tongue. Like it was always meant for you to say. "Have a good weekend."

"You too," he murmurs. He walks to the door, Ellie's hand in his. He pauses on the threshold, looks back. You're still standing there, your arms crossed over your chest, your hair falling out of its ponytail, and you're beautiful.

"Dad," Ellie says, tugging on his hand. "You're staring."

"I'm not staring."

"You're staring."

Steve looks down at his daughter. She's grinning at him—that knowing grin, the one that makes him nervous.

"Let's go, bug," he says.

They walk down the hallway together, Ellie's small hand warm in his. The school is quieter now, most of the classrooms dark, and their footsteps echo on the tile.

"Dad?" Ellie says.

"Yeah, bug?"

"I like Miss Y/N."

Steve's heart stumbles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Ellie swings their joined hands between them. "She's nice. And she laughs at my jokes. And she knows about chameleons."

Steve smiles. "She does know about chameleons."

"She would be a good mom."

Steve stops walking. He looks down at his daughter — at her serious brown eyes, her messy hair, the purple smudge on her chin. She's looking up at him like she's just stated a fact, like she's said the sky is blue or the grass is green.

"What did you say, bug?" he asks, and his voice comes out strange.

Ellie shrugs. "Nothing. Can we get pizza for dinner?"

Steve stares at her. She's already moved on, already thinking about pepperoni and cheese, and Steve is standing in the middle of an empty school hallway with his heart pounding and his daughter's words echoing in his ears.

She would be a good mom.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, bug."

"Pizza?"

Steve takes a breath. Lets it out. Squeezes her hand.

"Yeah," he says. "We can get pizza."

Ellie grins, and Steve walks her to the car, buckles her in, and he doesn't stop thinking about you for the rest of the night.

“So you’ve just been here this all time?” he whispers against the crown of your head, just before pressing a kiss there.

You nod against him. Your burning cheek rubs gently against the fabric of his t-shirt.

You feel him smile into your hair. It’s not an amused smile, not the kind of smile you give when you think something’s funny. It’s tightlipped and barely there — the kind of soft that only appears when something’s so adorably sad you can’t help but take pity in it.

“Why didn’t you come get me?’

“‘Cause I didn’t wanna bother you,” you murmur as you cuddle further into him. 

The weight of your body presses more intently against him. It warms him like the fluffiest blanket. He’d wear you forever if he could. He only wishes you knew that, too.

“Bother me?” he echoes with a laugh. His chin juts back in attempts to see you better, but you’ve pressed yourself too far into him. “You could never bother me. Are you kidding?”

Your brows pinch. Your cheek smoothes along his chest as you look up at him, all scrunch-faced and glassy-eyed. “No?”

“No. Never. Never ever, ever, ever,” he croons the last bit quietly to you. He presses his smile against yours in a chaste kiss right after. “I love you too much for that, babe. I mean, seriously— if I could have a second skin, I’d dress up in you, alright? I’m that whipped.”

You smile again, crooked and tipsy and obviously in love. “Shut up…”

“I’m serious. You’re never bothering me, okay?”

“Okay,” you murmur, blinking slowly up at him. “I was gonna find you, but I saw you talking to Steve and… I didn’t want to interrupt—”

“Interrupt?” he scoffs, much louder compared to how softly you’d spoken. “Are you kidding me? You would’ve been saving me, sweetheart.”

His arms wrap more ardently around you, embracing you with more intention than before. You lean slightly back, settling into the crook of his elbow to see the rosy pink grin he looks at you.

“Saving you?” you repeat with a scrunched nose.

“Yeah. I mean, you can tell he only talks to fourteen-year-olds all day, babe. He just goes on and on and on and on…” he trails off dramatically, flopping his head onto the couch in the process. 

His chocolate button eyes are now parallel to yours, and they twinkle just the same. It’s less so from the alcohol and more so because he’s so in love with you that he can’t help but wear it in his eyes.

You bring a hand to his face and smooth away a few curls that had fallen onto his jaw.

“Don’t be mean,” you scold. Still smiling. Still gentle.

“I’m just saying it wouldn’t have hurt anything if you did interrupt, you know? Besides, I’m pretty sure he likes you way more than he likes me.”

“That’s the smartest observation you’ve made all night Munson,” Steve quips as he walks into the living room. He carries with him a large bowl of potato chips. He pops one into his mouth. “In your life, even.”

Eddie squints him. “Alright, Steven. Don’t get cute.”

The brunette boy offers you the blue container with a strong arm extended toward you. “Here. Eat these before you leave. If you can’t pass a breathalyzer, you’re not leaving, alright?”

“Just say you want me to sleep over, Harrington,” Eddie jokes. 

You feel his chest rumble with boyish laughter. 

His arm reaches for the bowl of chips anyway, leaving you cold when it unwraps from your side. He hands it promptly over to you so he can hold you again. “It’d be a lot less obvious, is all I’m saying.”

“You’re not allowed in my house past midnight, you know that,” Steve scoffs in place of a laugh. He crosses his arms over his chest; yellow sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows. “I’m still convinced you’re gonna turn into a gremlin if I leave you unsupervised.”

Eddie grins and tosses a chip into his mouth. “Jury’s still out on that one.”

Steve rolls his eyes. The honey color of them settles on you after he’s done being annoyed by Eddie. They go soft when they look down at you, far kinder than he’s looked at any of his other friends — least of all, the dumbass holding you in his arms. 

“But you? You’re always welcome here,” he says with a tender, tightlipped smile. “Even if your boyfriend is a total neanderthal.”

Your lips purse to the side in a feeble attempt to hide your smile. You turn your burning cheeks to the bowl in your lap, far too bashful to meet Steve’s gaze.

“Hey—” Eddie tries to protest with pinched brows.

His complaint is drowned out by plastic clattering to the tile floor, liquid sloshing out of it, and two girls squealing in the face of it all. 

“Steve!” Robin agonizes from the kitchen.

The boy huffs. His eyes flutter shut as his head falls back. “What’d ya do now, Robs?” he groans.

“Why does it have to be me?”

“‘Cause it’s always you.”

He parts without a word, leaving to survey the damage in his kitchen. Eddie watches him go for a moment and then turns back to smile at you. His chocolate syrup eyes twinkle something mischievous. 

“See what I mean? He’s obsessed with you.”

Looking at him through your lashes, you shake your head. “He was just being nice...”

“Yeah. ‘Cause he likes you. ‘Cause everyone likes you,” Eddie argues as he tightens his grip on you. Not enough to squeeze you, but enough to make you feel whole — like a warm belly after a much-needed meal. 

He knows you have difficulty understanding all this, that people actually want to be your friend — even if you just sit on the couch at parties and get drunk by yourself. 

He’s glad his friends aren’t complete jerks that ignore you, either. They’ve got a goal to make you as comfortable as possible despite your innately self-conscious disposition. Just like Eddie. 

Nancy lets you borrow a pair of her shoes when you tell her you don’t have anything good enough to wear to a party (which was really just a quaint get-together at Steve’s place). Robin makes you a drink and sits with you on the couch, leading a mostly one-sided conversation to put you at ease. Steve brings you a bowl of chips because he knows you haven’t eaten, and he doesn’t want the hangover you get tomorrow to ruin his chances of hanging out with you again.

Eddie’s heart has never felt so full.

“But me?” the boy continues with a lilt. “I love you. Which means I get special privileges.”

“Special privileges?” you echo quietly.

“Yeah. Like this—”

He kisses you — a chaste, enthusiastic, and smacking peck to your lips. You're too shocked by the suddenness of it to kiss him back properly. It doesn’t stop you from beaming at him, though.

“See what I mean?” Eddie grins with wide eyes. His raised brows disappear beneath his curly bangs. “What other schmuck gets to do that, huh?”

“No one,” you answer with the proud shake of your head.

Eddie’s chest swells with a similar sense of pride. He doesn’t know how he got you. He’s just grateful he found you at all.

"You could date him," Dustin says, snapping Steve back to the dusty air of his reality. Robin makes retching noises.

"No, I could not," she sneers. Steve sighs again.

"There! Again!" Dustin winds up his fist and Steve only raises an eyebrow. Then the kid sighs and rests his own arms on the counter across from Steve. Damn, the kid is getting tall. "Alright, I'm going to speak to you man to man, Harrington," Dustin says.

"Oh, this outta be good," Steve mutters, shaking his head a little. He's had enough advice from 14-year-olds, thanks.

Dustin ignores him but Robin snickers somewhere in the stacks. "You are a sad, single dude," he says. Steve doesn't have the energy to fight it. "You're my friend, and your sad sack attitude is messing up our vibe. Okay?" Steve blinks, oddly touched. "And I don't want you to be sad forever. So I'm going to help you."

"Great," Steve deadpans. But Dustin sports what can only be called his scheming face. "You gonna set me up, or something?"

The kid snaps his fingers. "Exactly, Steve. And you call yourself slow!" Steve rolls his eyes.

"I don't think we have the same taste in girls, dude." Steve rarely allows himself to think about Henderson has snagged and kept a girl better than he ever could.

"Doesn't matter. I already know who we're going to set you up with. You know the girl who works at the arcade?"

Steve's stomach twists. Oh, yeah, he knows. It's you. He feels his cheeks heat and he fights to keep a straight face. He's only seen you a few times, talked to you maybe twice. You always seem to be working when he drops off or picks up the little shits he carts around. You're real pretty and he's almost positive you didn't grow up here, since you don't seem to know him at all.

"Maybe," he says, evenly. Dustin grins like a shark and starts to bounce on the balls of his feet.

"Gotcha! You do know her." Steve straightens and turns away from Dustin to futz with the computer but the kid follows him. "Oh, and you like her."

"I don't know her," Steve mumbles, and he knows he's lost by admitting even that much. He doesn't know you, that's true. He only knows your name because he saw it on your uniform. But he knows you're pretty and you're kind and part of him does want to get to know you. But won't he just fuck that up, too?

But Dustin is like a dog with a bone. "Well, lucky for you, the kids you call shitheads? Well, we know her. And because I know you're not exactly the worst guy in the world --"

"Gee, thanks," Steve says.

"-- I'll get the whole party to help this little operation get off the ground. All you gotta do is, y'know, charm her."

Robin bursts into laughter somewhere in the Horror section. "Knock it off!" Steve calls. "I'm plenty charming. But, sorry Henderson, I'm not letting you set me up."

Dustin crosses his arms. "Don't be a coward, Steve." The flutter he felt at the mention of you sours into the familiar self-loathing he's stewed in for who knows how long. What's the point in trying when he knows he'll just strike out? And humiliate himself in front of everyone and their mother in the arcade, no less?

"I'm not interested, dipshit, do you hear me?" Dustin smacks his palms on the counter. Steve jumps.

"Just fucking come to the arcade, Steve," Dustin says. His tone leaves no room for argument. In fact, Steve isn't sure he's ever heard him this serious.

"I don't think you're allowed to say fuck, dude." Dustin raises his middle finger slowly and mouths Fuck you. Steve sighs.

"When?" he says, and Dustin cheers.

When turns out to be the next night. Steve is on pick-up duty for Dustin, Max, and Lucas. He pulls into the empty parking lot at 9:45 and wonders how the hell he's going to charm you in 15 minutes with three teenagers badgering him to stop at the drive-thru on the way home like they always do.

"This is so stupid," he says to himself as he turns off the car. He tries to see inside the arcade but the combination of the tinted windows and the smattering of lights from the games means he can't really make anything out. Are you there? he wonders. What are you doing right now? Are you tired after a long shift? Will you smile when he walks in?

He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and decides he has nothing left to lose. What's the worst that could happen, anyway? Maybe you don't even remember him. Maybe you already have a boyfriend. All of the worrying gets him from his car to the front door and before he knows it he's swinging it open.

It's empty. There is literally no one inside. No cheers or groans of kids, no chatter, no slurping of sodas or running round. Nothing. It's only the flash of the various games and a few artificial sounds and...you.

There you are, leaning on your elbows, inspecting your nails. "Just so you know, we're closing in about 15 minutes," you drone, customer service voice firmly in place as you don't bother looking up.

Steve lets himself look for a few seconds. You're so pretty, even in the dim lighting of the arcade. It makes his chest hurt and his throat dry.

"Uh," he says. Great start, Steve. "I'm looking for some kids?" You look up sharply and once you see him your face sharpens and your mouth stretches into a small smile, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Oh, hi," you say, somewhat softly, and Steve feels his confidence return from wherever it was hiding. He sticks one hand in his pocket and holds the other out to an approximation of Dustin's height.

"Three of 'em? Bout this high? Mouthy, annoying, loud." You laugh.

"That describes most of the kids who come through here," you tell him. But then your smile turns to a concerned twist. "But I know which ones belong to you. Dustin, Max, and Lucas, right?" Steve nods. Are they hiding somewhere, or something? He's going to give them an earful in the car.

"That's them," he says. "They're probably goofing around somewhere, or something." But your frown doesn't fade.

"No, Steve," you say, and he swears his blood sings when you say his name. You know his name! Why do you know his name? "They left like, an hour ago."

"What?" he says, like an idiot.

"Eddie Munson came to get them, I think. He's the one with the van, right?" Steve nods, mouth open in shock.

"Those fuckers," he says. "They set me up!" You burst into laughter and he realizes that he is being the opposite of charming right now. God, you're pretty, he thinks.

"Why did they do that?" you ask. Steve can feel the tension returning to his temples. He's digging his own grave, yet again. That's why he considers lying, for just a second, but what's he got to lose?

"They uh, wanted us to meet," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He hopes his flush isn't visible.

"But we have met," you tell him. "Kind of." It's you who looks shy, now. "I mean, I know your name because the kids talk about you all the time. And we're talked a few times?" Your voice goes up at the end like you're not sure he even remembers. As if he could forget talking to you.

"You're right," Steve says. He tries his best for a casual grin, which seems to work since you smile back at him. He holds out his hand and you stare at it for a second before shaking it. You have soft hands. "But now it's official." He says your name for the first time and his palm tingles when you release it.

He wonders if you can see what's going on here. That a bunch of punk teenagers are trying to set you guys up like this is a rom com, or something. But you don't ask anymore questions. Steve figures that's a good sign.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asks. "Since you're closing, and all." He didn't see another car in the parking lot.

"I walk," you say. "It's only a few blocks." Steve frowns. It's chilly tonight, and even if you do this all the time, he knows what kind of shit can be hiding in the dark of Hawkins.

"I'll drive you," he says. "Only if you want." You seem to hesitate for a second before nodding.

"Okay, Steve," you say, and smile. Steve doesn't bother to hide his answering grin. It feels like a win. It feels like more than that, really. It feels like the start of something.

You're on his couch, legs tucked under you, some movie playing in the background that neither of you is watching. You're talking about your week, about work, about nothing important. And then you say it.

"Steve, I think we should talk about something."

Steve's stomach drops. Those words. Those three words that never, ever lead anywhere good. We should talk. His stomach twists.

He's heard them before. From Nancy. From his dad. From every person who's ever looked at him and decided he wasn't enough.

He doesn't want you to think he's not enough, too.

"Yeah?" He tries to keep his voice steady. Tries to ignore the way his heart has started pounding. "What's up, sweetheart?" The endearment slips out automatically, because that's who he is with you. Even scared, even spiralling, he can't talk to you without softness.

You're quiet for a second, looking down at your hands, and that silence is worse than anything. He watches you bite your lip, watches you gather your words, and every second feels like an hour. You're nervous.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," you say slowly. "About us. About where we're going."

Steve can't breathe. You're breaking up with him.

And I... I just — I don't know if this is—" You pause, shaking your head. "I'm not saying this right."

He doesn't hear the rest. He can't. Because all he hears is I've been thinking about us and I don't know if this is and his brain fills in the blanks with the worst possible words.

Working. What I want anymore. Worth it.

He stands up so fast you startle.

"Steve?"

He looks at you — at your confused, beautiful face — and even now, even with his heart cracking open in his chest, all he feels is overwhelming tenderness. He can't be mad at you, not even when you're breaking his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is soft, so soft, because he can't ever be anything else with you. "I'm sorry, angel, I just — I need a minute. Okay? I just need a minute."

He's moving before he knows it, grabbing his keys, heading for the door. He hears you call his name, hears the confusion in your voice, but he can't stop. He can't stay in that room one more second or he'll fall apart right in front of you.

But even as he leaves, even as he's running, he closes the door gently. Because it's your door. Because you're on the other side. Because he'd never do anything to hurt you, even accidentally, even now.

He makes it to his car. Sits there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing.

His chest hurts.

It actually hurts, like someone's reached inside him and is squeezing his heart in their fist. He can't breathe right. His lungs won't work. He tries to take a deep breath and it gets stuck halfway, a horrible stuttering inhale that does nothing to help.

You're leaving. You don't want him anymore.

The thought circles in his head like a song stuck on repeat. He knew this would happen. He knew it. People always leave. They always figure out that he's not worth the trouble. He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he can physically push the pain away.

He should drive away. He should go somewhere, anywhere, and deal with this alone. But he can't make himself start the car. He just sits there, hurting, waiting for something he doesn't understand.

Then there's a knock on his window.

He looks up, and you're there. Standing in the driveway wearing your house slippers, your face worried and confused and... and not cold. Not distant. Not looking at him like he's something you're about to throw away.

"Steve." Your voice is muffled through the glass. "What's going on? Baby, please open the door."

He looks at you — shivering a little, eyes so concerned — and even through the fog of his own pain, all he feels is you're going to get cold. So he reaches over and unlocks the door.

You open it immediately, crouching down to his level. Your eyes scan his face, and whatever you see there makes your expression crumble.

"Steve. Honey. What happened?"

He laughs. It's not a nice sound. "You know what happened. You said—" His voice cracks. He has to stop, swallow, try again. "You said we needed to talk. About us. About whether this is—" He can't even say it.

But even saying that, even voicing his worst fear, he reaches out and touches your face. Just lightly, his fingers brushing your cheek, because you're right there and he can't not touch you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I'm making this harder. You're trying to do this gently and I'm — I'm making it worse. You don't have to explain, sweetheart. I understand."

You stare at him for a long moment, looking entirely confused. "Steve. I was trying to ask if you wanted to move in together."

He blinks. "What?" What?

"I've been thinking about us," you say slowly, carefully. "About where we're going. And I wanted to ask if you'd consider — if you'd want to—" You take a breath. "I want to live with you. That's what I was trying to say. I just didn't know how to ask without sounding desperate."

Steve stares at you. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't move it.

"You want to move in with me."

"Yes."

"With me. Me, living together. With you?"

"Yes, Steve."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I thought you were breaking up with me."

Your face crumples with realisation. "Oh, baby. Oh, no."

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because you look upset and he hates that, he hates that he made you look like that. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have — you were trying to talk to me and I just—"

"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, mirroring him. "Stop apologising. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I thought I was losing you." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "And I couldn't — I couldn't breathe. I still can't breathe." His voice breaks. "I love you so much. I couldn't even be mad. I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me."

You make a sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and then you're climbing into the car, into his lap, wrapping yourself around him.

"You idiot," you whisper against his neck, but you're crying, and you're holding him so tight. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. I'm right here."

Your arms lock around his neck, your face presses into the warm space where his shoulder meets his throat, and you hold him like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

He feels your breath against his skin, feels the dampness of your tears soaking into his collar. You're crying. For him. Because he's hurting.

"I'm here," you whisper against his neck, your voice thick but steady. "I'm right here, Steve. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His hands spread across your back, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. "Angel," he breathes, and it's barely a sound. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ran."

You shake your head against his neck, holding him tighter. If you could, you'd crawl inside his chest and curl up next to his heart. You'd wrap yourself around every bruised, broken part of him and never let go.

"Don't be sorry," you murmur. "Just let me hold you. Okay? Just let me hold you."

He nods against you, and you feel his arms tighten around your waist. His shaking is subsiding.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. Your thumbs trace his cheekbones, brush away the tears tracking down his skin.

"I love you," you tell him, slow and deliberate, because he needs to hear it, because he needs to understand. "I love you, Steve. You hear me?"

He laughs, watery and weak. "I hear you."

"Good." You press your forehead to his. "Because I need you to know it. I need you to believe it."

His hands come up to cover yours where they rest on his face. He turns his head, just slightly, and presses a kiss to your palm. "I'm trying," he whispers. "I'm trying to believe it. It's just hard when—" He stops, swallows. "When no one ever has. Stayed, I mean."

"I know." You kiss the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering. "I know, baby. But I'm not them. I'm me. And I'm staying."

He looks at you — really looks at you — and for the first time since you said those terrible, wonderful, misunderstood words, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"You're cold," he murmurs, because you are, because you're shivering in your house slippers and thin pyjama shirt.

"I don't care about cold."

"I care." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Let's go inside, angel. Please."

You nod, but you don't move. You just keep looking at him, your hands still on his face, your eyes soft and warm.

"I'm okay," he tells you quietly. "I'm okay now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiles, small and shaky but real. "You're kind of magic, you know that?"

You shake your head. "I just love you. That's all."

He shifts you carefully in his lap, getting situated, and then he's opening the car door and climbing out with you still in his arms. You don't protest — just tighten your hold on his neck and let him carry you.

He kicks the door closed and starts toward the house, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.

"You're so warm," you murmur against his neck.

"You're freezing." He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer.

He carries you up the steps to the porch, careful and steady, then nudges the front door open with his hip. He carries you over to the couch and sits down carefully, settling you in his lap. You curl into him immediately, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart.

He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, "I love you," he whispers into the quiet.

You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw. "I love you too. So much."

He looks down at you, at your face soft and open and full of love for him, and something in his chest finally settles.

"So," you say, your eyes bright. "About that moving in conversation..."