Mal ♡

It had been two months.

Two months since Y/n Stark had last seen her dad. two years since he had snapped his fingers, saving the universe. She had watched the light fade from his eyes as she sobbed, repeating how he’d be fine and yelling out for someone to help.

Y/n had refused to leave Tony’s side, holding onto his lifeless body, half expecting him to wake back up and everything to be like how it was before. But he didn’t. Pepper had to tear Y/n away from him. She wailed for days after that, refusing to eat or see anyone

She felt like she had lost a part of herself that day, the part that used to draw family portraits of Pepper, Tony, Happy and her all holding hands, or that used to play hide and seek in his lab, giggling when he inevitably found her stashed away in one of his suits.

“Y/n, are you alright?” Pepper gently asked, her hand resting on Y/n’s shoulder, ruffling the sleeve of her black dress.

Y/n offered a small weak twinge of a smile, nodding her eyes glazed over. “Yeah, of course,”

Pepper just nodded, looking at her with pity, before turning back to greet the guests who had started arriving at the cabin for Tony’s funeral. This all felt like some kind of cruel joke.

She turned around to Pepper, who was mid conversation with Steve Rodgers, “I…” Her voice caught. She cleared her throat. “I think I left something upstairs.”

Steve and Pepper watched silently as Y/n bolted up the stairs, heading to her room, hot tears finally beginning to run down her face before she could even reach for her door. Her breath caught in her throat as she fiddled with the handle, heading inside and instantly sprawling herself out on her bed.

She shifted uncomfortably, feeling something dig into her back and a slight rustling under her. She sat up, turning to see an envelope lying now slightly crumpled on her comforter.

She sniffled, tilting her head in confusion. Her brows knitted together. She hesitantly picked up the envelope that was addressed to her, tearing open the seal and pulling out a folded up letter.

Y/n carefully unfolded it, a single tear falling onto the paper, staining it. Her eyes drifting to the top of the page, it read:

‘Dear y/n, I’m writing this before we attempt this whole time heist. I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately, one of them just so happens to be you, kiddo. I have a feeling I won’t make it out of this one, and if I don’t, there are a few things I need to say to you just in case I don’t ever get the chance again’

Y/n’s breath hitched with each sob as she read every word.

‘Firstly, I’m sorry I couldn’t always be the dad you needed or the kind of dad the other kids your age had. I know firsthand how that feels, and I wanted to be better, so I hope in your eyes I’m not a total screw up.

Secondly, I need you to stop blaming yourself. I know you better than anyone, which means I know exactly what your brain is going to do after this. You’re going to replay every conversation we ever had. Every argument, every time you rolled your eyes at me, every time you left me on read, every stupid little thing, and somehow you’ll convince yourself that if you’d just done one thing differently, I’d still be here, Kid, that’s not how this works. None of this is your fault.

Third, I know I never told you this enough, but I am now so, so proud of you. You’re always going to be my little girl, but I’m also so incredibly proud of the woman you are becoming. You’re so much smarter than I was at your age in every way that matters, always know that.’

The letter crumped under her fingertips from where she had been holding it too tightly, and big tear stains soaked the ink on the page, only making her cry more. Her eyes fell to the last few paragraphs, her heart breaking as she continued reading.

‘ And lastly, please take care of everyone because Pepper is too stubborn to admit she is feeling this just as hard as everyone else, so look out for her.

Morgan is too little right now to remember everything, so make sure to tell her all the good stuff about me. Maybe leave out the womaniser part you had to go through until she’s old enough.

Make sure happy is okay. And please, for the love of god remind him never to regrow that goatee and tell Spiderboy that it’s not his fault either. Don’t push him away, he needs someone right now that’s not his good looking aunt.

You’re both too stubborn for your own good. You two need each other to lean on. Don’t go through this alone, y/n, I mean it.

I love you 3000 - Dad’

The words all blurred together, A broken sob escaped her before she could stop it.

She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth, but it didn’t help. Every sentence felt like another goodbye.

At the very bottom of the page, squeezed into the remaining space, was one final addition.

‘P.S:

kid, give parker a chance. He’s been looking at you like you hung the stars since you were fifteen.’

Y/n’s eyes widened, “Oh my God,” she sadly laughed through tears, she could practically hear his smug laugh.

A small knock came from the bedroom door, the door cracked open to reveal Pepper leaning in politely, “Just checking in,”

Y/n didn’t reply straight away, her lip trembled, her eyes finding the floor quickly.

“Have you read it yet?” Pepper breathed, making her way to sit next to Y/n, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in softly. Y/n’s head leaning into the crook of Pepper’s shoulder.

“He gave it to me the night before.” Even Pepper’s voice threatened to crack as she spoke. “He said- if things didn’t go his way.. to wait until you were ready.”

Y/n looked down at the letter, “I wasn’t ready.”

“I’m sorry.”

Silence settled between them. Finally, Y/n let out a heartbreaking broken cry, her shoulders moving with her rapid sobs, struggling to catch her breath.

“Sweetheart, it’s all going to be okay..” Pepper mumbled into Y/n’s hair, kissing her head gently, closing her eyes, holding her as she trembled.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

@ironinc

🔞 Distracted You decided to take a break from your day and play a online game with your friends, but before you can even start, it's impossible to concentrate when your boyfriend, Peter Parker, is being so distracting. He offers to let you sit on his lap while you play, not realizing his intentions aren't nearly as innocent as he pretends they are.

@boxofbonesfic

🔞 Play Pretend You play dumb to get help from some nerd in your Stats class, but end up biting off more than you can chew. 

@thollandsgirl2013

🔞 Love Stained You surprise Peter with kisses to test your new lipstick, leaving him covered in maroon marks. 🔞 His Favorite Breakfast Peter wakes up horny and needy in the morning and he takes you on the kitchen counter. 🔞 No Nut November Challenge It's November, Peter and Ned decided to join no nut November, it's a disaster for Peter.

@yasministration

🔞 am i doing this right? could i request summer, smut with peter. and the prompt “am i doing this right”

@alsofoundinpeas

🔞 A Little Tied Up When Spider-Man offers a surprisingly unconventional alternative to an ice pack, you find yourself agreeing, only to discover there's more to his touch than just superhuman strength.

@uhhhj13iguess

🔞 what you asked for teasing peter parker while he's patrollingggggg 🔞 the stages of us peter parker starts an internship at oscorp, matched into a robotics team led by you — you, who has peter believing in love at first sight. and despite every instinct in his body, peter can't help but fall further and more helplessly in love with you... even if you happen to have a boyfriend.

@iridescentparkers

🔞 lessons in sexting warnings: very suggestive! (18+)

“Before you do that, I wanted you to say hello to our guest for the week.” Happy said and pointed his thumb at the hallway to signal that he had someone out there waiting.

“Sorry, Happy. I don’t know if I’m in a stable enough mood to be nice to strangers right now.” You told him, but he was already opening the lab door to let someone in.

“He’s not a stranger. He’s an old friend of your dad’s. Don’t you know Peter?” Happy asked as a guy your age walked into the lab. Time slowed down and you could have sworn a gust of air hit you, causing you to stumble back a little. “Bliss” by Mariah Carey started to play in your head as the most beautiful stranger made eye contact with you. He was in an Empire State University t-shirt that fit him just tad too tightly, but only because he was so defined. Curly brown hair that was just the right amount of overgrown spilled into his eyes, which he shook out of the way. He gave you a smile that felt like you just quite possibly started the second immaculate conception in your uterus.

“Did you hear me?” Happy asked, making you realize you’d been standing there in silence as you gawked at the boy.

“Sorry, I have my headphones in.” You lied once you composed yourself enough to speak.

“No you do-.” Happy began to point out.

“Sorry, was did you say your name was?” You quickly cut Happy off so he didn’t expose your lie.

“Peter. We met a couple years ago before the uh, airport battle royale, if you will.” He told you, and even his voice was attractive. You stared at his face for a moment but struggled to place him. You remembered your dad introducing you to some of his new recruits, but you knew you would’ve remembered if you met this man before.

“I was the sticky one in the red suit.” Peter followed up, hoping it would jog your memory.

That’s when it clicked for you. The picture frame on your dad’s desk, untouched in the years since his passing. There was a boy in the picture making bunny ears behind your dad’s head, the same boy in red and blue pajamas you showed your dad videos of all those years ago. That nerdy kid from the videos had somehow turned into the captivating man in front of you in the years since your last seen him.

“Wait, you’re Peter? Peter Parker?” You asked, failing to hide your disbelief. Peter let out a shy laugh and nodded his head.

“That’s me. Sorry, you probably didn’t recognize me. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. Not since the um, well, it’s just been a long time.”

“Clearly.” You blurted, the quickly followed it up with, “I mean, what’s, uh, what’s new?”

“Not much. I’m in college, but I won’t bore you out the details. It’s really good to see you.” He said as he started to come closer to you.

“It is really good to see you too.” You replied, finally sounding normal just as he enveloped you in a hug. You stiffened in surprise before hugging him back. The scent of his cologne wafted off his skin and if he hadn’t been holding you so tightly, you might’ve collapsed on the floor.

“Sorry. I just don’t see many familiar faces lately.” Peter said sheepishly once he pulled away. From how tightly he hugged you, you could tell he really needed it. You had no idea what had happened to him since the last time you saw him, but the sadness in his eyes now told you it wasn’t good.

“It’s okay.” You assured him as you held his gaze. To make matters worse, he had the softest brown eyes you’d even seen. Much to your dismay, you were officially enamored with this man.

“Peter is staying here for the week while he’s home from college.” Happy told you. “Would you mind showing him around? I put his room right across the hall from yours.”

“Of course you did.” You mumbled.

“I can wait outside if you’re still working.” Peter offered politely.

“It’s okay. I need to clear my head a little anyway.” You decided and shoved what you were working on away from you.

As you led Peter through the halls of Avengers Tower, you made absolutely no eye contact with him. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself any further, so you made no effort to make conversation.

“It really is good to see you. It’s been such a long time. So many things have changed.” Peter said to break the silence. You allowed yourself just one glance at him, and immediately caught sight of his enormous bicep. You quickly looked away and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Yes, they most certainly have.” You replied.

“What was that you were working on?” He asked you on the elevator ride to the main floor.

“Just some stupid blueprints that I can’t get to work.” You sighed. “I think just gonna scrap it.”

“What’s it for?”

“I’m trying to make a bracelet for kids that can scan food and detect allergens. It’ll buzz and turn red if they can’t eat the food. But I can’t get it to stop exploding. And I don’t think parents want their kids to explode. Or, maybe they do, and I have a genius invention on my hands.”

“That’s an incredible idea. I don’t think you should scrap it. One of them has to not explode, right?” He asked. His encouragement sounded sincere, making you even more in love with him. You decided to probe for reasons to not be attracted to him, since that would be the only way for you two to coexist while he stayed at the Tower. You brought the tour to the kitchen and showed him the inside.

“This is the kitchen. You probably won’t use it much.” You assumed. “I know most guys our age are all about protein maxxing and pre-workout inhaling.”

“Not me, actually. I love to cook. I make all my own meals. It feels better to eat it knowing I prepared it.” Peter told you, because of course he loved to cook.

“Is that so?” You asked with a dry mouth.

“Yeah! I could show you sometime, if you like. What do you like to eat?” He asked.

“Well, I think my favorite food is something my best friend’s mom used to make a lot when we were kids. They’re called tostones. She made them the perfect amount of salty and crispy.”

“Hm. I haven’t heard of that, but it sounds really good. Are you two still friends?” Peter wondered, making things ten times worse. Asking questions to get to know you was not helping you not fall for Peter.

“We are. It’s just harder to find time for a family dinner nowadays.”

“I bet. Happy told me how busy you are. From what he said, it sounds like you’re ready to take over Stark Industries any day now.”

“That’s the goal.” You admitted. “It certainly pays to be a Nepo baby in a field I actually really enjoy.”

“Hey, you may be Tony Stark’s daughter, but you’re inheriting the company because you earned it.” Peter said sincerely. “I’ve read about the stuff you’ve made. You’re brilliant.”

“Oh, thank you.” You smiled shyly at the compliment. “I remember that you are as well.”

“I wouldn’t say brilliant. I’m nowhere near your level. But I know what to do when I’m in there.” Peter shrugged modestly, highlighting his perfectly broad shoulders.

“I bet you do.” You whispered.

“What did you say?” He asked.

“I asked what you like to do?” You lied. “Physics? Engineering? Chemistry?”

“I love it all. But I think engineering. I made these, actually.” He said as he clinked his wrists together. Two black bands formed on each wrist and he held them out for you to see.

“What do they do?”

To answer your question, Peter shot a web at a flower pot across the room. He yanked it back, caught he effortlessly, and then handed you the flower. You felt your face warm up and accepted it with a soft smile.

“You created those yourself?” You asked him with amazement.

“Yeah. It took me forever to get the web formula right. And then when I did, I had to reconfigure the shooter a thousand times to get it to stop sticking to the inside when I tried to shoot them. But now they work well. See?” He shot another web, but you weren’t sure what he was aiming for this time. You were too fixated on watching his veins when he flexed his forearms.

“Oh, I see.” You said under your breath.

“What was that?”

“I said it’s this way to our rooms.” You quickly covered up and faked a smile. You showed Peter to his room and then got out of there was fast as you could. You leaned against your door after shutting it and stared up at the ceiling as you caught your breath.

Once you were composed, you slipped the Kimoyo beads off your wrist and used them to call Shuri. When she answered, she appeared as a holographic projection in your room. You caught up with your friend for a little bit, but when she asked why you called out of the blue, you had to confess.

“You know Spider-Man?” You asked her.

“The sticky one? Only a little bit.“

“Have you ever seen him without his mask?”

“I have. At your father’s funeral.” She responded. That answer brought you right back to that day at the cabin. You vaguely remembered seeing Peter that day, but the day was mostly a blur. It suddenly made sense why he didn’t specify the last time you saw each other. He didn’t want to bring back bad memories for you.

“Why do you ask?” Shuri asked, pulling you out of your thoughts.”

“No reason.” You lied. “I just had a quick question about him.”

“I don’t know him too well, so I might not know the answer. What were you wondering?”

“Oh, not much. Just when did he, you know…” You trailed off at the end and gestured with your hand for her to fill in the blank.

“I don’t know.” Shuri said with a laugh.

“You know. Was he always so…” You tried again and gave her a look.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Shuri told you.

“When did he get so fucking hot?” You blurted, followed by you looking at your door to make sure it was shut. Shuri bent over laughing as your entire face heated up.

“I don’t know.” She said when she stopped laughing. “He got bit by that spider.”

“How swol was the spider?” You asked out of the corner of your mouth.

“I think I was told it was radioactive. I don’t remember if I was told about its muscle composition.” She replied, making you roll your eyes.

“I don’t know what to do, princess.” You groaned. “He’s staying here for the week, but I can’t be around him. He’s too sexy. I just tried to show him around the kitchen, and all I could think of was riding on a horse with him and holding on to his gigantic shoulders for support. How am I supposed to stay across the hall from him?”

“If you’re that attracted to him, ask him out.” Shuri said simply.

“I can’t. I can tell that he’s a really nice guy. I don’t want him to think I’m shallow and just trying to hop on that because of his looks. He deserves better than that.”

“Are you trying to hop on that?” Shuri asked, gathering from context clues what you meant by that.

“Oh yeah. Ohhhhh yeah. All day.” You answered, making her laugh again.

“Maybe he’ll be flattered.” She shrugged.

“I don’t think he’s that kind of guy. Which makes it even worse. He’s a gentleman. God, I wish I was dead.” You whined and flopped on your bed.

“People have worse problems.” She reminded you.

“No, I don’t think they do. His eyes are so brown, princess. You have no idea. They’re like the Willy Wonka chocolate river. And I feel like that little fat fuck that got too greedy and fell in.”

“Do I know Willy Wonka?” Shuri asked. “Has he been to Wakanda?”

“Honestly, probably.” You replied. “But no, you don’t know him. Oh my God. What am I gonna do?”

“I think if you’re worried about him thinking you’re shallow, then get to know him first. Maybe you’ll discover you don’t actually like him.” Shuri suggested. You sat up on your elbows and stared at a picture of your dad on your dresser. It was time to come clean about the other reason that had been eating away at you.

“Him thinking I’m shallow isn’t my only reason.” You admitted. “My dad only knew about Peter because I showed him the videos of him. He believed in him because I believe in him. If I mess this up with Peter, it’s like I’m cutting on one of my last remaining ties with my dad.”

“Maybe the reason your dad liked him so much was because he reminded him of his daughter.” Shuri said softly. You thought about her words and as much as you wanted to believe her, you were scared.

“You’re very wise.” You said finally. “Someone should put you in charge of country or something.”

“They should.“ She played along. You moved on and talked about other things, but a corner of your mind stayed on Peter.

When you walked into the kitchen the following morning, Peter was already in there. You were about to turn around to leave when he called you over.

“Good morning. Look what I got at the bodega.” Peter said and held up a bunch of plantains.

“Good morning.” You said back. “What’s that for?”

“Well, I looked up tostones after you mentioned them yesterday, and they looked delicious. And since you haven’t had them in a while, I thought we could make it together.”

“You went out and got plantains because I mentioned that they were my favorite?” You asked slowly.

“Sorry, is that weird?” Peter frowned and put the bunch down.

“No, no, no!” You quickly assured him. “It’s not weird at all. I just wasn’t expecting you to do something so nice after how crappy my tour was yesterday.”

“It couldn’t have been that crappy if I found my way back to the kitchen today.” Peter pointed out.

“That’s true.” You smiled. “Let me see your recipe.”

You helped Peter make the tostones and decided your plan to avoid him would start tomorrow. When they were ready, you sat down together at the table to try them.

“Are they as good as your friend’s mom’s?” He asked you between bites.

“Not quite. But still very good. Thank you for doing this. I haven’t had them in so long.”

“You’re very welcome. I wanted you to have a taste of something familiar since you don’t get to see your friend as much.”

“That was very kind of you. I can’t wait to send her a picture of these.” You told him. “She’s gonna be so jealous.”

“Wait, we should invite her!” Peter realized. “I’d love to meet your friends.”

You froze when he said this, suddenly feeling the urge to run away. He had already gone out of his way to make your favorite food, and now he was saying he wanted to meet your friends. Things were getting too real and you needed to leave.

“Um, I’m so sorry.” You said as you stood up. “I just realized I forgot to do something. I have to go.”

You left the room without further explanation, leaving Peter alone and extremely confused.

The next day, you skillfully avoided Peter in the kitchen at breakfast, and again during lunch. It wasn’t until you walked by the gym that you were no longer able to avoid him. It was your fault really, since you did a double take when you saw him doing pull up’s on the chin-up bar. It became extra your fault when you stopped to watch him.

“Oh, he’s ripped as fuck? Amazing. Just what I wanted to find out.” You mumbled sarcastically to yourself.

You were only there for a few seconds before he made eye contact with you. It was too late to take off running, despite how much you wanted to do exactly that.

“Oh, hey!” Peter greeted. “Can you come in here for a second?”

You contemplated running once more, but knew it wasn’t an option. Instead, you walked into the gym, right up to the man you were trying to avoid. His tight black tank top put all his new improvements on display, and you were fighting for your life not to pay attention to that.

“Hello, Peter.” You said calmly.

“I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.” He said as he continued to move up and down on the bar.

“Talk to me? About what?” You asked and prayed for a bolt of lightening would strike that specific part of the Tower so that you would have an excuse to leave the conversation.

“Could you please wait a minute for me? I just have a few more reps.” He said, with manners he just had to have. You stared up at the ceiling to wait for him to be done.

“Take your time.” You squeaked out. He let go of the bat when he was finished and lifted up his shirt to wipe his face with it, giving you a full view of his torso.

“Fuck. My ovaries.” You whispered.

“Did you say something?” Peter asked as he continued to dry his face.

“I said there’s towels over here.” You covered up and grabbed a nearby towel. Without looking, you handed it to him and tried to compose yourself.

“Thanks.” He smiled at you, but you didn’t look at him.

“You wanted to talk to me?” You reminded him.

“Yeah. Are you busy tonight?” He asked you as he dried himself off with the towel.

“I might be.” You said as you forced yourself to keep eye contact and not look anywhere else.

“If you’re not, would you want to come with me to this party?” He asked. “I don’t really know the guy who’s hosting, but some of my friends from high school are going.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I wouldn’t know anyone.”

“It’s okay. You can stay with me. I won’t leave you to talk to strangers. I hate when people do that.” He told you, making you smile softly.

“Yeah, I hate that too.” You said. “I guess I could come to a party.”

You regretted it as soon as you said it. You were supposed to be avoiding him, but it just wasn’t in your willpower to turn down the cute boy inviting you to a party and offering to stay with you the whole night.

“Great.” Peter grinned. “I’ll come by your room around 7?“

“I’ll be there. In my room. Around 7.” You said and pointed finger guns at him, because why would you possibly be cool ever? You quickly put your hands down and hoped for that lightning strike again.

“Sounds good. I’m gonna do some push ups now. You’re welcome to stay and watch, but it’s not my best angle.” He joked, making you let out an audible gulp at the thought of him at that angle. You quickly cleared your throat to cover up the sound.

“Yeah, I definitely don’t want to watch you do push up’s. That would be crazy if I wanted to watch that.” You said through a forced laugh. Things quickly became awkward, and you decided you had to get out of there as soon as possible.

“So 7?” You said, and Peter nodded. You gave him a thumbs up and practically sprinted out of the room after that. You ran all the way to your room and slammed the door behind you.

Peter gave you another reason to fall for him when he showed up at your door 5 minutes early. Punctuality was rare among boys your age, but of course a quality that Peter possessed. If his workout attire hadn’t been bad enough, now he was in a button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You opened the door and let out a small sound that you hoped Peter didn’t catch.

“Hi. You look beautiful.” He complimented you, making you instinctively smile.

“You don’t look too bad yourself.” You replied coyly. Peter smiled at you and offered his arm to walk you to the elevator. You thought he was going to press the button for the ground floor, but he went up to the roof instead.

“Where are we going?” You asked on the ride up.

“I was gonna swing us, if thats okay.” He said, making your heart pick up its pace.

“You want to swing me around the city in your big arms?” You asked before you could stop yourself.

“If that’s okay.” Peter repeated as he laughed.

“Yeah, yeah. That’s okay.” You told him and turned your face so that he couldn’t see you mouthing “Oh my God” to yourself.

When you got to the roof, Peter brought you to the edge.

“How does this work? Do I get on your back Bella and Edward style?” You asked him.

“Yes, actually.” He chuckled, taking you by surprise that he knew the reference. You shrugged and climbed on his back, getting enveloped in the scent of his cologne.

“Hold tight, Spider Monkey. And don’t worry. I won’t let you fall.” Peter said before shooting a web at a nearby building. Your dad was Iron Man, so heights did not scare you. What did scare you was getting attached to the feeling of holding Peter, which was admittedly a pretty great feeling. You let out a happy scream as he swung you from building to building. When you landed on the rooftop of where the party was, you fought the urge to hug him.

“Ready?” Peter asked you as he smoothed down his hair. You adjusted your outfit and nodded your head.

Once inside, Peter introduced you to his friends, Ned and MJ. You and MJ got to talking as Peter and Ned over some movie they had just seen. You liked watching Peter in this relaxed setting, but it wasn’t helping you to not fall for him. You stopped watching him and tuned back into your conversation with MJ.

You felt unexpectedly at ease with Peter’s friends. It didn’t feel like you’d just met that night and instead felt more like you’d grown up with them. They included you and got to know you, making you feel at home. Peter having a great groups of friends was yet another reason you were struggling not to fall for him.

“I’m really glad you said yes to tonight.” Peter told you once Ned and MJ walked off to refill their drinks.

“You are?” You asked him, feeling more comfortable around him now that you had some drinks in you.

“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to hang out with you, but I can never find you.”

“How strange.” You said through a fake laugh, because you 100% avoided him all day. Peter looked into your eyes for a moment with a shy smile on his face. You tried not to look back at first and looked all around the room, but your gaze eventually came back to him. You looked into his eyes and felt all your walls crumbling down.

“Can I say something and then we never talk about it?” Peter asked suddenly, making you freeze.

“Um, sure? You said nervously.

“I’m so sorry that I disappeared. After everything with your dad happened, I just couldn’t bear to come back to the Tower. But I should have.” Peter said with guilt in his voice. You were not expecting him to say this and blamed it on the alcohol.

“Peter, it’s fine.” You assured him. “You don’t have to apologize to me. You were his friend. We didn’t know each other.”

“I know. But I always felt guilty about not reaching out to see how you were. He loved you so much. And I loved him. I should have checked up on you. I should’ve gotten to know you.” Peter continued. You could see his eyes welling up with tears and didn’t know what to do. Without thinking it through, you put down your cup and pulled him into a tight hug. Peter immediately hugged you back and hurried his face in your neck.

“Now we’re the weirdos hugging in the middle of the party.” You said as you rubbed circle onto his back. He let out a laugh and hugged you tighter. He came up after another minute and rubbed his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I had to get that off my chest.” He said, looking shy now.

“It’s okay. And honestly, I should’ve reached out too. It was just all so crazy after he passed. But I saw the picture of the two of you on his desk all the time. I should’ve tracked you down. I should’ve gotten to know you.”

“At least we found each other now.” Peter said with a soft smile. You smiled back and nodded your head.

“At least we did.”

Ned came running back into the room you were in, interrupting your emotional moment. You were admittedly a little glad he did, because things were getting too real once again.

“Guys, they’re playing Spin the Bottle in the other room. In real life. Let’s go!” Ned said and pulled Peter’s arm.

“You coming?” Peter asked as he stumbled towards Ned.

“No thanks.” You shook your head. “I’m not really a kissing strangers type of gal. I just don’t think mono is for me.”

“Me neither.” Peter chuckled. “Maybe we can just watch and silently judge the players?”

You shrugged and followed him and his friends into the room. You didn’t really want to watch, but it would be a good preventative from another deep conversation with Peter. And so, you found a spot against a wall as others took their seats on the floor.

“What do you think about all this?” Peter leaned in close to you to ask. You gave him the side eye from how close he was and then looked away.

“I think someone of definately walking away from this with a cold sore.”

“Not that.” He laughed. “But I agree. I mean kissing for recreation.”

“Oh. I never thought about it like that. I guess I would say to each their own, but it’s not really my style.”

“Me either. I don’t want to kiss some stranger at a party with a bunch of people I kinda know watching. I think a kiss should mean something.” Peter said as he looked at you. You looked back for just a moment and then quickly looked away.

“So when you’re kissing for meaning, who is it with? Girls? Boys? A little bit of both?” You asked him. If he was gay, maybe it would help you get over your crush faster.

“Girls. Though, if you can believe it, I haven’t been too lucky in that department.” He said with a half hearted chuckle. You smiled in response but internally cursed that he wasn’t gay or a player.

“Well that’s probably because you’re hideous to look at.” You said bluntly, making Peter laugh. You cracked a smile but continued to avoid eye contact with him.

“Thank you. I was hoping you’d notice.”

“I’m teasing.” You assured him. “I was honestly stunned when you walked in the other day. I could not believe you were the same Peter my dad used to talk about.”

“Stunned?” He asked. “Why?”

“Because I would’ve remembered if you had that face.”

You folded your lips in after you said it, knowing you had said too much. You hoped he wouldn’t catch it and move on, but to no avail. Peter was leaning in closer to you with a big smile on his face.

“What about my face?” He asked with an amused look. You opened your mouth to respond, but were interrupted by everyone’s eyes turning to you. You looked down at the bottle on the floor and saw it was pointed in the gap between two players and set directly at you.

“It landed on you, miss Stark. Guess we have to kiss.” A guy you’d never met before said as he stood up.

“Oh, I’m not playing.” You smiled politely and turned back to Peter.

“You’re in the room. Rules are rules.” The guy continued as he walked towards you, making you and Peter slowly turn to look at him. You exchanged a look with each other before looking back at the guy.

“Well, the rules don’t apply to people who aren’t playing, so.” You said with zero politeness this time.

“Hey, if you have an issue, take it up with the bottle. Just give me a quick one. I’ll be gentle.” The guy chuckled and stood in front of you. Peter stepped in between you suddenly and pushed the guy back.

“She said she wasn’t playing.” Peter said sternly. The corners of your mouth tugged into a smile after seeing the fire in Peter’s eyes.

“Woah. Sorry, dude. I didn’t realize you were her boyfriend.” The guy said in a different tone than the one he used with you. You rolled your eyes at the guys sudden ability to be respectful.

“Don’t say sorry to me. Say it to her.” Peter demanded. “She should not have had to say no more than once before you got it through your thick skull.”

“I’m sorry.” The guy begrudgingly said to you. You didn’t say anything in response.

“Go on. Fuck off.” Peter ordered, and the guy walked away. Everyone was staring at you at this point and a few had their phones out to film, one of the perks of being the child of a micro-celebrity. You looked around the room and felt your face getting warmer by the second.

“I think I’m gonna go.” You whispered to Peter. You swiftly left the room and Peter followed after you.

“Are you okay?” He asked once you were alone in the next room.

“Yeah, it’s just not really my scene. Thank you for inviting me though.” You said sincerely and started walking to the door again.

“I can walk you home.” He offered.

“Don’t worry about it. Stay with your friends. I don’t want you to miss the party.” You assured him, mostly wanting to be alone after that last encounter.

“I don’t care about the party if you’re not there. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but I don’t want you walking alone.” Peter said as he gently caught your arm. You looked at where his hand was holding you and sucked in a little breath. Being protective of you was making it hard not to fall for him right then and there.

“Okay.” You decided. “We can walk together.“

And so you did. You walked side by side in silence all the way home. Peter had a no swinging and drinking rule, and you were both a little tipsy. But the cold New York air was helping you come back to your normal state of mind. The silence between you as you walked was comfortable, and you were grateful for that. You liked that he was someone you could be comfortable around without having to exchange any words.

“Brought her back safe, Parker?” Happy asked when the two of you entered the Tower.

“Yes, sir.” Peter said with genuine manners.

“Knew you would, kid. So, was this a date, or can I sleep peacefully tonight knowing you two are across the hall from each other? Because I’m not ready to be a grandfather.” Happy asked, making you start to choke on air. Peter clapped your back to help you out and you finally composed yourself.

“It wasn’t a date.” You finally croaked out. You looked over at Peter, was who surprisingly bright red.

“Not a date.” Peter agreed. “I just took her to meet my friends.”

“Good answer.“ Happy nodded. “Because your dad always told me any boyfriend of yours would have to go through Navy Seal level training before he was allowed to spend the night.”

“Again, not my boyfriend.” You stated as you glared at Happy for embarrassing you. Peter was smiling shyly and scratching the back of his head.

“Well if anything changes in the next 48 hours, let me know. I can have Peter sent off to bootcamp by the weekend. Night, you two.” Happy said before walking away. You and Peter stood there in silence for a minute, this time, a very uncomfortable silence.

“I’m gonna…” Peter finally broke the tension and pointed in the direction of your rooms.

“Right. Me too. Goodnight, Peter.” You said and forced a smile. Peter caught your eye and looked at you for just long enough to make your knees wobbly.

“Goodnight.” He said with a soft smile. You gulped and waited where you were until he was gone. When the coast was clear, you let out a loud sigh and rubbed your face. The week wasn’t up yet and you were losing the battle against falling for him more and more every day.

You eventually retreated back to your room, but you couldn’t settle down. Tonight felt very different between you and Peter, and you didn’t like how things ended after the connection you shared. After pacing your room for a full half hour, you decided to go knock on his door.

Peter just had to open his door with nothing on but a towel around his hips. You had caught Peter just coming out do the shower, and for some reason, he decided to open the door before getting dressed. He had another towel in his hand that he was rubbing back and forth on his damp curls.

“Fuck.” You practically shouted in his face. You instantly clamped your mouth shut and felt your eyes go wide.

“Um, what?” Peter laughed in confusion. You had to think quickly and your eyes landed on his phone cable on his night stand.

“Fuck…my phone charger. It’s broken.” You said weakly. “I guess. Can I borrow one?”

“Oh, sure. Come in.” Peter said and went back into his room.

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll wait here.” You said and kept your eyes glued to ceiling to stop probing him with them. His back was to you now, which was not helping anything. Even his back was hot.

“You can come in. I want to show you something.” He said as he turned back to face you. Your eyes instinctively dropped to his waistband before going back up to his eyes.

“Show me something?” You asked in a low voice.

“One second.” He said and went into his connected bathroom. You blew out a breath once he was gone and fanned yourself. After emotionally connecting with him at the party, he just had to remind you why he caught your eye in the first place.

Peter came back after a minute in his pajamas, thankfully. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his desk drawer and handed it to you.

“What’s this?” You asked as you took it.

“Your scrapped design for the allergy bracelet. I hope it’s okay that I took it out of the trash. I thought it was too creative to throw out. But it was super crumpled, so I rewrote it as best as I could.”

“You saved my design?”

“Yeah. I think if we look at it together, we can figure out what’s missing. Maybe we can get it to stop exploding?” He asked hopefully. Thus, reminding you of the other reason you liked Peter. He was incredibly thoughtful.

“Thanks, Peter. That was really nice of you.” You smile softly as you looked up at him.

“It’s no problem. I had to save it. You’re an amazing inventor. You are totally going to run the world one day.” He said with a shy smile on his lips.

“If I don’t blow it up first.” You replied. It suddenly dawned on you how close you and Peter were. He was just inches away, close enough for you to smell the body wash he just used. You gulped a little and hoped it wasn’t as audible to him as it sounded to you.

“I don’t think you will.” He said softly. “And even if you did, you’d probably do it in a really cool way.”

He was so close now that a droplet from his hair landed on your shirt. You could see every freckle on his nose. He has creases by his eyes, something you somehow hadn’t noticed before despite all your staring at him. Peter seemed to be getting closer by the second, and you suddenly remembered you were not supposed to be falling for him. You pulled away and cleared your throat, leading him to do the same. He turned his face so you wouldn’t see his disappointment and grabbed a phone charger off his desk.

“Uh, here.” He said quietly and handed it to you.

“What’s this for?” You frowned.

“You said yours was broken.” He reminded you.

“Oh.” You laughed in embarrassment. “Right. I did say that.”

You and Peter stood in uncomfortable silence once again. You had come over to smooth things out, but somehow managed to make things feel worse.

“I should probably go.” You said, not bothering to hide how defeated you felt.

“Oh, yeah. I should probably get some sleep.” Peter said without looking at you. The vibe in the room had become palpably bad, but you didn’t full understand why.

“Goodnight, Peter.” You said for the second time that night.

“Goodnight.” He answered with a smile you knew was fake. You saw yourself out and shut your bedroom door behind you before dramatically throwing yourself on your bed.

For the next two days, you got serious about avoiding Peter. You made FRIDAY scan rooms for him before you left your own so that you wouldn’t run into him. If he did come into a room you were in, you made up a quick excuse to leave. You had nearly 48 hours of success avoidance of Peter until he found you on a late night trip to the kitchen to get string cheese.

“Can we talk?” Peter asked, making you jump in surprise. He had concealed himself behind the open refrigerator door so you didn’t know he had entered the kitchen.

“I can’t. I am extremely busy.” You lied as one of your cheese sticks fell on the floor. Peter bent down and picked it up for you.

“I feel like you’re avoiding me.” He said as he handed it back.

“What?” You forced a laugh. “What would make you think that?”

“Because ever since the night of the party, I haven’t seen you. You find an excuse to leave the room as soon as I walk in. You’re always running off if I try to talk to you. You don’t even look at me anymore.”

“Peter, I’m not avoiding you. I just have to leave the room a lot.” You lied, already feeling guilty for what you’d been doing. He sounded so upset and it was killing you.

“Did I do something to offend you? Because if I did, I am so sorry. Please tell me so I can make it right.” He pleaded. You felt a pit form in your stomach knowing you had caused him to feel punished for something he did not do. And yet, you did not have it in you to come clean.

“Yeah, actually.” You lied. “You did.”

“What was it?” Peter asked desperately. “Something I said?”

“Uh huh.” You weakly went along with whatever he said.

“Can you tell me what it was?” He begged.

“Wow.” You blew out a breath. “You really don’t remember?”

“No, I’m sorry. What was it?”

“I can’t believe this. How can you say the very offensive thing you said and not remember?” You asked him. You had dug yourself so deep now that there was no turning back.

“I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.“

“Wow, y’all, wow.” You shook your head. “You’ve changed, Peter.”

You walked away from him after that, feeling yourself well up with tears once he couldn’t see you. You hated yourself for letting things get to this point. You wished you hadn’t avoided him and just spoken to him, or at least not convinced him he did something to hurt your feelings. You went to your room and wiped your face clean of your tears. The blueprint Peter had rewritten for you that was sitting on your desk caught your eye. You picked it up and looked at it again, admitting the swoops and slopes of his handwriting. That’s when you noticed something at the bottom.

“Genius girl, don’t give up. The world needs you to keep going.” He had written to you.

“Ohh, so I’m a massive bitch.” You said decidedly to yourself. You put the blueprints back down and went straight to Peter’s room to set things right. He opened the door after the second knock, looking that he too had shed a few tears.

“Can I come in?” You asked him. He didn’t say anything, but nodded his head as he stepped to the side. You sat down on his bed and he sat beside you.

“Peter, I’m so sorry.” You began. “I’ve been such a jerk to you.”

“What’s going on?” He asked in a quiet voice. “What did I do to offend you?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” You assured him. “You have been completely perfect since the moment you got here.”

“Then why have you been avoiding me?” He wondered. You looked into his eyes and let out a sigh. It was now or never to make things right.

“I just don’t know how to talk to you.” You admitted to him.

“Oh. I mean, I can kinda understand that. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“A really long time. And I wasn’t expecting you to be so…” You trailed off and felt your face warm up.

“So what? Annoying?”

“What? No.” You quickly assured him and shook your head.

“So weird? So rude?” He kept asking.

“Nope. Not those either. So, ummm….whats the word I’m looking for?” You asked and clicked your tongue.

“So what? What is it?” Peter put his hand on you shoulder and leaned it to ask you. You stared at him like a deer in the handsome headlights and blinked.

“Hot.” You said in the smallest voice you could muster.

“What was that?” Peter asked and leaned in closer to hear you better.

“So hot.” You said louder and flung your hands in frustration, making Peter jump back at the sudden loud noise.

“I heard you the first time, I just didn’t believe it.” Peter admitted out of the corner of his mouth. “You’re telling me you haven’t talked to me the last few days because you think I’m hot?”

“That’s what it was at first.” You confessed. “But it’s changed now.”

“I’m not following.” Peter told you, making you sigh.

“Look, Peter. When you first walked in, I was stunned, like I told you at the party. Because the last time I saw you, you were this excitable 14 year old kid who was filming himself doing parkour on top of buildings. And now…” You trailed off again and gestured to all of him.

“Now?” He asked, looking down at outfit as if you were referring to his clothes. You let out a groan and rubbed your face with your hands.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” You whined.

“Yes, actually.” He said firmly, making you groan again. You gave him one last look before letting all your bottled up feeling out.

“Now, you look like Zeus, and I’m sure you have the lightening rod to match. I literally cannot look at you without getting bricked up. When you opened the door the other night in just your towel, I was like oh okay, I’m 21 weeks along, and it might be twins. When you were doing pull up’s in front of me, I had to clench my legs together to not flood the whole Tower and the surrounding neighborhoods. Probably New Jersey too, if we’re being honest. And if that’s not bad enough, you cook my favorite foods and ask to meet my friends. You stand up for me and make douche bags apologize for making me incompatible. You save my freaking scrapped designs and compliment my mind. You’re too perfect! So no, I can’t talk to you!” You finally said, shouting by the end of it.

Peter leaned back and stared at you with a stunned expression for a long time. You stared back with your lips folded in, not moving a muscle. This staring contest went on for quite some time since there was really no appropriate response to what you had said. You may have gone for overkill, but you figured he deserved to know the truth after avoiding him for two days.

“Lighting rod?” He said finally, making you bury your face in your hands.

“Is that really all you heard?” You asked through your hands.

“I don’t really know what I just heard.” Peter admitted. “So you won’t talk to me because you think I’m too perfect?”

“I can’t talk to you because I didn’t want you to think I was throwing myself at you just because you got hot.” You explained. “But then, I started finding out you’re this too good to be true stand up guy who is also hot. So now I hate you and I can’t be around you.”

“If you feel that way about me, why didn’t you just tell me? I wouldn’t have exactly been mad if you threw yourself at me.” Peter told you, making you smile a little. He gave you a look and you were suddenly feeling a little silly for ever coming up with your plan not to fall for him before finding out how he felt about you.

“Because. You were friends with my dad. And I didn’t want to mess that up. And I’m really busy in the lab. And we barely know each other. And…” You trailed off as Peter leaned in closer to you.

“And?” He asked, tilting his head to the side. Your faces were just inches apart now and your eyes were locked on his lips.

“And I can’t take it anymore.” You decided before climbing into his lap to pull him into a kiss.

Tag List 🏷️

@thebookwormlife @imanativeofswlondondahling

@whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings

@imyourliquor-youremypoison @andreasworlsboring101

@peterparkoure

@justcallmehitgirl @jackiehollanderr

@emmamarshmellow @unbelievableholland

@sovereignparker @every-marveler-ever @undiadeestos @eridanuswave​ ​

@solarxmoonchild @canyouevencauseicant

@quaksonhehe @lovelessdagger

@thesuitelifeofafangirl @marshxx @nooneinvitedfascistbarbie

@maybemona

@alexxcorona113 @lethal-wisdom

@pandaxnienke

 @itsemohours

@olixerwxxd @leilanixx

@whereismytelephone @so-very-asleep

@spideyspeaches @hihiweezing

@mathletemadison  

@dhtomholland @insomniac-nerd-posts-things @prancerrparkerr

@hallecarey1 @adayasgeorgia @blackwidowisthebest @imawhoreforu

@ciarahollands

@nellabellaa @pinklxmonade @boogywoogywoogy @wordsarelife @caramelfondu

Lydia arched an eyebrow when she caught the direction you were staring. “God,” she muttered under her breath, “how is he still alive with motor skills like that?”

You tried to play it cool, texting something on your phone that you would absolutely not remember typing later. “He’s…uh. He’s fine.”

“Fine as in ‘not dying,’ sure,” she said. “Fine as in ‘hot’? Absolutely not.”

Your face heated. You prayed Lydia didn’t notice. Across the hall, Stiles shoved the pile of disaster into his locker, missed completely, and dropped everything all over again. He let out a frustrated noise, cheeks pink, mumbling to himself.

You quickly looked away. You weren’t supposed to think he was cute. Not when everyone else saw him as the weird, awkward loser who talked too fast and tripped over air.

But you did. God, you did. And you hated how much you wanted him.

You cleared your throat, forcing your voice steady. “Let’s just go. We’re gonna be late.”

Lydia linked her arm with yours. “Lord help the soul that ever hooks up with Stilinski,” she said casually, “He’d probably shove it in the wrong place.”

You laughed like that idea was hilarious.

Like hooking up with stiles wasn’t something you fantasised about at night.

———————————————————————

You were barely listening when your teacher announced partners for the semester project. A couple names, some groans, flipping pages. You were scrolling through your phone under the desk while you waited for your name to be called.

“Stilinski…and Y/L/N.”

Your head shot up. Stiles froze in his seat two rows over, eyes wide like someone had pointed a gun at him. He looked at you, startled, almost apologetic, and completely unaware of the way your pulse jumped.

You sat up straighter, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear like you didn’t care at all. Like your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs. Lydia glanced at you from the next table. She was suspicious, and too perceptive for her own good.

You forced a shrug. “Ugh. Of course I get stuck with him.”

But inside? You were screaming. Absolutely thrilled.

Stiles awkwardly approached your table, nearly bumping into the chair behind him. “H-hey,” he said, voice cracking halfway through. “So…um. We’re partners.”

“Looks like it.” You crossed your legs slowly, pretending to be bored while you fought down a grin. “We’ll figure something out.”

His eyes flicked down to your legs, then up so fast you almost laughed. “Right. Yeah. Totally. I’m, uh, I’m good at biology. Well, not good. Medium. Like, average. But! I try hard.”

Lord help you, he was adorable. Too adorable.

You smirked in amusement. “I’m sure we’ll make a great team.”

He visibly swallowed, and boy did you love the effect you had on him.

———————————————————————

At lunch, you spotted Stiles before he saw you. He was at his locker, muttering to himself as he rummaged through an avalanche of papers. His flannel was rumpled, his backpack was sliding off one shoulder, and he kept ruffling his buzzed hair in these nervous, distracted little motions that made you want to grab him by the collar and ruin him against the locker door.

This was perfect. You needed to get him alone, needed to get him into your room and on your bed and…Focus.

You walked straight up and touched his arm. He jumped like you’d tasered him.

“Shit! Oh, hi,” he sputtered, hand flying to his chest. “Sorry, I didn’t, uh, see…Hi.”

You slid your hand down his forearm slowly, casually, like you weren’t imagining how you’d be dragging it down his ribs later. “Relax,” you said gently, giving him your best smile. “You free to come over today? We should start the assignment.”

He blinked. Twice. Then a third time for good measure. “Today?” His voice cracked on the word. “At your house?”

You almost laughed. Almost. The way his brain short-circuited at the idea of being someplace as private as your bedroom? God, it made you want to drag him into the nearest storage cupboard and kiss him breathless.

He looked like someone had hit him with a frying pan. Like a very confused, startled, incredibly cute frying pan victim.

You stepped closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his chin down just slightly to look at you. Close enough to let him know you were invading his personal space on purpose.

“Unless you’re busy,” you teased, voice dropping into something lower and sweeter. “But I figured getting a head start might be good.”

His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. He was goldfish-ing. “No, no! Oh my God, no, I’m not busy,” he blurted. “I’m, uh, I’m free. I’m completely free. Totally free. Like…aggressively free.”

You had to bite your lip hard to hold yourself back. This boy was going to kill you. “Good,” you murmured, leaning in just a little bit more. “I like a guy who’s…available.”

His eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts hitting him one after another, like dominos falling. Does she mean that? Is she joking? She smells really good. Why is she so close? Do NOT look at her lips. Oh god, I looked at her lips.

He did. He absolutely did. And you let him. You loved it.

“So,” you said softly, letting your fingers trail up the sleeve of his flannel before pulling back, “come over at five?”

He swallowed so hard you saw his throat bob. “Y-yeah. Yes. Five. I can do five. I’m, uh, very punctual. I can be earlier if you want earlier I can—”

“Five,” you repeated with a slow smile. “I want five.”

His ears turned pink. Deep pink. The kind of pink that told you he was fully imagining it - imagining being in your house, in your room, alone with you.

Good. That was the goal.

You stepped backward, walking away with deliberate sway in your hips, and he watched. He tried not to, but he absolutely failed. Just before you disappeared around the corner, you glanced back over your shoulder.

“Don’t be late, Stiles.” You called back to him, and he looked like he was about to faint at just the sound of you getting his name right. He stood frozen, locker still hanging open, looking like he had just been both blessed and attacked.

You couldn’t wait for five o’clock.

———————————————————————

You had spent the entire hour before five obsessively checking your hair, your outfit, your bed, your perfume, everything. It wasn’t nerves, it was strategy. You wanted Stiles walking into your room and short-circuiting so hard he forgot how to blink.

When the doorbell rang at exactly 4:59, you smiled. Of course he was early. Adorable. Your parents were out until late. Everything was perfect.

You opened the door, leaning one shoulder against the frame, a picture of effortless confidence. Stiles stood there gripping his backpack like it was a parachute and he’d just been thrown out of a helicopter.

His eyes dragged over you and stopped. Hard. “Oh,” he breathed. “Wow. I mean, hi. Hi. Sorry. Hi.”

You smirked. “Come in, Stiles.”

He obeyed instantly, like you’d flipped some internal switch. You led him up the stairs at a slow pace. Slow enough that he had no choice but to look at your legs, your hips, the casual sway you added just for him. And boy, did he look. He tried not to. But he did.

You closed your bedroom door behind you and paused, waiting for him to walk further inside before you.

He set his backpack down, clearing his throat. “S-so! Uh. Chapter five. Cell division. Pretty riveting stuff.”

You sat on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs, letting your already-short skirt ride just a little higher. “We can start there…if you want.”

Stiles sat in your desk chair like he was afraid it would bite him. He tugged at the strings of his hoodie, eyes darting everywhere but at you. You tilted your head. God, he was nervous. It was intoxicating.

He fumbled with the textbook. “Right, so, um…mitosis—”

You stretched out luxuriously on your side, fluffing your hair as your camisole lifted just enough to show a hint of stomach. “Stiles.”

“Mm?” His voice squeaked.

“You don’t have to pretend you’re not looking.”

He swallowed. Hard. “I wasn’t! I mean, I was, but I wasn’t…Looking is…sometimes it’s involuntary, like blinking, and—”

You laughed softly and patted the bed beside you. “Come sit over here. We’ll work better side by side.”

He hesitated, then stood and crossed the room like a man approaching a dangerous animal aware he might be devoured, but unsure if he minded. He sat beside you, leaving a polite gap. You closed that gap immediately, sitting up and sliding your thigh against his. His breath stuttered.

“Comfortable?” you asked, pretending innocence.

“Not even a little,” he whispered before he could stop himself.

Your smile grew. Good. You leaned over him to grab a pen from your nightstand, intentionally brushing your chest against his arm. Stiles went absolutely still, like you’d pressed a freeze button on him. When you sat back, your faces were incredibly close.

“Stiles,” you murmured, “why are you so nervous?”

He blinked rapidly. “Because you’re…You’re you. And we’re…we’re on your bed, in your room, and you’re wearing that and looking like that, and I’m…I’m a normal human man with, uh…organs.”

You snorted. “Organs?”

He covered his face with both hands. “Oh my God.”

You gently pulled his hands away. “I like when you ramble.”

“You do?” he said, completely thrown.

You nodded, voice dropping lower. “I like a lot of things about you.”

His cheeks flamed. “Name one.”

You leaned close enough that your lips almost brushed his ear. “Your smile. Or maybe it’s just your mouth in general.”

He made a helpless sound - half choke, half whimper. That sound ignited something deep and hungry in you. You pulled back, watching his pupils blow wide.

He was so into you. So flustered. So unbelievably, deliciously out of his depth. It drove you insane.

“Stiles,” you said softly, “do you know I’m flirting with you?”

He stared. “I…had suspicions?”

You bit back a smile. “No. I mean I am aggressively flirting with you.”

“You…are?”

You sighed dramatically, swinging a leg over his lap in one smooth movement, settling onto him with slow, deliberate pressure. His breath punched out of him. His hands shot to your hips like instinct.

You looked down at him, pinning him with your gaze. “Let me make it very, very clear.” You braced your hands against his shoulders, leaning in. “I want you, Stiles.”

A beat passed and his mouth fell open. “You…you do?”

You rolled your hips once, watching his eyes roll back just a little. “Yes,” you breathed. “I’ve wanted you, for a while.”

Stiles made another strangled noise. “You…? You want to…? To—”

“Hook up with you?” you finished for him. “Yeah. I do.”

His hands tightened on your waist. “Oh my God.”

You kissed him before he could spiral further. It was firm, slow, wanting. He gasped into your mouth, surprised but instantly responding, grabbing at you like he was afraid you’d vanish. He tasted like spearmint gum and nerves. He kissed like he’d fantasised about this just as much as you had.

You shifted closer and he pulled you tighter. You nipped at his bottom lip and he let out a soft, desperate sound you felt in your core.

You broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against his mouth. “Lie down.”

He did. Instantly. You loved how obedient and responsive he was. You crawled over him, hair falling around your face, watching him pant beneath you, eyes wide, chest rising quickly. He looked wrecked already. Overwhelmed. Turned on out of his mind. You kissed down his neck, slow and lingering.

He arched under you. “Oh God! Okay! Oh, wow, yes!”

You smiled against his skin. “Sensitive, huh?”

“N-not usually,” he managed, “but you…holy shit!”

You rolled your hips down onto his again, and his head thumped back against your pillow, a helpless moan slipping out before he could catch it.

“You like that?” you whispered.

“Yes,” he breathed, hands gripping your thigh, your waist, your back, anywhere he could touch. “Yes, fuck, yes.”

You kissed him again - messier, deeper, hungrier. He kissed back with enthusiasm that made your stomach flip, his hands skimming under your shirt, trembling but eager. You tugged off his hoodie. Then his shirt. He made a nervous little sound, like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands now that his brain was soup. You guided them to your hips.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

He did. Carefully at first. Then less carefully when you gasped.

“Stiles,” you whispered, “I want you.”

He swallowed, eyes blown black. “I—I want you too. So much. You have no idea.”

“Oh,” you murmured, grinding down deliberately, “trust me. I do.”

What happened next was a blur of heat and breathless laughter, of him whispering your name like it meant something, of you scraping your nails over his buzzed hair and watching him fall apart under you. He was needy and sweet and overwhelmed in a way that made your whole body thrum.

And when you finally pulled him fully beneath you, skin to skin, his voice broke on a sound that made your stomach drop into your knees. “God, you’re perfect.”

You kissed him breathless for that one.

————————————————————

The room smelled like you, and Stiles, heat and sweat and something that made your whole body hum like a live wire.

You lay on your back, sheets beneath you rumpled, hair a complete disaster across the pillow. Your breathing was slow and heavy, every nerve ending relaxed in a way you hadn’t felt in…a while. And fuck, you were satisfied. More than satisfied.

Stiles was lying beside you, flat on his back, hands still half-curled in the air like he hadn’t figured out what to do with them after using them so very well on you. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face bright red, wide eyes even wider than usual. He looked wrecked. Adorably, completely, wrecked.

You rolled your head to look at him. He immediately jolted like he’d been caught committing tax fraud.

“I swear I don’t usually do that, like that. I mean I don’t usually do anything, actually, I’ve literally never…Well, I mean, I have hands, obviously, so technically I’ve done things but not with a real person who’s, uh, alive. Oh my God, please tell me to shut up. Why aren’t I shutting up?”

You laughed softly, still breathless. “Stiles.” He shut his mouth instantly. You propped yourself on one elbow and let your eyes glide over him, slow and deliberate. His cheeks turned even redder. “I liked it.”

He blinked. “You…what?”

“I liked it,” you repeated, leaning closer. “A lot.”

Stiles sat up too fast - way too fast - and immediately fell off the side of your bed with a loud thump.

You dissolved into laughter. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he wheezed from the floor. “Totally fine. Nothing damaged except my dignity. Actually no, that’s been gone for years.”

He scrambled upright as he tugged his pants back on, tripping over your backpack, then your laundry basket, then nearly launching your lamp off the nightstand trying to steady himself.

You watched him, chest warm, a stupid smile tugging your lips upward. He was so nervous. So messy. So wildly flustered. And you were obsessed with him. More than before. Way more than before. And honestly? You were impressed. Stiles Stilinski - anxious, fidgety, always-apologizing Stiles - had been extremely good with his hands. Not confident, exactly…but diligent. Intentional. Focused like he was trying to ace a final exam he’d studied for all year. You wanted more. Immediately, if possible.

Stiles was finally pulling on his shirt when you decided to test something. You slid a hand along his bare back, nails lightly dragging.

He choked on air. “You’re…uh…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Literally. I’m gonna die.”

You smirked. “I’ll be gentle.”

“No, see, that doesn’t help—”

Before you could tease him further, you heard a door open downstairs. There was the echo of voices and keys hitting the kitchen counter. Your parents were home.

Stiles went white. “Oh! Oh God! Oh no! Nope! Nope, absolutely not. I cannot be here, I should not be here, your parents will shoot me, your mom will throw holy water at me. Where are my shoes?!”

“They’re right there,” you laughed, pointing.

He grabbed them, tripped over your rug, caught himself on your dresser, sent two perfume bottles toppling, caught those mid-air, looked proud, then hit his head on your open dresser drawer. “OH THE PAIN!” he whisper-screamed.

You buried your face in your pillow, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. He pulled his hoodie over his head and the zipper got stuck on his shirt, trapping him. You had to sit up to help him. He thanked you like you’d rescued him from a burning building.

Downstairs, your dad’s voice called, “Honey? We’re home!”

Stiles froze again. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”

You stepped close, fingers hooking the front of his hoodie, pulling him down into a slow, warm kiss. He melted instantly, grip tightening on your waist. When you pulled back, his lips were parted, eyes wide, breath shaky.

“I want to do this again,” you whispered.

Stiles stared like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “Y-you do?”

“Definitely.”

He made a soft, overwhelmed sound. “I…I’ll text you. Or you text me. Or we could, uh, coordinate schedules. God, I’m so sweaty! Is it hot in here? It’s hot in here—”

“Stiles,” you whispered, amused, “go.”

He nodded vigorously, kissed you one more time - quick but desperate - and bolted for the stairs, trying to tiptoe but failing miserably.

Halfway down he whispered-shouted, “I LIKE YOU SO MUCH, THIS IS TERRIFYING.”

You smiled into your pillow again. Yeah. You needed more of him. Soon.

————————————————————

You walked into school the next morning feeling…different. Not outwardly different. You still looked like yourself, still had your perfect outfit and mascara and the confidence everyone expected from you. But inside?

Inside you were warm. Glowing. Buzzing with the memory of the night before. Your body still hummed. Your brain still replayed his hands, his mouth, the way he’d looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And now, here he was. Stiles Stilinski, leaning against his locker, attempting (and failing) to open a granola bar without tearing it into shreds. His jacket was messier than usual, his hoodie slightly crooked, his shoelaces completely untied.

You couldn’t look away. Your eyes went straight to the faint red mark on his neck - the one you had put there. Heat curled through your stomach.

He spotted you before you could pretend you weren’t staring. His whole body froze like someone had hit the pause button. His eyes went wide, his face instantly flushed, and he accidentally crushed the granola bar in his hand. It exploded everywhere.

“Oh God, no! WHY? Why does food hate me,” he muttered, dropping to the floor trying to gather the crumbs.

Your lips curved into a smile you couldn’t hide. You walked toward him slowly, and he visibly panicked, eyes darting left-right-like he was calculating an escape route.

“Morning,” you said, low and warm.

Stiles nearly fell backward. “M-morning. Hi. Hello. HOW are you?” He articulated each sound like he’d forgotten how English worked.

You bit back a laugh. “I’m fantastic.”

He swallowed, staring everywhere except at you. When he finally met your eyes, it lasted half a second before he looked away like you were the sun.

“See you around, Stiles.” You winked at him and started to walk away, making sure to add a sway into your hips that made your skirt rise.

He was freaking out. And you found it adorable. Dangerously adorable.

You were still admiring him from your locker when Lydia suddenly appeared at your elbow like a stylish jump scare. “Why are you staring at Stilinski?”

You didn’t jump. You did not jump. Okay maybe you flinched a little.

Lydia narrowed her eyes. “You flinched.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” she said. “And you’re staring at him.”

“I’m not,” you said too fast. Way too fast. “He’s just…being weird. As usual.”

She raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. Stiles glanced over and saw Lydia looking at him. He immediately dropped all his textbooks. All of them. It was like his body couldn’t handle being perceived by Lydia Martin.

Lydia frowned, confused. “What is with him today?”

You shrugged, trying to look disinterested when all you wanted to do was pull Stiles into an empty classroom and kiss him until he forgot his own name.

“I have no idea,” you lied smoothly.

But Lydia wasn’t stupid. She followed your gaze back to Stiles, who was currently spinning in a circle because his backpack strap had gotten caught on his locker door and he didn’t realise it.

“…something is off,” she muttered.

You forced a dramatic sigh. “Lydia, nothing’s off. He’s always like that.”

“Hm,” she hummed, unconvinced, and marched off.

Stiles looked relieved like he’d escaped a predator.

You approached him again once Lydia was gone. He backed into his locker like you were cornering him. Like last night had short-circuited his entire nervous system.

“Oh shit,” he whispered, eyes flicking to your lips then away. “What are you doing? You’re still…you. And I’m still…me.”

You stepped closer, voice soft. “Is that a problem?”

Stiles made a noise that sounded like a dying kettle. “Not a problem. Just a…situation. A, uh, unique challenge.”

Your smile widened. “Stiles. Look at me.”

He did, for exactly one moment. And in that moment, his expression softened. It was almost reverent. Like he was remembering every second of last night. Like he wanted more but had no idea how to function now that he’d actually gotten you once.

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t expect. But then you heard footsteps, and Stiles practically launched himself away from you like the hallway floor was lava.

“I CAN’T TALK TO PEOPLE RIGHT NOW,” he blurted, speed-walking down the hall.

You pressed your lips together to hide your grin. God, the way he panicked after hooking up with you was almost just as fun.

————————————————————

He didn’t look at you for the next two classes. Correction, he didn’t look at you directly. But he stared. Constantly. Through the gaps between books. Around corners. Over his shoulder. In the reflection of classroom windows.

Every time your eyes met his - accidentally - he spun away like a malfunctioning Roomba.

During lunch, Lydia kept watching the both of you suspiciously.

After fourth period, you found Stiles at his locker again, pretending to look inside it even though it was almost empty. You walked past casually, brushing your fingers against his hand - just a graze, lightning quick.

Stiles shivered. Full body. You slipped a folded piece of paper into his palm. He looked down at it like you’d handed him a live grenade. He unfolded it, then stared at it, swallowed hard, then looked up at you. He didn’t speak, he just nodded. And it wasn’t nervous. Not this time. This time it was hungry.

————————————————————

You and Lydia sat on the bleachers like you always did, your skirts smoothed neatly beneath you, your bags dropped at your feet. Jackson and the rest of the team were running drills on the field, shouting, cursing, sweating. It all should’ve had your attention. Jackson was objectively good to watch. Everyone knew that. But your eyes weren’t on Jackson. They were glued to Stiles.

There he was in full lacrosse gear that looked like it weighed more than his entire body. His helmet was slightly crooked, he kept adjusting his gloves like they were personally torturing him, and his stick handling was…well, abysmal.

“God,” Lydia scoffed, flipping her hair. “Stilinski and McCall are actual public embarrassments. I swear to God, watching them play is like watching baby giraffes try to walk for the first time.”

You snorted on instinct, but your eyes were glued to Stiles’ thighs as he sprinted. Jesus. Why were his legs that good? You followed the way the muscles in them tightened, how his jersey clung to his back, damp from sweat. At one point he pushed his helmet up to wipe his forehead, and you got a full view of his messy, sweat-mussed hair, cheeks flushed pink.

And all you could think of was how he’d looked the night before. Flushed. Breathless. Gorgeous. You crossed your legs tightly and tried to play it cool.

“Totally,” you said, even though your voice came out breathier than intended.

Lydia didn’t notice. She was too busy dissecting Jackson’s technique and muttering coaching tips he’d never hear. But you kept watching Stiles. Watching the way he stumbled and caught himself. Watching the way he laughed at something Scott said, chest heaving with exertion. Watching the way the uniform clung to places you’d had your hands on last night.

And all you could think was, God, I want him again. I want him pressed against me in that stupid uniform. I want him sweaty and breathless for an entirely different reason.

He bent down to tie his shoe and you swallowed hard. You were done for.

Lydia elbowed you lightly. “You’re zoning out. What are you even looking at?”

“Uh, Danny,” you lied quickly. “His…form.”

Lydia hummed. “Hm. Must be a new angle, because you are staring awfully far down the field.”

You forced a laugh, but your stomach twisted. You had to get out of here before she put anything together. When the coach finally blew the last whistle, the team started heading toward the locker rooms.

Lydia stood, brushing off her skirt. “Practice is over. Want a ride home?”

Your heart thumped. You heard yourself say, light and airy, “Oh, no, I’m gonna stay back and study.”

Lydia paused, her eyes narrowing into that terrifyingly observant Lydia Martin look. “With who?” she asked, voice sharp in that sweet way of hers.

You shrugged with practiced casualness. “Just by myself.”

Suspicion colored her whole face. “You’re acting weird.”

“I’m acting completely normal,” you insisted. “You’re the one who’s been strange today.”

Thankfully she didn’t push further. She just gave you that look - like she’d circle back later - and grabbed her bag. “You better text me later,” she warned, heels clicking away down the bleachers.

You exhaled shakily as she disappeared. Then you grabbed your own bag and slid quietly beneath the bleachers, stepping into the shadowed space underneath. The air smelled like grass and dirt and old metal. The sound of the team laughing somewhere near the locker rooms drifted through the field.

You waited exactly where you’d told him to meet you in the note you’d slipped into his hand earlier. Your heart fluttered with anticipation, nerves, excitement. He’d come. You knew he would.

You leaned against one of the beams, pulse picking up at the thought of seeing him again. Of what you might end up doing to him if he let you. You bit your lip. God, you hoped he’d let you.

————————————————————

You heard the footsteps before you saw him. They were fast, uneven, like he’d jogged the whole way from the locker room. Then Stiles appeared through the shadows.

His hair was damp and sticking up in ridiculous directions, clearly from a rushed shower. A few droplets still clung to his temples. He wore low basketball shorts slung loose on his hips and his lacrosse jersey, the fabric stretching deliciously across his shoulders. His cheeks were pink from the heat of the shower, or nerves.

You swallowed. Hard.

“Hey,” he said, stopping short like he’d run face-first into an invisible wall. “I got your note. Obviously. Because I’m here. Uh, hi.”

You didn’t bother answering. You stepped forward and grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him under the bleachers fully, into the shadows.

His breath caught. “W-wait, are we…? Are we doing this again?” he stammered.

“You took too long,” you whispered, and before he could reply, you kissed him. Hard.

Stiles made a startled noise against your mouth, like his brain short-circuited in real time. But then his hands were on your waist, hesitant at first, then gripping tighter when you deepened the kiss. His lips were warm, soft, a little desperate - he was always desperate - and you loved it.

You pressed him back against one of the metal beams, kissing him again and again, biting his bottom lip just to hear the sound he made when you did.

Stiles exhaled shakily. “You…you can’t just…God!”

“You smell good,” you murmured against his throat. “Fresh out of the shower?”

He nodded, dazed. “I ran. I didn’t want you waiting and thinking I ditched you. I would never ditch you. I mean, unless you wanted me to ditch you. In which case I—”

“Stiles,” you breathed, “shut up.”

You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he made a soft, helpless sound that lit you on fire. Your hands slid under his jersey, over warm skin and tense muscle. Stiles jolted, inhaling sharply.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “I think I’m gonna have a heart attack.”

“Not today.” You tugged him closer by his waistband, feeling his breath hitch, watching the way his eyes went wide and dizzy. You loved how every thought he had showed right on his face - panic, want, awe, panic again.

“I’ve been thinking about this all practice,” you said, voice low. “About you. In this stupid uniform.”

Stiles swallowed like he physically had to work moisture into his mouth. “Yeah? Because I-I’ve been thinking about last night.”

That heat shot straight through you. He was so painfully honest. So bad at hiding what he felt. So good at making you feel wanted without even trying. You kissed him again, dragging him by the wrist as you started walking. “Come on.”

“Where are we—“

You anticipated his question before he could finish and cut him off in a hurry. “To your car.”

Stiles nearly tripped over his own feet. “My car? Like, now?”

“Unless you want to stay out here,” you teased, pulling him past the last metal pillar and into the open. The parking lot was empty, with just his powder blue Jeep sitting alone, a far distance from the nearest light pole.

Stiles stopped dead. “We’re…we’re not seriously…?”

You didn’t let him finish. You pushed him back against the passenger door and kissed him again, hard enough that he gasped slightly. He was warm and flustered and breathing too fast, hands hovering uselessly like he didn’t know where to put them.

Then he finally settled them - one on your hip, one at the back of your neck - and kissed you back with a sudden confidence that made your knees weaken.

“Back seat,” you breathed.

Stiles fumbled with the door handle. Dropped his keys. Picked them up. Dropped them again.

“Jesus, Stiles,” you laughed softly, “you’re adorable.”

“That’s not…I’m not trying to be. I’m just…you’re—” He made a vaguely strangled sound and finally yanked the door open.

You climbed in first, pulling him by the jersey until he practically fell into the Jeep on top of you, laughing breathlessly as the door slammed shut behind him. His hands were steadier this time. His kisses deeper, more sure. Still clumsy in the way that made your heart ache, but better. So much better.

“Last night probably wasn’t the best,” he murmured, almost embarrassed. “But I paid attention. I can do that. I like doing that. Paying attention to you.”

That spark shot straight through your spine. You kissed him again, and the rest unfolded in a tangled rush of heat, hands, breathless laughter, soft curses, and the kind of desperate closeness you’d been thinking about all day. The windows fogged. The Jeep rocked just a little.

And Stiles - sweet, frantic, unbelievably good Stiles - was even better than he’d been the night before.

————————————————————

The world settled slowly around you. Your breathing. Your heartbeat. The soft hum of the Jeep’s engine cooling. The windows were fogged so heavily you could barely see the field outside, and the air inside was warm and sweet and full of the lingering adrenaline between you.

Stiles lay half on top of you, half beside you, one arm braced awkwardly near your head, the other somewhere on the seat because he genuinely didn’t seem to know where to put it.

His hair was a mess again. His cheeks were flushed. His breathing was uneven in that adorable ‘trying to pull myself together’ way.

“Wow,” he said softly, blinking at the ceiling of the Jeep like it had personally changed his life.

You laughed, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Yeah. Wow.”

He swallowed, his eyes darting anywhere but yours - your face, the window, the car ceiling, your lips, and then immediately away from your lips like they were radioactive.

“You…you keep doing that,” he mumbled.

“Doing what?” you teased, tracing your fingertips down the side of his neck.

“That.” His voice cracked. “Being…like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like, into me.” He said it like it was a foreign language.

You felt your chest warm. “Stiles. I literally climbed into your car to have my way with you until your windows steamed up.”

“Yeah, but, like, on purpose.” He sat up slightly. “That’s wild.”

You gently pulled him down for a soft, slow kiss. It was sweet and unhurried.

The kind that made your stomach flip in a different way. Stiles melted into it, then immediately shot up again like he remembered something embarrassing.

“Oh my God. My car, my jersey, I probably smell like…like locker room death!”

“Relax,” you laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “You smell good. And you look cute.”

He blushed all the way to his ears. “Cute?” He repeated it like it was a holy word.

“Very.”

He tried to get off the back seat gracefully. He failed spectacularly. His foot got caught in the strap of his duffel bag and he pitched sideways into the front seat console with a loud clunk.

“Ow, okay. No, I’m good, I’m good,” He scrambled up, knocking something else over. A water bottle rolled, hit the door, and fell onto the floor of the car.

You pressed a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said quickly, rubbing his elbow. “Totally fine. Not in pain. Definitely not in pain. I’m…I’m gonna drive you home now.”

“Okay,” you giggled, sliding out of the back seat.

You climbed into the passenger seat, still a little breathless, still a little flushed. Stiles started the Jeep, cleared the fogged windshield with his sleeve (somehow making it worse), and finally got the wipers to do the job.

He was still nervous. But something in him had shifted. There was a warmth now. A glow of confidence under all the fluster. He tapped the radio on. Fleetwood Mac filled the Jeep - ‘Dreams’ drifting softly through the speakers.

You blinked. “You like Fleetwood Mac?”

Stiles glanced at you, surprised. “Uh, obviously. I’m not a monster.”

You grinned. “I love them.”

His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah?”

“Especially their Rumours album.”

Stiles’ mouth slowly curved into a smile you hadn’t seen before - shy, but proud. “Okay hold on, wait, what else do you listen to?”

“Dad rock,” you admitted. “My parents raised me on classic rock and 80s hits.”

Stiles slapped the steering wheel lightly. “No. No way. I thought you were like, top forty, hyperpop, whatever Lydia listens to.”

“I mean I like that too,” you said. “But I love the old stuff.”

He turned down the music just a little. “Name your top three.”

“Bon Jovi, Fleetwood Mac, some Lana.”

Stiles’ jaw dropped. “Bon Jovi? You like Bon Jovi?”

You raised a brow. “You don’t?”

“Oh my god, this is insane!” he muttered, shaking his head dramatically. “You’re like a sleeper nerd.”

You burst out laughing. “A sleeper nerd?”

“Yes. A nerd hiding in a popular girl’s body. A stealth nerd.”

“I’m not a nerd,” you insisted, still laughing.

“Really?” Stiles shot you a sideways look. “Because that’s what they all say before I find out they know every line to Star Wars.”

You froze. Then raised a slow eyebrow. “Does it have to every line?”

Stiles gasped. Loudly. “NO.”

You bit your lip. “Yes.”

He threw his head back against the headrest. “Oh my GOD. You like Star Wars! This is…this is huge! This is like discovering a new species.”

You shoved his shoulder playfully. “Shut up.”

“No, I mean it,” he grinned. “I had no idea you were secretly cool.”

“Secretly?”

“I mean, you’re hot,” he said immediately, then panicked. “I mean like, obviously, you know that - everyone knows that - BUT you’re also secretly cool and kind of a huge dork and it’s honestly messing with my brain.”

Your heart fluttered and you looked at him and for the first time, the crush in your chest didn’t feel like just lust. It felt like interest. Connection. Something warmer, deeper, sweeter.

You smiled. “Maybe you just never bothered to get to know me.”

Stiles’ voice softened. “I’m getting to know you now.”

————————————————————

Stiles practically burst through his front door when he got home.

“Hey son, how was prac—”

“CAN’T TALK, DAD!” he yelped, sprinting past Sheriff Stilinski like he was escaping a crime scene.

He bolted upstairs, slammed his bedroom door, and immediately collapsed face-first onto his bed with a loud, muffled groan. It was the groan of a man who had just gotten everything he ever wanted and had no clue how to emotionally process it.

He lay there for a good ten seconds, kicking his legs like an overwhelmed Victorian maiden, before ripping his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Scott - of course - and his best friend picked up on the third ring, sounding tired.

“Dude, it’s almost nine. What’s up?”

Stiles inhaled like he needed fresh oxygen to speak. “SCOTT.”

“…Stiles?”

“SCOTT.”

“Why are you yelling?”

“She kissed me.”

There was a pause. “Who kissed you?”

“She kissed me.” Another pause.

“…Stiles, you need to use a name. Preferably a real one.”

Stiles sat up, eyes wide and wild as he told Scott your name. “You know, Lydia’s best friend. The girl who wears lip gloss that costs more than my monthly car insurance. The girl who sits two rows ahead of you in Econ. The girl who is - objectively - way too hot to be seen with someone who collects limited edition Star Wars socks.”

Scott blinked audibly through the phone. “She kissed you?”

“YES.”

Scott’s voice softened, warm and supportive. “That’s great, man!”

Stiles choked. “It…it gets better.”

“Oh.” Scott hesitated. “Uh, define ‘better.’”

“She kissed me under the bleachers.”

“Okay…”

“She dragged me to my car.”

“Uh-huh…”

“And then we…We…” He violently flailed one hand in the air, even though Scott couldn’t see him. “WE DID…THINGS, SCOTT.”

“Oh my God, Stiles.”

“WE DID THINGS TWICE. This was the second time it happened.”

Scott made a strangled noise. “STILES.”

Stiles threw himself backward onto his pillows, kicking his feet in the air like a flustered hamster. “And she likes Fleetwood Mac, Scott. Fleetwood. Freaking. Mac.”

“Okay, cool—”

“And STAR WARS.”

“Everyone likes Star Wars.”

“No, Scott. She knows the lines.” He sat up, deadly serious. “She’s a total sleeper nerd.”

Scott paused. “…Whoa.”

“RIGHT?” Stiles stood up, started pacing. “She’s, like, the hottest girl in school, and she’s secretly a nerd and she likes me and she keeps kissing me and I don’t…Scott, I don’t know what to do with ANY of this information.”

“Stiles, it sounds like she just…likes you.”

Stiles froze mid-pace. His brain short-circuited. “No,” he said immediately, too quickly, voice cracking. “I physically can’t deal with that. I’m not…nope. That’s not…I don’t—”

Scott sighed. “Dude. You’re gone.”

“Gone where?” Stiles asked, panicked.

“Gone. Like…crushing. Hard.”

Stiles’ mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I, no, I don’t…Okay, I like her but not like…I mean, okay, I do like her but that’s only because she smells really good and laughs at my jokes and is secretly a nerd and has really nice…well, everything.”

“Stiles,” Scott interrupted gently. “I can hear you blushing through the phone.”

“What if she wants to do this again? What if she wants it to be like a regular things?” Stiles collapsed back onto the bed again with a loud dramatic groan. “Oh my god, Scott. I’m going to die.”

“You’re not.”

“I am. I am catastrophically unprepared for this.”

“Just…talk to her,” Scott said. “Hang out. Be honest. You don’t have to freak out.”

“I DO have to freak out,” Stiles shot back, gripping his pillow like it was a flotation device. “Because she…Scott, she kissed me like she meant it.”

There was a smile in Scott’s voice when he answered. “Well…maybe she did.”

Stiles went silent, his heart thundering as eyes wide. “…Holy crap.”

————————————————————

It happened slowly, then all at once. A pattern formed between you and Stiles. A rhythm. A secret life you lived only with him. What started as desperate kisses and rushed hookups - stolen moments after school, under bleachers, in dark corners - turned into something else entirely. It became routine. Comfortable. Addicting.

You started meeting up without even needing to plan it. You’d text ‘hey’, and he’d reply ‘on my way’, and within ten minutes he’d be at your doorstep, half-panicked, half-excited, always breathless.

Sometimes it was at your place, sneaking him up to your room while your parents were at work. Sometimes at his house, while his dad worked late and Stiles pretended to do homework. Other times it was the back seat of the Jeep on a back road off the highway, windows down, wind blowing through your hair while Stiles kissed you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Once, it was on a blanket in the preserve under a sky full of stars - a moment that surprised both of you with how soft it felt, how slow, how unhurried.

And slowly, something shifted. Because it wasn’t always physical. There were days you two didn’t hook up at all. Days where you just…hung out. You watched movies together - old ones he loved, new ones you made him watch.

You talked for hours, lying upside down on his bed or sprawled on your carpet, laughing about the stupidest things.

You listened to music together, trading songs and arguing about which Fleetwood Mac album was best. Little by little, you began to crave his presence, not just his touch.

And he started relaxing around you. Getting funnier. Goofier. More Stiles. Before you even realised it, you and Stiles weren’t just sneaking around anymore. You were seeing each other. You were becoming something. Even if neither of you said it out loud.

The night it shifted fully, you were in the preserve again. You’d driven with him into the trees until the path grew narrow and the canopy blocked out most of the sky. The Jeep sat in the clearing, engine off, crickets humming around you. The two of you climbed into the back seat automatically, the same way you always did, but something felt different immediately.

Stiles looked at you like he was trying to memorise you. Not like he was nervous you’d disappear. Not like he was overwhelmed. Just…struck.

“You okay?” you whispered, brushing his hair back without thinking.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I just…I like being here. With you.”

Your chest tightened in a way that scared you and thrilled you at the same time. You leaned in to kiss him, expecting the usual rush of heat, urgency, the frantic rhythm the two of you always fell into.

But Stiles kissed you slower. Softer. Like he had all the time in the world. His hand slid into your hair, fingertips brushing your scalp gently, sending a warm shiver down your spine. His other hand rested on your waist, steady and sure, guiding you closer instead of pulling frantically.

His lips moved with yours in perfect, tender sync. You melted. It wasn’t the familiar wildfire of wanting him. It was something deeper. You pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes meeting his in the dim light.

“Stiles…” you whispered, not even knowing what you were about to say.

He touched your cheek, thumb tracing along your jawline like he couldn’t help it. “I know,” he said softly. “Me too.”

You kissed him again, your fingers sliding into the hair at the base of his neck as he moved with you, warm and gentle and so heartbreakingly present. It felt less like hooking up. More like falling.

Your bodies found each other naturally, slowly, hands exploring with intention instead of urgency. His kisses trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and for once you didn’t feel rushed, or hidden, or like you had to stifle your breathing. You felt seen.

Stiles paused only to look at you again with the kind of look you usually avoided out of fear it would reveal too much. This time, you held it. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He covered your hand with his own, fingers lacing with yours without hesitation. You’d never held hands during…this. But now, it felt like the most intimate thing you’d ever done together.

Everything between you moved gently - warm breath, warm skin, warm hands - like you were synced without needing to talk. And when you came together, it wasn’t rushed or chaotic. It wasn’t about desperation or thrill anymore. It was emotional. Connected. Equal. It was the kind of closeness that made your eyes sting in a way you didn’t dare acknowledge.

Stiles held you afterward, his arms wrapping around you, your cheek resting on his chest. His heart was still beating a little too fast, but steadier than usual. He stroked your back absentmindedly, like he was touching you just to reassure himself you were still there. You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by how safe it felt.

He whispered, almost too softly to hear. “This…feels different, right?”

You nodded against him. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It does.”

Stiles exhaled, shaky but hopeful, and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Neither of you said the word for it. Neither of you dared to. But you both knew, it wasn’t just hooking up anymore. Not even close.

————————————————————

You didn’t even notice Lydia watching you at first. You were at your locker between classes, still a little dazed from the night before. The memory of Stiles’ hands on your waist in the back of the Jeep occupied the forefront of your mind - the slow, aching kisses that had made your chest tighten in a way you weren’t prepared for. You were smiling at your books like a complete idiot when a manicured hand slammed the locker door shut right in front of your face.

You jumped. Lydia stood there with her arms crossed, hip cocked, eyebrows raised like she had just solved a murder case.

“So,” she said. “You want to tell me why you smell like men’s deodorant? Specifically cheap men’s deodorant?”

Your heart stopped. “I…what? Lydia, I do not. That’s insane.”

She scoffed. “You’re a good liar, but you’re not that good. You’ve been hooking up with someone, and I wanna know who. Spill the beans.”

“There’s no one, Lydia.” You insisted, shaking your head.

“I know there is, so why don’t you just tell me?” Lydia scoffed.

Your stomach flipped. You forced a laugh, tried to look casual. “Why would you even assume there is anyone.”

“Come on.” Lydia leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You disappeared for all of lunch last week and when you finally got to English, you had closet hair. I’ve never seen you going to the library to ‘study’ this much in your life. You never answer your phone late at night anymore, and you’re always busy but you’re never doing anything.”

You touched your hair automatically. Damn her. She missed nothing.

“So?” she continued to prod sharply, “Come on, it’s not like it’s Stilinski, right, so how bad can it be?”

You froze. Lydia watched your face, saw the reaction, and her eyes widened. “Oh. My god. No! Stilinski? You are!”

“Lydia—” you began.

“You’re hooking up with Stiles Stilinski?”

You looked away, cheeks burning, and that was answer enough.

Lydia blinked at you like you’d just told her you were dating a garden shovel. “Why? He’s…he’s Stiles.”

Something ugly twisted inside you. Embarrassment, yes, but anger too. Shame. And suddenly you were ashamed of being ashamed. You straightened slowly. “And what exactly is wrong with Stiles?”

Lydia opened her mouth. You didn’t let her. “No, seriously. Tell me. What’s wrong with liking someone who’s smart and funny and actually treats me like I matter?”

Lydia looked startled. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t care. “And I’m really tired of pretending I don’t care about him just because you and Jackson think he’s some kind of loser.”

Her face tightened. “I just…don’t want you to tank your social life for someone who—”

“Someone who what? Isn’t Jackson?” you shot back. “Newsflash, Lydia, I don’t want someone like Jackson.” She flinched. You felt the hit land but couldn’t stop now. “I like him,” you said, soft but firm. “I like Stiles and I’m not embarrassed about it. Not anymore.”

Lydia stared at you, but for once, she had no quick reply. You turned on your heel before she could form one.

Stiles was at the end of the hallway, rummaging in his backpack like he was fighting with it. Scott was beside him chatting. A few other students walked past. Normal scene. Totally ordinary. Except everything inside you was rushing and roaring. Stiles looked up and froze when he saw you marching straight toward him.

“Uh, hi?” he said, voice squeaking in that adorable Stiles way.

You didn’t even slow down. You grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him down, and kissed him full on the mouth right there in the crowded hallway. A wave of gasps rippled across the student body. Someone even dropped a binder with a loud BANG!

Stiles made a shocked little noise against your lips, then melted. Hands grasping your waist, pulling you closer, kissing you back like he’d been starved for days. When you finally pulled away, Stiles blinked rapidly, dazed and breathless.

“Wh—what? What is happening?” he whispered.

“I’m not hiding us anymore,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “If you still want this.”

His swallow was audible. His eyes were so wide and warm and stunned. “If I still want this?” He gave a helplessly smitten laugh. “I’ve been in, like, a constant state of cardiac arrest over you for weeks.”

You grinned, grabbed his hand. “Good,” you said softly. “Come on.”

Still in shock, Stiles let you drag him away down the hall, past the staring students, past Lydia frozen with her mouth slightly open, past everything. You didn’t look back. And Stiles didn’t stop smiling.

————————————————————

By the time the afternoon bell rang, the entire school knew. You and Stiles had kissed. Not just kissed, but kissed kissed, in full view of a hallway full of gossips and amateur Instagram detectives. Everywhere you walked, people whispered.

“Wait, her? And Stiles?”

“How did that even happen?”

“Well, good for him.”

“Did she lose a bet?”

“No way, I think she actually likes him.”

You squeezed Stiles’ hand tighter every time someone stared too long. He squeezed back, though his ears had been pink since third period.

“Are you okay?” you murmured as you walked toward the exit.

He inhaled sharply. “I’m either fine or I’m dying. Hard to tell. But I’m definitely holding your hand so that’s…winning.”

You bumped his shoulder with a smile. “You’re adorable.”

He made a little strangled sound but didn’t let go. You were two steps from the doors when someone grabbed your elbow and tugged you aside.

Lydia.

Stiles blinked, startled and wary. “Uh, I can wait over there? Or, like…pretend to be invisible? Which is my specialty.”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, but Lydia’s expression was unreadable.

Stiles hesitated, then moved a few feet away. He was close enough to keep an eye on you, far enough to give you space. You turned to Lydia, already bracing.

“If you’re going to tell me how big of a mistake this is—”

“I’m not,” she cut in.

You froze. Lydia folded her arms, not defensive, just…small. “I’m here to apologize.”

That shut you up completely. Lydia looked down at her shoes before meeting your eyes again. “I was awful earlier. Judgmental and and honestly? Really rude.”

You blinked, thrown off balance. This was not the ambush you were prepared for.

She exhaled shakily. “I think I reacted that way because…I didn’t understand. And maybe because I’ve never seen you choose someone based on how he makes you feel, instead of how he makes you look.”

Your irritation softened a fraction.

“And Stiles…” Lydia shrugged helplessly. “He’s not what I imagined for you. But that doesn’t mean he’s wrong for you.”Her voice gentled. “I see the way he looks at you. Like you hung the moon. And I saw the way you looked at him today.” Lydia’s lips curved in a small, sad smile. “No one’s ever had you look that soft.”

Heat pricked the backs of your eyes unexpectedly.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, sincere and quiet.

You exhaled slowly, the tension leaving your shoulders. “I love you, Lydia. But you were being a bitch.”

Lydia nodded. “I know.”

“But,” you added, “I forgive you.”

That earned the faintest relieved smile. Lydia squeezed your hand. “Just…don’t get hurt, okay?”

“I won’t,” you said, and you meant it. You stepped away from her and walked back toward Stiles.

He perked up immediately, like a golden retriever waiting for permission to wag his tail. “Everything okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you said, threading your fingers through his again. “Everything’s perfect.”

“Dude,” Tommy H. whispered, too loud to qualify as whispering, “you think Hargreaves can smell fear?”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, and your fear smells like Aqua Net and regret.”

A couple of boys laughed. One of the girls, one of the ones who always had a fresh lip gloss and a fresh opinion, giggled like Steve had handed her something personally.

You kept your eyes on your notebook. Not that you were taking notes. It was detention, not class. But giving your hands something to do was easier than giving them away to nerves.

Your only real interaction with Steve Harrington to date had been… well.

Not interaction, exactly. More like… accidents.

Like the time you’d looked up from your locker and caught him watching you from across the hallway, leaning against the trophy case with a basketball under his arm like he’d been born glued to it. His eyes had met yours, hazel and bright and a little too sharp, and you’d broken the contact immediately, heat rising up your neck like you’d been caught doing something wrong.

Or the time in class when you’d turned a page and found him looking at you over his shoulder, chin propped on his palm like he was bored by the entire concept of the world. You’d blinked, and he’d smirked, as if the eye contact was a joke you didn’t understand. You’d stared resolutely at the textbook until your eyes went dry.

It wasn’t that you were shy, exactly. You could speak up when you needed to. You could tell off a boy who thought “quiet” meant “weak.” You could stand between a kid and a bully without your knees giving out.

But Steve Harrington was… Steve Harrington.

He wasn't just popular; he was a gravitational anomaly. His presence didn’t just draw attention—it warped the very social fabric of a room, bending conversations, glances, and intentions toward him like light around a star. People like you didn't orbit celestial bodies like that. You stayed in your own quiet, predictable lane, on your own sensible path, where the gravity was weaker but the footing was sure.

Mr. Hargreaves, a man whose patience had been weathered thin by decades of adolescent indifference, slapped a dog-eared attendance sheet onto his desk with a sound like a gunshot. “All right,” he announced, his voice a dry monotone that cut through the low buzz of whispered conversations. “Since some of you have mistaken detention for a social hour, we’re going to be productive. Shockingly.”

A synchronized groan of protest rolled through the back row, a chorus of discontent.

“Mr. Harrington,” Hargreaves said, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork.

The legs of Steve’s chair gave a protesting squeak as he shifted. “Yeah?” His tone was all easygoing recognition, as if he’d been called upon to settle a bet, not reprimanded.

“You can start,” the teacher continued, finally lifting his gaze, “by not speaking unless spoken to.”

A ripple of muted snickers traveled through the room. Steve’s own laugh was a low, warm rumble, utterly unbothered, as if he’d just been paid a charming compliment. “Sorry,” he said, the word dripping with a performative remorse that suggested he was anything but. “I’ll try. It’s a medical condition, honestly. Terminal charisma. The doctors are baffled.”

Mr. Hargreaves finally looked up fully. His eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, landed on Steve with the dull, heavy pressure of a thumb pressing down on an insect. “Your medical condition can write me a two-page reflection on the importance of respecting classroom environments. Single-spaced.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed insolence, stretching his arms behind his head as if detention were a beachside lounge chair. “Two pages? Wow. You’re really worried about my emotional development, huh. That’s… touching.”

“Three pages,” Mr. Hargreaves corrected instantly, his voice devoid of all humor.

The class erupted in a collective, drawn-out ‘Ooooh’ of vicarious schadenfreude.

Steve placed a hand over his heart, his expression one of wounded nobility. “Cruel and unusual punishment. You know, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. I might have to call my lawyer.”

“And yet,” Hargreaves said, turning back to his desk, “here we are.”

He picked up a precarious stack of worksheets and tapped them sharply against the wood, aligning them into a punishingly neat pile. “Now. Since we’re already in the business of consequences, I’m going to address another pressing issue.” His gaze, flat and assessing, swept the room. It lingered for a discomfiting second on various faces, and your stomach tightened involuntarily. You hated being looked at in groups, it felt like being drafted into a team you never tried out for, suddenly responsible for the collective reputation of ‘students.’

“Midterms are in three weeks,” Mr. Hargreaves declared, as if announcing a plague. “Some of you are doing fine. Some of you are… decidedly not.” His eyes flicked like a whip toward the back row once more. “And because I would like to avoid the soul-crushing monotony of summer school paperwork, I’m implementing a peer tutoring system.”

The groans this time were louder, a symphony of despair.

“Tutoring?” someone muttered, the word soaked in disgust.

Steve’s voice, smooth and carrying, floated forward like a perfectly folded paper airplane. “This feels like communism, sir. Sharing the wealth of knowledge and all that. Very collectivist.”

“Sit up, Harrington.”

Steve made an exaggerated, slow-motion show of straightening his spine, his movements fluid with mocking precision. “Yes, sir. Posture is the foundation of learning, sir.”

Mr. Hargreaves ignored him, plowing onward. “I have a list. High-performing students will be paired with those who are struggling. This is not optional. This is not a debate. This is me choosing peace for myself in June. You are welcome.”

You held your breath, though you weren't sure why. You were, unfortunately and undeniably, a high-performing student. It wasn't a badge you wore with pride; it was a quiet, persistent fact of your existence, like your eye color or your heartbeat. Work diligently, get good grades, go home. It was a system designed to keep your life manageable, your future predictable. You could already feel the subtle ripple in the room, the collective shift of eyes darting toward the known academic achievers, as if they had just been declared communal property.

Mr. Hargreaves lifted a sheet of paper and began reading names in his dry, administrative drone.

“Karen Richards, you’re with Mark Ellison.”

A boy near the middle of the room slumped dramatically in his seat, as if sentenced to hard labor.

“Diane Cooper, Jeff Williams.”

Somebody in the back muttered, “Good luck, Jeff,” and was instantly shushed by a neighbor.

He read a few more pairs. The reactions were a spectrum of human resignation: some looked vaguely smug, some utterly defeated, some simply wished for the floor to open up and end their misery.

You kept your face a careful, neutral mask, but your fingers tightened around your pen, leaving slight indents in your skin.

Then—

“__________…”

Your heart performed a clumsy, sideways stutter in your chest.

The teacher paused, adjusting his glasses as he found the matching name. “…Steve Harrington.”

For one full, suspended second, the room went utterly quiet. It was the kind of silence that is thick with stunned potential, the silence that precedes an eruption, when something is so perfectly, ironically funny that everyone is collectively deciding if they’re allowed to laugh.

Then the dam broke.

Laughter burst out, sharp and uncontained, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. It wasn't malicious, necessarily; it was the sound of cosmic irony being acknowledged at top volume.

Steve turned in his seat immediately, the motion fluid and attention-commanding. He craned his neck, his eyes scanning the rows until they landed squarely on you. You felt the weight of his gaze like a physical spotlight, hot and inescapable, even before you reluctantly looked up from the safe harbor of your notebook.

You forced yourself to meet his eyes. It was a tactical error.

Steve Harrington’s expression was a masterclass in controlled reaction. Amusement and genuine surprise blended seamlessly, lifting his brows and curving his mouth. It was the look of a king who has just been handed an intriguing, unexpected puzzle, a gift he hadn’t known to ask for, but was immediately pleased to receive. His lips tilted into a slow, spreading grin that seemed to hold a private joke meant just for the two of you.

You stared back, your own face deliberately flat, a fortress of neutrality. You refused, absolutely refused, to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. You would not blush, you would not smile nervously, you would not look away.

His grin only widened, the spark in his eyes intensifying. Your silent defiance wasn't a rebuff; it was entertainment. A challenge. It made the whole situation more interesting.

Mr. Hargreaves slammed a meaty hand on his desk. “Enough! If you have something to say, say it quietly or write it down. In your three-page reflection, Harrington.”

Steve’s grin didn’t falter. He turned back around with a leisurely, unhurried confidence that spoke of a lifetime never spent worrying about whether he was liked. He simply was, and the world adjusted accordingly.

You looked back down at the clean, blue lines of your notebook, your vision momentarily swimming. You concentrated on the steady, silent mantra in your mind, pretending with every fiber of your being that your pulse wasn't hammering a wild, dramatic rhythm against your ribs.

Great. The word echoed in your skull, bleak and flat. Just… phenomenally, spectacularly great.

The rest of detention limped by, a slow, excruciating punishment measured not in minutes but in the agonizing, audible ticks of the wall clock above Mr. Hargreaves’ desk. Each tick was a tiny hammer on the silence, each tock a confirmation of your sentence. The room hummed with low, whispered commentary, a current of gossip you couldn't quite tune out. You heard your name, now permanently twinned with his, passed between classmates like a piece of contraband candy, sweet, scandalous, and meant to be savored. A voice, sharp and acidic, cut through the haze behind you: “Harrington’s gonna flirt his way to a B, easy.” Another, laced with a grudging admiration, answered, “Man can flirt his way to whatever he wants. That’s his whole thing.”

You didn’t turn. You didn’t flinch. You kept your eyes fixed on a random chip in the laminate of your desk, your posture rigid. Your job wasn’t to react. Your job was to be invisible until the clock ran out.

When the bell finally, mercifully, released its shrill cry and Mr. Hargreaves dismissed everyone with a weary, defeated wave, you moved with a speed born of pure self-preservation. You gathered your notebooks and pens in a frantic, silent flurry, shoving them into your bag, hoping to dissolve into the hallway’s chaotic stream before the inevitable could happen.

“Hey.”

His voice. Not from across the room, but close. Beside you. It was a low, warm sound that seemed to bypass your ears and vibrate directly in your chest.

You froze, your fingers stalling on the zipper of your bag. Slowly, as if moving through syrup, you turned.

Steve Harrington had somehow transformed the mundane act of loitering in a classroom doorway into a deliberate, effortless composition. He leaned one shoulder against the frame, his body a study in casual angles. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his faded jeans, and his letterman jacket hung open, the rich red leather a stark contrast to the drab beige of the walls. He looked like he’d been placed there by a director, a perfect, living snapshot of charismatic nonchalance. There was a faint, bruise-colored shadow beneath his left eye, not dramatic, but enough to sand away a layer of his polished perfection, making him look less like an icon and more like a person who might walk into a door or take an errant elbow during gym. It made him real, and that was somehow more disarming.

He smiled at you, a slow, knowing curve of his lips that suggested you were both participants in a delightful, shared secret.

You did not smile back. Not out of intentional rudeness, but out of a profound mistrust of your own facial expressions. Your face had a history of betraying you, of flushing at inopportune moments, of eyes widening with unguarded surprise. You kept it carefully, painfully neutral.

“What?” you asked, aiming for a tone of detached curiosity and landing somewhere near flat annoyance.

Steve’s brows lifted a fraction, a flicker of genuine surprise, or perhaps appreciation, that you hadn’t immediately softened under his gaze. “We’re, uh…” He gestured lazily with his chin toward the crumpled paper still clutched in Mr. Hargreaves’ hand. “Apparently a team now. Academically speaking.”

“I heard,” you said, the words clipped and final.

He laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “Okay. Ouch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“That was cold,” he clarified, his grin tilting into something crooked, almost self-deprecating. “I’m Steve, by the way. In case you’ve been living under a very quiet, studious rock.”

You knew his name. The entire ecosystem of Hawkins High knew his name. It was a fundamental fact, like the location of the gym or the taste of cafeteria pizza. But you refused to grant him the satisfaction of the acknowledgment.

“I know who you are,” you stated, turning back to your bag to give your hands a purpose. “We’re in the same class. Have been for two years.”

He made a dramatic, wounded face, pressing a hand to his chest. “Wow. So you have noticed me. I’m flattered. Truly.”

You stared at him, your gaze level and unimpressed. “Is this… how you talk to everyone?”

Steve’s eyes, a warm, intelligent brown, crinkled at the corners. “Depends,” he said, as if considering a complex equation.

“On what?”

“On whether they look like they’re about to throw a textbook at my head.”

“I’m not about to throw a textbook,” you said, finally swinging your bag onto your shoulder. The weight was a comfort. “I’m just trying to leave.”

“Right.” He pushed off the doorframe with a graceful, unhurried motion, stepping aside and sweeping a hand out in a mock-gallant gesture, as if opening a stage curtain for the leading lady. “After you.”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent war between pride and prudence, before walking past him. The air in the doorway seemed charged, buzzing with his proximity. To your mild horror, he fell into step beside you as you entered the hallway, matching your pace with an easy, infuriating familiarity. It felt less like an invitation and more like an annexation, as if he’d decided your personal space was now communal property.

He was too good at this. At taking up space without asking.

“That pairing,” Steve announced, as if continuing a conversation you’d been having, “is a mistake. Just so we’re clear.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. “Why? Because you’re above needing help?”

“No,” he said quickly, then seemed to catch himself, his expression shifting into one of careless amusement. He shrugged, the movement emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders under the leather jacket. “I mean—yeah, sure. Because I’m perfect and brilliant and definitely not failing Mr. Hargreaves’ history class. Obviously.”

The sheer, bald-faced audacity of his lie, delivered with such cheerful conviction, was almost impressive. Against your will, the corner of your mouth twitched. It was a tiny, treacherous movement, a mere ghost of a smile, but you fought it down, clenching your jaw.

Steve noticed. Of course he did. His eyes brightened instantly, like a hunter spotting movement in the brush. A spark of pure, triumphant delight flashed within them.

“I’m serious,” you said, clearing your throat to erase any trace of amusement. The sound was too loud in the emptying hall. “If you don’t show up to our sessions, I’m going to tell Mr. Hargreaves. Immediately.”

Steve placed a hand over his heart again, his expression one of profound betrayal. “You’d narc on me? To Hargreaves? That’s cold-blooded.”

“It’s not ‘narcing,’” you corrected, your voice firm. “It’s reporting a failure to participate in a mandatory academic program. It’s consequences.”

“God,” he sighed, the sound long-suffering and theatrical. “You say that like a grown-up. With a briefcase and everything.”

“I am a grown-up,” you retorted, then instantly wished you could snatch the words back from the air. They sounded childish even to your own ears.

Steve’s grin widened, a predator sensing weakness. “You’re a grown-up?” he repeated, his voice dripping with mock awe. “In high school? Wow. That’s… a rare specimen. Should I be calling you ‘ma’am’?”

You stopped at your locker, a sanctuary of cold, painted metal. He stopped too, leaning his shoulder against the locker next to yours as if he had a standing reservation there. The hallway around you was draining of life, the sounds of slamming lockers and retreating footsteps growing fainter, leaving you in a bubble of unsettling quiet.

You spun your combination lock with practiced, furious speed, a code you could do in your sleep.

Steve watched your hands.

Not in a way that felt intrusive or creepy, but with a focused, open curiosity. It was as if he’d never seen someone open a locker before and found the mundane ritual fascinating. As if by observing the small, ordinary mechanics of your life, the twist of your wrist, the click of the lock, the way you neatly arranged your books, he could decipher the larger, more complicated puzzle of you.

It made your skin feel hyper-sensitive, as if every nerve ending was standing at attention.

“So,” Steve said, breaking the silence you were desperately trying to cultivate, “when do we embark on this… noble academic journey?”

You opened your locker door, using it as a shield between you. “When are you free?”

Steve blinked, as if the question itself was a novelty. “Me? I’m always free.” He said it like it was a point of pride, a testament to his desirable social flexibility.

You turned your head slowly to look at him over the edge of the locker door. “That’s not something to brag about, Harrington. It suggests a profound lack of commitment.”

He barked a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Okay. Fair. That’s… a solid point.”

You grabbed the strap of your bag and slammed your locker shut with more force than necessary. The metallic bang was satisfyingly final. “I’m free after school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In the library.”

Steve’s expression flickered. For a split second, the mask of easygoing charm slipped. His eyes darted away, his brow furrowing just slightly. It was a look of rapid, internal calculation, not about his schedule, but about what it meant to have this obligation, this structure, imposed upon a life that was famously unstructured. It was the brief, vulnerable glimpse of a boy realizing he might have to show up, physically and mentally, for something he couldn’t charm his way through.

Then, as quickly as it appeared, the crack was sealed over. He smoothed his features back into an approximation of his usual grin.

“Tuesdays and Thursdays,” he repeated, nodding as if confirming a business meeting. “Cool. Cool, cool. I can do that. I can be… scholarly. I have the posture for it.” He straightened up, affecting a comically rigid, intellectual pose.

“Great,” you said, already starting to walk away. “Library. Four o’clock. Bring your textbook. And a pen. That can write.”

Steve made a face like you’d just asked him to bring a live, venomous snake. “Textbook. Right. Totally. The big green one with the… depressing pictures.”

You were walking, and he was following again, his longer strides easily keeping pace with your determined, faster ones.

“Do I have to bring anything else?” he asked, his tone light, teasing. “Like… an apple? For you? Teachers love apples. It’s a known thing.”

“I’m not your teacher,” you said, not breaking stride.

“Yeah,” he agreed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur beside you, “but you’re gonna be telling me what to do, right? That’s kind of the same thing.”

You stopped so abruptly your bag swung forward on your shoulder. Turning to face him, you crossed your arms over your chest. “I’m going to help you understand the material. You are going to do the work. There’s a difference.”

Steve held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but his eyes were still laughing. “Okay, okay. Relax. I’m just saying, this is kind of a power dynamic. You have the knowledge. I have the… charming personality. It’s a partnership.”

You stared at him, your face a masterpiece of deadpan delivery.

Steve stared back, his grin still firmly in place, but his eyes had changed. They were no longer just amused; they were searching, scanning your face for a crack, a clue, a way in.

And it struck you then, sharp and sudden as a paper cut: he was performing. Not just for you, but for himself. The jokes, the charm, the exaggerated nonchalance, it was a deflector shield. If he kept everything light, kept everything a game, he wouldn’t have to admit, even to himself, that he might be nervous. That he might be in over his head. You’d seen that behavior before, in people who were scared of being seen as vulnerable. You’d just never seen it crafted so skillfully, worn so comfortably, by Steve Harrington.

“You don’t have to make jokes,” you said, your voice quieter now, losing its defensive edge.

His grin faltered, just a millimeter. A flicker of uncertainty in the brown depths of his eyes. “I’m not making jokes.”

“Yes,” you said softly, holding his gaze. “You are.”

He recovered with a shrug, but the motion was stiffer now, less fluid. The performance was becoming work. “It’s what I do,” he said, a simple statement of fact that felt, for the first time, like a confession.

“And why do you do it?” you asked. The question was out before you could censor it, born of a curiosity that had now sharpened into something more pointed.

Steve’s eyes sharpened, the playful light in them hardening into something more alert, more guarded. It was the look of someone who’d just felt another person step onto a private, well-trodden path. His mouth opened, undoubtedly to fire back another quip, another deflection, and then he hesitated.

There it was again. That tiny, revealing crack in the foundation.

You knew you shouldn’t have pushed. You didn’t know him. This wasn’t your business. But something about the dissonance, the arrogant posture clashing with that fleeting glimpse of the boy working the levers behind the curtain, had hooked you. It made him… curiously human.

Steve exhaled a long, controlled breath through his nose, then leaned back against the lockers again, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. It was a pose meant to reclaim territory, to re-establish cool. “You always interrogate your tutoring clients?” he asked, his tone aiming for lightness but landing somewhere closer to wary.

“Only when they’re being deliberately distracting,” you said.

Steve’s eyebrows lifted. “Distracting,” he repeated, as if tasting the word.

“Mm-hmm.”

He smiled again, but this one was different. It was slower. More thoughtful. Less an automatic reflex and more a conscious choice.

He tilted his head, the movement considering, and studied you with an open, unabashed curiosity that had entirely replaced the lazy confidence he’d been wearing all afternoon. It was as if he’d decided the charming barrage hadn’t worked, and now he was switching tactics to simple, direct observation.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, almost intimate rumble in the quiet hallway. A small, challenging smile played on his lips. “Is this the part where you tell me I’m doing everything wrong?”

The question carried just enough challenge to make your spine straighten. His voice was smooth, casual—but his eyes weren’t joking. They stayed on you, steady, like he was bracing for something.

Then you met his eyes.

“No,” you said evenly. “This is the part where you decide whether you’re actually going to try.”

For a heartbeat, Steve looked caught off guard.

The grin that followed was slower, brighter, like you’d just nudged him into a game he hadn’t realised he wanted to play.

“Wow,” he said. “Direct. I respect that.”

He spread his hands, easy and open, the picture of confidence. “I try plenty. I just… prefer to do it my own way.”

“Your own way isn’t working,” you said, not unkindly.

Something flickered across his face—too quick to be a full expression. Not anger. Not offence. More like recognition.

You shifted your bag higher on your shoulder. “Tuesday. Four o’clock. Library.”

Steve nodded, but his attention lingered like he hadn’t quite moved on yet.

“Tuesday,” he echoed.

You took a step away.

“Hey.”

You stopped, not turning around right away. “Yeah?”

The hallway had emptied almost completely. When you finally looked back, Steve’s posture had changed. He still looked like Steve Harrington, confident, charming, infuriatingly put-together, but there was something more careful in his eyes now, like he was choosing his words instead of tossing them out.

“Don’t,” he said, then paused, exhaling softly. “Don’t go easy on me.”

It wasn’t delivered with a grin. There was no joke hiding behind it. Just honesty, bare and a little exposed.

You studied him for a second, then nodded once. “I won’t.”

The relief that crossed his face was subtle, but it was there. He watched you like your answer mattered more than he wanted it to.

You turned and walked away before the moment could stretch into something fragile.

And when you glanced back, just once, you saw him still leaning against the lockers, gaze fixed on the space you’d left behind, brow faintly furrowed.

By the third tutoring session, Steve Harrington stopped pretending he didn’t care.

He still acted like he didn’t—leaning back in his chair, tapping his pencil against the table, sighing dramatically whenever you asked him to actually read something—but the effort underneath it all was unmistakable.

You noticed because you noticed things.

The library became your first routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, four o’clock sharp. You always arrived early, spreading your notes out neatly, lining up your pens by colour because it helped you think. Steve arrived late the first time—five minutes, then ten—but by the second week, he started showing up on time. Not early. Never early. But on time, hair still damp from a rushed shower, jacket half-zipped like he’d thrown it on mid-stride.

“Wow,” he said one afternoon, dropping into the chair across from you. “You always this organised, or are you trying to intimidate me?”

You didn’t look up from your notes. “If my handwriting intimidates you, we have bigger problems.”

He laughed, a warm, easy sound that carried a little too far in the quiet library. The librarian shot him a warning look over her glasses.

Steve leaned closer to you, lowering his voice theatrically. “See? You’re already getting me in trouble.”

You slid his textbook toward him. “Page eighty-six.”

He stared at it like it might bite. “You know, I’ve been thinking.”

That alone made you glance up.

“Dangerous, I know,” he added quickly. “But I think my brain just… doesn’t like history.”

“That’s not how brains work,” you said.

“Mine does.” He tapped his temple. “Selective listening.”

You raised an eyebrow. He grinned, unbothered.

“Read,” you said.

He groaned, but he did it. Slowly. Haltingly. He stumbled over dates and names, but when you corrected him, he repeated them back, careful this time. You caught the way his shoulders tensed whenever he got something wrong, and the way he relaxed when you nodded instead of sighing.

He pretended not to notice your reactions.

You pretended not to notice his effort.

After the library came empty classrooms. When the weather turned colder and the library started closing earlier, you commandeered a spare room down the hall from the science wing. It smelled faintly of chalk dust and disinfectant, and the windows rattled when the wind picked up.

Steve liked it better there.

“No judgemental librarians,” he said, spinning a chair backward and straddling it like he belonged in the space. “Feels more… authentic.”

“You mean louder,” you said.

“Exactly.”

He still joked constantly. Still found ways to lean too close when he asked questions, to stretch his legs into your space like he was testing boundaries. You didn’t clock it as flirting—just Steve being Steve. You chalked it up to his inability to sit still, to the way he filled rooms without trying.

But you noticed other things.

Like how he started bringing the right notebook without being reminded. How he underlined things you’d mentioned before. How he stopped rolling his eyes when you corrected him—and started nodding instead, jaw set in concentration.

One day the suggestion came out of Steve’s mouth like it hadn’t been rehearsed.

“Okay, hear me out.”

You glanced up from your notes, pen hovering mid-word. “That sentence never leads anywhere good.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, balancing on two legs like he trusted the floor more than he should’ve. “I’m just saying. The library closes early today. And that classroom smells like someone’s been microwaving regret in there.”

“That’s science wing,” you said. “It’s supposed to smell like that.”

He grimaced. “Yeah, well. My brain doesn’t work under chemical warfare.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already packing up your notebook. “Then we’ll meet earlier tomorrow.”

“Or,” Steve said quickly, dropping the chair legs back to the floor with a soft thud, “we could just… go somewhere else.”

You paused. “Where?”

He shrugged, too casual. “My place is a disaster. Like, medically concerning. So that’s out.”

You waited.

Steve shifted in his seat, eyes darting briefly to the window, then back to you. “What about yours?”

The question hung there, light but deliberate.

You frowned slightly. “My parents are out late.”

“That’s… fine,” he said quickly, then added, “I mean, if that’s fine. Totally fine if it’s not. I’m not trying to, you know, invade your personal sanctuary or whatever.”

You studied him for a second. He looked oddly earnest, like he was trying very hard not to mess something up.

“It’s quiet,” you said slowly. “And small.”

Steve brightened. “Perfect. I thrive in small, quiet environments.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Okay,” he admitted. “But I want to thrive.”

You sighed, already resigned. “Fine. But we’re actually studying.”

“Absolutely.” He held up two fingers. “Scout’s honour.”

You didn’t believe him. But you grabbed your bag anyway.

Your house was dark when you unlocked the door, the kind of quiet that settled in once everyone else had left for the evening. You flicked on the hall light and kicked your shoes off by the mat.

“Whoa,” Steve said softly, stepping inside like the place might echo. “This is… nice.”

“It’s just a house,” you said, locking the door behind him.

“Yeah, but.” He shrugged, lowering his voice instinctively. “It feels… calm.”

You led him toward the kitchen, the warm overhead light spilling across the worn wooden table. You set your bag down in its usual place, books following, pen placed neatly on top like a marker.

Steve didn’t follow right away.

You glanced back to find him hovering in the hallway, suddenly very aware of himself. His eyes drifted over the closed doors, the framed photos on the walls, the quiet hum of a lived-in home. Family photos on the fridge. A mug drying by the sink. The faint, comforting smell of dinner lingering in the air.

“Hey,” you said. “You coming?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly, tearing his gaze away. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he tilted his head, lips twitching. “So, uh… do I get the full tour, or is that a second-date privilege?”

You paused. “There is no date.”

“Right, right,” he said easily. “Strictly academic.” He gestured vaguely down the hall. “Still. Just curious. Like, purely hypothetical, are we talking secret rock band poster phase? Or aggressively neat bedroom?”

You stared at him.

His grin widened. “Because if there’s embarrassing childhood decor, I feel like that’s important information.”

“No,” you said flatly. “You are not peeking into my room.”

Steve immediately raised his hands. “Whoa. Okay. Boundary respected. I wasn’t gonna peek peek.”

“That sounded exactly like peeking.”

“I was thinking more like… accidental glimpse,” he said. “I trip, door’s open—boom. Knowledge.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t smile.

He laughed under his breath and shook his head. “Kidding. I’m kidding. Mostly.”

“Kitchen,” you said, turning away. “Now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, mock-serious as he finally followed you. “Wow. Invite a guy into your home and immediately start bossing him around.”

You pulled out a chair. “Sit.”

He did, still smiling, but quieter now, like the joke had served its purpose and could be put away.

The kitchen felt smaller with him in it. More personal. Steve took it all in without comment, like he was suddenly aware he’d crossed into something private.

“This is… really you,” he said after a moment.

You glanced at him. “It’s a kitchen.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But still.”

You slid his textbook across the table. “Same chapter.”

He eyed it. “You’re ruthless.”

“I warned you.”

He flipped the book open, then looked up again. “Your parents really cool with this?”

“With studying?” you asked.

“With me,” he said, gesturing vaguely at himself. “I have a reputation.”

You met his gaze evenly. “So do I.”

That caught him off guard.

For a second, the grin faded, not completely, but enough to reveal something real underneath. Then it returned, gentler.

“Okay,” he said. “Fair.”

For a while, it was just pages turning and pencil scratching. Steve fidgeted, tapping his foot against the table leg, humming under his breath until you shot him a look and he zipped his lips theatrically.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Habit.”

“You don’t have to whisper,” you said.

“Feels like I should.”

At one point, he leaned closer to look at your notes, his arm brushing yours. You stiffened instinctively, not from fear, just awareness.

“Sorry,” he said immediately, pulling back. “Too close?”

“It’s fine,” you said, even though your heartbeat had kicked up a notch.

He nodded, like he was filing that information away.

After a while, he pushed his book aside and stretched, arms lifting over his head. “Okay. I officially hate the Founding Fathers.”

“They hate you too,” you said.

He laughed, loud and unguarded, then winced and glanced toward the hallway. “Right. Quiet house.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Hey,” Steve said suddenly, more serious. “Thanks. For this. I know you didn’t have to.”

You looked at him sitting at your kitchen table, elbows resting where your family ate dinner every night, hair falling into his eyes like he hadn’t bothered to fix it this time.

“It’s just studying,” you said.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still.”

The house hummed softly around you, refrigerator clicking on and off, the clock ticking above the sink.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “I thought this was gonna be weird.”

“And?” you asked.

“And it’s not,” he said. “It’s just… nice.”

You nodded. You’d been thinking the same thing.

“Okay,” you said, tapping the table lightly. “Back to work.”

He groaned but picked up his pencil. “You’re really not going easy on me.”

You met his eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

He smiled, small, genuine, and bent back over the page.

And if he stayed a little longer than necessary that night, if he lingered in the doorway when it was time to leave, neither of you said anything about it.

The house didn’t seem to mind.

And neither did he.

He was different here, less performative. Still funny, still charming, but quieter. More present. He joked under his breath instead of projecting to an audience. When he laughed, it was softer, like he wasn’t expecting anyone else to hear.

And then there were the moments you weren’t supposed to see.

The first time was in the hallway outside the classroom. You’d forgotten your notebook and gone back to grab it, only to find Steve crouched down in front of a freshman whose locker had jammed.

“Okay, no, don’t yank it,” Steve said, calm but firm. “You’re just gonna make it mad.”

The kid looked on the verge of tears. “I’m gonna be late.”

“You’re fine.” Steve twisted the handle gently, then gave it a sharp tap with his palm. The locker popped open. “See? Easy.”

The kid stared at him like he’d just witnessed magic. “Thanks.”

Steve ruffled his hair without thinking. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”

When Steve straightened and saw you watching, he froze for half a second.

Then he smirked. “What? Community service hours.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled, small and genuine.

The smirk faltered.

Another time, one of his friends—Tommy, you thought—made a crude comment about a girl passing by. You were close enough to hear it, close enough to see Steve’s reaction.

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he said, “Dude. Knock it off.”

Tommy scoffed. “Relax.”

“I’m serious,” Steve said, voice sharper now. “It’s not funny.”

Tommy rolled his eyes and walked off.

Steve noticed you again then, standing a few feet away with your books clutched to your chest. He shrugged like it hadn’t mattered.

“Guy’s an idiot,” he said lightly.

You nodded. You remembered.

Steve covered these moments with humour like it was instinct. Like kindness embarrassed him more than cruelty ever had. Whenever you looked at him too long, like you might be piecing something together, he cracked a joke. Whenever you thanked him, he waved it off.

“You’re gonna make me sound like a saint,” he said once, when you thanked him for walking you to your car after a late session.

“I said thank you,” you replied. “Not ‘I worship you.’”

“Slippery slope,” he said. “First it’s gratitude, next thing you know, I’m babysitting the entire town.”

You frowned. “Babysitting?”

He grimaced like he’d said something accidentally. “Just—forget it. Long story.”

You didn’t push. You just stored it away.

Because that was how you cared. Quietly. By noticing. By remembering.

And Steve, whether he realised it or not, started watching you the same way.

Not openly. Not boldly. But in the pauses. In the way his eyes flicked to you when he got something right, like he was checking your reaction. In the way he straightened when you praised him, like your approval weighed more than his friends’ laughter.

One afternoon, you corrected a date he’d written down wrong.

“Actually,” you said gently, tapping the page, “it’s 1776, not 1786.”

Steve stared at the paper. Then at you.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. That makes more sense.”

He erased it carefully and rewrote the number, slower this time.

When he looked up, you were still watching, not judging, just attentive.

Something in his expression shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. Just… thoughtful.

“Hey,” he said, quieter than usual.

“Yes?”

“Do you—” He stopped, then shook his head with a laugh. “Never mind.”

You waited anyway.

He glanced at you again, then away. “You’re really good at this.”

“Tutoring?”

“No,” he said. “Not making people feel stupid.”

The words landed heavier than he’d intended. You could tell by the way he swallowed after.

You softened your voice without thinking. “You’re not stupid.”

He scoffed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you said. “You just learn differently.”

Steve studied you like he was trying to decide whether to believe that.

Then he smiled, small, unguarded, gone too quickly.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess I do.”

When you packed up that day, he lingered, pretending to fiddle with his notebook while you slid your pens back into place.

“Hey,” he said casually. “Same time Thursday?”

“Yes,” you said.

“Cool. Cool.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, then paused. “Thanks. For, uh. Not giving up on me.”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and realised something quietly important.

Steve Harrington was trying.

And he didn’t even know how much that mattered to you yet.

You watched him walk away down the hallway, joking loudly with a passing friend, the mask sliding back into place like muscle memory.

The first thing you noticed was the car.

It cut into the student parking lot like a challenge, engine loud, music spilling out with the confidence of someone who expected to be watched. Heads turned automatically. Conversations dipped, then picked back up in whispers as the Camaro rolled to a stop.

You slowed only long enough to register the driver’s door opening.

Billy Hargrove stepped out like the world was already his.

Tall. Broad shoulders. A faded denim jacket thrown over a sleeveless shirt despite the chill, collar tugged up like the weather was something that happened to other people. Dark hair perfectly messy in a way that felt practiced rather than accidental. He paused by the car, scanning the lot slowly, deliberately, like he was deciding what belonged to him and what didn’t.

A group of girls near the curb started whispering immediately. A couple of guys straightened, suddenly aware of their posture. Someone behind you muttered, “Who the hell is that?”

You didn’t stop. New kids showed up all the time. Loud ones, quiet ones, kids who lasted a week before Hawkins swallowed them whole and moved on.

Billy didn’t look like someone who got swallowed.

You pushed through the school doors and let the noise of the hallway take over. Lockers slammed. Shoes squeaked. The smell of cheap cologne and cafeteria food hung heavy in the air. You found your locker, spun the combination, and focused on the familiar click-click-click, grounding, reliable.

Then the hallway shifted.

Not dramatically. Subtly. Like a current passing through a crowd.

People stepped aside without being asked.

You glanced up just in time to see Billy walking down the hall like he’d been there for years. His gaze flicked from face to face with lazy interest. A couple of teachers watched him with immediate suspicion. He didn’t care.

He stopped near the trophy case, said something to a group of guys, Tommy, among them, that made them laugh a little too eagerly.

You turned back to your locker. Not your circus. Not your—

“Hey.”

The voice was closer than it should’ve been.

You shut your locker harder than necessary.

The metal clang echoed down the hallway, sharp and final. You kept your eyes forward, expression carefully neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of catching you off guard.

It worked.

Billy noticed anyway.

He stepped into your space like he’d already decided this conversation was happening. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just one smooth, confident movement.

“Afternoon,” he said, voice low and lazy.

You turned only enough to acknowledge him, nothing more. “I’m busy.”

Billy smiled like that was exactly the answer he’d hoped for. He took one step closer, just one, but it was enough to make the air feel smaller, heavier. The scent of cigarettes clung to him, sharp and stale beneath whatever cologne he’d layered on top.

“Maybe I do,” he said.

Your jaw tightened.

“Then you should find someone else,” you replied evenly.

Billy’s eyes dragged over you again, slower this time, like he was waiting for you to flinch. You didn’t. You met his gaze just long enough to make it clear you weren’t impressed, then shifted your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

That seemed to amuse him more than anything else.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

You hesitated, not out of fear, but because you didn’t owe him anything. The hallway had gone quieter around you, people pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.

You gave him only your first name.

Billy repeated it like he was tasting it. “Pretty.”

You didn’t respond.

The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Intentional.

Billy chuckled under his breath. “I like that,” he said. “Most people don’t make me work this hard.”

“That’s not my problem,” you said.

His smile sharpened. “We’ll see.”

You stepped around him before he could block you, brushing past with deliberate confidence. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t need to.

You could feel his attention cling anyway, heavy, lingering, like a hand at your wrist even after you’d pulled away.

And as you walked down the hall, spine straight and expression calm, you had the unsettling sense that Billy Hargrove didn’t see resistance as a warning.

He saw it as an invitation.

You ducked into the girls’ bathroom two minutes later, more irritated than rattled. The door swung shut behind you with a hollow thud, muffling the noise of the hallway. You exhaled, leaning briefly against the counter as you ran cold water over your hands.

Stupid. You hadn’t done anything wrong.

“__________.”

You startled, spinning toward the door.

Steve Harrington stood just inside the bathroom, one hand braced against the doorframe like he’d followed you in without thinking and only realised where he was once he’d already crossed the line. His hair was a mess like he’d dragged a hand through it too many times. His expression was tight—jaw clenched, eyes sharp with something dangerously close to panic.

“What were you doing with him?” he demanded.

Your irritation flared instantly.

“What?” you snapped. “Excuse me?”

Steve took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Billy. What was that?”

“I was existing,” you said flatly. “He came up to me.”

Steve scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t just come up to people.”

“And yet,” you said, gesturing between you, “here we are.”

Steve stopped short, chest rising as he tried to rein himself in. “You shouldn’t talk to him.”

The words hit wrong. Too sharp. Too familiar.

“And you don’t get to tell me that,” you shot back.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer again. “There’s something—he’s not—he’s bad news.”

You crossed your arms. “Then say that. Don’t corner me in a bathroom and act like I did something wrong.”

Steve’s mouth opened, then shut again. You could see it, the conflict, the frustration, the words he wasn’t saying stacking up behind his eyes.

“I’m trying to keep you safe,” he said finally.

Your chest tightened. Not with gratitude. With anger.

“By deciding for me?” you asked quietly. “By not trusting me enough to explain?”

Steve’s shoulders sagged just a fraction, like the fight drained out of him all at once. “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand,” you said. “Because right now it feels like you’re mad at me instead of him.”

Silence settled between you, heavy and unresolved.

Steve looked away first.

“Just… stay away from him,” he muttered. “Please.”

The please almost softened you. Almost.

You stepped past him, opening the bathroom door. “I don’t like being talked to like I’m stupid,” you said over your shoulder. “Especially not by you.”

The door swung shut between you.

Steve stayed where he was, staring at it like he’d just lost something important, and hadn’t realised how easily that could happen.

By lunchtime, the rumours had already started.

You were halfway through eating when a folded flyer slid onto the table in front of you.

You looked up to find Carol standing there, perfectly lip-glossed and already bored. She dropped another flyer onto the table beside you, then another onto the table behind you.

“House party,” she said, like it explained everything. “Harrington’s place. Friday.”

You glanced down at the paper. Someone had taken the time to draw flames around the words HARRINGTON HOUSE in aggressive marker.

“No parents,” Carol added. “Obviously.”

She drifted away before you could answer.

You stared at the flyer for a moment longer than necessary, then folded it in half and slid it into your bag. You didn’t go to house parties. You never had. Too loud. Too many people. Too many expectations.

“Please tell me you’re not throwing that away.”

Steve dropped into the seat across from you like gravity had personally invited him. He looked… distracted. Less polished than usual. Like his mind was somewhere else and his body had followed out of habit.

“I wasn’t,” you said. “I was ignoring it.”

Steve winced. “Worse.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because,” he said, leaning forward, lowering his voice like this was confidential, “this party is kind of… important.”

“Important how?” you asked.

“Well.” He gestured vaguely around the cafeteria. “King Steve has an image to maintain.”

You snorted despite yourself.

“There it is,” he said, brightening. “That sound. That’s why you should come.”

You shook your head. “I don’t do house parties.”

Steve’s smile softened, turning almost sheepish. “You don’t do them yet.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Okay, look,” he said, dropping the theatrics. “I’ll make it better. You can stick with me. I’ll keep people from bothering you. You can leave whenever you want. I’ll even—” he grimaced “—turn the music down if it gets too bad.”

“You would never,” you said.

“I would,” he insisted. “Once. For you.”

You studied him. He was watching your face closely, like this mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“I don’t belong there,” you said quietly.

Steve frowned. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you replied. “Those parties aren’t for people like me.”

Steve leaned back in his chair, jaw tightening. Then he leaned forward again, elbows on the table, eyes steady on yours.

“They are if I want you there.”

The words slipped out before he could dress them up as a joke.

He blinked. Cleared his throat. “I mean—uh. It’d be less boring.”

You tilted your head. “You don’t look bored lately.”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “Yeah. Funny how that works.”

There was a beat. Just long enough to feel something settle between you.

“Please,” he added, softer now. “Just… come for a bit. For me.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers brushing the strap of your bag where the invitation waited.

“I’ll think about it,” you said.

Steve grinned like he’d just won something anyway. “That’s all I ask.”

As he stood to leave, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And, uh,” he added casually, “if anyone gives you trouble? You tell me.”

You smiled faintly. “You always like playing hero?”

Steve hesitated.

“Only when it matters,” he said.

The promise of the party hits you long before the door even swings open, a deep, subcutaneous thrum of bass that leaks through the solid wood and the old Harrington siding. It rattles the porch planks beneath your feet, traveling up through the soles of your shoes to vibrate in the hollow of your chest, a second heartbeat that’s too loud, too eager. You freeze on the threshold, fingers instinctively plucking at the hem of your top—a nervous, futile gesture, as if you could rearrange your very decision to come. For one last, fleeting second, the fantasy of retreat flickers: you could turn around, walk back to the quiet of your car, and pretend this reckless yes was never uttered.

But it’s too late now. The decision has been made, and the house is waiting.

You push inside, and the wall of sound doesn’t just greet you, it swallows you. It’s a physical, smothering thing. The roar of a hundred overlapping conversations, shrieks of laughter sharp enough to cut, the thudding backbeat of a song swallowed by the crowd. Bodies are packed in a hot, shifting mosaic of denim and bright fabric, leaving you to navigate through a labyrinth of elbows and shoulders. The air is thick and hazy, carrying the sour-sweet tang of spilled beer, the chemical bite of cheap vodka, and beneath it all, the warm, damp smell of too many people in a closed space. Someone jostles your shoulder hard, moving past without a glance or an apology. From across the room, a voice you barely recognize shouts a variation of your name, the syllables wrong, turning you into someone else entirely.

You swallow, the motion dry and difficult, and adjust the collar of your jacket for the third time since entering. A sudden, piercing self-consciousness descends. You are a map of vulnerabilities: your hands feel awkward and oversized, your posture a confessed sin, the very rhythm of your breath seems out of sync with the room. Everyone else melts into the chaos with a practiced ease, a belonging that looks as natural as breathing. You feel transparent, a sketch among finished paintings.

Then—

Steve sees you.

He’s a fixed point in the swirling chaos, across the crowded living room, a red cup held loosely in his hand. He’s mid-laugh, a bright, easy smile directed at a guy clapping him on the back. And then his gaze, sweeping the room, snags. On you. The smile doesn’t vanish, but it falters, softens, reshapes itself into something quieter and infinitely more focused. It’s not a dramatic, movie-style double-take. It’s a subtle shift, a gentle zoom lens effect. The noise around him seems to mute, the people blur into vague, colorful shapes. For a second, pure, unguarded relief flashes in his eyes, a quick, bright spark he doesn’t manage to bank in time.

He moves without hesitation. Excusing himself with a nod, he begins weaving through the press of bodies, his path urgent and direct. He doesn’t saunter; he aims for you. When he finally reaches you, slightly breathless as if he’d sprinted the last few feet, his grin is wide and a little winded.

“You came,” he says, his voice pitched low, a secret meant only for your ear. The words aren’t a tease or a casual greeting. They are a statement of genuine, gratified surprise.

You manage a nod, your own voice fighting its way through the lump in your throat. “I said I’d think about it.”

Steve huffs a laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, well. I was hoping thinking would work in my favour.”

The connection feels fragile, a bubble of calm in the storm. But the party is a living thing, and it asserts its claim. A heavy hand claps down on Steve’s shoulder, making him wince.

“Harrington! Stop hogging the new recruit. Beer pong throne’s waiting, and we need a king.”

Steve rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, the party king weariness settling on his features. “Of course it is.” His attention snaps back to you, swift and serious. “Don’t move. I’ll be back before you can blink.”

“That’s optimistic,” you murmur, already feeling the crowd pressing in.

He points a finger at you, the gesture playful but his eyes earnest. “Stay. Right. There.”

And then he is absorbed again, his back disappearing into the vibrant, swallowing mass.

You let out a slow, controlled exhale, the brief anchor gone. Almost immediately, the vacuum is filled. A red cup is thrust into your free hand.

“Drink!” commands a girl with smudged eyeliner and a brilliant smile, her words a shout against the music.

You stare down at the cloudy, suspicious liquid. Hesitation is a luxury here, and it’s spotted instantly.

From beside her, another girl with crossed arms snorts, her voice dripping with derisive amusement. “She’s probably too much of a pussy to drink it.”

The words land like a lit match on dry tinder. Your jaw tightens, a hot flush of defiance rising in your chest. Without another thought—without thinking at all—you lift the cup to your lips and throw the contents back in a few swift, burning gulps.

Fire races down your throat, exploding in your stomach, harsh and medicinal. You cough, eyes swimming with involuntary tears. The girls around you erupt in a chorus of approving shouts.

“Holy shit! Okay then!” “Damn, she went for it!”

You hand the empty cup back, your pulse hammering not just from the alcohol’s immediate, scorching shock, but from the sudden, chemical unraveling of your coiled nerves. A dangerous looseness seeps into your limbs. A simulated boldness.

The music shifts, a faster song with a driving, insistent rhythm taking over. Hands reach for you, pulling you toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. You give in, letting the beat move you, operating on instinct rather than confidence. The strobe light fractures the scene into snapshots, laughing faces, thrown-back heads, glinting cans. For a few minutes, the self-consciousness dissolves. You are just a body in motion, anonymous in the dark.

Almost.

You feel it before you see it, a pressure, a pinpoint of cold awareness on the back of your neck. A stare that doesn’t flicker or wander. Too steady. Too intent.

Your dancing slows. You glance, almost against your will, toward the shadowy margins of the room.

And your stomach plummets.

Billy Hargrove is propped against the archway to the kitchen like a lion at rest, owning the shade. His denim jacket hangs open, his muscular arms are crossed over his chest, and a cigarette dangles, forgotten, from his fingers, a long curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling. His eyes are not just on you; they are locked on you. Blue, intense, and utterly unapologetic.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. Doesn’t offer a smirk or a nod of acknowledgment. Just holds the gaze, cool and assessing, as if dissecting every hesitant step you took onto the dance floor.

A cold ripple, antithetical to the room’s heat, cascades over your skin. You try to turn back to the music, to shake off the chill, but the feeling metastasizes. It’s a primal signal, a deep-seated knowledge that the predator has sighted the herd, and you are the one who has strayed. The air in the room turns gluey and suffocating. The laughter sounds suddenly shrill, the bodies too close, pressing in.

You have to get out.

Abandoning the dance floor, you push through the thicket of people, a new and frantic urgency in your movements. The back door, fresh air, solitude, just five minutes to let your heart settle back into its proper rhythm.

You stumble onto the relative quiet of the back porch, the cool night air a shock against your flushed skin. You drag in a deep, trembling breath, gripping the wooden railing.

The creak of the door behind you is soft, but it echoes like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. Slow, deliberate footsteps follow you out onto the porch.

The voice that cuts through the cool night air is a low, smooth drawl, designed to crawl under your skin. It carries no urgency, only a taunting, predatory amusement.

“Running away already?”

You don’t turn. Your fingers tighten on the rough wood of the porch railing, the splinters biting into your palms. “I needed air,” you say, the words clipped, aiming for a neutrality you don’t feel.

“Uh-huh.” The soft scuff of his boots on the weathered boards tells you he’s moved closer. The scent hits you anew, not just the ghost of tobacco, but the fresh, acrid bite of a recently lit cigarette, mixed with leather, cheap beer, and something purely, unsettlingly male. “Didn’t peg you for the party type,” he continues, his voice a rumble just over your shoulder.

A brittle, humorless laugh escapes you, fueled by the liquid courage still simmering in your blood. It makes your tongue reckless. “Didn’t think you were a mind reader, Hargrove.”

You can hear the shift in his silence, a pleased, intrigued pause. When you finally steel yourself to glance his way, Billy is grinning. It’s a slow, deliberate unfurling of expression, all white teeth and calculated charm. His head tilts, eyes raking over you with renewed interest.

“There it is,” he murmurs, as if he’s uncovered a secret. “You’re more fun like this.”

“Like what?” you challenge, turning fully to face him now, crossing your arms against the chill and his gaze. “Not ignoring you?”

He gives a loose, one-shouldered shrug, the denim of his jacket pulling taut. “Not pretending you don’t want the attention.” His eyes hold yours, blue and unblinking, issuing a challenge of their own.

Your pulse, already unsteady, kicks into a frantic drum against your ribs. “You don’t get to decide what I want,” you fire back, the words hotter than you intended.

Billy’s grin doesn’t falter. He closes the remaining distance between you in one fluid, invasive step. The night seems to shrink around him. Before you can react, his fingers brush against your forearm, a touch that is deceptively light, yet it brands your skin through your sleeve. It lingers, a hairsbreadth too long, a silent test of boundaries.

You freeze, a half-second of stunned inaction that feels like a lifetime. It’s all the opening he needs to read as consent.

And suddenly,

“Hey.”

Steve’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and clear as shattered glass. It isn’t loud, but it carries a command that instantly redraws the lines on the porch.

He’s there, framed in the golden light spilling from the kitchen door, his body a tense line. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek, and his eyes, usually so warm and easy, are laser-focused, zeroing in instantly on the point where Billy’s fingers still ghost your skin. The distant thump of the bass becomes irrelevant. The world narrows to this triangle of charged silence.

“Back off,” Steve says. The words are simple, flat, and utterly devoid of their usual friendly cadence.

Billy doesn’t flinch, doesn’t remove his hand. He merely turns his head, the smirk on his face deepening into something smug and victorious. “Relax, Harrington. We’re just talking. No laws against that.”

Steve moves then. He doesn’t ask permission; he doesn’t even look at you to gauge your reaction. He simply steps forward, inserting his body squarely between you and Billy, a human shield made of simmering anger and frayed loyalty. “You don’t touch people who don’t want it,” he grinds out, his shoulders squaring.

Billy’s smile turns razor-edged. “She didn’t say that.” He lets the implication hang, his gaze sliding past Steve to pin you again. “Did you?”

Heat, shameful and fierce, floods up your spine, burning the tips of your ears. The objectification, the presumption, the sheer audacity of being spoken for, it combusts inside you.

“I can handle myself,” you snap, the words exploding into the space between them.

The effect is immediate. Both heads swivel toward you. Steve’s expression fractures, the protective anger melting into pure, wounded surprise, then into something that looks painfully like hurt. It’s as if you’ve shoved him away after he took a blow meant for you.

Billy’s eyes, in stark contrast, gleam with dark, appreciative delight. He’s found the spark he was looking for.

“I don’t need you jumping in,” you continue, your voice finding a steadiness that your trembling hands betray. You look at Steve, then at Billy, refusing to cede ground to either. “Either of you.”

Steve’s throat works as he swallows. “I was just—” he starts, his voice softer, confused.

“I know,” you cut him off, not unkindly but firmly. The hurt in his eyes makes your chest ache, but the principle is a fire you can’t snuff out. “But I didn’t ask.”

A thick, uncomfortable silence descends, broken only by the ragged sigh of the wind in the trees. You have dismantled their confrontation and made it about something else entirely.

Billy is the first to break it. A low, appreciative chuckle escapes him. “Damn,” he breathes, shaking his head slowly. “I like you even more now.”

Steve shoots him a look of pure, unadulterated venom, a promise of violence held in check by sheer will.

It’s your cue to exit. You take a deliberate step back, then another, reclaiming the territory of your own personal space. “I’m going back inside,” you announce, your tone leaving no room for debate.

Billy lifts his hands, palms out, in a gesture of mocking surrender. “Your call, sweetheart.”

You don’t wait for Steve. You don’t offer him a conciliatory glance. You turn on your heel and push through the door, letting the wall of sound and heat wash over you once more.

But as you disappear into the throbbing heart of the party, you can feel it, the weight of a gaze anchored to your back. It’s Steve’s. Heavy with confusion, with a fear he hasn’t yet named, and with that stubborn, protective instinct that is already, irrevocably, tipping into something deeper, more complicated, and far more dangerous.

And for the first time that chaotic night, a crystal-clear thought pierces through the alcohol and the noise: coming to the Harrington house wasn't the risky choice. The real danger was never the party itself, but the unpredictable currents of want and defiance it would unleash, currents that have already begun to pull you all toward a reckoning.

Either way, the night is far from over. You move through the crowd, a new, brittle energy crackling under your skin, and without breaking stride, you pluck a freshly filled red cup from a passing tray. The first sip is less a taste and more a decision, to feel everything, or to feel nothing at all. You drain it, and let the burn chart a new course through the chaos.

You don't slow down after that second cup, but you don't rush either. You move through the crowd with a new, liquid rhythm, a current pulling you deeper into the warm, noisy heart of the party. You take another cup from a passing tray, vodka, you think, something clear and vicious, and you drink it not as a challenge, but as a choice. The burn is an old acquaintance now, traveling a familiar path to settle like a low, persistent flame in your chest. It melts the last icy shards of adrenaline, turning the nervous hum under your skin into a gentle, manageable buzz.

The music transforms. It’s no longer an assault; it’s a current you can ride. The bass lines feel like they’re moving through you, not just around you. Your limbs are lighter, your thoughts less carefully corralled. They drift closer to the surface, shimmering and less afraid.

You talk more. To a guy wearing a faded band tee about a song you only half-know. To a girl who compliments your shoes. The words come easier, your laughter rings out louder at a joke that’s only mildly funny. You dance again, not with abandon, not yet, but with a reclaiming of your own physical space. You are present in your body, moving through the strobe-lit dark, feeling less like a specimen under observation and more like a participant in the night's strange, collective dream.

And then you feel it. A shift in the atmospheric pressure of the room.

Not Billy’s predatory, pinprick focus. This is different.

Steve.

You don’t have to scan the room to know he’s there. There’s a gravity to his attention now, a pull you’ve only just begun to calibrate. It’s steadier than the thumping bass, a fixed point in the swirling chaos. When you finally turn your head, he’s leaning against the doorframe that leads toward the darkened stairs, a half-full cup dangling forgotten from his fingertips.

He isn’t smiling his easy, party-host smile. He isn’t scowling with protective anger either. He’s just… watching. His gaze is so intensely focused on you that it makes your stomach perform a slow, dizzying flip. It isn’t jealousy, not precisely. It’s a concern held in such taut check that it vibrates with its own energy. He’s standing monumentally still, as if any movement might startle you, or might betray the depth of his own unease.

When your eyes finally meet across the humid air, something visible unlocks in him. A tension you hadn’t fully registered releases from his shoulders. He pushes off the wall, not with his usual confident swagger, but with a deliberate purpose. He meets you halfway, carving a path through the dancers until he’s close enough that he doesn’t have to shout, but not so close as to crowd you.

“You okay?” he asks.

Two words, simple and unadorned. They are quiet, careful, and they land with more weight than any dramatic interrogation could.

You blink, your head tilting slightly as the world tilts with it. The vodka lets you see him from a new, unfiltered angle—the genuine worry etched in the faint lines around his eyes, the way he’s holding his own body with a stiffness that speaks of withheld action.

“I’m fine,” you say automatically. Then you pause, actually considering the question. The buzz in your veins is warm, the knot in your chest is gone. “Actually… yeah. I am.”

Steve’s brows knit together. His eyes perform a quick, professional scan of your face, checking your pupils, the looseness of your smile, the way you’re gripping your cup a little too tightly. It’s the look of someone who has seen one too many bad nights unfold.

“You’ve had a bit,” he observes, his voice gentle, devoid of accusation but full of implication.

You snort, a short, sharp sound. “Is that Harrington math or actual concern?”

He winces, just a flicker. Not because you’re wrong, but because the two are so entangled in him he can’t separate them. “I’m not judging,” he says quickly, taking a half-step back as if to prove it. “I just—”

“You just worry,” you cut in. The words aren’t unkind, but they aren’t soft either. They are an observation laid bare. “A lot.”

Steve exhales a long breath through his nose, his hand coming up to rub the tense muscles at the back of his neck. “Someone has to,” he says, and it sounds like a mantra he’s worn thin.

You laugh again, but this time it’s hollow, a dry sound in your throat. “Do they?”

His eyes snap up to yours, sharp and startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

You take a small, deliberate sip, letting the silence stretch for a beat. The alcohol grants you a perilous, clarifying honesty. “It means,” you say, choosing each word as if placing a stone on a scale, “that you keep acting like things happen to me instead of around me. Like I’m not in the room making my own choices, even the stupid ones.”

Steve’s mouth opens, then closes on a rebuttal that doesn’t come.

“That’s not fair,” he finally manages, but it lacks conviction.

“Isn’t it?” you press, the warmth in your chest fueling your resolve. “You stepped in back there like I was scenery. Like the conversation was between you and him, and I was just the subject.”

“He touched you,” Steve snaps, the words cracking like a whip. He immediately lowers his voice, a flush of frustration coloring his cheeks. “He crossed a line.”

“I know he did,” you say, holding his gaze steadily. “And I was handling it.”

Steve’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering. “After,” he says, the single word heavy with meaning. After you froze. After he’d already made his point.

It lands. The truth of it settles in your chest, a cold, uncomfortable weight beneath the warmth of the vodka. The party noise, the laughter, the shrieks, the pounding music, swells around you like a turbulent sea, but in the eye of the storm between you and Steve, there is a profound, insulated silence.

“I didn’t ask you to,” you say, your voice dropping to match the quiet.

Steve looks at you then, and the defensiveness, the anger, it all drains away, leaving something raw and exposed. Just… hurt. “I wasn’t trying to be the hero,” he says, the words soft and earnest. “I just didn’t want you dealing with that alone.”

Your voice softens despite the armor you’re trying to hold onto. “I wasn’t alone.”

He flinches.

It’s not a dramatic motion. Just a slight recoil, as if the words were a physical tap on a fresh bruise. Enough to tell you everything.

“That’s not what it felt like,” he whispers, and the admission seems to cost him.

You study him in the fractured light. The deep crease between his brows, the way his hand flexes nervously around his cup, the uncharacteristic uncertainty in his posture. The "King of Hawkins High" is nowhere to be seen.

“You don’t get to decide when I need help,” you say finally. The statement comes out clear and steady, sharper than you intended, a line drawn in the sand.

Steve’s eyes flicker with a vulnerable, wounded light. “I wasn’t deciding,” he insists, but the certainty is crumbling. “I was just… trying to keep you safe.”

You shake your head slowly, sadly. “You don’t keep people safe by stepping over them, Steve. You keep them safe by standing with them.”

The sentence hangs in the air between you, dangerous and irrevocably true.

Steve swallows hard. “You think I was stepping over you.”

“I think,” you say, measuring the words with deliberate care, “that you didn’t trust me to handle it. And that feels worse than whatever Billy was doing.”

“That’s not—” he begins, but you lift a hand, stopping him.

“And before you say it,” you continue, a little breathless now from the emotion, “I know you meant well. I do. I see it. But intent doesn’t erase how it feels.”

Steve goes utterly quiet.

For a long, suspended moment, he just looks at you. It’s not the look of someone formulating a counter-argument. It’s the look of someone genuinely listening, of pieces being rearranged behind his eyes. He’s recalibrating. He’s seeing the delicate, often invisible line between protection and control, and realizing, with dawning horror, that his instincts have been leading him to toe it without his conscious consent.

“You’re different,” he says softly, almost to himself.

You huff a small, tired laugh. “I’ve always been like this. You’re just actually paying attention now.”

That earns you a faint, wry smile, but it doesn’t reach the concern still clouding his eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks again, the question even quieter now, stripped bare.

“Yes,” you affirm. “And if I’m not… I’ll tell you. You have to trust that I will.”

Steve nods, slow and deliberate, as if he’s agreeing to a much larger, more important treaty. “Okay.”

Neither of you moves. The charged silence stretches, filled with unspoken apologies and new understandings.

“KING! We need you back on the throne, man! Game’s falling apart without you!” a voice booms from across the room, followed by a chorus of agreeing shouts.

Steve doesn’t even glance in their direction. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m busy,” he calls back, his voice flat, firm, and utterly unmistakable.

A beat of surprised silence rolls through his immediate crowd, followed by a few confused laughs and muttered questions. The party, for a second, recalibrates around his absence.

You just blink at him, surprised. Steve shifts his weight, suddenly looking less sure of himself now that he’s commanded the room’s attention only to dismiss it. Up close, in this fragile pocket of privacy you’ve carved out, he looks younger. Less polished, more real. The veneer is gone.

“I, uh—” He clears his throat, his eyes darting past you for a half-second before returning, full of a nervous resolve. “I was gonna head out soon anyway.”

It’s a lie. A generous, face-saving revision of the night’s script. You both know the party is his domain, and leaving it early is an abdication.

He rubs the back of his neck again, the gesture familiar and endearing in its anxiety. “I just wanted to check if you… if you wanted a ride home. Later. Whenever.”

You study him, the warm buzz in your veins making his earnestness feel profound, softening the hard edges of the night. “You’re leaving your own party?”

He huffs a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve thrown enough of these to know the exact moment they stop being fun and start just being… loud.”

There’s something new in the way he looks at you now. It’s not the protective, possessive gaze from the porch. It’s careful. Concerned. Deeply present.

“And,” he adds, his voice lowering into a space meant only for you, “I don’t really love the idea of you walking home alone like this.”

“Like what?” you tease gently, a small smile touching your lips.

He mirrors it, a small, fond quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Like someone who just confidently out-drank half the varsity basketball team.”

You laugh, and the sound is genuine, lighter than anything you’ve felt all night. It feels like a release.

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “But… yeah. I’d like that. A ride.”

Relief, pure and unguarded, flickers across his face before he can compose his features. “Yeah?” he asks, as if he needs the confirmation to believe it.

“Yeah.”

Steve nods, a little too quickly, then immediately backpedals, the old uncertainty resurfacing. “No pressure,” he stammers. “I mean, if you want to stay longer, or if someone else is giving you a lift, or—”

“Steve,” you interrupt, your voice soft but firm.

He stops, his ramble cut short.

“I said yes.”

That, finally, seems to settle him. The tension fully leaves his shoulders, replaced by a simple, hopeful resolve. “Okay,” he says, and this time his smile reaches his eyes, real and unguarded. “Okay. Let me just grab my keys and my jacket.”

He takes a step away, then pauses, turning back. His expression is solemn, sincere. “Thanks for coming tonight. Seriously.”

You tilt your head, a playful glint in your eye. “You literally begged.”

He laughs, a warm, rich sound. “Still. It meant something.”

The drive home is quieter than you’d anticipated, not with the weight of unsaid things, but with a soft, shared exhaustion. It’s a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. Steve pulls the BMW away from the chaotic curb, the thumping bass of the Harrington house shrinking into a distant, rhythmic pulse, then dissolving entirely into the still Hawkins night. After a moment, his hand reaches out, not toward you, but toward the radio. He twists the dial with practiced familiarity, bypassing the stations playing party hits until he finds one crackling with static at the edges, bleeding a slow, melancholy guitar riff into the car’s interior. It’s a song from another decade, meant for open windows and long, contemplative roads.

Neither of you comments on it. The choice hangs in the air, understood.

Streetlights become a metronome, sliding past the windows in golden intervals. Each one illuminates Steve’s profile in a fleeting, cinematic flash: the strong line of his nose, the curve of his lower lip, his hands resting steady and capable on the wheel. The tightness has left his jaw; the party-host mask is gone, shed somewhere on the Harrington driveway. What’s left is just Steve, a little tired, a little sobered, beautifully real in the dashboard’s glow. The hum of the engine, the whisper of tires on asphalt, the faint radio melody, they blend into a lullaby for the overstimulated soul.

Your head lolls back against the plush headrest, eyelids heavy. The alcohol has completed its transformation from a sharp stimulant into a warm, woolly haze. It cradles your bones, makes your limbs feel deliciously detached and weightless. In the periphery, you sense Steve’s glance, a quick, sidelong sweep to check on you. You catch him in the act and offer a faint, sleepy smile. He looks away instantly, feigning deep interest in the empty road ahead, but you see the way the corner of his mouth lifts in a reluctant, pleased echo.

When the car finally glides to a stop outside your dark house, he cuts the engine but leaves the radio playing, a thin, gentle thread of sound connecting you. It feels like an acknowledgment that stepping out of this capsule, back into the real world, requires a moment of preparation.

“Home,” Steve says, his voice soft, almost reverent in the new quiet.

You nod, the movement slow. Your hand finds the door handle, the chrome cool under your palm. The second your feet meet the solid earth of your front walk, the world executes a slow, graceful tilt. The ground seems to swell gently toward you.

“Oh—”

The sound is out before you can stop it, a soft, surprised exhale. You haven’t even begun to stumble when you hear the decisive thunk of his car door. Steve is already there, having moved with a quiet urgency, rounding the front of the BMW. His hands come up, hovering near your elbows, a portrait of restrained readiness.

“Hey—hey,” he says, his voice low and calm. “You good?”

“I’m fine, Steve,” you insist, laughing a breathless, embarrassed laugh as you force your spine straight. You make a shooing motion with your hand. “Promise. Go back to the car.”

He hesitates, his brow furrowed in clear disbelief, but he takes a measured step back, granting you the space to prove it.

You manage five steps. The walkway is familiar, but tonight the pavement has developed a subtle, malicious camber. Your foot catches on the raised edge of a flagstone. With a small, helpless gasp, you pitch forward, the world tipping past the point of no return.

“Nope.”

The word is uttered with flat, undeniable finality. In two long, sure strides, Steve is at your side. His arm slides around your waist—not tentatively, but with a firm, confident warmth that stops your fall mid-arc. You let out a soft oof, your hands coming up to brace against the solid wall of his chest. You can feel the soft cotton of his shirt, the steady beat of his heart beneath.

“Okay, okay,” you concede, laughing into his shoulder, your cheeks burning with a mix of intoxication and chagrin. “That one didn’t count.”

Steve exhales a laugh that is mostly relief, shaking his head as he adjusts his hold. “Yeah, no way. I’m invoking best-friend—or, okay, driver—privileges.”

His movement is seamless. He guides your arm up and over his shoulders, his own arm locking securely around your waist, taking your weight without a hint of strain. It feels instinctive, practiced in the way only true caretaking can be. It feels, impossibly, like you belong right there.

You lean into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder more than you strictly need to. The scent of his cologne, faint beneath the smell of night air and party, is calming.

“_______,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial tone as he steers you toward the front door. “We have to be quiet. Your parents are definitely sleeping.”

You nod, suddenly and immensely serious. “Yes, sir,” you whisper back, the words overly precise. Then the absurdity of it hits you, and a giggle escapes, muffled against his shirt.

Steve bites his lip, trying to stern his expression, but the smile breaks through, lighting up his eyes in the dark.

The old porch wood groans a quiet protest under your combined weight. He stops, holding you steady as you fumble in your pocket for your keys. His hand at your waist gives a gentle, reassuring squeeze. When the lock finally clicks and the door swings inward, the profound silence of the sleeping house envelops you, cool and still.

You step across the threshold carefully, Steve’s support unwavering until you are firmly planted on the entryway rug.

“There,” you announce softly, giving his arm a pat. “See? Made it. Told you.”

He doesn’t release you immediately. He watches you for a beat longer, his eyes tracing your face in the dim light from the street. They are warm, fond, and still etched with a trace of that stubborn, endearing worry. Finally, he nods.

“Text me when you’re in bed,” he instructs quietly, his voice a soft rumble in the hall.

You tilt your head, your own eyes heavy-lidded but sparkling with mischief. “You gonna tuck me in, too, Harrington?”

Steve lets out a short, choked laugh, shaking his head as he follows you into the hallway, his steps silent on the carpet. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Mm,” you hum, swaying gently toward the wall. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Yeah,” he says, his hand shooting out to steady you by the elbow, guiding you back to center. “Shockingly, I’m a believer now.”

He ushers you gently into your room, the door clicking shut behind him with a sound so soft it seems to absorb into the walls. Steve pauses just inside, his gaze doing a slow, involuntary sweep of the space.

Your room is… a map of you.

The soft, buttery light from a small ceramic lamp on the nightstand. Band posters and art prints tacked up with careful precision, but not obsessively aligned. A worn, beloved stuffed rabbit peeking out from under a pile of pillows, as if hiding from judgment. Your desk is a curated chaos, a mosaic of ticket stubs tucked into the frame of a mirror, a chipped mug bursting with colorful pens, a precarious stack of well-loved paperback novels, their corners dog-eared to mark your progress. It’s a space that is neither aggressively girly nor austerely minimalist. It’s warm. It’s layered. It’s you.

Steve swallows, a sudden, strange tightness in his throat.

You, meanwhile, are blissfully unaware of his quiet audit. You’ve beelined for the bed, executing a move that is part graceful collapse, part tactical maneuver. You kick off your shoes and fall face-first onto the comforter with a deep, soul-satisfying sigh, immediately wrapping your arms around a pillow and nuzzling into it.

“Wow,” Steve murmurs, amusement thick in his voice. “Out like a light.”

“M’not asleep,” you mumble, the words smothered by cotton and down. “Just… resting my eyes. Strategically.”

He smiles, a private, tender thing, and sits carefully on the very edge of the mattress. It dips slightly under his weight, a gentle valley forming between you. You feel the shift in the universe, a slight, sleepy roll toward the new gravitational center he creates.

“Hey,” you murmur after a moment, your voice slurred and soft as worn velvet. “Thanks for tonight.”

Steve glances down at the crown of your head. “For driving you home? That’s a pretty low bar for gratitude.”

You turn your face just enough to peer at him with one heavy-lidded eye. “No. For the fun. And for not… staying mad at me.”

“I wasn’t mad,” he corrects gently, his hand resting on the comforter near your shoulder. “I was worried. There’s a difference.”

“Still,” you sigh, already drifting back toward the pull of sleep. “Thank you.”

He’s quiet, letting the silence breathe. Then, lightly, he adds, “Anytime. Though, for the record, maybe we pace the drinks next time? Just a thought.”

You make a vague, dismissive noise that vibrates through the pillow. “You’re such a mom, Steve.”

He snorts. “Yeah. I know.”

Then, softer, the bravado gone: “Seriously, though. I’m glad you came.”

The words land differently this time. They bypass the haze, shimmering with a sincerity that makes your sleepy heart give a sluggish, thick thump.

Before he can say anything else, you move. It’s a slow, dreamlike reach—your hand rising, fingers seeking. They find his hair, the strands soft and slightly mussed. You hum, a contented sound deep in your throat, and run your fingers through it once, twice, in a slow, rhythmic, utterly intimate caress. It’s an action of pure, unthinking affection, as natural as breathing.

Steve freezes.

Your touch is a brand of warmth. It’s gentle. It’s trusting. It unravels something tightly wound inside him.

With a final, sighing breath, you let your hand fall back to the bed, palm upturned. Your breathing deepens, evens out, sleep claiming you utterly and without preamble.

Steve doesn’t move for a long minute. He just sits there, anchored to the spot by the weight of the moment, watching you.

Watching the slow, steady rise and fall of your shoulders. The way all the guardedness, all the sharp wit and defiant pride, melts from your face, leaving only a peaceful, unlined openness. How devastatingly beautiful you are like this, not put together, not performing, but simply existing. Real and vulnerable and his to protect, if only for this silent moment.

He feels it then, an irrevocable shift deep within his chest. A locking into place. A settling of dust he didn’t even know was unsettled.

With movements as careful as if he were handling something infinitely precious, he stands. He pulls the blanket up from where it’s tangled at your feet, draping it over you with a tenderness that aches. He smooths it down, tucking the edges loosely around your shoulders. He hesitates, his hand hovering near your cheek. Then, with the backs of his fingers, he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his touch so feather-light it’s almost a prayer.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, the word barely a breath.

You don’t hear him. You are far away in dreams.

But he lingers in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, for much longer than is reasonable. He watches the gentle rhythm of your sleep, memorizing the scene, letting the terrifying, wonderful truth wash over him completely, without dilution or denial.

Somewhere between the deafening noise of the party and the profound quiet of this room, between a challenge issued on a porch and a touch granted in trust, Steve Harrington has fallen.

He’s fallen hard, and he’s fallen for you.

Monday arrives not with an alarm, but with the slow, throbbing ache of a consequence you’d briefly managed to forget. It settles behind your eyes, a dull pound that syncs with your heartbeat. Your mouth tastes like stale cotton and regret, and your head is filled with a fuzzy, static-filled fog. But cutting through the haze are crystalline shards of memory, replaying on a loop: the solid, steadying pressure of Steve’s arm around your waist, the conspiratorial hush of his voice in your dark hallway, the way the mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of your bed, an intrusion that felt like a belonging. The space between you had been rewritten that night, the rules erased and redrawn in something far softer, and infinitely more dangerous.

By the time you push through the heavy front doors of Hawkins High, you’ve crafted a plan. You will be a ghost of normalcy. You will move through the halls as if the party was a collective dream, a shared hallucination no one will be gauche enough to mention. You will be bland, uninteresting, and above all, untouchable.

It is an excellent, foolproof plan.

It lasts approximately seven minutes.

The first sign isn’t a shout or a pointed finger. It’s a low-grade hum, a change in the social atmosphere. It’s in the way conversations seem to stutter and dip as you pass, not into silence, but into a lower, more intentional register. It’s the flicker of eyes—not staring, but tilting, tracking your progress with a newfound, speculative interest. A junior from your chemistry class, a girl you’ve never spoken to, catches your eye in the crowded hall and offers a slow, approving nod. “Hey,” she says, her tone implying a shared secret. You’ve been voted into a club without your consent.

You ignore it. You perfect the art of looking straight ahead, of seeing nothing. You make it to your locker, a metal sanctuary in the chaos.

And then you see the second sign.

A folded square of notebook paper, neon yellow and obnoxious, is shoved into the air vent slits of your locker door. It isn’t tucked discreetly; it’s jammed in there, a flag planted on stolen land.

Your hand freezes on the combination lock. It’s just paper. It’s stupid. But a cold, intuitive dread pools in your stomach. You pull it free, the paper rough against your fingertips. Unfolding it feels like disarming a bomb.

The message is short, written in a slashing, aggressive script that digs into the paper, each letter leaning forward as if trying to escape the page:

Nice party. You clean up well.

No name. No signature needed.

The handwriting is a violence in itself, jagged, impatient, all hard angles and implied threat. It doesn’t feel like a note; it feels like a trespass.

A hot, sharp irritation, clean and bright, slices through your morning fog. You don’t blush; you burn with a quiet, furious indignity. How dare he. How dare Billy Hargrove infiltrate your Monday, your locker, your peace? He doesn’t get to litter the edges of your life with his presence. Without a second thought, you crumple the note into a tight, angry ball and shove it deep into your bag, as if burying evidence.

“Morning.”

The voice, so close, makes you jump. You slam your locker shut with a metallic clang that echoes too loudly in the hall.

Steve stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the neighboring lockers. His hair is still damp from a shower, dark waves falling across his forehead, and his leather jacket hangs open over a faded tee. He looks like he sprinted to make the bell, but his eyes are clear, alert, and already fixed on you. They perform that same familiar, worrying scan, over your face, your posture, searching for cracks. When he finds none, a visible relief softens his features.

Then his gaze drops, snagging on your hand, still clenched in a white-knuckled fist around the strap of your bag.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, the casual greeting vanishing. His voice is immediate, intense.

You blink, forcing neutrality. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t even entertain the lie. His head tilts, a familiar, stubborn concern etching lines between his brows. “Something’s wrong,” he states, taking a step closer. The hallway noise seems to fade around him. “Did he—”

“Did who?” you cut in, though you both know.

Steve’s jaw hardens, a clean, tight line. A muscle feathers along the ridge of it, a tiny tremor of restrained energy. “Billy,” he says, and the name is a stone dropped into the still water between you. Spoken in that low, graveled register he reserves for warnings and middle-of-the-night truths, it sends a cold, unwelcome current straight through your system.

“No,” you say, the word coming too quickly, too defensively. “Nothing happened.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, a minor release of immediate tension, but the sharpness doesn’t leave his eyes. They remain fixed on you, bright and unblinking, the eyes of a goalkeeper in a permanent state of anticipation, braced for a shot he is convinced, in his bones, is coming. “Are you sure?” he presses, the question not one of doubt in you, but of deep, ingrained suspicion of the world’s inherent threat.

You inhale slowly, drawing the school’s recycled air deep into your lungs, using the count of four to steady the erratic tempo of your pulse. “Yes.”

He studies you in a silence that feels both intimate and agonizing. You can see the calculation behind his gaze, the silent war between what he wants to say and what he feels he must do. It’s a familiar conflict now, etched in the slight furrow of his brow. Then he delivers it, not as a suggestion between equals, not as a shared strategy, but as a verdict handed down from a bench you never agreed to. His voice drops into that firm, unmistakably protective register that leaves no room for debate.

“Stay away from him today.”

It’s the tone that does it. Not the sentiment, which might have been offered as concern, but the unyielding finality of it. The unspoken premise that his assessment of risk is absolute, and his authority to manage it, unquestionable.

“Steve.” Your voice is quiet, a single syllable woven with warning and disappointment.

He mistakes it for a request for emphasis. “I’m serious.”

“I heard you,” you say, each word measured and even, a calm surface over roiling water. “I’m asking why.”

He pauses.

The hesitation is brief, a stutter in the rhythm of the hallway’s chaos, but it yawns into a chasm between you. In that silent gap, you see everything: the ghost of past confrontations in his eyes, the weight of unspoken rules, the shadow of a game he’s been playing on a field you can’t even see. Explaining would mean drawing back a curtain on a stage where he has been both actor and stagehand, and he isn’t ready for you to see the machinery.

His mouth opens, forming the ghost of a word, then closes on nothing. His fingers flex at his sides, empty hands curling and uncurling as if grasping for an answer that keeps slipping away.

“You don’t need a reason,” he says finally, and the words sound hollow even to him, a defensive mantra that has worn thin.

You stare at him, the cold from the crumpled note in your bag seeming to seep into your very bones. “I do, actually.”

Steve exhales a tight, frustrated breath through his nose, the sound of a man trying to leash his own fear. “Look—he’s not—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening again, a visible wall going up. “He’s bad news, okay? The kind that leaves a mark. Just… trust me.”

There it is.

The refrain. The emotional shortcut he falls back on when the path of true communication seems too treacherous.

Trust me.

But trust is not a blindfold to be willingly worn. It is a bridge, and it is built, painstakingly, with the bricks of shared context and the mortar of mutual understanding. He is asking you to cross a chasm while refusing to show you the plans, to assure you the foundation is solid while hiding the cracks he sees from his side.

Your chest tightens into a familiar, aching knot. “You keep saying that.”

His brows knit together, frustration and a flicker of desperation darkening his features. “Because it’s true.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you snap, the heat rising before you quell it, lowering your voice as a cluster of freshmen giggle past. “It just means you want me to listen without understanding. To follow your lead without knowing the destination or the danger. It’s not a reason; it’s a request for obedience.”

Steve’s expression fractures. First, a flash of genuine, wounded hurt, as if you’ve questioned not his judgment, but his very character. Then, almost instantly, something defensive and weary slams into place, the practiced mask of the protector locking down. “I’m trying to keep you safe,” he says, the words ground out like a worn prayer, a mantra that has become both his purpose and his prison.

“You said that already,” you reply, and your voice softens despite the sting, because you can see the cost. The exhaustion is a tangible presence in the shadows beneath his eyes, in the slight slump of his usually proud shoulders. This self-appointed role of guardian is a weight he carries alone, and it is bending him. “And I told you, you don’t get to decide what ‘safe’ looks like for me. You don’t get to build the cage, however well-intentioned, and call it shelter. A cage denies the sky, Steve. Even a gilded one.”

His jaw clenches so tightly you fear he might crack a tooth. He looks away, his breath hitching in a ragged, suppressed sound, visibly wrestling with a torrent of words—fear, anger, pleading—that he knows would only make things worse.

When he looks back, the rawness is gone, replaced by a strained, deliberate calm. His voice is lower, steadier, but it carries the distinct chill of controlled desperation.

“Fine,” he says, the word quiet and utterly resigned. “Then just… don’t engage with him. Please.”

It is not an order this time. It is a boundary drawn with a trembling hand. A plea, stripped of all authority, naked in its vulnerability.

You search his face, looking past the worry for the truth that must be fueling it. “That’s still not an explanation, Steve. It’s just a different phrasing of the same request.”

“I know,” he admits, the confession bursting out of him, too fast and full of self-directed anger. “And I hate that. I hate how it sounds. I hate standing here sounding like I’m telling you what to do.”

“Then tell me,” you urge, your voice dropping to a whisper, a final lifeline thrown across the growing divide.

Steve hesitates.

And in that suspended, breathless moment, everything becomes devastatingly clear. The truth is not absent. It is present, a living, breathing thing he is consciously, actively, holding back. There is a specific reason. A history. An incident. A knowledge he possesses and is choosing, with full awareness, to withhold.

His hands curl into loose fists at his sides, then release, a physical echo of his internal struggle. He opens his mouth—you see the shape of a confession, the first syllable almost forming—and then he consciously, decisively, shuts it down. The words are swallowed back, locked away.

“I can’t,” he finally says.

The raw, unvarnished honesty of it lands with a force that steals your breath. It is not a evasion. It is a surrender. An admission of a limit he cannot, or will not, cross.

You nod slowly, the movement stiff and formal, an acknowledgment of a door being firmly closed in your face. “So you don’t trust me,” you state, the words a bleak conclusion, not an accusation.

“That’s not—” He lurches forward a half-step, genuine panic flashing in his eyes, erasing the practiced calm. “That’s not what this is. It’s the opposite.”

“Then what is it?” you ask, your voice achingly quiet, giving him one last, clear chance.

Steve swallows, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a hushed, urgent whisper meant for you alone in the echoing hallway. “It’s me… trying to keep one last, ugly thing from touching you. To be a buffer between you and something rotten. And if you knew—if you had the full, unfiltered picture—you might make a choice. A brave, stubborn, you kind of choice. And I wouldn’t be able to stop it. I wouldn’t be able to stop you.”

The words aren’t cruel. They are worse. They are fear and fierce, possessive care twisted into a single, suffocating knot. A confession that his need to protect has completely outpaced his ability to truly partner.

The ache in your chest sharpens into a precise, heartbreaking pain. “So you trust me with your past,” you say, your voice miraculously steady even as it threatens to fracture. “With your failures. With the quiet confessions at my kitchen table. With the vulnerability of being in my room when the world was shut out.” You list the intimacies like sacred, earned treasures. “But you don’t trust me with this reality. Not with the truth of what’s happening right now, right here, to us.”

He looks at you as if you’ve reached inside his chest and laid bare his most fragile, guarded secret. “_______—” Your name is a broken sound, a plea and an apology.

You shake your head once, a small, definitive motion that silences him. “I don’t need every classified file, Steve. I don’t need to dissect every shadow. I just need to know that you see me standing beside you, not behind you. That you’re not deciding for me what I am, or am not, strong enough to face.”

His eyes shine, glassy with unshed tears he would never let fall here. His jaw works, a muscle ticking furiously as he battles the torrent of emotion fighting for release.

He says nothing.

And in that profound, chosen silence, you receive the only answer that matters.

You take a deliberate step back, physically creating a foot of space where, just moments before, there had been the aching potential for closeness. The air between you turns cold and still.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you say, the words soft, final, and infinitely weary. “Feeling like I’m trusted with the curated pieces of you, the fun companion, the comforting presence, but not with the raw truth that affects us both. It makes everything else feel… conditional. Like a loan of your trust.”

“Please,” Steve breathes, the word stripped of all pride, raw and exposed. It hangs in the space between you, a single thread holding a great weight.

You pause, feeling the pull of that thread, the ache to simply turn back and accept the partial version of things because the alternative is this cold distance.

But you don’t.

“When you’re ready to be honest,” you say, your voice firm yet not unkind, carrying the echo of the care you still feel, “really, fully honest… I’ll be ready to listen.”

Then you turn, and you walk away.

You don’t run. You don’t storm off in a performance of righteous anger. You simply leave, because to stay any longer would be to silently ratify a version of love that demands ignorance as its price, a partnership where one person holds the map and the other is simply told to follow.

Behind you, Steve does not follow.

He doesn’t call your name. He doesn’t rush to close the gap. He remains rooted in the spot, a statue of conflicted intention.

And that absolute stillness, that resigned letting-go, hurts almost more than a heated pursuit ever could. 

Billy Hargrove is wrong all day.

Not loud-wrong. Not aggressive-wrong. Not the familiar, swaggering menace you’ve learned how to clock and avoid with practiced ease. This isn’t the Billy who takes up space on purpose, who makes noise because noise means control.

He’s quiet.

Too quiet.

In first period, he sits without slouching, spine unnaturally straight, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for impact that never comes. His hands are folded flat on the desk, fingers perfectly still, as if he’s been instructed to keep them that way and is terrified of breaking a rule he doesn’t fully understand.

It’s unsettling. Billy never sits like that.

When the teacher calls on him, there’s a delay, just long enough to make the room shift uncomfortably. He looks at her too long before answering, eyes fixed and unblinking, like he’s processing the concept of authority rather than responding to it. When he finally speaks, his voice is calm. Flat. Almost polite.

That might be the worst part.

A group of students laughs behind him at something stupid and inconsequential. Billy’s head turns toward the sound, slow and precise, like a radar dish swiveling to lock onto a signal. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t react. He just watches until the laughter fades, then turns back to face the front of the room.

You feel it in your spine.

Every time you shift in your seat, his gaze follows.

Not openly. Not obviously. It’s subtle enough that you almost convince yourself you’re imagining it, until you glance up and catch his eyes already on you. They don’t flick away when you notice. They don’t sharpen or soften.

They just… stay.

There’s no appraisal there. No hunger. No challenge.

Just attention.

Like you’re a variable in an equation he hasn’t solved yet.

By second period, the unease has sunk beneath your skin. You keep your head down, focus on your notes, tell yourself you’re being paranoid. Billy is many things, but quiet isn’t a crime.

Still, you can feel him.

Waiting.

Across the hallway between classes, Billy stands alone near the lockers, not leaning, not posturing. Students move around him without acknowledging his presence, like their instincts are telling them to give him space even if they don’t know why.

You don’t look at him.

You can feel the moment he notices you’ve passed.

Steve does too.

You catch him watching Billy from across the hall, his usual easy posture gone rigid. His jaw tightens in that familiar way, like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to say out loud. His eyes track Billy’s movements with a sharpness that makes your stomach drop.

You leave school unsettled, nerves humming beneath your skin, but you tell yourself you’re overreacting. You’re tired. You’re still angry. You don’t want to give Steve the satisfaction of being right about something he won’t explain.

You stop at Starcourt on the way home because you need something ordinary.

Groceries. Toothpaste. A carton of milk you don’t technically need. Something small and practical to anchor yourself to the world you understand. The mall is busy without being crowded, families drifting between stores, teenagers loitering with sodas in hand, the low, constant hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like the mall itself is breathing.

Normal. Safe. Predictable.

You let yourself believe it.

You move through the aisles on autopilot, fingers brushing familiar packaging, the cold air of the freezer section raising goosebumps on your arms. Muzak crackles faintly through the speakers. Somewhere, a child laughs. Somewhere else, a cashier argues about coupons.

The world is blissfully unaware of the tight knot lodged beneath your ribs.

By the time you exit the mall, the sky has begun to bruise. Purple bleeding into orange, dusk settling like a held breath. The parking lot stretches wide and open, asphalt still warm from the day, rows of cars catching the dying light in dull flashes.

You adjust the bags in your hands and head for your car.

You’re halfway there when the air changes.

It’s subtle. A pressure shift. The feeling you get when someone stands too close behind you—but sharper. Focused. Like a fingertip pressing between your shoulder blades.

From the long, navy-blue shadow between two parked trucks, Billy Hargrove steps into the last of the dusk’s glow.

He doesn’t emerge; he unfolds. He moves with a languid, terrifying certainty, as if he’s been a part of the landscape the entire time, a statue waiting for the light to hit him just right so he could step down from his plinth. As if he’d been waiting, perfectly still, for the exact moment the universe would deliver you into this empty pocket of the world, alone.

The performative costume is gone. No worn denim jacket, no cigarette prop. Just a simple, cheap white t-shirt, stretched drum-tight across the hard plane of his chest and shoulders. The fabric pulls taut over the coiled power of his arms, whispering of muscle held in a state of permanent, aggressive tension. He looks contained, but not calm. He looks like a spring compressed to its absolute limit, every line of his body straining against some unseen, internal leash. His eyes, reflecting the bruised sky, hold none of the mall’s indifference. They are fixed, intent, and utterly, terrifyingly present. He has not happened upon you. He has arrived.

“You really do like to play games, don’t you?”

The voice slides into the space behind you like a blade, cold, sharp, and intimately invasive. It doesn’t just reach your ears; it slithers down your spine.

You freeze.

Your heart doesn’t just beat faster; it slams against your ribcage once, a single, violent contraction so powerful it feels like it punches the air straight from your lungs. The plastic grocery bags grow impossibly heavy, their handles like biting wires in your clenched fists.

Your pulse spikes, a frantic drum against your throat. “Billy. I don’t want to talk to you.”

He smiles.

It’s a slow, careful peeling back of lips. Utterly empty. A mockery of warmth that dies long before it reaches his eyes, which remain flat, watchful, and chillingly intent.

“Why do you play so hard to get, ______?” he asks, his voice a low, almost gentle croon that somehow makes the words more vile.

Every instinct in your body screams a single, primal command: RUN. You take an involuntary step back, your shoes scuffing loudly against the gritty asphalt. “What—”

“Couldn’t you just submit,” he continues, stepping forward in perfect time with your retreat. His voice lowers, thickens, something wet and furious curling underneath the honeyed tone, “like all the others? Would make things so much easier for you.”

Your stomach twists violently, a wave of nausea rising with the bile of fear. “That’s not—” you stammer, backing away again, the plastic bags slipping in your sweaty grip.

Billy moves. It’s not a rush. Not a lunge. It’s a sudden, efficient annihilation of the space between you, too fast for your eyes to properly track. One moment he’s several feet away; the next, his hand snaps out with the speed of a striking snake.

His fingers clamp around your wrist.

The grip is crushing, absolute. It’s not the hold of a person; it’s the bite of a mechanical vice. A sharp, sickening pain radiates from the bones. The grocery bags tear from your other hand, hitting the pavement with a crash. A can of soup rolls away with a lonely, metallic clatter.

You gasp, the sound thin and desperate.

His skin is cold. Not just cool from the evening air. It is a deep, unnatural cold, as if he’s been standing in a shadow that leaches all warmth from the world.

“You don’t get to say no,” he hisses, the gentle pretense evaporating. His breath smells of stale smoke and something else, something metallic and wrong.

And then his face changes. Not dramatically. Not into some storybook monster.

It shifts in small, profoundly wrong ways. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the icy blue of his irises until his eyes are almost entirely black, depthless pools. His jaw jerks sideways in a quick, spastic twitch, once, twice, as if something inside the shell of him is yanking on the strings, struggling to fit behind the mask of skin and bone. The expression is one of intense, internal conflict, but the hand on your wrist only tightens further, until white-hot bolts of pain shoot in jagged lines up your arm.

You scream.

It’s a raw, unfiltered sound of pure terror. Adrenaline, sharp and clarifying, tears through the panic. You shove at the solid wall of his chest with both hands, twisting your body with all your strength, your foot kicking out blindly. For one miraculous second, you manage to wrench your wrist free from that icy, iron grip.

You duck on instinct. His fist swings through the space where your head had been.

It doesn’t whistle through air; it crushes it.

The blow connects with the driver’s side door of a parked sedan.

The sound is a sickening, catastrophic CRUNCH of buckling metal and shattering safety glass. The door panel caves inward, a grotesque dimple of ruined steel. The car’s alarm erupts in a frantic, whooping wail, strobe lights flashing across the asphalt.

You stare, blood freezing in your veins.

That should have shattered every bone in his hand. That should have been impossible.

Not human.

The thought detonates in your mind, and with it, a panic that is hot, dizzying, and total. It vaporizes all thought, leaving only the ancient, mammalian imperative to flee.

You run.

Your shoes slip on the pavement as you bolt, veering wildly between the rows of cars. Your lungs burn, clawing for air that doesn’t seem to reach them. Your heart hammers so violently it blurs your vision, turning the world into a shaky, impressionist painting of color and shadow.

Behind you, Billy laughs.

It’s not loud. Not gleeful. It’s a low, wet, broken sound—a chuckle that seems to come not from his throat, but from somewhere deeper, darker. It’s the sound of something that finds your terror amusing.

Fingers, cold and strong, snag the back of your jacket. They yank with violent, effortless force, pulling you completely off your feet. You are a doll in his grip. You hit the ground hard, the impact jolting through your teeth. The rough asphalt shreds the skin of your palms as you try to break your fall. The pain is bright, sharp, and grounding.

You roll, instinct taking over, your foot lashing out in a blind, frantic kick. Your heel connects solidly with his kneecap.

He barely stumbles. It’s like kicking a brick wall.

A ragged, sob-like gasp tears from your throat. You scramble backward on your elbows and heels, putting precious inches between you, just in time to see his open hand slam down, palm flat, where your head had been.

CRACK.

The sound is horribly final. A spiderweb of fractures erupts in the asphalt beneath his hand.

Your vision tunnels, darkness pressing in at the edges. The world shrinks to this patch of broken ground, the wailing car alarm, and him.

Your scrabbling hand finds purchase on something long, cold, and heavy—a tire iron, abandoned near a car’s flat tire. Your fingers close around the gritty metal. Without thought, without hope, you swing it with every ounce of desperate strength you have left.

It connects with his shoulder with a solid, sickening THWACK that vibrates up your arm, rattling your very bones.

Billy… barely reacts.

He turns toward you slowly, deliberately, his head tilting to one side at an angle that is just a few degrees past natural. His black, depthless eyes rake over you, your heaving chest, your bleeding hands, the useless weapon in your grip, with something akin to clinical curiosity. There is no anger, no pain. Just a chilling, fascinated assessment.

He looks like a scientist observing a trapped insect that has, against all odds, managed to sting him. He looks like he’s calculating, with detached interest, exactly how much force it will take to finally, definitively, end your resistance.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

The shout doesn’t just cut through the air, it splits the night open like an axe through rotted wood. It’s raw, ragged, and forged from pure, undiluted terror.

Steve Harrington crashes into Billy Hargrove not like a man, but like a force of nature. He comes from the side, a blur of motion and desperation, his shoulder driving into Billy’s chest with the full, reckless weight of his body. The impact is a visceral, punishing thud that echoes off the cars, knocking the air from both of them in a synchronized, choked gasp. Billy, caught off guard for the first time all evening, is driven backward, his boots scraping twin streaks of protest across the asphalt, surprise, real, human surprise, flashing across his distorted features.

Steve doesn’t pause. He doesn’t check his own injuries. The momentum of the collision is just a prelude. He uses it, stepping into the space he’s carved out, his body pivoting to plant itself as an immovable object between you and the threat. His arms fly out to the sides, not in a heroic pose, but in a primal, instinctive spread—a human shield making itself as wide as possible. His stance is wide, knees bent, every muscle corded. He is a wall. He is a barricade. He is the only thing that matters.

“Run!” The command is ripped from his throat, hurled over his shoulder at you. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a plea and an order fused together. “NOW!”

Your legs are stone. Rooted. Paralyzed.

Billy regains his footing, the surprise melting into something molten and vicious. A low, guttural snarl tears from his lips, his face contorting, lips peeling back from teeth that seem too white in the fading light.

“Wrong choice,” he growls, the words dripping with a promise of pain.

And then he moves.

He hits Steve.

It’s not a punch; it’s a demolition. Billy’s fist connects with Steve’s jaw with a sickening, wet crack of bone on bone. The sound is horribly intimate, echoing in the vast, empty lot. Steve’s head snaps sideways. A spray of saliva and blood catches the dull gleam of a distant security light. He doesn’t cry out; he just goes down, his body folding under the force, skidding across the rough asphalt with a sound like tearing cloth.

Something flies from his grip, clattering and spinning across the pavement.

The bat.

Your eyes track it dumbly as it rolls in a wobbly arc, coming to a stop near your feet, its familiar, nail-studded wood looking absurdly ordinary against the oil-stained ground.

Billy is on him instantly.

The speed is inhuman. He doesn’t pounce; he flows onto Steve, a tide of relentless violence. His fists rise and fall in brutal, piston-like arcs. Each impact lands with a dreadful, meaty finality. Thud. Thud. THUD. Steve, dazed but fighting, tries to roll, tries to curl into a protective ball, his arms coming up to guard his head. But Billy doesn’t tire. He doesn’t need to breathe. It’s as if some external, malignant force is lending strength to every blow, making gravity his ally.

You scream Steve’s name.

The sound is torn from a place deeper than your lungs, raw and guttural, shredding your throat. You scramble to your feet, your legs trembling violently. Your heart is a frantic, caged bird trying to beat its way out of your chest, the pulse thundering in your ears so loudly it drowns out the car alarm. Your vision tunnels, the edges blurring into a swimming darkness, the world collapsing to the horrifying diorama of violence on the ground.

Steve is losing. Badly.

He blocks what he can, his forearms taking brutal punishment, already darkening with welts and cuts. What he can’t block, he absorbs. A fist slips past his guard, connecting with a sickening crunch against his ribs. He arches off the ground, a pained groan escaping his bloodied lips. Another blow splits the skin above his eyebrow, and blood, shockingly bright and red, blooms instantly, streaming down into his eye, painting half his face in a grotesque mask.

Still, he fights back.

Every movement is wild, desperate, fueled by a stubborn, unkillable fire. He swings a weak, looping punch that glances off Billy’s arm. He tries to buck him off. It’s futile, but the message in every ragged breath, every pained gasp, every defiant snarl, is screaming the same thing, over and over:

Not her. Not her. Not her.

“STOP!” you scream again, your voice breaking into a sob, the word dissolving into the night air, useless as confetti against a hurricane.

Billy seems to grow larger, his muscles bunching under the white cotton with an unnatural, rippling tension. He rears back, his fist lifting high, cocking for a blow that has no purpose but annihilation. It’s a killing strike, aimed at the vulnerable curve of Steve’s temple.

Thought evaporates.

Instinct takes over—an instinct older than fear, fiercer than panic.

Your hands, scraped and bleeding, find the cold, rough wood of the bat on the ground. Your fingers close around the grip, sticky with Steve’s blood. It feels impossibly heavy, a log of deadweight. But also solid. Real. A tooth of the real world in this nightmare.

A terrifying, feral clarity descends. The dizzying fear sharpens into a single, white-hot point of purpose.

You lurch forward, your body moving without your mind’s permission.

You swing.

You put everything into it, the terror of the note, the chill of his grip, the sound of crushing metal, the sight of Steve’s blood. You put every ounce of your weight, every shred of your fury, every desperate atom of your love into the arc.

The bat cuts through the air with a terrible, whistling sound.

It connects.

The impact is not a thud, but a hollow, resonant CRACK, like splitting a dense, frozen log. The vibration judders up your arms, rattling your teeth.

Billy’s head jerks sideways with a violent, whip-like snap. His body goes rigid for a split, suspended second. His black, endless eyes, wide with a shock that isn’t pain, but profound, outraged interruption, find yours. In that fleeting moment, you see a bottomless fury, a universe of wrongness focused solely on you.

Then the connection between his will and his body seems to sever.

He collapses.

It isn’t a graceful fall. It’s a total, boneless slump. He hits the asphalt like a sack of wet cement, limbs splayed at awkward, unnatural angles, his face turned toward the bruised sky.

Silence.

It crashes down, heavier and more profound than any noise. The only sounds are your own ragged, sobbing breaths, the fading echo of the car alarm, and a low, pained groan from Steve.

The world rushes back in a dizzying, nauseating wave, the cold air, the smell of gasoline and blood, the distant hum of the mall. You stand there, the bat now a dead weight in your trembling hands, staring at the two bodies on the ground: one still, one struggling to move.

The silence is deafening. It rings in your ears, a high-pitched tone of pure, undiluted shock.

Your arms tremble violently, a post-storm quake that travels from your shoulders to your fingertips. The bat slips from your numb, blood-slicked grasp and hits the asphalt with a dull, hollow clang that seems to echo the finality of the moment.

“Steve—” you gasp, the sound tearing from a raw throat as you drop to your knees beside him, the rough pavement biting through your jeans.

He’s breathing. Shallow, wet, rattling breaths, but they are there. His eyes flutter beneath bruised lids, struggling to focus on your face through the mask of blood streaking from his temple down his cheek, a vivid red river against his pale skin.

“Hey,” he rasps, the word barely a whisper, a thread of sound spun from pain and sheer will. His gaze, clouded with concussion, finally finds yours. “You… okay?”

The question—absurd, selfless, utterly Steve shatters what little composure you have left. A choked sob escapes you, tears welling hot and immediate, blurring his broken form.

“You absolute idiot,” you weep, the words mangled by emotion. Your hands flutter uselessly over him, finally pressing against the solid, trembling plane of his shoulder. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You could’ve—he could’ve killed you.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, so faint you have to lean in to hear. A ghost of a smile, more a twitch of his split lip, touches his mouth despite the agony etched in every line of his face. “Worth it.”

Getting him to your car is an ordeal etched in fire and fear. You half-drag, half-carry his dead weight, every step sending white-hot pulses of agony through your screaming muscles and bruised spine. Steve sags into you, his arm a heavy, unsteady bar over your shoulders, his body shaking not just from injury, but from the sheer, draining effort of remaining conscious. Each shallow, ragged breath he takes ghosts warm and uneven against the side of your neck, a terrifying metronome counting the seconds he remains with you.

“You’re okay,” you whisper into his hair, the mantra as much for yourself as for him. Your voice is a thin, desperate thread in the vast, silent parking lot. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, just hold on.”

Your shoes, slick with a grimy mixture of spilled soda, oil, and his blood, slip on the pavement. You stumble, his weight almost pulling you both down. Your fingers clutch desperately at the bloodied leather of his jacket, bunching the material in your fists as you adjust your grip, your muscles shrieking in protest, your heart a wild, frantic drum against your ribs threatening to break free.

The memory hits you then, unbidden and cruel in its contrast.

The way he carried you once, just days ago, yet a lifetime away. So slow, so careful, as if you were made of the most delicate glass. One arm a firm, secure band around your back, the other cradling the bend of your knees, his voice a low, soothing rumble in the dark hallway telling you it was okay to lean on him, that he had you. You’d laughed then, hazy with drink and trust, letting your head loll against his shoulder, believing completely in his strength.

The irony of it burns now, acrid and sharp.

This time, it is you who holds him together. Your arms, now trembling with a different kind of weakness, are the only thing keeping him from crumbling to the ground.

You reach your car, fumbling for your keys with fingers that feel thick and foreign. They slip twice, clattering against the door handle, before you finally manage to fit the key into the lock. The click is deafeningly loud. Getting him into the passenger seat is a clumsy, frantic ballet of bracing and easing. You cradle his head, guiding it carefully against the headrest, murmuring his name over and over like a protective incantation.

"Steve. Steve. Almost there."

Blood smears across the pale upholstery in stark, Rorschach blooms. It coats your hands, drying sticky and dark under your nails. It is on everything, a brutal, undeniable testament.

He groans as you buckle the seatbelt across his chest, his eyes fluttering open. For a second, through the haze of pain, his gaze finds yours and holds, a startling, lucid connection.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice a hoarse scrape. A feeble attempt at a smile touches his ruined mouth. “You did good.”

Your throat closes completely, a solid wall of grief and love and terror. Fresh tears spill over, hot and silent.

“Don’t,” you beg, your voice breaking into pieces. “Just—don’t talk. Please.”

You slide into the driver’s seat on legs that feel like water. The leather is cold beneath your trembling palms. Your hands clamp around the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching white as you force yourself to take one deep breath, then another, fighting the dizzying tide of shock.

The only sound in the car is Steve’s breathing, shallow, uneven, a fragile rhythm in the dark.

And then it hits you.

Not like the fear, a lightning strike of adrenaline. Not like the panic, a cold flood.

This comes slower. Heavier. A deep, settling ache that displaces the shock.

He knew.

The realization unfolds with dreadful clarity. The way he found you, not by chance, not searching frantically, but with direct, horrifying purpose. As if he’d been anticipating this exact horror all along, a shadow he’d been trying to outrun or intercept. The way he didn’t hesitate for a single second, not when he saw Billy, not when he put his own body between you and those fists. He stepped into the violence as if it were a script he’d already read, a price he’d already agreed to pay.

Steve knew something was fundamentally, terribly wrong with Billy Hargrove.

And suddenly, the heated argument in the hallway plays back in your mind with a new, devastating soundtrack. His tight jaw, his clipped warnings, the raw desperation woven through every stay away from him, it wasn’t about control. It wasn’t about a lack of trust in you.

It was fear.

A bone-deep, history-informed terror he didn’t know how to articulate without unleashing the very monster he was trying to shield you from.

Your grip on the steering wheel loosens, just a fraction, as the fight drains out of you, replaced by a profound, sorrowful understanding.

He hadn’t been trying to build a cage around you.

He’d been trying, clumsily and imperfectly, with the only tools his battered heart knew how to use, to keep you out of reach of a darkness he recognized.

You survived.

Not just because you were brave enough to swing a bat.

But because Steve Harrington showed up anyway.

Because he’d been watching, waiting, a silent guardian orbiting your periphery, ready at a moment’s notice to throw himself into the grinding gears of that darkness if it meant you could walk away.

Your chest tightens, a complex knot of emotion burning behind your eyes as you glance at him slumped in the seat beside you. Blood is drying in a cruel corona at his temple. One hand lies curled weakly in his lap, already swelling. He looks young. Broken. Beautifully, terribly human.

The secret he kept didn’t almost get you killed.

The secret he kept is the precise, awful reason you are both still breathing.

And that realization doesn’t erase the hurt of his silence, it sharpens it, hones it into something quieter, more intimate, and infinitely more painful.

Because if Steve had found a way to trust you with the terrifying, ugly truth…

Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting beside you now, bleeding and broken, paying for that silence with his own flesh and blood.

You turn the key. The engine sputters to life, a mundane sound in the aftermath of chaos.

As you pull the car out of the Starcourt parking lot, leaving the scene of the violence swallowed by the night, one truth settles in your chest, heavy and undeniable as a stone:

You’re not angry that he tried to protect you.

You’re shattered that he ever felt he had to do it alone.

The hospital is quieter than you expect. Not silent, it’s a space that never truly sleeps, but subdued, a world muffled in soft noise and dimmed concern. Machines hum a low, continuous hymn from other rooms. Rubber-soled shoes squeak with purposeful gentleness somewhere down the polished linoleum hall. Behind a drawn floral curtain, a nurse murmurs steady, practiced reassurances in a voice meant to soothe. Even the fluorescent lights, usually so harsh and revealing, have been dialed down to a muted, almost apologetic glow, as if they, too, understand that this hour demands something softer than truth.

Steve lies in the narrow bed, a landscape of white sheets and bleached cotton. His left arm is a careful sculpture of gauze and tape, resting atop the blanket. A thin, stark bandage cuts across his temple, a white flag against the purple swelling beneath. His chest rises and falls in a steady, medicated rhythm now, thank God, thank everything, but the sight of him so still, so deliberately still, makes a quiet, persistent ache settle deep in your throat.

You perch on the stiff, unforgiving plastic chair beside his bed, the only anchor in the sterile sea of the room. You don’t leave.

You should be exhausted. A bone-deep, system-failure kind of tired. And you are. Your clothes carry the acrid scent of asphalt fear and sharp hospital antiseptic. Your hands, scrubbed raw at the sink until they tingled, still feel phantom-sticky, no matter how hard you’ve washed. But every time your heavy eyelids start to drift shut, every time you consider resting your head back against the cold wall, your gaze snaps back to him—to the steady pulse in his throat, to the faint twitch of his fingers, as if your vigil alone is the thread keeping him tethered here. So you sit.

You watch the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital gown. You listen to the metronomic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, a sound that has become both lifeline and lament. You replay the fractured day on a loop in your mind, the note, the argument, the parking lot, the crack of the bat, until the memories lose their sharp edges and blur into a single, prolonged smear of terror and adrenaline.

At some point deep in the night, a nurse with kind eyes and a quiet step enters to check his vitals. She smiles softly at you, her clipboard held like a shield against her chest.

“You can grab some coffee from the vending machine down the hall, sweetie,” she offers, her voice a gentle nudge. “He’s stable. Sleeping soundly. You don’t have to stay glued to that chair.”

“I’m okay,” you reply, the words coming a little too quickly, too tightly.

Her eyes, wise and weary, flick between your face and Steve’s still form, then back to you. Her smile deepens, becoming something knowing and warm. “Girlfriend?”

You blink, thrown. “Oh— no. I mean, we’re not—”

She chuckles softly, a sound like rustling pages. “Honey, you’ve been holding his hand for the last three hours. Pretty convincingly.”

You look down, startled.

You hadn’t even realized.

Somehow, while you were lost in the watchful silence, your fingers had woven themselves between his. Your palm rests against the back of his bandaged hand, your knuckles brushing the familiar, vulnerable curve of his palm. The contact feels as natural as breathing, as essential as the IV drip feeding into his other arm. Like your hand belongs exactly there.

A slow, warm flush climbs your cheeks. “I’m just… staying,” you murmur, lamely.

“Well,” she says, her tone softening into something approaching reverence, “he’s lucky to have you.”

She slips out as quietly as she came, the door clicking shut with a hushed finality.

You don’t let go.

Steve wakes just before dawn.

It’s not a dramatic awakening. No gasps, no jolting upright. It’s subtle, a slight hitch in his previously even breathing, a faint, pained furrow appearing between his brows. But you notice instantly. Your body jolts upright in the chair, the legs scraping a jarringly loud protest against the floor.

“Steve?” you whisper, your voice gravelly from disuse and emotion.

His eyelashes flutter, dark against his pale skin. His dry, cracked lips part. “Ow,” he croaks, the single syllable rough and genuine.

A wave of relief so potent it’s dizzying crashes through you. A sound escapes you—half a laugh, half a sob, entirely unguarded. “Hi,” you manage, your own voice trembling. “Welcome back.”

He squints at the speckled acoustic tiles of the ceiling, processing, then turns his head slowly, carefully, on the pillow. His eyes, clouded with pain and medication, drift, struggle to focus—and then land on your face.

And they soften. All the tension, all the guardedness he usually carries, melts away, leaving something open and unbearably tender.

“Oh,” he murmurs, the word filled with a quiet, wondrous realization. “You stayed.”

Your throat constricts painfully. “Of course I did.”

He swallows with visible effort, his jaw working. “Good,” he rasps, a ghost of his old smirk touching his mouth. “‘Cause I was gonna be real mad if you didn’t.”

You snort, the familiar, fond irritation bubbling up despite everything. “You got beaten half to death in a parking lot, and that’s your priority?”

“Hey,” he says weakly, but his eyes are shining. “Consistency matters.”

You shake your head, a real smile breaking through the fatigue and fear, even as fresh tears burn behind your eyes.

For a long moment, you just look at each other in the pre-dawn grey of the room. The unspoken things hang heavy in the air between you, weightier than any monitor or IV stand.

Then Steve exhales, a long, careful, deliberate breath, as if he’s gathering courage from the very bottom of his lungs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. So quietly.

The apology isn’t rushed. It isn’t defensive or wrapped in a joke. It is simple, stark, and utterly honest.

“I should’ve told you,” he continues, his gaze unwavering. “I knew something was wrong. I knew he wasn’t… himself. Not for a while. And I still didn’t tell you.” His voice cracks, just a hairline fracture of sound that speaks volumes. “I thought I could handle it alone. I thought if I just kept you far enough away, I could keep you safe without ever having to scare you with the… the realness of it.”

You hold his gaze, letting him speak, letting the truth he’d hoarded finally find air.

“And?” you prompt gently.

“And I was wrong,” he admits. No excuses. No deflection. Just the raw, humble admission. “I should’ve trusted you. I should’ve given you the choice. I was so afraid of you choosing to walk toward the danger that I didn’t realize I was already pushing you away.”

Your fingers, still laced with his, tighten gently. An anchor. A forgiveness.

“I don’t forgive you because you jumped in front of me,” you say, your voice soft but clear in the quiet room. “I forgive you because you’re sitting here right now, bleeding through your bandages, and you’re owning it. All of it.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath that sounds like the beginning of a release. “Yeah. Well. Growth. Apparently I’m doing that now. It’s… uncomfortable.”

You smile, a real one that reaches your eyes. “Terrifying.”

He huffs a pained laugh, then grows serious again, his thumb moving in a faint, unconscious stroke across your knuckle. “I didn’t tell you because… I didn’t want to be the guy who only matters when things get bad. The crisis guy. The fighter. I wanted you to like me when I was just… me. When I wasn’t bleeding or bruised or playing hero.”

Your chest aches with the sweetness and the sorrow of it.

“I liked you at my kitchen table,” you tell him, the memory vivid and warm. “With your stupid, nervous pencil tapping and your fake, overconfident grin.”

He groans faintly, a blush tinting the skin above his bandage. “God, I knew you clocked that.”

“You joke when you’re scared,” you continue, building the portrait of him you’ve been assembling in your heart. “You try to protect people when you don’t know how to just ask them to be careful. And you care so damn much it makes you reckless. It makes you walk into parking lots against things you don’t understand.”

Steve watches you, his eyes wide and soft, as if you’re reading from a book of his own secret history.

“I fell for you anyway,” you finish, the confession hanging softly in the space between you. “Maybe even because of it.”

Silence stretches, but it’s a comfortable, understanding quiet, filled with the hum of healing.

Then Steve smiles—not the dazzling, performative King of Hawkins grin, not the defensive jock’s smirk—but something smaller, softer, and completely unguarded. It transforms his battered face.

“You flirting with me right now,” he asks, his voice a gentle, hopeful rasp, “or are you?”

You laugh, the sound warm and real and free, and you lean closer, bridging the space the chair had created. “You finally noticed.”

He squeezes your hand, the grip weak but full of intention. “Guess I’m a slow learner.”

Outside the narrow hospital window, the world begins to lighten. Pale, tentative gold spills across the white sheets, gilding the edges of the blanket, washing over his tired face and your clasped hands. Steve watches the sunrise for a moment, a quiet peace settling over his features. Then he looks back at you, his eyes clear and certain.

“I’m still gonna want to protect you,” he says, the vow simple and true. “It’s in my wiring. But I’m gonna ask first. And I’m gonna listen. And I’m gonna trust you to stand next to me, not behind me. To be my partner in the weird, scary stuff. Not my… not my problem to solve.”

Your heart feels full, not with giddy lightness, but with a steady, chosen weight. Like you’ve both been looking for solid ground and have finally found it, together.

“Good,” you say, your own voice firm with promise. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve’s smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It’s the smile of a boy who has finally put down a burden he was never meant to carry alone.

Needless to say, Steve absolutely loathes him with every fiber of his being. He doesn't understand how someone like Patrick could be with someone like you. Who is, basically, an angel sent to Earth. 

And Steve is so patient with you, so selfless, so gentle, so caring, so full of love everytime he looks at you. That's because he's been in love with you ever since you helped him out at that stupid Halloween party at Tina's house.

How could Steve not be in love with you? That's the real question.

“He's completely, disgustingly in love with you, by the way,” Dustin would say once, after Steve practically sprinted over to you, taking off his jacket to put it on your shoulders as night fell and you were all outside fixing some stuff on the WSQK van.

You would just roll your eyes, ruffling your little brother's curly hair. “Just because he's a gentleman doesn't mean he likes me, Dus.”

“It totally does,” he would argue, noticing the way Steve would turn around every now and then to look at you, clearly more interested in you than in whatever Murray was babbling about the van's ridiculously large signal antenna. “He's pathetic.”

You see Steve giving you a big smile, and that made you smile too.

And Steve doesn't just smile at you.

He beams, he glows, his whole face lights up.

Like you're the only thing in the entire universe worth looking at. Like the Upside Down, the goddamn end of the world—none of it matters as long as you're standing there, wrapped in his jacket, cheeks softly pink from the cold. Looking back at him with those eyes.

When you open the door of your house, there he is. Steve. Stepping out of his pretty vehicle with that expression on his face that's meant just for you to see, his honeyed eyes softening at the edges, one of his hands twitching as he runs it through his hair. 

Lately, he's been doing that a lot more than usual, you notice. Twitching.

“You're twenty-four minutes late,” you say, pointing out something he obviously already knows, closing the door behind you and walking toward him across the front yard of your house.

Even when you bring up that disapproving tone and oblivious to everything going on around you, still he smiles so softly, genuinely happy to see you. He rests his elbow on the open driver's door as if he's the most handsome guy around. He is, probably.

“Take it easy, sugar, were you really that desperate to see me?” he snorts, taking advantage of the fact that he's pretending to look for your little brother, who is usually by your side, so he can look you up and down. He definitely doesn't find Dustin, but he does find your beautiful legs dressed in that pretty skirt he absolutely loves.

You roll your eyes, pulling up right next to his car as Steve rushes to open the passenger door for you. 

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Steve raises his hands in surrender, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Hey, I'm only commenting on what I see. Desperation to see me.”

You shoot him a glare over your shoulder, but there's no real heat behind it. He knows it. He always knows it. And that's what makes him smirk — that stupid, charming Harrington smirk that makes your stomach do another one of those flips you pretend you don't get around him.

You slide into the passenger seat, smoothing your skirt as you sit. He— of course he notices. You catch the flicker in his eyes, the way he wets his lips before quickly looking away.

He's been doing that a lot too.

Steve closes the door gently — always gently — then walks around the car. When he gets in on his side, the scent of his cologne fills the small space, warm and familiar, and you hate how much you missed that.

He doesn't start the engine right away.

Instead, he rests his hands on the steering wheel, thumbs tapping in that nervous little rhythm again. Twitch, twitch. 

The muscle in his jaw works once, very subtly. Something is definitely off with him today, though you can't quite tell what. 

“Okay,” he says, exhaling softly, “so Dustin's not with you? You checked his room?”

“Obviously,” you mutter, buckling your seatbelt. “He left an hour ago after slamming the door so hard I thought the hinges would fall off.”

Steve winces. “Ah. Classic teenage meltdown. Love that.”

You shoot him another look. “He's been doing more than melting down. He's... different. Distant. I don't even know what's going on with him anymore. I'd like to be there for him—I am there for him. But he...” You nervously bite your lower lip. “He just doesn't see me.”

For a moment, all Steve does is look at you, with that gentle, knowing gaze, looking deeper into your eyes, as if he literally had your soul in his hands and was examining it delicately.

“Hey,” he says softly, fingers twitching on the wheel again. “The guy adores you. He talks about you all the time. He's just going through a rough patch, we all are, considering the current state of the world. He just needs time to clear that thick head of his.”

His words should reassure you, but they don't. Not entirely. You've been anxious lately, everyone has. Acting very out of it, on edge, tense, obsessed with Vecna and the Upside Down. 

“I know,” you say quietly. “But it feels like he's shutting me out. Like he doesn't need me anymore.” Your throat tightens with every word you speak, hindering your efforts to speak. “Like I'm losing him.”

Steve watches you for a heartbeat, his expression softening even further— impossibly so. He shifts in his seat, the leather creaking as he turns toward you, knee purposefully brushing yours.

As he opens his rosy lips to say something, you gently cut him off, shaking your head.

“Let's just not talk about it anymore,” you clear your throat, struggling to force a little sweet smile. With the appearance of that smile, he falls silent, gazing at you in stillness. “Let's just focus on what's important, okay? You said you needed help with the sound effects?”

Steve clears his throat now, forcing himself to shift his soft brown eyes away from your pretty face and onto the street in front of him, checking to see if any vehicles are approaching so that he can drive off the sidewalk. “Uh—yeah, the sound effects, I wanted to get your opinion on that.”

“My opinion?” you ask, curious, lifting an eyebrow. Truthfully, you assumed that Steve needed you for something more important when he called you the night before, requesting your presence by 5 p.m. the following day, urgently.

Steve grins, responding, “Yeah, you've been helping me all this time with it, so I figured it would make sense to have your approval on a few adjustments.”

“Okay...” you reply, still somewhat skeptical that this was really the point of the whole gathering.

Steve finally starts the engine, though he doesn't drive yet. His fingers drum anxiously against the wheel—tap-tap-tap—before he pulls the car smoothly onto the road. You watch the familiar streets pass by through the window, enormously more at ease now that you are in the company of Steve, who has been your best friend since, well, since all the Upside Down mess started—and ever since he finally decided to stop being a brainless dumbass.

“Okay, so,” Steve says after a moment of comfortable, clearing his throat again. “Don't laugh at me, but I stayed up until, like, three in the morning trying to fix the stupid 'creature roar' effect. And now it just sounds like... I don't know. A dying vacuum cleaner.”

“Well, I'll be the judge of that, Harrington,” you snort, settling back in the seat. 

That makes him smile again, a real one this time. But it fades a little too quickly as he focuses back on the road, jaw tightening again. 

The drive to WSQK radio station is quiet, a comforting, familiar silence, a silence that feels heavy and light at the same time, like an unspoken promise.

When you arrive ten minutes later, Steve rushes to open the door of the car for you, and that makes you smile once again. You smile a lot when you're with him. Dustin points it out every damn chance he gets.

You don't notice it because it's so natural, so uncontrollable. When you're with Steve, your whole world feels lighter, calmer, quieter. All you can hear is the sound of his voice and your heart beating in your chest.

The ride becomes quiet, a comfortable, warm, cozy silence. A silence that is familiar to you, that you enjoy. Because it's Steve, after all, your best friend. There's no place you feel safer than right there, sitting next to him in his car.

He swallows, like he's trying to work up to something, as you walk together inside the radio station building.

He's thinking about something. Or hiding something. You can practically feel it pulsing off him.

After a very long moment, he speaks.

“How's everything going with Patrick?”

Patrick. Right.

He pronounces the name as if it contains some deadly poison, his tongue twisting in disgust, his whole face contorting in revulsion as he says it. Steve is physically repulsed by saying it.

You sigh, waiting for him to open the radio booth.

“Same as usual lately, I guess,” you click your tongue, frustrated with the topic. “He hasn't come to see me, nor has he called. He's... distant. Upset, shut down.”

Steve clicks his tongue too and he turn his head to look at you with sympathy, anger perhaps too. “He's such an idiot. You should totally dump his ass, like, right now.”

“He thinks I'm cheating on him,” you blurt out, lowering your gaze for a moment. “With you.”

Steve's reaction is instant.

He almost swerves.

Steve freezes.

One hand still on the booth door, the other hovering mid-air like he forgot how to move. His mouth parts just slightly — not enough to speak, only enough to show how completely that sentence knocked the wind out of him.

“...with me?” he repeats, and his voice sounds different. Rough. Quiet. Almost strangled.

“Yeah,” you nod, hugging your arms to your chest. “He's been acting weird about it for weeks. Says we're 'too close.' That I look at you differently. That you look at me differently.”

Steve blinks once. Slowly. As if giving his brain time to reboot.

“Well,” he finally says, breath catching, “that's... that's rich. Because I'd never— I mean, I—”

He stops. Swallows hard.

Runs a hand through his hair again, fingers trembling.

The room feels suddenly too small, too warm, too loud with the sound of his breathing. He opens the door with some brusqueness, holding it open for you to pass through.

“He's jealous for no reason,” you try to add, but your voice comes out thin. “I'd never— we're just—”

You walk slowly through the door, stopping right in front of him, at the threshold, holding his gaze. His eyes scan your face with that intense, searching softness he reserves only for you — warm honey turning to fire around the edges. 

“Friends,” Steve finishes quietly, eyes flicking up to yours.

“Right,” you're an echo of his words. You bite your lip, exhaling a little nervous giggle, “Friends.”

Steve clears his throat and fumbles for the light switch, turning it on with a loud click. The booth fills with the warm hum of equipment, mixing boards blinking with tiny green and red lights.

He doesn't look at you for a moment. He sets down his keys on the desk, straightens a stack of cassettes that didn't need straightening, taps his finger nervously on the mixer — twitch, twitch.

You wander past boxes and shelves filled with vinyl records, recognizing many that you yourself had donated to the radio station.  

You're smiling as you find your all-time favorite one, and it's got a little pink note with words written on it, that you can read once you take the record out to take a look at it.

‘Handle with care.’

You recognize the handwriting right away.

Your eyes lift from Cindy Lauper's iconic pose on the cover of She's So Unusual to look at Steve, who is still rummaging through the cassettes.

Your fingers linger on the sticky note longer than necessary as your chest warms, tightens, twists, all at once.

“Stevie.”

“Mhm?” he hums, looking up to pay attention to you, as if you hadn't already caught his undivided attention the moment you stepped into his company.

“Why did you put a note on my record?” you ask softly.

“Because...” He laughs under his breath, but it's not really a laugh, it's a huff of obviousness. “Because it's your favorite.”

You lift a brow. “And that requires a warning label?”

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushed. “Not a warning. Just— you know.” He shrugs helplessly. “I didn't want Robin or someone else to scratch it. I know it means a lot to you.”

“Right,” you say, biting the inside of your cheek to contain the overwhelming flood of emotions that is suddenly trying to drown you.

You put the record back in its spot, very slowly.

“So,” you smile lightly, taking a seat at Robin's desk, the radio host, “are you gonna show me the vacuum-cleaner monster roar or what?”

Steve snaps upright like you just gave him instructions to defuse a bomb.

“Right — yeah — yes.” He fumbles with a cassette, jammed between two others. “Okay, so, this one... wait— no, not this— crap— okay— this one!”

He pops it into the player and presses play.

A horrific, warbling screech bursts out of the speakers — something between a demon gargling nails and an actual dying Hoover.

You burst out laughing, clapping a hand over your mouth.

Steve groans, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh my God, I knew it— it's awful, it's— don't laugh— actually no, okay, you can laugh.”

You push your feet to pull the chair closer to his desk, “No, no, it's... impressive. Deeply cursed. But impressive.”

He looks down at you with that stupid boyish grin that scrunches his eyes at the corners, with his hands still hiding his face, looking at you through the gaps between his fingers. That way you can clearly see the brown-honey color of his eyes.

As he leans his elbows on his desk, you move close enough to pull his hands away from his blushing face, very gently.

You're smiling so hard your cheeks are quivering slightly, “I think it's really cool.”

Steve holds his breath, his eyes flickering for a split second to the sight of your hands cupping his, guiding them away from his face so you can get a better look at him. You catch him, though. You always catch him.

“You really think so?” His eyebrows furrow upward and he looks like a pouting child.

“I mean, you're going to scare the shit out of the radio listeners,” you giggle quietly. 

And Steve starts laughing too, uncontrollably. He feels so happy that he could float away. The only thing keeping him grounded are your hands in his, your gaze, your smile, your voice, your body.

Ten minutes later, after some more banter and approving comments about Steve's new sound effects, he's putting a record on one of the turntables in the booth. You're not paying attention to him because you're too focused on sorting through the boxes full of cassettes, organized by words, letters, and emotions. You put the new one with the creepy scream in the horror section.

A broad smile curves your lips as the first chords of Money Changes Everything begin to echo through the interior of the cabin.

“Well, he's been ignoring me a lot lately,” you continue telling him about everything that's been going on with your lame boyfriend.

Steve is listening attentively, he's now sitting in the office chair, his fingers drumming on the armrests along with the beat of the song. He knows it by heart, of course, you've listened to that album together countless times in your room.

“How long is 'a lot'?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

“...over a month,” you admit finally.

Steve's brows knit now. “Over a month since what?”

You settle more comfortably over his desk, “Since he actually talked to me. Since he touched me. Since we...” you gesture vaguely, your voice lowering sheepishly, “y'know...”

“Are you kidding?” he asks, voice low, controlled — but barely.

“No...”

He blinks slowly, very slowly. And sits up straight in his seat, as if he were rising from the dead, “He hasn't even— even tried anything?”

“Nope,” you shook your head, straightening the fabric of your skirt over your thighs.

He just... stares. Like you've just told him something so unbelievable, so painful, so wrong, that he can't fully process it. His eyes drag over your face, your lips, the way your fingers nervously smooth your skirt, and something darkens inside him — anger, disbelief, heartbreak, something protective and dangerous all at once.

“You deserve better than that,” he says softly, voice trembling with sincerity. “So much better. Fuck, that's crazy”

You try to laugh it off — small, brittle, dismissive.

“It's not that big of a deal, Steve—”

“Yes, it is,” he cuts in, more firm than you've ever heard him with you. Not harsh — never with you — but there's an edge, a rare sharpness slicing through his voice. “It is a big deal.”

Your brows lift, surprised.

He pushes himself up from the chair so suddenly it rolls back a few inches. He stands in front of you now, the record spinning behind him, Cindy Lauper's voice floating through the booth like some ironic soundtrack to the crackling tension.

When You Were Mine.

How fitting.

“Over a month?” he repeats, like he's still trying to convince himself you're not joking. “He hasn't touched you in over a month?”

Your cheeks warm, in embarrassment, frustration, a little sadness, a little humiliation.

You make a dismissive gesture with your hand, “I guess he's just... done with me.”

“No.” His voice cracks. Actually cracks. “Don't say that. Honey, he should be begging for your attention,” Steve whispers, every word slow, deliberate. “He should be feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. Because he—” He shakes his head, eyes burning. “God, he has no idea what he has.”

You swallow hard.

“Steve...”

He inhales — deep, steadying — and steps back just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to sever the electricity sparking between you.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer. And somehow, that makes it worse.

“Why are you still with him?”

It's a simple question. But it doesn't feel simple.

Why are you still with Patrick? 

You've asked yourself this question more times than you'd like to admit. And you tell yourself it must be because of the attention he gives you (very occasionally now) or the way he's there for you (hardly ever anymore). No, seriously, why are you still with him?

Why do you keep clinging to something that is clearly beyond repair? 

It's not afloat, so what's the point in sinking with it?

You fidget with the edge of the desk, sighing in hopelessness. “I don't know. Maybe because I keep hoping he'll come back to me. That things will go back to normal.”

“Well,” Steve speaks in a tone as gentle as his gaze, “if he can walk away from someone like you... he's even more of an idiot than I thought.”

Your lips part — a soft sound escaping before you can stop it.

And Steve notices.

Oh, he notices.

He notices everything about you. He knows you better than he knows himself, every gesture, every movement, every glance, every tone of voice. Every single habit of yours is a kind of religion to him, a form of fanaticism, a way of worship. Every part of you is divine, heavenly.

And nothing about you is normal. In the best sense of the word.

Steve's eyes flick to your mouth for half a second before he forces himself to look away, rubbing his hands on his jeans like he needs to physically wipe the moment off his palms.

“You're just saying that to make me feel better,” you huff, smiling faintly, holding his gaze.

“No,” Steve says immediately.

Too immediately.

He stands up like a robot, quick and precise. He walks toward you with slow, deliberate steps, brushing one of his hands through his hair. 

“You really don't see it, do you?” His question sounds incredulous. “You don't see what everyone else sees. What he should see.”

You blink up at him once he is standing right in front of you. “See what?”

“That you're...” He stops, jaw clenching. Starts again. “That you're impossible not to notice. You come into a room,” he continues, eyes burning into yours, “and it's like everything else gets quieter. You talk, and I—” He swallows, the sound thick. “I listen to every word like it matters. Because it does.”

Your pulse is pounding so hard you can feel it in your fingertips, twitching over the desk.

“You smile, and I...” He exhales. “I feel it. Everywhere.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Steve...”

“If you were mine, I wouldn't leave you for a second. I mean, look at you,” he smiles, glancing down at your lips. His hands rest on either side of you on the edge of the desk, gripping it tightly and holding on to it as if that would stop him from doing something he wouldn't want to do, something he might regret. “I'm supposed to be your friend,” he breathes out, defeated, leaning closer to you and pressing his forehead against your shoulder. “I'm supposed to be a gentleman.”

You feel his breath quicken against your skin, a shuddering sigh that ripples down your spine. The revelation lingers in the air, palpable and electric, poised to burst the bubble of that long-standing "friendship" that has kept you both afloat for so many years.

“Steve,” you whisper, because it's all you can manage to say. His name. Your voice fractures under its own weight.

You raise a hand, pausing for a second, before gently placing it on Steve's brown hair at the nape of his neck. Your thumb brushes against his warm skin, and a small sigh slides from his lips, a low, hoarse sound that makes you tremble.

He lifts his head slowly.

And the moment his eyes meet yours...

It's like the whole room tilts.

His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry, and you swear you can feel the heat rolling off him, rising off his skin in waves. His gaze drops to your lips again — not subtle, not accidental, not friendly.

He's not pretending anymore.

Not hiding it.

Not even trying.

“I'm supposed to be good,” he chokes out, his voice nothing more than a hushed whisper, a confession. “But sweetheart,” he gasps, his voice cracking with restraint, “you make it really, really hard to be good.”

Steve notices that you want to say something, and shushes you, laying a finger on your mouth, tracing your lips with extreme delicacy.

“Shh... look at me, just look at me,” he demands in a deep whisper, his hands are cradling your face now, shaky, almost hesitant. “I can't stand the thought of that jerk neglecting you. Not when I... if I could, I would make you feel like the only woman in the world, every day.”

Your breath hitches in your throat as his finger traces the curve of your bottom lip, as delicately as if he were touching a porcelain doll. His hands, usually so confident and restless, are trembling slightly against your cheeks, framing your face with a tenderness that makes your eyes sting.

The way he's looking at you—it's devastating. It's the way you always secretly wanted to be looked at, a look of utter reverence and raw, agonizing need. It doesn't look like friendship. It looks like... everything else but it.

You lean into his touch almost imperceptibly, just enough to communicate the sudden, powerful shift inside you. The realization that he is the reason Patrick is jealous, and the terrifying, wonderful possibility that Patrick might be right. He must be right.

With a low, ragged sound that is half-gasp, half-groan, Steve closes the remaining distance.

“Kiss me,” you manage to utter, demand, or beg, your voice caught in your throat, like a tiny vibration in the air. It's the most coherent thing you can express, the most you need at that moment. Him and nothing but him.

With a low, ragged sound that is half-gasp, half-groan, Steve closes the remaining distance in between you. 

He shatters it as if it were his greatest enemy, the one thing he has loathed since he can remember. Distance. 

His lips find yours, hesitant for only a fraction of a second, then urgent, demanding, and utterly possessive. It's not the gentle, polite touch of your 'best friend'; it's the fierce, hungry pressure of a man who has been holding this back, hoarding this feeling, for too long. 

From a man who laid his heart in your hands the moment you met. Who took one look at you and knew he would be yours.

Your man.

Your Steve.

Yours.

His hands slide from your cheeks, moving to cup the back of your head, threading into your hair, tilting your face up just slightly, deepening the kiss with a desperation that steals your breath away. His nose, the one you love so much, bumps against yours roughly, and they fit together just right.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. It's a dizzying, all-consuming kiss that feels like coming home and falling off a cliff all at the same time. 

Every question you had about Patrick, about your relationship, about why you were staying, dissolves into the white-hot certainty that this—this shocking, overwhelming connection—is what you've been missing. 

Why haven't you seen it before? Perhaps you had merely chosen not to see it. That you belong to him. The devastating truth. That you belong to him.

You lift your own hands through his body, gripping the front of his shirt, clinging to him as if he's the only stable thing in a violently spinning world. The fabric is soft, warm from his body, and your knuckles white as you pull him closer.

You spread your thighs, bringing him even closer to you, impossibly close.

When he finally, reluctantly, pulls back —only enough for a breath— his forehead is still resting against yours. His eyes are closed, chest heaving, his breathing a frantic counterpoint to the steady beat of the music filtering through the air. 

You can't help but kiss him one more time, just a little peck. Because he looks so pretty, so hot, so celestially beautiful, pressing against you, ready to worship everything you give him.

“God,” Steve prays, but it sounds more like a curse, the single syllable a prayer, a curse, and a confession all at once. His thumbs brush against your cheeks, pulling you back to look at him, his eyes opening slowly, dark and dazed. “I've wanted to do that for— God, I don't even know how long. Why did we take so long to do that?”

“Because you didn't have the guts to do it,” you whisper back, holding back a smile, which he kisses, gently tracing your curved lips with his tongue. 

He smiles too, and then leans in and kisses you again, softer this time, a tender sealing of the promise, a claiming that makes every other kiss you've ever had feel like a bad dream. When he pulls back, he's glowing, his hand never leaving your face.

“Don't,” he breathes out, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze locked on your mouth. “Don't go back to him. Please...”

“I won't,” you promise him. 

Because, how could you even want to see another male when you have him right there in your arms? Staring at you like that, so yearningly.

Steve's lips curl into a slow, relieved, and utterly triumphant smile—the genuine, dazzling smile that makes your world lighter.

You feel him exhale against your cheek, shaky, uneven, like every breath he takes is still trying to catch up to what just happened.

Like he's trying to catch up to you.

His hand slides down from your cheek to your jaw, then to your shoulder and finally to your waist — not squeezing, not claiming you the way he clearly wants to. Just resting there. Feeling you, with the softest, most enamored touch you've ever known.

“You're shaking, pretty,” he points out.

“So are you,” you whisper back.

And he is — his fingers tremble where they rest against your skin, his breath stutters each time he looks at your lips, and his chest brush yours with an unsteady pressure, as if he's terrified you'll vanish if he doesn't stay close enough.

And still, Steve pulls away just a little, only enough to take off his jacket and carefully drape it around your shoulders, his hands caressing your arms as he does so, making sure you are wrapped up and cozy. 

Your cheeks flush, and Steve smiles when he sees it.

The scent of his cologne fills your nostrils, so masculine, so him, so yours.

“There you go,” he coos contentedly once you're snuggled up under the warmth of his jacket.

“Thanks, Stevie,” you flash a sheepish smile, so happy you feel like you might burst.

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, slow, testing. And then, you lift your hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb across the faint stubble there.

Steve leans into your touch like it's instinct.

Like it's home.

“Everything for you,” he assures you, “Everything.”

He looks at you like you've just handed him the entire world.

And Steve Harrington — your Steve — lifts your hand to his lips, pressing the softest kiss to your knuckles, reverent, desperate, worshipful.

As if you were the beginning and end of his universe.

And for him?

All he gets from you is a soft and airy moan, but it makes his stiff cock jerk in your quivering confines anyway.

“Then tell me.”

His words fall over you like summer rain. You don’t know if it’s a command or a plea — and he doesn’t, either, really — but he just wants to hear you.

Your mouth parts in a silent moan when his hips rock back and forward again, never quite pulling all the way out of you before fucking into you again, inch by agonizing inch. Your nails dig crescent shapes into his shoulder blades, and Steve revels in the distant burn.

“C’mon, sweet thing…” he pants above you. The breath of his words fans warm against your chin as his broad nose nudges against the side of yours. “Tell me… Tell me I’m making you feel good…”

A flicker of panic dashes across your fucked-out features at the simple command — you wouldn’t know what to tell him, how to tell him without sounding utterly un-sexy. But then his hips tilt back between your parted thighs, dragging his stiff cock out of you until your drooling pussy clenches around the bulbous tip, and then pushes slowly back into you again.

He forces you to feel all of it — every inch of his cock as he fills you once more. The thatch of hair above his happy trail that ruts mercilessly along your swollen clit, more so when your hips buck on their own accord. The scruff of his chest that brushes your sensitive nipples when you tighten your hold around his shoulders.

You couldn’t make out the words if you tried.

You cage your bottom lip between your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut tight, missing the look of worry that flashes across Steve’s scruffy face. His measured thrusts falter at your silence, lean hips stilling between your thighs.

“Does it… Does it not feel good?” he mumbles awkwardly into the quiet of his bedroom.

Your eyes fly open then, heavy-lidded and swimming with a leftover pleasure. You almost can’t believe he’s asking you that. Like you aren’t already so close to your orgasm, like you haven’t already drenched the sheets below you.

“Yeah… It— It feels good…” you tell him through panted breaths, quiet and hardly audible. Your eyes dart back and forth between his chocolate ones. Something short of agony twists at your pouting features. “Why— Why’d you stop?”

Steve grins all over again, though it wavers at the edges with a lingering worry.

“You got all quiet on me…” he murmurs, smoothing one wide hand over your cheek. The skin there is slightly sticky from a thin layer of sweat as he smooths rouge tendrils of hair from your temples with a softly calloused palm. His touch is as warm and firm as his heavy balls still pressed against your ass. “I wanted to make sure it was good for you, too…”

You shift slightly, caged beneath his golden body and the mattress below. You shrink into yourself instinctively, though there isn’t anywhere to go with you pressed so intently against him.

“Sorry…” you whisper.

Steve shakes his head. The chestnut tresses hanging over his forehead sway over his eyes, which go squishy around the edges when he smiles down at you with a melted chocolate gaze.

“You don’t have to apologize… I get it. It’s okay.”

He punctuates his reassurance with a kiss. His lips taste like spearmint, nicotine, and the sweet-salty tang of your cum when they press against yours. Your mouths slot together in a lingering, longing thing like they were meant to do it — like he was made to kiss you, like his only purpose was to kiss you.

Your lips smack when you pull away.

“Can you…” you hear yourself ask, then trail off a second later when you catch yourself.

“Can I what?” Steve hums knowingly. His lips curl into a lazy smile moments before he leans down to press them to your cheek. He doesn’t really kiss you there, but rather brushes the plush skin along your sweat-slick one. The breath of his words fans across your jaw and sends chill bumps pebbling across your bare body. “Use your words for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

My cock, he means. Or the world. Or the ocean. Whatever you could possibly ask for, he’d fight like hell to get.

Your breath catches when his wet mouth meets your pulse. You wonder if he can feel the thrumming of your rapid heartbeat there. “Can you keep going?” you plead in a breathless whisper.

Steve grits his teeth to fight back a moan when your words make his cock twitch inside you. The scruff of his chin scratches your shoulder when he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, baby, I can… I do that for you…”

The process starts all over again, the merciless rocking of his hips. He pulls out just enough to make you sigh at the empty feeling, then he fucks back into you until his balls slap the plush skin of your ass. Your back arches off the mattress as your nails dig into his golden shoulder. Your moan gets buried in your throat, in a hardly audible whimper.

“Let me hear it, baby,” Steve pleads through labored breaths as his fists ball into the pillows on either side of your head.

His lidded gaze, glassy with a layer of honey, flits across your fucked-out features — eyes squeezed shut, head tossed back, bottom lip caged between your teeth. The sight of you below him is heaven alone, especially compared to how demoniacal your cunt feels wrapped around him.

“Let me make you feel good. C’mon.”

You vaguely feel his right hand squeeze between your sweaty bodies as he continues his measured thrusts. His finger brushes over your stomach, and past the thatch of hair above your pussy, before finding purchase on your clit — already sensitive from your previous orgasm, which he had given to you with nothing but his mouth.

Your body reacts before your mind does. Your hips buck with a shock of electricity. Your thighs clench around his lean hips. Your mouth parts to exhale a broken whimper.

“Right there,” you hear yourself say. “Oh, my god— Right there.”

The praise makes Steve’s even thrusts falter for a moment. A groan rumbles in the depths of his throat. “Yeah… There you go,” the boy slurs. “You sound so pretty for me— Fuck. I knew you would…”

His words make you keen. “Steve…” you whimper when you feel your orgasm suddenly approaching, like a knot in the pit of your stomach that’s growing tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

He tries not to burst entirely at the way you say his name.

“What is it, honey?” he coos. “You close?”

“Yes…” you sigh.

“I know you are, baby— I can feel it,” he says through gritted teeth, as his own pleasure starts to build. “You’re getting so tight around me, baby, I can— shit. I can barely move—”

Your pussy clenches tighter around him, all but weeping for him now. Steve’s fingers on your swollen clit only add to the ache, which feels borderline overwhelming now. Your face screws in a pained sort of look as your thighs tremble on either side of his waist. You writh beneath his golden body, trying to both chase your orgasm and run from its intensity at the same time.

“Please, please, please…” you hear yourself begging, though for what, you couldn’t say. “Please, Steve…”

“I’m right here, baby,” the boy coos, words slurring from his own encroaching orgasm. He keeps one merciless hand on your clit, which swells beneath his fingers, while his other shifts to hold you. He keeps himself propped up with his elbow while his palm settles over the crown of your head. His fingers curl gently in your hair as he murmurs to you, “I’m right here. Take what you want. You know I’ll give it to you. You just gotta… holy shit— You just gotta fucking take it, baby—”

Something about his words sends you over the edge. The way he says them to you so softly, maybe, or the way they come out slightly strangled as he fights back his own pleasure.

“There you go…” Steve sighs when he feels you cumming around him, velvet walls clenching through the silk you leak for him. He watches through the haze of bliss clouding his vision as you finally succumb to your orgasm, twitching and writhing behind him through every wave of pleasure. “Take it, baby. Take it—”

His voice breaks. A pain sort of groan sounds deep in his throat as his own orgasm threatens to unravel him. He punches into you once, hard, and then buckles down over you. He suffocates you beneath his warm, heavenly body while his aching cock jerks within the pulsing walls of your pussy, spitting several ropes of warm cum deep inside of you.

“Fuck, baby,” he whimpers into your neck, where he hides his flushed face that screws in a pained look of overwhelming pleasure. “Fuck—”

He stills against you with one last, shallow thrust. The remaining tension floods from his body as he sinks heavily onto yours, with every intention of melting with you there. It’s the closest to heaven he’s ever felt — hell, probably the closest to heaven he’ll ever get — with his sweat-slick skin sticking so deliciously to yours.

“Stay…” he hears you whisper when he goes to pull out of you.

The soles of your feet press into the back of his scruffy thighs. Steve pulls just far enough to see your face, and finds you wearing a pleading, pitiful sort of look — brows scrunched, eyes wet, mouth pouted from his kisses.

“Don’t pull out,” you beg through heavy breaths. “Please. I… I wanna stay like this for a while…”