World Full Of Imagination @mochminnie - Tumblr Blog

Nov 10, 2025

The Bucket List - Steve Harrington

Dreamweaver's Note: This is a Constellation post which means it was not published before I was hacked. This is new. -Ultralight

⚠️Fae-Bound Triggers: Mentions of loss and suicide. Bad writing.

⏳Length of the Spell: 10.2k+ words

✨What the Stars Foretell: 'King Steve' helps you complete a bucket list that you never wanted to do in the first place.

✨Starlit Archive ✨ Stardust Inbox ✨Cosmic Events ✨

⟵ Previous Chapter🌙 Next Chapter ⟶

Enjoy!

You couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t the kind of breathlessness that came with crying. No, your eyes had gone dry hours ago, but the kind that sat in your chest like a weight you couldn’t move. Every inhale scraped, every exhale hurt. And still, people kept coming.

They said her name over and over, like maybe if they said it enough, she’d answer. They told you she was in a better place, that she was at peace, that she’d be missed. You nodded because it was easier than saying the truth….she was gone, and no one knew what to do with that.

The church smelled like lilies and dust and rain-soaked coats. The kind of smell that clings to your clothes long after you leave, the kind that made you want to burn your clothes and set yourself on fire. You sat in the front pew, hands in your lap, your fingers worrying the hem of your black dress. Every time the door opened behind you, a gust of cold air brushed the back of your neck and made you hope, stupidly, that maybe it was her.

It never was.

At some point after the prayers, after the songs, after the silence that felt like it might split you in two someone sat beside you. Her mom. Eyes red, hands shaking. She pressed something into your palms without looking at you.

A small, battered notebook. The cover half-torn, stickers peeling at the corners.

“Her room,” she whispered. “It had your name on it.”

And then she was gone too, swept up by another cluster of hands, another wave of sympathy. You just stared down at the notebook, fingers hovering like it might burn you.

Your name was written in the corner in blue pen, the dot on the i a tiny heart. You flipped it open before you could think better of it.

The first page held a polaroid of the two of you, both of you making kissy faces and you both had even gone as far as to kiss the edges with lipstick. It was taped down with the words ‘Things To Do Before End Of Summer’

The handwriting was hers. Messy, loud, alive and underneath it, the first line scrawled in the same pen:

“You always said I never finished anything. Prove me wrong.”

The words hit harder than any eulogy. Harder than the hymns. Harder than the silence.

You closed the notebook. You couldn’t breathe.

From the back pew, you caught a flash of brown hair and a face you hadn’t expected to see, Steve Harrington, sitting beside Nancy Wheeler, hands folded, eyes down. He didn’t notice you looking. He didn’t need to.

You already knew: nothing about this summer was going to be easy.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been since the funeral, since the lilies wilted and everyone else moved on. The cards had stopped coming. The casseroles too. People smiled at you in town again, the polite kind of smile people give when they don’t know what else to say.

You’d graduated. Walked across the stage. Smiled for the photos. Pretended not to think about the empty chair in the audience. Even kept your tears at bay during the memorial speech.

Now you worked at Family Video, where everything smelled like dust and popcorn and the faint hum of old fluorescent lights. You liked it, mostly. The routine helped, alphabetizing, rewinding tapes, pretending you didn’t see couples making out in the horror section. Pretending you cared when movie nerds talked your ear off about just about anything.

Family Video was the perfect way to waste your summer.

You kept the notebook in your bag. You never opened it. Sometimes you caught yourself staring at the cover during slow hours, fingers tracing the bent corner, wondering where you were supposed to start. Wondering if starting at all would make it real.

“Hey, uh-” Steve Harrington’s voice cut through the quiet like someone dropped a pebble in still water making you jump.

You turned to see him behind the counter, fumbling with a stack of tapes that looked seconds from disaster. He caught them ,barely, and flashed you that awkward grin people only wear when they’ve been caught talking to themselves for too long.

“You’re early,” you said, surprised. “Robin’s not even here to bully you into clocking in.”

He straightened, pretending to look offended. “Wow, I’ll have you know I’m a responsible employee now. I show up on time. Sometimes even before my shift.”

“That’s… shocking.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Character development.”

You laughed, quietly, but it still startled you. The sound felt strange coming out of your mouth, like it hadn’t been used in a while. Steve looked almost proud of himself, which only made it worse.

He leaned on the counter. “You’ve been carrying that thing around for, like, a week now,” he said, nodding toward your bag. “What’s in it? Secret recipes? World domination plans?”

Your stomach twisted. You tightened your grip on the strap. “Just… something from a friend.”

He nodded like he understood, even though you knew he didn’t. But he didn’t push, either.

“Well,” he said, grabbing a tape and flipping it over, “if it is world domination, I want in. I make a mean distraction.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Noted.”

The rest of the shift passed with awkward side glances and you were nearing close, just barely there. It was late enough that Family Video had gone soft around the edges with humming lights, slow ceiling fans, a flickering “Open” sign that no one was paying attention to anymore.

You sat cross-legged on the counter, the notebook open in your lap. The air smelled like old cardboard and VHS plastic. For the first time since the funeral, you’d let yourself actually read it. You had no clue why, maybe because Steve had questioned you about it earlier.

Each line felt like a bruise pressed too hard. Watch the sunrise from the water tower. Go stargazing in the middle of nowhere. Dance in the rain.

Her handwriting looped and stumbled across the page, little doodles in the margins of hearts, stars, half-finished thoughts. You caught yourself smiling and crying at the same time, the sound barely a breath.

A crash snapped you out of it.

“Shit- sorry!”

You jumped off the counter to find Steve Harrington half-buried in a sea of toppled tapes, an entire romance-movie shelf sprawled across the floor.

“Steve!” You call, rushing to help him.

“I swear this thing jumped at me,” he said, trying to gather the mess before anyone could see. “One second I’m shelving, next second BAM. Cassette avalanche.”

You sighed, setting the notebook down carefully behind the counter before crouching to help. Together, the two of you stacked titles. Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Dirty Dancing. You tried not to think about the open pages behind you.

When the last tape slid into place, Steve leaned back on his heels, wiping his hands dramatically. “Crisis averted. No casualties….. Besides my ego but that’s used to taking a hit.”

He grinned and then his eyes flicked past you, landing on the counter. On the notebook. On the words written in someone else’s hand.

Before you could move, he was already there, curiosity winning out.

“Hey, is this-” He stopped mid-sentence as he read the title. Things to do. But it’s when he flips to that first page that his smile falters. “Oh.”

You froze. “It’s not, I mean, it’s not mine.”

“Right,” he said quickly, closing it halfway like it was private. “Sorry, I didn’t-”

“It’s hers,” you said, voice small. “My friend. She… left it for me.”

He nodded, awkward but earnest. “And you’re supposed to….?”

“Finish it.” The word tasted strange. You laughed weakly. “Yeah. Sure. Like I’m really gonna go skinny-dipping or steal a road sign or whatever.”

He hesitated, then said, “Why not?”

You blinked at him, like he was the dumbest person in the world. “Why not what?”

“Do it.” He shrugged. “I mean, what’s the worst that can happen? You get arrested for mild trespassing? Could be fun.”

You stared at him. “You… would help me?”

“Uh….yeah?” he said, as if it was obvious. “I mean, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t drown or get eaten by raccoons or whatever. Plus,” he added, trying for a grin, “I’m great moral support. I give like, really inspiring pep talks.”

For the first time in weeks, something warm cracked through your chest, not laughter exactly, but close.

“Okay, Harrington,” you said quietly. “We’ll see.”

He straightened, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “Oh, it’s happening. Bucket-list summer. You’ll see.”

You shook your head, but you didn’t stop him when he started jotting his name beside yours on the first page.

You honestly thought he’d forget.

Steve Harrington made a lot of promises in passing. “I’ll help,” “We’ll hang out,” “I’ve totally got this shift covered.” The kind of things people say because it’s easier than saying nothing. Especially the one who used to be ‘King Steve’.

So you figured that night at Family Video had been one of those moments.

He’d read the notebook, felt bad for you, said the right thing. And then it would fade, like everything else had. He’d go back to how it was in High School and never even look in your direction let alone talk to you, unless of course there was work to be done because you were coworkers now.

But it didn’t.

Every single shift after that, he brought it up.

‘So what’s first on the list?’

‘I asked for recommendations on the best places to watch the sunrise, and guess what’s number one in Hawkins?’

‘Do you think “stealing a sign” counts if you just borrow it for a night?’

He wouldn’t drop it.

He was annoying about it, relentless, and worst of all….he sounded excited.

So that’s how you ended up standing outside your house at three in the morning, wrapped in a hoodie and instant regret. The air was still damp from the night before, a faint chill clinging to your skin. You rubbed your hands together, muttering to yourself about how this was so stupid, and he probably overslept anyway.

Then a car horn honked.

Steve’s BMW rattled around the corner like it was held together by caffeine and sheer luck, not at all the nice new car that used to honk past you in the school parking lot with Tommy Hagan cackling in the passenger seat. He parked crooked in front of your driveway and rolled the window down, grinning like this was the best idea anyone had ever had.

“Morning, sunshine!”

“It’s literally dark.”

“Semantics.” He hopped out, the gravel crunching under his sneakers. In his hands were two steaming cups and a bundle of folded blankets. “I brought provisions.”

You eyed the cups. “What is this?”

“Coffee,” he said, mock-offended. “You know, the fuel of champions? Or in your case, the only reason you’re not going to murder me right now.”

You took one. It was exactly the way you liked it. You didn’t ask how he knew.

The drive to the water tower was quiet, Hawkins still half-asleep around you. The streets were empty except for the occasional porch light or stray dog. The world felt suspended, like if you whispered too loud, it might shatter.

The tower loomed above the edge of town, rusted ladder and all. Steve parked beneath it and got out first, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

“You ever climbed this thing before?” he asked.

“No.”

“Cool. Me neither. This’ll go great.”

You groaned. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” he said. “But at least I’m fun insane.”

The metal was cold under your palms, the kind of cold that bit through your skin. Halfway up, your nerves kicked in, but Steve kept talking. About anything, about movies, about the weather, about absolutely nothing and somehow that made it easier, which made you think he was yapping on purpose.

When you reached the top, the town stretched small and soft beneath you. The horizon was just starting to pale, a blush of light creeping into the sky. Steve spread one of the blankets out over the metal platform and dropped beside you, handing over the other one like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Neither of you spoke for a long time.

Then, as the first line of sunlight broke the horizon, Steve nudged you gently. “We did it.”

You smiled, a real one this time. “Yeah.”

He pulled a sharpie from his jacket pocket, holding it up triumphantly. “Now for part two.”

You blinked. “Part two?”

He pointed to the metal behind you both, covered in faded names and initials scratched into the paint. “Rule says we have to write ours too. It’s tradition.”

You laughed softly. “I thought that was for when people hooked up all the way up here.”

“Close enough.Besides, it’s on the list. ” He shrugged, already leaning over the rail. “You do it. I have terrible handwriting.”

You hesitated, then took the pen. The metal was warm now under your fingers as you wrote both your names together, blinking at the letters as he chuckled out a bit.

Side by side.

Steve leaned over, reading it. “Looks good up here,” he said quietly.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t have to.

“I thought you were gonna forget about it.” You breathe out, shaking your head a bit as he turns his head to look at you, but you refuse to look over at him. “I thought your offer was just going to be an empty promise and you’d forget.”

“Why would you think that?” He asks, voice filled with slight hurt. “I wrote my name down in your book.”

“Oh come on, you can’t be shocked that I would think that. ‘King Steve’ who spoke less that 5 words to me in high school offered to help me with…… this?” You laugh, shrugging. “Seemed like a joke.”

“Well it wasn’t.” He sighs, turning to watch the sunrise. “And we just crossed two things off the list.”

Two things.

4 weeks ago you were sitting at your best friends funeral and today, a week into summer, you crossed something off the list.

It strikes you then, a painful sting in your chest, what is happening and why you are here on this water tower.

“I….. I kept racking my brain for a memory or story that….. that wasn’t the two of us.” You mumble, watching the sun fight its way up the sky and illuminate you both in an untouched glow. “For as long as I can remember it has always been me and her. Her and I. None of my stories didn’t have her name.”

He stays silent, letting you talk.

You think about your words next, think about the last gift she gave to you from beyond the grave, you think about admitting how pissed you are that she’s gone. That she’d leave you alone and useless in this place.

How dare she leave you.

The tears that well up in your eyes sting, and your throat goes tight.

Most of all you think about admitting what you’d done. Your last words to her.

“I’m done being your babysitter. Go ruin someone else’s life for a change.” You had yelled.

“You’re exhausting, you know that? Maybe everyone would breathe easier if you weren’t around for a while.”

You come close to doing it, to admitting the words, letting the guilt and grief off your chest and saying what you had done out loud for someone else to hear. For someone else to look at you with the disgust you deserved.

Instead you’re a coward. And all that comes out is “thank you for doing this with me”.

And he smiles, because he has no clue what a terrible person you were and says “Anytime. I’ve always wanted to do this anyways.”

That early morning haze was quick to die out, the notebook forgotten for another week as you picked up shifts at Family Video and ignored conversations with your mother about feelings and worry.

By the time you locked the doors, Family Video felt like it had been vibrating for eight straight hours. The hum of the lights, the whir of the rewinder, the steady drone of your manager’s voice as he found something wrong with every shelf. Each sound had burrowed under your skin until your nerves hummed with it.

You slammed the register shut and dropped the key into the drawer a little harder than necessary. “If I ever hear the word inventory again, I’m setting something on fire.”

From the corner, Steve groaned. He was slouched against the counter, head tipped back, hair a mess from running his hands through it all day. “Please make sure it’s him.”

The ‘Him’ in question was your blank faced manager who spent more time asking you out or trying to get Steve to talk about Nancy Wheeler, or complain about a shelf or inventory with cheeto dust on his lips and fingers.

You snorted. “Deal.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The store was quiet except for the rattle of the air conditioner and the pop of the sign flickering outside. You could almost feel the weight of the day sinking off your shoulders, leaving only exhaustion behind.

Then Steve straightened suddenly, grabbing his jacket. “C’mon.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Diner,” he said like it was obvious. “We deserve pie. And I’m not ready to go home yet.”

You wanted to argue, to say you were tired, say you had things to do but the truth was you weren’t ready to go home either. The notebook was sitting on your nightstand, still open to the water tower page. You didn’t want to see it.

So you just sighed and followed him out.

The diner sat on the edge of town, neon lights buzzing against the night sky. Inside, the air smelled like coffee and grease and nostalgia. A waitress with pink lipstick and tired eyes greeted you with a smile that said she’d seen every kind of heartbreak walk through that door.

Steve ordered without looking at the menu. “Two slices of cherry pie each, two coffees. To go with our crushing despair.”

You glared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

When the pie came, the plates clinked softly against the table. Two slices in front of you and two in front of him. “Bucket list says two slices. One for you, one for her. Right?”

Your throat went tight. You hadn’t told him that part; he must have read it when he saw the notebook.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “That’s what it says.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The diner hum filled the silence, the low murmur of other customers, the faint music from the jukebox, the sizzle of the grill. You stared at the pie, cherry filling glinting like rubies under the fluorescent light, and then you cut a small bite and whispered, “For her.”

Steve watched quietly and then picked up his own fork. “For her,” he echoed.

You both ate in silence. It wasn’t a grand gesture, not even close. Just two tired people in a half-empty diner, splitting a promise and the ghost of someone you missed.

When you finally looked up, he was already watching you with that soft, unsure smile he got when he wasn’t trying to be funny.

“See?” he said. “One more thing off the list.”

You smiled back, small and real. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“Guess so.” He shrugged, a little too casually. “Kinda feels like we both need it.”

Outside, the neon lights buzzed against the glass, red and warm. Inside, the pie sat half-eaten between you, and for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel completely alone.

You were convinced this was the stupidest thing on the list.

“Leaving a note in a library book,” you muttered, staring down at the worn pages of your notebook as Steve leaned against the car beside you. “Who even comes up with this stuff?”

He looked way too excited for someone about to commit what you were pretty sure counted as minor vandalism. “Uh, your friend?” he said, grinning. “And I, for one, think it’s brilliant. It’s like… emotional time travel. You leave a message, and one day someone else finds it. Boom, instant connection.”

You blinked at him. “Emotional time travel?”

He shrugged. “Don’t make that face. It’s poetic.”

“You’re a dork.”

“I prefer ‘philosopher of the VHS era,’ actually.”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag. “Fine. But if we get kicked out, you’re explaining to the librarian why we were emotionally time traveling.”

The Hawkins Public Library was empty except for the quiet creak of the ceiling fan and the distant squeak of shoes on tile. You both ended up at a small table tucked between the biography and romance sections….Steve’s pick, obviously.

He plopped down across from you, spreading out pens, scrap paper, and what looked suspiciously like leftover Family Video receipt paper. You stared. “You came prepared?”

“Obviously.” He handed you a pen with a flourish. “Now, rule number one. Your note has to be something you’d want to find.”

You groaned, dragging your chair closer. “Something I’d want to find? Like, don’t forget to return your books on time?”

“Something better. Something that makes the next person smile.”

You tapped your pen against the table. “You’re way too into this.”

“That’s because you’re underestimating the power of a good mystery.”

You ended up writing in silence for a while, the soft scratching of pens filling the air. You’d expected it to be awkward, but it wasn’t. The library felt suspended in its own kind of quiet, safe, hidden.

You weren’t sure what Steve was writing, but he kept pausing, biting the end of his pen, glancing up like he was thinking too hard about it. You figured he was just trying to come up with something funny.

Finally, he leaned back. “Done.”

“Already?”

“Genius doesn’t need time.” He folded his note carefully and smirked. “How’s yours coming?”

You scowled. “Fine.”

“Can I see?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on, we’re supposed to share the experience.”

You mimicked his tone. “It’s a secret note, Harrington. You said so yourself.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Touché.”

You folded your own letter in half, cheeks warm. You’d written something simple and a bit cliche.

If you’re having a bad day, it’s okay to start over tomorrow. And at the bottom, almost unconsciously, you’d signed it with her initials.

You didn’t show him.

He picked a random aisle, the romance section, of course, and started sliding his folded paper into the middle of Pride and Prejudice.

You raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s your pick?”

“Classic love story,” he said. “Might as well keep the theme consistent.”

“Oh my god, you wrote something flirty, didn’t you?”

He blinked, caught. “What? No. Maybe.”

You laughed, bumping his shoulder as you reached for the next shelf. “You’re hopeless.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected. “Big difference.”

“Debatable.”

“Tragic.”

You slipped your note into a random paperback. Little Women, because it felt right and met him back at the end of the aisle. He was pretending to browse, but his smile gave him away.

“Another thing crossed off,” he said softly, like he didn’t want to ruin the quiet.

You nodded, glancing at the sunlight streaming through the tall windows. “Guess so.”

He smiled down at you, that same easy grin you were starting to recognize. “What’s next?”

And somewhere between the laughter and the whispering and the folded pieces of paper, you missed how his fingers lingered over his note.

“Well if you…. Want to waste an hour you can come grocery shopping with me?” You offer, kicking your feet in the tile of the library floor.

“I need tooth paste.” He smiles, “You read my mind.”

The day was dragging like it had something to prove.

It was the kind of Hawkins afternoon where even the fluorescent lights at Family Video felt tired. You and Steve had already restocked the candy shelf, re-shelved the entire action section, and still had four hours left before closing.

So when Steve walked out of the back room with a box tucked under his arm and that telltale grin that meant trouble, you didn’t even ask at first. You just sighed.

“What,” you said flatly, “is that?”

He slammed the box on the counter like it was a prize on The Price Is Right. “Entertainment,” he announced proudly.

You squinted at the cover. 1,000 Pieces Sunset Over Paris.

“You brought a puzzle,” you deadpanned.

“I did.” He grinned wider. “We’re making art, Henderson.”

“That’s not my last name.” You mumble, a bit confused as he snatches your wrist to pull you to the front of the store and start opening the box on the counter.

“Details.”

You glanced around. The store was empty, save for the faint hum of the AC and the smell of stale popcorn. “You know if Keith walks in, he’s going to have an aneurysm.”

“Keith doesn’t show up till payday. We’re safe.” He’s already pouring the pieces onto the counter with little to no care.

You groaned but joined him anyway, spreading the pieces out across the counter. “If we get caught, you’re taking the blame.”

“Obviously. I’m the idea guy, not the scapegoat.”

“That’s… literally what a scapegoat is.”

He smirked. “You’re catching on fast.”

Twenty minutes later, the counter looked like a war zone. Piles of edge pieces, a small cluster that might’ve been the sky, and a growing pile of “definitely-not-fitting-anywhere” rejects.

Steve was leaning over the counter, tongue between his teeth as he tried to force two wrong pieces together. “Okay, this clearly goes here-”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does! Look, the shape-”

“-is completely wrong.”

He squinted. “You’re ruining my creative process.”

“You’re destroying common decency.”

He snorted, but he didn’t move his hand. You reached over, grabbed the piece from him, and replaced it with the correct one. It clicked into place instantly.

You smirked. “You’re welcome.”

Steve leaned back, crossing his arms. “Okay, show-off.”

“Just saying, one of us has spatial awareness.”

“Oh, wow, humble and mean. My favorite combo.”

You laughed ,really laughed, before you even realized it, and Steve looked up at you with that stupid smile, the kind that made it impossible to stay annoyed.

That was, of course, the exact moment the door jangled.

You both froze.

“Please tell me that’s a customer,” you whispered, eyes closed as Steve faced the door.

“Worse,” Steve muttered, it’s then you finally turned around, so slowly you your shoes squeaked on the floor.

Keith, your manager, stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes zeroing in on the counter. “Why,” he asked slowly, “is there a jigsaw puzzle where the sales display should be?”

Steve didn’t even blink. “Team-building exercise.”

Keith blinked back. “Team what?”

“Morale,” Steve said confidently, motioning at the mess. “You know, like corporate retreats, but cheaper.”

You bit your lip, choking on a laugh.

Keith stared at the two of you for a long, painful second before muttering something about “minimum wage philosophers” and stomping back toward the office. The second the door shut, you lost it. Laughter spilled out of you, and Steve grinned, victorious.

“See?” he said. “Art.”

You wiped a tear from your eye. “You’re insufferable.”

He leaned an elbow on the counter, still smiling. “And yet, here you are. Helping me with the sky pieces.”

You were starting to think “read a book” was her idea of a joke.

Steve had been the one to suggest doing it together, saying it’d be “like a tiny book club, but with less wine and more judgment.” You’d picked something from the bargain shelf at the library. The Great Gatsby, because apparently neither of you had actually read it in high school, and it sounded sophisticated enough to check the box.

That was two weeks ago.

Now you were sitting in on the hood of car, slushie in hand, pretending you both had made it past page ten.

“Okay,” Steve said, sucking at his straw so loudly it was probably a hate crime. “So, what’d you think of the book?”

You blinked at him over the rim of your cup. “The… book?”

“Yeah.” He turned to look at you, eyes suspiciously bright. “You know, the literary masterpiece we both definitely read cover to cover?”

You smirked. “Totally. Deep. Profound.”

“So deep,” he agreed. “So many… themes.”

You snorted. “Themes. Yep. Love, loss, rich people with boats.”

“Exactly! Boats were a huge part of the character development.”

You were both trying not to laugh now, and failing spectacularly. “You didn’t read it either, did you?”

“I skimmed!” he protested, before nodding and giving up the lie. “Okay, I looked at the cover. That counts as literary analysis.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning despite yourself. “Remind me again why I’m doing this with you?”

“Because I bring the slushies.” He wasn’t wrong.

The Hawkins 7-Eleven parking lot was quiet, the neon lights flickering against the hood of his car. A summer song drifted from the radio, something too happy for how the night felt. You stared out at the night, watching a group of teenagers bike past, laughing like the world hadn’t ended for anyone.

For a second, you were back there, your best friend in the passenger seat of your car, windows down, music blaring, both of you laughing about something you couldn’t even remember now.

You could still hear her voice. The fight. You make everything about you. I wish you’d just disappear for once.

The memory burned like a match in your chest.

“Hey.” Steve’s voice was quiet. You blinked, realizing you’d gone still, your slushie half-melted in your hands. “You okay?”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Just… thought I saw someone I knew.”

He didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push either. He just leaned into his car to turn down the radio, giving the moment room to breathe. That’s when you both heard it , the low, familiar laugh from across the parking lot.

Tommy Hagan.

You saw Steve’s jaw tense before you even turned. Tommy was leaning against his car, talking to someone you didn’t recognize, but his eyes flicked over and landed right on Steve.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the king himself,” Tommy called. “Didn’t think you still hung around Hawkins. Or is this your pity project now?”

You froze.

Steve shifted in front of you before you could respond, his tone casual but sharp. “Nice to see you too, Tommy.”

Tommy smirked, eyes sliding toward you. “Guess we all find ways to slum it after high school, huh?”

You felt the sting before you could stop it, not because of the insult, but because Steve used to laugh with him at jokes like that.

“Watch it,” Steve said quietly.

Tommy raised his hands, still grinning. “Relax, Harrington. Just saying you’ve got a type. The quiet, charity-case kind.”

Something in Steve snapped. You saw it in the way his posture straightened, his hand tightening on the car door like he needed something to hold.

“Get in the car,” he muttered. You hesitated, but his voice left no room for argument. Tommy called something else as you drove off, you didn’t catch it. Didn’t want to.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The car hummed down the road, the neon lights fading into the dark. Finally, you said softly, “You didn’t have to-”

“Yeah, I did.” His voice was tight, but not angry. Just tired. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

You stared at him, at the line of his jaw, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel. Something in your chest shifted, fragile, dangerous, warm.

So you looked away, pretending to focus on your melting slushie. “You really didn’t read the book, huh?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Not a single page.”

“Good. Would’ve ruined our book club.” He smiled at that, a small one, but it lingered.

Outside, the night pressed close. Inside, the silence wasn’t empty, in fact it was easier to breathe.

The both of you should’ve just gone home. The air was heavy, that kind of midsummer stillness that felt like it was holding its breath. The neon from the 7-Eleven had long faded in the rear-view, and you could still feel Tommy’s words ghosting in the back of your head.

Besides the small little ice breakers you mumbled here and there Steve hadn’t spoken since. He just drove, knuckles white on the wheel, until lightning stitched across the horizon.

“Looks like rain,” you murmured.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

You thought that would be the end of it, until he suddenly flicked on the blinker and turned off the main road.

“Where are we-”

“You’ll see.”

“Says the killer before he takes her to his cabin in the woods.” You huff out, hearing a small chuckle slip past his lips that feels like a win.

Ten minutes later, his headlights swept across the cracked asphalt of the old Hawkins Drive-In. The screen stood like a ghost against the clouds, weeds curling through the parking lot lines. “You’re kidding.”

He killed the engine, glancing over with a grin that was all trouble. “Bucket list says ‘sneak into the drive-in.’ Seems like the universe is giving us perfect weather for it.”

“It’s closed.”

“Exactly.” He hopped out before you could argue.

You sighed, but the truth was, the air felt good. Real. The kind that made your skin buzz. So you followed him through the side gate, the metal squealing as it gave way.

The place smelled like wet dust and old popcorn. The projection booth was half-open; Steve ducked inside and came back with an old portable speaker. “Found this in the office. Hope it still works.”

He flicked it on. Static, then music, tinny and soft, some leftover tape someone had left behind. A pop hits tape, something that probably should have been burned.

The first raindrop hit your cheek.

“Steve-” You tried to warn, too late,the sky was already beginning to cry.

You squealed, trying to shield yourself, but he just laughed out loud, unrestrained, the kind that cracked open the dark. “C’mon, Henderson!”

“That’s still not my last name!” you yelled back.

He spread his arms wide, face tilted to the sky. “Doesn’t matter!”

You watched him for a beat, drenched, ridiculous, his hair plastered to his forehead and that grin all bright,and boyish, alive. Something in your chest gave way.

You stepped forward, rain soaking through your shirt, cold against your skin. “We’re gonna get pneumonia.”

“Worth it.” He reached for your hand, hesitant, almost asking. You didn’t pull away.

The song warbled out through the static, something about holding on and not letting go. The world blurred into silver around you. He twirled you clumsily, your feet slipping on the wet pavement, laughter spilling out before you could stop it. Your shoes squeaking from the rubber in the rain, both of you laughing so hard you slip more.

“See?” he said softly, when you stilled again. “Art.”

You laughed breathlessly. “You’re obsessed with art.”

He shrugged, eyes crinkling. “Only the good kind.”

“Name one artist, Wheeler.”

He laughs out, a choked and surprised sound that has your entire body jolting in excitement before his eyes land on you. “Mona Lisa.”

“That’s the painting, dork!”

And for a second, just one, you forgot about everything else. The list. The fight. The way grief kept tugging you under. For that heartbeat, there was only rain and music and Steve Harrington’s stupid, perfect grin.

The radio boombox gives out not long after, and you both dash to the car in fits of giggles as you climb in. He rushes to turn it on and begin blasting the heater while you begin panicking about how soaked his seats were going to be.

“Steve, we are completely soaking the se-”

“Don’t worry about that.” He shivers, teeth clattering in time with yours as he reaches back to grab the blankets from your night on the water tower. “Here.”

You’re quick to wrap yourself in the blanket, watching him do the same as the heaters blast to try and help you out a bit.

A moment of silence passes before you break it. “I’m sorry about your friend. You guys didn’t seem too close anymore.”

He sighs, looking away from you as water from his hair drips down his nose. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I learned that lesson awhile ago.”

The car is wrapped in silence once more, teeth beginning to stop chattering as he moved to start driving again before stopping and turning to look at you. “Thank you…. I didn’t want a night with you to end with a memory like that so… thank you for coming to the drive in with me.”

“I didn’t have a choice,”You joke, but what you really want to say is that you’d have come no matter what. Because oddly enough Steve Harrington was giving you a reason to live.

You should’ve known something was up the moment Steve showed up outside your house grinning like he’d just robbed a bank.

It was late. Hawkins-quiet, where the only sounds were cicadas and the occasional car groaning down Main Street. The air still smelled faintly of rain from the storm the night before. You opened the front door, arms crossed.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said immediately. Which, coming from Steve Harrington, meant something.

“Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just committed a misdemeanor.”

He rocked back on his heels, hands in his jacket pockets, trying and failing to look casual. “Hypothetically,” he said, “if we were to, say, improve the town’s décor tonight, would you be free?”

You blinked. “Improve the décor?”

“Bucket list,” he said, waggling his eyebrows in suspense.. “Number thirty-something: Steal a ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign. I scoped one out.”

“You what?”

He grinned wider. “C’mon. You in or out?”

You groaned. “This is such a bad idea.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s half the fun.”

Ten minutes later, you were crouched in the ditch at the edge of Route 6, flashlight between your knees, staring up at the massive green metal sign that declared “WELCOME TO HAWKINS! A NICE PLACE TO LIVE.”

Steve was already climbing halfway up the post with a wrench.

“I cannot believe you brought tools,” you whispered, shivering a little bit before whirling to check out the sound of branch snapping behind you.

“Hey, if we’re gonna do this, we’re doing it right.” He grunted, twisting at the bolts. “Besides, I’m handy.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.”

The wrench slipped with a loud clang. You flinched. “Shhh!”

He froze, glancing toward the empty road. “Relax. It’s midnight. Only raccoons are awake.”

“Great,” you hissed. “Maybe they’ll help you unscrew it faster.”

He snorted, muttering under his breath as he worked. You stood guard, alternating between scanning for headlights and trying not to laugh at the sight of Steve Harrington wrestling with a street sign in the dark.

After a few minutes, he gave the post one final yank, and the sign came free with a screech of metal. Both of you jumped back, hearts pounding watching it fall to the dirt of the earth.

“Victory!” he whisper-yelled, nearly tripping over the ditch.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, laughing, “we’re going to jail.”

“Only if we get caught.” He hefted the sign, grin wild in the glow of the flashlight. “Now help me load this into the trunk before my heroism goes to waste.”

You helped him shove it into the back of the BMW, still laughing so hard you could barely breathe. Your hands brushed his as you pushed the sign in, both of you pausing for just a second too long.

He looked at you then, rain-tousled hair, eyes bright, that same ridiculous smile. “Totally worth it,” he said.

You shook your head, still catching your breath. “You are the worst influence I’ve ever met.”

“Please,” he said, closing the trunk with a flourish. “You’re smiling. That’s basically consent.”

“Steve Harrington, if you get me arrested-”

“I’ll put it on the list,” he said. “Get arrested together. Romantic, right?”

You laughed again, and it echoed through the trees, warm and alive.

For a moment, standing under that empty Hawkins sign, you didn’t feel haunted, just here.

“You called out yesterday.” He mumbles, reaching to close the trunk as you shrug. “I was a bit worried.”

“I…. just didn’t want to deal with Keith.” You hum out, the guilt of the lie already eating away at you as Steve watches your expression. It’s the curious doe eyes that break you, that finally tear something in your chest wide enough that the words spill out quickly. “Truthfully I couldn’t get out of bed yesterday.”

He waits, leaning against the car as if he had expected that answer and was going to give you space to process it, and though you were a little embarrassed your brain rationalized that if there was one spot in this world to tell a little bit of the truth it would be with the former King of Hawkins.

“I….. think I hate her. Because everyday I struggle to get up and go on in a world without her and…. And she did what she did thinking that I didn’t care and that I could go on living this life without her when truthfully I can’t.” The words are tumbling out too fast, and your eyes are welling up with tears as your throat closes a bit. “I don’t think I can and I think that makes me a coward.”

He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t offer platitudes or empty words.

He doesn’t say anything, instead he pulls you in by the back of your head, keeping his hand there laced through your hair as he allows you to sob into his chest, his other arm coming to wrap around your shoulders.

He doesn’t say anything, he merely lets you sob.

The Hawkins Summer Fair looked exactly the same as it did every year. From the strings of lights, to the fried food grease in the air, laughter that carried through the warm night. Steve was practically vibrating beside you, ticket strip already half-folded in his hand from the excitement.

“Are you ready to experience art?” he said, sweeping a hand toward the chaos.

“You keep calling things art,” you said, squinting at a booth that advertised Guess Your Weight, Win a Fish. “You realize this is literally a humiliation ritual, right?”

He ignored you, eyes locked on the row of carnival games. “First rule of the fair, we HAVE to win something.”

He started with the ring toss, of course. Neither of you were surprised because 1.) All his old friends were at the basketball toss and 2.) there was no line for the ring toss.

“I was king of this back in middle school,” he bragged, rolling his shoulders like an athlete before the big game.

“You were the king of cologne,” you muttered. “I can still smell it from the locker rooms across the school. You used to leave a trail of it wherever you walked.”

“Still do,” he said, tossing the first ring with his tongue sticking out in concentration as you tried to stifle a laugh. It missed completely.

You laughed. “Wow. Truly the stuff of legends. Your kids will talk about this when you’re 80.”

He tried again, missed again, and glared at the bottles like they’d personally offended him. “Okay, clearly rigged.”

You reached for the next ring. “Move over.”

He held it just out of reach. “No way- not happening. You are not showing me up-”

You snatched it from his hand anyway and threw without a second thought, laughing loudly when it landed perfectly.

You turned, smug. “I’ll take the giant bear, please.”

The carnie handed it over, a bright blue bear with a crooked smile that made you ‘awww’ at the sight. Steve groaned, head throwing back as he pawed at his face. “You’re insufferable.”

“Here.” You shoved it into his arms. “You something to save your feelings.”

He blinked. “You’re giving it to me?”

“Think of it as a participation trophy.”

His grin came slow and genuine. “Then I’m winning you one next.”

He did….barely. At the water-gun race, after two failed starts and a lot of muttered swearing, he managed to burst the tiny balloon first. When the carnie handed him a pink bear the size of a small child, he spun dramatically and presented it to you with a bow.

“For you, m’lady,” he said.

You snorted. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot who delivers.”

You took it anyway. “We’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “Kinda perfect, huh?... Except for the fact we haven’t gotten any cotton candy.”

You walked elbow to elbow as you scarved down cotton candy, lemonade, and popcorn. He even managed to talk you into a pretzel that you were sure you might puke up on the wrong ride. The lights from the midway reflected in his eyes as he led you toward the Ferris wheel. “Alright,” he said, “you can’t come to the fair and skip the main event.”

“That thing creaks every time it moves.”

“Adds character.”

You climbed into the tiny metal gondola, knees brushing his as the safety bar clicked shut. Somewhere below, the operator accepted the folded bill Steve had slipped him.

“You bribed him, didn’t you?”

“Consider it… extended viewing time.” The wheel creaked upward, higher and higher until Hawkins spread below like a map. The carousel lights, the streak of the Tilt-A-Whirl, the sugar-pink haze of cotton candy stands.

Halfway up, the ride stopped. The car rocked gently. You looked over to find him already watching you. “Steve-”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. I only bribed him for a minute.”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice was softer now. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but this is nice, right?”

It was. The night air, the quiet hum of music below, the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

“Hey,” he said, almost a whisper, “you ever think she put all this stuff on the list because she knew you’d find someone dumb enough to help you do it?”

Your throat tightened. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Maybe she did.”

The wheel jerked back to life, but neither of you looked away.

As tired as you both were by the end of the fair you still had a long night ahead of you, breaking and entering and all.

The fairgrounds looked different after midnight. Empty. Still. The echo of laughter was long gone, replaced by the soft hum of crickets and the distant buzz of a single streetlight flickering by the gate.

“This is breaking and entering,” you whispered as Steve boosted you over the fence.

He caught your wrist to steady you, whispering back, “It’s technically ‘trespassing.’ Breaking implies property damage.”

“So glad the town delinquent’s up to date on his legal jargon.”

“Hey, I’ve grown.”

You rolled your eyes, but your grin gave you away. The place looked almost dreamlike now … in a nightmarish sort of way. The rides frozen mid-motion, the smell of fried dough still clinging to the air. The carousel stood at the center, lights dimmed, painted horses gleaming pale in the moonlight.

Steve tipped his head toward it. “One last ride?”

“Steve, there’s no power.”

He pulled a flashlight from his jacket pocket, flicking it on beneath his chin like a horror movie villain. “Good thing I came prepared.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, offering his hand, “here you are.”

The wooden platform creaked as you stepped onto it. Without the music and lights, it felt like stepping into another world, quiet and hollow, like you’d found the ghost of every summer night you’d ever had.

Steve had used his flashlight to find one of the switches to at least get the wheel moving, the horses going up and down in the circle as you walked to pick the right one. You climbed onto one of the white horses, fingers brushing the chipped paint, the cool brass of the pole.

Steve followed, swinging up behind you on the same horse.

“Seriously?” you said, trying not to laugh. “There are like thirty other ones.”

He shrugged, the smirk audible in his voice. “This one looked lonely.”

You could feel his warmth at your back, the faint sound of his breathing. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You keep saying that. Over and ove-”

“Because it’s true.”

He leaned forward, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And yet,” he murmured, “you’re not moving.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. The world felt balanced on the edge of something with his breath warm against your neck, the soft glow of the flashlight catching the gold trim of the carousel mirrors. He reached out and gave the horse’s pole a gentle push, just enough to make it sway. The sound echoed, a faint squeak, the rhythm of ghosts dancing as the breeze kissed at your cheeks in the slow circle you were going in.

“See?” he whispered. “I’m amazing.”

You laughed, quiet and breathless. “You’re insane.”

“Probably,” he said, voice low, “but at least I’m not boring, I didn’t let Hawkins do that to me.”

There was something in his voice that caught your attention, but you knew better than to ask about it so you left it be for now. The carousel creaked again, a slow circle of shadow and silver. You leaned back slightly without meaning to, your shoulder brushing his chest. Neither of you moved.

“Hey, Steve?” you said softly, voice nearly a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

He tilted his head, his voice even quieter now. “For what?”

“For… reminding me I’m still alive.” He didn’t answer, but his hand found yours on the pole, wrapping your hand in a warm, steady, grounding touch. The fair was silent except for the wind, and somewhere in the dark, the old carousel groaned, still turning.

Rain always made the town quieter. You sat cross-legged on your bed, the window cracked open just enough for the smell of wet pavement to drift in. The notebook sat in your lap, pages soft at the edges from being carried everywhere. Each page had something scrawled at the top with your friend’s looping handwriting, faded from weather and fingerprints.

Watch the sunrise from the old water tower. [DO NOT FALL OFF.] Eat cherry pie at the diner.One slice for me, one for you. Leave a secret note in a library book. Go to the fair and win a stuffed animal.

You’d written beneath each in your own uneven script, black ink smudged in places. The sunrise was cold. I thought I’d hate it, but I didn’t. There was coffee and stupid jokes. I think you’d have liked him. The cherry pie tasted like cinnamon and grief. He ordered two coffees. We didn’t talk much, but it felt enough. We left notes in books. I picked Little Women. You would’ve laughed at me for being cliché. We went to the fair. He cheated at ring toss, bribed a Ferris wheel guy, and made me ride a carousel in the dark. You’d tell me I’m falling for him, and you’d be right. I hate that you’re not here to say it.

Taped between the pages were Polaroids. You and Steve under the water tower. A blurry photo of him holding the crooked blue bear. The ferris wheel lights behind you both, laughing because you couldn’t angle the polaroid that well.

You smiled at the next one you taped down before filling in the entry. The carousel shot he’d insisted on taking before sneaking out of the fairgrounds. Your faces were shadowed, the flashlight catching the edges of your smiles. You’d never looked more alive.

You closed the notebook gently, thumb brushing over the worn cover. The notebook was beginning to fill up, page by page.

The next morning, you stood at the cemetery gates with an armful of wildflowers. The air was cold, the kind that made your breath come out like smoke. Rows of stones stretched out across the grass, names you didn’t know, stories that stopped too soon.

You crouched at the first small headstone that didn’t have flowers and set a few blooms down. Then another. And another. By the fifth one, your hands were trembling, your throat tight. You didn’t realize you were crying until you felt a thumb swipe a tear away.

Steve stood beside you, silent, a small bundle of daisies in his hand.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” you said softly.

“Didn’t know you were either,” he replied.

You both kept moving down the row, wordless, the quiet hum of the morning filling the space between you. The rain had stopped, but everything still felt heavy, new, clean. At the end of the last row, you dropped the last flower and looked over at him. “She used to say everyone deserves to be remembered.”

He nodded, voice low. “Guess we’re doing that.”

You smiled faintly, blinking back the rest of your tears. “Guess we are.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and held something out,one of your Polaroids, the one from the fair that he demanded to take of you smiling from ear to ear. “You should leave this one with her flowers.”

You took it, heart tight in your chest. “You really think she’d want to see all this?”

He smiled. “I think she’d want to see you.”

It started with Steve dropping you off after the cemetery. You’d been quiet the whole drive, notebook pressed against your knees, fingers smudged with dirt and flower petals. When he pulled into your driveway, he didn’t turn off the engine right away.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He hesitated, drumming his fingers on the wheel, you knew he would let the lie pass. “You wanna, uh….maybe not be alone tonight?”

You looked at him, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I might have accidentally borrowed some VHS tapes from work.”

“Borrowed or stolen?”

“Semantics,” he said, flashing that grin. “I was thinking, blanket fort, movies, questionable popcorn.”

You laughed despite yourself. “You’re serious? You really want to spend more time with poor lonely me?”

“Deadly.”

An hour later, his living room looked like a pillow factory explosion. Blankets were draped over chairs and the couch, fairy lights strung through the mess like constellations. You stood back, hands on your hips. “This is not structurally sound.”

“It’s fine,” he said, balancing on the armrest to secure another blanket. “I took physics once.”

“You failed physics. I was in your class. You spent most the time staring at Heather.”

“Details……and you act like you didn’t spend that class reading books under your desk.” You tossed a pillow at him. He ducked, laughing.

When the fort was finally done, you crawled inside, the air soft and warm with that slightly dusty blanket smell. A stack of VHS tapes sat in front of the TV. You reached for the first one.

“The Goonies? Really?”

“It’s a classic,” he protested, shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth.

“From 1985. You can’t say that if it’s only been a couple years.”

“Timeless.” He mutters over a mouthful of popcorn.

You rolled your eyes, hitting play. The fuzzy static cleared, and the familiar opening credits rolled. He stretched out beside you, lying close but not touching. The kind of distance that buzzed. His arm brushed yours every time he shifted, just enough to make your heartbeat skip.

Halfway through the movie, you turned to find him already watching you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.” He smiled, soft and a little sheepish. “Just….this is nice.”

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat. “Yeah. It is.”

When the movie ended, neither of you moved to turn on the lights. The glow from the TV flickered over the walls of your makeshift fort, painting everything in silver-blue.

Steve turned onto his side, head propped on his hand. “So, what’s next on the list?”

You reached for the notebook, flipping to the page. Build a blanket fort and sleep in it. You tapped your pen to the paper and smiled. “We can cross it off.”

He yawned, flopping back onto the pillow. “Guess that means we’re legally obligated to fall asleep in here now.”

“Legally obligated?”

“It’s the rules.”

You rolled your eyes, but when you laid back beside him, you didn’t move away. His shoulder brushed yours, and his breathing evened out slowly.

You found the country club on the far side of town by following the glow, a wall of lanterns and piano music that felt like someone had poured a different life into the night. The driveway was rimmed with cars that cost more than your rent. The pool was a glittering rectangle, rimmed with people in white linen and expensive sunglasses, laughter spilling over the water like champagne.

Steve had parked two blocks away like a gentleman with a plan. He hopped out with his hands in his pockets, grin already dangerous. “You sure about this?”

You fixed your flimsy sundress against a breeze that smelled faintly of expensive sunscreen. “Absolutely. If we’re going to crash a rich person party, I want a good story.”

He produced two sunglasses from nowhere and shoved them at you. “Blend in.” You put them on because the entire plan required at least one lie you could commit to.

The two of you discussed and planned nothing, which made every second better. You followed him up the long, lantern-lit path, breathing strangely loud in your throat like an accomplice in a heist movie. Steve straightened his shoulders, practiced a face that said, I belong here, and walked up to the host as if he’d been invited.

“Honestly?” you hissed through your smile when the host gave him a cursory nod. “What are you doing?”

“Confidence,” he said, voice low. “And the look.”

He introduced you,something casual and aristocratic-sounding and you mirrored him, the two of you slipping seamlessly into the pretend. Drinks arrived like props. Someone handed you a plastic flute of something bubbling and pink. You clinked it against Steve’s as if you owned a summer house.

“See?” he said, surveying the pool. “No one will notice.”

You tried to tell yourself he was right. You even almost believed it as you drifted around the edge, toes in the water. People were doing their expensive-people things, discussing investments, comparing phones. No one looked at you twice.

Then Steve found the floaties.

He returned with an inflatable flamingo in one hand grinning like a kid with contraband. “We’re in it now,” he announced.

You laughed so loud you startled a nearby guest, who glanced over with the kind of disapproving curiosity that made you eager to cause more chaos. You hopped onto the flamingo with theatrical grace, and Steve pushed off, sending you both wobbling into the shallow end to squeals and applause.

At some point you both ended up in the deep end, hair wet, laughing at how ridiculous you looked. A woman in a silk dress raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth turned in the slight scowl of someone who could have you quietly removed.

“See if anyone notices,” you yelled over the music, and Steve shouted back, “So far, no one.”

Of course, nothing in Hawkins stays anonymous for long. A security guy in a polo you’d seen around town before, his name tag read Garrett, started doing a slow sweep near the pool with the bored, efficient air of someone who’d rather be elsewhere. You watched him drift, watched his eyes catch the two of you, and then look away.

Steve caught the look and, with absolute theatrical gall, pulled a ridiculous face behind your back. You doubled over laughing, clutching the flamingo’s neck. Garrett’s gaze skimmed and moved on. No one raised alarms.

“You are an idiot,” you told him when the panic passed. “A lovely idiot.”

“You’re fun to be an idiot with.” He kissed the shell of your ear because that felt like a thing grown people do as a private rebellion. It made the blood under your ribs bloom as he made sure not to let the floatie go too far.

Later, Steve asked someone to snap a Polaroid from the edge of the pool, and they were happy to do so. Steve with water in his hair, you sticking out your tongue like a delinquent, and then they handed it to you with a triumphant flourish.

“Add it to the book,” he panted, handing it over. “Mandatory evidence.”

You taped it into the notebook later that night. We crashed a country club pool party and not a single person there busted us. Expert party crashers.

On the walk back to the car Steve had slipped his hand into yours all casual, claiming, and small. No speeches. No promises. Just a squeeze that meant everything was complicit and no one would ever notice unless you wanted them to.

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