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You and Robin became friends in middle school, the kind of friendship that started with a simple introduction and grew into giggling under covers at sleepovers and knowing that someone saying ‘don’t tell anyone’ didn’t apply when it came to your best friend.

Your parents decided to move before high school, but you’ve stayed in touch with Robin ever since. A few visits scattered throughout the years, far more conversations on two sides of a phone line, cords twisted around your fingers.

A trip (back) to Hawkins for you had been a long time coming, and though it obviously didn’t end up going according to plan, you’re grateful for it, in an odd way.

Your first couple of years in college weren’t going as well as you’d hoped. No friend group to mess around with, no courses to especially inspire you. It was exactly what you’d wanted and not at all like you’d imagined.

A break from it all is probably good for you, minus the whole devastating disaster thing.

Your school was not willing to let you resume studies when you got back, despite your very valid and sort of unavoidable reason, so you’d basically lost a whole semester of classes that you didn’t even enjoy in the first place.

It’s like you’re in some kind of snow globe—minus the snow—with nothing much to do but sit and let the world shake you, let the glitter tumble through the air and fall to the ground at your feet.

Some people would probably be going stir crazy in your shoes. Eager to get back to their life. You’re grateful for this in between to figure out what to do next. What you really want.

Plus, it’s been nice to be back in Hawkins. It’s the only place that’s ever truly felt like home, even after moving away. Even better to be welcomed into the fold. Introduced to Robin’s friends and get pulled in by the group’s tide like a shell on the beach.

And then, of course, there’s Steve Harrington.

Steve, who you’ve heard so much about. Who you feel like you know already despite never really meeting him. When Robin had told you they’d become close, like, almost inseparable close, you’d been surprised but pleased. It was like you went on their whole friendship arc along with Robin.

She spoke so highly of him, about how different he was now, how he was kind of a massive dork and not nearly as cool as he pretended to be (to her, this was a positive), and naturally, you’d been looking forward to meeting him.

Even more so after she sent over a polaroid of the two of them, Steve reluctantly posing, an annoyed look on his face that’s broken up by a hidden smile, Robin grinning wide, both in their Family Video vests.

He was handsome. It was impossible to deny.

Unfortunately for you, Steve has decided, for some reason, that he is not your biggest fan.

Your first official meeting was at Family Video, actually. Pre-quarantine. Robin had asked you to stop by during her shift so you could pick out a movie to watch together later, and you’d happily obliged.

The bell above the door chimed happily with your entrance, and Steve was the one who greeted you.

“Hey,” he called from behind the counter.

You walked up, and found that the picture didn’t even fully do him justice. His t-shirt sleeves tight around his upper-arms as he leaned on the counter, hair flopping over his forehead all intentionally messy, like its had fingers run through it.

He straightened when you approached. Smiled politely, even. Big brown eyes trailing over you and focusing on your face.

And something passed between you then. The air heavier, the room and the muffled radio drifting into the background. He looked at you like you were something rare.

“Hi,” you spoke. And maybe you shouldn’t have. “Is Robin here?”

Because that’s when the moment cracked, fizzled out. That’s when Steve dropped his elbows back onto the counter, like he couldn’t hold himself up any longer.

“Sorry!” you heard Robin’s voice ring out, coming closer until she was beside you. “Sorry! I was in the back, didn’t hear you come in.”

“Wait,” Steve said. “Who are you?”

“Um,” you started.

“Steve!” Robin chided. She reminded him of your name, and he mouthed it after she said it, confused. “My friend from middle school who’s staying with me for the week? It’s why you’re covering my shift tomorrow, dingus. I told you like ten times.”

“By that she means twice,” you joked, trying to extend some sort of ‘we both tease Robin’ olive branch.

He seemed to remember himself during the brief conversation, his face hardening, building a wall around himself brick by brick. His eyes were no longer intrigued, his gaze no longer weighted. No, he was something akin to irritated.

“Oh, don’t be jealous, Steve,” Robin said, clearly noting the shift in his demeanor, too. “I do in fact have friends that aren’t you.”

Steve rolled his eyes at her, and you opened your mouth to say something else, but you weren’t sure what words would suffice. Robin linked her arm through yours and guided you away before you could say anything else, anyways.

“Did I do something?” you whispered.

“Ignore him,” Robin urged you. “He’s fussy sometimes, but I swear he’s not an asshole. Anymore.”

Okay. You believe her.

At first, you’re bothered, looking over your shoulder at him like maybe you could figure out what you did wrong just by looking at him.

But then, later, when you’re in the guest room of Robin’s house laying in bed and staring at the ceiling, you remember that look. The first few seconds before you mentioned Robin, before she walked over.

Those moments where he seemed more honest, more open and warm and kind. And then he armed himself, dropped the mask of his helmet and became different.

If Robin says he’s a good friend, a good guy, then he must be. And everyone has their off days, you can understand that. Even relate. So you write it off as a one time thing, thinking next time he’ll apologize for being short with you and introduce himself properly and remember your name.

You’d only gotten that last bit right.

When he saw you next, it wasn’t an apology or a reintroduction. Rather, he’d said your name like it bugged him just to form the sound.

After the massive earthquake, you joined Robin to volunteer. You were directed to the station Steve was already manning, and Robin to the sandwiches.

When you walked up to the table, you took the time to observe him before he noticed you. Towel slung over his shoulder, his eyes heavy, like he’d been tired or seen too much. He smiled at people walking by, helped them find what they needed with a gentleness you admired.

You wanted to forget last time, give it a clean slate, so you walked up with a small but genuine smile and said a small ‘Hey, Steve.’

He looked up from his folding, pressed his hands onto the table and assessed you. Steve wasn’t mean to you, not necessarily, but he was a bit cold. Unwelcoming. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m actually from here and I just.. thought I could help. Looks like I’ll be sticking around anyways,” you shrugged, making your way around the table to join him on the other side. “Unless you wanted to fold all of these boxes on your own?”

And maybe you let your loose sweater slip off your shoulder to expose your lace bra strap. And maybe you noticed the way his eyes flicked over to your newly exposed skin before quickly flicking back to your face, like he just couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t need my permission,” he muttered. Then, “You picked an excellent time for a trip, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you deadpanned. “I like to plan all my travels around disastrous events.”

“Ha,” he responded, unamused.

You’d folded boxes of donations in silence for the remainder of the day.

Normally, if someone didn’t like you, you’d spiral about it a little bit. Wondering what you did wrong, how you could fix it. But it’s different with Steve.

It’s thrilling, actually, to get under his skin. To rile him up by simply being around. You know he’s got to have a reason for it, because the longer you spend in Hawkins, the longer you spend around him, you’re slowly starting to see the way he interacts with everyone else.

How much he cares about Dustin, how worried he is about Max, the way he drives Lucas to visit her every time he asks.

Steve’s not a mean guy, but he’s snappy with you. And you like to bring it out of him. Maybe he needs an outlet for his frustration, or maybe it’s just something about you, but you can’t bring yourself to be upset over it.

No, you’re determined.

You’ll make Steve Harrington crack one of these days. One way or another, you’ll tear his walls down, unarm him. You won’t let him scare you off.

-

It’s been a couple of months now. Spring giving way to the heat of summer, that stretch at the end of May into the beginning of June that warms up quickly.

And yes, you’re still in Hawkins. You’re sort of becoming a local again, you think.

With the weather warming up, you’re all finally able to take advantage of the Harrington’s pool. Sunlight bouncing off the ripples in the water tinted blue from the pool’s tile. It’s just the older bunch today, Lucas and Mike and the others doing their own thing that you’d probably rather stay curious about.

Robin had extended the invitation to you to come to Steve’s, because he’d never invite you himself.

Even after months spent around him, in his orbit, he’s still keeping you at arm’s length. Holding you back with a firm hand on your collarbone and a practiced scowl on his face. You won’t give up, though.

There’s something beneath that front he puts on around you, a reason that curtain is drawn, and you intend to find it. To tear the curtains open and let the sunlight pour in.

So, naturally you’d agreed when Robin asked if you wanted to join. Yes, it would be nice to go for a swim, to sit out in the sun and just drift for a while. But it’d be even nicer to get a rise out of Steve again. To see him roll his eyes at your jokes or sigh at your arrival or drag a big hand over his face at your prodding.

Luckily for you, you’re an overpacker and thought to bring a bathing suit with you. Even luckier, it’s one of your nicer ones. A two piece that sits high on your hips, thin straps sitting on your shoulders.

You show up to the Harrington’s in it and a pair of denim shorts, sunglasses pushed up on your head like a headband, worn tote bag hanging from your shoulder.

Steve opens the backyard gate when Robin knocks on it and follows up with a shout a solid three seconds later.

“Still here, are you?” Steve asks when he sees you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, let me just break a military-ordered quarantine to get out of your hair, princess.”

“Aw, guys,” Robin whines. “It’s too early for this. We haven’t even walked through the gate yet.”

You raise your eyebrows at Steve, because you’re not the one with the problem here. Though you suppose you do egg it on. Just a little.

“Don’t worry Robs,” you say. “Somewhere deep down, Steve likes me. He just has a funny way of showing it.”

And with that you walk through the gate, forcing Steve to move aside for you. He and Robin linger a few paces behind.

Just as you’ve been welcomed into the fold, yours and Steve’s bickering has become a usual occurrence.

“I thought we talked about your attitude, dingus,” she whispers harshly.

“I do not have an attitude.”

“Right, and I don’t have a problem with rambling. Any other lies you’d like to spew?”

“Whatever,” is his retort. Admittedly, not a great one.

By the time Steve and Robin are done with their hushed conversation, you’ve already dropped your stuff by one of the lounge chairs on the pavement, waving hello to Nancy and Jonathan where they sit with their legs dipped in the pool before turning back around and reaching for the button on your shorts.

You glance up as you do, and find that Steve’s already looking at you. Huh.

Looking him in the eyes, you purposefully slip your shorts off slowly, making a show of pushing them down your legs and stepping out of them. He looks away quickly once your shorts reach your ankles like he’d been caught, his cheeks reddened. Maybe from the sun, or maybe not.

Tucking your shorts into your tote bag, you bite the inside of your cheek to suppress a pleased smile.

It’s these kinds of things that keep your faith in Steve alive. The secret glances, the way his eyes find you before his mind can tell him otherwise. And his eyes are so honest then, so expressive and deep with words he refuses to say.

But you’ll get them out of him. You’re willing to play the long game here.

For now, you grab a worn paperback lent to you by Nancy out of your bag and settle onto the lounge chair on your stomach. Elbows holding you up, sunglasses slipped down over your eyes, knees bent so your feet hover in the air.

The sun beats down on your back, but you welcome it. It isn’t that harsh, aggressive burn that comes in the height of summer, but the gentle whispers of warmer days ahead.

You barely get a chapter in before a shadow falls over the yellowed pages of your book, and you can tell just by the silhouette that it’s him.

“Hey, you’re cramping my style, Harrington,” you call.

“Didn’t know the sunlight belonged to you, princess,” he responds, arms crossed, firing the nickname from earlier back at you.

Only, it doesn’t sting one bit. You imagine him saying it in a softer way, sweeter. Then you remember you’re meant to be a nuisance and wave your hand at him, urging him to scoot out of the way.

He simply rolls his eyes and steps aside.

Too easy, you think. At least, until you hear the slap of his feet against concrete as he runs towards the pool, doing a stupid cannon ball as close to you as possible, effectively splashing both you and the pages of your current read.

You glance over your shoulder at the pool as Steve comes up for air, shaking out his hair like a wet dog.

“Thanks for that,” you say, and he wipes the water from his eyes to watch you speak. “I was starting to get too hot anyways.”

He splashes you again with his hands.

“Real mature,” Robin says to him from the corner of her mouth.

You give him a pointed, sarcastic smile before turning back to your book. And that smile turns into something more real, your fingertips tracing the water droplets on the pages as if he placed each one himself.

“Asshole,” you mutter to yourself with a shake of your head, though it comes out somewhat affectionate.

One of those drops of pool water landed directly on the word cares, and you tap it once more before shutting your book and resting your head on your arms.

That’s just it, you think. Steve must care in some capacity about you. He wouldn’t be so easily frustrated, so easily revved up if he didn’t.

You wind up falling asleep like that, the sounds of water sloshing and your friends laughing fading into the background as you drift off. Your neck is sore by the time you wake up, though judging from where the sun still shines high in the sky it couldn’t have been that long.

Robin has moved to the chair next to yours, Jonathan and Nancy sharing a floaty in the pool. And Steve is no longer in sight.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Robin says when she sees your head lift.

You rotate onto your back and stretch your arms above your head. “Mm. How long did I sleep?”

“I dunno. Twenty minutes, maybe.”

“Where’d Harrington go?”

She gestures loosely towards the house. “And there goes my peace,” a pause, then, more serious; “I really wish you two would get along.”

“We’ll get there,” you say, reaching over to pat her hand. “Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

“I think that makes me more worried, actually.” And when you swing your legs over and push yourself to stand, she adds, “Where are you going?”

“Just gonna grab a drink. I’m not gonna like, jump him, or anything.”

“Please don’t, he’s only ever won one fight.”

How many fights does one have to get into for only one win to really be notable, you want to ask, but you refrain. You take your sunglasses off completely and leave them on the chair and make your way inside.

The cool air or the AC hits you as you step inside, a welcome break from the heat that seems to be rising with the afternoon.

You’ve been in Steve’s house before, but never on your own like this. You walk to the kitchen slowly, taking in the decor around the house, the notable lack of family photos, or even ones of just Steve. It feels lived-in, yes, but it lacks the warmth of a family home. You frown at the framed landscape on the wall and move along.

You’re alone in the kitchen too, at first. Wooden cabinets giving the room a warmer tint, white backsplash with the occasional fruit tile, silver appliances. It’s simple, classic, and so clean that it doesn’t look like anybody’s cooked in it in a while.

The fridge isn’t too bad, though, a variety of sodas and a few beers, milk and orange juice and a vegetable drawer. You grab a can of Sprite and crack it open, the pop of the tab echoing in the empty room.

You close the fridge and lean your lower back against the counter. It’s cold against your sun-soaked skin.

“Oh, sure, make yourself at home,” is how Steve announces his presence, shoulder leaned against the doorframe.

He’s always doing that, you’ve noticed. Leaning on something, resting his weight somewhere as if it’s exhausting to keep himself upright, to keep himself steady.

“Aw, thank you. Very hospitable of you, Harrington.”

He scoffs at you. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re an excellent host.” You hold up your can in mock cheers.

And then it happens again, that split second where Steve’s eyes speak for him. They trace your figure, and you suddenly feel exposed in nothing but your swimsuit. Not in an uncomfortable way, necessarily. Just.. heated by his stare, by the warm brown of his eyes and how they seem almost pained.

Besides, you do your own looking, too. Steve’s still shirtless, still damp from being in the pool earlier. His shoulders pink from the sun. Your eyes follow the path of a drop of water that drips from his hair onto his chest, through the thatch of hair there and down over his stomach, disappearing into the band of his swim shorts.

You both suck in a breath at the same time, your eyes flicking upward to find his. Neither of you says anything about it, but there’s an awareness there, like the ACs been shut off, the room growing thicker.

“That was my last one,” he says, nodding to the can in your hand. Though it lacks the usual irritation he employs when speaking to you. It’s slight, like he’s trying to find it again.

The armor’s back.

“We could always share, Stevie,” you poke, holding the drink out for him.

He scoffs and spins on his heel to leave the room. You grin behind the can and take another sip.

-

The heat feels more cruel in August. A lingering, sweltering thing that has ripples coming off pavement. The humidity makes the air feel harder to walk through, a wall of resistance greeting you each time you step outside.

Today is one of the hottest days yet. So much so that even the shade doesn’t help very much.

In the time since Family Video’s… closure, Robin has found her new calling as a radio host, Steve working the sound effects and making sure things run smoothly, because God forbid they’re ever employed in separate workplaces again.

You’d helped them set things up at WSQK when they’d first taken this whole thing on. Unpacking boxes, figuring out a way to tame the mess of wires in the booth, getting some actual furniture in the place.

This time, you’re mostly just there to hang around, to watch them in action. To see Robin make use of her endless source of words to say and to watch Steve, a pencil tucked behind his ear, juggle the sound effect tapes and his can of soda. Still, he manages to look relaxed while doing it, hip leaned on the desk, t-shirt a little wrinkled. A little sweaty, even.

It’s an old building, with a severe lack of AC that is especially obvious on a day like today. Not a single cloud in the sky, the sun beaming relentlessly.

A fan whirs inside the booth, placed as far from the mic as possible. Another spins where you sit, aimed directly at you.

After a solid twenty minutes you get a little fidgety just sitting there. Assuredly, it has almost nothing to do with Robin’s hosting skills—who you’ve heard rehearsing through the walls at night—and almost everything to do with you.

You feel like you need to make yourself useful, especially after everything Robin’s done for you. Letting you be her roommate free of charge (“Your currency is putting up with Steve for me”), being completely willing to let you just join her friend group. To tag along to a life that isn’t naturally yours.

Tracing a finger along the surface of the table next to you and frowning when it comes away dusty, you decide to help them out by cleaning up a bit.

You find the supplies easily. You’re pretty sure you’re the one who unpacked them, and that they haven’t been touched since. There’s a duster, all-purpose cleaner, some paper towel, the basics. You grab it and shut the cupboard quietly and decide to start with the area outside the booth.

It’s easy enough to get into a rhythm, especially with music filling the speakers. If Steve weren’t currently occupied, you’re certain he’d give you shit for the way you bounce on your feet as you clean. You can almost hear him in your head. Wiping surfaces really puts a pep in your step? Seriously?

The booth is, obviously, currently (and for you, sort of always) off limits, so when you finish up with the little seating area, you move along to the living quarters. The two bedrooms are still a work-in-progress, some boxes still unopened, mattresses with no sheets, so you leave them alone and head into the kitchen.

It isn’t fully equipped, either, but a little more so than the bedrooms. It’s warmer here than where the fans had been going, and you lift your hair off the back of your damp neck and fan yourself for a second.

You check the fridge, but it’s pretty barren. At the very least, you shut your eyes and let the cold wash over you for a few seconds.

The heat seems to creep up on you here, beads of sweat building on your forehead, your mind going a little fuzzy in it. You finish wiping up the countertops and decide to go in search of another fan that probably won’t help much. It’ll only blow around the hot air, but a breeze is better than the thick stillness.

Just as you reach for the door to the basement, a voice stops you. His voice, of course.

“You can’t go down there,” Steve says, sneaking up on you, making you jump the slightest bit.

You turn to face him and find him with his arms crossed. Unsurprising. His t-shirt sticks to his chest a little, pushes against his arms, rides up to expose the band of his jeans.

“Didn’t know I needed authorization to go down a flight of stairs, security guard Harrington.” You wipe the back of your hand over your forehead. “I just wanted to grab another fan. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but it’s boiling in here.”

“We don’t have another one. Two not enough for you?”

“No,” you huff, but you give up and walk away, muttering a “dunno how you’re even wearing pants right now” as you pass him.

He follows that with a stupid call of “Perv.”

You pause, not wanting him to get the last word. He sighs audibly and walks back into the booth, and just before the door clicks shut behind him, you add an immature “Weirdo.”

It’s silly, but the annoyed furrow in his brow you spot through the glass tells you it worked.

Unsuccessful in your search for a fan, you go back to the kitchen to finish cleaning in there. Climbing up onto the counters to dust the tops of the cabinets, even busying yourself by wiping down empty drawers and shelves in cabinets.

You’re onto the one beneath the sink when you get a little dizzy, your hands reaching up to grip the edge of the countertop to keep yourself from tipping over. It passes quickly enough, but it leaves you feeling a little funny. Disoriented, sluggish.

When you push yourself up to stand, it worsens, little spots dotting your vision like you moved too fast, your head aching. You lift your hair from your neck again, squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help much, but it forces the dizziness to subside enough for you to walk out of the kitchen, through the main room, and out the front door.

Yes, it won’t be any colder outside, but maybe the fresh air will help a little. It’s stuffier inside, heat being pushed around by the fans, a thickness with nowhere to go.

The sting of the harsh sunlight on your eyes makes your head pound, but you breathe in deep a few times, still hoping whatever you’re feeling will pass like a leaf carried by the wind.

Only, it doesn’t. If anything, it just keeps building. Your heartbeat thumping in your ears, nausea creeping up on you, the spots dancing in your eyesight again.

You have to catch yourself on the station’s wall just to stay upright. Closing your eyes and taking heaving breaths.

You’re so caught up in it you don’t even hear the door opening and closing. Don’t hear the footsteps approaching until there’s a shadow in front of you and a question that comes out more genuine than you’d expect.

“What’s wrong with you?” Steve asks. The wording is a little harsh, because that’s how he’s used to speaking to you, but his tone is quieter, honest.

“Not used to Indiana summers anymore, I guess,” you reply, head tilting back against the wall with a little thump. It makes you wince.

And Steve, well, he surprises you. He doesn’t tell you it’s ’cause you don’t belong, or that you should’ve just stayed home. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist and says “C’mere.”

“I’m fine. I just need a minute,” you say, embarrassed.

Still, you let his hand dig into your skin, let him hold you up and guide you over to where his car is parked. He doesn’t even let go of you when he digs in his pocket for the keys.

It’s probably the closest you’ve ever been to him, and despite the circumstances, you let his touch seep into you. Let his smell surround you, amber and something a little sweet. A hint of hairspray and the saltiness of sweat.

Steve opens the car door and guides you into the driver's seat with the arm still around your waist, the other hand placed delicately on the top of your head so you don’t hit it. He leans over you to start the car, holding himself up on the centre console and fidgeting with some buttons and knobs to turn the AC up.

You resist the urge to lean into him and sink into the seat, your head tipped back against the headrest.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, pulling away and shutting the door gently. You watch him jog off through the window, feeling warm in a completely different way.

True to his word, he’s back in a couple of minutes, a water bottle in one hand and some paper towel in the other. He opens the BMW door and then takes the cap off the water bottle before handing it to you.

Your fingers brush when you take it from him, a spark zipping up your arm. You take a few sips, and when you’re done Steve takes it and screws the cap back on.

He sets the bottle onto the roof of the car. “Here,” he says, a hand slipping to the back of your neck to get you to lean forward. You oblige, and Steve lifts your hair out of the way and places the damp paper towel there to help cool you down.

“How’s that?” he checks, a hand going in front of one of the car’s air vents to make sure they’re working. “Too cold?”

“‘S good,” you say.

And you do feel better, the pounding in your head shifting to a dull ache, your eyes focusing as they should. You feel fuzzy in a new way, looking at him. Taking in the way he makes sure the vents are aimed at you, how he hands you the water bottle again and coaxes you to take a few more sips.

It feels like you’re dreaming now.

Steve is nearly silent as he does it, like it’s completely natural for him to take care of you like this. To drop whatever he’d been outside for and let his concern bleed through the look on his face, the softness of his gaze.

It’s probably the longest he’s ever gone without snapping at you, the longest you’ve gone without taunting him in some way. The gloves have come off, and it’s just you and him. The real versions.

He sees your eyes flutter and lets the words slip before he can catch them, gentle and doting. “Hey, you feeling okay? Talk to me, honey.”

Honey. It’s earnest. Not sarcastic, but soft. What would have been a jab another time dulled to a poke, not a stab.

Steve freezes a little after he says it, worried you’ll call him out on it. Say something about how different he’s being and why he is the way he is with you.

But you do something worse. You look at him like you can see right through him, through every layer he’s covered himself in, nod, and say a delicate, “Thank you, Steve.”

He doesn’t understand why you don’t hate him by now. Can’t fathom how you never get angry at him for the things he says or the way he pushes you away. He almost wishes you would, because it would make it all so much easier.

Steve knows it’s the wrong way to go about it, has heard it from Robin a hundred times now, but his demeanour with you is his own twisted way of protecting you.

If he doesn’t let you get close to him, you’re at a greater distance from the mess he’s entangled in. If he keeps you at arm’s length, you won’t ask questions, won’t get yourself into trouble willingly.

If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have to push you away to protect you. To protect himself. But it’s far too late for that.

At first, the annoyance was real. Frustration at how clueless you were to everything, at how Robin brought you around without concern. Irritated at the prospect of having another person to look out for when he could barely manage everyone already.

But somehow, you’ve wormed your way into his life without struggle. Lingering in the corners of his mind when you’re not around, his eyes drawn to you whenever you walk into a room like a string ties him to you.

He indulges, just for a moment, and traces a knuckle across your cheek before straightening.

It’d be so easy to tell you everything, to let it spill from him in a rush and tug you close afterwards. To let the truth seep from him and move forward. But Steve, who is meant to be brave, is so afraid.

The last thing he wants is for you to get hurt because of him. So he pulls away.

“Don’t sweat too much on my seats,” he tells you before shutting the door and walking away. He’s glad he isn’t facing you, so you can’t see how hard this is for him.

You watch him leave, the hum of the air conditioning filling the space that all of a sudden feels so empty.

-

Just as it always does, August gives way to September. The heat of summer lingers during the day, the first chills of fall creeping in at night.

Not quite cold enough to wear a jacket, not warm enough to be in a tank top. This evening, you’ve opted for a mini skirt, tights, and a sweater. Steve’s in his usual jeans and a crew neck.

Steve, who you’re currently, miraculously, alone with in the WSQK van.

You’d been helping out at the station again when something went wrong with the broadcast, and after diagnosing the issue that you know nothing about, Robin sent you and Steve out to pick up some supplies to fix it.

“It’s a two-person job,” she’d urged. “And I have to stay here and be Rockin’ Robin.”

“I don’t need help,” Steve had insisted, offended at the thought of being incapable on his own.

“Actually, you do,” Robin stated. “Last time I sent you to get something you got it wrong because you can’t read labels.”

“I can read-” he cut himself off. Robin’s just as stubborn as him, and he’s not in the mood to go back and forth. “Okay, fine. Whatever.”

Steve walked out, keys spinning around his finger, without a word directed at you. That is, until he’d noticed you weren’t following him and tilted his head at you. “Well? Are you coming, or what?”

“Oh,” you’d been surprised he gave in so quickly, actually. “Right. Sir, yes sir,” you saluted like an idiot.

And now you’re here, sitting in the passenger seat of the van, Steve beside you, his hands gripping the wheel a little too tight, the radio barely audible over the sound of the wheels turning, the wind around the vehicle.

It’s nearly dark out, that shade of blue just after the sun has fallen behind the horizon, streetlights flicking on and casting a warm glow on everything.

He hasn’t said a word to you besides a muttered ‘buckle up’ since you got into the car, and you’re starting to get antsy in it. You think you’d prefer his pointed comments, his barbed words, over the silence that feels louder than it should.

It isn’t awkward, not quite, but it’s strained in a way. Like there’s some unspoken battle going on and whoever says the first word loses.

Tired of pulling at the loose thread on your skirt and saying nothing, you reach forward to mess with the radio. Turning up the volume so you can hear it properly, flipping through channels and pausing each time to hear what’s playing. You glance at Steve’s reactions, too.

You’re successful when a song sounds through the speakers and he actually winces. You turn it up a bit more to drive it home.

He’s getting predictable, you think. The twitch of his eyes or the arch of his brows.

Except, he does surprise you, sometimes. He did. That day in August, when you got overheated and he caught you effortlessly. When he doted on you and called you honey all sticky sweet like the word itself. When he was the barest you’ve seen him yet.

Steve, almost completely unguarded. Almost.

Today, though, his fences are mended. Built up once more. Which is why you’re not surprised in the slightest when he side-eyes you, huffs a dramatic breath, and mumbles “I hate this song.”

“Oh do you?” You look over at him, knees tilted towards his side of the van. “I couldn’t tell from the exaggerated sighing.”

He gives you this bitchy little twitch of his lips and flips it to another station. You hate how good he looks doing it.

You give him a sweet smile and switch it back.

And just to really get him, you start to sing along. Poorly. Completely off-key and a little shouty and absolutely uncaring.

Steve drags a hand over his face, but you aren’t deterred. You keep singing, grabbing the walkie from the dashboard and using it as a faux microphone. You don’t push any buttons, because that’d probably give him an aneurism.

“My ears,” he whines. “This is so-”

You cut him off by singing even louder. Totally annoying, but you can tell he’s battling a smile behind his hand, little crinkles at the corner of his mouth. It makes you grin stupid and genuine.

Then there are headlights shining through the windshield, bright enough to make you squint. You quiet and twist your head to get a look at the car, eyes widening a bit when you notice it’s one of the military vehicles.

Sure, their presence is known, expected, even, but it’s an odd time of day to see one driving around.

By the way Steve’s grip on the wheel has gone from tight to white-knuckle, he seems to think so too.

The vehicle’s red brake lights shine next, slowing to a stop just after passing by the van, and Steve slows, too. Not as abruptly, but to a crawl, keeping the military truck in his rear view. It pulls over. Steve does too.

“Shit,” he whispers.

“What?” you ask, brows furrowed in confusion. “The U.S. army after you, or something?”

And Steve, who would usually give you some stupid retort about how you’re more likely to be on their radar—Tourists are liabilities, he’d say morosely—says absolutely nothing. Stares in the rear view mirror with concerned focus on his face. Eyes a little wide, the rest of his face composed.

“Steve?” you prod again.

“Stop it,” he says, eyes still glued to the mirror. “Just act.. normal.”

You don’t know what it is that forces you into gear. Whether it’s the look on Steve’s face or the tension in his shoulders, if it’s the beating of your heart that feels like a warning, or maybe the sound of a car door slamming and the cool blue beam of a flashlight turning on. But something has your instincts kicking in, and you unbuckle your seatbelt before climbing into the back of the van.

Steve, even with how he acts around you, looks away when he notices the way your skirt rides up. A gentleman even when perpetually irritated.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks once you’re settled in the back. He turns around to look at you over his shoulder, at how you’ve kicked your shoes off.

You get on your knees and lean forward, unbuckling Steve’s seatbelt for him and grabbing a fistful of his sweater to get him to follow you into the back of the van.

“Giving him a reason to leave us alone.”

Steve, stunned, lets himself be pulled along by your grip, climbing out of his seat and into the back to join you. He kneels, too, your knees slotted together like puzzle pieces, his bumping your thigh.

You’re still holding his shirt even though he’s right in front of you, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest underneath it, can smell his cologne and feel his breath fan across your cheek.

“Uh-” he starts, but fumbles. Never finds the words to say.

In his defence, you don’t really give him a chance to. The flashlight shines through the back window, heavy footsteps on pavement drawing nearer.

You do the only thing you can think of that’ll make the problem go away. You pull Steve in by his collar and kiss him.

Steve is, understandably, completely frozen at first. You bring your other hand to the back of his neck to try and get him to understand. His hesitation doesn’t last long after you sink your fingers into his hair, scraping his scalp a little.

No, he dives in. Hands shooting to find your waist and squeeze slightly before moving again, like they can’t settle in one place. A wide palm is splayed across the small of your back, the other lowering to your hip to urge you to scoot forward.

His mouth moves against yours like you’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s heated, a little frenzied, like he’s just been set loose. The hand on your hip shifts again, running up your arm, over your collarbone, knuckles tracing the side of your neck until he plants it on your cheek, using it to tilt your head where he wants you.

Yes, your goal had been to get him to kiss you convincingly enough that the man outside would just see a pair of young people making out and walk away, Steve goes beyond.

He kisses you like you’re the one that needs convincing of something. His lips firm, bruising, his grip unwavering.

The kind of kiss that tomorrow, even a week from now, you’ll feel warm just remembering.

Steve knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this is a terrible idea. That falling into you this way will cause irreparable damage for him. That pushing you away will become ten times more difficult, little shards of glass embedded into his heart with each shove.

But God. He just can’t stop himself.

Not with how soft you feel against him, how well you fit, how you let him guide you and make the tiniest involuntary noise when he nips at your bottom lip. How you pulled him in, nerves in your eyes, but determination, too.

How you stepped in to help him without asking any questions.

He doesn’t deserve to have you this way, and yet he can’t imagine a world in which he’d pull away first.

Which is why you’re full on making out in the back of the van, the windows probably starting to fog, the radio, the chirp of the blinker, all fading into the background and all that’s left is the sounds of your breathing, the panting when you break away from each other just for a second before dipping forward again.

You don’t hear the man curse and walk away, you don’t notice the absence of the flashlight’s harsh glow. You don’t even notice he’s gone until you hear the door slam again, the tires rolling off, headlights fading into the distance until they’re gone completely, swallowed by nighttime.

It’s only then, when you’re certain the vehicle’s gone, that you pull away from Steve with a lewd smack.

Your eyes flutter open just in time to see the way he chases your kiss when you go.

And then his eyes are open, too, searching your face frantically, blinking like he’s not certain this whole thing has actually just happened. His hands slip away until they’re resting on his knees. Though, with the way you’re sitting, legs slotted together, you can feel his pinky brushing the inside of your thigh, tracing the seam of your tights.

You follow his lead now, dropping your hands away and sort of hugging yourself.

“Sorry,” you say. Quiet. “I probably should’ve asked before I… you know.”

Steve looks at you. Really looks at you. At how your arms are crossed over your stomach, your shoulders dropped. It’s like you’re trying to fold in on yourself, to make yourself smaller. To make his target more difficult to hit.

His hands twitch on his knees. His pinky still runs its tiny course against your leg.

“No, it was, um, smart,” he says. His voice comes out rough, not totally himself. “Good plan.”

You look at Steve, too. And you can see whatever inner struggle he’s having written on his face. His stupid, beautiful brown eyes looking a little lost, a little further away.

You understand him. Somehow, you know what he needs. When to push, when to back off.

“Steve Harrington giving me a compliment?” you say, attempting to bring things back on track. To diffuse his racing thoughts with something he’s used to. “Are you sick or something?”

You straighten and press the back of your hand to his forehead for emphasis.

Like a rehearsed routine, he scoffs lightly, smacks your hand away gently. Even then, it lacks its usual conviction.

-

As expected, the kiss is on your mind. Often.

This whole thing with Steve started out lighthearted. Flirting, teasing, poking, prodding. But over the course of your months spent back in Hawkins, it’s become more than that. Something in you seeks to be around him, even if it means shouldering the weight of his distance.

It’s become clearer the longer you spend with him that it isn’t how he really feels, but how he thinks he should feel. How he thinks he should act around you.

Your goal is much the same. Get under his skin, but even more than that, you just want to know the truth. The why.

You actually like him, and you haven’t even had the privilege of knowing the Steve that’s tucked away beneath the layers of protection. There are glimpses, light breaking the shadows, but a cloud always comes back to cover up the cracks.

After that night in the van, after that kiss, you’re more determined than ever. Because there’s no faking that. The want and desire, a match lit by the press of your mouths, by the touch of his hands.

So, yeah, you’re thinking about kissing Steve a lot. Sometimes, you’ll press your fingertips to your lips when the memory pushes itself forward, like you’re trying to remember exactly how it felt, that it wasn’t a dream.

Even now, sitting across from him in a booth at the diner, you’re thinking about it.

About how easy it would be to bridge the gap again, to see how he’d react if you weren’t doing it as a cover, if it was out in the open, no security blanket of pretending for the sake of your safe getaway.

You’re not hiding your distraction well enough, if the little kick and accusing glance Robin gives you from her seat beside you is anything to go by.

You shake your head at her, not sure if you’re denying whatever she’s thinking or just putting it off for now. Either way, it works, and she goes back to whatever debate she’d been having with Nancy, Jonathan chiming in every now and then and getting mostly overlooked save for a sweet pat on the knee from his girlfriend.

You watch them interact with a small smile, this group of people that have become your people. The way they’re able to joke with each other and know it’s out of love and warmth.

You look away when Nancy concedes and Robin, too proud, celebrates her win with her arms raised and a chant of ‘victory!’

Steve’s eyes are already fixed on you from across the table when you turn your head. And like that day at the pool those months ago, and other days since, he doesn’t hold your gaze, he looks away as if caught. Red-handed and the tips of his ears going pink.

The group’s silence is a hint for you to follow their lead and look over the menu, even though you all get the same thing every time. So you drop your gaze too, letting the toe of your shoe tap against Steve’s shin lightly.

Could be an accident, could be something else. I see you, it might say.

His leg shifts, but you’re not sure if it’s in response or just a reflex.

You look down at your menu and scan the options that you’ve practically memorized by now. There are only so many places to eat in Hawkins, after all, especially when groceries aren’t as easy to come by.

You’re reading the handhelds section when a splotch falls onto the page and interrupts your reading. It’s a small dot, and you look up to find the source when you feel the pressure in your nose. Another drop falls when you look back down and realize the source is you.

“Shit,” you mumble, reaching for some napkins.

Everyone looks at you at once, various levels of question and concern written on their faces as you hold a crumpled napkin to your nostril.

Steve’s the first to speak, and it’s a tone reminiscent of that day at the station when he sat you in the BMW and took care of you like it was easy, natural. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say, and it comes out awkward with the way your hand is held in your face. “Just a nosebleed.”

Only, that doesn’t seem to reassure him. Or anyone. They’re all still staring at you.

“I’ll just, uh, go clean up,” you say, scooching out of the booth and walking in hurried steps to the bathroom.

Steve watches you go. Well, they all do, but the look on his face is a little different. It’s not only worried, it’s etched with fear.

“I’m gonna check on her,” he announces. It hasn’t even been two minutes, but he doesn’t care. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t think it’ll slow until he can see you alive and talking.

For once, Robin doesn’t give him any crap as he walks off.

Uncaring and far too concerned, Steve shoulders the women’s bathroom door open after knocking twice. He doesn’t give you time to respond.

You’re standing at the sink, a fresh piece of paper towel held to your nose as you look in the mirror, assessing the damage. Luckily, no blood spilled onto your shirt. You flinch when the knocks come, when Steve comes tearing in like a heavy breeze, door blown open and shutting heavily behind him.

“Steve!” you pivot to face him, hip leaned against the counter, the arm that isn’t occupied with holding pressure crossed over your chest. “You know this is the girl’s bathroom, right?”

He ignores you. Doesn’t respond and instead searches your face with frantic, gorgeous eyes. “Have you been getting headaches lately? Nightmares?”

“Um, thanks for the therapy session, but-“

“Please.”

Steve Harrington, pleading with you. Safe to say it shuts your sarcasm off, makes your stomach twist with the way he shoves an anxious hand through his hair.

“No, Steve. I’m fine,” you tell him. It’s sincere. A promise, almost. “It’s probably just dry in here, or something. It’s like you’ve never seen a nosebleed before.”

“I’m not playing around.”

“Me either,” you say, but get frustrated with how your words come out a little nasally with your nose blocked. You pause, twisting to look in the mirror again and pulling the paper towel away to check if the bleeding has stopped. Luckily, it has.

You turn to Steve again, making sure to catch his eye, to hold it and speak as honestly as you can. “I’m okay. No headaches, no nightmares. Just a regular, boring nosebleed, alright?”

He holds your eye for a second afterwards, as if searching for any sign that you’re being dishonest. When he doesn’t find one, he nods, messing with his hair again and looking down at the floor. Breathing a couple of deep breaths.

You can’t look away from him.

You’re trying to find where his distress is coming from, as if you might see the answer written on him somewhere. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve so afraid, and it’s completely unmooring.

He cares about you, that much has become clearer now, but there’s something holding him back. Something other than himself. Something that genuinely frightens him.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” you ask. Gentle, trying not to spook him into hiding again.

“I-” he starts, but stops himself just as quickly. He shakes his head, reroutes. Steve walks over and pulls another piece of paper towel from the dispenser and wets it in the sink.

“Here,” he says, squeezing out the excess water and coming to stand right in front of you, the toes of your shoes touching.

Steve tilts your head up for him, his hand splayed on the side of your neck, his thumb tucked under your chin. He uses the damp paper towel to wipe the dried blood from your nose.

“You don’t have to-”

“Please, honey” he says again. “Just let me.”

You do.

It’s impossible to say no to him this way, with his voice low and quiet and rough, his touch so delicate. The reappearance of the word honey. It nearly undoes you. Your eyes flick over his face as he cleans you up, his tongue poked out the slightest bit in concentration.

You’re afraid to speak, afraid to shatter whatever’s happening here. Afraid to revert whatever’s made Steve drop his weapons at the door and reveal himself. Here, in the silent bathroom, it’s your own little bubble.

The rest of the world muffled, shining pink and blue in the light and tinting the moment that way, too.

When Steve is satisfied with his work, he tosses the paper towel into the garbage without moving away. His hand is still cradling your jaw lightly, like he’s afraid to hurt you. The other, now free, wipes away the leftover moisture on your upper lip with his thumb.

Steve drops it after that, as if burned. You catch his wrist before he can let the other hand fall away the same. He doesn’t meet your eye until you squeeze, your thumb feeling the rush of his pulse.

“Hey.”

He seems embarrassed all of a sudden. His cheeks getting warmer, some kind of self-appointed guilty grimace on his face. “Mm?”

“Thank you.”

You say it in that way that feels exposing to him. Thank you, but there are other meanings sheltered beneath the two words.

I understand. I can tell you’re hiding something.

I know exactly who you are, Steve Harrington. You don’t have to tell me.

You drop his wrist then, having said what you needed to. And Steve turns on his heel and leaves after whispering a small ‘yeah. ‘course.’

His shield is held in front of him again, though it no longer feels like a tough sheet of metal, but a mere piece of paper, easily poked through with the right tool.

Easily poked through if you’re the one on the other side.

-

There’s a slight shift to things since the nosebleed.

Or maybe this is only when you notice it, the tiny bits and pieces slowly building up over time until they’re big enough for you to see. A house settling on the ever-shifting earth, cracks in the porch steps, a door becoming harder to shut.

Steve hasn’t rolled his eyes at you, hasn’t so much as sighed, in at least a week. It’s probably the longest he’s gone without doing so since you’ve met, and you know it means something.

That the rock face that is Steve Harrington’s guard has slowly been eroded away by your efforts. Changed by the constant tide. His carefully pointed words dulled into a teasing that makes you feel like you’re in on the joke rather than the butt of it.

If you weren’t so zeroed in on him, if you didn’t know him well enough to be able to see his eyes soften or hear the change in his tone, you probably wouldn’t have paid any mind to any of it.

But you do focus on him. You do know him. Whether he wants to let you or not.

It gives you this dangerous little seed of hope. It's taken root in your chest, petals unfurling with every glance he steals that you pretend not to notice.

Hope that your mission, completely driven by your feelings for him now, might be succeeding. That you could make Steve crack. That you’ve chiseled away at that stony exterior to get a glimpse of the heart on the inside. Caring and kind, endlessly loyal.

Hope that things could truly be different. Better. That you could, at the very least, become friends.

Though the word friends doesn’t feel quite right. A square peg pushed into a round opening. It just doesn’t fit.

Not after everything that’s happened these last few weeks. Taking care of you in the sun and with your nosebleed, the genuine concern, the tenderness that leaked through. Especially not after the way he kissed you in the van.

You think about it now, walking up to the doors of the WSQK building, the van parked outside, ground crunching beneath your feet.

You weren’t planning on coming by today. You were fully planning on lounging around at Robin’s for the day. Watching whatever movies she has lying around, napping on the couch. You’d gotten about five minutes into movie number one when you saw Robin’s lucky coin left on the coffee table.

She’d told you about it once when she asked if you had any change and you had pointed it out. Told you that she keeps it in her pocket for every broadcast, that it would be ‘an abomination’ to get rid of it now.

You can tell it’s the coin because she’d placed a dollop of nail polish on it to differentiate it from the others. Won’t that mess with its luckiness, you’d asked her. Um, that’s totally not how it works, Robin had responded, like it was a ridiculous question.

So anyway, when you spotted it left behind on the table and knew she was doing a broadcast later today, you wanted to bring it to her.

Turns out her lucky token is kind of shit when it’s in your pocket instead.

You open the doors to the Squawk, expecting to find Robin and Steve bantering in the main area. To hear them, at least. Or to see Dustin fixing something with the satellite or whatever it is.

Instead, you’re met with silence.

You know people are here though. Steve’s BMW is outside, too. The doors unlocked, the lights on. There’s even a half-empty pot of coffee in the kitchen. A couple of dirty dishes in the sink.

However, your search of the main floor comes up empty. Briefly, you wonder if they’re pulling some kind of stupid prank on you. If they saw you walking up the drive and decided to hide and jump out and say ‘gotcha!’ when you jump.

Then your eyes land on the doors leading to the basement. The strip of light slipping through the cracks of the door.

You can’t go down there, you remember Steve saying. All stern and irritated. But things aren’t how they were in August. You shake your head and walk towards the doors.

Tugging a heavy one open with a click, you breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of voices travelling up the stairs.

“There you guys are!” you call, heading down. “I’ve been looking everywhere. Robin you forgot your-”

You freeze at the bottom of the stairs. Everyone is down here. Like, everyone. And they’ve all gone silent, staring at you with varying expressions of surprise and nerves, like they’re worried you overheard or saw something you shouldn’t have.

“-lucky coin,” you finish weakly.

“Oh!” Robin walks over to you and takes the coin from your palm, sliding it into her pocket. “Well, thanks for bringing it. We were just, uh..”

She’s doing that frantic rambling thing, saying a bunch of words that don’t actually mean anything strung together. You look around and find that pretty much everyone else is acting strange.

Jonathan’s shoulders are tensed high, Nancy worrying the inside of her cheek. Lucas and Mike share a look that says something like ‘what do we do?’ and ‘I don’t know.’

And Steve. Steve can’t even look at you.

“What’s going on?” you ask. “Is everything okay?”

“We’re fine!” Robin tells you, but the squeak in her voice isn’t very convincing. “Why don’t you head upstairs, and we’ll be right behind you.”

“I know when you’re not being honest, Robin,” you say.

It’s one thing when it’s the others hiding something. Lucas or Mike or whoever. You could live with them not telling you something. Hell, you’ve been coping with Steve’s secretiveness this whole time and you still haven’t given up, but it’s different with Robin.

She’s your best friend, and she doesn’t trust you enough to let you in on this.

“It’s nothing,” she tries again.

“Robin. Come on, it’s me.”

“I, um.”

Robin doesn’t get the chance to find the words, because Steve finally looks up from the floor and steps forward.

“You should go,” he says. His voice is cold. Detached, almost.

You’re taken aback by it. Not the words, necessarily, but the way he says them. This is the Steve from before. Not the one you know now.

“What?” you say, weak.

“Leave,” he practically spits.

“No. No, just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t,” Steve adds. Every word is a sharp little paper cut swiped against your vulnerable skin. “You aren’t even supposed to be here in the first place. You don’t belong.”

“But-”

You can feel your resolve cracking with every syllable. Your heart beating an uncomfortable rhythm in your chest, your stomach sinking.

Then, he really does you in.

“You never should have come to Hawkins.”

It’s something aimed to not only cut, but stab. Words picking at an old wound.

Because there’s an underlying message in there. That you were never supposed to be in his life, that he didn’t want you in it. It’s as cruel as saying he wishes he’d never met you.

You look around at everyone else in the room, face heating, embarrassed. Nobody says anything. They don’t defend you, they don’t tell you to stay, that Steve didn’t mean it.

You nod, chin wobbling, and turn around, rushing up the stairs. Robin tries to grab your wrist, but you shake her off, the door slamming harshly behind you as you go.

The tears don’t fall until you’re outside, the wind speeding them along and making them tumble in fat drops down your cheeks, streaking your face.

You don’t belong, when you thought you’d been making progress. That maybe Steve actually liked you. You never should have come to Hawkins.

No, maybe you shouldn’t have, you think, wiping at your cheeks and your nose with the cuff of your sweater. Your hands are harsh, much harsher than Steve’s were in the bathroom at the dinner.

You kick a pebble. Even now, when he’s hurt you, he’s on your mind.

Back in the basement at the Squawk, the group’s eyes have turned onto Steve instead of you. Robin’s are the most accusing of all, though they all feel heavy against him. It makes his skin itch, uncomfortable.

“What?” he bites, before going upstairs himself.

And the thing is, Steve thought he was done nipping at you like that. He wanted to be done. With all of it. The name calling and annoyed looks, the sighing and the comments.

He wanted to move forward. He’d been trying to figure out how to apologize to you, actually. What the right words would be, if they would be enough.

Because he fucking cares about you. So much it scares him.

He doesn’t even know every piece of you, and he cares this much. It terrifies him to think about how big his feelings could get if he let you in. How badly it would hurt him if you got hurt, if it was because of him.

Steve knows what he did today was wrong. It wasn’t even what he wanted to do, but he was trying to get you as far away from the danger as possible and it manifested itself in the way he was used to.

He’s not an aggressive person. He isn’t who he used to be in high school. He doesn’t know why he bites.

And that look on your face just before you left, the wobble of your lip and the way your eyes welled but you wouldn’t let a tear fall, the defeat, your shoulders deflated. Well, that look will haunt him for a long time.

But if there had to be a monster in your life, at least it’s him and not something much, much worse. At least you’re still alive and breathing.

Steve can bear the weight of your hurt, can let it crush him and break him down to dust, as long as you’re alright in the end.

-

You cry the whole way back to Robin’s.

It’s the sadness, at first. The hurt and the sting of everything that had happened. Everyone’s silence, Steve’s words and how he sounded like a different person when he said them.

After that, it’s frustration. At yourself for thinking things had changed, for letting yourself cry over it now. And at Steve, for being so confusing. Because when the emotions subside, you look at things more broadly.

Sometimes, he can be so sweet. His eyes go soft and honest and expressive, and then he pulls it away. He puts up a wall that he just refuses to let you tear down or climb. You really thought you’d found a way, that you’d met in the middle of it.

You did your share of trying, of finding your footing between stones, and Steve held out a hand and tugged you the rest of the way over.

And then today happened.

But now, with your tears dried and your head less clouded, more than anything, you’re fed up. Tired of throwing fake punches and watching them land. Of taking hits yourself. So you come up with another plan.

You’re going to get answers out of Steve, and this time, you won’t back off until you get them.

First, you wait. You turn on the radio and listen to the Squawk, trying not to relive this afternoon every time you hear Robin’s voice or catch a sound effect and know that Steve is behind it. You listen until the broadcast ends sometime in the evening. Then you wait some more, calculating the time it would take Steve to get home from the station.

Once you’re pretty sure he’d be back at his house, you slip your shoes on and head out the door again.

The skies have darkened since earlier today, the sunset hidden behind gray clouds, but you don’t care. Don’t pause to grab an umbrella or a jacket, you just keep walking.

Eventually, rain starts to fall, but you let it seep into your clothes and over your skin.

You’re soaked by the time you get to the Harrington household, pressing the doorbell nonstop until you see Steve through the glass and hear the lock turn.

“What are you doing here?” he says, not nearly as harsh as his tone had been earlier today.

Steve is shocked to see you, but he’s glad, too. He was afraid that how he’d acted today was enough to push you away for good. It’s what he thought the right thing to do was, and it felt like the complete opposite.

He looks you over. The same clothes from before, now drenched, your shoes squeaking a little as you bounce on your feet. Your wet hair clings to your cheeks. You look beautiful, you always do.

Your shivering has him springing into action. “Jesus, you must be freezing. Come in.”

Steve tugs you inside with a hand loosely wrapped around your wrist. He drops it to shut the door behind you, then leaves. You slip off your shoes in his absence, wrap your arms around yourself.

He comes back with a towel and a blanket, first draping the towel over your shoulders, then following it up with the blanket. He rubs your arms to help warm you up.

And this is exactly what you’d been talking about. The contrast between the Steve from earlier and the one standing in front of you now is clear. Now, his instincts have kicked in. And those instincts have him taking care of you once more.

He pushes your hair off your face and behind your ear so tenderly. It’s what makes you finally speak.

“Did I do something?” you ask.

Steve drops his hand, but he doesn’t back up. “What?”

“Was there something I did to make you not like me?”

“I- I don’t not like you,” he stutters out.

“Then how come you act the way you do? Like today?” You don’t even give him the chance to respond, to lie weakly to your face. “I really thought we were getting somewhere. I even thought-”

That you cared, you almost say.

You shake the thought off and continue. “I just want to know why, okay? Then I’ll go.”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says. He sounds torn, pained. “You didn’t.”

“So tell me the truth,” you try. It’s strained too. The drops of water spilling from your clothes and your hair might as well be your blood with the way you feel. Like you’re bleeding out in front of him and waiting to see if he’ll wrap the wound or slice you further. “Stop being so afraid, Steve.”

“That’s not fair. You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. So make me understand.”

Steve runs an agitated hand through his already messy hair. Like he’s been doing it all day. His chest is heaving, and a part of you wants to reach out and place a hand over his heart, to see if he’s as affected as you are.

His head turns to the side, you pry it back to you with a murmured, “Steve.”

“I was just trying to protect you.”

A breath is punched from you. Maybe because you’re finally getting what you wanted, that your suspicions have been confirmed. Or maybe because, even though you’d been right, it doesn’t feel good.

“You had to be.. to be mean to do that? Really?” You almost laugh at how it sounds. What could possibly be so bad that made him think he needed to in the first place? “I’m not defenceless, Steve. I’m not dumb or weak.”

“I was trying to keep you safe!” he huffs, as if you hadn’t heard him the first time. “I’m still trying to.”

“Well, stop. It’s not for you to decide what I can or can’t handle, Steve.”

“I know-”

“So what is it? What’s this big bad secret I can’t possibly be strong enough to keep?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then tell me what you mean. Please, Steve, for once, just tell me.”

He’s practically panting now, and he knows you won’t stop until he gives you something, and maybe he’s tired of hiding, too. Both hands come up to fist his hair, drag down his face.

He’s fighting a battle that’s living in his own head, not with you.

“Steve,” you say his name again, and it undoes him.

“Because I care about you, okay?” the words seem to spill out of him like they’ve been trying to escape for a long time now, rushed and loud.

But then something changes, Steve’s wild eyes scan your face, like he’s waiting for you to shut him down, to run. When you hold his eye, scrunch your brows in a gentle question, it’s like he’s been set free completely.

“I like you,” he says, quieter now but no less intense, wholly honest and devastatingly relieved, a weight finally dropped to the ground and off his back. “I like how you never mind your own business and how you reread the same books over and over. I like that you sometimes mouth the words Robin says because you know her so well. I like how much you fit in with everyone, how Dustin asks you for advice and Lucas talks to you about Max.”

Your eyes well for a whole other reason. All this time.

“I like how you speak with this little accent ‘cause you moved away, and I like that you came back.” He huffs a small laugh to himself. “I like you so much it scares the shit out of me, because this town, us, we’re not normal. It’s not- it’s not safe.”

“Wha-”

“And I thought that by pushing you away, by keeping you at a distance, you’d be far from the danger, too. That as long as you were safe, I could handle being the villain in your book, or whatever.” Steve looks down at his feet. “I realize now how stupid that sounds. I’ve been called an idiot plenty of times before, so, yeah.”

Your eyes are soft on him, and you look at him the way you always do. Like you know who he really is.

“I like you too, Steve,” you say finally, and it feels freeing. An ember relit in your chest. “You could have just talked to me, you know.”

“I should have,” he settles on. It’s his version of a white flag waving. I’ve dropped my weapons, he’s saying. It’s a battle finally over. Troops called back, the sun rising anew. “I’m sorry, honey.”

You’re still cold from the water trapped in your clothes, but the room feels far warmer.

“I’m sorry, too,” you tell him. “I was kind of riling you up on purpose, so..”

“I fucking knew it,” Steve whispers, shaking his head, but he lets himself smile when he does. The fondness not only in his eyes but in the shape of his mouth this time.

He steps closer, your toes almost touching, and pries your hands away from where they grip the edge of the blanket tight. He holds them between his own, larger and far warmer. Steve hisses through his teeth when he feels how icy your fingers are, dipping his head down to blow some warm air on them, tightening his grip.

There are still things left unsaid, questions unanswered, but the touch is grounding. Reassuring. It’s a promise that they will be said soon, that he isn’t going anywhere.

“It worked, didn’t it?” you joke gently.

“Yeah, it worked.”

You’re not sure who moves first after that, all you know is that you’re shrugging off both the blanket and the towel to free your arms, Steve dropping your hands in favor of framing your face, thumbs running sweet lines across your cheeks.

Yours wrap around his back, drag him closer, one hand fisted in the material of his shirt, the other on the back of his neck. He shivers, from the coolness of your touch, yes, but from the honesty of it, too.

The familiarity.

His eyes flick between yours once, twice, and then he’s kissing you, lips bruising against yours, but not as heated as that time in the van.

It’s a slow dance, him taking your bottom lip between his, you meeting him in the middle, your stomach swirling.

The best part isn’t the way he licks at your lip in between kisses, though it makes your heart flutter, or the sweet caress of his thumbs on your cheekbones, but the way that he pulls away.

Because the kiss is broken by his smile. Unabashed at last.

You can’t help but mirror it, cold long forgotten when he leans in and drops his forehead against yours, like he can’t bear to not have you close anymore.

“So,” you start, voice soft in the space between your faces. “Will you let me come?”

“Uh, a little forward, honey-”

You swat his stomach. “Mind out of the gutter, Harrington. Am I a part of this now?”

Steve pulls back just to make sure you can really see him, hands still warm on your cheeks as he says, “Yeah, you’re with me.”

(¬`‸´¬)

He’s on the other side of the booth, messing with the patch cables near the transmitter rack, shoulders hunched in concentration. His jacket is tossed over the back of a chair, sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his forearms. There’s a smudge of dust on his cheek, probably from crawling around under the console earlier, and you fight the urge to reach out and wipe it away.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says without turning around, voice casual, like he hasn’t been clocking your attention for the past five minutes. “I’m fixing it.”

“You said that ten minutes ago,” you reply, smiling despite yourself. “And fifteen minutes ago. And earlier when Robin was still here.”

“This time I mean it,” Steve says, glancing back at you with a crooked grin. “I just don’t want it to cut out again in the middle of a song. People get weirdly emotional about that.”

“People get emotional about everything,” you say. “Especially at midnight.”

He snorts, going back to his wires, but there’s something tight about the way his shoulders stay raised, like he’s bracing for something. The clock on the wall ticks closer to twelve, each second loud in the quiet. Outside, beyond the darkened windows, you can hear distant pops and cracks from fireworks, muffled by the quarantine perimeter and the trees. Hawkins still finds a way to celebrate, even when it probably shouldn’t.

You push off the desk and wander closer, careful not to crunch too loudly on the confetti. One piece sticks to the sole of your shoe and trails behind you. Steve notices and laughs under his breath. “Guess we’re finding that for weeks,” he says. “Dustin went way too hard.”

“You let him,” you point out, stopping beside him. “You handed him the bag.”

“That’s because he looked at me like I’d ruin his life if I said no.”

You lean your shoulder against the rack, close enough that your arm brushes his when he reaches for another cable. It’s familiar, this easy closeness, the way your space has blended with his over the past few months until neither of you really remembers when it happened. The contact sends a quiet ripple through him, subtle but there, and you feel it anyway.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The radio fills the silence, a soft instrumental track bleeding through the monitors, something slow and nostalgic that makes the air feel heavier. The clock clicks over to 11:59.

Steve clears his throat. He straightens up, then immediately leans back against the rack, hands shoved into his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. He stares at the clock, jaw working, and you follow his gaze. “You big on New Year’s resolutions?” you ask, half-teasing, half-genuine.

He laughs, short and a little breathless. “Me? No. I’m bad at promises. Kinda my thing.”

“Wow,” you say dryly. “Comforting.”

He glances at you then, really looks at you, and something unspoken flickers in his eyes. It’s not new, exactly, but it feels sharper tonight, like the edge of a blade instead of the flat of it.

“I mean,” he adds, softer, “I’m bad at promising stuff I’m not sure I can keep.”

The clock hits midnight. Fireworks bloom somewhere far away, distant enough that the sound arrives dull and late. The song on the radio swells, and Steve reaches out automatically to adjust the volume, fingers steady despite everything else about him not being that way at all.

You clap once, halfhearted, nudging him with your hip. “Happy New Year, Harrington.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Happy New Year.” Then, quieter, like it’s just for him, “yeah. New year.”

Confetti sticks to the back of his sweater as he moves, and you reach out without thinking, brushing it away. Your fingers linger there, warm against him, and he stills under your touch. For a second, you think he might turn around and kiss you right there, between the humming machines and the empty coffee cups, like he has so many other nights. Instead, he closes his eyes and exhales through his nose, like he’s steadying himself.

“You okay?” you ask, lowering your hand but not stepping away.

“Yeah,” he says quickly, too quickly. “Just… tired.”

You nod, even though you don’t entirely believe him. There’s a lot he doesn’t say these days, things that sit heavy in the quiet moments. You’ve learned not to push, not when the world outside WSQK feels like it’s always one bad signal away from falling apart.

Steve opens his eyes again and looks at you, something resolved settling into his expression, subtle but unmistakable. His mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “This year,” he says, voice low and steady, “I’m doing some things different.”

“Oh yeah?” you reply lightly. “Like vacuuming?”

He laughs, genuine this time, and shakes his head. “Like… not chickening out.”

Before you can ask what he means, the phone line lights up, and the moment slips sideways, postponed but not gone. Steve reaches for the receiver, but as he does, his hand brushes yours, fingers curling briefly around your wrist. It’s just a second. Still, it’s enough.

By the time you lock up WSQK, the night has settled into that deep, in-between quiet Hawkins gets after celebrations burn themselves out. The confetti stays where it is, scattered like evidence of something softer that happened earlier, and Steve doesn’t comment on it again. He just flips switches, double-checks the doors, and grabs his jacket with the same practiced motions he always uses, like routine is the thing keeping him upright lately.

The walk to the parking lot is cold enough that you shove your hands into your sleeves. Steve notices without saying anything and drapes his jacket over your shoulders anyway, settling it there like it belongs. You don’t argue. You never do.

His BMW coughs when he turns the key, that familiar rattling protest filling the silence before the engine finally catches. You slide into the passenger seat, tucking your legs up slightly like you always do, knees brushing the cracked leather. The dashboard clock blinks the wrong time, permanently stuck an hour behind no matter how many times Steve swears he fixed it.

“Locked?” he asks, backing out.

“Locked,” you repeat. “Unless the Upside Down learned how to use keys.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he replies, grimacing. “I am not dealing with a demodog that understands security systems.”

The drive is quiet, but not awkward. It never is. The radio stays low, some late-night talk show bleeding static between sentences. Streetlights pass in slow intervals, washing the inside of the car in yellow, then shadow. Steve keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh, fingers tapping like he’s counting something only he can hear.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, the way his focus softens when he’s driving you home, like the road demands less from him than everything else does. He glances over once, catches you looking, and raises an eyebrow. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you say, smiling. “You just make that face when you’re thinking too hard.”

“Do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

He scoffs, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “Okay, maybe. Occupational hazard.”

By the time you pull into his driveway, the tension that always hums between you has settled into something heavier, thicker, like fog rolling in. His house is dark except for the porch light, and the quiet out here feels different than it does at the station. Less mechanical. More real.

Inside, the air is warmer. Steve kicks his shoes off near the door, nudging yours aside with his foot so you don’t trip over them. You hang his jacket on the hook by muscle memory, even though it started the night on his shoulders. He watches you do it, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “You want anything?” he asks. “Water, soda, whatever that weird juice Robin left in the fridge?”

“I’m good,” you say. “Unless you’re secretly hoarding something better.”

“Wow. Accused in my own house.”

You drift further in, perching on the edge of the kitchen counter like you’ve done a hundred times before. Steve opens the fridge anyway, stares inside like the answer to his problems might be behind the leftover Chinese containers, then closes it with a sigh. “This is becoming a thing,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “You know. Us just… ending up here.”

You shrug, swinging your legs lightly. “It’s closer than my place. And you’ve got better heating.”

“That’s not why,” he says, too quick, then clears his throat. “I mean. Yeah. It is. Mostly.”

The silence stretches, comfortable but charged. You can feel it in the way his eyes keep flicking back to you, like he’s checking you’re still there. This is how it always goes — shared spaces, shared time, shared exhaustion. Nights where the world feels too loud and this house feels like a pause button.

You slide off the counter, padding closer, stopping just short of him. Not touching. Not yet. The air between you feels electric anyway. “Rough night?” you ask quietly.

He exhales, nodding. “They all kind of are lately.” His voice drops. “But… this helps. You being here.”

It’s not a confession. Not really. Just a truth he lets slip like it doesn’t matter, like it hasn’t been sitting heavy in his chest for a while. You meet his gaze, steady, grounding.

“Yeah,” you say. “Same.”

Steve shifts his weight, hands uncrossing, like he’s not sure what to do with them. He steps aside, gesturing toward the living room. “C’mon,” he says. “You wanna sit? Or— I mean, we don’t have to—”

“We can sit,” you reply, already moving past him. “I’m not in a rush.”

His shoulders relax just a fraction as he follows you into the living room, the old house settling around you both, floors creaking under your steps. You leave the hallway light on out of habit, spilling a golden stripe across the carpet. Steve’s hand lingers at the small of your back for a moment as you pass him, his touch casual but charged. Neither of you says anything about it.

You collapse onto the couch, sinking into the cushions, and Steve sprawls next to you, one arm thrown across the backrest, legs stretched out until his foot bumps against yours. For a while, there’s just the low hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock, and your breathing syncing up in the hush. Steve stares up at the ceiling, fingers drumming an absent rhythm on the fabric, but his gaze keeps drifting to you when he thinks you’re not looking.

You stretch, letting your head fall back, closing your eyes for a second. “I’m never getting used to this shift,” you murmur. “My brain’s still buzzing.”

He grins, soft and sideways. “That’s because you’re thinking too much. You gotta let it go.” Then, quieter, “That’s what I do, anyway. Just… let it fade out.”

“Is that what we’re doing here? Fading out?” you ask, glancing over. You mean it as a joke, but something in the way you say it turns it softer, makes Steve look at you a little too long.

“Not really,” he says, voice low. “Feels more like catching my breath.”

You move closer, shoulder to shoulder, and you can smell his aftershave, the faint metallic tang of the radio station clinging to his skin. Steve looks at you, his eyes dark and searching, like he’s reading something between the lines you aren’t saying out loud.

“You always do this,” he says, a slow smile curving his lips, “come in here and take over my couch, my radio, my life.”

“And you always let me,” you shoot back, nudging his knee with yours. Your laughter rolls into a comfortable quiet, and for a minute the world outside the windows—Upside Down, crawls, quarantine, all of it—just isn’t real.

His gaze drops to your mouth, and he doesn’t hide it this time. “You’re not tired?” he asks, but there’s no real question in it, only invitation.

“I’m not tired,” you say, your voice steady, and it’s the truth. The air between you goes charged, electric, every nerve aware of where he is and what could happen if you just move one inch closer.

He leans in. The couch creaks under his shifting weight as you turn to face him, knees brushing, and the look in his eyes is as familiar as it is dangerous, a silent promise of what always happens next. He waits for you to close the gap, always letting you make the choice, but tonight you’re the one who breaks first. You press your lips to his, soft, then hungry, all that built-up tension unraveling in a rush.

Steve’s hands come up, one cupping your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek. He tastes like mint gum and late-night adrenaline, mouth warm and urgent against yours. You don’t bother with slow; you’ve never been any good at that with him, not when the world outside always feels like it might end.

His fingers trail down your neck, tracing the line of your throat, and you shudder under his touch. He knows just how to press, just how to tilt your chin to draw out the sounds he likes, the ones only he gets. The heat builds fast, his other hand finding your hip, pulling you across his lap until you’re straddling him, knees braced against the worn cushions. Your jacket slips off your shoulders, pushed aside by his hands, and you shrug out of it with a little laugh that gets lost in his mouth.

Steve breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you, eyes dark and intent, searching your face for any sign to stop. He always does this—always checks, always waits for the smallest hesitation, even when you’re already half undressed in his lap. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him back, and that’s all the answer he needs.

His mouth trails down, hot and wet, over your throat. You arch for him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the heat of his skin. Steve’s breath is rough, shaky, his voice a low growl against your collarbone. “God, you drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your pulse. You let out a gasp, hips grinding down, feeling him hard beneath you, and the friction makes you both swear softly into the darkness.

He stands suddenly, catching you in his arms, lifting you off the couch with an easy strength that never fails to make your pulse jump. Your legs wrap around his waist, instinctive, and he carries you down the hall, mouth never leaving your skin, pressing kisses and little nips along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. The door to his bedroom bangs open, but neither of you cares.

He sets you down at the edge of the bed, hands already tugging at your clothes, peeling your shirt over your head, dropping it somewhere behind you. You work his sweater off, nails scraping over his stomach, and he sucks in a breath that’s half curse, half moan.

The rest of your clothes hit the floor in a messy, hungry rush. Steve’s hands are everywhere—palming your breasts, sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you up against him. His mouth covers yours again, deeper, more desperate, and you answer him with a needy sound that makes his hips jerk against you.

He pushes you back onto the bed, climbing over you, settling between your legs. His fingers trail down your body, teasing, lingering just enough to make you squirm, to make you beg for more. “Tell me what you want,” he says, voice rough, lips ghosting your ear. You shiver, arching up to meet him, and you don’t hesitate, not with Steve, not when you trust him to give you everything you ask for and more.

His fingers slip between your thighs, finding you wet and ready, and he groans, low and filthy, at the way you gasp, at the way your hips stutter up into his hand. “Fuck, you’re always like this for me,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, his breath hot on your skin.

You reach for him, pulling him closer, nails digging into his back, and he laughs against your throat, the sound shaky, on edge. “God, you feel so good,” he mutters, and you can hear the way he’s holding back, trying to drag it out, wanting to make it last.

But you’re done waiting. You reach down, guiding him to you, and he sinks into you with a slow, deep thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. The stretch is perfect, the heat unbearable, and you cling to him, legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him deeper.

Steve moves slow at first, hips rolling, every stroke measured, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours, searching for every flicker of pleasure, every breathless moan. He knows your body, knows every sound you make, every way you like to be touched. He whispers your name, over and over, like a prayer, like a promise, and you answer him with gasps and bitten-off cries, the room spinning around you.

He picks up the pace, thrusts turning rougher, needier, and the headboard thuds quietly against the wall with every movement. Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, loving the sting. His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans, his hand slipping between your bodies to circle your clit, coaxing you closer, higher, until you’re trembling beneath him, desperate and undone.

You come with a shuddering gasp, clenching around him, dragging him over the edge with you. He groans, deep and raw, hips stuttering as he spills inside you, burying his face in your neck, breath hot and ragged.

You both stay tangled together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in the dark. Steve’s forehead rests on your shoulder, his arms locked around you like he’ll never let go. You feel the weight of him, the warmth, the way he presses soft, lazy kisses to your skin as you both come down, neither of you willing to move, not just yet.

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just breathes you in, his thumb tracing slow circles on your hip. It’s quiet, peaceful, the chaos of the world outside held at bay by the walls of this room, by the way he holds you, by the way you fit together, perfectly, hopelessly, inevitably.

It doesn’t happen all at once. That’s the thing you notice first, once you start paying attention. Steve doesn’t wake up one day different; he just… slips, little by little, like someone losing their footing on loose gravel and trying not to make it obvious.

At WSQK, it shows up in the small spaces. Shared shifts turn into Steve hovering behind your chair a little longer than necessary, leaning one hand on the backrest while you cue up tracks, his knee brushing yours every time you swivel even an inch. When you glance up at him, he looks away too fast, like he’s been caught staring at something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Other times, he doesn’t look away at all, just watches you with that softened focus that makes your stomach flip before you can stop it.

Robin notices before you do. She’s slouched in her chair across the booth, boots up on the console, chewing on a pen cap while pretending not to watch the two of you circle each other like idiots. Every time Steve drifts closer, every time his fingers nearly brush your shoulder when he reaches past you, she lifts her brows and gives him a look that says really? without ever opening her mouth.

Steve ignores her. Or tries to. He’s bad at it.

“You know,” Robin says one afternoon, spinning her chair to face him, “there is such a thing as personal space. It’s very popular. Big fan base.”

Steve doesn’t even pretend he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. He just shrugs, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. “I’m standing.”

“Menacingly,” she replies flatly.

You laugh, shaking your head, eyes still on the playlist in front of you. “He’s not that close.”

Steve’s gaze flicks to you, sharp and almost hopeful, before he schools it back into something neutral. “See? I’m fine.”

Robin’s eyes flick between the two of you, tired and knowing, but she lets it drop. For now.

The requests line lights up halfway through the afternoon shift, the little red bulb blinking insistently. You point it out, and Steve reaches for the receiver like he always does, voice slipping automatically into that easy, charming radio tone he wears like armor. “WSQK, you’re on the air,” he says. “What can we do for you?”

There’s a pause. Static crackles softly through the speaker, then a voice comes through, older, a little shaky, asking for a love song. Something slow. Something meaningful. Something for “someone who’s been there through a lot.”

Steve listens, nodding along even though the caller can’t see him. His smile is gentle when he answers. “Yeah. Yeah, we can do that.” He cues the track with steady hands, but when he leans into the mic to dedicate it, something catches. “This one’s for—” His voice falters, just barely, but enough that you notice. Enough that Robin notices too, straightening in her chair. Steve clears his throat, cheeks coloring. “For someone who… makes things feel a little less heavy. You know who you are.”

The booth goes quiet except for the song rolling out over the airwaves. Steve steps back from the mic, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor like he’s bracing for impact. You blink, then glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Wow,” you say lightly. “Getting sentimental on-air now? Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Robin snorts, not even trying to hide it. “Truly shocking behavior.”

Steve laughs, but it comes out thin. He rubs the back of his neck, ears going red, refusing to meet your eyes. “Shut up. It was just a dedication.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, still smiling, but something about his reaction makes you pause. He’s blushing. Not his usual half-assed embarrassment, not his joking deflection. Real, deep color creeping up his neck, the kind that only shows up when something actually matters. You tilt your head, studying him. “Hey. You okay?”

He looks up then, finally, and the look on his face knocks the breath out of you just a little. It’s open, exposed, like he said something out loud before he meant to. “Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just… hot in here.”

“It’s January,” Robin deadpans.

Steve shoots her a glare that has no real heat behind it, then turns back to the board, busying himself with unnecessary adjustments. You watch his hands shake just slightly as he reaches for a dial.

The storm rolls in fast, the way they always do lately, like Hawkins doesn’t bother easing into bad weather anymore. One second the sky outside the WSQK windows is bruised purple, the next it’s split open with white light, thunder cracking so close it rattles the glass. You glance up from the board just in time to see Steve tense, shoulders lifting instinctively, like he’s bracing for something more than noise.

Then the power cuts. Everything dies at once—the monitors, the overhead lights, the low hum that usually fills the station like a second heartbeat. For a split second there’s nothing but darkness and the echo of thunder, and then the emergency lights kick in, bathing the booth in a dim, ominous red. The equipment racks glow faintly, LEDs blinking like watchful eyes.

“Shit,” Steve mutters, already moving. “Okay, okay, it’s fine. Generator’ll catch in a minute.”

You swivel in your chair, heart thudding a little harder than it should. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” he says, but there’s a crack in it, just enough to make you notice. “It always does.”

The rain pounds harder against the roof, a relentless drumming that fills the silence left behind by the dead equipment. Steve crouches near one of the racks, checking cables out of habit more than necessity. After a moment, he exhales sharply and drops to sit on the floor, back against the metal frame. “Guess we’re waiting,” he says.

You hesitate for half a second, then slide out of your chair and sit down too, settling between the racks opposite him. The floor is cold through your clothes, but the closeness helps, knees brushing, your legs angled toward each other without either of you commenting on it. The red light makes everything feel unreal, like you’ve slipped into a different version of the station where things are allowed to be said.

Steve stares at the floor, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced together. He looks tired like this, stripped of his easy charm, all the noise and distraction gone. The storm booms again, closer this time, and his knee presses a little more firmly into yours. “Hey,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

You blink, turning toward him. “For what?”

“For… being weird lately.” He huffs out a short, humorless laugh. “Which I realize is not super specific.”

You study him for a moment, the way his jaw tightens as soon as the words leave his mouth, like he regrets them already. “Okay,” you say slowly. “Why are you being weird?”

The question hangs between you, heavy and fragile. Steve’s breath catches. He lifts his head, meets your eyes, and for a second it feels like the storm has gone quiet, like the whole world is waiting.

His mouth opens, then closes. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, and his knee presses harder into yours, grounding himself. You can see it in his eyes—the way they flick over your face, searching, calculating risk, fear, hope all tangled together. He looks like someone standing at the edge of something steep, trying to decide whether the fall will kill him or set him free.

“I just—” he starts, voice rough. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers catching, tugging a little too hard. “I don’t wanna mess things up.”

Your chest tightens. “Mess what up?”

His gaze drops to where your knees touch, lingers there like it’s safer than looking at you. “Us.”

The word lands heavier than it should. You shift slightly, not pulling away, just adjusting so your leg presses back against his. “Steve,” you say softly, “you can’t mess up something if you won’t even tell me what it is.”

He laughs under his breath, but it sounds close to breaking. “Yeah. That’s kinda the problem.”

Another flash of lightning illuminates his face stark white for a split second, and you see everything he’s trying not to show—the fear, the longing, the way his shoulders are drawn tight like he’s holding himself together by force. He looks back at you, really looks, and his expression changes, something fragile surfacing. “I think I—”

The door slams open. “Okay! Generator’s back online, crisis averted, we all lived, gold stars for everyone,” Robin announces, voice echoing way too loudly in the small space as the main lights flicker back on. The red glow vanishes, replaced by harsh white fluorescence, and the moment shatters like glass.

Steve jerks back like he’s been burned, scooting away from you, scrambling to his feet with an awkward laugh. “Oh. Great. Perfect timing.”

Robin freezes mid-step, eyes darting between the two of you on the floor, the tension still hanging thick in the air like ozone after lightning. Her mouth presses into a thin line. “…Did I interrupt something?” she asks.

“Nope,” Steve says too fast, already turning toward the board. “Just, uh. Power stuff.”

You push yourself up more slowly, brushing off your hands, heart still pounding like it hasn’t caught up to the room yet. “Yeah. Power stuff.”

Robin squints at you both but doesn’t push, moving past to reboot the systems. The familiar hum returns, screens lighting back up one by one. Normalcy snaps back into place with brutal efficiency.

Steve doesn’t look at you again for the rest of the shift, but you can feel him there, every movement careful, contained. Whatever he was about to say stays lodged between you, unresolved and aching, echoing louder than the thunder ever did.

It’s a few days later when the station fills up again, and the change is immediate the second the door starts slamming open. WSQK isn’t built for crowds, not really, but somehow everyone squeezes in anyway. Backpacks end up stacked in corners, jackets draped over chairs, someone knocks over a chair and pretends it didn’t happen. The familiar hum of the equipment is almost drowned out by overlapping voices, the sound of people who’ve learned how to exist in crisis together.

Dustin is the last one through the door. He lingers in the doorway longer than the others did, shoulders hunched, eyes scanning the room like he’s not sure he belongs here anymore. His hat is pulled low, brim shadowing his face, and he doesn’t say anything at first. No loud greeting. No dramatic entrance. Just a quiet step inside, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

Steve notices instantly. “Hey,” he says, softer than usual, moving toward Dustin without making it a big thing. “C’mon in. You’re blocking the good echo.”

Dustin snorts faintly, barely there, but he does step further into the room. “Didn’t realize this was a VIP-only establishment.”

Steve smirks, but there’s something careful underneath it. “You kidding? This place runs on chaos and unpaid labor.”

That earns a small huff from Dustin, and Steve counts it as a win. Will, Mike, and Lucas have already claimed spots near the wall, sitting on the floor with their backs against the equipment racks like they’ve done it a hundred times before. Nancy leans over the desk, scanning a stack of scribbled notes, while Jonathan hovers nearby, camera hanging from his neck out of habit more than necessity.

You’re perched on the arm of a chair near the board, watching it all settle into place, watching Steve move through them like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be. He checks on everyone without making it obvious, passing out sodas, nudging backpacks out of walkways, steadying the energy in the room with quiet touches and easy jokes.

Robin drops into the chair beside you, eyes flicking between Steve and the group, then back to you. “So,” she murmurs, “should I be concerned that this looks like the prelude to something bad?”

“Always,” you reply quietly. “But less bad than usual.”

The meeting, if you can call it that, starts loosely. They talk about crawl schedules, about weird fluctuations in the signal, about things that feel off in the air lately. Steve listens more than he talks, arms crossed, nodding along. Every now and then, his eyes drift to you, like he’s checking you’re still there, still real.

Dustin stays quiet through most of it. When he does speak, it’s clipped, practical, stripped of the enthusiasm he used to bring into every room like a wildfire. He suggests adjustments to antenna placement, mentions something about interference patterns, and then goes quiet again, retreating into himself.

At one point, Steve hands him a soda, setting it down beside him without comment. Dustin stares at it for a long moment before picking it up. “…Thanks,” he mutters.

Steve shrugs. “Hydration’s important. Heroes drink water.”

Dustin almost smiles. Almost.

The room feels heavier than usual, weighted with everything unsaid. Eddie’s name never comes up, but it doesn’t need to. He’s there in the empty space Dustin leaves beside him, in the way everyone avoids looking directly at the Hellfire sticker peeling off his backpack.

You catch Steve watching Dustin when he thinks no one’s looking, jaw tight, guilt and protectiveness warring in his expression. When Dustin rubs at his eyes like he’s tired, Steve steps in, gently redirecting the conversation, keeping things moving so no one has to sit too long in that quiet.

At some point, Nancy straightens, tapping the desk. “Okay. We should probably get going before it’s dark.”

“It’s already dark,” Robin points out.

“More dark,” Nancy amends.

Everyone starts gathering their things, the energy shifting again. Chairs scrape. Zippers buzz. Steve walks them out one by one, clapping shoulders, offering rides, making sure no one leaves alone.

Dustin hangs back again. You’re near the door when Steve crouches in front of him, lowering himself to Dustin’s level like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You good?” he asks gently.

Dustin shrugs, shoulders tight. “I don’t know.”

Steve nods like that’s an acceptable answer. “Okay. That’s okay.”

The silence stretches, fragile. Dustin nods once, then turns and heads out with the others, leaving the station quieter than it’s been all day. When the door finally clicks shut, the absence feels louder than the crowd ever did. Steve exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. He turns, finds you watching him, and for a second that careful mask slips. Whatever he was holding back all day presses closer to the surface.

Robin watches the two of you, arms crossed, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “…You guys wanna talk about whatever that was?” she asks, gesturing vaguely between you and Steve.

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it again, glancing at you like he’s measuring the distance between now and whatever he almost said on the floor during the storm. “Yeah,” he says finally, quiet. “Just… not yet.”

Steve’s place is warm when you step inside, the kind of heat that clings to your skin and settles low in your belly, and not just because the thermostat’s cranked too high again. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it over the banister like he always does, and you trail after him into the kitchen, shedding your own coat along the way, moving like gravity's strongest here.

He opens the fridge, bends at the waist, and asks, “pizza or leftover Chinese?” without turning around.

You lean against the counter, eyes trailing the curve of his back, the stretch of denim over his thighs. “Do we ever not choose pizza?”

He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “You say that like we’re consistent.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We’re consistent about eating shit and not talking about anything important.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Ouch. Call me out harder, why don’t you.”

It starts like it always does—jokes and microwave beeps, the clink of bottles as he grabs two beers from the door tray. He hands you one and you take it without comment, brushing fingers too long in the exchange. He hesitates just long enough for you to notice, then backs off like it didn’t happen. But you’re both already glancing at the couch.

You end up there in five minutes flat, paper plates balanced on knees, your legs folded up and tucked to the side, his thigh warm beside you. Some old movie flickers across the screen, ignored. Conversation wanders in loops—Robin’s latest weird theory about Upside Down tremors, Lucas being a better liar than anyone expected, Dustin’s fake-casual curiosity about exorcisms, “for research.”

Steve laughs too hard at that one, head tipping back against the couch cushion, throat exposed, and you feel your gaze catch. There’s a moment, just a beat, where you both go still.

And then he turns his head.

And then he kisses you.

It starts slow, mouths brushing, both of you testing for heat that’s never really gone cold. His hand finds your jaw, thumb stroking beneath your ear, and your fingers knot in the front of his shirt without meaning to. The kiss deepens with each breath, lazy at first, then hungrier, your bodies shifting toward each other like they’re sick of waiting.

You climb over his lap, straddling him, your knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his thighs. He groans low into your mouth, hands slipping beneath your shirt, dragging up your back, fingertips tracing skin like he’s not sure he’ll be allowed again tomorrow. His lips trail to your jaw, your neck, down the side of your throat, and you gasp when his teeth scrape just hard enough to leave heat blooming.

“Bedroom,” he says against your skin, voice ragged. You nod before he finishes.

He stands with you wrapped around him, your legs around his waist, your back hitting the hallway wall once when he stumbles, laughing through his teeth, the kind of sound that’s too fond for what this is supposed to be. The bedroom door swings open, and you don’t even remember him kicking it.

The bed is unmade, but you don’t care. He drops you onto the mattress and follows, kissing you again like he’s starving for it, his body heavy over yours. You pull his shirt off with fumbling hands, nails raking his stomach on the way up. His jeans are next, kicked off without ceremony, and then his mouth is on you again, trailing down your chest, your ribs, the curve of your stomach.

He settles between your legs like it’s where he was always meant to be. You’re already soaked—he must’ve known, must’ve felt it pressed against him when you were grinding into his lap on the couch—and he doesn’t waste time asking if this is what you want. He already knows. Still, he catches your eye, one hand smoothing up your thigh, the other planted firm on your hip, holding you open for him.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice rough.

“God, yes,” you whisper, breathless.

His mouth drops, warm and wet, and he drags his tongue over your clit in one long, slow stroke. You gasp, hips jerking before he tightens his grip, keeping you in place. He groans against you like he feels it too, like he’s not just eating you out—he’s devouring. His tongue moves in slow circles at first, teasing, every flick sending electricity up your spine. You clutch the sheets with one hand, the other buried in his hair, tugging when he sucks, hard and perfect, right where you need him.

“F-fuck, Steve,” you moan, thighs trembling around his head.

He hums, tongue lapping over you, greedy and focused, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. He licks you open, soft and relentless, mouthing at you with practiced, intimate confidence. Every sound you make just spurs him on, and he’s locked in, ravenous, like he can’t stop until you’re falling apart.

Your stomach tightens, back arching off the bed as the pressure builds. He senses it, tilting his head, licking with that exact rhythm that always makes you come fast, wet, messy, mind-numbing. Your hand tugs hard at his hair and he groans again, sucking your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking, circling, pushing you right to the edge.

You’re panting now, toes curling, whole body pulled tight like a bowstring. And then it hits—hard, overwhelming, your orgasm crashing over you with a cry that rips from your throat. “Oh fuck—Steve, fuckfuckfuck—” Your thighs clamp around his head as you grind into his mouth, chasing every last wave, and he doesn’t pull away, not until you’re squirming from the sensitivity, gasping for air.

He pulls back slowly, dragging his mouth from you with one last kiss to your inner thigh, lips slick, eyes heavy with heat. You’re still catching your breath, body flushed and shaking, when he climbs up over you, sliding into the space between your arms, bracing his weight on his elbows.

You reach up and cup his face, fingers tracing his cheek. His skin is warm, lips swollen, eyes locked on yours.

“Jesus,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

Steve smiles, and it’s a little shy, a little cocky, but there’s something underneath it that wasn’t there before. He leans in, presses a kiss to your forehead, then one to your mouth—soft, slow, tender. Like something’s cracking open, something he’s not ready to name. His hand finds yours on the pillow and laces your fingers together without a word.

There’s something different in the way he moves now, softer but deeper, as if he’s savoring every second—like he knows this could be the last time before everything changes and he refuses to let any of it slip away unnoticed.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down at you, eyes searching your face for a sign, like he’s memorizing everything. His hand cradles your cheek, thumb brushing your skin, gentle and reverent, and his gaze is so open you almost can’t stand it.

“You sure?” he whispers, his voice quiet and rough with emotion, hips cradled between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you, waiting.

You slide your arms around his shoulders, nails digging in, not to hurt but to hold. “God, yes, Steve. Please.”

He nods, and for a moment just holds you there, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Then, slow—achingly slow—he pushes inside you. The stretch is perfect, a shivering fullness that has you arching up to meet him, wrapping your legs around his hips, drawing him deeper. He groans softly, the sound rumbling through his chest as he sinks in all the way, filling you in a way that feels both desperate and impossibly sweet.

He starts to move, rocking his hips in a steady, gentle rhythm, every thrust deliberate, as if he wants to feel every inch of you, every pulse and flutter. His hand stays at your face, holding you steady, his thumb catching the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming ache of being seen, of being held like you matter.

His lips meet yours over and over, never hurried, each kiss melting into the next. His name spills from your lips, soft and helpless, and he answers you with a murmur, his voice gone so tender it makes your heart ache. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re everything, you know that? Everything.”

You gasp, rolling your hips up to meet him, chasing the heat curling low in your belly, your whole body singing with it. Steve leans down, kissing your eyelids, your cheeks, your jaw, like he can’t get enough, like every piece of you is precious.

He doesn’t rush, just keeps rocking into you, the rhythm stretching out between you, slow and deep, his hips pressed snug to yours with every thrust. Your hands roam over his back, his arms, feeling the tremble in his muscles, the way he’s holding himself together.

Every time you look at him, his eyes are already on you, dark and shining, the raw need there undercut by a devotion so fierce it leaves you breathless. His hand cups your face, thumb stroking your cheek as he moves, his other arm curling around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. “Stay with me,” he whispers, voice thick. “Just… stay, okay?”

You nod, a choked sound escaping you, and he kisses you again, swallowing your moans, your whimpers, every gasp. The pleasure builds slowly, the tension winding tight, every roll of his hips coaxing you higher.

You break, trembling under him, coming apart with his name in your mouth and his hand cradling your face, grounding you in the swell of it. He groans, the sound muffled against your lips, and you feel him pulse deep inside you, his whole body shuddering as he follows you over the edge.

He stays pressed to you, both of you breathing hard, your bodies tangled together in the warmth and the hush. His thumb still brushes your cheek, his kisses growing softer now, lingering on your skin, your lips, your temple.

You don’t let go. Neither does he. His forehead presses to yours, breath mingling, and for a while the world outside the four walls of his room doesn’t exist, every worry banished by the way he holds you—close, gentle, like you’re everything he’s ever wanted and he’s terrified to let you slip away.

Morning doesn’t arrive gently.

You wake to the sound of footsteps that don’t belong to dreams, soft but restless, pacing back and forth across the bedroom floor. Your eyes blink open slowly, still heavy, still warm, the sheets tangled around your legs and his pillow indented beside you. For half a second, you expect to find him there, sprawled and half-asleep, arm thrown out like he always does.

Instead, Steve is standing near the dresser, already dressed, pulling on his jacket like it’s armor. His hair is still a mess, curling at the edges from sleep, but the rest of him is tight, wound too thin. He runs a hand through it, mutters something under his breath you can’t quite catch, then turns and freezes when he realizes you’re awake. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Hey.”

Your chest tightens at the sound of his voice. “Hey,” you answer, pushing yourself up on your elbows, the sheet slipping down your waist. You don’t bother covering yourself more than that. You shouldn’t have to.

There’s a pause that stretches too long. Steve shifts his weight, looks everywhere but at you, like the walls might have answers he doesn’t. “I—” He exhales hard and scrubs a hand over his face. “I’ve been thinking.”

That alone sends a little spike of dread through you. You sit up properly now, drawing the sheet around yourself, trying to steady your breathing. “Okay.”

He nods, pacing again, words tumbling out too fast. “About last night. About us. About… all of it.” He stops, turns to you, eyes red-rimmed like he didn’t sleep much at all. “And maybe this isn’t a good idea anymore.”

The words land heavy and sharp, knocking the air from your lungs. “Oh,” you say, because it’s the only thing you can manage.

Steve’s face twists instantly, panic flashing across it. “No—shit, that’s not—” He crosses the room in two strides, hands out like he’s trying to catch something mid-fall. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I did, but I didn’t, I just—fuck.”

You swing your legs off the bed, feet hitting the floor, grounding yourself in the cold. Your hands shake as you reach for your clothes, folded neatly over the chair like he always does after. You keep your eyes on them, on anything but his face. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, too quickly, your voice a little too steady. “I get it.”

He shakes his head, frantic. “No, you don’t. That’s not—God, I hate this.” He reaches for your arm, then stops himself, fingers curling back into his palm. “I just… things feel different. And I don’t want to screw it up. Or hurt you. Or lose—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching hard.

You swallow, throat burning. “Steve.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and whatever he sees on your face makes him pale. “Shit,” he whispers. “You’re upset.”

“I’m not,” you lie automatically, grabbing your shirt and pulling it over your head. The fabric snags for a second and you fight it, blinking hard. “I mean. I am. But it’s fine.”

“That’s not fine,” he says, voice breaking just a little. “I shouldn’t have said anything like that.”

You tug your jeans on, fingers clumsy. “You meant it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he insists. “I don’t want you to go.”

You pause with your hands on the button, breathing in through your nose, out through your mouth. The room feels too small, too tight, like the walls are pressing in. “Then what do you want?” you ask quietly.

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. His shoulders slump like something inside him just gave up. “I don’t know,” he admits, barely above a whisper.

That hurts worse than anything else. You nod once, sharp, like you’ve made a decision even if you don’t feel it yet. “Okay.”

He flinches at that, at the way you say it, clipped and final. “Okay?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say, pulling on your shoes, refusing to let your eyes water. “Okay.”

You grab your jacket, sling your bag over your shoulder, movements too fast, too practiced, like if you stop you’ll fall apart right there in front of him. Steve follows you to the door, hands hovering uselessly at his sides. “Hey,” he says softly, desperate. “You don’t have to leave like this.”

You pause with your hand on the doorknob, heart pounding so loud it feels like he must hear it. You turn just enough to look at him, really look, and it almost breaks you. He looks wrecked. Scared. Like he’s already regretting everything. You force a small smile that probably doesn’t fool either of you. “I think I do.”

The door clicks shut behind you, the sound echoing down the hallway, and as you step out into the cool morning air, the first crack of panic settles deep in your chest. The quiet realization that something has changed, that you might be losing him, and you still don’t know why.

You don’t go home. You don’t really know where you’re going at all, just that if you stop moving, if you let yourself sit still with what just happened, something in you is going to split open and you won’t be able to put it back together. Your feet carry you on instinct, down familiar streets, past houses that look too normal for how wrong everything feels. The morning air is cold enough to sting your lungs, and you welcome it. It gives you something else to focus on.

You end up at the park without consciously choosing it. It’s quiet in that early, in-between way, the kind of quiet that only exists before kids show up and before the day fully wakes up. The swings creak softly in the breeze, chains rusted and tired. The grass is damp, soaking through the seat of your jeans when you drop down on one of the benches near the playground. You sit there with your elbows on your knees, staring at the ground like it might offer answers if you look hard enough.

Your chest aches in that dull, hollow way that doesn’t fade no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re fine. You replay his voice over and over in your head. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. The way he panicked right after, the way he backtracked, like he’d already lost control of whatever was happening between you.

You press your thumb into the heel of your palm, grounding yourself, breathing slow. You don’t cry. Not yet. You refuse to give him that power over you, even when it feels like you’re bleeding out quietly from the inside.

The sun creeps higher. Time passes in chunks instead of minutes. At some point, you hear footsteps crunching over gravel, fast and purposeful. You don’t look up right away. You already know who it is by the way they stop short, by the sharp intake of breath like someone’s relieved and annoyed at the same time.

“There you are,” Nancy says, hands on her hips. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone when they just… vanish?”

You close your eyes for a second, then look up at her. She’s wearing a jacket that’s too thin for the weather, hair pulled back in a rushed ponytail, worry written all over her face like she hasn’t bothered to hide it.

“I didn’t vanish,” you say quietly. “I just… wasn’t there.”

She studies you, really studies you, and whatever she sees makes her expression soften. She steps closer, stopping in front of the bench. “You didn’t show up at the station,” she says. “Steve said you weren’t feeling well.”

That makes your stomach twist. “Oh,” you reply. “Did he.”

Nancy sighs, dropping down beside you without asking. “He’s a mess,” she says bluntly. “Has been all morning.”

You huff out a humorless laugh, eyes dropping back to the grass. “Good.”

Nancy bumps your knee gently with hers. “That didn’t sound convincing.” Silence settles between you, thick but not uncomfortable. Nancy’s good at this, at sitting in the quiet without forcing it. Finally, she speaks again, more careful this time. “Do you wanna tell me what happened?” she asks. “Or do you want me to just… sit here and pretend we’re watching the ducks?”

You glance toward the empty pond, then back at her. Your throat tightens, and you have to swallow before you can speak. “I think… I think I messed something up.”

Nancy tilts her head. “You don’t usually talk like that.”

“Yeah,” you admit. “Neither does he.”

That’s all it takes. Nancy exhales slowly, nodding like something’s clicked into place. “Okay,” she says. “So it’s a Steve thing.”

You don’t answer, but you don’t have to. She leans back on the bench, arms crossed loosely, gaze fixed on the playground. “You know he’s terrible at saying what he actually means, right? Like, catastrophically bad.”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“No,” she agrees softly. “It doesn’t.”

Another stretch of quiet passes. Somewhere nearby, a bird takes off, wings flapping loud in the stillness. Nancy shifts, turning toward you fully now. “He cares about you,” she says, firm. “A lot. Enough that it scares him. And Steve Harrington does not handle fear well.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Then why does it feel like I’m the one getting left behind?”

Nancy doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her voice is gentle. “Because when people are scared, they push first and think later.”

You stare ahead, jaw tight. “I don’t know if I can just… wait around while he figures it out.”

She nods, understanding in her eyes. “You shouldn’t have to.”

Nancy glances back toward the path that leads out of the park, then back at you. “C’mon,” she says. “Let’s get you back to the station. Or at least somewhere warm. You can sit. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

You hesitate, heart thudding. The idea of going back, of seeing Steve’s face, makes your chest tighten all over again. But sitting here alone isn’t helping either. “…Okay,” you say finally.

Nancy smiles, small but real, and stands, offering you a hand. You take it, letting her pull you up from the bench, your legs stiff but steady.

As you start walking back towards the station, the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen. If anything, it tightens. Because you know this isn’t over. Not really. And whatever comes next is going to hurt just as much as it matters.

Back at WSQK, the station feels wrong without you. Steve notices it the second he steps inside, like the air’s been knocked off-balance. Your chair is empty. Your jacket isn’t slung over the back like it always is. The coffee mug you forgot to take home is still sitting by the board, cold and untouched, and the sight of it makes his chest ache in a way he doesn’t have a word for.

Robin watches him clock all of it. He pretends he doesn’t. He checks the dials, flips switches that don’t need flipping, straightens a stack of papers that were already straight. He keeps expecting the door to open, keeps expecting your voice, casual and familiar, asking him if he messed with the playlist again.

“You’re pacing,” Robin says eventually, leaning against the counter.

“I’m not,” Steve replies automatically, dragging a hand through his hair for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“You are,” she says. “And you look like you kicked a puppy and then realized the puppy was your best friend.”

Steve winces. “That’s… graphic.”

“It’s accurate.”

He opens his mouth to argue, then the door opens. Lucas steps inside quietly, shoulders squared, jaw set in that way that means he’s holding himself together by force. He looks older lately. All of them do, but Lucas carries it differently—like he’s braced for impact at all times. “Hey,” Steve says, softening instantly. “What’s up, man?”

Lucas hesitates, fingers curling into the strap of his backpack. “Can you… uh.” He swallows. “Can you drive me to the hospital?”

Steve doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Robin’s eyes flick between them. “I’ll hold down the fort,” she says gently. “Go.”

The drive is quiet. Steve keeps both hands tight on the steering wheel, knuckles white, the road stretching ahead of them like a long, narrow tunnel. Lucas stares out the window, knee bouncing, breath shallow. Steve doesn’t push. He’s learned when silence is better.

When they reach the hospital, the building looms gray and heavy against the sky. Steve kills the engine but doesn’t get out right away. “You don’t have to come in,” Lucas says quietly.

Steve looks at him, really looks, and shakes his head. “Yeah, I do.”

Inside, everything smells like antiseptic and quiet fear. The halls echo with soft footsteps and murmured voices. Lucas leads the way like he’s memorized every turn, every corner. Steve follows, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with Max and everything to do with the weight of love he’s been avoiding naming.

Max’s room is still. Machines hum softly, steady and indifferent. She looks smaller than Steve remembers, pale against the sheets, hair spread out on the pillow like she might wake up any second if someone just calls her name loud enough.

Lucas freezes in the doorway. Steve stops just behind him, close enough that their shoulders brush. He watches Lucas step forward, sees the way his hands shake when he reaches for Max’s, sees the way he leans down and whispers to her like she can hear him. “I’m here,” Lucas says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The words hit Steve like a punch to the chest. He backs up a step, leaning against the wall, giving Lucas space. He watches the way Lucas stays, unwavering, saying things he’s probably said a hundred times already. Apologies. Promises. Memories. Hope spoken into the quiet like it might stick.

Steve’s thoughts spiral, unwanted but relentless.

I don’t want you to go. Then what do you want? I don’t know.

The shame burns hot.

He thinks about you standing in his doorway, holding yourself together with shaking hands. The way you said “okay” like it didn’t tear something out of you. The way you left because staying would’ve hurt more.

He thinks about how he held your face like you were something precious, how natural it felt to kiss you slow, to stay close, to mean it. He thinks about how fear made him push anyway.

Lucas straightens after a while, wiping at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He turns and catches Steve watching, something raw and exposed on his face. “She hates hospitals,” Lucas says quietly. “She always said if she ever got stuck in one, I had to sneak her out.”

Steve nods. “She’s gonna yell at you for not doing it.”

Lucas huffs a weak laugh. “Yeah.”

They stand there together, side by side, looking at Max, and Steve feels it settle in his chest with sudden, brutal clarity. Love isn’t safe. It never has been. But avoiding it doesn’t protect anyone—it just leaves them alone. Steve exhales slowly, the truth heavy and undeniable. He doesn’t want to lose you because he was too scared to say what’s already written all over him.

When they finally leave the room, Lucas pauses in the hallway. “Thanks for coming in,” he says.

Steve nods, voice low. “Anytime.”

As they walk back toward the exit, Steve already knows what he has to do next. He doesn’t know how you’ll take it. He doesn’t know if it’s too late. But for the first time since New Year’s, he knows one thing for sure. Running isn’t an option anymore.

He finds you the way Steve always does when it matters most: not because he planned it perfectly, but because he followed the ache until it led him straight to you.

You’re sitting on the low steps outside the station when he pulls up, knees drawn in, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re holding something together that keeps trying to come apart. The sky has gone soft with late afternoon, that dull gold light that makes everything feel suspended, and you don’t look up at first when you hear the car door shut. You assume it’s Nancy coming back for you, or Robin checking in, or someone else trying to be gentle.

Then you hear his voice. “Hey.”

It’s quiet. Rough around the edges. Like he’s afraid volume alone might scare you off.

You freeze. For a second, you consider pretending you didn’t hear him. Consider staying still, small, unseeable. But your heart is already hammering too loud for that, and when you finally lift your head and look at him, you see it immediately: the way his shoulders are tight, the way his eyes are red like he’s been scrubbing at them, the way he looks at you like he’s already lost you and is trying not to say it out loud.

Steve steps closer, slow, like he’s approaching something fragile. He stops a few feet away, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. “I can’t keep pretending this is nothing,” he says.

The words aren’t smooth. They break on the way out, like he tripped over them, like he almost swallowed them back and failed. His chest rises and falls hard, and he swallows like it physically hurts to keep going.

You don’t say anything. You don’t trust your voice.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, pacing one step and then stopping again, turning back to you. “I tried,” he admits. “God, I really tried to just… keep it where it was. Easy. Simple. But it’s not. Not for me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I made this stupid resolution,” he continues, voice cracking just enough that it makes your chest ache. “New Year’s. I told myself I was gonna tell you how I feel. Like, actually tell you. And every time I get close, it’s like something locks up right here.” He presses his palm flat to his chest. “Like if I say it out loud, it becomes real. And if it’s real, I can lose it.”

He looks at you then, eyes searching your face, terrified. “I was so scared you only wanted… what we were doing. That it was just convenient. Comfortable. And if I asked for more, I’d ruin it.”

You stare at him, stunned, and then something sharp and breathless breaks out of you that might be a laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. “Steve,” you say, voice shaking despite yourself, “you are such an idiot.”

He flinches. “Yeah. I know.”

“No,” you insist, standing up now, closing the distance between you. Your hands are trembling, but your eyes are steady on his. “I mean it. You’re a complete idiot if you thought I didn’t want more.”

He freezes, hope and fear warring across his face. “What?”

“I wanted you to say something,” you confess, the words spilling now that you’ve started. “I thought you didn’t because you didn’t feel it. I thought I was just… easy. Familiar.”

Steve’s breath hitches, sharp and wounded. “That’s not—”

“I know,” you cut in softly. “I know that now. But I didn’t then.”

The space between you feels electric, fragile, like one wrong word could snap it. Steve lifts his hand, hesitates, then cups your face gently, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, reverent, grounding. “I’m so in love with you,” he says quietly. “And it scares the shit out of me.”

The honesty in it knocks the wind out of you. You lean into his touch without thinking, your hand curling around his wrist. “You don’t get to say that and then run,” you whisper.

“I’m not,” he promises immediately. “I’m right here.”

You search his face, looking for cracks, for hesitation. All you find is him—open, terrified, sincere in a way that makes your chest ache. “Okay,” you breathe.

He lets out a shaky laugh, something relieved and overwhelmed all at once. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay.”

Steve smiles, soft and disbelieving, and then he leans in, slow enough to give you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. When his lips meet yours, it’s gentle, careful, nothing like the heat and hunger of before. This kiss lingers, deepens slowly, like a promise being written instead of a spark being lit.

When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, eyes closed, breathing you in like he’s grounding himself. “Guess I finally kept my resolution,” he murmurs.

You smile, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, and press another soft kiss to his lips.

everything: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005 @bookoffracturedescapes