mae!

“Woah, hey—!” You catch him hard, the impact jarring up your spine as he sags into you. Your grip tightens around his middle, fingers digging into the damp cotton of his shirt.

“Stay with me,” you say, sharper now, breath coming quick as you fumble the key toward the lock. “Steve, just... just hang on, okay? We’re right here.”

He makes a vague sound in agreement, head lolling against your shoulder.   

“Mm... m’kay,” he mumbles.  

You finally jam the key in, shove the door open with your hip.

“I got you. Just watch the step—Steve, watch the—”  

His sneaker catches on the edge of the rug and he pitches forward, dead weight.

You lurch with him, heart jumping into your throat, barely managing to haul him back before he faceplants into the welcome mat. He makes a quiet, confused noise as you pull him upright.

The distance from the door to the couch is nothing. A straight line. Ten seconds, maybe.

It takes close to a full minute.

Steve’s face sinks right back into your neck as you half-drag him toward the living room. He keeps stopping every few steps, gaze snagging on random things like he’s discovering them for the first time: the standing lamp, the coat rack by the wall, the crooked photo of you two at the lake this summer.

“Babe,” he murmurs at one point, voice soft with wonder, pointing vaguely toward the end of the hallway. “There’s… wha... why’re you over there?”

“I’m right here, baby,” you say gently, tugging him forward again. “That’s a mirror.”

“...Oh.”

By the time you reach the couch, your arms are shaking.

Steve collapses into it with a breathy oof, body folding in on itself before going slack. His limbs fall wherever they land—one leg hanging off the cushions, head tipped back, chest rising and falling in uneven pulls.

For a moment he just sits there. Blinking slowly at the ceiling, breathing through his mouth.  

You drop into a crouch in front of him.  

“Steve?” you whisper.

“Mm.”    

The uniform makes it worse.

Bright navy and white stripes, grotesquely cheerful against the splatters of blood that have seeped into the collar, smeared across his side like someone tried to wipe their hands on him.

You start moving before you can think better of it.

Sliding your hands up his arms, across his shoulders, down to his thighs, his calves. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for, just checking for something hidden, something worse, eyes frantically cataloguing every faint scratch you can find on his exposed skin.

Steve makes a quiet noise in his throat when you touch him. Not quite pained—more like confusion, like the sensation is arriving late.

His hand lifts, slow and uncoordinated, missing yours the first time. He tries again, fumbling clumsily until it lands over your fingers.

The second he finds you, he holds on. Threads his fingers between yours, his grip weak but insistent when he squeezes.

You’re about to squeeze back when your eyes catch on something else.

His wrists.

Deep impressions ring both of them, angry red marks already bruising dark at the edges. The skin is rubbed raw, split and abraded in places where he must’ve fought against whatever they used to hold him down.

I don’t know, they took him—woah, dingus look at that! Oh my god, that’s amaazing... huh? Oh, right, right, um... I think they like... took him to another room? But... I don’t know what they did to him.  

You swallow hard against the rising bile, brushing your thumb lightly over one of the marks.

Steve doesn’t even seem to notice.

“Steve, baby,” you say quietly, still inspecting his wrists. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Nothing.

“Steve?”

Your head snaps up, panic cutting sharp through your chest.

He’s looking at you.

Staring, actually—eyes locked onto your face with a strange, heavy focus that doesn’t quite stick, like he’s trying to see you through water, like every second you’re slipping just out of reach.

His hair hangs in damp strands over his face, clinging to his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

“Hey,” you whisper, lifting your free hand to push his hair back.

Your fingers barely graze his skin before he flinches.

And you finally see it.

Up close, it’s so much worse than it looked under the neon glare of the Starcourt parking lot.

Steve’s eye is nearly swollen shut.

The lid is puffed up and dark, deep purples and sickly reds bleeding into his cheekbone. His nose is streaked with dried blood, rust-colored trails cracking against his skin. His lower lip is split wide open, a jagged cut that hasn’t fully sealed.  

You watch, horrified, as he presses his tongue against it, absentmindedly pressing the tip of it against the inside of his cheek. It slides beneath the swollen flesh, prodding the ragged edge.  

“No, baby, don’t… don’t do that,” you murmur quickly, your hand moving on instinct to catch his chin.

The moment your fingers touch him, he freezes completely. His body relaxes, almost unnervingly pliant, and his expression goes slack.

Your hand trembles when you pull it back.

You don’t let yourself think about happened in that room.

All you have are fragments. Dustin Henderson’s explanation outside of Starcourt had been rushed and breathless, a mess of words that mostly made no sense to you—Russians, secret codes, an underground government lab.

Torture. 

It hadn’t sounded real then.

It does now.

The evidence is sitting right in front of you, breathing unevenly on your couch.

Your gaze drops back to his wrists.

“Hey, Stevie?” you ask, voice thin. “Do you know where you are?”

“Mm?”   

“Where are you right now?”

He frowns slowly. His eyes stay on you for another long second, then drift, sliding across the room in a dazed, unfocused sweep.

Whatever drugs they forced into him—truth serum, Dustin had said—it’s still in his system.

You can see it in his pupils—so dilated that the hazel in his eyes is barely visible, just a thin ring of gold swallowed by glossy black. The whites are bloodshot, veins spidering outward.

“...your house,” he murmurs quietly.

Your lungs finally let go of the breath you’ve been holding.

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” You swallow, throat dry. “And what day is it?”

That one takes longer.

You see it, the delay. His lips parting, eyes losing you again as they drift somewhere over your shoulder.

“Mmm… don’t know.”

Your chest tightens.

“Can you try? Just take a guess?”

He squints. Looks down at the coffee table, following the swirls in the wood grain.

“...Wednesday?”

It’s Monday.

“Okay,” you nod immediately, trying to keep your voice from pitching higher. “That’s okay. Um... what about the month?”

He blinks slowly.

“Steve?”

“...July.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, squeezing his hand, clutching to the answer like a lifeline. “Yeah, that’s right. That's good. And tell me what year?”

Something in him changes at that, a sudden restless energy cutting through the drugged haze. 

His nose scrunches, shoulders twitching uncomfortably against the couch. He drops his gaze down to his hands, to where his fingers are still tangled with yours.

“I don’t…” His voice fades, head tilting in a slow, helpless shake. “…sorry.”

Your grip tightens instantly, thumb brushing over his knuckles.

“No, it’s okay. You’re okay, baby. You’re okay.”

You say it like it’s true.

Inside, everything is screaming.

You have no idea what you’re doing.

Nothing but half-remembered warnings from health class, scenes from movies, TV shows, something about concussions and checking someone's pupils, not letting them sleep.

But what if this is something worse?

What if there’s something happening inside his head right now—bleeding, swelling—and you’re just sitting here, holding his hand?

You tried to take him to the hospital. God, you tried.  

He could barely keep his eyes open in the car, forehead knocking softly against the window every time the road curved, but whenever you said the word hospital, he shook his head.

Stubborn as always, even half-conscious.

“Steve—"

“No.”

“Steve, you need—"

“No... no hoss...pital.”

And after what you learned tonight—after everything about Russians and government labs under small-town malls—you understood him enough to hesitate.

But now it’s just you.

And the quiet, suffocating thought that you’re not enough.

What if you miss something?

What if he gets worse and you can’t help him?

What if— 

A sharp, sudden huff cuts through your spiraling thoughts.

Your head jerks up just in time to see him fold forward, arms lifting clumsily, not quite making it.

You catch him immediately.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Your hands slide up to his shoulders, steadying him before he can pitch all the way down. “You okay? You feel sick again?”

Steve shakes his head.

Looks so distraught, all of a sudden.

The emotion sits strangely on his face, tangled up with the swelling and the fuzzy stupor still dulling his expression. 

He drags his tongue across his split lip, swallows hard.

“Can you... can you hug me?”

He’s nineteen.

You forget that sometimes.

He turned nineteen less than two weeks ago.

You remember the pancakes you made that morning—burnt on one side, stacked too high with a slow-motion avalanche of whipped cream. The surprise party at the lake, Dustin nearly dropping the cake twice before it made it to the table.

The way Steve groaned when you made him close his eyes and make a wish.

Babe, you know I’m way too old for this, right?

Still, he blew out every last candle. Tore open every gift, read every letter. 

And later that night, when it was just the two of you tangled under sheets and summer heat, he told you something you never forgot.   

“Mm… ten years, maybe?”

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean... my parents traveled a lot over the summer, so. Just stopped having ‘em, I guess.”

Stopped celebrating his birthday, he meant.

Your arms are around him before the memory can finish forming.

You pull him in carefully, one hand cradling the back of his head, angling him so he's not putting pressure on his bruised eye.

He crumples into you with a quiet sigh, forehead bumping against your collarbone before he buries his face in the curve of your neck. His breath is warm against your skin, damp where it catches.

For a minute, you just hold him.

Feeling the frantic, unrelenting thud of his heart against your ribs, so fast it makes your own chest ache. You tighten your arms around him, pressing him closer, like you can slow it down that way.  

His voice comes after a long silence, words muffled and heavy.

“…they kept... kept asking questions.”

Your fingers still in his hair, then move again, smoothing back damp strands from his forehead.

“Yeah?”

He nods, dragging his bruised cheek across your shoulder. 

“Same... same ones. Over and over. Didn’t matter what we said. Just... again, again.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, a quiet, nauseating realization washing through you. Maybe your incessant questioning—Where are you? What day is it?— just dragged him right back there.

You feel him shiver into your shoulder, a weak laugh ghosting against your collarbone.

“Hey... you know wha... you know what was weird?”

“What?”

His fingers move against your back, tracing shapes you can’t see.

“They said we were gonna die down there.”

Your throat goes tight.

“And I…” he huffs, another brittle laugh shaking through him. “I just like... kept talking, you know? So they’d look at me ‘n not... not Robin. Saying whatever. Dumb stuff. I work at Scoops! Ice cream... Scoops... Scoops Ahoy.”

He sniffs, tilting his face into your neck. You feel his brows furrow against your skin.

“They got really pissed. Said if we didn’t answer, that was it. Nobody’d find us. Nobody’d even… know we were there.”

He sighs, his weight sinking heavier into you.

“I kept thinking about you,” he whispers.

Your hand stills in his hair.  

“I kept thinking… if I didn’t come back, you’d—” He falters, jaw tightening where it presses into you. “You’d notice. Right?”

The inside of your cheek stings where you bite down. You nod, pressing your lips into his hair so he won’t hear the tremor in your voice.

“Of course I’d notice, Steve,” you whisper.   

He nods, swallowing hard enough you feel it against your collarbone.

“I didn’t... didn’t tell you,” he mumbles, words muffled into the curve of your neck.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t tell you,” he repeats.

A cold thread slips down your spine.

“Tell me what, Stevie?” you murmur, pulling back slightly, trying to see his face.

You feel it before you understand it.

The shift.

The warmth you were holding stiffens under your arms. Muscles locking up all at once, shoulders going rigid.

“Steve?”

It goes from nought to ninety in less than a breath.

One moment he’s heavy, pliant in your arms; the next, his whole body convulses. Tremors wrack him violently, shoving against your chest, jostling you both. Each wave builds, stronger than the last.

“Hey, hey, it’s—it’s okay—” You rush, voice thinning with panic as your hands scramble along his back, trying to grip him, steady him. “I’ve got you, you’re okay—"

His arms clamp around you like steel, brittle fingers digging into your back. His chest jerks with shallow gasps, each inhale too quick to carry air.

“I d-didn’t tell you,” he chokes out, words splintering between breaths. “I didn’t—I didn’t—”

“Steve, baby, it’s okay,” you whisper, sweeping your hand slow and firm along his back, even as your own chest feels like it’s caving in. “Hey, hey, just breathe for me, okay? You’re home, you’re safe.”

He shakes his head, breath hitching against your shoulder.

“No... no, I—” His voice catches in his throat, scraped raw. “I never said it. I never... I never told you. We never...”   

And in the long, ragged, suffocating pause that arrives after, you hear what he’s been trying to say.

What he means.

Two months.

That’s all it’s been.

Barely enough time to learn the shape of each other’s lives, and yet... it’s never felt that way. 

It’s always felt older.

Like you didn’t meet him so much as find him again. Orbiting the same point for years, lifetimes, just waiting to collide.

You used to joke about it. Past lives, red strings. Soulmates, if you were feeling dramatic.

And in those two months—in all the ways you’ve come to learn him—this boy who loves loudly without knowing it, who gives pieces of himself away in quiet, constant gestures, who shows up, who stays, who cares harder than anyone else ever has—

After two months of learning what it means to be adored by someone like him—

There was always something buried just under the surface, left unsaid.

They’ve lived inside you for weeks now. You carried it with you everywhere, pressed close like a second heartbeat.  

Three words you’ve never said out loud.

“I didn’t say it,” he whispers, hoarse, broken. “I didn’t.”

And whatever he’d been holding onto all night—whatever thin, fraying thread kept him upright for Robin, for the kids, through the mall, the parking lot, the drive home, brushing off every what happened? are you okay?—

It finally gives.

Slips clean through his fingers like sand underwater. Gone all at once, nothing left to brace against.  

“I was just... I was so scared.”

You fold him into your chest, arms pressing him closer as a tear slides down your cheek and catches in the damp strands of his hair.

“I know,” you whisper. “I know, baby. I know.”

It isn’t true.

You don’t know.

You weren’t there.

Didn’t see the way they looked at him, didn’t hear their threats.

Didn’t feel what he felt, tied to that chair, not knowing if the next second was going to be the one that ended everything.

Not knowing if nineteen was it.

You don’t know.

But what else can you say?

...  

It’s strange, how life keeps moving after a moment like that.

How something so monumental can implode in your chest while the rest of the world spins on, indifferent.

Your room looks the same—the half-made bed, his jacket draped over your chair from the last time he was here—but nothing feels the same. Your hands tremble, and you flex your fingers, pressing your nails into your palm to ground yourself before you pull open the drawer. You let your fingers trail over the familiar textures of his shirts, his sweatpants—pieces of him he leaves behind on purpose. They still smell like him, even after washing.

You take a shaky breath and turn back.

He doesn’t argue when you kneel in front of him.

Just watches you, sat quietly on the edge of the bed, legs parted to make space as your fingers start loosening the laces of his sneakers. 

You ease them off one at a time, then move to his socks, brushing your thumbs over the warm, soft skin of his ankles. Lingering there, trying to imprint the memory of a touch that doesn’t involve pain.

You glance up at him, hands sliding over to his waistband.

“Gonna get these off, okay?”

He nods, planting his palms into the mattress so he can lift his hips, fingers splayed to brace himself. Your chest tightens at the way his face pinches—just for a second, there and gone, like he’s trying not to let you see. 

You ease his shorts down over his thighs, then his briefs.  

His shirt is the last thing to come off.

He hesitates a little when you reach for the hem, and the moment you lift the fabric, you understand why.

Even in the dim light, there’s no hiding it.

Dark bruises bloom across his sides, wrapping around his stomach. There’s one just under his ribs that’s so deep it’s nearly black at the center, the skin tight and swollen in a way that turns your gut ice-cold.

That's not from a fist.

For a heartbeat, you see him there.   

Head slumped forward, taking blow after blow while he tries to breathe through the blood filling his mouth. You force it down, swallowing the rush of panic before it can break free.

Steve follows your gaze, blinking down at himself.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Yeah, that’s uh… looks worse than it is.”

His speech is clearer now. No longer thick or slurred like it was before. Up close, you see that the glassiness in his eyes has started to lift too, his pupils returning to normal.

But what’s left behind isn’t easy.

His brows are pulled tight, expression pinched from bracing against the pressure building in his skull. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw to fight off the waves of nausea, worsening with each passing second of clarity. 

You know that he’s lying—that it doesn’t look worse than it is—but you don’t argue.

Instead, you reach for his hands, gently lifting his arms, pulling his shirt over his head. You discard the bloodied uniform to the floor before helping him into a fresh shirt, sliding it over his bruised frame with care.

You reach for his sweats next, guiding him one leg at a time, your hand braced at his shin to keep him steady as you draw the fabric up over his thighs.

You’re adjusting the waistband over his hips when he suddenly goes still.

“You okay?”

He stiffens, jaw working. “Mm—I need the—”  

You drag the trash can over just in time.

He folds forward with a weak gag, body curling in on itself as far as his ribs will allow.

There’s not much left in his stomach. The retching is brief, mostly dry, but it still wrings him out. Leaves him shaking, breath catching in uneven pulls.

You press your hand between his shoulder blades, rubbing slow, firm circles until it passes, until he leans back with a shallow breath.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, lips parted, face gone pale under all the bruising.

You shake your head, reaching for the warm washcloth you’d set aside earlier.

"It's okay. Don't apologize."

You press the cloth gently to his lips, slow, careful strokes as you wipe the corner of his mouth, the faint smear of blood under his nose, along the line of his jaw and down the column of his neck. It comes back faintly pink each time.

Your thumb follows after, catching where the cloth missed.

Then you pause at his mouth.

The cut on his bottom lip is so deep, the edges of it raw, pulled tight every time he speaks. You tilt his chin slightly, angling his face toward the light.

You’re still frowning at it, wondering whether you should clean it now or let him rest, when he says it.

And it’s not what you thought it would feel like, the first time.

It’s supposed to feel bigger than this, isn’t it? Fireworks in the chest, thunder in the ribs. Something that cracks the world open a little—shake the ground under your feet and pull the stars a little close so they can witness it too.   

Instead, it happens in your bedroom at two in the morning, the coppery smell of dried blood clinging to your fingers, sticky under your nails, catching at the back of your throat

“I love you.”

His voice is low, scraped hoarse with exhaustion, yet steady in a way it hasn’t been all night.

It’s almost painful, how much rushes up all at once.

All the times you didn’t say it.

All the almosts. 

All the places it lived instead.

In the center console of his car, watching him belt out the wrong lyrics at the top of his lungs, just to catch your laugh from the passenger seat.

In the sticky vinyl booth of that diner off the highway, knees knocking under the table while you plucked the cherries off his milkshake and debated the dumbest lines from the movie you just watched.

In the space between your pillows, lying on your sides in the dark, sharing half-formed plans and distant, candy-colored versions of the future—nothing guaranteed except for the easy assumption that you’d share it with one another.

It was always there.

Perched on the tip of your tongue, waiting—in the quiet beat after a joke, a kiss.

In all the moments where you’d look at him and just know.

Know with a certainty so sharp it scared you sometimes.

That this boy—this ridiculous, funny, soft-hearted, endlessly giving boy—was it.

You’d always told yourself there was time.

Tomorrow. Next week.

Later.  

Some other night with candlelight and rose petals, when it made sense, when it could be perfect, worthy of the way it feels to love and be loved by him.  

But maybe the truth of it lives here, like this.

Stripped bare, intimate in a way no grand declaration ever could be.

“I…” Your voice catches, and you swallow before trying again. “I love you too.”

Your vision fills with a sudden haze, and you blink quickly, forcing yourself to look away.  

Steve’s eyes droop at that, brows furrowing softly as he shuffles closer.

“Baby… c’mon, don’t…” He raises his hand, brushing his thumb under your eye to catch the second tear before it falls. He lingers there, cradling your cheek in the warmth of his palm. “Don’t cry. Please?”

“I’m not, I’m not,” you sniff, half-laughing, hastily wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

He studies you a long moment, blinking unevenly, before the faintest smile curls his lips. “Does my face look that bad?”

A startled laugh slips past you. You shake your head, pressing a weak palm against his shoulder. “You’re such an idiot.”

His grin softens into a gentle, half-lidded smile, eyes warm and heavy as he lets his gaze settle on you.  

“’M gonna say it every day,” he murmurs quietly.  

Your chest aches at the promise.

You wish he didn’t have to think about it like that.

That he didn’t have to worry. That he didn’t have to carry the weight of those three words on his chest while tied to that chair—wrists raw, blood in his mouth and fluorescent lights burning into his skull—wondering if he’d ever get to say them aloud.

That the last thing on his mind wasn’t the absence of something so small.

Something you already knew.

You’ve always known.

“Steve…” you whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back, nodding slowly, eyes thick with exhaustion but bright with that familiar resolve. “I know you know. I just…” He rubs his thumb gently across your cheek. “I’m still gonna say it.”

You watch him for a moment, taking in the quiet conviction in his gaze, the stubborn tilt of his head. Stubborn in the ways that matter most—clinging to small, sacred truths even after staring death in the face.

You nod, because that’s who he is.

And because you’ll listen every time like it’s the first.

“Okay,” you whisper.

You lean in carefully, tilting your head to avoid the split in his lip, and press a soft, lingering kiss to the unbroken corner of his mouth.

“Oh, sweetheart,” the older woman says gently. “Try not to worry about that right now.”

You shake your head, breath hitching. “No, you don’t understand. He’s—fuck—he’s going to lose it.”

Because not even twenty minutes ago, you’d been driving just fine. Careful and hyper-aware, even, because it was Steve’s car. His stupid, perfect red BMW that he loved more than most people, the one he washed by hand and showed off whenever he got the chance to.

The road had been clear, that’s until a cat darted into your headlights, and your body reacted before your mind could, wrenching the wheel to avoid it—sending the car headfirst into the tree instead.

If it weren’t for the passing car that saw the whole thing, for the woman and her daughter pulling over without hesitation, you don’t know what you would’ve done.

Steve’s car, though, was completely fucked. And that thought keeps looping in your head, loud and relentless, drowning out everything else around you.

The woman —who’s name you learned to be Mrs. Dunne—sighs and gives your shoulder a careful squeeze before stepping away. “I’m going to call for help, all right? My daughter’s a nurse. She’ll look at you.”

She hurries across the road toward the phone box, sensible shoes crunching against gravel.

You’re still trying to slow your breathing when the car door opens again.

“I need a number,” she says gently, already leaning across the seat. “Who owns the car?”

Steve’s name sticks in your throat, except you can’t even pull the words out. You point instead. “Glove compartment.”

She finds it quickly — a worn little address book, containing numbers and details— and flips until she nods. “Got him.”

“Hey,” a voice says nearby. “I’m Vickie.”

You look up to find a girl. She can’t be much older than you, short hair pulled back, a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

“Can I take a look at you?”

“I’m fine,” you say immediately, the lie automatic. Then your mouth trembles. “I mean—I’m not fine. But I don’t think I’m that injured.”

Vickie gives a small, understanding huff of a smile. “Okay,” she says gently. “Still gonna check you.”

She guides you toward the back seat of the car—which is much less damaged than the front, one hand hovering near your elbow like she’s afraid to startle you. The air smells like antiseptic and gasoline, sharp and overwhelming your senses.

“I swear I wasn’t speeding,” you blurt, words tumbling over each other. “The road was clear, and then there was a cat, it just ran out in front of me and I didn’t even think, I just—”

“Hey,” Vickie says softly, crouching in front of you. “Pause. Breathe first. Then talk, alright?”

You try. The breath stutters anyway.

“That’s okay,” she murmurs, already pulling gloves on. “We’ll take it slow.”

She tilts your chin carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’ve got a split lip and a cut on your temple.” Her voice stays calm. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“I feel sick,” you admit. “But I think that’s just because of… everything.”

“That makes sense.” She presses gauze gently to your forehead.

You hiss despite yourself, tears spilling hot and fast. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says quickly. “Glass scratches bleed a lot. It always looks worse than it is.”

“It is worse,” you choke. “Steve’s going to see this and he’s going to lose it. Oh, God—the car—”

She stills, eyes lifting to meet yours. “Steve’s your boyfriend?”

You nod, but it only makes the lump in your throat worse. The words spill out before you can stop them. “It’s his car. His brand new BMW—which he, by the way, saved up forever for it. He literally paid an insane amount of money for it and shows it off every chance he gets.”

A laugh slips out despite the fear and guilt coursing through you, and you hate it. “I’m dead. I’m actually so dead.”

Vickie gives a small, incredulous smile. “I don’t know your boyfriend, hon,” she says, smoothing the tape down with careful fingers, “but cars can be fixed. People can’t. I really don’t think he’s going to care about the car when he sees you like this.”

“He will,” you say immediately, shaking your head. “He’s gonna take one look at it and just—God. I shouldn’t have borrowed it. I shouldn’t have touched it at all. I should’ve just walked, I—fuck.”

“Well, my mom already called him,” Vickie says softly, not stopping her work. “And she called your friends too. He’s already on his way.”

Your chest tightens at that, panic blooming fresh and hot. “No. Oh my God.” You drag a hand under your nose, trying to breathe around the pressure. “You should go, both of you. You’ve done more than enough, and I really don’t want you here when he—when he sees it.”

The image won’t leave you alone: Steve’s face hardening, his furious rage leading him to probably— rightfully so— break up with you. Your stomach twists at the thought, nausea rolling up hard enough to make you swallow.

Vickie shakes her head before you’ve even finished. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

From across the road, her mom’s voice carries over, firm and unmistakable. “None of that, honey!”

Mrs. Dunne walks back toward you, arms folding like she means business. “We are not leaving you stranded and scared on the side of the road. Not for a second.” She softens just a touch as she looks at you. “We’ll stay right here until your boyfriend or one of your friends gets here. That’s that.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dunne.” you smile warmly at her despite the worry churning in your guts.

Time stretches thin and horrible. Every passing car makes your heart jump. Your thoughts spiral tighter and tighter, replaying Steve handing you the keys earlier, the grin on his face, the way he’d said, Be careful, okay? like it was a joke, like nothing bad could ever happen to you—

A sharp screech of tires cuts through the air.

You flinch hard, breath catching painfully in your throat as a truck skids to a stop on the side of the road, door flying open before it’s even fully parked. Steve steps out, and the look on his face steals the air from your lungs completely.

You’ve never seen him look like that. Not angry, smug, or teasing.

Terrified.

His eyes scan the wrecked car, the tree, the road, wild and frantic, until they land on you. His face goes slack with shock and then he’s moving fast, running like the ground is on fire beneath his feet.

Vickie and her mom both straighten. “Well,” Mrs. Dunne says softly, already reaching for you. “That’ll be him.”

They each pull you into quick, careful hugs, murmuring reassurances you barely register.

Then they step back, giving you space, watching until Steve reaches the door and drops to his knees in front of you like his legs have given out.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Hey. Hey—look at me. Fuck—are you okay?”

The Dunnes’ car pulls away slowly, tires crunching over gravel, taillights glowing red before disappearing down the road. The quiet that follows is almost worse as you try to register Steve’s frantic words.

He keeps saying your name, softly at first, then a little louder, but it barely reaches you through the ringing in your ears.

“Hey. Hey—look at me, okay? Baby, c’mon.”

You can’t.

Your eyes stay glued to your shaking hands, to the dark flecks of blood dried beneath your nails. Your chest heaves in sharp, ugly bursts as the sobs finally tear loose, choking and uncontrollable.

“I’m sorry,” you manage, words tripping over each other. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to, I swear, it just happened so fast and I tried to stop and—and I know how much you love it and I shouldn’t have taken it and—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through, “Hey. Stop.”

Your voice cracks completely. You hiccup on a breath as the words choke out, panic spiraling tighter.

“I know it was stupid,” you ramble, tears blurring everything. “I know it’s your car and it’s new and you worked so hard for it and I ruined it and I didn’t mean to, Steve, I swear it was an accident—”

“—look at me,” he says, low and steady.

Steve’s hands come up suddenly, firm and warm, cupping your face on both sides. His thumbs press just under your cheekbones, forcing your head up despite your instinct to pull away.

Your eyes flicker up at last, red and glassy, breath stuttering.

“Breathe, baby,” he says immediately, softer now. “Just breathe with me. In and out. Come on.”

You suck in a shaky breath.

“Good. Out. Yeah, that’s it. Again.”

You follow him, lungs burning as you inhale and exhale in uneven pulls, his thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, grounding you.

“That’s it, good job,,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Your body trembles again as he studies your face, eyes moving fast, cataloging every mark and every scrape.

“Now,” he says, voice firmer, sharper, like he’s trying to anchor you to reality. “Are you hurt?”

You swallow hard, your throat tight, and the words come out all wrong, tripping over themselves. “No—but your car, it’s—”

Steve’s jaw snaps tight, his hands gripping your face just tight enough to make your skin tingle.

“Did I ask about the goddamn car?” His voice cuts through the trembling air, sharp enough to make your heart drop.

You freeze, the panic climbing higher, and he leans closer, pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to pin you in place—but it’s not dominance, it’s urgency.

“I asked if you’re hurt,” he says again, softer but no less intense. “not the car.”

You look up at him, and it hits you as your stomach drops. The expression on his face, the tension coiled in his body, the raw, frantic light in his eyes—it isn’t anger. It’s terror. Pure, unfiltered, all-consuming fear of losing you. 

His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing away the tracks of your tears, and for a second, you see the world mirrored in his eyes—a world where nothing matters but you, and every fierce, frantic care he holds is yours alone.

You shake your head slowly, trembling. “No,” you whisper, voice barely audible over your racing heartbeat. “M’not.”

He exhales hard through his nose, “Does your head hurt? Your temple?” he says gently now.

You sniff, shaking your head again. “No. It stings, but—there was an old woman and her daughter. They saw the accident. The daughter’s a nurse. She helped me.”

Steve nods. “I know. She called me.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into his chest suddenly. His arms wrap around you in a bone-crushing hug, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other pressing you so tight to his chest it knocks the air from your lungs.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes into your hair. You cling to him, fingers twisting into his jacket as the last of the sobs shake out of you.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You hear me? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something much worse happened to you.”

In truth, the moment he’d gotten that phone call, his heart had dropped straight through the floor. He hadn’t thought about the car. Not even for a second. He’d pictured you bleeding, broken, or worse; not breathing.

He’d borrowed a truck, hands shaking so badly he could barely turn the key, every worst-case scenario slamming into him one after another.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, forehead pressing briefly to yours. Then he kisses you, quick and desperate, like he needs to feel you over and over again.

You blink up at him, voice small. “So… you’re not mad about your car?”

His expression softens instantly, the tension melting out of his features. “Mad?” he echoes. “No. God, no.”

He shakes his head, a small, breathless laugh escaping him. “I don’t give a damn about the car. I can replace it, sweetheart—hell, I can buy another one tomorrow if I wanted.”

You laugh against his chest, still sniffling. “I don’t think you’re that rich, Steve.”

He snorts, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “Oh, come on. I might not have a Scrooge McDuck vault full of coins, but I can definitely scrape together a replacement BMW. You? Not so lucky.”

You pull back a little, squinting at him through your tears. “Are you seriously laughing right now? I just totaled your baby!”

“I’m laughing at the ridiculousness of you panicking like this,” he says, voice shaking with relief and amusement. “You looked like someone had just told you the world was ending.” His hand slides to your cheek, thumb warm against your skin. “Besides. You’re my baby. Not that damn thing.”

Your throat tightens all over again, heart warming up at his sweet words.

“Now, come on,” he murmurs, shifting closer, careful as he helps you to your feet. “Let’s get you checked out at the hospital.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the gauze. “But Vickie already wrapped me up—”

“I know,” he says softly, squeezing your hand like he needs the contact as much as you do. “I just need to hear it from a doctor, alright? Humor me.”

You nod, letting him guide you toward the truck, his arm never leaving your back, like if he does you might disappear.

steve harrington masterlist

The bell above the door rang as you pushed through it, greeted with an unenthusiastic “Welcome to Family Video.” from Steve somewhere beyond the shelves, probably putting tapes back.

“You kinda suck at your job, dude.” You teased, finally seeing the head pop up over the shelf in the Rom-Com aisle, eliciting a quiet snort as you strolled over.

“Don’t you start it. I’m just returning rentals.” He huffs, shoving ‘Sixteen Candles’ into its place on the shelf as you round the corner, smirk still firmly in place.

“Sooo. How was the date with…. Judy?”

He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as his posture worsens somehow, his spine curling in on itself as he crouches to a lower shelf. “It was Jennifer. And it sucked. Course we y’know… did it—“

“Ew.“

“—Anyways. She was just… weird.” He exhales roughly, “Can we not talk about my love life for once?”

You just grin, walking past him to the cart of tapes, picking through them. “Nah. It’s my daily entertainment. Along with…”

Your eyebrows furrow, fingers curling around a tape without a case at the bottom of the pile. There’s nothing on it but a date, June 29th, 1985. “The hell is this? Someone accidentally put their home video in the return bin?”

You hold up the tape for Steve to get a look, and he just shrugs, running a hand through his hair. “I dunno, man. Figured I might just shove it behind the shelves and forget about it.”

You hum, looking back down to the tape, turning it over in your hands. “Well… can I take it? I mean—if you’re just gonna throw it to the void, I don’t see why not.”

He hesitates, eyeing the tape suspiciously before he shrugs, turning back to stock the shelves, “Yeah, whatever. I don’t care. Just don’t let Kieth know I let you do that— Hey!” When he looked back up, you were already out the door with the ring of a bell.

This tape was calling your name.

You grinned on your way back home, all the way up to your room where you sat criss-cross on the light pink carpet right in front of your 25 inch Quasar TV, popping the tape into the VCR as you turned on the TV.

The high pitched, quiet whine of electricity sounded far too loud in the quiet of your room before the static took over. Pressing play on the VCR, the screen flickered from static to only waves of it scrolling down the screen. The video was quiet, almost silent. The screen pitch black.

You leaned forward as interference interrupted your mystery viewing, scoffing quietly as you reached out to bang on the TV box. Just as your palm slapped down on the wood, a loud crash echoed through the speakers, causing you to jump back.

“What the fuck…” You muttered to the empty room, and slowly but surely the image began to clear. Cautiously leaning forward again, your eyes squinted, ears peeled for anything abnormal. But nothing else came.

The screen showed a dark background, something you can’t quite make out, but it sets your stomach at unease. You exhaled slowly, trying to rid yourself of the anxiety steadily bubbling in your gut, that voice in your mind telling you that this was a bad idea.

And yet, you kept watching.

Then finally, something happened. A wet, squelching sound accompanied the barely there flicker of movement in the bottom left corner of the screen. Lips curl in disgust at the sound, you inch forward slowly, until you were a mere foot away from the screen.

“Who’s there?!” A voice echoes, distant.

Then—screams.

Screams that are getting louder, closer.

Screams that you recognize.

Your body launches itself back on instinct, hands trembling as you bring them up to cover your mouth. Your heart leaps from your chest, skipping a few beats as it finally clicks. Eyes softening, welling with tears.

“Billy…” You whisper involuntarily, the staticky interference returns as the screams fade into nothingness again.

Hyperventilating, you crawl back to the TV, holding back your sobs as you touch the screen, palm pressing flat, forehead pressed to the cool glass. The room feels colder, emptier all of the sudden. Lonelier.

“Fuck…” You sob quietly, tears stinging as they track down your cheeks. “I’m sorry…. I’m so fucking sorry I couldn’t save you, B.”

Many months ago, you somehow got in good with him. When he first moved here, he was hot shit. The girls wanted him, the guys wanted to be him. Then he began to lose his ‘new guy’ aura, and people just… drifted away from him. But not you, for some reason. You thought the guy could use a friend, and he was opposed to it at first.

“Why would I wanna be friends with a chick?”

You can almost hear him saying it if you focus hard enough. But you guys just kept crossing paths. At the Hideout, at horror matinees, obviously in school, in Sam Goody perusing through metal albums. And he’d make stupid jokes, you snorted at them but pretended you didn’t. He was funny when he wanted to be. You called him B, he called you a multitude of teasing nicknames. And one drunk night together, he told you about Neil. It broke your heart. But it also made a lot of sense.

Now you’ve relived his last moments, hearing the pure fear in his screams as he fought and clawed—only to end up dead.

Your eyes finally fluttered open as you pulled your head away from the screen—only to be met with him. Smirk on his face, although it seems forced. His hand pressed against the other side of the glass, almost warm against yours.

“You cryin’ over me, sap?” His voice fuzzed with the speakers, but undeniably his.

You were frozen in place, jaw hung open as you stared at the screen—at Billy talking to you through the fucking TV.

Your scream probably woke the neighbors.

Your feet carrying you before your mind could catch up—this has got to be a fucking dream—as you practically vaulted across the room, scrambling as far away from the screen as you could, pressed into a corner as you hyperventilated, gasping for breath with eyes so wide they nearly popped out of your skull.

“What the FUCK?!?”

“Jesus, quiet down.” His eyes rolled as if this is A TOTALLY NORMAL THING TO BE HAPPENING.

“You’re fucking DEAD! YOU DIED! I SAW YOU FUCKING DIE!” You sputtered out, clutching your chest, fearing a heart attack. Or at least something similar.

“Gee. Thanks for the reminder.” He deadpans, dropping his hand away from the screen, pacing back and forth just a bit further back from the TV. “And technically, I don’t even know if I am. I don’t know exactly what I am. Dead, alive, ghost, demon from hell.”

You just stare, slowly—so fucking slowly—inching closer, eyes blinking rapidly as if expecting this all to be one big prank. (or that you’ve officially lost your mind) But he doesn’t disappear. He just… paces inside of your TV.

“Is… is this real?” You stutter out, slowly sinking back down to your knees in front of the TV again, keeping your distance.

He snorts, devoid of humor, as he shrugs his shoulders, “I dunno. Sure feels like it. Been a long time in…whatever the fuck this is without company.” He brings his thumb to his mouth, biting his nails.

It’s such a Billy habit that it finally breaks you. Your face twists, eyes stinging all over again, brimmed with hot tears. “Jesus Christ…” You half whisper to yourself, dragging a hand down your face.

There’s an awkward silence for a long moment as he lets you take it all in. He knows it’s crazy, that it makes no sense. But nothing has made sense to him for a long while. Stuck in this hellscape, no goddamn cigarettes. But he missed you. Missed you bad. Not that he’d ever admit it.

“Don’t—“ He sighed, softening a touch as he took a step closer to the screen. “Don’t cry over me, brat. It ain’t all bad. Got to see you again and stuff.”

You sniffle, letting out a quiet, wet laugh at his gruff attempt at comforting words. “Billy Hargrove, ever the wordsmith.” You finally manage to mumble out, a soft, genuine smile tugging at your lips.

His lips twitch upward, laughing silently. “Yeah, that’s me, doll. But I must be at least a little good with somethin, got these weird dog things trained to go find me food.” He shrugs, looking nonchalant.

You blink, then again.

“Weird… dog things?”

He snorts, whistling off screen at something that makes these wet plapping sounds on the ground. “They’re kinda cute. In an ugly way.” He bends down, grabbing something and when he comes back up, your mouth goes slack yet again.

Because in his arms, is a small demodog. Not only that, but it’s not hurting him. And then yet another thing clicks in your mind.

“Billy. You’re not dead.”

He freezes at that, able to spot his shoulders tensing, but the little demo-creature just curls its head under his chin like an actual sleepy toddler. “Come again?”

“You… You’re in Hawkins. Well—under Hawkins. Holy fucking shit.” Your eyes wide, fixed on Billy before you suddenly scramble up to your feet, nearly tripping over your own steps as you lunge for the phone. Unable to hear his confused words over the roar of your pulse in your ears.

Billy’s in the Upside Down.

Holy fucking shit.

******* ******* ******* ******* *******

A/N) Hi:3 hope you enjoyed. I might be making a part two? I don’t know. I’m trying to work on the smut with Billy but I just figured I’d do a little writing exercise. K. Thanks!!

『••✎••』

The first thing you notice is the noise.

Juke Box Hero is blasting so loud the car doors rattle with it, bass thudding through the seat and into your ribs like a second heartbeat. The second thing is the smell: cheap pine tree air freshener battling with stale cigarette smoke and something else, something sharp and metallic that you think is just… him. Billy Hargrove.

You’re staring at your hands, clenched so tight in your lap that your knuckles are white. Your jean jacket feels scratchy against your skin, your t-shirt suddenly too thin. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get out, to throw the door open and roll onto the pavement, but you’re doing at least fifty down Maple Street, and that seems like a poor life choice.

"You gonna hyperventilate all over my passenger seat?"

His voice cuts through the guitar solo, low and rough. You flinch, a full-body jerk you couldn’t stop if you tried. You risk a glance at him. He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other propped on the windowsill, tapping a cigarette against the door frame. He’s not looking at you. His profile is sharp in the dashboard lights, the curve of his jaw, the way a stray curl of blond hair falls against his forehead. He’s wearing that worn denim jacket over a black t-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, showing off the wiry strength in his forearms.

"N-No," you manage to get out, the word barely audible over the music. You clear your throat. "I’m fine."

He scoffs, a quiet, humorless sound. He finally turns his head, just for a second, and his blue eyes catch the light. They’re not angry, which is somehow worse. They’re just… assessing. Cataloguing. Like you’re a bug he’s thinking about crushing.

"Right."

That’s it. He looks away, back at the road. The silence, other than the rock music, stretches. It’s thicker and heavier than any quiet you’ve ever experienced with Steve. With your brother, silence was comfortable. It was a shared space, filled with unspoken things. This silence with Billy Hargrove is a void. It’s a void where you’re pretty sure you’re about to fall in and disappear.

You hate that you’re in his car, not that you had much choice. When Billy Hargrove pulls you away from the wall you were using as a lifeline at the party Steve had warned you to never go to, you hadn’t exactly been in a position to argue. The guy who'd been cornering you had looked like a predator, and Billy… Billy had just looked bored. But he’d looked at you, a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn't read, before he’d stepped between you and the other guy. "She's with me," he'd said, his voice leaving no room for argument. And then he'd grabbed your wrist, not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that you knew it wasn't a request, and led you out to this monstrosity of a car.

He flicks the cigarette out the window, a brief orange comet in the dark. He reaches forward and turns the volume down, just a notch. Not enough for conversation, but enough that you can hear yourself think again. It feels like a concession, and you have no idea what to do with it.

"Which way to King Steve’s castle?" he asks, and the nickname is laced with that same familiar venom you’ve seen him aim at your brother a hundred times.

You swallow, your throat suddenly tight. "Left on Jefferson. Then… It’s the big house on the corner. The one with the stupid birdbath."

A small, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. "Stupid birdbath. Got it." He takes the left a little too fast, and you’re pressed against the door. You don’t make a sound. You just brace yourself, your fingernails digging into the worn vinyl of the seat.

You can’t help it. Your mind replays every interaction you’ve ever witnessed between him and Steve. The shove in the hallway. The sneering comments at basketball practice. The way Billy looks at him with a kind of focused, predatory glee, like a wolf that’s picked the weakest-looking sheep from the flock. And yet, here you are. Steve’s little sister, in his car. A contradiction that makes your head throb.

You risk another look at him. The streetlights paint stripes across his face as you drive. There’s a tension in the set of his shoulders, a rigid line to his spine. He’s driving like he has somewhere better to be, but he’s the one who offered. He’s the one who pulled you away from that creep at the party. Why? The question hangs in the air, unanswered and unanswerable. You’re not stupid enough to ask it.

"It’s… It’s just up here," you murmur, pointing a shaky finger toward the familiar silhouette of your house. The lights are on in the living room, a warm, welcoming glow that feels like it belongs to a different planet.

He slows down, the engine of the Camaro rumbling ominously as he coasts to a stop a few houses down. He doesn’t pull into the driveway. He just idles at the curb. The silence now is absolute, the radio turned down to a low hum.

You fumble with the door handle, your hands shaky. "Thanks. For the ride. And… you know." The and you know hangs there, a clumsy offering of gratitude for whatever it was he did back at that house. You still don’t have a word for it.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks straight ahead, at the illuminated window of your house. "Your brother know you’re out playing dress-up with the Hawkins High rabble?"

His tone is flat, back to that dismissive, acidic edge. It’s almost a relief. This you understand. This is the Billy Hargrove you watch from a distance, the one who makes Steve’s jaw clench and his hands fist at his sides.

"I’m fifteen," you say, a little more heat in your voice than you intended. "I don’t need his permission."

Billy finally turns to look at you, and the intensity of it pins you to the seat. In the dim light, his eyes are like chips of ice. "Fifteen," he repeats, the word rolling off his tongue like it’s a joke. He leans over, not close enough to touch, but close enough that the smell of him—smoke and something warm and spicy—invades your space. He braces one arm on the back of your seat, boxing you in. "You know what guys like that—the one I pulled you off of—do to fifteen-year-old girls who play dress-up?"

Your breath hitches. You can’t look away from him. The air in the car feels thick, charged with something you can’t name. You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

"Call yourself lucky I was bored tonight," he says, his voice dropping to a low murmur that’s more terrifying than any shout. He’s so close you can see the faint stubble on his chin, the way a vein pulses in his neck.

Then, just as quickly, he pulls back. The spell breaks. He slumps back into his own seat, the casual indifference snapping back into place like a rubber band. He turns the music back up, Foreigner wailing through the speakers once more.

"Get out," he says, staring at the steering wheel.

You don’t need to be told twice. You practically fall out of the car with how eager your trembling body is to escape. You almost trip on the curb, your sneakers scraping against the pavement. Before you can reach the passenger door and slam it shut, you risk one final glance over your shoulder. He’s already watching you, not in that predatory way from before, but with something that looks almost like… expectation.

"Hey," he calls out, his voice barely audible over the music. You freeze, your hand on the cool metal of the car door.

He doesn't look at you. He just reaches into the glove box, and for a terrifying second, you think he's going for a gun. But instead, he pulls out a slightly crumpled pack of Marlboros and taps one out. He sticks it in the corner of his mouth, but doesn't light it.

"Don’t let me see you at a party like that again," he says, the words muffled by the unlit cigarette.

You have no idea how to respond. Are you being warned? Threatened? Saved? All three at once? You just nod, a jerky, uncoordinated motion. You suspect any word you try to form will just die in your throat.

He gives a short, sharp nod back, a dismissal. That's it. The conversation is over. You turn and walk away, not looking back again. You can feel the Camaro's engine rumble as he revs it once, a final, aggressive roar that seems to echo in your bones. Then the tires squeal as he peels away from the curb, leaving a cloud of acrid smoke and the fading sound of rock and roll.

You stand there on the sidewalk, in the space where he just was, and you can still feel the thrum of the bass in the soles of your feet. You watch his red taillights disappear around the corner, a final streak of color in the otherwise dark, quiet street.

Your legs feel like jelly as you make your way to the front door. You fumble with your keys, your fingers refusing to cooperate. When you finally push the door open, the warm, familiar smell of your house hits you—the clean, simple smell of home you didn’t realize you missed. It feels like stepping into another world.

Steve is in the living room, sacked out on the couch. The TV is on, some late-night movie playing silently, the screen flashing blue and white light across his face. He's half-asleep, head lolling to the side, but he stirs when he hears the door.

He squints at you, one eye still mostly closed. "Hey. Where'd you sneak off to?"

Your brain goes blank. You can't exactly say, Oh, you know, just got a terrifying, tension-filled ride home from your mortal enemy after he threatened some sleazeball at a party I wasn't supposed to be at. That's a conversation you're not equipped to have. Ever.

"Just... learning a lesson in humility, I think," you finally say, the words coming out in a rush.

He snorts, pushing himself up to a sitting position, scrubbing a hand over his face. "God, you sound like Mom. You get stuck talking to Mr. Clicks?"

Mr. Clicks was the history teacher with the prosthetic hand. A fate worse than detention.

"Yeah," you lie, the lie feeling smooth and easy. "After-school special in the making."

Steve seems to accept this. He's sleepy, and the world is simple for him right now. He flops back down. "Well, you're home. He can’t force you to write an essay about the Teapot Dome Scandal from here. Night."

You nod, even though he can't see you. "Night, Steve."

You turn and head for the stairs, your feet silent on the plush carpet. But as you put your foot on the first step, Steve's voice, clear and sharp this time, cuts through the quiet.

"Hey."

You freeze, your hand tightening on the polished wood banister.

"What's that smell?"

Your heart drops into your stomach. Pine. Smoke. Something else.

"Smell?" you ask, trying for innocent and probably landing somewhere near 'caught with my hand in the cookie jar.'

"Yeah. Smells like... a forest fire in a cheap bar."

You force yourself to turn around, to face him. He's sitting up again, fully awake now, his brow furrowed. He's looking at you, really looking at you, and you feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"I passed some guys smoking," you say, another lie, another brick in the wall you're frantically building between you and him. "The wind must've blown it my way."

Steve squints at you, but he seems to let it go. He's too tired to connect the dots that are screaming at you. The dots that spell H-A-R-G-R-O-V-E. But you know. And the knowing is a heavy, cold thing in your gut.

"Okay. Well. Go wash it off. It's gross."

You nod, mutely, and flee up the stairs. In the bathroom, you lock the door and lean against it, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You look in the mirror, and it’s at least half a minute before you recognize the person staring back at you.

Your hair is a mess. Your eyes are wide, a little wild. And when you lift the collar of your t-shirt to your nose, you smell it. The pine tree, the stale smoke, and that other thing, the sharp, clean scent of Billy Hargrove’s cologne, clinging to you like a ghost. You feel a dizzying sense of unreality, like you've been to another planet and brought back an alien artifact.