💌🫧🏹

“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.

— this is my first smau series i've ever posted so bare with me lol.. — modern au/no upside down au — ignore timestamps/dates because they're irrelevant — they all live in new york — jancy, henderhop, lumax and byler are all canon cause idgaf (you don't see much of them other than jancy tho icl) — adults are about 22-23, teens are 18-19 — steve has a big crush on you, and you have a big crush on him — you and steve don't have each other on your private accounts — you don't know he's spider-man

☆

profiles !!

☆ — you nobody knows you run the whoisspidey account except for jonathan (you still don't know how he found out)

☆ — steve the only people who know he's spider-man are the people on his priv (and most of them found out accidentally)

☆ — dustin he's steve's "guy in the chair"

☆ — robin + eddie steve's other best friends who are sick of his ass

☆ — jonathan + nancy your best friends and co-workers at the daily bugle, and yes they have matching pfps

☆ — max + lucas they're basically your children

☆ — will + mike + el jonathan and nancy's little brothers (and yes they have matching usernames) the sweetest girl ever, and also dustin's girlfriend, you would die for her

☆ that's everyone !! i'll start posting the first few updates asap !!

☆ — smau updates !! update 1 update 2 update 3 update 4 update 5 update 6 + pt. 2 update 7

regular + spidey!steve taglist: @karolinesvrsion @keshet2k @exooojongdaeee @riddlersoupwrites @oohgeminii @isabelspicey @notmily @imani4reading @jamietarttdodo @yikesmama3 @sunflowergir62 @lacywithdrawal @boldlyfadingdinosaur @kanabefairy @dxphhnnee @jamieexistss @ladyartxxmis @glittrrx @dr0wsy-m00ns @dyanasaur @kyzpixie @jeepers-creeperz @miss-celestial-being  @redvelvetcupcke1 @marvelgirlie-4 @berryonasummerevening @harry-luver @mortqlprojections @pedr0swh0r3 @maxxximoff @strangegirl26sff @kyrasworldd @1011008 @napofaprincess @nikolailantsovseyebrow @bylerinaathogwarts @ophirei @fallingwallsh @emngray @batmanssssss @kitty-kei @taylorsupernova @bobbihasnouser @dwindella @sofimayaowo @zabcoin @veesse @harringtondarling @kissalready @jinxispunk @peterthehorseisinhere

Steve didn't want to get involved with the fertility clinic, adamant that you would both get through your dry patch and conceive, but the heavy guilt of letting him down wouldn't stop eating away at you, so one afternoon when the kids we're enjoying their leftovers in their lunchboxes, and Steve enjoying whatever the canteen had to offer, you forced yourself to see your doctor to try and capture a glimmer of hope. 

Dr James yawned and typed away on his computer, asking you the regular "name, date of birth, any health conditions, do you smoke or drink, do any drugs?" with a flat tone, robotically typing in your responses before he finally swivelled in his chair and looked you in the eyes. 

"So what's the issue, Mrs Harrington?"

"My husband and I," you cleared your throat, your eyes wandering across the room full of medical equipment and scary informational posters "we've got five children and well, we're trying for our last one, but we've not been getting anywhere, it's been a year and... it's just not happening."

"Well, you're almost forty," he sighed, gesturing for you to hold your arm out as he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around your bicep, "did it not occur to you that you're... too old to have any more? that perhaps this is nature's way of saying it's too late?"

The blood drained from your face, and you dropped your arm slowly as the cuff began to inflate, the machine groaning as the fabric grazed into your skin, pulsing until it finally hissed and released its tight grip, your arm riddled with pins and needles. "I didn't really consider that, doctor. I just thought that maybe I wasn't trying at the right times, or maybe another lifestyle factor was delaying conception." 

Your doctor set your arm free, pulling apart the Velcro and quickly scribbling down the measurement. "You've been very lucky to have five children already, Mrs Harrington. I see young couples flooding in here every week in tears because they can't have kids. Why don't you take the message and be thankful for the ones you've got?" 

Your mouth opened to challenge him, to remind him that this was your body and your decision, but most importantly your husbands biggest dream, but you couldn't speak, you were hurt and enraged at his lack of compassion, yet part of yourself agreed with him; you were lucky to have five healthy and happy kids already, and maybe having another baby just wasn't meant to be.

-

"Steve, I went to see Dr. James earlier," you sighed, reaching out and snaking your arms around his waist, pressing your forehead against the broad, and familiar warmth of his back. "we've been really lucky to have the five children we've got, we're not getting any younger, and pregnancy will look a lot different for me now with my age, it's more risky."

"So that's it?" He snapped defensively, examining himself in the mirror and glaring at the reflection of your hands around him, "You're giving up?"

You could feel Steve tensing up as you tried to lay him down softly, "I'm not giving up," you slowly pulled back, setting him free, "I just think that maybe it's time I got my body back to myself again; even get back into work so I can contribute to our mortgage and the bills."

"You promised. You promised we'd have another!" He hissed, wanting to raise his voice but remembering not to wake the kids.

"I don't want to argue," you whispered softly, "I'm just exhausted of being let down every month, the disappointment I see every day in your face is killing me, I can't try any harder."

Steve ignored you and picked up his duffel bag from the bed. "I’ll be back Sunday night," he muttered, checking his watch and refusing to meet your eyes, abandoning any last effort to resolve your little squabble.

You didn't follow him or see him off with a kiss or a wave from the door like you always did, fixing the collar of his shirt or rubbing your lipstick print from his cheek; Steve needed space, and all you could do was welcome him back on Sunday night with drawings from the kids and something good to eat.

Listening to the heavy thud of his boots on the stairs and the roar of the engine in the driveway, you slowly forced yourself downstairs to tidy up the children's scattered toy cars, baby dolls, and action figures before finishing the washing up.

-

Steve's hands trembled for the entire drive, his hands vibrating against the steering wheel, his mind unable to shut off. He was exhausted from working his ass off doing overtime and being unable to relax on his days off started to get to him: up bright and early with the twins who wanted their daddy to play with them and their action figures, then finding the time to dote on his younger children, and eldest daughter, who was hormonal and always slammed a door when she didn't get what she wanted.

Isn't this what you always wanted?  His brain ate away at him. 

You're a nobody, you're nothing, you're a failure.

Steve had the option to slam his foot down and circle, and drive back to Hawkins, to crawl into bed beside you, and cover you in kisses and apologise for being so harsh for trying to take away your personal choice. He had the option to choose his wife and kids, who loved him unconditionally, but he didn't. Steve kept driving further and further away until the large, tall neon sign stung his eyes through the windshield. 

Steve climbed out of the car, pulling out his duffel bag full of random clothes from the backseat and walked towards the large oak entrance doors, leaving behind the version of himself you fell in love with all those years ago. 

-

The bar at the hotel was dim, full of expensive drinks, and private from the faithful. This was the place where men frequently checked in to cheat on their wives with their secret girlfriends, their clingy exs, and sex workers. Steve overheard the dads at his eldest son's football game talking about it. At the time, Steve felt enraged and sick to his stomach, and now he was one of them: a shameful liar and a cheat. 

The sex worker Steve arranged to spend the night with was elegant, dressed like a woman who dominated the boardroom, with well-looked-after hair and makeup; Steve couldn't remember the last time you wore a nice dress, or kept your hair down, or even had colour in your cheeks.  Her eyes finally landed on Steve and the expensive watch glinting on his wrist that you bought him for your tenth wedding anniversary.

"You're too handsome to be here all alone," She slid onto the stool beside him, her voice like velvet.

Steve cleared his throat, his fingers trembling as he gripped his glass. "It's all I feel these days," raising the glass to his lips, he nervously took a sip. 

She turned her body toward him, her knee brushing his leg, sending a jolt of electricity through him. Steve told himself that this one night of blowing off steam would be easy: just one night he could be something different to someone different, he wasn't a husband, or a father, or a man overworked and worried about his mortgage. Tonight, he could go back to just being Steve.

"You look like a man who has spent a very long time taking care of everyone else." She reached out, her perfectly manicured fingers grazed the back of his large, rough hand, lingering over his gold wedding band. "Would you like to stop being that man for a few hours?"

Steve looked at her, unable to look away from her eyes that didn't yet know the exhaustion of energetic kids. She was a beautiful stranger who knew nothing of his failure to produce another child, who didn't know or care about his credit score and credit card debt. 

"More than anything," Steve replied, getting up from his seat.

-

The guilt hit him before he even left the hotel room the next morning. The young woman woke up with a yawn, rubbing her eyes before sitting up and eventually getting out of the cosy, comfortable bed, then grabbing a large, soft towel. Steve studied her face,  her beauty from the night before no longer there; he searched her eyes for a glimmer of you but found nothing.

"I'm going to take a shower," she hummed, breaking Steve out of his spiral "Leave the money you owe me on the side, I've stayed overnight, so that's an extra two hundred."

Steve already showered in the night whilst she slept, the rush of the running water hiding the sound of his sobs as he drowned in his immediate regret. He scrubbed his skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash away the touch of another woman, the woman who mounted and pleasured him with confidence and frantic energy, but it was no use.

The physical weight and sickening feeling in his gut were just the beginning, and it kept him awake all night. Every time he closed his eyes, he was haunted by your tired, smiling face and messy hair with your hands covered in water-based paint and glitter, with the echoing of his children laughing, and the pattering of their feet whilst they chased each other around the house, ringing loudly in his ears. 

The drive back to Hawkins felt longer than any drive Steve had taken in his entire life, including the summer roadtrips with the kids in the back, arguing amongst themselves over who gets the next sip of Pepsi or handful of M&Ms. 

What have you done? He asked himself each time he caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror, was it really worth it? 

Steve thought that he'd have no guilt, that it would be a night blowing off steam and returning to normal the next day, but it was the opposite. The moment he spilt himself inside of her, he felt the crushing weight of what he'd done on his chest and shoulders, clawing at his heart. You were together from the moment you met, inseparable, now with a beautiful home and five incredible children; he threw it all away for nothing. 

He couldn't listen to the radio, he didn't stop for a rest, his eyes were glued on the road that would lead him back to you. 

Steve pulled into the driveway, his hands squeezing the steering wheel, his rehearsed confession sitting like broken glass in his throat. He walked through the front door and was met with the smell of fabric softener and cupcakes, the older kids at their friends' homes.

"Steve? Is that you? You're home early," your voice called from the kitchen, wiping down the countertops.

The tone of your excited and soft voice pained Steve as he inched closer to the kitchen, "We need to talk, I-I did something..." 

You turned around, and the confession on the tip of his tongue died in his mouth, recognising your beaming smile, the very specific one reserved for a very special milestone. Hurrying over to him, and wrapping your arms around him, with your ear resting against his chest, listening to the rapid pounding of his heart. 

"I was going to wait until the first scan," you whispered, "but after what happened between us on Friday night, I couldn't."

Pulling away from Steve, you reached into your pocket and slowly pulled out the plastic stick. With tears of pure joy spilling from your eyes, you pushed the stick into Steve's hand, the two pink lines burning into him through the little window.

"I took the test this morning, and something just felt different. We did it, Steve. Number six! Just like you always wanted."

If Steve confessed, he'd destroy you and the family you worked so hard to build. He needed to tell you, but how could he? You were so happy, so proud. Steve had no choice but to pull you into his arms and swear to himself that you would never find out.

"What did you need to tell me?" You asked softly, "You said you did something?" 

Steve swallowed hard, "Oh, yeah, the uh work trip was cut short... too many people didn't show up." Squeezing his eyes shut, a single hot tear escaped from his eye and ran down his face.

If Steve confessed, he'd destroy you and the family you worked so hard to build. He needed to tell you, but how could he? You were so happy, so proud. Steve had no choice but to pull you into his arms and swear to himself that you would never find out.

"What did you need to tell me?" You asked softly, "You said you did something?" 

Steve swallowed hard, "Oh, yeah, the uh work trip was cut short... too many people didn't show up." Squeezing his eyes shut, a single hot tear escaped from his eye and ran down his face.

Your head throbbed, and your eyes felt heavy. Inside, the party raged on, music booming, laughter spilling into the night, but you only watched from your quiet corner, a bittersweet smile hovering on your face. You had once been the life of the party, the one whose presence made a night worth remembering, but now, here you were, tucked in the backseat, ready to call it a night before midnight.

Thinking about it, parties weren’t the only thing he’d taken from you. He’d stolen something else too, the spark in your eyes, the part of you that used to feel untouchable. You realized it the moment you caught yourself staring at your reflection in the bathtub, trying to figure out what was missing. You’d learned to look away from mirrors. You wished you could flee your thoughts just as easily.

A loud laugh jolted you out of your reverie. It was Nancy, already tipsy, clinging to Steve, laughing like the world revolved around her. And there he was, looking at her with that infuriating, devoted smile, his puppy eyes sparkling as he looked at her. 

He opened the front door carefully, guiding her inside with gentle hands before slipping into the driver’s seat. You sank a little deeper into the back, clutching your now empty red cup, and tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter, even if your heart whispered otherwise. 

“You good?” he asked, glancing back at you as he started the engine. 

You shivered as a gust of cold air swept through the car. “Jesus, it’s freezing,” he muttered, turning the dial to crank up the heat before pulling onto the road. 

“Just tired,” you offered softly, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the red cup. 

The streets were quiet, the glow of the streetlights painting everything in streaks of gold and white. Rain began to fall lightly, blurring the world beyond the window. You leaned back in the backseat, exhausted, the faint smell of alcohol and smoke from the party still clinging to the air. Nancy was slumped against the window, head tipped lazily to the side, her hair messy from dancing and a few too many drinks. Without thinking, you reached over and gently stroked her hair, smiling at your best friend. She’d been drinking a lot lately. You knew she needed this, needed to let loose. She put far too much pressure on herself, and tonight, at least, she deserved a little freedom. 

“Thanks for driving me home early,” you said softly, trying not to sound needy “I… I didn’t want to stay out so late tonight.” 

He flicked a glance at you through the rearview mirror, one corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he said casually. “I was ready to bail too. Josh is a dick.” 

You smiled, a little, the tension in your chest loosening. He didn’t make you feel guilty. He didn’t need to. That small consideration hit harder that you expected. 

The low hum of INXS - Never Tear Us Apart filled the car, soft and calming, as Steve hummed along quietly. When the car hit a bump, your hand went out reflexively to steady yourself against the driver’s seat. Steve’s eyes flicked toward you, his fingers brushed yours lightly, just enough to make contact, and then retreated back to the wheel as if nothing happened. Your chest skipped a beat, and you let your hand rest on your lap, suddenly noticing how his warmth still lingered on your skin. You glanced at him, catching the faint crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw and the way his gaze lingered just a fraction too long in the rearview mirror. 

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said, his gaze briefly flicking to you, a hint of concern in his eyes. 

“Just… worn out,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, fragile and thin. 

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just let the car hum along the road. Then almost under his breath, he murmured, “You don’t have to hide it, you know. I’ve got you.” 

His words wrapped around you in a way that made something inside you loosen, and you allowed yourself a small smile, just enough to feel lighter than you had all night. 

You wanted to say something, to tell him how safe and seen you felt in that moment, but the words caught in your throat as you glanced at his girlfriend, still blissfully asleep beside him. Instead, you leaned back, letting the soft patter of the rain and the distant music fill the silence between you.

By the time he pulled into your driveway, the song had ended. You stepped out into the rain, your little black dress clinging in the wind. He tossed his jacket over your shoulders, it smelled like him, warm musk, with just a hint of smoke. It hurt to feel so safe and so wrong at the same time. As you retreated to your room, you realized something you weren’t quite ready to put into words. 

2.

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead as you wandered through the nearly empty mall, the scent of popcorn and perfume hanging faintly in the air. Nancy had wandered off into a clothing store, leaving you and Steve alone near the record shop. 

You had your favorite ice cream in one hand and a bag of clothes in the other. It felt like the first time in ages that you were truly enjoying yourself. Maybe it was the ice cream, or maybe it was him? But either way, you felt light, carefree, and almost… happy. 

You were wandering through the aisle of the record shop, letting your fingers trail over the vinyls, the familiar smell of paper filling the air. The buzz of the place was comforting and safe, but then you felt a shift, a presence too close, too eager. You glanced up to find a guy standing beside you, leaning in just a little too much, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and smooth. “You come here often?” 

You half-rolled your eyes, already bored with the cliché pickup line, but you forced a polite smile, just to brush him off. “Sometimes,” you replied, glancing away, hoping he’d get the hint. 

He didn’t. 

His eyes lingered just a second too long, not meeting your face but clearly looking at your legs, the hem of your dress grazing just above your knees. You could feel the weight of his gaze as it slid over you, uncomfortable and persistent. 

“Nice dress,” he added, his tone dripping with insincerity. “Looks great on you.” 

You tried to step back, but he shifted, blocking your path. You could feel the unease creeping up your spine, your stomach tightening. You opened your mouth to brush him off, but before you could, you felt Steve’s presence at your side. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t need to, but the way he stood next to you, close but not touching, made the guy falter. He glanced between you two, then looked back at Steve, who hadn’t even acknowledged him with more than a cold glance. 

The guy hesitated, clearly uncomfortable now, but still he smirked and muttered something about “maybe seeing you around”. Arrogant, clueless… and painfully reminiscent of your ex. He backed off, though not without a lingering, almost apologetic glance at Steve. 

You looked up at Steve, expecting something. Anything. But he didn’t react. His expression stayed neutral, almost unreadable, yet the tension in his posture spoke louder than words. He wasn’t angry. Not at the guy, at least. 

“Everything alright?” Steve said after a beat, his voice casual, his hand brushing against yours. 

“Yeah,” you said, straightening up and brushing it off. “Just an asshole.” 

He gave a simple nod, then turned and kept walking, the conversation forgotten, but the brief interaction lingered between the two of you like unspoken tension. 

Minutes later, Steve pulled a cassette from the shelf, turning it in his hands before handing it to you. 

“Thought you might like this,” he said lightly, but the brief glance he shot you felt careful. 

You blinked at the tape, U2, With or Without You. “You… thought of me?” You asked, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. 

Steve handed you the cassette with a slight smile, the edges of the packaging worn from his own handling. “Yeah, it’s cool,” he said softly, his tone almost secretive, like there was something more to the song that he was letting on. 

You looked at him, confused for a moment. “Why this one?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. 

He just nodded, urging you to take the cassette. “Trust me.” 

You hesitated, but his earnestness nudged you. You accepted the cassette, but before you could even think of putting it in your bag, he pulled out a walkman from his jacket pocket, holding it out to you. 

“Here,” he said, his fingers brushing yours for a second as he handed it over. He seemed a little more nervous now, his usual confident demeanor slipping just a fraction. 

Curious, you took the small device from him. He stepped closer, just enough to close the space between you two, and carefully settled the headphones over your ears. His breath brushed against your cheek for a moment, warm and unexpectedly intimate in the quiet of the store. You felt the familiar stir of something unspoken. 

The moment you pressed play, the soft opening chords of “With or Without You” began to fill your ears. It hit you that this was the kind of music that perfectly captured how everything about being near Steve felt, like you were floating. The lyrics, soft but intense, wrapped around you like a memory you weren’t ready to name yet.

You didn’t pull away from the walkman, letting the music play out, but your mind kept drifting back to look in Steve’s eyes. The way he was watching you now, slightly vulnerable. It wasn’t just the song. It was everything about the moment, the way he handed it to you, the way his fingers brushed yours, the way you didn’t want to move. Your eyes kept flicking to his lips, and your mind couldn’t stop reminding you how perfect he looked right here, in this exact moment, near you, with you. 

He stepped back a little, watching you. “Well?” he asked, his voice quiet. 

You didn’t know how to answer. The music spoke for you, and for once, you didn’t need words. Was he trying to send you a message through it? 

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he felt. “It’s…” you stared at him, your cheeks warming. 

When Nancy’s voice echoed from the clothing store, calling for you, your stomach twisted with guilt and a strange, bittersweet ache. You had already crossed a line in your mind, and the thought made your heart race. Steve sighed, pulling the headphones out, avoiding your gaze as he turned and walked away. He joined Nancy in a gentle embrace. You watched them, wondering if it was all in your head. Had you read between lines that weren’t even there? 

Even after you left the store and walked back to the car, the cassette still in your bag, you couldn’t stop replaying that quiet stretch of time: the proximity, the lingering glances, the way he made you feel. What was going on? 

3.

The phone rang just after ten, sharp against the quiet hum of your house. You picked it up, expecting your best friend, but instead, it was him. 

“Hey… she’s not answering,” he said, voice a little rough, like he’d been up too late thinking. There was a distant noise in the background, faint street sounds, maybe the neighbor’s dog barking in the yard. 

“Oh, ok,” you murmured, pressing the receiver to your ear. 

“Mind if I stay on the line for a bit? Just… talk?” His tone was casual, but there was something underneath it. 

You hesitated for a moment, then said softly, “Sure.” 

At first, the conversation was light. School, homework, the weather. But soon, it shifted into more personal territory. He asked about your plans for the future, and you found yourself speaking in a way you hadn’t before. You had always been so guarded, but now, in the quiet of the phone call, it felt easier to open up. 

He seemed to listen to everything, about the classes you loved, your dream to travel, the things you wanted to leave behind. But then, almost out of nowhere, his voice dropped a little, and he said, 

“You know, I’ve been thinking… I really like talking to you. It’s just… with her, it’s hard sometimes.” 

You frowned, not sure what he meant at first. “With Nancy?” 

“Yeah,” he said with a soft laugh, a little nervous. “She’s… she got everything figured out, you know? She knows exactly what she wants. She’s all about studies, college, plans.” His voice softened, like he was admitting something he hadn’t before. “Me? I can barely get through the week without feeling like I’m just… floating. I don’t even know what I’m doing tomorrow, let alone five years from now.” 

Your chest tightened. You could hear the quiet vulnerability in his words, the weight of the uncertainty he carried. “But you’re not… I mean, you’re not just floating,” you said quickly “You’re figuring it out. It’s not a race, you know.” 

He was silent for a beat, then sighed. “Yeah, maybe. But sometimes I wonder if I’m good enough for her. She’s got everything planned, she’s smart, she knows where she’s going. I’m just trying to go with the flow… and sometimes I think she deserves someone who has it all together.” 

There was a pause on the line, and you felt a sudden pang in your chest, a bittersweet ache. You realized, for the first time, how much he was struggling with the comparison between himself and Nancy, how much he worried about being “enough”. Steve, if only you knew how much more than enough you were for me… But I’m not her. 

You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to reassure him, to tell him he didn’t need to be perfect to be worth something. Even if, to you, he was perfect in every way. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you let the silence linger for a moment, absorbing the weight of what he had shared.

Eventually, the conversation drifted back to lighter things, shared memories, inside jokes, but even as you laughed, you sensed the way you fit together too easily, and it left a bitter taste in your mouth, because he wasn’t yours and never would be. 

“I… I’m glad you broke up with him,” he said quietly, after a long pause. “You deserve to be happy, Y/N.” 

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a second, you couldn’t speak. The breakup had been hard, devastating, you had never told anyone about the worst of it, the things he had done. He’d been abusive, manipulative. He’d left town in the end, but the scars stayed with you. 

“It…wasn’t easy,” you whispered. “I- If I ever got out of… him… it’s because of you.”

You swallowed, the memory of that night still sharp : the day he had caught your ex hitting you, stepping in without a second thought, and the long talk that had followed. That conversation had given you the courage, the courage to finally leave. 

“I don’t know what I would have done without you, Steve,” you whispered. 

You could hear him exhale softly, a quiet, almost involuntary sigh that lingered longer than a normal pause. 

“You’d have found your way, but I’m glad I was there,” he said finally, his voice gentle but carrying a weight you couldn’t place. “You can always count on me. You’re my friend, I’d never let anyone hurt you like that.”

For a second, you thought you heard a small catch in his tone, like he had held back something just for you, a fleeting hesitation that made your heart thrum in a strange, unfamiliar way. Then he laughed softly, almost to shake it off, and the conversation returned to its usual warmth. 

You talked for almost an hour, your voices comfortable in the quiet of the night. When you finally said goodnight, your chest felt heavy, but your heart was full in a way that scared you. 

You pressed the phone to your cheek, closing your eyes for a second, letting the quiet of the house settle around you. You realized that the feelings you’d been brushing aside, hoping they would fade, or that they weren’t as strong as they seemed, were only growing. What you’d once thought was affection for your knight in shining armor was starting to feel more like… love? 

4.

The cassette clicked when the song ended. Static hissed softly before the next track started, something slow, something romantic, like it was mocking you. The room smelled like cigarette smoke and cheap beer and the rain that had followed you all inside. It was late. It always was when things finally went wrong. You were at Steve’s place, lounging with your friends. Jonathan and Robin were bickering about which movie to pick, their voices rising over the low hum of the conversation. You sat on the couch, your purple dress falling over your tights, a beer in your hand, your fingers twirling your hair in a small, restless habit.

She was talking, Nancy, about something small. School, maybe. Or her brother. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way her voice faltered, just a little, like she was embarrassed to need comfort over something so stupid. 

He noticed instantly. 

He always did. 

He turned toward her, full body, no hesitation. Black outfit, perfect hair, arms that could hold you steady. He was so pretty. His knee touched hers. His hand found her wrist, thumb pressing lightly where her pulse jumped. You knew that touch. You knew exactly how it felt, how it steadied you, how it told you without words that you were safe now, that nothing bad was going to happen while he was there. 

Your stomach dropped. 

You remembered sitting on the edge of your own bed months ago, knees pulled to your chest, shaking so hard your teeth rattled. You remembered his voice then, low and careful, like sudden movements might break you. You remembered thinking, stupidly, desperately, that maybe this was… love? That had to be. He was so gentle… 

Across the room, she exhaled. She leaned into him without even looking, like she had done it a hundred times already. 

And he let her.

Something hot and poisonous curled in your chest. Jealousy, sharp enough to make you nauseous. You hated it. You hated yourself for it. She was your best friend. She had held your hair back when you were sick with fear. She had never once asked you why you stayed so long with him. She had never once said I told you so. She’d always been there for you, but now, all you could think about was how much you wished her boyfriend would stand up and claim you, right there, in front of everyone.

He smiled at her, not wide, not performative. Just soft. Private. The kind of smile you only gave when you were already in love and didn’t even realize you were showing it yet. His thumb brushed over her skin again, absentminded, intimate. Possessive. They were in their own little world.

A small laugh slipped from you, barely there, as you realized how much you’d been avoiding the truth.  

What you had hadn’t been the beginning of something, it had been the aftermath of something terrible. He hadn’t chosen you. He had caught you when you were falling apart. He had stayed because you were bleeding, and he was the kind of man who didn't walk away from broken things.

You felt stupid for ever believing otherwise. For thinking the way he had looked at you, careful, concerned, endlessly patient, meant you were special. You were just delusional. 

You swallowed hard. Your hands were clenched in your lap, nails biting into your palms, grounding you in a way he no longer would. The room felt too small. Too loud. Every laugh they shared sounded like a door closing. 

He didn’t love you. 

You imagined a future you weren’t in. Him as the perfect husband, knowing her coffee order by heart, dropping her off with a passionate kiss, wrapping her with love. He was the perfect father always at their kids’ competitions, cheering them, while you watched from the sidelines, smiling, pretending this didn’t hollow you out. 

He wasn’t looking at her the way he had looked at you. He wasn’t doing it to protect her. He was doing it because he wanted to. 

No, he didn’t love you.

You were just the girl he saved from drowning. Just a friend. 

You were never meant to be anything more. 

The thought stung, sharp, like glass breaking in your chest. 

You wished you hadn’t needed saving. Because maybe, just maybe, if you hadn’t been so broken when he found you, he might’ve seen you the way he saw her now.  

But he didn’t.

He was looking at her. He was touching her. He was choosing her. And the worst part? You couldn’t stop it. You couldn’t stop the way your heart was shattering just watching him love her in all the ways he never could with you. 

You caught her watching you from across the room, her eyes piercing through the walls you’d built up. Robin always knew. She was the kind of person who could see right through anyone, and right now, she saw all of it. She saw the chaos inside you, the ache that twisted in your gut, the feelings you couldn’t suppress. Her look wasn't pity, it was sympathy. Understanding. It made you feel so exposed and stupid. You quickly dropped your gaze, desperate to shield yourself from her silent accusation, even though you knew she wasn’t judging. 

Your vision blurred, a scream building inside you that you couldn't release. You’d never be his. No matter how different he was from her, no matter how many arguments they had, he loved her. And that was something you could never change. 

You were stuck, trapped between what you felt and what you knew you had to do. Part of you wanted to keep them both, wanted to hold on to the fragile thread of your friendship with her, to keep being near him, even if it meant torturing yourself every time you saw him with her. But deep down, you knew that staying in this place was only hurting you. Watching the man you loved, knowing he would never be yours, was like slowly suffocating. You were lost, unsure of what to do, because the longer you stayed, the more you were drowning in your own feelings.

5.

The bleachers were empty, the late-afternoon sun low and warm across the field. You climbed to sit beside him, metal scraping beneath your sneakers, heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. You were wearing a blue sundress, light and cute, the kind that made you feel soft even when everything else hurt. It was strange how something so ordinary, something you’d shared with him every day after school, had grown heavy and complicated now that you understood what you were really feeling. 

You stared down at your hands, clenching and unclenching, trying to steady your racing heart. You had to tell him. Even if it broke you, even if it changed nothing. You couldn’t spend your life wondering. You tried to ignore it, tried to push it away. You told yourself it was just loneliness, just envy at the sight of them together. But the truth pressed anyway : you weren’t jealous of them. You were jealous of her, because she had him.

Steve shifted beside you, hair falling just right over his forehead, yellow sleeves pulled tight over his arms. He was so close, and yet so impossibly distant, because everything you felt was locked inside.  

“She’s the one,” he said suddenly, casually, as if the words weren’t knives in your chest. “I want… kids, a house, the whole thing someday.” 

You froze. The sunlight glinted off his hair, and every detail of him. The curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head, the warmth in his eyes when he smiled at the thought. You wanted to speak, to shove the truth out of your chest, but your throat closed. 

He turned to you, grinning, mischief in his eyes. “And hey, you’d better play at the wedding,” he added, nudging you playfully. “You’re the best at piano.”

Your fingers slackened on the bleachers, the realization hitting you in a wave : you couldn't speak. You couldn’t tell him, not now, maybe never, because he was happy with someone else and you had no right to take that from him. You forced yourself to smile faintly, the world tilting slightly around you. 

“Of course,” you whispered, voice barely audible “I’d… I’d love to.” 

He frowned, tilting his head, but didn’t press. Then his lips quirked into that small, almost boyish smile, the one that made your stomach twist with a mix of longing and despair. 

“Eddie asked about you today,” he said, voice low, almost shy, “I think he likes you,” he laughed, a little uncertain, “I don’t know why, but I… don’t like it.” 

Your chest twisted. His words, innocent, protective, faintly jealous, were both a balm and a knife. Why did you have to make it so complicated, Steve? You were meant to be grateful that he cared, and yet it hurt like hell, because the way he looked at her, not you, was always sharper, softer, untouchable in a way you could never reach. 

“Steve!!” Nancy called his name, and his eyes lit up instantly, warm and unmistakable, like loving her was the easiest thing he’d ever done. 

You forced yourself to look at him : the way he met her by the bleachers, the careful way his hand rested at her waist before he kissed her softly, whispering sweet nothings meant for her alone. 

You wanted to step closer, to tell him that he could love you too, that you’d wait, that you’d be everything he didn't know he wanted but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Not after everything you’d seen, not after seeing how he looked at her. You had no right. 

So you stayed quiet. You swallowed the words back down, letting them die in your chest. You didn’t want to ruin what they had. You didn't want to hurt anyone. 

“Y/N ! You’re coming?” he called from the bleachers below. 

Why did his voice feel like a shard of glass in your ribs? 

Yeah, I’m coming. It doesn’t matter that I love you, Steve. I’ll just keep it to myself. I’ll watch you be happy with someone else because you deserve it. Hell, it hurts, but I think I love you more than I love myself. And it’s ok. It has to be ok. I can handle it. You wanted to scream it out…

Instead, you nodded, your voice faltering slightly as you spoke, betraying the weight of everything you couldn’t say. 

Now wasn’t the time, and it felt like it never would be.

a/n : Um... I don’t know? Feedback is always welcome (likes or reblogs too ofc) TYSM for reading, kisses baby 💕

It started simple. A quick turn of his head as you passed him in the hallway. You were always focused on other things though, busy with your own life and problems. It was a bubble he’d never broken into before, you were untouchable, unbothered and disinterested by him, like he didn’t exist in your world.

He didn’t fault you for it, although Steve Harrington was too arrogant and cocky most of the time, he was self aware enough to know that sort of thing didn’t interest you in the slightest. The popularity, the way-too-loud parties his crowd of people went to. Acting like they were rebelling by doing everything every suburban teenager does.

Drinking, smoking, having sex, pretending to be interesting. It was exhausting to witness, let alone live it.

Steve knew that, knew the hangovers weren’t fun, that coughing in a room full of second hand smoke was bad for his health, that the shows of intimacy between two people that wouldn't otherwise pay attention to each other were meaningless, that laughing way too loud at jokes that weren’t funny killed the soul.

Steve Harrington knew. He knew it was bullshit and that popularity titles wouldn’t mean anything when the diplomas were handed out and everyone moved on from being stupid teenagers, into less stupid college students.

The future however, hadn't caught up to him yet. Steve ´The King’ Harrington, could remain sitting comfortably on his throne of self-importance and pretend that his ruling would last forever. 

He knew it wouldn't, that time is a fleeting thing and the clock was ticking, deducting second after second of the remaining time he had to be known, noticed and cared for, even if only superficially.

You didn’t pretend to be above it all, being part of the social food chain was a given and you had always existed at the bottom of it. Not a freak by any means, you didn’t care for d&d, rebellion against authority or any other sort of corny movement amongst the students of Hawkins High.

You were at the very bottom. The Slut.

Used by everyone, loved by no one.

Perhaps care wasn’t the word you’d use to describe your feelings about the social perceptionpeople had of you. It was more like annoyance at the humiliation that was casted over you, at being known for something that wasn’t even true. Not entirely at least.

Not in the way they thought to be true.

You were well aware that the truth didn’t matter in the ecosystem of Hawkins High. It was all about appearances, to portrait yourself as something worth it of attention, the type of attention that saved you from being an outcast to the entire student population.

The truth was you had underestimated how much people cared about the skeletons others had hidden in their closet. You thought, — naively so  —  that they wouldn’t care about yours.

You had been invisible almost all throughout middle school. Always in your own little world because back then it didn’t really matter to be relevant, there were a lot of kids like you, who wouldn’t bother anyone and keep to themselves.

Being introverted and tired by the turmoil of a family life that nobody spoke to the other about, there wasn’t an understanding of how bad or good one had it. Well, until your mom died, then you understood everyone lived bastly different lives.

So it wasn’t a shock when eight grade rolled around and everyone seemed to suddenly belong to something. Choosing a trait about themselves and running with it as their main personality, the thing everyone had to know them for.

Playing basketball, being rich, having straight A’s, being pretty, being dumb, being a freak, being a party animal — which was just being a glorified alcoholic — or seemingly the worst one could possibly be in the small, pretentious town of Hawkins, Indiana. 

The Slut. 

You woke up with a headache, eyebrows furrowed in discomfort the second you felt the sunlight peak through your window and shine brightly into your face. The taste of cheap vodka and orange juice still lingering in your mouth, completely nauseating.

Perhaps you shouldn’t have drank yourself to sleep, again. But the fight with your dad had been good enough reason to want to lose consciousness even if it came with the consequence of feeling like shit on a monday morning.

He was probably still asleep on the couch, you could hear the sound of the TV still on, being interrupted every few seconds by snores. He too, had decided that getting drunk was better than dealing with you.

That was his nightly routine after all, screaming at you because of whatever bullshit reason he could find, and if he didn’t find any, then…whatever happened next wouldn’t leave your mind for days.

You tried not to think about what would happen later tonight. Instead, you simply got up and got ready for school, because no matter how shitty Hawkins High was, it was still better than being trapped between the four walls you called home with your dad.

Getting ready was done in silence, or as silently as you could because the stupid floor of the trailer you lived in made an agonizing sound every time you stepped on it. 

Taunting you.

After a routine of carefulness and fear of waking up your own appointed hell, you grabbed your backpack and car keys before slipping out through your window without making any noise. The action was so engraved in your bones that you could do it in your sleep.

The drive towards school was the first and only time of peace you would probably get for the rest of the day. Between the snarky remarks girls made about you in the hallways and the math test you had to take during 2nd period, you had already decided this would be a shitty day. 

Steve Harrington on the other hand? He had decided today would be a great day the second his car rolled into the school’s parking lot and saw yours already parked in the space furthest away from the entrance.

Odd, he thought. 

Although he had never bothered to check where you parked before. Maybe this was normal for you, seeking the extra exercise for whatever reason a girl like you might have to walk such a deceptively long distance.

He didn’t bother to think about it for more than a moment. Instead, he grabbed his backpack and jogged towards the entrance of the school, not before noticing a somewhat familiar — and now broken— bracelet laying on the floor next to the trash.

He picked it up and analyzed it for a few seconds. At first he thought  it was from some kid who had gotten bullied and it fell to the floor but no, a few more seconds of staring at the piece of jewelry and he already knew who it belonged to by the infamous initials engraved in the back of the heart shaped charm.

Without giving it even a second thought, he shoved the bracelet into the left front pocket of his washed blue jeans. He would return it, obviously. He wasn’t that much of an asshole, he knew it probably meant a lot to you.

That’s why he planned on returning it when he had the chance to.

The walk from your car all the way to your locker was made in the same hurry you always moved with. Not late by any means, just trying to avoid the same assholes that always had some sort of comment to make about you.

Your routine didn’t help though, because they still found their way in front of your locker, leaning against it like they owned the place. Theirs to stand there and block you from taking out your History textbook.

Still, it didn’t really mean much other than a quick snarky comment and insults that had lost their edge the first week of Shophomore year. It had gotten old pretty quickly, now three months later it just felt stupid to stand there and listen to them spew the same nonsense.

“Wow, Skanks these days don’t even make an effort to look good” Carol Perkins said in that snarky way she spoke to everyone. Chewing gum in the obnoxious way she always did no matter what time of the day it was.

Disgusting.

Melissa Driscoll just laughed beside her. All of them did, because god forbid they have a genuine reaction of their own and not just copy each other.

“Don’t say that Carol, you look really good” You replied with a fake smile plastered on your lips pushing her to the side — with not even half of the strength you wished you had used —  to gain access to your locker.

Luckily Tommy was nowhere to be seen, otherwise you weren’t sure what would’ve happened to you.

Carol scoffed as one of the girls beside her, Jessica Murwood pretended she was going to hit you but ultimately didn’t. She wasn’t going to risk detention for a petty fight she hadn’t even started.

So much for loyalty, you thought.

“Are we done here? because I have much better things to do than help your self-steem” You added with a venomous tone.

Taking out the History book you never even ended up using during class before shutting your locker with more force than needed, just for the pleasure of startling them.

“What the hell is your problem?” Melissa said with barely concealed anger in her tone, her eyebrows so furrowed it made her look much older. She would clearly need botox in 5 years if she didn’t want to look fifty while being twenty.

You didn’t bother to respond this time, instead you just turned around and started walking towards class just as the bell rang announcing the start of first period.

Great. You would be late for class thanks to Carol and her stupid friends who seemed occupied muttering insults about you between each other. Hopefully they choked in their venom, Hawkins High could do with a few less bitchy students.

Unbeknownst to you, Steve Harrington had witnessed the whole conversation, not intentionally of course. He wasn’t a stalker or anything like that, he was just passing by when he heard your voice and out of curiosity stood nearby to hear you.

He had your bracelet after all and that seemed like a good enough reason to hear what you were talking about. Because what if you thought Carol had stolen it when in reality he had it? He would have to speak up and give it to you.

Not because he cared about you, but Carol Perkins was the girlfriend of Tommy H. and he didn’t want his friend’s girlfriend to get detention over something so stupid. He owed loyalty to her, not you.

Or that’s what he told himself, that he wasn’t paying attention to you because he didn’t want to make your social reputation more miserable than it already was, although he wasn’t that terrible of a person to make that happen either way.

Clearly you could defend yourself though, so Steve felt no need to do anything other than laugh at the way Carol and the other girls didn’t respond with something quick enough to you that would hurt your feelings the same way you had hurt theirs.

It went miserably. 

During first period Mr. Brown had made an example out of your tardiness by making you go get a tardy slip from the main office. Where the secretary looked at you with a face of disdain before taking her sweet time filling out the paper with your information.

Clearly she had a problem with you. Because when Heather Holloway walked in with that fake innocent look in her face and saying she needed a tardy slip filled out, the secretary looked at her with a motherly expression and responded in a much better tone.

Then you had a math test in second period. You had studied, spending all your free time doing the exercises the teacher said that she would put on the test. Clearly she had lied, because the second you sat down and saw the questions on the paper, you knew that you wouldn’t get a good grade in the slightest.

Now it’s lunch time and you have nothing to eat nor money to buy food, so sitting in hunger in the middle of the school field drawing on your notebook is all you can do to pass the time.

It isn’t that bad. I mean sure, your stomach kind of aches because of how empty it is and your wallet is basically begging you to go pick up an extra shift at Fair Mart so you can afford lunch next week, but other than the embarrassing reality you are living right now, everything is perfectly fine.

“hey” you hear a voice say, a pair of clearly worn in black boots coming into your view making you look up, immediately reconizing the person in front of you.

Jonathan Byers. 

“I need your help with something” he says, his face holding a certain sort of worry that told you something is terribly wrong, specially since he is asking you for help.

“hey…what do you need my help with?” you ask him, closing your notebook to hide what you were drawing moments ago.

“my brother Will, he’s missing in the woods” Jonathan starts, clearly uncomfortable “I need help with his poster so I can put it up…and with everything else” he takes a deep breath, the camera hanging from his neck following the movement from his chest.

“yeah…I can help you” You reply simply, tone softer than the one you first had answered him with.

You and Jonathan have always been kind of close since neither of you has had any friends since Freshman year, there’s this sort of alliance where you sometimes hang out to not be so lonely, or do group projects together in the classes you share.

Alright. Will is missing, that’s something really serious but  you aren’t sure how right it is to get yourself involved, specially since the last time you even talked to the kid was more than a year ago.

You weren’t about to deny him any help though.

“Do you remember what he was wearing the last time you saw him?” you ask him, a strange feeling of doom traveling down your spine, goosebumps rising on the nape of your neck.

Strange.

If you were honest right now, you had to admit that you can’t fully understand why Jonathan is asking you for help. Sure, he is in need of support because having his little brother be lost in the woods is a terrifying concept but that still doesn’t cover it for you.

Not that you believe he has a secret agenda or anything, that would be a horrible assumption to make about someone who is nothing but kind to you. I mean, you even enjoy his company every time he graces you with it, which isn’t often at all.

This is different though, extremely so. Because seeking help from you, who has almost half  the town against your very existence because of a reputation that stuck more than anything had ever stuck before, makes you very much useless in any sort if serious situation.

Perhaps he thinks you might understand, that with your mother having died in the very same woods under somewhat similar circumstances makes you somehow more understanding of his situation. That rings true. 

You can put yourself into the worn in black boots of his situation and feel the fear travel all throughout your body like it did all those years ago, when you hoped your mother had gotten fed up with your father’s abuse and just ran away from home.

Jonathan’s voice snaps you out of your sudden trance “are you alright?” he asks you, his eyebrows furrowed once more at your sudden strange behaviour.

“You don’t have to help if you don’t want to” His tone betrays the neutrality he tries to portrait through his facial expression, he sounds utterly broken at the conclusion that formed in his mind about you not wanting to help him. 

“I do!” you exclaim to stop him from deciding he actually doesn’t need nor wants your help in this situation “I do want to help” you say with a calmer tone, shoving your notebook inside of your backpack before standing up. 

“I’ll help you with the poster and putting it up around the city” You announce to him, offering to do more than you could probably afford to, already calculating how many shifts at your job you were renouncing to.

“really?” Jonathan says, surprised about how much you were willing to do for him.

He doesn’t say it out loud, not that he has to for you to know what he’s thinking. But he wasn’t all that sure you would agree to even help with the poster. He is acutely aware of your reputation, of the things you’ve done and the things people claim you have done even if there’s no proof.

He’s also not immune to the popular opinions and rumours – no matter how much he claims to be above them – he’s heard about you. in fact, he has fallen in the trap of believing what was being said more than once. 

Jonathan wants to believe this wont blow up on his face later on, that maybe this could be a shifting point in your social reputation, for the better obviously. Something he shouldn’t even be worried about right now because his brother is missing, but he is worried, always is.

Maybe it is the way you’re both stuck in the same situation. No friends, continuously antagonized by the population of Hawkins High and somehow being forced to feel bad about it. like the fault is yours and not theirs for being so judgemental about people just trying to survive and not sink even further into the poverty line that you´ve been tethering since childhood.

“Yeah, I also know the woods pretty well so I can help look” You offer even more, because the more you think about Will out there, probably scared out of his mind, freezing and hungry, the more you remember what your mom must’ve felt in her last moments.

You don’t want that destiny for Will Byres.

Jonathan lets out the breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding all this time, nodding at your words with a new but somewhat small sense of hope. 

You want to feel some of the hope that begins to plague his eyes at the prospect of having higher chances of finding Will with your help but you had never worn naivety well, or at all if you were completely honest with yourself.

Instead you simply decide to indulge in the statistics of people found alive who have gone missing in the woods, which although is a small number, it still is bigger than cero and that is enough for you to decide that Will would become part of that statistic.

“yeah…that would be great” Jonathan finally relaxes. 

His next thought is a cruel one, he’s very much ashamed of thinking it the second it formulates in his mind but – and yet again he feels terrible about it – it’s his true sentiment right now and he knows that if you could hear it, you would be okay with the cruelty of it. 

You’d be okay with the cruelty that comes with the fact he feels a lot better having you go through this with him because you know how it feels, the emptiness in the new found silence that plagues the house when a person it’s missing from it. 

The pain of having your heart tear ever so slightly with every second that passes without knowing if they are safe or not. The doubt of how not knowing how this situation will end, if with a sentimental reunion, or a casket you couldn’t afford without sacrifing your college savings.

Jonathan is glad that your heart breaks alongside his, because he isn’t sure if he could survive this if it was any other way. 

Entering the building of Hawkins High never gets easier, it always feels like walking down towards hell’s gate and asking to be let in, like it’s a choice and not an obligation for you to enter this place. 

If you had it your way you wouldn’t even graduate high school. You would be content with leaving right now, with only freshman year complete and three months of sophomore year to show for yourself, because there truly is no point in accomplish anything in Hawkins.

“How many copies of the poster do you have?” You ask jonathan as he begins to put up Will’s missing poster on the bulletin board, the contrast between the description of what Will was wearing the last time he was seen and the happy thanksgiving messages felt somewhat nauseating to look at.

“almost three hundred, why?” Jonathan responds without looking at you, his eyes darting across the board trying to find push pins that weren’t holding up anything to use them. 

“Oh, it’s just that when I was looking for my mom-” you stopped talking for a seconds, the sentence leaving your mouth made you feel horrible in a way you hadn’t experienced in almost two years.

It was better not to think about it. “What i mean is that if you want Hawkins to be filled with posters you’ll need about six hundred copies” You rearrange the phrase so that mentioning your mom again is left out of the conversation. 

“I’m talking every damn street having at least one poster in it” You pick up a push pin that wasn’t holding anything before handing it to Jonathan with a small smile. 

“That would cost like 60 bucks and I don’t have that much money” Jonathan answers with a tone that snuffs out whatever attempt at lighting up the mood you had made with your last comment.

You think for a second, trying to come up with a solution to a problem that wasn’t solvable in the slightest in the short span of a few hours. Then an idea came to your mind.

“In my job at Fair Mart they pay me minimum wage, so three dollars and thirty-five cents an hour, 60 bucks devided by that is basically 18 hours of work which is the max amount of hours I can work during the week” You say rapidly, hands moving somewhat frantically as you try to make what you are about to offer something sane. 

“I can ask my boss to pay me in advance for next week so we can pay for the copies and put them around town” The words leave your mouth and it’s like in that very moment every one in the hallways chooses to fall into a deafening silence. 

Jonathan turns to face you with an expression that is unreadable but just as he is about to speak, his eyes look behind you, making you turn around to see what stopped him from what you would probably assumed was going to be a speech about how he didn’t want to take your money.

“Hey…” Nancy mumbles ackwardly without even so much as looking at you “I wanted to say, you know, um…I’m sorry about everything” She looks behind her and you follow her gaze until it lands on the one group of people you hate the most. 

Carol Perkins, Steve Harrington and Tommy H. The only half decent person being Barb who you hadn’t talked to since eight grade, when she started crying when someone lied and told her your mom was found dead in the woods that were close to her home.

The look of clear amusement and mocking that Tommy’s eyes hold as he waves at you is something that should be enough to send him to jail for the rest of his life. But what’s worse than the clearly faux empathy he shows you is the way that Steve Harrington just decides to ignore the situation in it’s entirety and looks away. 

You don’t bother to see what expression Carol or Barb are wearing. You didn’t care what they thought or felt about all of this or really anything at all.

“Everyone’s thinking about you” Nancy continuous speaking and you cannot help but scoff at her words, she’s clearly lying to save the face of her new friend because your reaction makes her eyes snap towards you for a second, like she can’t believe you’re indirectly calling out her bullshit before turning to look at Jonathan again.

“It sucks” she adds, her eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

 “Yeah” Jonathan repies with a harsh tone. He doesn’t like the pity words, the way Nancy speaks like this is happening to a kid she has no relation to just because Steve Harrington and his horrible friends are standing a few feet away, using this conversation like a show made for their amusement.

She seems to pick up on it though, quickly adding onto her words with something of actual sustenance and not just vague bullshit “I’m sure he’s fine…he’s a smart kid” her tone begins to soften. Then the school bell starts ringing.

Nancy takes a few steps back mentioning a chemistry test, her gaze shifts between you and Jonathan “Good luck” she says, nodding at you with an expression you know is hiding a small simmering level of annoyance, walking towards Steve Harrington before they all walk down the hallway towards class.

Not until she is out of your eyesight you turn towards Jonathan, frustration clear as day on  both of your expressions “What was that?” you mutter with a raised eyebrows, crossing your arms over your chest. 

He simply shrugs before turning towards the exit and walking out. 

What. The. Fuck.

You don’t bother finding Jonathan after he suddenly left, he clearly didn’t want your company after the weird interaction you two had with Nancy Wheeler, who seemed very determined to preserve her good social image instead of actually caring about Will being missing and how that affects Jonathan.

You couldn’t really judge her for it though. If you had the social reputation she does, the money, the friends, the grades, the family. Just one tiny thing that she has, you would also do anything to keep it in your life, even if it meant acting like douchebag sometimes. 

Then again, you don’t have any of that so hating her feels reasonable.

You don’t hate her though, or it doesn’t feel like it at least. It’s just that comparing your life with hers makes it very clear to you that some people are born with everything to succeed in the world, while others have to fight for the scraps of goodness that people throw at them out of pity. 

The difference is laughable, and God do people laugh about it whenever they can. Pointing out the torn up clothes you wear, the way your jeans are your mothers and the jacket that clearly isn’t your size is your father’s. 

Because you have never owned anything, always borrowing, begging, groveling for scraps of warmth and love nobody wants to give you. Nancy Wheeler doesn’t struggle like you do, she doesn’t debate every month between keeping the heating on or having food on the fridge.

She has the privilege of a fridge full food, a warm house, parents that care for her not out of obligation but because it’s a given. She is so surrounded by love and stability that it’s impossible to picture her living any other way. 

She has everything a person like you could ever want and she doesn’t even know it. 

You’re jealous of how her existence has value, how she is aware of it and doesn’t pretend otherwise. The confidence she has when she claims a space in conversations, the way she knows what to do and say every time.

She is the type of girl with a fate sealed in gold.

It’s infuriating how she owns everything she touches, how the money she has and the reputation she has make her something desirable. 

The second you step through the door it becomes very evident the way this night will end.

Your dad is sitting on the couch with a bottle of whiskey empty and laying on the cushion beside him, the small living room is dirty, so disgustingly dirty. There’s plates of food on the coffee table that you were almost sure had been there for more than a week.

Cigarettes butts are scattered all over the floor surrounding him, like the idea of getting up and looking for the ashtray that is in the kitchen counter never crossed his mind, which it probably was the truth, you didn’t want to think about it though. 

He’s looking at you and you wish his stare was cold and detached as it usually is when he decides to deal with you. But your father is drunk, so very drunk and his eyes hold nothing but rage and depravation.

It transforms you into who you truly are at heart.

Behind the mask of maturity hides a terrified fourteen year old girl who has never been anything but prey to the people meant to care for her. 

“You’re late” Your dad says, voice rough and low. His legs spreading apart, his right hand grabbing his chin while his elbow is pressed against the armrest, but what he’s holding in his other hands is what takes away your breath.

His leather belt, resting perfectly still on his lap, his fist holding the objet in place like it will try and run away from him. You think that if the objects in the house came to life, they would indeed run away from him. 

“I’m sorry, sir” A trained response falls from your lips, big doe eyes glassy and breath strained with a fear that you can never fully shake off. 

He isn’t a forgiving man, you know it better than anyone else, even more than your mother who had only been able to escape this hell in a casket. 

You wish you could trade places with her sometimes, she knew how to deal with him when he got like this, when the brutality of his punches turned into something deviant, unnatural, inmoral, inhumane. 

Pretty little bird trapped in a cage, wings clipped so you won’t be able to fly away.

“You don’t seem very sorry to me” He rasps out, sending the coffee table towards you and hitting your legs with one powerful kick.

The pain is there before you can register his action, it takes your breath away in one swift motion and forces a primitive reaction out of you, crouching as your body curls into itself to cover your vital organs from him. 

The tears follow soon after, tiny broken little sobs falling from your lips as you keep your head down, so afraid of looking up at him because you know the moment you do everything will come crashing down on you. 

“I want my mommy” You don’t recognize your voice as the words escape you. It sounds so… so small and innocent, like your four year old self had come out from the valllies of your mind to request the only thing that could cure you.

Save you.

But you cannot put out a fire with prayers to a dead God, begging for your mother won’t do any good and yet, you still beg. 

Maybe because your life depends on it, because you don’t want to grow up into the shape your father tries to beat you into taking, or maybe the reason is nothing but the pure instinct of survival.

“What did you say?” Angry, he sounds so angry.

This time the pains steals your breath away, it’s sharp, sudden and excruciating in a way you had never experienced. Your ears ringing loudly as your head throbs in pain, the crown of your head it feels extremely warm, the pain is born from there and it travels down your neck into your spine.

Only when your ears stop ringing and the house falls into an uncomfortable silence do you hear the sound of something dripping. It confuses you because you know the faucet is shut and the one in the bathroom doesn’t work. 

The you notice it, droplets of crismon red falling to the floor with a steady rhythm, broken glass and the missing empty whiskey bottle that sat next to your father a few seconds ago.

It takes a few more seconds of focusing and processing till you connect the dots before you’re lifting your hand and touching the crown of your head before moving your hand into your line of vision. 

Blood.

“See what you made me do?” Your father speaks one more, his voice holds less anger but much more annoyance. He knows he took it too far this time, that this violence is dangerous not only for your health but also for his freedom.

He knows he can´t do much more tonight, not if he doesn’t want to leave marks that you can’t excuse with clumsiness and back luck. Instead he gets up and moves towards you, steps heavy against the creaky floor that does nothing but cry beneath his weight. 

He moves the coffee table to the side and crouches in front of you, form this close you can smell the alcohol and nicotine that sticks to him like tree sap to a childs hand, unforgiving, unmoving and so very overwhelming. 

His hands grabs a hold of your chin and tills your head upwards, forcing eye contact even though you can’t see anything through the tears that fall from your eyes. Ever so slowly he wipes them away, so softly it almost makes everything that happened before feel like a hazy dream. 

“Why do you make me do this to you?” He whispers, fingers digging sofly into your face, holding you in place like you might attack him back if he doens’t remind you what he has done and will do to you if you try to fight him on this.

Somewhere between the dull ache of his nails digging into your cheek and the warmth of his hand against your skin, you find the love he feels for you. It is a small and ugly thing, full of teeth and resentment, it does nothing but scream into the abyss of the space between hate and comfort it hides in.

You could scream at him, escape this mess with a punch to his face and nothing but the clothes on your back to start a new life, and it feels like the correct choice to make every time you find yourself crouched and trying to protect the most fragile parts of your being.

But your father can be so sweet, so caring and loving despite his anger, his addictions, his depravation…that the thought of ever harming him back seems insane, like a betrayal of the biggest degree, because when he shows his love it makes everything he’s ever done wrong turn into ash and be blown away by a soft summer breeze.

How could you ever harm him?

“I’m sorry, dad.” You whisper quietly against his hands, eyes tightly closed to pretend this is nothing but love, instead of sinister manipulation and torture. 

You are sorry about everything, and in between that ache of apologeticness that hides between your ribcage,  you cannot help but feel the most sorry for yourself. 

The awareness of deserving something even just slightly better than this is very much there, in the front of your mind every waking moment, but what can you do about it? there’s nothing out there for you. At least in here, trapped between the four walls of a burning house, you can feel the heat against your skin and pretend is the warmth of a loving home.

You don’t believe for a second that the apology is enough to appease him, but there’s nothing else you can mutter that will come even close to save you from the fate that awaits. 

Your father takes a deep breath and his hand tightens his grip, it’s painful and dominating in a way that everything else in your mind leaves you, everything except fear.

“You never learn” He stars speaking, jaw clenched by the sheer amount of anger his body is made of  “You never listen to the shit i tell you to do and then act like a fucking victim when i teach you a lesson” his nail dig dipper into your skin the marks already forming and already deciding they won’t fade until days later.

“This is your fault, everything that I’m about to do is your fault” With those final words he lets go of your face and stands up.

Then his hands latches to your hair with a violent and forceful grip, it makes the wound on your head bleed once more, the pain so strong it feels like your wound has been set on fire. He doesn’t care about it, that much is obvious with the way his fingers tighten when you squirm.

But the panic starts to really set in when your father starts dragging you across the floor as he begins walking towards….

No. No, Anything but that.

Your hands move by instinct, grabbing at anything that is close to you, the coffee table, the wall, the carpet. Anything that will anchor you into place and stop him from trapping you in that room because there truly are fates worse than death and that is one of them.

You scream so hard that your throat hurts, the horror of knowing what would happen once your father got you into the room and closed the door making you try and crawl away, the adrenaline numbing the pain of his grip on your hair.

Then a thought comes into your mind, a horrible yet brilliant one.

The broken glass pieces laying on the floor getting your attention as you waste precious seconds measuring the consequences of your actions. There isn’t much time to think though, a rough tug to your hair as your father continues to force you down the hallways reminds you of it.

It makes you pick one of the largest pieces of glass you can reach in panic before stabbing it directly into your father’s leg with strength that is born from fear alone.

His rage is quickly snuffed out bt the hot white pain that runs through his body, it forces him to let go of your hair and fall to the floor with a pained groan, his hands coming to clutch the wound to try and stop the bleeding.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry dad” You say repeatedly as you stand up with shaky legs, grabbing your backpack from it’s place by the front door and running out without thinking twice about your fathers screams.

The first that pops into your mind is to take your car and drive, leave this place forever and mever look back at what you would be leaving behind.

The idea doesn’t last very long, no matter how tempting it is to simply escape.

You know that it would be easy for him to find you and that’s the only thing that you don’t want.

Your father, albeit alcoholic, violent and depraved towards you, knows that the life he forced upon you inside of the trailer isn't one he can talk or make true outside of it.

That's why he has friends, why his cop friends in Indianapolis still mention his ex-girlfriend from high school and what she is up to, like your dad still has a claim in her.

Like if he says the word, they'll drag that poor woman to Hawkins and hand her to your father without a question.

You know the only real plan you can pull off is to walk into the woods, and get lost there for a few days.

Runaway teenage girls have never been a worry to the Hawkins police. Even more so, nobody that knows your name would want to help find you either.

That's why it doesn't scare you the moment your feet enter the woods.

The same woods where Will Byers went missing.

In the years the two of you had gotten wrapped into this patchwork family, he always seemed to find you when he was trying to find space for himself. Every time he managed to break away from the chaos of what your lives had turned into, his feet would find their way to right to you.

He hadn’t known what it meant at first, him always finding a place with you. The day you met, he had just started at Scoops Ahoy and you were Robin’s friend. Robin’s best friend as you liked to tease him for years after that. You were always sitting in the booth closest to the counter, rambling on about some asshole in the marching band who kept forgetting his spot or about how much you hated your math class over an open textbook and numbers he refused to even try to comprehend. The mere thought of you was enough to turn his brain to mush, leading to many embarrassing moments of him trying to flirt with other girls in some backwards way to get your attention- not that it worked on you.

It did, however, work on Robin, who would take a break from her teasing him about his crush to tell him to pull his head out of his ass and just ask you out already. He wanted to. He meant to. He really did. 

But in came Dustin Henderson, walkie in tow, and changed everything. Somehow, Robin had gotten swept up in the world Steve had tried so hard to forget about. Wherever Robin went, you were going too, even if that meant decoding secret Russian nonsense and getting the butt of a handgun to the face leaving a scar on your nose that still had yet to fade. 

Sitting in the bathroom with the two of you, doped up on something and bleeding on the tiles, Steve knew without a shadow of a doubt he was no longer in love with Nancy Wheeler. How could he be when you were right there, covered in blood with a swollen face, and still managing to be the prettiest girl he had ever seen? He wanted to tell you then. Tell you that he wasn’t in love with you, not yet, but that he could very soon be. 

He would be. 

Until Robin uncovered her truth, leaving him pulling his cards back to his chest as you smiled at her and held her hand. Some things are more important than some drugged up almost love confession. Being a good friend was one of them. So, he pushed the thought down and told himself he would find a better time.

The right time. 

As his luck would have it, he had been unable to find the right time. Every time he thought he would finally do it, some other life threatening situation would arise and you would toss yourself in head first just like he would. Except, he hated that you did that.

When he did it, it was because he had finally found a place where he belonged. Where he was needed. Wanted. So what if there were weird creatures and bizarre scientists at every corner? He had found himself at the hands of fate time and time again because of how strongly he had grown to care for the kids. 

He had Dustin.

You?

Well, you had Max. 

The girl had taken to you like a fish to water, the two of you grumpily sorting your way through life’s problems like the two of you had been together your whole lives. In a way, you felt like you had. You took her and El under your wing, dashing the two of them off in the name of trying to show them a normal life.

A childhood that they had been robbed of.

And then, there was Billy. And Hopper (or so you had thought at the moment). Their childhood dissipated right in front of your eyes, and he watched how hard you tried to fix things for them. How heavily it had weighed on you that the two kids you had tried so hard to protect found themselves in something that you couldn’t take away. 

So, he did what he thought was best. He got a job with you and Robin at Family Video. He would offer to do your returns for you, waving Robin off when she would wiggle her eyebrows at him from behind the counter as he would shuffle through the tapes you had been lugging around. He became acquainted with your phone number, calling you to ask you stupid questions like how long should he let water boil or if you had heard about Lucas trying out for the basketball team.

He started giving you rides, claiming that he was already getting Robin, it was no trouble at all to get you. You argued that you lived 15 minutes from Robin, who herself lived about 20 minutes from himself, but Robin told you to shut up and just take the kindness. Suddenly, you found yourself sitting in the front seat even though Robin was picked up first, your best friend insisting that she needed the extra leg room and that Steve’s cologne gave her migraines- even though she had been fine with it when the two of you bought it for his birthday.

Rides turned into you tagging along for the infamous Harrington movie nights, kids piling into his living room and arguing about Star Wars and candy flavors like their worlds hadn’t been swallowed up and spit back out. Your first time, you had gone to help Lucas in the kitchen with the popcorn, leaving Steve to argue with Dustin about not sitting with him for the night. The two had bickered for ages before Max had thrown a pillow at them silently, glaring at the younger boy until he begrudgingly took his new place on the love seat next to a cackling Robin. 

You emerged with Lucas, balancing three bowls of popcorn as if this had been an every day occurrence for you, none the wiser as you took the only open seat beside Steve that he had just fought for your place beside him.

If there was ever a place for you, it would be right next to him. Even if that meant he had to face the wrath of a very disgruntled Dustin Henderson.

Robin had caught your eye that night, arching an eyebrow and sending a mockingly sweet kiss your way. You had just rolled your eyes, sitting back and feeling your knee brush up against his. The smile he had sent your way was soft, knocking the wind out of your chest for just a moment. 

Maybe you were in love with Steve Harrington.

Who wouldn’t be?

As it became your permanent seat, the two of you found yourselves getting more comfortable. Brushed knees turned into fingers meeting in the popcorn bowl, an awkward apology glance thrown back and forth even though neither of you meant it. It got to a point where you were sitting with your toes tucked underneath his thigh, mumbling something about needing warmth and saving your toes from an eternal frost. He hadn’t minded of course.

Even if your toes were literally icicles through his sweatpants. 

Then, it all came to a halt. Max didn’t show up one week, telling her boyfriend that she just wasn’t feeling well. Lucas had still come, shoving his way into Dustin’s seat and earning the other boy a seat on the floor. Instead of letting Dustin grumble, you had gotten up and offered him your spot, saying you didn’t want to leave Max at home sick. Ignoring Steve’s glare, Dustin had taken your spot and you had let yourself out, waving at Steve through the window as you picked up your bike from the front lawn. 

You hadn’t come in for your shift the next day, Robin passing along the news to Steve early the next morning as he had been about to leave to get you. When he asked about it, Robin had pressed him to just let it go. You needed a minute, and they needed to give you that. 

So, he did. Give you a minute, that is. But a minute turned into days, and days turned into weeks with you suddenly having dropped off the face of the earth. You had quit with a note, telling your manager that you needed to focus on school and that maybe you would return in the summertime. Phone calls had gone unanswered, and when he came by your house, you were nowhere to be found.

You showed up randomly- another Friday where Mike had insisted you all had to watch E.T.- walking in a few minutes late with a tired smile that made his chest physically ache. Dustin practically threw himself across the carpet, offering you his seat on the couch without the smallest complaint. 

Nobody asked for an explanation and you didn’t offer one, sitting down as if no time had passed at all. He had been more daring then, knocking his knee into yours during the opening credits to get your attention. The moment your eyes met, he knew. Right then and there, Steve Harrington was sure that you were the love of his life. 

All he could do was smile at you. 

You just knocked your knee back against his, a smirk gracing the edge of your lips before leaning over and stealing his popcorn. 

Something was wrong. He could tell from the way you moved, the way you breathed. El was across the country and Max was- Well, he didn’t know what Max was doing then other than ignoring everyone. The two people you cared about the most were hurting, so he didn’t push. It wasn’t his place. 

It wasn’t the right time to tell you that he wanted it to be. So, he threw a piece of popcorn at the side of your head and settled back into waiting again. He could wait. 

That was a lifetime ago, that much Steve could tell as he walked out onto his back porch and found you sitting on the edge of the steps. Your head propped up on your balled up fist as you stared at the glistening pool water only a few feet in front of you. 

A small part of him screamed for him to turn back, to go back inside and find himself a corner of the universe that wasn’t occupied. For a brief moment, he debated it. He didn’t even know you came here tonight, you having climbed in the back of Jonathan’s car after you had been excused from the precinct. Jonathan had gone home, dropping Robin and Vickie off on his way after his brother had insisted he needed to be with his friends tonight. 

He hadn’t even thought about it when he had offered up his own house, just tossing the younger Byers boy a key while he ignored another question about how he knew about the Upside Down. He had only caught your eye for a second, just long enough to see you duck into the car and for him to tell himself that he would call you later. After he dealt with the wake he had somehow offered himself into hosting. 

In his mind, you had been at home, tucked away in your own corner with your grief like you preferred. He had learned that in your time fighting that you needed space when things like this happened. He would go to you after, he always did. 

For some reason, you had come to him. Well, almost. 

“You stalking me, Harrington?” You asked, not even bothering to turn around as he found himself planting his feet. 

There was no point in him turning back now. You knew he was there without so much as a glance. Like you knew the same way he did that his feet would always bring him right to wherever you were. 

“This is my house, you know?”

He finds himself sitting next to you, dropping his feet on the step with a soft thud as his brown eyes catch a glimpse of the side of your face. You don’t look at him. You don’t think you could if you wanted to. 

Steve Harrington is sunshine reincarnated and it was hard to see any light tonight. 

“I thought you went home,” he says, unsure of what else to say. He didn’t know what to say to anyone tonight. Not Dustin. Not Hopper. Not Max.

Especially not to you. 

You just shrug, letting your hand fall from underneath your chin and letting it pick at your blood soaked jeans. Your knuckles are bruised, a deep cut that had sliced down your index finger wrapped tightly in gauze as a reminder that no part of you had escaped unfazed by the day's actions. 

“I did.” 

You sigh, shaking your head as if that’s wrong because it is. You had tried to go home. The day had ended in the worst way possible, and you just wanted to be alone. Getting into Jonathan’s car had been simple enough. He and you were the same that way. You didn’t want the big spectacle, you wanted to go deal with this on your own. 

At least, you thought you did. The closer you got to your house, the more wrong it felt. It was like you could feel Steve’s hand tugging at the back of your jacket again, pulling you away from throwing yourself into danger much like he had today. There’s a part of you that wishes he hadn’t. 

The other part of you had you quietly asking Jonathan to turn the car around. He hadn’t asked any questions, just gave you a look like he was already expecting your request before he flung the car in the opposite direction. 

You had asked to come here without really knowing why, finding yourself walking around to the front gate instead of going in the front door for the simple reason that you were afraid. You knew everyone would be in the living room, trying to hold each other together as you all tried to figure out what had possibly gone wrong. 

Hopper was in there. Max. Will. Dustin. Mike. Lucas.

You wouldn’t be able to look around the room and not see the person who you had fought so hard to get through to tonight. You had asked Jonathan to drop you off here without even thinking about what it would be like to actually be here without her. Going to your house had felt like the wrong thing to do, but going inside hadn’t felt right either. 

Anytime you dealt with loss, you had wanted to do it alone. At home where you felt safe enough to fall apart. 

Tonight, that feeling had brought you to Steve Harrington’s back porch. 

That means something. You know that it does. The way the unfamiliar feeling claws at your chest, wrapping tightly around your throat, you know that it means something you can’t place right now. It’s not the right time. 

You let yourself get a look. One look over your shoulder at the person sitting next to you. Bright brown eyes stare back at you, a look on his face that you wouldn’t be able to place on any other night. 

It means something that you are here. You know it, and the look in his eye tells you he knows it too. 

He pushes his fallen hair out of his eyes, offering you the softest smile that squeezes your chest. Hard. You blink, tears welling in your eyes as you turn away, ripping your gaze away from his face. 

Maybe you are in love with Steve Harrington. Any other day, you would have laughed it off or said something snarky to make the guilty clawing in your chest go away. Any other day, maybe you would have had the courage to face it. 

Tonight, you lost someone. Someone who fought so hard for a life you never even wanted. She was in love. She had a family. She was in love. 

Was. 

So, no. Maybe it did mean something that you had found yourself here. Maybe it had meant something when you had offered to be bait before the final battle, only to be yanked back by the very man sitting next to you with defiance in his eyes. 

Maybe the two of you were in love. Maybe. 

But you can’t be tonight. 

Tonight, you just have to breathe. 

So, you do the best thing you can. Staring at the water, you force back your tears, teeth ripping at the skin inside of your lip as if you can keep your confession in by sheer force. 

“You’re a good friend, Steve.”

That’s all it takes for two hearts beating to the same rhythm to wither. 

Anger

You weren’t known for your even temper or your cool demeanor. In fact, you had been referred to far too many times by Hopper as ‘Bottle Rocket’ because of how quick you were to fly off the handle. You tried your best to keep yourself collected, but sometimes life tried you a little too much and you were the first to explode. 

You weren’t quiet in your anger or distrust in the world around you. In fact, you were very vocal when you didn’t like something or you felt like something wasn’t right. You and Dustin argued probably more than he found himself arguing with Steve the entirety of the aftermath of the mall incident solely because you thought the younger boy was an adrenaline junkie and he was looking for something to fill the void that the Mind Flayer and their hazardous adventures had left behind. 

You and Dustin got along great when the two of you weren’t on two opposing sides of a plan, which tended to not happen very often until he stumbled his way into a new Dungeons and Dragons club led by “a rockstar of the most epic proportions” as the boy had so poetically put it. 

Dustin knew you weren’t Eddie’s biggest fan. You hadn’t exactly been quiet in how ridiculous you found his disregard for the kid’s lives outside of their campaign. Eddie lived a life full of mischief, but he also prioritized the game as much as the kids did. So, you grit your teeth and smiled and waved as you dropped them off and picked them up with your newly acquired license. 

Steve disliked Eddie for his own reasons, but he admired how you had been willing to ignore your dislike for the man in an attempt to let Dustin enjoy his new friends. You were polite, and you asked questions, and you wrote notes for yourself that he would catch you going over before the kids got in the car so that you wouldn’t be confused on any details. 

As the two of you sat in the bleachers for Lucas’ game, a disgruntled Max sat next to you with her headphones plugged in, Steve was shocked that you contained yourself when you noticed the rest of the party didn’t show. You cheered- Steve even lost his voice after the game from how loud he was yelling- but he could tell from the tap of your foot that the rest of the kids were in for it when you got your hands on them.

You would excuse a lot of things for people, but being a bad friend wasn’t one of them. Steve had learned that quickly that your friendships meant more to you than anything or anyone. Eddie Munson may not have been your favorite person, but he didn’t turn the kids into bad friends. They did that all on their own. 

Then Chrissy was found dead. 

If Steve had been skeptical of Eddie and his ability to somehow be found near a dead body that Dustin swore wasn’t of his own doing, you were downright distrusting. You had been completely and utterly convinced that Dustin had somehow found his way into a lion’s den. 

Still, you went because of course you did. Of course you would. You knew exactly when to tuck tail and run, but you wouldn’t leave anyone behind. Especially not a kid. You had taken to the group like a mother hen, and you weren’t going to let one of your own go running after a supposed murderer. 

Dustin had spent the entire time trying to convince the two of you that Eddie was innocent after you had made the point that you didn’t think he killed Chrissy because he was an outcast, but because her body had been found in his house. Steve wasn’t too keen on the idea of running around after an accused murderer- he wasn’t jealous of Dustin favoring Eddie at all- but he went because you two had already decided you had to.

Then, a body had slammed Steve up against the side of the boat house, knife in hand pressed tightly to his throat, and you were swinging a boat oar before you could think, dropping Dustin’s new idol like a sack of rocks. In that exact moment, his chest had squeezed so tightly that the fear of having a knife pressed to his throat didn’t even register. The only thing his brain had thought at that very moment was that he was completely and utterly in love with you. 

Everything after that was a blur of clocks, fumbling through cassette tapes, and screaming. Lots of screaming. In fact, the only thing he vividly remembers from that time period beside watching Max’s body levitating in the air is the squish of the bat that had sunk its teeth into your thigh as you went tumbling in the lake portal after him, a screech caught in your throat so inhuman that he swore to himself he would never let you find yourself in a situation like that again. He plucked it out of your leg as gently as it could before he slammed it against the ground and crushed it in between his own hands.

He had been in fights before, fought demogorgons with a baseball bat and a prayer, but he had not brutally killed anything up until that point. He knew he was capable of killing, but to feel life leave beneath his own palms was something else. It should have bothered him. Maybe in another life, it would have. 

In this one, all he could find himself to care about was that you were alive and you had reached for his hand when Nancy cleaned the wound. The hands that still held evidence of him being a killer didn’t seem to phase you at all. 

He loved you. He would rip Vecna’s head off and give it to you on a platter if it meant you would hold his hand again.

You? 

Well, you were going to kill Vecna yourself. You had cemented it in your mind, but you had said it out loud the moment the clock chimed in the hellscape you found yourselves in again, signalling that your plan had failed. 

He had gotten Max. 

Max, who had been so scared of dying that she couldn’t find it in herself to actually live. A kid who spent her last moments writing letters to all of her friends, tears spilling from her eyes as she crushed your envelope into your hand. She was just a kid. One of your own. 

Your kid. 

The girl who taught you how to skateboard. The girl who you spent five hours trying to teach to apply eyeliner. The person who made you laugh as she made jokes about her friends. She trusted you with her secrets and asked you for help with Lucas. The girl you had gifted a Kate Bush tape to for her birthday without knowing the significance of what you had just done. 

Steve had seen you angry, blinded by rage and protectiveness as you dropped Eddie Munson for threatening his life. You stomped on a demobat after ripping it out of Nancy’s arm, every cuss word in the world falling from your lips as you crushed the life out of the creature. 

The anger he had grown accustomed to from you was loud. Wild. A little reckless. He never had to guess what you were thinking because it was right there on your face. Rage was something you didn’t bottle up because there was no room for it. Not in the world you lived in. 

Until Max. 

This anger was quiet. Calculating. You consoled Dustin over the loss of his friend. You sat with Lucas in the hospital, offering him a smile that Steve still wasn’t sure how you had managed. You didn’t scream. 

You offered to help El with her training. You asked Nancy to teach you how to use a gun. You didn’t yell. In fact, you said you would kill Vecna once, and nobody heard you utter the sentiment again. You didn’t have to. 

Anyone could feel it in the air when you moved. 

You plotted. You planned. You worked for it. You learned how to rig electrical systems and you helped with supply runs. Along the way, you turned into a one woman base stepping into any role you could to get yourselves any closer to finishing this. Ending all of it. 

You weren’t loud anymore with your disdain. You were quiet. 

So, had Steve expected to get a call at two in the morning from Robin asking him if he would mind swinging by your house? Well, if he was being honest, no. 

That didn’t stop him from driving through town like a bat out of hell, tires screeching to a stop along the dirt pavement in front of your house. He was out of the car before he had even pulled the keys out of the ignition, ripping them out and losing them somewhere in the dark of the night. 

He doesn’t turn back, kicking up dust as he jogs up to the front door just as he hears the reason Robin called in the first place. There’s no screaming. No crying as he pushes open the front door. 

Just glass. 

Everywhere. 

Yelling your name felt like the right idea, but it does nothing to stop as a loud crashing sound echoes from down the hallway. He’s only been inside of your house twice in the years that the two of you have known each other, most of your get-togethers having been hosted by him. The last time he had been inside was while waiting for you to braid El’s hair before a family dinner night just a few months ago. 

Then, your house was cozy. Blankets thrown over the couch to match the seasons, pillows thrown into chairs with designs he would never have pictured you choosing on your own. There had been pictures on the wall of your parents, of you, and of the kids. You had so many pictures of the kids on the wall the last time Steve had entered through the door. 

Now? Well, your house looks dead. Even with the light on as he navigates through your entryway, the place looks nothing like he remembers it. There are no worn yellow blankets across the couch, flowers wilted and scattered across the floor next to what remains of the blue vase you and Robin had picked out at a thrift store the summer he met you. 

He doesn’t attempt to skip the mess, sneakers crunching in the shards. There’s no time for him to be careful when another crash sound causes a lurch in his chest. The idea of you being hurt somewhere within reach, but still too far away twists at his gut, rearing something ugly in his chest. When he meets the stressed gaze of Robin, who is standing in front of your open doorway, he watches her sigh in relief as his eyes flicker around for any sign of danger.

There isn’t any, but that isn’t what worries him. What causes his heart to stop for just one second, turning back for the first time since he entered your home to confirm what he had somehow missed.

Your pictures are gone. All of them. 

Blank wall after blank wall greets his gaze as he looks back through the hall, twisting the worry in his gut into a knot that almost sends him into a full blown panic. 

You had spent so much money and so much time piecing together your gallery of photos, constantly swatting hands away from your freshly developed film envelopes or telling the group to move in closer and to just smile for once- usually directed at Max or Mike, depending on the day. If you weren’t badgering Jonathan around to get photos, you were sneaking some of your own with the old camera the older Byers boy had insisted he didn’t need anymore. 

Lucas had asked you why you always insisted on capturing the moment once, after cramming him in between yourself and Steve for a photo after one of his games, and Steve could remember the way you smiled at the younger boy. Memories are a tricky thing, and you wanted to make sure when you were old and gray that you may lose your ability to walk or make a cup of coffee, but you would never lose their faces. 

Robin had told him a different story when he had off-handedly mentioned it to her in the middle of a shift that you had somehow managed to get out of. You had lost a lot over the years, your mom leaving town after the mall fire, refusing to stick around in a town your dad had long since run out on. You had refused to go with her, insisting that Hawkins was your home and that you wouldn’t leave your friends behind. You had finally found a place where you belonged, your world no longer revolved around home and Robin, and you wouldn’t give that up. 

The day before the town cracked in half was the last time you had spoken to the woman, who told you that she was getting married and hoped you would travel to Washington to see it. You declined, telling her that she had made her own choice and you had made yours. There were crawls to run, plans to make, and work to be done- all things you couldn’t tell her. Instead, you had told her another truth which was you were not leaving Max. 

Not for a wedding. Not for a woman who had only reached out twice since she left. 

That was the last you had heard from her, but you left her pictures up. Just because you had created a new life didn’t mean you wanted to get rid of your old one. A bad memory doesn’t get rid of the good ones. 

You hadn’t taken the pictures with your mother down then. You’d even left photos of your father from when you were a kid up. Steve remembered because he didn’t recognize the man in the picture, but your younger face had been unmistakable. 

You never took photos down.

“Oh thank god,” Robin breathes out, yanking Steve by the arm, pulling him back a few feet and almost toppling him over his own feet in her rush. 

She stops pulling when they reach the end of the hallway, shoulders jerking at the sound of another crash coming from the room she had just pulled him away from. 

“Rob,” he pulls his arm out of her grasp, eyes flipping from hers to the banging in the other room. “What the hell?”

“I think-”

Crash.

Steve is moving before he realizes, feet crunching through the glass once again before Robin is pulling him back, slamming her knobby elbow into his stomach in warning. Bewildered, he turns his attention to his best friend, failing to move around her. 

“What?”

“I am getting to it,” Robin pushes, blocking his pathway as another shattering sound grabs his attention. “Would you quit for two seconds? I’m trying to explain.”

“You called me.”

“Shh,” Robin says, shoving her hand over his mouth before glancing behind herself in the direction of the noise. “Will you just- Ew. Did you just lick me?”

She yanks her hand back, which is the exact opening he had been hoping for, twisting his body around hers and taking off down the hallway. Robin shouts behind him, fingers barely missing the fabric of his jacket as he moves into the room she had been trying to keep him out of. 

He skids to a halt in the doorway, hand coming up to rest on the frame and keep him from tumbling inside, eyes scanning the room for danger. He sees glass decorating the floor, wooden frames busted and bent in a heaping pile in the middle of the room.

No Demogorgons.

No axe murderers. 

Just you, standing on the top of a step stool, fingers skimming around the edge of a picture frame that is hanging above your dresser. You slide the frame up, taking it off of it’s mount, and cradle the photo in your hands for just a moment. 

There’s no danger here. 

Just you, eyes glued to the picture in your hand.

In the blink of an eye, he sees the clench of your jaw before the frame is tossed over your shoulder, colliding with the edge of your bed before it shatters against the floor. He steps back on instinct, his back colliding with the front of Robin, who curses and stumbles back.

“I think this is what they call the anger stage,” Robin whispers, poking her finger into his spine despite him trying to twist out of the way. “I didn’t know what to do. Figured I should call either you or Hopper. Now, I’m starting to think I-”

“I’ve got it.”

“Steve.” 

He clenches his jaw, turning just slightly to welcome Robin into his personal space. She is a lot of great things, but good in an emotional crisis has never been one of them. She’s panicked because she cares, he knows that, but something swells in his chest when she tells him the call had been between him and Hopper. 

He hates that there was even a debate to be had, as selfish as it sounds. If he had just sorted all this shit out earlier, there wouldn’t have been a doubt in Robin’s head about who would be better to call right now. 

It should be him.

Hopper was like a father to you after all this time, everyone knew that. Steve wouldn’t want to step on any toes, especially not the ones belonging to the sheriff, but after losing El, both of you had retreated in on yourselves and neither one of you was willing to extend an olive branch.

You were angry because he had been your last hope for Eleven to live. For her to get the life you thought she deserved, Hopper should have fought her harder. Made her see sense before you all had to watch her go right along with the Upside Down. 

Hopper was angry because he knew that. There was nothing more in the world he wanted to do than to lock El somewhere safe and have her here right now. He had given Eleven a choice, and he genuinely thought she was going to pick them. That she was going to kill Henry, end this all, and come home. Looking at you just reminded him that his decision had hurt the both of you in the process.

Neither of you liked being wrong and both of you refused to acknowledge your hurt. 

You may not be Steve’s biggest fan right now, but you weren’t anyone’s. You had shut yourself in so tightly that nobody knew how to reach you right now. It wasn’t something personal, and Steve knew that.

He knew you better than anyone. Hopper would have been the wrong choice, and if this isn’t the right one, then Steve wouldn’t be hurt by it. He loved you enough to have a few picture frames thrown at him. 

He had loved you when you were all smiles and ruffling kids hair and bickering about who got to pick the music in the car. Loving you was the easiest thing in the world. He had been doing it in his sleep for years now. He could love you through this, even if you didn’t want him to. 

“I’ve got it,” he insists, a look in his eyes that Robin knows better than to argue with. “You can head home if you want.”

“She’s-”

“It’s okay,” he interjects, not wanting to argue. “Not my first rodeo.”

Robin groans, rolling her eyes at his attempt to lighten the mood and convince her that he has this. Of course he does. He’s faced interdimensional creatures, he can handle this. 

“I take it all back,” Robin says, shoving his shoulder. “I hope she kills you.”

Steve just dramatically rolls his eyes, nudging her shoulder as he steps back up to the doorway. She gives him one last tug, an out that he has no care to take, but an out none the less.

“Be careful, Dingus.”

“I’m right where I want to be.”

It’s meant to be assuring, but he notices the look of understanding that crosses Robin’s face the second it leaves his mouth. All she can do is smirk, patting him on the shoulder before she slowly tries to make her way down the hallway.  

The softest knock from the opening of the room pulls your attention away from the photo of Max and El grinning at the camera years ago that currently rests in your hand. You jump, just enough for your legs to wobble a little bit in surprise as your eyes don’t find the girl you had already sent home, but Steve Harrington leaning against your doorframe. 

You had told Robin you were fine, that she didn’t need to worry. She had heard commotion from her home next door, coming over to check on you and make sure there was nothing otherworldly going on. There were no creatures running around in your house, just you.

Redecorating.

You’re fine.

You just didn’t want to look at all of it anymore. You couldn’t close your eyes without seeing the faces of everyone that had once been on your walls, surely that was enough. You didn’t need to keep the frames up like some sort of sick joke. 

There is nothing wrong with that. 

You’re fine.

Which you tell the brown eyed boy standing a few feet from you, feet still glued in the doorway like he is trying to figure you out. Like you’re a puzzle and he is treading lightly to get all the pieces together. 

“Okay, so I’m standing in a sea of glass for fun?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“I don’t remember inviting you over here, Harrington,” you bite back, tossing the frame over your shoulder before you step down from your stool. “I don’t know what you like to get up to in your free time.”

You snatch your stool off the floor, bringing it over to the grouping of frames you have hung up by your window. The curtains are open, the night sky from your backyard creeping in as you drop the stool to the ground and sliding it across the floor loudly. 

“Harrington?” Steve huffs out, but you don’t turn around. You don’t feel like coddling him right now. “That’s where we are at?”

You’ve called him Harrington very few times, much less since the two of you had become allies and eventually friends. It was a way to keep yourself detached from him, keeping the lines in the sand from high school between you. That had gone out the window after the mall had burned down, but you hardly ever brought the name out of retirement. You tend to reserve it to tease him or when you are angry. 

Judging by the shattering of the next frame, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out which one you are. 

“Go home, Steve,” you correct yourself, still not turning to look at him. You don’t want to see his stupid puppy dog eyes looking at you like there’s something wrong. There isn’t. “I’m just redoing the place. Like I told Robin, I appreciate the concern, but I’m-”

“This isn’t helping.”

Your hand stops, fingers tightly curling around the frame of you when you were younger, holding up a pail full of sand with a younger Robin at your side, smiling equally as wide at the camera. Your jaw clenches as you let out a puff of air, refusing to let him rattle you.

“It’s a good thing I don’t need help then, isn’t it?”

There’s no point in looking back as your hand drops, the frame sliding out of your finger tips and landing against the floor. The frame cracks against the hard floor, a corner sliding into the fragments of glass. 

“Where’s your broom?” he asks after you step down, causing you to straighten up from where you had tried to grab the stool.

“My what?”

Your eyes find his, eyebrows furrowed together as you wait for him to repeat himself. He pushes off of the wall, arms still crossed over the front of his worn sweatshirt as he meets your gaze. 

“The wooden stick thing?” he asks waving his hand around in the air, “You like push it around on the floor-”

The look you give him has him putting his hands in the air in surrender, the fakest innocent look on his face even though you can see the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. 

He is doing it on purpose, trying to get your mind off of what you had been doing while offering you help. In another life, you would have had that warm fuzzy feeling in your chest that you always did when you were within a few feet of him. Your heart would have squeezed and you would have been giggling on the phone to Robin later about how stupid he looked standing in your bedroom in an old sweatshirt and sweatpants that had paint still splattered on them from when you had all helped Robin paint her apartment. 

Maybe six months ago, you would have been so doe-eyed at the idea of Steve Harrington being in your bedroom that you would have cursed yourself about the cliche of falling for the casanova of your high school nightmares later and embraced it in the moment. 

Steve Harrington standing in your bedroom and offering you help with his soft brown eyes and a bit of drool still crusted in the corner of his mouth was not a fantasy you had time for. 

“Go home, Steve.” You breathe out tiredly, foot crunching in the glass as you move across the room to your desk, leaving the stool behind to grab the photo of you at your graduation, sandwiched in between your kids with ridiculously wide smiles on your faces. 

As you reach for the photo, fingers dart out to grab your wrist, wrapping around it lightly. You suck in a breath, fighting the fuzzy feeling in your head at the feel of his fingers on you. He doesn’t wait for you to look up, and you’re not going to. 

“I am getting the broom,” he insists, tone soft as you feel his eyes flick over the side of your face. “Either you can tell me where it is or I’m just going to start picking all this up by hand. Then you can explain to Mike why I’m unavailable to help paint his DND figures this weekend.”

You tug at your wrist, him letting you go without a fight. He doesn’t move, keeping his feet planted right behind you. He’s pushing, and while he knows that, stopping before things go too far has never been his strong suit. He’s determined to help you. 

Always the hero.

“I’ll clean it up when I’m done,” you insist, rubbing a hand down your face in frustration. The last thing you want from him is pity. Or him thinking you’ve gone off the deep end and calling in Hopper. “I’m a big girl. I know how to clean up.”

“Or-”

“I don’t want or need your help,” you grit out, teeth clenched together. 

He’s pushing every last button you have, and you know he knows it. This is why you like to handle things like this yourself. You don’t need Steve Harrington running around behind you, sweeping up your messes like you’re one of the kids. You’re not his girlfriend. 

You reach out, grabbing the wooden frame housing the picture you had come to get. This one had been one of your favorites, your cap barely sitting right on your head and your gown swallowed by the kids who had swarmed you. 

Lucas was making bunny ears behind Dustin’s head, smiling bright while Max side-eyes him from her spot on your left, tucked in under your arm. Dustin has his arm wrapped tightly around Will, who is awkwardly trying to bend to not block the shot from reaching your face. Under your right arm is Eleven, hair curling out around her ears with a sparkly clip you had put in her hair just for the occasion. Her eyes are locked on the side of your face, smiling brightly as her arm sits tightly around your waist. Mike has his arm wrapped around her, the slightest forced smile on his face which looks more like a grimace, but you had never minded. You remember how Nancy had yelled at him to smile, warning him that you were definitely going to keep this and he was going to have to look at it all the time. 

The frame is plucked out of your hand, pulled behind you so fast you barely even register that Steve had somehow managed to out maneuver you. You spin around on your heels with a glare, reaching out to snatch the frame back only to see him raise the frame over his head with a challenging look on his face. 

“Cut it out,” you say as you reach for the frame, refusing to make a real move for it. You’re not going to embarrass yourself by jumping. 

“This isn’t going to make you feel better.”

“I feel fine.”

“Odd way of showing it, don’t ya think?” Steve asks, tilting his head as he keeps the photo raised above his head. 

You narrow your eyes at him, irritation bubbling in your chest as you stare at the boy in front of you. He’s looking at you with all of the patience in the world, despite his comments, and you could love him for it. Maybe at another time you will. Right now, all you know is you need him out of here. You don’t have room for the Steve Harrington shaped hole in your heart right now. Right now, you need your walls to be blank and for your chest to stop hurting. 

“Don’t act like you know me.”

Lie.

Both of you know it is. You watch it land across his face, the slightest twinge in his features and you hope that just maybe it will be enough to convince him to leave. To let you deal with this exactly how you have been. Alone.

All he does is toss the picture down on your bed, letting it fall with the quietest thud of the night as he looks at you with a look you’re not entirely sure you want to read into right now. The corners of his mouth turn up into a soft smile, eyes kind as he looks back at you like you aren’t purposefully trying to bite at him.

“Maybe I don’t,” he concedes, letting the argument that has his chest aching even if his face isn’t showing it go. You don’t need an argument right now, you need something to be mad at. He can do that. “What I do know is, you are angry and you are hurt. You look like you haven’t slept in days-”

“Thanks.” 

He ignores you, crossing his arms over his chest like a concerned mother. 

“I am going to clean this mess up, whether you want me to or not. Whether you like it or not, I am not going anywhere,” he says firmly. “So, you can either go to sleep or you can help. Those are your options. If you want something to be mad at, be mad at me. But know that I’m not leaving.”

You clench your jaw, glaring at him. Under normal circumstances, he is the easiest person in the world to crack. Pissing people off isn’t a new feat for him, but he hates when you are mad at him. It drives him up a wall to even think that you were the slightest bit unhappy, leading to many laughs from Robin when the three of you had worked together and you responded to anything in a weird way. He would pace for hours, bugging Robin and asking her what he had done or if you had said anything.

This is the only time in your recollection that Steve meets your gaze evenly, his eyes unwavering as he looks back at you. 

“If you don’t want me to help you with all the other stuff, I won’t push you.” He steps forward, sneakers kicking up a shard of glass and he just bats it away with his foot. “But this is something I can help with.”

The words hit you in the chest, the idea that he refuses to go anywhere, settling in and tugging at the edges of your chest, warmth starting to bloom no matter how hard you try to snuff it out. He’s not looking at you with pity in his eyes or a worried look settled into the crease of his brow. 

Steve Harrington is looking at you like he always does, all warm brown eyes and soft smiles that have always seemed to land you in a world of trouble. 

It bubbles in your chest, softly reminding you that while you are angry with the world for how you are feeling right now, no part of you finds any blame in the boy standing in front of you. He had done everything he could to protect those kids. How can you be mad at him when he hadn’t led to the loss that has taken over your life?

You’re mad at the world for existing the way it does. For Henry Creel who had been a kid exposed to horrible things, but instead of becoming half the person El or Will had become, chose to become something darker. At Billy for being such a dick and causing so much pain in his wake. At Eddie for somehow dragging himself into this world and deciding now was the time to be a hero. At Dr. Brenner for using Eleven, even though she was just a kid. At Dr. Kay for thinking that she was somehow going to take advantage of the situation and create a new experiment. At Kali for convincing El that she couldn’t have a real life. At Hopper for not keeping her safe like he had promised. 

No part of you is mad at Steve. You’re not sure you could be. Not really. 

He knows as much when he watches your shoulders drop and you tug the inside of your cheek in between your teeth. You aren’t going to let yourself cry. He wasn’t expecting any less, only having seen you cry a handful of times in the years that you have known each other.

But you want to.

So, he does the only thing he knows how, tugs you by the elbow and into his chest hoping that the pounding in his chest doesn’t give his feelings away as he wraps his arms around you. You just drop your forehead against him, fingers digging into his arms as you rest against him. 

“I can’t look at them anymore.” You choke out, swallowing the lump in your throat. He nods, not that you can see him, moving a hand up your back in a sweep of comfort. 

“I’ve got it.”

Bargaining

There are a million different moments in life where someone can look back and think that this is where everything went wrong. If they had just been smarter, had more money, or stayed to chat with someone one last time, then everything would be different. One single choice that they had made was the breaking point that ended with them in the mess they find themselves in now. 

You didn’t have one big moment. There wasn’t a choice that had somehow cemented the future that you now found yourself in.

It was a million different little ones.

Things that didn’t feel like choices. Tiny, insignificant pieces of a puzzle that somehow were always going to end up with you sitting on Steve Harrington’s roof, feet dangling over the edge as you stare out at the night sky with an ache in your chest and a heaviness in your mind. 

You’d like to say that you would do it all again. That every single thing you had witnessed in the last few years had been worth it. That the decision to befriend your neighbor at 6 years old was the best decision you had ever made. That even in all of the bad, you had continued to find reasons to let you embrace the fact that you are sitting here and still alive. 

You wish you could, but the thought twists in your mind and you just shove it down.

Was it worth it? Following your best friend into a world to aid King Steve of all people? To lose your mom? All the bloodshed? The scars both physical and emotional? To find somewhere you belonged? To find the people you belonged to only to still lose in the end?

It had been treated as a victory of sorts. The death of Henry, the end of Vecna, the destruction of the Upside Down. It had been the thing you had wished for every night before you went to sleep. The very thing that you thought would make every single sacrifice worth it. You had watched Joyce decapitate the subject of your hatred right in front of your own eyes, and for a moment, it all felt worth it.

Now?

Was it worth it?

Had you been so willing to destroy the world that had tortured your family for so long that you didn’t care about who would have to pay the price? Was Henry worth Eleven?

“Got room for one more in this pity party?”

You lean back, fingers pressing against the shingles beneath you as you watch Max step out from the same window you had crawled out of. With her new haircut, she looks so much older than the little kid you remember her as. She insisted you cut it after swearing off braids for the rest of her life, and you couldn’t blame her at all.

“What the hell are you doing?” You ask as she steps towards you, holding her hands out away from herself for balance. “I don’t think most people get out of their wheelchairs and just decide to climb on top of a house.”

She rolls her eyes, dropping into the spot next to you. Her feet kick out next to yours, sneakers scuffing against the siding with her first swing. 

“Avoiding your own party to sit on the roof is pretty lame, you know?”

“Says the person avoiding the owner of this roof.” She shoots back, a smirk spreading across her face as you narrow your eyes at her. 

You pull one of your legs up, letting your arm rest across your knee as you glare at her. She just gives you a smug look, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she waits for your protest, which you will happily give.

“I’m not avoiding him. I’m just-”

“Hiding on his roof instead of participating in the ‘glad you got your legs back’ party?” she cuts your bad attempt at lying off. “Or leaving an entire cart of groceries behind at the store because he waved at you and you panicked?”

From the far too happy look on her face, your embarrassing grocery store incident had been the center of the kids last hangout. If you didn’t know any better, you might have thought Steve said something, but you remember seeing a distinct set of curls before you had dashed out the front doors. 

Dustin Henderson was in for the lecture of a lifetime when you went back down. 

You hadn’t meant to avoid Steve. At least, you didn’t think so at first. You had run into him and the younger boy only two days after he had spent the entirety of the night cleaning up after you had destroyed your house. You had fallen asleep on the couch and woke up to a blanket tossed over you and him gone. 

So, you had been a little embarrassed that he had witnessed one of your worst moments. Sue you. 

After darting out like a baby deer, you had set out to avoid the boy and avoid having to explain yourself. You gave him a small nod in acknowledgement or the smallest of smiles at Robin’s, but the second he tried to speak to you, you would find some reason to be whisked away with a panicked look to your shared best friend. 

“Okay, so maybe I’m avoiding him a little bit.” You concede and the grin she had been containing spreads across her face. 

You can’t help the smile that spreads across your own. The first one since you could even remember, but you embrace it just the same. It’s not as wide as it could be or it once was, but the girl sitting in front of you deserves nothing less than the best you can offer.

“But I at least have a reason,” You add, leaning to rest your chin on your fist to look Max in her eyes. “Why are you out here instead of enjoying your party? Lucas had Will and Joyce working on that cake for days.”

She twists the string bracelet tied around her wrist, fingers tugging on the ending you had spent hours teaching her and El during a sleepover after they had spent weeks begging. Your face feels hot when you notice the action, turning your face back to the trees out in front of you as you swallow the memory down. 

“It’s not a party without you,” she says quietly. “Not for me anyways.”

It’s the worst sucker punch you’ve ever felt, knocking the wind out of you as your burning eyes glance over at her. She sits in front of you, nearly an adult who has been through a hell you can’t even imagine, but all you can see is the young girl who was trying to find her place in the world. 

You have found your own family with the people in this house, but somehow it never dawned on you that some of them have found their own place with you too. 

“Besides,” she shrugs as she watches you fight back the tears in your eyes, “I figured if I let Steve come out here, he would try to kiss it better and I’ve got ten dollars on that not happening yet.”

“Max Mayfield, you little-” you shout, but she is already laughing and you can’t find it in yourself to be upset with her. 

She’s a kid who has been tortured worse than anyone could imagine by the world all of you had somehow been dragged into. She has chosen to stick around, chose to stay by everyone’s sides for good or bad. 

She had accepted the risk that everything would turn out horrible, just like you had. Even after losing nearly everything, she was sitting in front of you after stupidly climbing out of a window with a boyfriend who had you blowing up balloons until your cheeks hurt and she deserved every bit of it. 

You would have taken her place in a heartbeat. You had begged and pleaded to anyone in the universe who was listening to spare her and let it be you instead. 

None of it had worked. No choice you had made miraculously changed this outcome. 

Was killing Vecna worth losing Eleven? No. 

Was killing him worth being able to sit next to the little sister who had wormed her way into your heart? Absolutely. 

Smiling back at the teenager sitting with you, there’s no doubt in your mind that El had the exact same thought. You are sisters after all.

Depression

After two long weeks of radio silence, Steve is officially in full fledged overthinking mode. He knew that he had pushed you, but he hadn’t thought he had driven you that far away. Wanting to help and somehow shoving people further away seemed to be a strong suit of his, but he didn’t want it to be. 

Especially not with you.

The last time he had seen you, you and Max were sitting on the roof of his house, feet dangling and laughs bubbling out of the both of you so loudly that he almost forgot how to breathe. He had forgotten you even knew how to do that. How to laugh.

He had found you because of course he did, but he didn’t want to ruin the moment. Not for the two of you, but just as selfishly, not for himself. So, he had waited by the back door for the laughter to die down and the two of you to fall into a comfortable silence before he went out onto the patio, hands on his hips as he tried to behave as if finding you guys on the roof was normal.

As if you weren’t actively avoiding him.

Max had rolled her eyes at his worried tone when he asked what the hell the two of you were doing on his roof, but he hardly even noticed anything outside of you. For the first time in weeks, you looked- well, like you. 

Your eyes had found him in that moment, a little more nervous than he remembers ever seeing you, but you just told him that you two were just on your way back in. The sound of your voice had sent his chest into a nervous dance, but he tried his best to not let it show. He had already spooked you, he didn’t want to push it any further.

That was the last time you had even made eye contact. Even after you and Max rejoined the party, his eyes desperately searched for yours, but yours seemed to roam everywhere else. 

At the time, it had felt okay. He could ignore the sting of it for a night.

Now? Well, he’s not entirely sure he’s not actively having a heart attack as he paces the floor of Robin’s apartment. 

“Have you tried calling her?” Robin asks from her spot lounging on the couch, head propped up on her hand.

He stops in his tracks, eyes narrowing at Robin in a way that has her putting her free hand up in surrender. 

“I’m just ask-”

“Why would I not have tried calling?” Steve asks, irritation creeping in at the thought that Robin could think he was that stupid. 

He tried calling. Of course he did. You just never answered. In fact, he has gotten so used to you not picking up that when he had called Robin to ask if he could come over, he forgot what it sounded like for a line to actually pick up. 

He had tried calling. Hell, he had even tried asking the kids if they had heard anything from you. Lucas skated around answering, saying he had to go Erica was calling him- which was obviously a lie. Mike said he had talked to you only a few times, you called to ask him how he was doing with everything, but that you just sounded tired. Dustin said he had seen your light on when he had rode past your house on his way to Will’s.

Will had heard you on the phone with Mike, but he hadn’t actually talked to you.

Max had just laughed on the other end of the line, like Steve was missing out on some kind of joke, before she had quickly hung up. 

Nancy said you had called to cancel on meeting her for dinner over a week ago, telling her that you were pretty busy trying to help Max move and that you would make it up to her. 

“Maybe you just need to give her some space,” Robin tries offering again like she hasn’t said it a million times. “We all work through this stuff differently.” 

“It seems like I’m the only person she needs space from,” Steve counters, flopping down in the arm chair. His fingers tug at the ends of his hair as he pushes it back away from his face. “Which is crazy because I don’t even understand why. I didn’t do anything crazy or stupid.”

Robin rolls her eyes, sitting up dramatically to stare at the boy sitting across from her. She rubs a hand over her face, an idea obviously in her head that hasn’t seemed to make its way to him yet. 

“Have you ever really thought about why she could possibly need space from you?” 

He tilts his head at her, an ‘obviously’ about to roll from his lips when she just arches an eyebrow at him expectantly. Like he is somehow supposed to have an answer. Like there is some neon sign pointing directly to the explanation he is looking for and he is still somehow missing it. 

“Before Vickie and I got together,” Robin starts, locking her fingers together in her lap. “I knew exactly who I was. She didn’t though. Not really, and it bothered her a lot. I don’t know if it was the idea of having feelings for me or the idea of us having feelings for each other.”

Steve just sits and listens, brows furrowed in confusion of how this is supposed to be helpful information. He knows how hard it was for the two of them to get together. You all had talked about it a million times, but he’s not sure what the point of it is right now. 

“I’m getting to the point Harrington, if you could just wait.” 

He grimaces, mouthing an apology at the girl sitting across from him. She’s only trying to help, he knows that, but this is doing nothing for the anxiety sitting tightly in his chest. 

“The day we were volunteering and she cut her hand, do you remember that?”

He nods, the memory coming up immediately. The whole town had been split. Robin and Vickie had taken to working together after a while, leaving him to just kind of watch the relationship unfold while you were in the hospital with Max. Vickie had been opening a can of some kind of fruit, he can’t remember exactly what, but she had sliced open her hand pretty badly.

He had watched the whole thing, but the second he saw blood he started moving before he could even really process what had happened. Vickie had gone pale and took off running to the back, cradling her hand. He had looked for Robin, but she was nowhere to be seen. 

Vickie had been panicked, tears in her eyes when he had found her and offered to help her clean her hand up. She was hesitant at first, assuring him that she was perfectly fine. That the cut on her hand wasn’t that bad.

As if the end of her shirt she had wrapped around it wasn’t soaking with blood right in front of him.

Being a relatively spoiled kid in the way that rich brats like his younger self had been, Steve had always had a hard time with the word no. Not in the ways that would get a punch swung or he would get arrested, but in the way that made him more stubborn than any other person he had ever met before. When it came to offering help, he hated a refusal. Maybe it was because he wanted people to know he always meant it or maybe it’s because he had some kind of hero complex, but he wanted people to accept his help.

His best friend’s girlfriend was not going to be an exception. 

Robin had spent a great deal of time before they had officially started dating warning all of you to tread lightly around the girl who had claimed her heart. No being mean, or pushy, or watching her like a hawk- which wasn’t your fault, you just wanted to make sure your lifelong best friend was with someone nice. Steve had tried to do his part to behave, but staring at the girl bleeding and refusing help was a situation he had hoped Robin would understand later. 

“Do you remember how long it took her to talk to you after that?” Robin asks, knocking him back out of the memory.

“No?”

“A month,” Robin declares. Like it is something so extreme that she’s shocked Steve couldn’t even fathom it. In truth, he hadn’t noticed that. He and Vickie weren’t exceptionally close, and their relationship had just started, so why would he have thought anything was off? “Do you know why it would take my extremely chatty girlfriend a month to speak to you, Harrington?”

“Is there some kind of study guide I missed?” Steve asks, rubbing the back of his neck. “How am I supposed to know that?”

“She was embarrassed, Dingus.” 

Robin leans back, throwing her hands up in the air like this was some sort of ah-ha moment that was supposed to make all the puzzle pieces click in his mind. There was no moment, not even an inkling of anything other than confusion radiating off of him. 

“Because she cut her hand?”

“Because she was in pain and you of all people were the one to find her,” Robin answers. When he still doesn’t seem to get it- not for his own lack of trying- Robin just rolls her eyes, pushing herself up. “You’re kind of a big deal, Steve. I mean, you were kind of an ass in high school if you remember-”

“I remember.”

“So you were already King Steve in her mind. This big jerk with all this hair, and now suddenly you’re like my best friend and supposedly totally cool,” She motions with her hands, exaggerating the height of his hair and ignoring his eyeroll at the fun she is poking at him. “And then she’s hurt and you’re standing there offering to help her when you guys have barely talked, and she knows you knew about us, and she was terrified.”

“Was I supposed to let her bleed out?” Steve asks, running a hand through his hair in frustration. 

“She wasn’t scared of you, idiot.” Robin replies, running a hand down her face. “She was worried that you were going to think she was some loser who couldn’t even open a can of peaches. She wanted you to like her because for some god damn reason, you’re my best friend and that makes you important to me.”

She rests her elbow on the arm of the couch, pushing her fingers against her temple as if he is the one giving her a migraine with all of this explaining. Like it’s driving her insane that he isn’t fitting the pieces together, even though he is quite literally trying to.

“So, how do you think it would feel for someone to have you, of all people, have witnessed their most embarrassing moment of their life when they are so stupidly in love with you?”

Oh.

Oh.

“I knew those gears up there weren’t all rusted.”

“Shut up.”

The knock on your door hardly phases you from where you lay on your couch, daylight barely creeping in through the smallest opening in your curtains. Someone always knocks on your door these days. One of the kids, or Robin, the occasional Nancy. They don’t push and they don’t stay very long, usually just sliding a note under the door or dropping off food like you are some kind of widow. 

You’re not. When you think about it, you have no more reason than everyone else to be like this. They all have lost so much because of everything, and somehow you are the only one who seems to be stuck in the same place.

Max had claimed it was the adrenaline wearing off. That your brain was finally trying to accept that everything was over. That there wasn’t going to be a demogorgon busting through your ceiling or a bat ripping at your insides. Henry or Vecna or whichever you wanted to call the creator of this hell was dead. Gone. Your lives could finally start going back to normal. 

“It’s your body trying to wean itself off. You’ve just got to give it some time.”

At what point in your life was the kid whose hair you had been braiding just days before giving you life advice supposed to be normal? A kid who had lived through quite literally hell inside her own mind was trying to comfort you about the hell inside of yours that was made by nobody but yourself. How is that fair?

You weren’t one for motivational speeches anymore. You had your share of kumbayas and holding hands while bracing for a fight that wasn’t yet won. There was no big bad lurking in the shadows waiting and plotting for the moment you would let your guard down. 

There are no more fights. No more battles. No more El’s to swoop in and save the day.

Just you and the faded blue blanket Steve had draped over you on the couch weeks ago, unable to let go of each other somehow. 

So, you ignored it. Just like you have been, not being able to find it in yourself to open it and stare at the face of anyone on the other side who still had the same sparkle of victory in their eyes.

The war was over. Vecna had lost. Everyone else is finding a way to move on with their lives. Why can’t you?

The knock doesn’t go away like you hope it will. In fact, it just gets harsher. Heavier. It rather quickly turns into a pounding that has you sitting up, eyes squinting at the rush that flies to your head at the sudden movement. 

“Open the door or I’m knocking it down.”

The voice has you rolling your eyes, flopping back down onto your couch with the blanket tugged all the way up to your chin.

“Go away,” You croak out, voice dry from its lack of use in days past. 

The rattling continues, vibrating the door against the frame. The sound pounds in your head, a headache quickly coming on from the disruption that refuses to go away like you had asked. You didn’t want to deal with this. 

The knocking doesn’t stop. Just keeps going, and going, and going.

“You’ve got three seconds.” 

You throw your blanket off angrily, your feet slamming against the floor as you walk over to the front door, pajama pants almost causing you to stumble as you move. You flip the lock on the door, swinging it open to angrily glare at the bright light now in your face being blocked by an even bigger body.

“What the hell do you want?” You ask, hand on your hip as you glare at the man in front of you.

“You look like shit.”

“Says the dude with a beer gut and half-assed beard.”

If you blinked, you would have missed the slightest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Not that you care. So, you ignore it because what else is there to do? You don’t want to play into this. You just want him to go.

“You gonna let me in or what, kid?” 

“Maybe I’m trying to give my neighbors some signs of life since one of them had the brilliant idea to call you,” You snap back. “Probably nosy ass-”

“It was your boyfriend, actually.” He responds, the smallest hint of a smile on his face as you scowl, but don’t say anything about the term he is using. “So, you letting me in or do I need to just crawl through the window like some dumbass teenager?”

Hopper moves into your house the second you step out of the way, a familiarity he shouldn’t have but one that he will take anyways. He’s here because Steve called, but he was already on his way. There’s only so much avoiding someone can do when they’ve already lived the life you are shutting yourself into right now. He won’t let you turn into him.

You? Well, all you can do is curse Steve Harrington. 

Hopper stands in your entryway for far too long, eyes scanning around like the cop he was trained to be. A search for clues that just irritates you more than anything else. You two haven’t spoken in over a month, a silent agreeance to not speak having now been broken by the only person who had seemed to grasp that Hopper was not the person to call for you.

Well, apparently he had changed his mind too. 

“Can we just get on with the speech already so I can go back to what I was doing?” You question, arms across your chest.

”And what exactly are you doing? Rotting away on your couch?” He motions to the crumpled up blanket you had thrown on your way to the door and the indent still in the cushions from where you had been. “God forbid I keep you from that.”

You roll your eyes at him, arching your eyebrow and waiting for him to get on with it. He finds amusement in it somehow, like you glaring at him is the equivalent to staring at a cute but angry puppy. 

The two of you have faced a lot more threatening things than a barely adult angrily glaring at a man who had become somewhat of a father figure in the years past. The idea that he would find you threatening didn’t cross your mind, but you had thought it would push his buttons enough to get him to go. 

The two of you were similar in that way. Once you were irritated, the two of you loved to blow up and then walk away to lick your wounds. 

Apparently, he had decided he wasn’t falling for it. 

“Can you please just do whatever you came here for?” You ask, frustration settling in your chest. It’s hard to be around him anymore. Whatever relationship the two of you had was too deeply entwined with the missing member of your trio. 

Neither of you know what to do with that. 

You can tell by the way he switches from one foot to the other, jaw ticking in irritation but not letting it come out of him with the venom it usually would. He’s being patient. Incredibly patient. Maybe that would have made a difference to you sometime not too long ago, but that bridge had up and burned with the Upside Down. 

“What do you think I’m here to do, kid?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. “Give you some cheery speech about how life is all butterflies and rainbows?” 

“Yes.” 

You meet his eyes with a dissatisfied look of your own, the two of you entering into a staredown that neither of you will back down from. 

“I’m here to get you off your ass-”

“Well, congratulations,” you say, motioning to where you stand in the middle of the floor. “Mission accomplished, Chief. Anything else I can do for you today?”

He rolls his eyes at your tone, rubbing the top of his head in frustration. You can’t help but feel a little satisfied in how little effort it takes to get to him. Good. He should be as angry as you are. 

“How about grow up?”

You snort. Loud enough that you almost want to cringe from the embarrassment, but that would mean backing down from this argument and you won’t do that. The statement is just so stupid. 

Grow up?

You are grown. 

All you’ve done is grow. You’ve grown to speak up for yourself. You’ve helped build ungodly contraptions. You’ve killed things. You’ve battled universes.

How much more growing is he expecting you to do?

“I’m serious,” Hopper continues, ignoring your response. “You’re laying around here moping around like some lost little-”

“Oh, kiss my ass.” You cut him off, unable to let him continue. “You are such a hypocrite.”

“Am I?”

“You moped around this town for fucking years, and I can’t have a fucking month to deal with this?” You shoot back, throwing your hands up. “I am doing the best I can and you’re- Are you laughing at me?”

He is, the old asshole. You see his shoulders shaking as he looks at you, amusement rooted deep in his eyes. He’s got the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen in a long time, which only pisses you off more. 

What could he possibly find funny about this? 

Your world is literally destroyed and he is laughing. 

“I’m not.”

“You choke on your spit or something then?” You narrow your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest with the familiar flare of embarrassment creeping in warmly. 

“You’re just-”

“Just what? Stupid? A dumb kid?”

“If you would let me finish,” Hopper says, putting his hand up to silence you before you cut him off again. “I was going to say you’re me. God, I must have been a pain in the ass.”

“Get out.”

He pauses then, giving you a look that you don’t quite understand. Not that you want to anyways. You just want him to leave you alone. Go run back to whatever hole he crawled out of so you could return to yours. 

“Not gonna happen.”

“Fine,” You grit out, heading to the couch and snatching your blanket. “I’ll go. Make yourself at home then, Jimmy.”

You move around him, pounding your feet against the floor as you head towards your bedroom. You hear his heavy footsteps behind you, his hand slamming against the door before you have a chance to shut it. 

“Will you cut that shit out?” He asks. “I’m trying to talk to you.”

“We talked,” You say, spinning around and glaring at the older man. “It went to shit, just like everything else. Feel free to tell Steve I was being a jerk and move on.”

“He is just trying to help you.” 

You narrow your eyes, clenching your jaw until you can actually hear it crack. He’s poking the bear and he knows it. This is the moment anyone else would back off. That’s the difference between Hopper and the rest of your group.

Maybe the two of you are just one and the same. 

“And what are you trying to do, Hop?” You ask angrily. “Besides bust into my house and piss me off?”

There’s the vein in his forehead, threatening to pop as you continue to push him just as far as he’s pushed you. You have found a way to rationalize that all of the pain you are feeling is because of things far out of anyone’s control. 

Part of you still wanted to be angry with him for his part in it. The part that hurts anyways. 

“I’m trying to fix this.”

“Fix this.” You say as if you are trying to sound out the thought. “Fix this? There’s nothing to fix here. Just leave it.”

“I’m not leaving it.” He snaps back. “I’m just supposed to let you sit out here and rot?”

“Last I checked, I’m an adult,” You shoot back, tossing your blanket on your bed before turning your angry eyes back to the older man in front of you. “I can do whatever the hell I want. If that means I never leave this house, then that is my choice.”

There’s that word again. The one that makes his jaw tick and his breathing cut. Choice. That’s what it all boils down to at the end of the day. You’re not any angrier with him than he is with himself, but the reminder of it slaps him in the face as you are standing in front of him, eyes burning. 

All of this. All of the hurt. The fractured pieces of your relationship all boiled down to a single choice. 

“That doesn’t mean I have to sit here and let you-”

“You don’t have to let me do anything, Hopper.” You cut him off, clenching your jaw tightly, your knuckles white on your grip on your own arm. “You’re not my father.”

You can see the words move across his face, a gut punch that you would have never thrown in his face under different circumstances. Yet, here the two of you are, staring at each other with the glaring reminder in both of your faces that the role he had somehow found himself in didn’t belong to him. 

Now, you were shoving him out. 

You wait for him to leave, his shoulders dropping as he looks back at you. He didn’t come to fight with you. It’s more apparent now than before as he lets the statement really settle in. Guilt tugs at your gut, wanting to open your mouth and take it back. You want to.

So, you-

“Well, someone fucking has to be.”

You snap your mouth shut as he speaks, straightening out his spine back to the Hopper you have always known him to be. Tall. Strong. Intimidating. 

“You want to sit here and wallow your life away, fine. Be my guest.” He throws his hand up, motioning towards your bed. “Maybe your friends will make things easy for you, but I’m not going to.”

“You don’t get to-”

“I can do whatever the hell I want,” Hopper yells over you, earning him a glare that doesn’t faze him in the slightest. “You think I’m going to just sit here and let you fade away? No-”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you are.” He interjects, “And I have to hear about it from Steve fucking Harrington-”

“Don’t.” You warn before you can stop yourself. 

The look he gives you makes you want the ground to open up and swallow you whole. You can’t tell if he is amused or angry with Steve, but he has no right to be either. Not anymore. 

“You think she would have wanted this for you?” He asks, tilting his head to look at you. “She-”

“She’s-”

Your breath catches on the word, the defiance in your tone failing almost immediately at the word you were going to throw back in his face. The reality of a situation that you found blame in him for solely because you thought he would be the one to save her. 

Dead.

Eleven is dead. 

It’s been months and you still can’t bring yourself to say it. For some reason, it still feels so wrong coming out of your mouth. The idea that the girl is gone has settled in your bones as deep as it possibly can, but you lack the ability to acknowledge it out loud. 

“You don’t know what she wanted.”

That is a statement you can find after fluttering around like a fish caught on an airy dock. The pounding of your heart settles in your chest then, allowing air to grace your lungs as you evade the word you keep running from. 

“I do.”

You shake your head, eyes burning as the lump in your throat settles in tightly. You won’t cry. Not now. Not until he leaves and you get the space to do it how you want. 

Alone. 

“I know you think this is my fault, okay? I know that,” Hopper starts, tone uneven. “And maybe it is. Maybe I should have thrown her over my shoulder and locked her in a cage somewhere while we tried to handle all of this as best as we could. She would have hated me for the rest of her life-”

“But it would have been the rest of it.” You shoot back, gritting your teeth in an attempt to swallow the tension in your throat. “She was just a kid.”

“My kid.” Hopper corrects, pointing at his chest, the worn piece of fabric on his sleeve a vivid reminder of his other child. “Let’s face it, without her, almost all if not every single one of you would be gone. If I had kept her back, if I had taken the choice from her like everyone else in her life has, she wouldn’t have been able to live with that.”

He looks at you then, sincerity shining in his eyes in a way that almost makes a tear fall from your eyes. He twists at the hair tie on his wrist, and you have to look away before you lose it. 

You know you’re going to anyway. 

“She deserved to make her own choice. Whether we agree with it or not.” He continues, clearing his throat. “I hoped she would make the one I wanted. I wanted her to have a life. To be free. She died-”

“Stop.”

He just shakes his head.

“She died because she wanted the same thing for you,” he says. “The two of us, we would have been dragging her away from danger forever. Across continents and through armies of people trying to create another her. It was never going to stop.”

A tear slips out then, your eyes glued to the floor as you try to wipe it away before it can even fall. You’re fighting a losing battle with the sob clawing its way up your throat. 

“She wanted the same things for you that you wanted for her. A house full of pictures with some kind of strange ass pet leaving a mess anywhere. A career, a real one and not just you following behind your two chuckleheads. For you to finally kiss that idiot who likes to throw himself at any sign of danger-”

“Shut up.” 

You can’t help the watery laugh that bubbles out of your chest, remembering the little comments the girl used to make about you being secretly in love with the boy that you actually are secretly in love with. She wouldn’t even get to know that. 

Your laughter dies just as quickly as it came. 

“I’ve already lost two kids, okay? I know what you are feeling because you and me?” He motions in between the two of you. “We’ve always been way too damn similar. I can’t go back and change anything. Not Sarah. Not El. But I’ll be damned if I lose you too. That is something that I can do something about.”

You know he’s right in his worry. You can at least see that now. You feel just as strongly for the girl you are grieving as the man standing in front of you. Maybe you wish he had made a different choice, but he’s right. 

She never would have been happy.

After all of the hurt and trauma she had endured, she deserved the one thing that she had finally been able to decide for herself. 

Peace. 

“So, you and me?” Hopper breaks you out of your thoughts, tear-filled eyes catching yours. “We are going to hang up those tacky ass pictures of yours. Then, we are going to have some waffles because I know you haven’t eaten-”

He puts his hand up to silence your protest, which dies on your tongue almost instantly. 

“And then-” He shakes his head and clears his throat like he can’t even believe he has to say this. “You are going to go find that idiot and you are going to thank him. You are going to tell him you aren’t going to kill him for calling me because he’s probably shitting bricks thinking he just blew up every chance he had with you.”

You chuckle as you picture that, Steve Harrington afraid of you.

“And you are going to be happy if I have to force the two of you to get it together myself.” Hopper continues. “Because that is what she would have wanted. She wanted you happy more than anything. So, I will hold my vomit in until I am not in eye sight.”

You roll your eyes, but you can help but feel the warmth in your chest creeping in as the older man gives you his best attempt at a smile. 

“Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good, now if there are any pictures of Harrington going in your bedroom, I have a right to throw them away.”

You shove Hopper in the chest, a laugh escaping the both of you as you step back into your room. 

Acceptance

You’re yelling his name before the front door even finishes swinging open, causing Lucas to skid across the wood floor thanks to his socks and cracking his forehead on his way to the living room.

“Uh-oh.”

“Oh shit.”

“Mom’s mad.”

You send a warning look to the group of teens who have overtaken Steve’s living room, sprawled out like they all have existed here for their entire lives. Mike looks about ready to throw up, Will not far behind him. Dustin just stares at you, an awkward smile on his face as he waves at you. 

Lucas makes his way over to Max, cradling his head while his girlfriend completely ignores him.

She is too busy grinning widely at you. 

“Where is he?”

Every single available hand in the room points towards the kitchen, eyes wide and genuinely confused as to what the hell is going on. You had been locked away for so long, and not only are you here, but you’re on the hunt. 

“Behave.” You warn the group before you make your way towards the kitchen, whispers exploding in your wake. 

“Oh, you get ready to pay up, Henderson.”

“She looks ready to kill him, Maxine.”

You hear pillows flying through the air, a protest from an already injured Lucas ringing out as you round the corner to find a wide eyed Steve standing in the kitchen, empty pizza box in hand. 

“Hi?”

His voice barely registers as you look at him, dark blue sweatshirt and jeans looking very similarly to the last time you saw him. He looks better than you, no dark circles sitting under his eyes anymore. 

In your mind, you kept seeing him as Steve Harrington, the desperate hero. Backwards hats and baseball bats, eyes set and trying to calculate how effectively he could neutralize the threat that was you and your grief. 

All along, he’s been just Steve. The guy who always has your favorite Gatorade in his fridge even though he says lemon lime tastes like dishwater. The person who smiles at you like the sun shines out of your face and lets you dig your nails into his arm when Dustin insists on watching The Shining for the millionth time. 

“If you’re going to kill me, can we please make it clean?” He babbles, putting the box down on the counter and raising his hands in surrender. “I don’t trust Henderson to clean it up well and I think you would do scarily well in prison, but that’s not-”

“Why did you call Hopper?” You cut him off, fighting back the smile threatening to overtake your face at his nervous ramblings. 

“I know you didn’t want me to and I’m sorry, I just-”

You cross your arms over your chest, hoping to contain the laughter threatening to spill over that you try to disguise as a cough. He’s spiralling and while you should put an end to it, it is kind of nice seeing someone everyone one saw as King Steve a nervous wreck because of you. 

“Why?”

“I thought if anyone could help you, it would be him.” Steve answers honestly, hands still raised in the air like you are pointing a gun or something at him. “I know you’re mad at him, but-”

“Thank you.”

The rest of his pleas die in his throat as he stares at you, his arms lowering to grip the counter behind him for some kind of support. 

“Um-”

“That was probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

He drops his head in relief, a breath escaping him that you can’t help but stifle a laugh at. He looks back up at you, warm brown eyes staring back at you with a sense of relief that squeezes at your chest. 

“I thought ripping apart a demobat was at the top of the list.”  He jokes.

The conversation that you had with Hopper floats back into your mind, reminding you of what you came here to do. Making him nervous had been fun, but you had promised that you would stop being afraid and give it a shot. 

This was your opportunity. 

“And here I thought you did that because you were in love with me or something.”

A four course meal could be served off of the saucers that replace Steve’s eyes as he stares at you, a deer caught in the headlights at your response. He swallows, a blush creeping in on his cheeks as he tries to find something to say. 

“Was I wrong about that?” You ask innocently, trying to ignore the nervousness that has swept into your gut at the thought that this could be going horribly wrong in just a few seconds. “I mean, that’s why I jumped in after you.”

There is it, plain as day.

A confession of your own. Well, somewhat. As close to the words as he is going to get before you know for sure. 

Maybe everyone has been wrong. 

You had asked Robin before coming and she had sounded so sure. 

“Um-” A sound finally tumbles out of his lips as he blinks at you. “I’m- What?”

“Nothing, just than-”

“Nope,” he swoops in, brown eyes only a few inches apart from you now as he crowds in on you. “Absolutely not. No running away. No take backs.”

“What are we, five?” You shoot back, rejection starting to burn in your throat. “No take backs? Seriously? I can take back-”

“You’re in love with me.”

He says it like he is trying to get a feel for the words. Like it’s some kind of completely crazy idea that had never even crossed his mind before. 

You take a step back, ready to tuck tail and run because you’re not about to make a fool of yourself. Not in front of him again. 

Everyone had been wrong. 

They had to be-

He catches your hand, tugging you back with an amused look on his face. You can’t stare at him too long, the idea that he wants to laugh at you twisting and tugging at your already damaged heart. 

“Well, that certainly makes being hopelessly in love with you way less embarrassing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, inspecting him for any signs of humor. 

“No take backs.”

“You’re such an ass,” You reply as he stares at you, cheek dimpled in as he just smiles at your accusation. “You were just going to let me think-”

“You ambushed me in my kitchen!” He counters, reminding you of how you had stormed in just moments ago. “I thought you were going to kill me, not confess your undying love for me.”

“Okay, now you’re milking it, Harrington.” You say, rolling your eyes. “I never said anything about-”

“Maybe that’s just what I meant then.” He offers, “The undying love bit.”

Your heart is pounding so hard in your chest, you’re surprised it hasn’t shoved him away from you on its own. Being in love with Steve isn’t new to you, but knowing he loves you back is. 

Somehow all of the teasing and comments from all of your friends over the years had been right and you missed it. 

“How long?”

You shouldn’t ask, but you can’t help it. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment you fell for him, but you know that it has been long enough to feel like it’s all you’ve ever known. 

“Always, I think.” He replies, a small shrug of his shoulders. “From the moment I met you, I thought-”

“I was a bitch to you.”

“Well, that obviously didn’t change anything.” He jokes, tugging you in by the waist to stand flush against him. “We’re like soulmates or some shit. You were never going to get rid of me.”

“Soulmates?” You ask, eyes locked on him as he nods. 

“Soulmates.”

“Can you guys just kiss already?” Max’s voice carries from way closer than her original spot in the living room. “Some of us are hungry and about to use some idiots for lunch money.”

“Take your time guys,” Dustin chimes in from around the same area. “Preferrably like a week or two, but-”

“Hey, Henderson?” Steve calls back, cutting the younger boy off but keeping his eyes locked on you with a wide smile.

“Yeah?”

“Shut up and pay the lady.”

Maybe your friends hadn’t been wrong all along. Maybe they somehow knew the same thing you now did. 

Once you kissed Steve Harrington, you were never going to stop.

Max practically had to drag you out of the house, apologizing to the both of you half-heartedly that she needed to whisk you away from your freshly born relationship because she was almost thirty dollars richer and she felt girl time was desperately needed after your period of absence. 

With a quick kiss and a promise to return after he assured you he understood, his eyes floating over to a disgruntled Dustin who had not wanted to hand over his part of the prize pool. The two of you had similar responsibilities to the children you had somehow claimed, and he couldn’t blame you for that.

So, you get pulled into a booth at the diner downtown, Max sitting across from you with a triumphant grin as she tells the waitress that she wants three milkshakes for herself and whatever you are having. 

It’s nice, spending time with just the two of you after you feel like you can finally breathe again. Without the weight of your world creeping in, you are able to enjoy her stories of the last time she had come here with Lucas and he had snorted a strawberry milkshake out of his nose- a flavor in which she had refused to order and swore to never be able to taste again. 

Hopper had been right. Life was not going to be the same without the other part of this trio, but it didn’t make it not life at all. It would just be different. 

Different doesn’t have to be all bad. 

Sitting here with Max, who has suffered more than you can ever imagine, who manages to still somehow find the good in life makes it easier. Even when she teases that you can now give her unlimited access to your boyfriend’s pool (like she doesn’t hop the gate already) or how she wants to vomit at how much you’ve been smiling since the two of you left. 

You forgot what it feels like to feel this happy. 

“Now that you’re all in love and stuff, are you going to start being lame or-”

You shoot the redhead a glare that has her coughing in laughter around the straw of her milkshake. She waves her hand in apology, wiping the corners of her mouth as she smiles at you widely. 

“I don’t know, Maxine,” you lean over and steal one of her fries despite her protests. “Does being in love make someone a total loser?”

“Well, maybe not a total loser.”

Your cheeks hurt from smiling, but you do it anyway. You can’t help it. It’s like your body forgot how to do it for so long it’s afraid of losing the skill. 

“I mean, I have seen Lucas in some pretty dorky-”

“Oh, please! Like Steve Harrington is any better.”

“If I remember correctly,” You lean forward, putting your hands on the table. “I distinctly remember someone having a little crush-”

She throws herself forward, slapping her open palm over your lips to stop you. 

“You swore you wouldn’t tell.”

“Do you see Steve around here? Cause-”

“See me where?”

Both of your eyes widen, Max’s hand dropping from your mouth as you look over to Steve walking over to the edge of your booth. He smiles at you, and you can’t help the grin stretching across your face. 

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’m gonna vomit. Seriously?” Max says, breaking the two of you out of your trance. 

He motions to your seat, a silent question moving through the air. You just slide over, giving him space and he takes it. 

Quite literally all of it because soon you have one leg pressed up against the wall and the other pressed firmly against the thigh of the boy next to you. His fingertips play with the hem of your jeans while his other hand reaches out and steals a fry off of the plate in front of you.

“So, why were we looking for me?” He asks in between chews, looking between you and the mortified teenager glaring daggers at you across the table. 

“Nothing.” 

Both of you rush the word out, earning a very confused look from Steve, who has just continued to pick at the plate between the two of you. He gives you a look, eyebrows pinched together like he is trying to read your mind. 

“Would you quit it?” Max flings one of her fries at him, glaring at you when a laugh bursts out. “Turn the puppy dog eyes off, you freak.”

Steve gives her a disgusted look, flinging the fry in his hand at her earning another tossed his way. You clamp your hand down on his wrist to stop this from turning into an all out food fight in the middle of the diner. 

“I’m just trying to find out-”

“You’re just trying to steal the only cool adult around here.”

“Hey,” Steve protests. “I’m cool.”

He switches his focus to you, a look on his face that looks almost like a beg as his brown eyes settle on yours. 

“Tell her I’m cool, baby.”

“You’re such a loser, oh my god.” Max exclaims before you have a chance to respond, heart pounding in your ears at the term of endearment. 

You are so utterly in love with him it hurts. Like actually hurts. 

“You’re so cool.”

He smiles brightly at you, pressing the quickest kiss to your lips as Max gags in the background. She is trying to fight a smile on her face, you can see it, but the second she catches you looking she sticks her tongue out. 

“Speaking of stealing-”

You turn to look at the teenager across from you as Steve’s hand finds its way to yours under the table. His fingers slip in between yours, giving you a tight squeeze while he just sits back, content to be next to you and holding your hand. 

Finally. 

“I was hoping that maybe you were getting a little bored of sharing a room with Erica.”

Max stares at you, mouth slightly open as she scans your face, looking for any signs that you are joking. The smile that spreads across her face is blinding, blue eyes bright as she smiles at you like you just hung the moon.

“Are you serious?”

“I mean, if you don’t want to-”

“Of course I want to,” Max cuts you off, waving her hand to make you stop talking. “I love the Sinclairs, but-”

“You want your own room.”

“Desperately.”

You smile back at her, Steve’s thumb rubs over the top of your hand as the two of you discuss move in schedules and room situations- because she will not be living in a room that has any pictures of Mike Wheeler hanging on the wall. She doesn’t have much of anything, a lot of her stuff getting tossed when the town split. 

You’ll get her anything she wants, that much goes without saying but you say it anyways. She just smiles at you, offering to get a job which you immediately shut down. Freshly out of high school, she will be going to college. You know she wants to, and that isn’t something you’re willing to waiver on. 

She’s lost enough of her life to forces out of her control. She deserves everything the world has to offer. 

“Hopper is coming for dinner on Tuesdays, so you’ll probably have to see him way more than you are used to.”

“Please tell me neither of you are talking about cooking-”

“I am a phenomenal cook.”

Max just stares at you, wide eyed, shaking her head at your proclamation. You turn to Steve, who looks like a deer caught in the headlights as he meets your gaze.

“Is my cooking really that bad?” 

He gives you a forced smile, completely unsure of how to answer. 

“I love you?”

You narrow your eyes at him, ignoring the giggle from Max as you try to get him to change his answer. The butterflies in your stomach are going crazy, but you do your best to ignore them.

“You’re pushing your luck, Harrington.”

“I mean, your lasagna wasn’t so bad-”

“He’s lying, the noodles were literally barely cooked.”

You shoot your attention back to Max, who is not nearly as easily intimidated as your boyfriend. She just raises her eyes, challenging you to argue with what Dustin had once called “shelf-ready lasagna night”. 

“I’m going to revoke that invitation-”

“No take backs.” Max interrupts you, flinging a fry at your face which Steve catches with his open hand. 

His eyes glitter at you as he smiles, confidently taking a bite of the thrown side as he mulls over Max’s word choice. 

“No take backs.” He echoes, giving your hand a squeeze. 

“Fine,” You roll your eyes, cheeks aching from the smile spreading across them. “No take backs.”

Max’s eyes flicker between the two of you, the agreement lost on her, not that she isn’t grateful to the back up Steve just provided her with. 

“I actually needed to talk to you about something.” Max says, looking directly at you.

“Do you want me to-” Steve motions to the door, but Max just shakes her head. He settles back against the booth, foot tapping against the side of yours. 

“Mike told us something the other night.” Max says simply, fingers drumming against the rim of her milkshake awkwardly. “Something a little crazy.”

She launches into a tail of warlocks and mages, waterfalls and lands far away. An alternate reality of what happened on the worst night of your life, the hand holding yours giving you a tight squeeze every time your jaw clenches at the mention of the mage. 

A story of a girl who learned to love life so deeply, she found a way to find peace somewhere where she could start over. Somewhere where nobody knew her, but also nobody would know to look for her. 

As you look at the girl in front of you, you feel that familiar pull in your gut. The one that will never go away, no matter how hard you push it down and try to ignore it. She wants to believe it as badly as you do. Days ago, you would have clung to the idea so deeply that you would have torn the earth apart looking for her.

Now? Now you understand. 

All you can hope is that Eleven found peace one way or another. Whether it’s in a far away land or some place you’re not really sure exists, you want so desperately for her to have made a choice for her own happiness.

That was all she had wanted for you. You know that now. 

Sitting here, holding the hand of the boy you’ve been in love with for longer than you can remember and staring at the little sister you always wanted, you know that you have Eleven to thank for that. 

The girl you had fought so hard to save, who was somehow finding ways to save you, no matter the distance. 

You hope she is happy, wherever she is. 

You hope she knows you are too. 

As you reach across the table, the hair tie once gracing the wrist of the girl you miss so deeply on display, you know she knows. Perhaps she always did. She sacrificed everything for the opportunity you are taking to hold Max’s hand. For the two of you to be able to sit together and start over. 

You had almost wasted the very thing she wanted so desperately for you. 

Shooting a watery smile to Steve, who places a kiss on your hairline, you know you won’t make that mistake again. 

October 1985

“Look, I’m just saying you gotta read the room, Steve. Not everyone is gonna be automatically receptive to your charm,” Robin sighs, giving Steve a patronizing pat on the back to which he rolls his eyes.

“How was I supposed to know her dog just died! I was just going for some friendly conversation,” Steve shoots back defensively.

“Well, maybe let me do the talking next time, okay? I know getting a job is more just like, character building for you, but some of us actually need to make money,” Robin teases, earning another eye roll from Steve.

Since Starcourt mall was shut down permanently and the closest scoops ahoy was not in commuting distance, they had been looking for a job for weeks. They didn’t talk about it but with everything they went through over the Summer, they wanted to stick together, trauma bond and all. Being a package deal made job hunting a little trickier, though, and Hawkins didn’t exactly offer a booming job market to begin with.

They had just come from the local grocery store, which was a promising prospect, right up until Steve had to invoke the hiring manager's beloved and recently deceased dog. They were downtown now, walking up the steps of the library for probably the third time in as many weeks to check if they had any job postings. Third time's the charm, right?

“Maybe we used up all of our collective luck surviving the Russians and interdimensional monsters,” Robin muses as she and Steve stand glumly in front of the unhelpful posting board in the library. Before Steve can agree, a new voice is calling Robin’s name.

“Robin, hey! What are you doing here?” Steve and Robin turn toward the voice almost in unison, both confused about who was approaching Robin in public seeing as they were practically each other's only friend. Unlike Steve, Robin’s face lights up in recognition when she sees who the voice belongs to.

“Oh, hi, y/n! Me and Steve were just checking out the ol’ postings board, still on the job hunt. Oh, right, this is Steve Harrington but you probably already knew that. Steve, this is y/n. We have most of our classes together, including skipping gym.” Robin introduces you to Steve and you look at him like you’re processing the sight of him and Robin together. You shake your head a little before giving him a small wave and a nervous smile before focusing back on Robin.

Steve smiles back but you don’t seem to notice and he wonders if his high-school reputation preceded him to the point of you not being interested in speaking to him. For some reason, the thought makes him a little disappointed. He didn’t even know you and he didn’t know why, but he wanted you to look at him again. It totally didn’t have anything to do with the fact that you were gorgeous and he didn’t think he’d ever seen eyes the same shade as yours before. He just hated that so many people still only saw the person he was in high-school.

“You should talk to Keith at Family Video! He might still be looking to replace me since I quit when school started back up. I mean, I would have quit either way because he’s a creep but I had a good enough excuse since I work here too and there’s no way I could do two jobs on top of school. Anyways, you can tell him I sent you,” you offer a little more explanation than necessary but Steve doesn’t mind listening to you ramble. He finds the way you scrunch your nose and roll your eyes as you call Keith a creep, pretty adorable. He agrees that Keith is a creep and despite having just met you, immediately hates the thought of you having to work with him.

“Yeah, Keith is definitely a creep,” Steve blurts out before Robin can respond. You and Robin exchange a look before looking at Steve with raised eyebrows. “But maybe I can keep him in line,” Steve nods, trying to look confident even though you and Robin both look like you’re trying not to laugh at him.

“Wow, my hero, Stevie,” Robin quips with a snort, rolling her eyes. There’s laughter in your eyes but you at least attempt a modicum of politeness.

“Uh yeah, someone probably should,” you say with a shrug, pressing your lips together to keep a straight face. Then, suddenly you look worried. “Oh, I don’t know if there’s more than one position open, though. I’m sorry, I guess I didn’t think of that.” You bite your lip and look between Steve and Robin with concerned eyes, like you’re afraid you might have caused a problem.

“Maybe Steve can fight Keith for his job,” Robin offers with a smirk, causing the laughter to return to your eyes, and escape your lips before you can stop it. Steve shoots Robin an unimpressed side eye but your laugh is contagious and he’s got a reputation to repair so he plays along.

“I’ll take it easy on him,” Steve says with a smile directed at you. You shake your head but reciprocate with a real smile this time, not the small, polite smile you gave him when Robin introduced you.

“I might pay to see that fight,” you quip back with another small laugh. Steve notices the small dimples in your cheeks when you smile with your whole face and wonders briefly what it would be like to kiss them before mentally kicking himself. He's got to stop jumping to wanting to kiss every pretty girl he meets. Robin coughs and you break eye contact with Steve to look at her with wide eyes.

“Oh um, well, I should probably get back to work. The books won’t shelve themselves.” You hook a thumb over your shoulder and take a step back with a nervous smile.

“Oh, right I keep forgetting you work here!” Robin exclaims with a grimace and earns an eye roll from you.

“Robin, I’ve told you like fifty times. And I was here working when you came in last weekend!” You shoot back, crossing your arms but you don’t actually look angry. Steve can’t imagine you looking angry, from the five minutes he’s known you. God, he really needs to pull it together, you’re Robin’s friend.

“Don’t take it personally, I think she’d forget what I look like if I didn’t drive her to school every time she misses the bus. Which is basically everyday,” Steve teases Robin with a smug look. She shoves his shoulder and you pile on.

“You didn’t tell me you had your own personal chauffeur, Robbie! Must be nice, can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me,” You say in mock annoyance, shaking your head at her but your eyes never lose their lightness.

“Yeah, Robbie, holding out on your friends.” Steve shakes his head, stressing the new nickname you’d used and giving Robin a pointed look.

“Well, he’s very exclusive, by invitation or bullying only,” Robin replies, ignoring Steve’s look and bumping his shoulder with her own.

“Well, I guess since I don’t believe in bullying, I’m out of luck,” you say with a good natured smile and shrug. “I really probably should-“ you start to say, already going to take another step back when Steve interrupts with an invitation.

“I could give you a ride too,” Steve says in a rush, successfully stopping your retreat. Your eyes flick between Steve and Robin, your mouth still half open from being interrupted. “I- I mean if you ever needed one. My car is basically already a small school bus with how much I take her to school or pick up Henderson.” Steve rubs the back of his neck and tries to force out a laugh that doesn’t sound forced or nervous.

“Steve, you don’t even know where she lives,” Robin speaks up, trying to offer you an out.

“Yeah, no I couldn’t ask you to do that,” you shake your head with a nervous chuckle of your own, but you don’t look like you hate the idea.

“Right, true. But uh, Hawkins isn’t that big, I’m sure I could make it work. Um, not that you have to, of course, but uh, invitation’s open… if you ever need it,” Steve shrugs with a lopsided smile, hoping it comes off more nonchalant than he feels.

“Yeah, o-okay, thanks! I’ll keep it in mind.” You smile and nod, tucking some hair behind your ear absentmindedly. “Well, I guess I’ll see you guys around. I mean, I’ll definitely see you in class, Robbie, let me know how it goes with Keith!” you say, pointing at Robin then giving Steve a little wave before turning and heading back to your cart of books.

“Dude.” Robin smacks Steve on the arm once your back is turned, before dragging him towards the door. Steve pulls out of Robin’s grip once they’re out of the library, rubbing the spot on his arm she had assaulted.

“Ow! What?” He shoots back indignantly, following her down the steps.

“You better not run off my only other friend. Trauma bond or not, if I had to choose between you and her, I’d probably choose her. She’s not nearly as obnoxious as you,” Robin stops at the bottom of the stairs to fix Steve with an accusatory look.

“I’m not obnoxious, you’re obnoxious! And what do you mean, scare her off? Why would I scare her? I was being nice!” Steve scoffs, crossing his arms defensively.

“Okay, fine, we’re both obnoxious. And you were flirting!” Robin shoots back, pointing a finger in his face, which he subsequently swats away. “I just mean, if you wanna date her, fine. But you better think it through and don’t screw it up, okay?” Robin finishes with a question but her face brooks no argument. She crosses her arms now, waiting for him to agree to her terms.

Steve’s instinct is to argue, he wants to defend himself and say she’s wrong. It’s not like he just goes around mindlessly dating every girl he meets, maybe some harmless flirting-and okay, yeah he was flirting with y/n-but he doesn’t have to date every girl he flirts with! But Steve can’t deny that he doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to his love life. Some would probably classify him as a serial-dater, not that he wants to be. He wants to find someone to settle down with, to have a family, it just… never seems to work out.

And if he went for it, if he dated y/n and it didn’t work out with her or she didn’t even want to date him and got weirded out… It wouldn’t just be another date gone wrong or rejection that Robin would tease him about and he’d pretend not to care. This time, someone could get hurt and Robin could lose her friend. Not just any friend, the only friend of hers he’d met or even heard about. Maybe her only other friend besides him.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, I get,” Steve relents with a sigh. Robin is right, he can’t screw this up.

2 years later (1987)

You’re on the roof of the WSQK, closing your eyes against the September breeze, letting it cool your cheeks and rustle your hair. Summer overstayed its welcome but fall is finally starting to make itself at home again. You take a minute and let yourself breathe now that you feel like you can properly access your lungs again. Apart from stumbling upon the supernatural threats your friends had been fighting last year, the last hour was probably the most eventful of your life.

You can still feel Steve’s eyes on you, like a sixth sense. You open your eyes to return Steve’s gaze, to thank him for knowing you needed some air and rescuing you from the suddenly overcrowded room; but as soon as your eyes find his, he steals your breath away again, pulling you into another kiss.

This kiss is slower than your first, more tender, his lips moving softly over yours, making you go weak in the knees as you melt into him. He wrap his arm around your waist, pulling you flush to his chest. You grip his bicep with one hand, resting the other at the nape of his neck before sliding it up into his hair. He shudders at the sensation, nipping lightly at your bottom lip before breaking the kiss to rest his forehead to yours.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to do that. I’m sorry it took me eavesdropping and I’m sor-“ you cut him off with a kiss before he can ramble off another pointless apology. You try to convey with your lips how much you don’t care how long it took to get here, what matters is you’re here now, together.

“Steve?” You breathe his name into his lips and he hums in response. “I think we can just agree we’ve both been idiots,” you say with a small smile, the movement causing your lips to brush his again.

“Alright sure, but I’ve definitely been the bigger idiot, you have to give me that.” You huff a laugh, shaking your head at him. “You heard Nancy, her and Robin were so sick of hearing me go on about it, about…how I felt about you but not doing anything about it.” You pull back to be able to see the full picture of Steve’s face, he’s not looking you in the eye but at your shoulder and you can feel him fiddling with the fabric of your shirt.

“Well, not like I can hold it against you, because I didn't do anything about it either, but why didn't you?” You ask softly, wishing he would look at you and see that you’re not upset, you just want to understand. He sighs, glancing at you then taking a step back and looking away again, running a hand through his hair nervously.

“I guess… Well, I’ve always just gone after anyone I was interested in and not really worried if it didn’t work out. I mean, sure it sucks getting turned down, more times than I’d like to admit, but most of the time I was never really invested. I just saw a pretty face and took a shot. Then with Nancy, it was different, I actually cared. But we clearly didn’t work, and it took me a while to work my shit out and then I thought I was crushing on Robin for a second but she… well you know.”

He shrugged, gesturing a hand at you and you nod. Robin had come out to you last summer after Hawkins split open and you had become privy to the world underneath. Near death experiences and the possible end of the world really bring people together. Steve continues.

“And I realized I’ve never really had a girl as just a friend and I don’t think I really knew the difference between just liking a girl as a person and liking someone and wanting to date them. And then I met you and…” he lets out a breath and looks around like he’s trying to find the right words. You smile, eyes soft and encouraging.

“Well, I met you and of course I thought you were gorgeous. But you were already friends with Robin and she told me not to run you off and I was trying not to be that guy who just hit on anything with legs anymore and I didn’t wanna screw it up. So, I tried to just be your friend, which worked well enough, I guess. I mean, I loved being around you and so did the kids like, as soon as they met you. And the more I got to know you the more it felt like everything made sense. Like, I got it, why it never worked out with anyone I dated.”

He stops to catch his breath and look at you, maybe to gauge your reaction and you have to bite your lip to keep from gaping at him because what do you mean he’s always thought you were gorgeous and liked you since you met? You didn’t even have time to think through the implications of him saying you made him understand why it never worked out with any other girl, before he surged on.

“I guess it’s like you said to Robin, I cared about you too much to risk messing things up and losing you. I mean, Robin always knew and she told me from day one to think it through so I didn’t screw it up, but when I wouldn’t shut up about you and Nancy caught on, they kept telling me to just go for it, that you might feel the same way. I just, didn’t wanna assume anything and it- you were too important to get it wrong this time,” he finishes quietly, eyes softening when he looks at you.

You look at him, looking at you, and your smile grows. Much to Steve’s confusion, it doesn’t stop and you can’t help the laugh that bubbles up and out of you. As sweet as the sentiment of everything Steve said was, it was also funny. And you get it now, what Robin and Steve had found funny about it earlier. You shake your head at Steve’s concerned face, his eyes wide.

“I’m sorry I-“ you try to explain but more laughter interrupts and you have to cover your mouth to try and bottle it up. “I'm sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing at both of us. I mean, how were we both so oblivious this whole time?” You ask incredulously with another huff of laughter. It’s Steve’s turn to shake his head and laugh, relieved that you weren’t laughing at him basically spilling his guts to you.

“Well, you said it, we were idiots,” Steve answers with an amused smile, stepping back into your orbit and grabbing you by the waist. Your cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling so hard and your chest swells with everything you’ve ever felt for Steve. Knowing now that he feels the same way makes you want to cry happy tears in the midst of laughing.

You wrap your arms around his middle and pull him into a hug. You breathe him in and enjoy not having to be embarrassed by how much you love the way he smells. Steve reciprocates, wrapping his arms around you just as tightly, he presses a light kiss into your hair before resting his head atop yours. You’ve hugged Steve plenty of times, but not like this, nothing came close to this. You held onto him like he was gravity, the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth, and he held you like he knew it and wouldn’t want to let you go.

“I’m kind of glad I had a dream about you most likely dying,” you mumble into his chest which rumbles when he laughs at you.

“So you were dreaming about me, huh?” He asks, and you roll your eyes, imagining the smug smirk on his stupid, beautiful face that kind of had a right to be smug. The face you get to kiss anytime you want now. You would definitely be taking advantage of that privilege.

“Wait, what about me dying?” Steve asks, suddenly pulling back with concern on his face. You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, debating if you want to tell him.

“Hey, it’s okay, it was just a dream. But you don't have to talk about it, if you don’t want to,” Steve reassures you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“It’s stupid, it wasn’t even that bad. It’s just- we were in the upside-down and there were gunshots and somebody in trouble. Obviously you wanted to help and you wanted me to hide but I didn’t want you to leave me so you kind of had to lock me in one of the old buses in the junkyard and… and then… well, I- I think you said you loved me, before walking away and I didn’t think I was gonna ever see you again but then I woke up, thank God,” You finish in a rush and have to reclaim your breathing.

You realize your hands are bunched into fists and you’re gripping onto Steve’s shirt. You unclench your hands and busy yourself with smoothing his shirt back out, looking anywhere but his eyes. Then he does the thing, with his hand under your chin, and you let him, looking him in the eye.

“I’m sorry, that sounds… awful. But hey, it’s not real, okay? I’m okay and you’re okay and I promise not to lock you in a bus and run off to be a hero,” He says softly with a half smile, bringing a hand to your cheek. You nod and huff a laugh.

“Yeah, okay. I know, you’re right. It just felt…so real, you know? It just freaked me out,” You say with a shrug, trying to focus on Steve in front of you now and not your nightmare. Steve was right in front of you, holding you, not saying he loved you and walking away.

“Yeah, I get it, I’ve had dreams like that before. But… you know, there is one part that was real,” Steve says almost hesitantly, like he’s not sure if he should say it. You lower your eyebrows, searching his face for answers. He swallows hard, licking his lips.

“I uh, I do.. Love you,” he breathes the words out like it’s a relief to say them and smiles like he feels lighter with them out in the open. Your eyebrows shoot back up and your lips form an ‘o’ in light of his confession. His smile falters slightly and he rushes on. “I-I know it’s kind of maybe too soon, I mean, we literally just kissed for the first time like twenty minutes ago but I-”

“Steve!” You call his name sharply, cutting off his rambling. “Steve,” you say his name again, softer now that you have his attention and don’t have to talk over him. “We’ve been pining after each other for basically two years, I don’t think it’s too soon. I think… we took our time getting here, we don’t have to take our time with anything else. I love you too.”

As soon as the words are out of your mouth, Steve wastes no time covering it with his. Lips and tongue hungry for more, like he wants to taste the words you’d just said. You tilt your chin up, giving him all the access he wants.

He tangles his hand in your hair, pulling you as close as possible. You have to lift up on your tiptoes, grabbing his arms to steady yourself before wrapping them around his neck and holding on for dear life. He doesn’t slow down and you don’t want him to, you’re just as desperate for every touch he supplies as he is to supply them.

“Hey, they finally made out! Dustin, you owe me five bucks.” A voice that sounds suspiciously like Michael Wheeler floats up to you and you break away from Steve with a gasp. You look over the side of the building and see Mike, Will, Dustin, and Lucas dismounting from their bikes and setting them in the gravel below. Will has the grace to duck his head and keep walking but Mike and Lucas just grin up at you and Dustin gives you two thumbs-up.

“Oh my god.” You say under your breath, giving them a small wave before letting your head fall onto Steve’s shoulder with a sigh.

“We’re never gonna hear the end of this,” Steve groans, but he can’t keep the laughter completely out of his voice. You can hear the boys laughing too before they presumably disappear into the station.