Dreamsy

It's a Tuesday. Nothing special about it. The kind of Tuesday that bleeds into every other Tuesday, gray and unremarkable.

Steve is behind the counter at Family Video, spinning a pen between his fingers, half-listening to Robin chatter about something that happened at the coffee shop.

"—and she was just sitting there, Steve, drinking her coffee like a normal person, and I thought, I have to talk to her. I have to. So I did."

"You talked to a stranger. Shocking. Do you want a gold medal?"

"Shut up. She's amazing. Like, actual sunshine. You're gonna love her."

"You say that about everyone."

"No, I mean it this time. She's new in town and she doesn't know anyone and I invited her to hang out with us tonight." Robin checks her watch. "Actually, she should be here any minute."

Steve sighs. "Robin."

"What? She's nice! You'll like her. Just... be normal. For once."

"I'm always normal."

"You're really not."

The bell over the door chimes. Steve looks up.

And the world tilts sideways.

You're standing in the doorway, backlit by the afternoon sun, and for a second, you're just a silhouette, both familiar and not, a shape his brain can't quite place. Then you step forward, and...

It's you.

Same eyes. Same smile. Same way of tilting your head when you're nervous, a habit you've had since you were six years old. You're older now, taller, your face different in a hundred small ways — but he'd know you anywhere.

You haven't seen him yet. You're looking at Robin, waving, crossing the store with that easy walk you always had.

"Robin! Hi! Sorry I'm late, I got turned around. This town is so different than I remember."

Robin laughs, pulling you into a hug. "You remember Hawkins? I thought you just moved here."

"I did. I mean, I re-moved here. I grew up here." You pull back, grinning. "A long time ago. Like, elementary school ages."

"No way." Robin's eyes go wide. "That's crazy."

"I know, right? I haven't been back since my parents moved us away. It's so weird being here." You glance around the store, taking it in. "This place used to be a bakery, I think. Or maybe I'm making that up."

Steve can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except stand there, gripping the counter, staring at you like you're a ghost.

Robin notices. "Oh! I'm being so impolite. This is Steve. He's my work bestie. Be nice to him, he's sensitive."

You turn, and your eyes finally, finally, meet his.

You tilt your head. Study his face. Your brow furrows slightly, like you're trying to place him, then your eyes go wide. "No." The word comes out barely a whisper. "No way."

Steve swallows. "Hi."

You take a step closer. Then another. Your hand comes up, hovering, like you want to touch his face but you're not sure if he's real.

"Steve?" Your voice cracks. "Steve Harrington?"

He nods. Can't speak. Can't do anything except look at you, drink you in, try to reconcile the woman in front of him with the little girl who used to steal his crayons and share her snacks.

You slap a hand over your mouth. Then you're laughing, God how he missed that laugh, and throwing your arms around him.

Steve catches you on instinct, pulls you close, holds on like you might disappear. You fit. After all these years, you still fit perfectly against him.

"Oh my god," you mumble into his shoulder. "Oh my god. Stevie."

The nickname that no one has ever used since you breaks something open in his chest.

"You're here." His voice is rough. "You're actually here."

"I'm here." You pull back just enough to look at him, hands still on his arms like you're afraid he'll vanish. "I can't believe — you're so tall. You were such a shrimp last time I saw you."

He laughs despite himself. "I was not a shrimp."

"You were absolutely a shrimp." You punch his arm, light, familiar. "I used to beat you in races every single time."

"You tripped me!"

"You tripped yourself," you retort, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

Robin is standing behind the counter with her mouth hanging open. "Okay." She holds up her hands. "Okay. I need someone to explain what's happening right now, because I am very confused."

You turn to her, still smiling, and Steve realises he hasn't stopped staring at you. Can't stop. Doesn't want to stop.

"We know each other," you say. "Childhood best friends."

"Like, best best friends," Steve adds, because apparently he's incapable of letting you tell this story alone. "We were inseparable."

"Until my parents moved us away." You shrug. "Fourth grade. We lost touch."

Robin's eyes bounce between you like she's watching a tennis match. "You're telling me that my new friend—the one I literally just met at a coffee shop—is your childhood best friend? Who you've never mentioned, somehow?"

"I mentioned her."

"Once. Vaguely. With a lot of staring into the distance."

Steve's ears go pink. "I didn't stare into the distance."

"You absolutely stared into the distance. It was all very dramatic."

You laugh, and the sound does something complicated to Steve's insides. He watches the way your nose crinkles, the way your whole face lights up, and his heart goes to mush.

"So," you say, turning back to him, "what have you been up to for the last fifteen years? Besides growing a foot or two?"

He shakes his head, still smiling like an idiot. "I don't even know where to start."

"Start with the highlights." You lean against the counter, making yourself comfortable. "I've got time."

You end up talking for an hour.

Robin chips in occasionally, but mostly she just watches, fascinated, as the two of you fall back into a rhythm that shouldn't still exist after all these years. But it does. It's like no time has passed at all.

Steve tells you about high school—the edited version, the one that doesn't make him sound like too much of a jerk. You tell him about your high school, about the cities you've lived in, about the jobs you've had. He asks questions, genuine questions, because he actually wants to know. He wants to know everything.

"You look good," he says at one point, and then immediately wants to take it back because that was too much, too forward, too—

You smile. "You too, Stevie. You look really good."

His heart does a backflip.

The afternoon stretches on. Customers come and go. Robin handles most of them, throwing knowing looks at Steve every time she catches him staring at you again.

Which is often.

He can't help it. You're right there. After all these years, you're just right there, leaning against his counter like you never left, and he can't stop looking at you. The way your hair falls over your shoulder. The way you bite your lip when you're thinking. The way your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.

He's got it bad. He knows he's got it bad. He doesn't care.

"So," you say eventually, glancing at the clock, "I should probably head out. Let you two actually work."

"You don't have to." The words come out too fast, too eager. Steve tries to play it cool. "I mean, if you want to stay. But also if you need to go, that's cool too. Obviously."

You tilt your head, that familiar gesture, and smile. "I could stay a little longer."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Another hour passes. Then another. By the time the sun starts to set, you've covered everything — jobs, relationships (or lack thereof), favourite movies, least favourite foods, the time you both got in trouble for trying to build a raft out of scavenged wood and nearly sank in the creek.

"You remember that?" Steve asks, delighted.

"You nearly drowned! Of course I remember!"

"I did not nearly drown. I was swimming."

"You were flailing and screaming for help. I had to pull you out."

"I was playing."

"You were drowning, Steven."

Robin laughs, leaning against the counter. "Your legal name is Steven? Dingus, how did this never come up?"

"He's only called that when he's in trouble," you grin at Steve. "Which was often."

He should be embarrassed. He's not. He's too busy watching you, memorising the way you look in the fading light, the way your presence fills up the whole store.

"Hey." The words come out before he can stop them. "We're having a movie night tonight. At my place. Nothing fancy, just some friends hanging out. You should come."

You blink. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean—" He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous. "Only if you want to. No pressure. It's just... it'd be nice, to have you there."

When you smile and say, "I'd love that, Stevie," and Robin mimics gagging, Steve doesn't even care that he probably looks like a lovesick puppy. He's too busy floating six feet off the ground.

You show up at his house that night with a bag of Starbursts.

"I wasn't sure what to bring," you say, holding them out. "But I remembered you liked these. The blue ones especially. You'd always trade me for my blues."

Steve's eyes flicker from the candy in your hand to your eyes. "You remembered that?"

"Of course I remembered." You shrug, a little shy. "I told you. I remember everything."

He takes the bag, fingers brushing yours. "I still like the blue ones best."

"Good. I... um, I picked out all the others. So there's only blue ones in the packet."

He blinks. "You—" His voice comes out weird. He clears his throat. "You picked out all the non-blue ones? For me?"

You shrug again, but your cheeks are growing warm. "Yeah. I wanted you to have them. The good ones. Without having to pick through the packet."

He doesn't know what to say. You remembered. You remembered his favourite candy, and you took the time to pick out all the other flavours just so he could have exactly what he liked.

No one does that. No one has ever done that.

Except you.

He says your name softly. "That's—" He stops, because he doesn't have words big enough.

You shift on your feet, suddenly looking unsure. "Is it weird? I thought it might be weird. I just—when I saw them at the store, I thought of you, and—"

"It's not weird." He steps closer, still holding the bag like it's something precious. "It's the nicest thing anyone's done for me in a long time."

Your face softens. "Really?"

"Really."

You're standing in his doorway, backlit by the porch light, and Steve thinks you might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. The evening air is cool, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and the distant hum of cicadas.

You're wearing a soft sweater that's slightly too big, jeans that fit just right, and you're looking at him like he's someone worth looking at.

He wants to remember this moment forever.

"Come in," he says finally, stepping aside. "Everyone should be here soon."

You duck past him into the house, and he catches a hint of your perfume, something he already knows is going to haunt him for weeks. "Am I too early?" you ask, glancing around his living room. It's empty for now, just the two of you and the soft glow of the lamps Steve always keeps on.

"No." The word comes out too fast. He tries again, softer. "No, you're perfect. I mean.... perfect timing. You have perfect timing."

You raise an eyebrow, amused. "Smooth, Harrington."

"Shut up." He's grinning though, can't help it. "Make yourself comfortable. You want something to drink? I've got soda, water, probably some beer somewhere. Do you drink?"

"Yeah, sometimes." You settle onto the couch, curling into the corner. "I'm not a huge fan of beer, though. It's just kind of... bitter? I don't know. Not my thing."

Steve's eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I feel like everyone our age is supposed to like beer or pretend beer is amazing."

You laugh. "Right? I've never understood it."

You end up talking again. For twenty minutes, without stopping. It's not even awkward, at all. It's easy. You're easy to talk to.

The door bursts open soon enough.

"Steve! We're here! And we brought snacks, so you better be grateful—"

Dustin stops dead in the doorway, eyes landing on you. Mike, Lucas and Will pile in behind him, nearly crashing into his back.

"Oh," Dustin says. "Who's this?"

Steve stands, suddenly protective in a way he can't explain. "This is—"

"Robin's new friend," you supply, standing with a smile. "And Steve's old one, as we've realised."

Dustin's eyebrows shoot up. "Old friend?"

"Childhood best friends," Steve clarifies. "We knew each other when we were kids."

"Childhood best friends," Mike repeats slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "Huh."

"Don't start, Wheeler."

"She's pretty," Lucas observes. "Really pretty."

"Sinclair!"

"What? I'm just stating facts."

You laugh, bright and easy, and Lucas grins like he's just won a prize. "Careful," you say, tilting your head at him. "I might start thinking you're trying to flatter me into sharing my snacks."

Lucas's eyes light up. "Is that a possibility?"

"Depends on how good your flattery is."

"I'm very good at flattery."

"He's really not," Mike mutters.

"Shut up, Mike."

Dustin is watching you with narrowed eyes, like he's trying to figure you out. You meet his gaze and smile.

"You're Dustin, right? Steve mentioned you."

"Did he." Dustin's voice is flat, but there's curiosity underneath. "What did he say?"

"That you're the brains of the operation. And that you once convinced him aliens were real for three months."

Dustin's face breaks into a massive grin. "He told you about that?"

"He left out the best parts, I'm guessing."

"Oh, the best parts are legendary. There was this one time—"

"Dustin's insufferable enough already," Mike interrupts. "Please don't encourage him."

"I'm not encouraging. I'm gathering intel." You wink at Dustin. "For blackmail purposes."

Dustin stares at you for a beat. Then he turns to Steve with something like reverence. "I like her. She stays."

"Glad you approve, Henderson."

Steve tunes out the rest of the conversation. He's much too focused on you. You're laughing at something Dustin said, your whole face lit up, and Steve realises he's been staring again.

He can't help it. You're just—you're here. After all these years, you're sitting on his couch, talking to his weird adopted family, fitting in like you've always been part of it.

The door opens again, and Max walks in with El.

Max takes one look at you, eyebrows raised. "Who's the newbie?"

"My childhood best friend," Steve explains for what feels like the hundredth time. "Just moved back. We haven't seen each other in like ten years."

"Huh." Max gives you a long, assessing look. "I'm Max. This is El."

"Hi, Max. Hi, El. Nice to meet you."

El peers at you with big, curious eyes. You smile at her, warm and genuine, and Steve feels his chest tighten.

"I like your necklace," you murmur.

El glances down at the pearl necklace Mike bought her last year, then back at you. A small smile touches her lips. "Thank you."

You're sandwiched between them now, Max on one side and El on the other, and Steve watches from across the room as you somehow fit right in. He can't look away.

"What's your favourite movie?" El asks.

"That's a hard one. Depends on my mood, I think."

"Scary movies?"

"Sometimes. I like the special effects. They're pretty cool, right?"

El's eyes light up. "Mike likes those too. The... special effects."

"Mike has good taste, then."

"Debatable," Max mutters.

"She's good with them," Robin says, appearing at Steve's side. "Really good."

"Yeah." His voice is soft. "She is."

"You look kinda sad about it."

"I'm not sad." He pauses, watches you ruffle El's hair gently. "I just—I wanted to talk to her more. And now she's been stolen by the gremlins."

"Don't tell me you're jealous of a couple of teenagers."

Steve shrugs, a smile tugging at his lips as he watches you pass out the other coloured Starbursts to the kids. At one point, Dustin asks where the blue ones are, and you just smile.

"Sorry, Dustin. The blue ones are spoken for."

Dustin's eyes narrow. "Spoken for? By who?"

You glance at Steve, just for a second, and something warm passes between you. "They're someone's favourite."

Dustin follows your gaze, lands on Steve and grins. "Oh. Oh. I see how it is."

"You don't see anything," Steve says quickly.

"I see everything." Dustin leans back, arms crossed, looking insufferably pleased with himself. "The blue ones are for Steve. Steve gets special treatment. This is huge."

"They're just candy," you protest, but your cheeks are pink.

"They're not just candy." Dustin turns to the others. "Do you understand what this means?"

"That Steve has a favourite colour?" Will offers.

"No, dumbass," Dustin sighs.

You're laughing now, and Steve wants to die but also never wants this moment to end. You catch his eye across the room and smile.

He's in so much trouble.

After the movie, Max and El leave first. They offered you to join their sleepover at the Byers' house, which you'd declined, much to their disappointment, but you'd promised to hang out with them later this week.

Dustin's next, clapping Steve on the shoulder. "Good job, Steve. She's a keeper."

"She's not—we're not—"

"Sure." Dustin grins, that knowing look firmly in place. "Whatever you say, Steve."

Mike and Lucas follow, throwing casual goodbyes over their shoulders.

Robin hugs you goodbye, whispers something in your ear that makes you blush and swat at her arm. She cackles, throws Steve a wink, and disappears into the night.

And then it's just you and Steve.

You're still on the couch, curled into the corner, looking around at the scattered popcorn bowls and empty soda cans. "This was really fun."

"Yeah?" Steve's leaning against the back of the couch, watching you. "You're not just saying that?"

"I never just say things." You stretch, catlike, and Steve absolutely does not stare at the sliver of skin that appears between your sweater and your jeans. "Your friends are great. Weird, but great."

"That's the best way to describe them." He pushes off the couch, starts gathering empty cans. "You don't have to help, by the way. You're a guest."

You're already standing, collecting popcorn bowls. "I know. I want to."

"You want to clean up after a bunch of teenagers?"

"I want to help you." You say it simply, like it's obvious, and Steve doesn't know what to do with that. So he just nods, and the two of you move around his living room in easy silence, tidying up.

It's domestic in a way that makes his chest tight. You fitting into his space, picking up cushions, straightening blankets, tossing trash.

You belong here. That's the thought that keeps circling in his head. You belong here, in his house, with his people, in his life.

"You know," you say, dropping a handful of napkins in the trash, "I was really nervous about tonight."

Steve pauses, an empty soda can in each hand. "You were? You seemed totally comfortable."

"I'm good at faking it." You shrug. "But yeah. New town, new people, new... everything. Even though I did live here, I don't know. I wasn't sure how I'd fit in."

"And now?"

You smile. "Now I'm really glad I came."

Steve sets down the cans, crosses to where you're standing by the kitchen island. "Me too." You're looking at him with those big, warm eyes, and Steve thinks he could get lost in them.

"Hey," he says, before he can lose his nerve. "Are you doing anything tomorrow?"

You tilt your head. "Depends. Why?"

"A few of us are gonna hang out. Robin, obviously. Nancy and Jonathan." He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. "Just a smaller group. More low-key. I thought maybe you'd want to come?"

"You want me to come?"

"I mean—only if you want to. No pressure. But yeah, I'd like it if you were there." He pauses, steels himself. "I'd like to spend more time with you. If that's okay."

You're quiet for a moment, and Steve's heart hammers in his chest. Then you smile — that same smile from when you were nine.

"I'd love that, Stevie."

"Okay," he murmurs. Watches the strand of hair that's fallen in front of your face and reaches up before you can, tucking it behind your ear, fingers lingering longer than necessary.

You leave, promising to meet him and the others tomorrow at the diner for lunch.

Steve closes the door behind you and leans against it, eyes shut, hand pressed to his chest like he can physically slow down his racing heart. He pushes off the door eventually, walking over slowly to the couch, sinking into the spot you just left. It's still warm. He tells himself that's not weird, that anyone would notice that, that it doesn't mean anything.

He's lying.

His fingers brush the cushion where you were sitting, and he thinks about the way you looked tonight. He thinks about the Starbursts. The blue ones, all picked out just for him. The way you'd shrugged like it was nothing, like it wasn't the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done.

Steve scrubs a hand over his face, exhausted and wired at the same time. He should go to bed. He has work tomorrow, and then lunch with you. But his mind won't stop spinning, caught in a loop of your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're happy.

He remembers that from when you were kids. The way your whole face would light up when you were happy, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. It's the same now. Brighter, even.

You haven't changed much, he thinks. He can see the little kid in you still.

He thinks about the years you were gone. All the moments you missed, all the things he wishes you'd been there for. He thinks about the person he used to be — King Steve, asshole extraordinaire — and wonders what you would have thought of him if you'd seen him then. Would you have recognised him? Would you have wanted to?

He thinks about the person he is now. The person you seem to see when you look at him. He hopes you think he's good. That maybe, just maybe, someday he might be worthy of you.

He falls asleep on the couch. He dreams of forts in the woods and secret handshakes and a little girl with mud on her face, holding up a frog and grinning like she'd just found treasure.

Steve's the first one at the diner the next day. He grabs a booth near the window, where he can see the parking lot. He orders a coffee he doesn't really want, just to have something to do with his hands.

Robin's the first to arrive, sliding into the booth across from him with a knowing grin. "You're here early."

"Traffic was light," Steve mutters, taking a sip of his coffee even though it's still too hot.

Robin snorts. "It's a five-minute drive from your house." She steals his coffee, takes a sip, then slides the cup back to him. "She's coming, by the way. I ran into her at the grocery store this morning. She said she'd be here."

Steve's heart does that stupid flip thing again. "I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to. Your face did." Robin grins. "Relax. She likes you."

"She doesn't—we're just—"

"Steve." Robin's voice is flat. "She picked the blue ones out of a whole bag of Starbursts. For you. That's not 'just' anything."

He doesn't have an answer for that.

The diner is quiet this time of day — the lunch rush hasn't started yet, and the breakfast crowd is long gone. Robin orders her own coffee, stirs sugar into it when it arrives.

"You know, you could just tell her."

"Tell her what?"

"How you feel." She shrugs. "It's not complicated. 'Hey, I've known you since we were kids and I think you're amazing and also really pretty and I'd like to kiss you.' Simple."

Steve chokes on his coffee. "I am not saying that."

"Why not? It's true."

"It's—" He runs a hand through his hair. "We just reconnected. I don't want to rush anything. What if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I scare her off?"

Robin considers this. "Okay, fair. But also, have you seen the way she looks at you?"

"What way?"

"You're clueless."

Before Steve can respond, Nancy walks in, Jonathan right behind her, both of them looking slightly windswept from the walk.

"Sorry we're late," Nancy says, sliding into the booth next to Robin. "Jonathan lost track of time developing photos."

"I didn't lose track of time," Jonathan protests, sitting beside her. "I was in the zone. There's a difference."

Steve's eyes drift to the parking lot again. Still no sign of your car.

"So," Nancy says. "This new friend of Robin's. Also apparently your childhood best friend. The one you've been staring at all week."

"I haven't been staring."

"You've been staring. Jonathan noticed too."

Jonathan nods without looking away from the window. "It's impressive, actually. The level of focus."

"I hate all of you," Steve mutters.

"You love us. And you're nervous because she's late and you're worried she changed her mind."

"I'm not—" He stops. Sighs. "Okay, maybe a little."

"Steve. She showed up at your house with a bag of candy she specially prepared for you. She's not going to change her mind."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have eyes." Nancy's voice is dry. "And because Robin told me about the Starbursts. That's not nothing."

"She's right," Jonathan adds, finally turning from the window. "People don't do that for people they don't care about."

Steve wants to believe them. He does. But his eyes keep drifting back to the parking lot, watching for your car, waiting for you to appear.

Ten more minutes pass, during which Robin and Nancy get into a heated debate about something Steve's not listening to and Jonathan takes a picture of the salt shaker.

And then, finally, your car pulls into the lot.

Steve sits up straighter, watching you park, watching you step out, watching you pause to look around with that familiar tilt to your head.

"See?" Robin nudges him. "She's here. Told you."

You push through the diner door, and the little bell above it chimes. Your eyes scan the room, land on their booth, and you smile — but it's different this time. Apologetic. Embarrassed.

"Sorry I'm late!" You slide into the booth next to Steve, close enough that your arm brushes his. "I got lost again. I swear, this town is trying to confuse me on purpose."

"You got lost coming to the diner?" Nancy asks, amused. "It's literally a straight shot from your apartment."

"A straight shot with, like, four turns and no street signs and a really confusing intersection." You blow out a breath, pushing your hair out of your face. "I ended up near the old mill somehow."

"The old mill?" Robin's eyebrows shoot up. "That's, like, twenty minutes in the wrong direction."

"I know!" You laugh, embarrassed. "I'm hopeless. I should just start leaving breadcrumbs."

Steve's heart, which had been racing with worry, finally settles. You're here. You're okay. You just got lost.

"I was starting to think you'd changed your mind," he says quietly, before he can stop himself.

You turn to him, your expression softening. "No, Stevie. I wouldn't do that." You bump your shoulder against his. "It takes more than a confusing intersection to get rid of me."

"Okay, okay, enough with the eye contact," Robin interrupts. "Some of us are trying to eat."

Nancy laughs. "Robin, let them have their moment. It's cute."

Lunch is fun, easier than you thought it'd be. Afterwards, you all linger outside the diner, reluctant to let the afternoon end.

Robin stretches her arms above her head. "I gotta get to work. Some of us have actual jobs."

"You work at the same place as Steve," Nancy points out.

"Exactly. Which means I have to deal with him and customers. It's exhausting."

Steve flips her off, but he's smiling.

Nancy and Jonathan head off toward his car. He's got an arm around her and she's smiling into his shoulder, looking disgustingly cute.

Robin hugs you goodbye and shoves Steve's shoulder a little before disappearing down the street, too.

You're standing close, close enough that he can see the way the sunlight catches your hair. You're fidgeting with the strap of your bag, looking anywhere but at him.

"So," you say. "That was fun."

"Yeah." He shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly awkward. "Really fun."

A pause. You bite your lip.

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering..." You trail off, cheeks warming. "I mean, if you're not busy or whatever... do you maybe want to hang out again? Soon? Just us?"

His heart stops.

"I know we just hung out," you continue quickly, words tumbling out. "And you probably have stuff to do, and I don't want to be annoying or anything, it's just—I really like talking to you, and I feel like we have so much to catch up on, and—"

Steve says your name to stop you. You stop, looking at him with those big, warm eyes.

"I'd love to hang out again." He's grinning, can't help it. "Any time. Just say when."

Your face lights up. "Really?"

"Really."

"Okay." You're smiling now, that bright, sunshine smile. "How about tomorrow? We could go for a walk or something? If the weather's nice?"

"It's supposed to be nice." He's definitely grinning like an idiot. "I could pick you up around one? So you don't get lost."

You laugh, that bright sound he's already addicted to. "Wow. Rude. But also... fair. One o'clock sounds perfect."

"Perfect," he echoes.

You're both just standing there now, neither quite ready to leave. The afternoon sun is warm on Steve's shoulders, and you're looking at him with that soft expression, the one that makes his chest feel tight in the best way.

"I should probably go," you say eventually, but you don't move.

"Yeah. Me too. Probably." He doesn't move either.

"Thanks for today. And last night. And... everything." You shrug, a little shy. "I know I just showed up out of nowhere and turned your life upside down, but you've been really great about it."

You hug him again — longer this time, your arms around his waist, your cheek pressed to his chest.

When you pull back, your cheeks are flushed. "Okay. Bye, Stevie."

"Bye."

You walk to your car, and Steve watches the whole way, committing it to memory. You glance back before you slip into the drivers' seat, smiling before you disappear inside.

He stands there for a long time after you're gone, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. He thinks this might be the beginning of something.

Something good.

Something real.

Robin’s head popped up from behind the stack of cassettes. She squinted at the girl, then at you, then back at the girl with confusion, clearly not buying the idea that a girl was looking for Steve.

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”

Then she turned toward the shelves and called out, “Dingus, you got a customer.”

There was a beat of silence, then Steve’s head appeared between two rows of VHS tapes. He blinked at the front counter, clearly not expecting an audience, then pushed himself upright and walked over with the cautious expression of a man approaching a trap.

You tilted your head toward the girl and stepped back slightly, joining Robin at the counter. Both of you leaned casually against it as you looked between the two.

The girl looked relieved and nervous at the same time. “Steve?”

Steve nodded once. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.”

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I’m from Karen Wheeler’s neighborhood. I was just wondering if you would be free for a shift tonight.”

Steve glanced at you and Robin, confused, then back at her. “For what?”

“For babysitting my little sister. Mrs. Wheeler told my mom that you take care of Mike sometimes, so. . .”

The silence that followed was so complete you could practically hear Robin’s brain short-circuiting beside you.

Steve stared at the girl like she had just informed him he was being drafted into a war. His eyebrows lifted slowly in disbelief. Meanwhile you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you were fairly certain you would leave a mark.

Steve turned his head toward you and Robin, eyes wide, silently asking if you were hearing this too. You and Robin, without missing a beat, immediately arranged your faces into identical masks of confusion and shook your heads as if this was brand new information.

Steve faced the girl again. “Actually,” he said, “I don’t babysit. I’m not a babysitter.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s just you’re always hanging around the kids, so. . . ”

Robin leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “They’re his friends.”

You nodded gravely. “Yeah. He is friends with a lot of kids.”

The girl laughed nervously, giving Steve a look that hovered somewhere between suspicious and concerned. She nodded a few times, clearly unsure how to respond to that information, then murmured another apology before backing toward the door.

The bell chimed again as she left, and the moment it clicked shut behind her, the store fell into silence.

Steve stood there, still processing. You and Robin lasted exactly one second.

Then you both burst out laughing.

You had to grab the counter to stay upright as the laughter doubled over on itself. Robin clapped a hand over her mouth and wheezed, sliding halfway off the stool. Steve stared at you two, offended.

“Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, gesturing toward the door. “Babysitting? Again? Why does everyone think I—”

“You literally drove them to school in your car,” Robin managed between gasps. “You packed them snacks. You have a designated seat for Dustin.”

“It’s called being a good friend,” Steve said defensively.

“You have a car seat indentation in your backseat,” you added, wiping at your eyes.

He pointed at you. “You are not helping.”

Robin leaned against you, still laughing. “I can’t believe someone actually came in to hire you for a shift. Steve Harrington, available weekends and holidays, comes with free hair tips.”

Steve dragged a hand down his face. “I hate both of you.”

You straightened, trying to compose yourself, though the grin refused to leave your face. “No, c'mon. Think about it. You could make extra money.”

“God knows you need it,” Robin said. “That’s how you get girls, you know.”

Steve groaned loudly enough that a customer browsing near the comedy section glanced over. He walked up to the counter and planted himself beside you, dragging a hand down his face again like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could erase the last five minutes of his life.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Robin grinned, pleased with herself, and gave him a quick pat on the shoulder that was far more patronizing than comforting. “I’m just saying, dingus. You’ve got a niche. Lean into it.”

“I’m going to throw you out,” he said.

“You can’t,” she shot back. “We work here.”

Then she pushed away from the counter and wandered toward the back room, still laughing to herself under her breath.

That left you and Steve at the front counter. You picked up a stack of returned tapes and began scanning them in, sliding each one across the counter.

Steve leaned beside you, shoulder nearly brushing yours as he crossed his arms and stared out at the empty aisles. Then, after a moment, he followed you as you moved around the counter to shelve a tape. And then again when you stepped toward the register. And again when you circled back to the returns bin.

“I just don’t understand,” he began, voice low and indignant. “How did I go from King Steve to some girl walking in asking if I’m free for a shift tonight. A shift?”

You nodded sympathetically, though the corners of your mouth kept twitching upward. “It is a big change.”

“I didn’t change,” he said immediately. “I did not change. I am still the same person. I just. . . happen to know some kids.”

“You drive them everywhere,” you said, moving a tape into its case and snapping it shut. “You helped Will with his project for three hours.”

“That was one time,” he insisted. “And he was struggling.”

You hummed thoughtfully, sliding another cassette into place. “Sounds like babysitting to me.”

He groaned again, louder this time, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. Then he straightened and leaned closer. “I used to be cool,” he said. “I used to walk into a room and people would be like, oh wow, Steve Harrington. Now I walk into a room and people are like, hey, can you watch my kid for a few hours.”

You glanced at him, taking in the slump of his shoulders and the way he looked personally betrayed by the universe.

It was difficult to take him seriously when he was pouting in front of a shelf labeled Family Favorites, but you softened anyway, because beneath the theatrics there was always something earnest about Steve when he got like this.

“You’re still cool, Steve,” you said, nudging a tape flush with the row before stepping back toward the counter. “You’re extremely cool.”

He made a face that said he appreciated the effort but did not believe a word of it.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he muttered, following you as you moved. “You know yesterday I asked Henderson if he wanted to hang out, and he said he had a meeting with Eddie. This is how it starts, I’m telling you. First they stop needing rides, then they stop calling, then suddenly everyone forgets me and I end up dying alone.”

You leaned against the counter and folded your arms. “Well, that is a bleak projection for your future.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m aging out. I can feel it. I peaked in high school and now I’m. . . I don’t know. A former peak?”

You tilted your head. “I’ll tell you what, Steve. Get a girlfriend. That’s always a popularity boost.”

He blinked at you, clearly not expecting that response. “I can’t just date a girl to get popular,” he said, frowning. “That’s disrespectful to her. And also to me.”

You shrugged, entirely unconcerned. “Well, looks like you are in fact going to die alone then.”

He let out an offended noise and turned away from you, pacing a few steps down the aisle. You reached for your water bottle on the counter and unscrewed the cap, taking a sip as he continued muttering to himself.

Then he stopped abruptly.

You glanced up just in time to see him staring at a display near the register, eyes narrowing in thought. He reached out and picked up a copy of Her Cardboard Lover from the return pile, turning it over in his hands. His expression lit up and you immediately felt a sense of dread as you realised he had just had an idea.

“Oh no,” you said, watching him. “That’s never good.”

He turned toward you, still holding the tape, clearly pleased with himself. “I just had an idea.”

You raised your bottle again and took another sip, bracing yourself. “That sentence has never once led to anything positive.”

He stepped closer to the counter, enthusiasm building. “Okay, hear me out. You said I should get a girlfriend, right?”

You nodded cautiously, swallowing your water. “Hypothetically.”

“So,” he continued, gesturing between the two of you with the tape, “you could be my pretend girlfriend.”

You choked.

The water went everywhere. It sprayed forward in a completely uncontrolled burst and hit him square in the chest before you could even process what had just come out of his mouth. You doubled over coughing, clutching the counter for support while trying not to inhale the rest of it.

Steve recoiled, looking down at his now very damp shirt with startled offense. “Okay,” he said, blinking at you. “I see you’re shocked.”

You coughed again, wiping at your mouth and trying to catch your breath. “You—” you started, then had to stop because you were still half choking. “You cannot just— say things like that while I’m drinking water.”

He held his hands up defensively, though he was trying not to laugh. “I didn’t know you were going to—”

“You just proposed a fake relationship out of nowhere,” you said, straightening and grabbing a napkin to dab at the front of his shirt. “That’s not a casual suggestion, Steven.”

He watched you fuss for a second, then shrugged. “It makes sense. You literally just said I should get a girlfriend. This solves the problem. You help me look less like the town babysitter, I help you with. . . whatever you need help with. It’s mutually beneficial.”

You stared at him, napkin still in hand, trying to decide if he was serious. He looked entirely earnest. Hopeful, even. Like he genuinely thought this was a reasonable plan and not the beginning of a very bad plan.

“You are unbelievable,” you said, though there was a reluctant laugh tugging at your voice.

He smiled a little, encouraged. “Come on. It’s not that crazy.”

You stared at him for another second, still holding the napkin against his shirt. “You’re right,” you said. “It’s not that crazy.”

His face lit up immediately, hope flaring so fast it was almost impressive.

“It’s stupid,” you finished. “Completely dumb. I can’t date you.”

His expression fell with equal speed. “Why? What’s wrong with me?”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the immediate wounded offense. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why not?” he pressed. “Are you dating someone?”

“No.”

“Then—”

“It’ll be weird,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “And totally wrong. And honestly I’m still not seeing how this is benefiting me.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Uh. By. . . by. . . by—”

He trailed off, clearly searching for a reason and coming up completely blank. You watched him flounder for a moment, then slowly took a breath and leaned back against the counter, thinking maybe that was it. Maybe he would realize it was ridiculous and drop it.

You exhaled, relieved.

Then he straightened abruptly, eyes widening like a light bulb had gone off over his head.

“Your mom,” he said.

You turned immediately toward the front door. “Where?”

“No, not that,” he said quickly. “I meant your mom. You told me she’s always pestering you to get a boyfriend. And I’m in her good books.”

You looked back at him, suspicious. “How do you know you're in her good books?”

He gave you a look that was almost smug. “Sweetheart, she sent me home with leftovers last time I dropped you off and told me to drive safe and call if I needed anything. She literally said that I was the best thing you'd brought to their life.”

You blinked. “She did?”

“That’s not the point,” he said quickly, waving a hand. “The point is, this is a win-win situation. Your mom gets off your back. People stop trying to hire me for babysitting shifts. Everyone benefits.”

You hesitated, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The logic was annoyingly sound. Still, you frowned. “I don’t know, Steve. I mean, won’t people think it’s weird?”

He scoffed immediately. “Oh, please. We’re always together. You know the first thing Max asked me when she met you?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”

He leaned in. “She asked how I got someone like you.”

Your head snapped toward him, surprised. “She did?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Looked at me like I’d pulled off some kind of miracle.”

You stared at him for a second, then folded your arms, trying very hard not to look pleased. “I always knew Max was my favorite.”

He grinned a little, encouraged by the shift in your expression. “See? People already assume we’re together. We just. . . don’t correct them.”

You looked down at the counter, tapping your fingers against the surface as you thought. It was ridiculous. It was definitely ridiculous. But it was also. . . convenient. And maybe a little tempting.

He watched you like he didn’t want to push too hard and scare you off. For once, Steve Harrington was being patient. That alone should have been a red flag.

“You’re really serious about this,” you said.

He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”

You sighed, tipping your head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment. Then you looked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “This is a terrible idea,” you said.

He brightened immediately. “So that’s a yes?”

You pointed at him with the hand still holding the napkin. “This is temporary. Strictly pretend. And if this gets weird, we end it immediately.”

He nodded quickly. “Deal.”

You drew in a breath. “We should probably set some ground rules. . . before this gets weird.”

He straightened, suddenly attentive in a way that suggested he was taking this far more seriously than he had any right to. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Ground rules. Good. Love ground rules.”

You leaned your hip against the counter and folded your arms, already slipping into a very official tone. “Rule number one. This is only for appearances. Public settings, social situations, my mom, your reputation. That’s it. No unnecessary PDA when we’re alone.”

He nodded immediately. “Right. Only when people are watching.”

“Exactly. Rule number two. No using this as an excuse to mess with each other. No embarrassing stories and no making up fake details about my life for fun.”

He held up his hands. “I would never.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended. “I would try very hard never.”

“Rule number three,” you continued, ignoring that. “If either of us wants out, we say so. No dragging this on for the sake of appearances.”

“Agreed,” he said.

“Rule number four,” you added, thinking it through. “No over-the-top physical stuff. Hand-holding is fine. Maybe the occasional arm around the shoulder. Nothing that’s going to make this weird.”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded again. “Yeah. Okay. Is kissing on the table?”

You gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, no kissing.”

“Rule number five,” you said, tapping the counter. “We keep this between us for now. We tell Robin, obviously, because she’ll figure it out in five seconds anyway. But no big announcements.”

He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”

You took a small breath. “And finally,” you said, “we don’t let this mess up our actual friendship.”

He stilled a little at that, then nodded. “Yeah. Of course.”

From the back room, you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching.

Steve heard them too. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to you. “One more rule,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you were really listening. “No falling in love.”

You blinked once and then laughed and waved a hand like he’d said something completely absurd. “Trust me,” you said. “That won’t be a problem.”

He nodded, but there was a brief, unreadable look on his face before it smoothed over.

A second later, Robin rounded the corner from the back, arms full of tapes and eyes already narrowed in suspicion. She took one look at the two of you standing a little too close at the counter and stopped mid-step.

“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”

Four days later, everything had spiraled in ways you absolutely had not prepared for.

The news that you and Steve were dating had spread through Hawkins like wildfire. You had expected questions. Stares. Instead, people had accepted it with such normalcy that it almost felt insulting.

On your second day walking into Family Video together with his arm slung around your shoulders, you had overheard a girl near the new releases whispering to her boyfriend, “Oh my God, they’re finally official,” only for the boyfriend to shrug and say, “Haven’t they been dating since high school?”

You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.

Steve had just stared into the middle distance like he was trying to decide if that was flattering or deeply confusing.

The moms, however, reacted exactly as expected. They stopped asking Steve to babysit. Completely. Instead, they asked about you. Every conversation he had with a suburban mother now began and ended with questions about how you were doing, whether you liked pasta salad, and if you preferred carnations or roses. One of them had even sent him home with a container of cookies “for you both,” which he had delivered to you.

The party knew, of course. You had told them immediately, mostly because Robin insisted that if they found out any other way she would personally sabotage the entire operation. Their reactions had been. . . mixed.

Max had looked between you and Steve, then shrugged and said, “Yeah, that tracks. I would not, for a second, believe it was real.”

Dustin had demanded to know why you had not informed him sooner, because he felt like this was information he deserved as someone who had been “emotionally invested” in Steve’s life for years.

Mike and Will had exchanged one long, knowing look that made you deeply uncomfortable.

Lucas had just smirked. Jane had nodded once, like she had already knew what it would end in.

Nancy had been suspiciously quiet, which somehow felt more alarming than any actual reaction and Jonathan had raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

Eddie had laughed for a full thirty seconds straight and then clapped Steve on the back like he had just accomplished something monumental.

Robin, of course, had been the only one to say what needed to be said.

“This is a terrible idea,” she told you both flatly. “This is going to bite you in the ass. I am going to be there when it does. I will not say I told you so, because I'm going to be wearing a shirt that says that.”

You had both ignored her.

That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.

Because right now, four days into this arrangement, you were sitting at your family’s dining table with Steve beside you, and the situation had escalated into a level of awkward that even you had not anticipated.

Your mother was thrilled. She had made enough food to feed an entire neighborhood and kept smiling at Steve like he had delivered wonderful news to the household. Every few minutes she asked him if he wanted more pasta, more bread, more salad, more of literally anything.

Your father, on the other hand, was silent, which was actually his worst reaction.

He met Steve’s eyes from across the table and slowly stabbed his pasta with his fork.

Steve visibly gulped.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye. He shot you a quick look. You gave him a small, encouraging smile that you hoped looked reassuring and not at all like someone who was also internally panicking.

Your mother set down another dish with a bright expression. “Steve, sweetheart, do you want more garlic bread?”

“I’m good,” he said quickly. “Thank you. This is great. Really great.”

Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.

You shifted slightly in your seat and, without thinking too hard about it, let your knee bump lightly against Steve’s under the table. He glanced at you again, and this time his expression softened just a little.

“So,” your mother said cheerfully, settling into her seat. “How long has this been going on?”

Steve did not even hesitate. “About two months,” he said at the exact same time you said, “Last week.”

Your mother’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. Your father slowly looked up from his plate.

Steve froze, mid-chew, eyes widening as he realized what had just happened.

You felt your stomach drop straight to the floor, take a brief walk, and then sit down somewhere near the radiator to rethink your life choices.

You both turned to look at each other at the same time.

“Two months,” Steve repeated quickly. “I mean—no. Not two months. I meant. . . we started, uh, hanging out more two months ago. But dating like she said. Last week. Technically. But I’ve—” He stopped, swallowed hard, and then, as if something in his brain simply snapped into survival mode, blurted out, “I’ve just been in love with her for a really long time.”

You blinked at him.

Your mother blinked at him.

Your father did not blink at all.

Steve turned to you with an expression that said please go along with this or I will actually pass out at this table. You nodded immediately, a little too quickly, like a bobblehead that had been shaken with enthusiasm. “Yes. That. He has. For. . . a long time,” you said. “It was very. . . slow burn.”

Your father set his fork down with a clink that sounded like a warning bell.

“Look, Harrington,” he said, and Steve physically straightened in his chair. “Let’s get one thing clear. I don’t like you now. I used to like you when you were just a boy who came over to hang out with my little girl and watch matches with me. You were harmless then. Annoying yes. Very loud. But now that you're dating my daughter I don’t like you.”

“Okay,” Steve said immediately. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay.” He kept going, nodding faster with each repetition, like if he stopped agreeing he might be escorted out of the house. “That’s fair. Totally fair. I get that. Very reasonable position to have.”

You nudged him under the table, both because he was spiraling and because you needed him to stop saying okay before he said it so many times it lost all meaning. He startled slightly at the contact and glanced at you. You gave him a look.

“Dad,” you said. “Steve is very good to me. You know that. He. . . he never even lets me do any work during our shifts.”

Your father’s head snapped toward you. “Why?” he asked immediately. “I thought you wanted to get a job to be independent. Is he not letting you work? Is that what this is? That’s it. I’m going to get your job changed. Actually, you don’t even need to do a job. You can quit. You don’t need to work there at all.”

Your eyes widened in horror as you realized you had made a catastrophic error. “No, no, no, that’s not what I meant,” you said quickly, nearly knocking your glass over in the process. “I meant he’s helpful. He’s very helpful. Too helpful, actually. Sometimes annoyingly helpful.”

“Honey, calm down,” your mother said to your father, placing a hand on his arm. “She clearly meant that Steve is helpful at work. He helps her. That’s a good thing.”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”

Steve jumped in with enthusiasm. “Super helpful,” he said. “I am extremely helpful. If helpfulness were a sport, I’d have a trophy. Several trophies. A shelf, maybe.”

Your father stared at him.

You tried again. “He also. . . brings me lunch sometimes,” you added weakly.

“You can bring your own lunch,” your dad said. “You don’t need him bringing you lunch. You’re perfectly capable of bringing your own lunch.”

You closed your eyes briefly. This was going so badly. This was going so, so badly.

Steve must have seen the panic starting to creep into your face because he sat up a little straighter.

“Sir,” he said, and you almost choked because Steve Harrington never called anyone sir unless he was in very deep. “I know you don’t like this. And I get why. I really do. But I care about your daughter a lot. I always have. I. . . I love her. And I’m not going to let you maker her quit her job or stop doing anything she wants to do. I just try to make things easier for her when I can. That’s all.”

Your heart was pounding so loudly you were certain everyone could hear it. You watched your father’s face, searching for any sign of what he was thinking. He held Steve’s gaze for a long, long moment. Long enough that you started mentally preparing a speech about how this was all a misunderstanding and also possibly a joke and no one needed to panic.

Then, finally, your father gave a small, slow nod. He picked up his fork again, twirled some pasta around it, and leaned back slightly in his chair. “All right,” he said.

That was all he said. But the fact that he had not thrown Steve out of the house felt like a miracle.

You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.

You turned your head toward Steve and mouthed, oh my god I can’t believe that worked.

Steve looked at you, eyes still wide, and mouthed back, me too.

By the time your next shift rolled around at Family Video, the fake dating had apparently entered what Steve liked to call the “method acting” phase.

He held doors open for you, pulled out your chair during lunch, and had started calling you “baby” in a tone that sounded suspiciously natural. You were beginning to suspect he was enjoying this a little too much.

You were sorting through the new arrivals when he leaned against the counter beside you, one arm draped across the surface, looking far too pleased with himself.

Robin stood behind the front counter scanning tapes with the focused expression of someone trying very hard not to get involved in whatever nonsense you two were currently doing.

“Baby, can you hand me that pen?” Steve asked, even though the pen was literally in his own hand.

You stared at him. “You are holding a pen.”

He glanced down, then back up, unfazed. “Right. Just checking if you were paying attention.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why are you pretending right now? There is no one here. We are alone. Robin is emotionally unavailable to both of us and also immune to whatever this is.”

Robin, without looking up from the register, said flatly, “I am not immune. I am suffering. Internally.”

Steve leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We have to stay consistent,” he said. “If anyone walks in, we’re supposed to look couple-y. That’s the whole point. We can’t just turn it on and off like a light switch. That’s how people get suspicious.”

You opened your mouth to argue that no one in Hawkins was conducting a surveillance operation on your relationship, but before you could, the bell over the door jingled.

A woman walked in, scanning the aisles. Steve straightened immediately, posture shifting into what you could only describe as Boyfriend Mode.

Robin plastered on a customer service smile and went to help her find whatever tape she was looking for, leaving you leaning back against the counter while Steve hovered nearby with an air of suspicious fondness.

You were about to move away, because standing this close felt unnecessary and also mildly dangerous to your composure, when Steve stepped forward and placed his hands on the counter on either side of your waist.

You blinked up at him in confusion. He didn’t look away. He was looking at you like you were the most interesting person in the room, which was deeply unfair considering you were currently holding a stack of VHS tapes.

Then you noticed the customer.

She was watching the two of you with open curiosity as Robin searched for her order behind the counter. Her expression had that soft, knowing look people got when they saw something they considered adorable. You realized, with dawning horror, that Steve was performing.

You looked back up at him. He was still looking at you.

His expression softened in a way that did not look entirely like acting. Slowly, he reached up and tucked a loose piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture was so gentle and so unexpectedly real that your brain short-circuited for a full second.

“Want to go on a date tonight?” he asked.

You stared at him. “What?”

He didn’t break eye contact. “I was thinking Enzo’s,” he continued smoothly. “My dad can get us in. Is 8 good for you?”

Your heart did something deeply unhelpful. You knew this was part of the act. You knew there was an audience. You knew this was for show. And yet the way he was looking at you made it feel. . . not entirely like a performance.

“It’s perfect,” you heard yourself say, smiling before your brain had a chance to catch up.

He grinned, that familiar, warm grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than was reasonable.

Your chest felt suspiciously full. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

The moment your lips made contact, your entire brain rebooted.

Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.

You pulled back slowly, horror flooding in as you realized what you had just done. Steve looked genuinely stunned, like someone had unplugged him from reality for a second.

You stared at each other, frozen, while somewhere behind you Robin said, “Found it.”

You cleared your throat. “I—um—back room,” you said, to no one in particular.

Then you slipped out from between his arms with speed and walked—very calmly, very normally, not at all like you were internally screaming—toward the back room. The second the door swung shut behind you, you pressed your hands to your face and stood there in stunned silence, heart racing like you had just sprinted a mile.

Out front, Steve remained exactly where you had left him, one hand still on the counter, staring at the space you had just vacated with an expression that could only be described as completely and utterly shell-shocked.

By the time evening rolled around, you had already changed outfits three times and rejected at least six more. You were not nervous about the date itself. You were nervous about the part where you had kissed Steve Harrington on the cheek in the middle of a work shift like a person who had completely lost control of her own motor functions.

You paced once across your room, then again, rehearsing under your breath. “Hey, about earlier,” you muttered. “That was. . . just for the customer. Obviously. Purely professional cheek-kissing.” You paused, grimaced, and tried again. “I’m sorry I kissed your face without warning. That was weird. I am weird. We are pretending. Let us never speak of this again.”

You stopped in front of your mirror and sighed, dropping your shoulders. Nothing you said sounded normal. Nothing you said sounded like something a person who had not impulsively kissed her fake boyfriend would say.

You were mid-practice apology number eight when the doorbell rang.

Your head snapped up. For a second you froze, then you moved quickly, slipping out of your room before your mom or dad could beat you to the door. You smoothed your hair back with one hand as you walked down the hallway, telling yourself to act normal. This was normal. This was a normal fake date with your very normal fake boyfriend whom you had definitely not kissed.

You opened the door and immediately stopped.

Steve was standing on the porch, mid-sentence, apparently delivering a nervous speech to absolutely no one. He had one hand gesturing vaguely in front of him and the other holding a bouquet of flowers that you recognized instantly as your favorites.

He didn’t notice you at first, too busy whispering to himself. “Just say it like a normal person,” he was muttering. “Hi, you look nice. Don’t trip. Don’t say anything weird. Definitely don’t—”

He looked up.

He stopped talking.

For a full two seconds, he just stared at you like his brain had temporarily left the building. You looked back at him, then at the flowers, then back at his face again. He was still staring.

You lifted your hand and snapped your fingers lightly in front of him. “Hello,” you said.

He blinked hard, snapping out of it. “Right. Hey. Sorry. It’s just—” He thrust the flowers toward you. “These are for you.”

You took them, the soft scent of them immediately familiar. “They’re my favorite,” you said, a little surprised despite yourself.

“I know,” he said quickly. Then he paused, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “You look beautiful. Really. Like, totally out of my league, which you obviously are. Max has told me every single day for the past week. Repeatedly.”

You couldn’t help it. You smiled. You stepped a little closer and leaned in just enough that your voice wouldn’t carry into the house. “You don’t have to compliment me so much,” you murmured. “My parents are in the other room. No one’s watching.”

He looked genuinely confused. “No, what? No. I meant that,” he said, brow furrowing slightly like the idea that he wouldn’t mean it had not occurred to him.

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps approached from the living room. Your father appeared in the doorway. He looked Steve up and down with the solemn expression.

“Harrington,” your father said. “Have her home by eleven.”

Steve straightened immediately. “Yes, sir. Absolutely. Eleven or earlier. Definitely not later,” he said.

You gave your dad a quick smile, trying not to laugh at how stiff Steve suddenly looked. Your father held his gaze for another long second, then nodded once and stepped back.

You turned back to Steve. He exhaled slowly, like he had been holding his breath the entire time. You adjusted your grip on the flowers and stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind you.

“Ready?” he asked.

You nodded, still smiling a little. “Ready.”

You sat across from Steve in a booth near the back, the flowers he brought resting in the center of the table between you.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. Steve fiddled with the edge of the menu even though he had already looked at it three times. You traced the condensation on your water glass with your fingertip, trying to decide how to start.

The silence wasn’t awkward exactly, but it was different from your usual easy back-and-forth at work.

You cleared your throat softly. “Okay,” you said, leaning forward a little. “Before anything else, I should probably apologize for earlier. At work.”

Steve blinked at you. “What?”

“The kiss,” you clarified, gesturing vaguely toward your own face. “I didn’t plan that. It just kind of happened. Which is not a sentence people should have to say in general, but especially not to their fake boyfriend.”

He stared at you for a second, then shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” he said, almost immediately. When you gave him a look, he added, “It was just. . . part of the act. Right?”

“Okay,” you said slowly, smiling a little. “Okay, good. Then we’re good.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “We’re good.”

You leaned back in your seat, and then your smile shifted into something a little more mischievous. “Well,” you said, tapping your fingers lightly against the table. “Since we’re pretending this is a real date. . . I feel like I should get the full experience. Show me. How is Steve Harrington on a date?”

He blinked again, clearly caught off guard. “What?”

“Come on,” you said, gesturing toward him. “You cannot tell me you don’t have moves. You were King Steve. There were definitely moves.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. “I do not have moves.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” he insisted. Then he paused, thought about it, and immediately broke. “Okay, fine. I have. . . some moves.”

You leaned forward eagerly. “I knew it. Go on. Impress me.”

He straightened in his seat. “Alright,” he said. “Usually, I start simple. Eye contact. Maybe I lean in a little and say something like. . .” He paused, then tilted his head just slightly and looked at you with a soft, almost shy smile. “I was going to wait until the end of the night to say this, but you look really nice. I can't concentrate on anything besides your eyes.”

You blinked. “Okay,” you said, a little surprised. “That was actually good.”

He looked pleased. Encouraged. “Right? Okay, next one. Classic move. I casually bring up something thoughtful. Like, I remember a small detail you mentioned once. Favorite movie. Favorite snack. Something like that. Shows I’m attentive.”

You rested your chin in your hand, watching him with interest. “You’re very prepared,” you said.

He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.

You laughed. “Alright, my turn,” you said. “Let me show you how I work.”

He leaned back, folding his arms loosely. “I’m ready.”

You tilted your head. “So,” you said. “Where’d you grow up?”

He blinked. “That’s your move?”

“Just answer the question,” you said, trying not to smile.

“Hawkins,” he said.

“And were you close to your parents?” you asked, your voice softening just slightly.

He shrugged. “My mom, yeah. But only when I was little. My dad’s. . . around. In theory.”

You nodded sympathetically and reached across the table, lightly touching his wrist. “That must be tough,” you said.

He started to nod along, falling right into it. “Yeah, it is. Sometimes I think—” He stopped suddenly, eyes widening. “Wait. Nice move.”

You grinned. “Thank you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good. That was really good.”

You sat back, satisfied. “I’m full of surprises.”

He watched you for a moment, still smiling, and there was something softer in his expression now. You didn’t notice. You were too busy feeling pleased with yourself.

“So,” he said after a second. “What’s your finishing move?”

You tilted your head, thinking. Then you smiled slowly and leaned in just a little. “Well, that is for another time,” you said as you winked.

He froze.

For a split second, he looked completely undone. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again. He swallowed and looked away, trying very hard to recover.

You didn’t notice. You were already reaching for your water glass, entirely unaware of the way he had just melted across the table from you.

You sat perched on one of the tall stools behind the counter, elbows on your knees, stacking VHS tapes into a tower that was already leaning at an angle that suggested it would not survive the next five minutes.

You were in the middle of adding what you were fairly certain would be the final, ill-advised layer when Steve walked in from the aisle, wiping his hands on his jeans. He slowed when he reached the counter, watching you for a second with a look that hovered somewhere between fond and nervous.

“Hey,” he said.

You didn’t look up right away, concentrating as you balanced one more tape on top of the tower. “Hey,” you replied.

He leaned on the counter. “Can I ask you something?”

You nodded, still focused on the tower. “Sure.”

There was a pause. You felt his gaze on you in that way that made it clear he was choosing his words very carefully. “Last night,” he said slowly, “after the date. . . did you feel something?”

You glanced up at him, blinking. “Yeah,” you said.

His eyes widened immediately. “You did?” he asked, a little too quickly. “Because I got home and I was, like, really freaked out. I mean, not in a bad way. Just in a—”

“I think it was the noodles,” you said thoughtfully.

He stopped. “The noodles?”

“Yeah,” you continued, nodding. “They were really weird. My stomach felt weird for, like, an hour after. I thought I was going to have to lie down.”

He stared at you. “Right,” he said. “The food. That was what was weird.”

You hummed in agreement and turned back to your tower, completely unaware of the internal spiral he had just pulled himself out of. He lingered there for a second longer, watching you stack another tape.

Robin appeared from the back a moment later, carrying an armful of tapes. She set the tapes down with a soft thud and glanced between the two of you.

Steve straightened immediately. “Robin,” he said. “Hey. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

She narrowed her eyes. “That tone never leads to anything good, but sure.”

They disappeared into the back room together, leaving you at the counter with your towe. You added another tape. The tower wobbled dangerously.

In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.

“I think I broke the rules,” he said.

Robin leaned against a stack of boxes, folding her arms. “You think?”

“No, I definitely did,” he admitted. “I have feelings. Like, real ones. And I know we said no falling in love and I wasn’t going to and then I did anyway and now I don’t know what to do.”

Robin stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she sighed the kind of sigh that suggested she had been waiting for this exact confession for days.

“Finally,” she said.

Before he could react, she shrugged off her jacket and pulled it over her head. Steve blinked in confusion.

“Rob, hey,” he said. “What are you doing?”

She tugged off the short-sleeved shirt underneath, revealing a long-sleeved one beneath it. Then she turned around.

Across the back, in bold marker, were the words: I TOLD YOU SO.

Steve stared. “You seriously had that printed on a shirt?”

She turned back around, looking entirely satisfied. “I like to be prepared.”

“Robin,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “This is not helpful.”

“This is extremely helpful,” she corrected. “You broke your own ground rules. You made the rules. And then you broke them.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he said. “It just. . . happened.”

She pointed at him. “That is exactly what I said would happen. I said this was a terrible idea. I said fake dating leads to real feelings. I said you two are idiots. And now look at you.”

He groaned. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” she said. “Step one is admitting you like her. Which you’ve done. Step two is figuring out if she likes you back. Which. . . I’m pretty sure she does. Step three is not panicking and making it weird.”

He blinked. “You think she likes me?”

Robin gave him a look. “Steve. She built a rule system for fake dating with you and then kissed your cheek at work. Use your brain.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, considering that.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Cool. Cool. I get that. I understand what you’re saying. I see why you would think. . . that is a good option.”

Robin narrowed her eyes, already suspicious. “There’s a ‘but’ coming.”

“But,” he continued, lifting a finger, “what I was thinking is that I’m just going to ignore her until the feelings go away. And then, maybe a few years later, when she’s married and I’m still alone, I’ll confess everything and it’ll be, like, a funny story.”

Robin stared at him. The kind of stare that was so long and so flat it felt like it should have been accompanied by a dial tone.

“Why do I even try with you?” she said finally. “I don’t understand. I genuinely do not understand.”

Steve frowned slightly. “Maybe be a supportive friend,” he suggested. “Like I was when I found out you were a lesbian.”

Robin threw her hands up. “I would be supportive if the idea wasn’t idiotic,” she shot back. “How are you even planning on ignoring her? She is your fake girlfriend. Who you have very real, growing-by-the-second feelings for. You literally work together.”

He paused, considering that. His eyes flicked toward the door like he could see you through it. Then his expression shifted as another terrible idea formed.

“Uh,” he said. “Okay. Okay. New plan. I’ll break up with her.”

Robin’s face went completely blank. “You will what.”

“I’ll break up with her,” he repeated, nodding. “End the fake dating. Problem solved. Then I can. . . you know. Emotionally recover in private.”

She pointed at him slowly. “You are on your own,” she said. “I am not a part of whatever idiocy you’re about to pull.”

He took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck.”

He started for the door.

Robin watched him go with the expression of someone witnessing a car drive slowly toward a brick wall and choosing not to intervene. As he reached for the handle, she cupped her hands around her mouth and called after him, “I hope she smacks you in the face.”

Out front, you were still crouched by the counter, restacking tapes into something that would hopefully resemble order. You didn’t look up right away when the back room door opened. Steve stepped out, stopped, and then immediately forgot every single word he had rehearsed the moment he saw you sitting there, completely unaware, humming softly to yourself while you worked.

He stood there for a second, frozen in place, the weight of his extremely bad plan settling in.

Steve opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

He had walked out of the back room with a plan, a very bad plan but still technically a plan, and now he stood there in front of you with absolutely no words available to him whatsoever.

You were crouched by the counter, focused on restacking the tower that looked like it would collapse if someone so much as breathed in its direction. You were humming under your breath, something soft and absentminded, and the sight of you like that made the idea of breaking up with you feel not just impossible but actively stupid.

He swallowed. Tried again.

Still nothing.

You finally glanced up when you felt someone standing there, and your face brightened automatically when you saw him. It wasn’t even a big reaction, just a small, easy smile, the kind you gave him all the time without thinking. It landed somewhere directly in his chest.

“Oh, hey,” you said. “Did Robin finish yelling at you?”

He blinked. “What? No. I mean—yes. I mean, she always yells at me. That’s just. . . baseline.”

You nodded, accepting this as fact, and turned back to your tapes. “Makes sense.”

He stood there another second, staring at you, and then the moment passed. The words he had rehearsed dissolved completely. He cleared his throat, said something about helping at the front, and did not break up with you.

He told himself it was temporary. Just until he figured things out. Just until he stopped feeling like his entire internal system short-circuited whenever you smiled at him.

Except the opposite happened.

Over the next few days, instead of pulling away, he got worse.

Much worse.

He hovered. He leaned. He stood too close. He called you “baby” and “sweetheart” with increasing ease, like the words had always belonged in his mouth. If you moved around the counter, he moved with you. If you reached for something, he handed it to you before you could grab it yourself. He rested his hand lightly at the small of your back whenever customers came in.

You, for your part, shrugged it off as him being very committed to the bit. If anything, you found it impressive. He was excellent at pretending. In fact, he was so good at pretending that somewhere along the way you stopped thinking about the rules as much. You stopped noticing when his hand lingered a second too long. You stopped questioning why he always chose the seat next to you. You stopped wondering why he looked at you the way he did when you laughed.

Instead, you started getting used to it.

Then you started liking it.

You found yourself leaning into his side without thinking. You waited for him to walk in before starting your shift. You caught your reflection in the glass one afternoon with his arm slung over your shoulders and thought, distantly, that you looked. . . happy.

Because that was the strange part. Even though it was fake, even though you knew the entire arrangement was built on a ridiculous agreement behind a Family Video counter, you felt. . . special. Sought after. Like you were the center of someone’s attention in a way that was warm and constant and strangely comforting.

And sure, technically he was the only guy paying you that kind of attention. And yes, technically it was fake. But he was Steve Harrington, and he was very convincing, and after a while the line blurred in a way you didn’t examine too closely.

At group hangouts, it only got worse.

Steve always ended up beside you. On the couch, on the floor, at the counter in the Byers kitchen, leaning against the wall at the arcade. His knee pressed against yours. His arm draped across the back of your chair. His hand resting near yours, close enough to touch.

No one questioned it.

That was the wildest part.

One afternoon, you overheard two people at the grocery store talking about you and Steve like this had been inevitable. Another time, you caught a guy at the arcade nudging his friend and whispering something about Harrington being down bad.

And Steve’s feelings, meanwhile, were not going away. They were not being ignored into submission like he had optimistically planned. If anything, they were growing at an alarming rate. Every time you laughed at something he said, every time you leaned into him without thinking, every time you called his name across a room, something in his chest tightened.

He told himself to cool it. To pull back. To reestablish boundaries.

He did not do that.

Instead, he found himself sitting a little closer. Holding your hand a little longer. Looking at you when you weren’t paying attention and then quickly looking away when you were.

From across the room one evening, Robin watched him resting his chin on the back of your chair while you talked with Max and Lucas. She stared for a long moment, then dragged a hand down her face.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered to herself. “Absolutely unbelievable.”

She stared at Steve for a full ten seconds, watched the way he leaned over the back of your chair like some kind of lovesick housecat, watched the way his eyes followed your face while you talked to Max and Lucas, and then finally made a sharp beckoning motion with her hand.

“Steven,” she said. “C’mon. We need to talk.”

He blinked, pulled from whatever soft, dangerous thought spiral he had been in, and looked at her like she had just spoken in another language. “What? Why?”

Robin did not answer. She just kept staring at him with a look that suggested he had about five seconds before she dragged him out of the room by the collar.

He glanced back at you automatically. You were still talking, laughing at something Max had said. His expression softened for a second, something almost helpless passing through his eyes, and then he stood up.

“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.

He followed Robin into the kitchen, and the second they were out of earshot, she spun on him.

“Oh my God,” she said, hands flying up in the air. “Oh my God, Steve. I cannot watch this anymore. I cannot be a witness to whatever this is.”

He frowned, already defensive. “What is what?”

She stared at him. “This. The staring. The hovering. The yearning happening in real time every time she breathes in your general direction. Get your shit together.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Do not lie to me,” she said immediately. “Do not lie to me in this kitchen where I have supported you through every single terrible romantic decision you’ve ever made. You are down bad. You are embarrassing. You are one soft smile away from writing her a sonnet which you do not even know how to write!”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Because unfortunately, she was not entirely wrong.

Robin stepped closer, lowering her voice. “You need to either ask her out for real or break up with her. Those are your options. Pick one. I am begging you to pick one.”

He looked past her toward the living room and his shoulders sagged.

“I can’t just ask her out,” he muttered. “What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if this is all just. . . pretend for her?”

Robin stared at him for a long moment, something like exasperated affection flickering across her face. “Steve,” she said, “she agreed to fake date you. She built a whole rule system with you. She looks at you like you hung the moon half the time. And you’re telling me you think she feels nothing?”

He swallowed. “I don’t know. I just. . . what if I ruin it? What if I say something and it gets weird and then I lose her completely?”

“You’re going to lose her anyway if you keep doing whatever this is,” she said. “You’re either going to confess and maybe get the girl, or you’re going to keep fake dating her until one of you dates someone else for real and then you’ll both be miserable and I will have to listen to you pine for the rest of my natural life.”

He let out a long breath, staring down at the floor. His mind ran through every possible scenario, every possible disaster, every possible version of you pulling away from him with that polite smile that would absolutely destroy him.

He knew what he needed to do.

He just. . . didn’t want to do it.

Robin lingered for exactly half a second after him saying it.

When he did not immediately sprint back into the living room and confess his undying devotion or fake-break up or do literally anything useful, she gave him a tight, expectant nod.

“I hope you chose good,” she said, pointing two fingers at her eyes and then at him in a deeply unnecessary gesture. “Like, really good. Because if you mess this up, you're a dead man, Harrington.”

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked off.

Steve stood there for another minute, staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole out of pity. He ran a hand through his hair, then both hands, then rubbed his face in a way that suggested he was trying to physically push his feelings back inside his chest where they belonged. None of it worked. Eventually he let out a long, resigned breath and followed her out.

The living room looked exactly the same as it had five minutes ago, which felt deeply unfair considering his entire life had apparently changed in that time.

You were still on the couch with Max and Lucas, leaning forward as Max told some story about school. You were laughing, shoulders relaxed, completely unaware of the emotional apocalypse currently happening in Steve’s ribcage. The sound of your laugh hit him square in the chest and stayed there.

He stood there for a moment, just watching you, and his expression did something soft and miserable at the same time. It was the look of a man who had found the best thing in his life and was about to hand it back for entirely noble and incredibly stupid reasons.

He cleared his throat, which came out quieter than intended. Then he tried again.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “Uh. . . if you could. . . I mean, if you’re not busy. We need to talk. For a second.”

Max and Lucas both went still in the way people do when they sense drama. You turned toward him immediately, still smiling, like of course you would go with him. The sight of that almost made him abort the entire plan on the spot.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, pushing yourself up from the couch. “Give us a minute?”

Max gave you a very slow look, then glanced at Steve with the kind of suspicious intensity usually reserved for crime investigations. Lucas followed suit, squinting slightly. Steve tried not to visibly panic under the scrutiny.

You didn’t notice any of it. You just walked over to him, still in a good mood, and nudged his arm lightly as you passed.

“What’s wrong?” you asked as you guided him a little farther down the hallway for privacy.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, then took them out again, then shoved them back in like he couldn’t decide where they belonged. For a second he just looked at you, and the words got stuck somewhere between his brain and his mouth.

You tilted your head, smile softening into concern. “Steve?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Right. Okay. So. I, uh. . . I think we should. . . end this. The relationship. The fake one. I mean.”

The words came out clumsy and rushed, like he was trying to outrun them. You blinked once, the smile on your face staying exactly where it was, polite and a little confused.

“Oh,” you said. “Okay. That’s. . . sudden. Did something happen?”

He felt like the worst person alive. “No. I mean, yes. Not bad. Just. . . I think we’ve done what we needed to do, right? For the whole. . . fake dating thing. People definitely bought it. Mission accomplished.”

You nodded slowly, still wearing that same friendly expression. It didn’t quite reach your eyes anymore, but he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Right,” you said. “Yeah, that makes sense. We did a pretty great job, if I do say so myself. Very convincing.”

He forced a small smile that looked like it physically hurt. “Yeah. Exactly. So, we should probably stop. Before it gets. . . weird.”

There was a brief pause. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, hands clasped loosely in front of you.

“Is that the only reason?” you asked. “Or. . . is there something else?”

He hesitated. This was the part Robin had told him to be honest about. This was the part that was supposed to make it better. He took a breath that felt like swallowing glass.

“I, uh. . . I kind of like someone,” he admitted, eyes dropping to the floor. “For real. And I think it’s. . . I think it’s getting complicated, doing this with you while that’s happening. It’s not fair to you. Or them.”

The words hung in the air between you.

For a split second, something flickered across your face. It was quick. So quick he almost missed it. Then your smile returned, perfectly supportive.

“Oh,” you said again. “Well. That’s. . . good. I mean, not good for me, I guess, but, you know. Good for you. That’s exciting.”

He nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I mean. I think so.”

You let out a small breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Wow. Okay. So. We’re breaking up. Fake-breaking up. That we somehow made real enough to need a real breakup conversation for.”

He winced. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out.”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly. “Really. It’s fine. We always knew this wasn’t permanent.”

Inside, it felt like someone had quietly knocked all the air out of your lungs. He liked someone. Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? Steve Harrington liking someone was about as shocking as the sun rising. You had always known this would end. You had always known it wasn’t real. Still, the words sat heavy in your chest, confusing.

You kept smiling because that was what you did. You kept it light because that was easier than asking questions you weren’t sure you wanted answers to.

“So,” you said, clapping your hands together once in a bright, slightly forced motion. “We’re good? Still friends? Still. . . video store coworkers who argue about movie recommendations?”

He looked up at you then, eyes a little glassy. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Always.”

“Great,” you said, nodding. “Then we’re good.”

There was a small, awkward moment where neither of you moved. Then you stepped forward and gave him a quick hug. He froze for half a second before hugging you back, arms tightening just a little too much, like he was trying to memorize what this felt like. You pulled away first, still smiling.

“I’m gonna head back out there,” you said. “Before Max assumes you murdered me in the hallway.”

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walked back into the living room like nothing had happened. Max looked up immediately, eyes narrowing.

“Everything good?” she asked.

“Yep,” you said brightly, grabbing your bag. “Just. . . remembered I have to be up early tomorrow. I think I’m gonna head out.”

Lucas frowned. “Already?”

“Yeah. Rain check on movie night. You guys pick something terrible without me.”

Max watched you for a second longer than necessary. “You sure you’re okay?”

You smiled,. “I’m fine. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You said your goodbyes quickly, waved once, and slipped out the front door before anyone could press further. The cool night air hit your face and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Your smile faded the second you were alone.

Inside, Steve stood in the hallway, staring at the spot where you had been. He could hear the front door open and close. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to go after you, to fix it, to say the thing he should have said in the first place. Instead, he stayed where he was, rooted to the floor by his own terrible decision.

He had wanted to do the right thing. He had wanted to be honest. Somehow, he felt like he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

The next few days were, in a word, terrible.

Not movie montage terrible where everything was set to a sad song and you stared out of rain-streaked windows looking beautiful. It was the much less glamorous version where you stayed in pajamas until noon, forgot to eat actual meals, and kept wandering into rooms only to forget why you had gone there in the first place.

You called in sick to work on day one with a voice that sounded suspiciously normal and then called in again on day two with a voice that sounded even more normal, which made you feel worse somehow, like you were committing a crime against customer service by not showing up.

You told yourself it was fine. It was fake. The relationship had always been fake. This was the plan. It had a beginning, middle, and end, and you had known the end would come.

What you had not known, apparently, was that the end would feel like someone had removed a very specific, very loud presence from your daily routine and left behind an echo that would not shut up.

You missed the way he hovered. You missed the way he reached for your hand without thinking. You missed the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room even when you were both fully aware that the entire thing was supposed to be an act.

It turned out that fake attention still registered as attention to your brain, and your brain had decided to get extremely attached to it in a very embarrassing fashion.

By day three you were pacing around your room with the phone pressed to your ear, rambling to Nancy.

She had called to check in once and had made the mistake of asking how you were doing, which opened a floodgate that did not appear to have an off switch.

“Okay, but here is what I do not understand,” you were saying, pacing. “He used to be all over me. In a supportive, very attentive fake boyfriend way. He was committed to the bit, Nance. And now suddenly he has this iron willpower and emotional restraint and I am supposed to just. . . adjust? Overnight? It feels like I went from being the most sought-after girl in Hawkins to the least sought-after girl in the land in the span of forty-eight hours.”

Nancy made a soft sound on the other end that might have been sympathy and might have been her trying not to laugh.

“I mean, I know it was fake,” you continued quickly, flopping onto your bed. “I know it. I was there. I signed the fake dating contract in my head. But it turns out that when someone spends weeks holding your hand and looking at you like you hung the moon, your brain does this really fun thing where it goes, oh, this must be real. And then when it stops, your brain goes, wow, you must be deeply unappealing actually.”

“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.

“I am currently sitting in what can only be described as my most unflattering pajamas,” you went on, staring at the ceiling. “These pajamas are not tempting anyone. And apparently he is out there on some love journey for another girl, and good for him, truly, but also, why now? Why after I got used to him hovering like a very tall, very concerned golden retriever?”

Nancy let out a small laugh. “You miss him.”

You groaned loudly. “I miss the attention. Which is worse. I miss feeling like someone was always a little bit focused on me. Even when I knew it was pretend. And now he is probably being very respectful and very normal and very emotionally mature about this other girl he likes”

There was a pause on the line, then Nancy said, “You could go back to work.”

You buried your face in a pillow. “I cannot. I cannot face him while I am like this. What if I look at him and my face does something? What if he is completely fine and I am the only one acting like we just broke up for real? Which, to be clear, we did not. We fake broke up. From our fake relationship. That somehow managed to hurt my real feelings.”

Nancy hummed thoughtfully. “You know he did not want to hurt you.”

“I know,” you said quickly, rolling onto your back again. “I know that. He was being honest. He likes someone. That is normal. People are allowed to like people. I am not the center of the universe. But also, this feels extremely inconvenient for me personally.”

Silence stretched for a second before you added, “It is just weird. He is not there. He is not hovering. He is not texting me about dumb things or asking if I want snacks. And now I am sitting here realizing that I got used to being. . . wanted. Even if it was pretend. And it turns out I liked it. A lot. Which is humiliating.”

Nancy’s voice softened. “It is not humiliating to like being cared about.”

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, phone warm against your ear. “Yeah,” you admitted. “Maybe not. Still feels a little pathetic though.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you ask Robin?”

You blinked at the ceiling. “Ask Robin what?”

“I mean,” Nancy continued, warming to the idea, “I honestly do not buy that Steve just suddenly woke up one morning and decided to break up with you because he liked someone else. That feels. . . abrupt. Suspiciously abrupt.”

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, interest sparking through the fog of self-pity like someone had flipped on a light switch. “Wait.”

Nancy kept going, a little triumphant now. “Maybe she knows something. They tell each other everything. If there was a conversation that led to him making that decision, she was probably part of it.”

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, suddenly very awake. “Robin definitely knows something. Steve only decided to break up with me after talking to her. That is extremely suspicious. That is practically a neon sign.”

“There you go,” Nancy said, pleased. “See? Maybe I am good at giving advice.”

You grabbed the phone cord and started pacing again. “Yeah, sure, let’s not get ahead of ourselves, but you might be onto something. I am going to call her right now.”

Nancy laughed. “Okay. Tell her I said hi.”

“Sure, bye, Nance,” you said quickly, already pulling the phone away to dial.

You hung up before she could respond and immediately started punching in Robin’s number. The line rang once. Twice. Three times. You paced a tight circle near your bed, free hand twisting in the hem of your sleeve as your heart did something annoyingly fast and anticipatory. On the fourth ring, the line clicked.

“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.

You did not bother with a greeting. “Robin, what did you do?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, on the other end of the line, you heard a small, startled noise that sounded very much like someone who had just been caught doing something they were absolutely not supposed to be doing.

“Oh oh,” Robin said.

You pounded on Steve Harrington’s front door like you were trying to break it down. You knew his parents were out of town, which meant there was no one to shush you, no one to open the door halfway and ask you to keep it down. There was only him, and right now that was the entire problem.

You knocked again, your heart thudding in your chest with a mix of anger, relief, and something that felt suspiciously like nerves. For a split second you wondered if he would not answer, and you would have to yell through the door like a deranged person.

Then you heard shuffling on the other side, a thud, a muffled curse, and finally the lock clicking open.

The door swung inward and there he was.

Steve stood in the doorway looking tired and rumpled, hair sticking up in several directions. His T-shirt was slightly wrinkled, his eyes heavy with sleep, and for a brief moment you might have felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him if you were not currently fueled by the kind of righteous indignation that erased all other emotions.

He blinked at you, clearly trying to catch up. “Sweeth—” he started automatically, then stopped himself mid-word as he realised you two had 'broken' up. “What are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

You did not answer. Instead, you stepped forward and hit him square in the chest with both hands, not hard enough to hurt but definitely hard enough to make a point. He stumbled back half a step, eyes widening.

“You tell me, Steven,” you said. “How is that girl you like doing?”

He stared at you, still half-asleep and entirely unprepared for this conversation. “Good?” he said cautiously, like he was answering a trick question on a test he had not studied for.

You crossed your arms. “Uh-huh. Really? Because I know for a fact that she is doing terrible.”

He blinked again. “I’m. . . confused.”

You leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “You idiot. I talked to Robin.”

The change was immediate. The sleepiness vanished from his face, replaced by dawning horror. “Oh.”

His eyes widened fully now, like someone who had just realized the carefully constructed house of cards he had built was currently collapsing in real time. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more.

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Okay, wait, I can explain—”

“Explain what?” you cut in, throwing your hands up. “Explain why you decided to break up with me because you ‘liked someone else’ instead of just saying that you liked me? Explain why you thought the best possible plan was to break my heart and your own at the same time? Explain why you are, in fact, the dumbest person I have ever met?”

He winced at that but did not argue. “I panicked,” he admitted, running a hand through his already messy hair. “I thought if I said it out loud and you didn’t feel the same way, it would ruin everything. I didn’t want to lose you. So I thought if I just. . . ended it first, then at least I could keep you as a friend and not—”

“You thought breaking up with me would make it less likely that you would lose me?” you interrupted, incredulous. “That is your genius plan? That is the master strategy you came up with?”

He looked deeply embarrassed. “In my defense, it sounded better in my head.”

You stared at him, equal parts furious and exasperated. “You should have just told me. You should have just said it. Especially because—” You stopped, took a breath, then glared at him harder. “Especially because I liked you too, you absolute idiot.”

He froze. Completely. Like someone had hit pause on him mid-motion.

“You. . . what?” he said.

“I liked you too,” you repeated, throwing your hands up again. “I was going to apologize for the kiss and then maybe tell you that I didn’t want it to be fake anymore and then you went and broke up with me because you ‘liked someone else,’ which, by the way, is apparently me, which makes this entire situation even more ridiculous.”

He stared at you, stunned, relief and disbelief warring across his face. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought you were just. . . being nice. Or pretending really well. Or—”

“Steve,” you said, exasperated. “I kissed your cheek at work. I went on a real date with you. I missed you when you stopped hovering. I called Nancy and spent an hour spiraling about how pathetic it was that I missed your attention. What part of that says ‘just pretending’ to you?”

He opened his mouth again, clearly trying to explain himself for the thousandth time. “I just didn’t want to mess it up,” he said. “You mean a lot to me and I thought if I pushed too hard—”

You did not let him finish. You stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

He made a small, startled noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back, hands coming up instinctively to hold your arms like he needed to make sure you were actually there and not some sleep-deprived hallucination.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathing a little faster, standing very close in the doorway of his house.

He blinked at you. “So,” he said, still holding your arms. “You. . . like me?”

You gave him a look. “Yes, Steve. I like you. A lot. Unfortunately.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Okay,” he said. “Good. Because I really, really like you too.”

You exhaled. “Next time,” you said firmly, pointing a finger at his chest, “we are talking about our feelings like normal people. No more terrible plans. Agreed?”

He nodded immediately. “Agreed. Absolutely agreed. I am done with terrible plans.”

You studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time. He smiled into it, and held your waist, pulling back just for a second.

“I swear if this turns out to be a dream, I'm killing myself.”

Halloween - now.

“Sour candy or chocolate?” Steve asks deep in thought, he’s standing in the brightly lit Halloween aisle of the local Piggly Wiggly with two different ‘Family Size’ bags of each in his equally big hands. 

His eyebrows are pinched in the center of his forehead, marrying just below the swoop of hair that always fails to stay tucked behind his ear as he scans the shelves for a third, possibly better option with his full bottom lip tugged between perfect teeth. 

This was peak Steve Harrington concentration. 

“Sour candy, obviously.” You scoff, grabbing the neon Warheads bag out of his grasp, dumping it into the small cart that’s already full enough to make you regret not getting the large one Steve had suggested at the door. 

It’s fine, you were supposed to be practicing self control tonight anyway, plus you would never tell him that he was right about something. Not unless you wanted to hear about it for the next week.

Self control is a new concept when it comes to Steve, but you are good at trying to practice it, refusing to meet his eyes as you brush past him, and again when you ignore the glimmer of electricity that’s sparked between the two of you since your friendship’s conception. It’s a lot harder to pretend now though, because touching him feels like sticking a wet hand to a power grid these days, all because of a childish dare to prove Eddie Munson wrong. A plan that backfired in your face pretty quickly after drunkenly locking lips with your best friend at the metal head’s bonfire last week, because neither one of you can back down from a challenge. 

Or admit the truth. 

Your friendship with Steve has always been a series of ‘what if’s’. An unspoken tension that everyone in the room could feel when the two of you were in it, but honestly Steve had chemistry with everyone. He was just one of those guys, and your bond only intensified it, at least that’s what you’ve told yourself over the years. Kissing him though? That was always the kind of ‘what if’ you’d only ever dared to think about in the dead of night - alone, in your room, before shoving it back deep down into the dark crevices of your mind. It always happened after a movie night that got a little too cozy under a shared blanket, wandering hands a little too daring in the dark, cinnamon and clove clinging to all the fabrics of your clothes.  

Only now, it was a reality. One that hasn’t stopped playing on a loop since. 

“I think we should get both.” Steve finally decides like it’s been something that’s kept him up at night, coming up behind you so close that his chest brushes against your back as he reaches around to dump the chocolate in the cart. His cologne tempts your senses like the devil trying to make a deal for your soul, and you wonder if holding your breath would be too dramatic.

”We’re going to have so much left over if we get both.” You argue with a smile twisting up the corners of your lips, but you make no effort to correct the situation. The uneven wheels squeak as you keep pushing the cart down the linoleum floors.

”Or we can be the best stop on the block, let these kids clean house.” He suggests as if he were a coach coming up with a play, pounding his fist into his open palm for the words ‘clean house’ before pushing the dark green sleeves of his Hawkins Community College sweater up his arms. A galaxy of freckles reveal themselves to you, clustering and spreading along his permanently sunkissed skin. They stand out even more under the fluorescents. 

“I know you like winning, but I feel like I have to remind you that this isn’t a competition Harrington.” Grinning, you finally meet his amused eyes.

”Just getting into the Halloween spirit, that’s all honey.” Steve winks, pushing the wild strand back, just for it to fall across his face not even a second later. He ignores your protest when he bumps you to the side with his hip to take over pushing the cart. “Now the real question is what are we watching tonight?”

“I was thinking something along the lines of Army of Darkness, or Nightmare on Elm Street. Neither are very scary, I know how you get.” You couldn’t help but throw the little dig in retaliation for taking the cart from you, a giggle slipping past your lips at the side eye you get in return.

”I just don’t like being scared? Is that such a crime? You can go watch whatever you want with Eddie like the little weirdos you are.” He does a good job at keeping a straight face as the two of you get in line behind a family of five, but you catch a peek of his smirk when he leans over to put the divider on the black belt. 

“Do I need to remind you that you invited yourself tonight? I should make you watch The Exorcist.” 

It’s the genuine disbelief that paints his features that gets a full bellied laugh out of you, a big smile pushing up your glossed lips, and you can’t help notice how his gaze falls to them for a split second. 

Self control.

”Sorry I want to spend my best friend’s favorite holiday with her, sue me.” Steve scoffs dramatically, setting the bags of candy on the moving belt first, the family ahead of you wrapping up.

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms stubbornly, cheeks burning hot at the smirk he gives you.

”Listen, I don’t actually care about what we watch, what I care about is that you’re going to let those pumpkins we carved finally see the light of day.”  He pushes the now emptied cart ahead, leaning back against the wooden panel of the register, leaving just a few inches between you. An amused eyebrow arches at your annoyed groan in response.

”Steve, they are hideous.”

”Speak for yourself, I put my blood, sweat and tears into mine, he deserves his moment. He’s going outside.” He decides it with the kind of finality in his tone that you know means it’s going to be the first thing he does as soon as you get back. 

”No one is going to come to the apartment, it will look like serial killers live there.” 

“Or a couple of undiscovered artists. Who are also going to be the number one candy dealers on the block.”  He argues, completely unphased by your protesting.

“Steve!” You whine, despite the smirk that creeps up your lips, and it makes Steve’s face split in two. 

“Fine, but we’re watching whatever I want then.” You challenge, doing your best to ignore the flutter in your stomach when his foot brushes against yours and he keeps it there.

”Like within reason.” He succumbs with genuine concern, rubbing his palms nervously against his tight fitting light wash jeans at the thought of what you’re sure is the last movie Eddie made him sit through.

”I’m not a monster Harrington.” You wink, quietly thankful for the fact that the line starts to move, because like magnets you’d unconsciously migrated deeper between his spread legs. 

Seizing the moment, you put some space between you just in time for Delores, or as her name tag reads to greet you both, popping the bubble you’d unknowingly trapped yourself in with him and bringing you back to reality.

Self Control.

Halloween - Three Years Ago.

“I really can’t believe you’re choosing to go to Eddie’s Halloween party over Tina’s.” Steve yells over Eddie Money’s ‘Take Me Home Tonight’ from his bathroom.

”And I can’t believe you’re going on a date with Brenda, again.” You retort, recalling the last time he tried to date her six months ago, and how he had to disconnect his landline after he ended things.

Granted he was breaking up with her because the new foreign exchange student at the time was showing interest, and he’d rather have a semester of fun with her than spend the winter playing boyfriend with Brenda. So you definitely understood where she was coming from, in fact you constantly reminded Steve you were on her side every time he’d try and complain about the mess he made. Messes he always seemed to make.

You ignored the unreasonable pit of jealousy that formed in your gut then, just like you are now, cause in no universe are you going to allow yourself to have a crush on  your best friend. There was no way you were going to fall victim to the Harrington charm just like everyone else, you liked hanging out with him too much for that. It would be a cold day in hell if you ended up as one of Steve’s messes, because in an alternate reality where you gave in to the ‘what if’ and it didn’t work out, there’s no way you’d be able to go back to watching him do exactly what he’s doing right now. 

You wouldn’t be able to have movie nights where maybe you both sit a little too close, laughing until your sides hurt and snacking on whatever is in front of you. No more late drives to lovers lake, just so you can get a better view of the moon when it's full, and staying out till sunrise, stopping at Denny’s to share a grand slam on your way home. No more talks about the future and how much the uncertainty of it all scares you both. No more having someone you can be completely yourself around. Someone who won’t judge you for your faults, someone who shows up when no one else will. Neither one of you could lose that.

”Look, it’s been a few months. She seems over it, besides it’s not like it’s anything serious.” He tries to reason, finally stepping out of his bathroom to give you the first look at his costume. ”What do you think?”

You never thought Indiana Jones was hot, even when he made you watch all three movies in preparation for this, but Steve as Indiana Jones was another story entirely. 

His dark brown pants are tucked into black boots, fitting his waist perfectly with a chocolate colored belt wrapped around his hips only extenuating it more. The cream colored button up leaves little to the imagination since he only has the bottom two done, half hazardly tucked into the front of his pants. You notice the silver chain that you’d gotten him for Christmas last year hanging from his neck, the dog tag at the end of it getting lost in the thick thatch of hair on his chest and it leaves your body warm. He opts out of the fedora because according to him it would hide his “best asset” so that wild strand swoops across his forehead like it's on purpose.

Steve Harrington looked like a movie star. 

Brenda didn’t know what was coming for her, and you have to swallow that sour taste in your mouth for the second time tonight. 

“I’d say Stephen Spielberg needs to seriously consider recasting you as the lead instead of Harrison Ford.” You feed into his delusion, because that’s what best friends are for.

”Right? Right?” He spins around one more time, flashing that million dollar smile of his that devastates anyone he directs it at. You have to remind yourself of everything that you could lose again.

It’s Steve’s turn to take in your costume. Golden brown eyes sparkling with amusement and the kind of adoration that was hard to ignore. You’re a Venus fly trap from the Little Shop of Horrors, wrapped up in a dark green form fitting tube top dress that stops at the middle of your thighs with jagged cut ends you made yourself with a dull pair of kitchen scissors. The silk gloves that go up to your elbows are the same shade of emerald, along with the little paper mache fly trap heads that Robin helped you make sticking out of the top of your pinned up hair. Glitter covers every exposed inch of your chest, and shimmers in the corners of your eyes. You had felt confident enough to even reconsider going to Tina’s instead when you applied your red lipstick before leaving for Steve’s. His reaction only makes it soar. 

”What do you think?” You smile, taking your turn to spin. 

”Who are you trying to impress at this party again?” Steve quirks an eyebrow, a darkened gaze lingering over all the details of you, taking his time where a best friend shouldn’t and it makes you squirm.

”Jonathan’s friend that’s visiting from California. You know him, Argyle." 

He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand before moving past you to grab his cologne from the top of his dresser.

”Him? Why? He’s only here for like two more days anyway.” He challenges with his back turned, and you know it’s on purpose.

”Okay? And?” You snap, his hypocrisy quickly snuffing out the jealousy that seemed to get comfortable in your gut and turning it into anger. You prefer it. So you lean into it. “You’re the only one who get’s to fuck around with no strings attached?”

”He’s a stoner pizza delivery man, I don’t really know what you’d see in that. Don’t lower your standards just to hook up with someone because you look cute tonight.” 

Because you look cute tonight. 

It’s your turn to scoff.

“You’re being a complete ass, Harrington. Like working at a video store is any better. He’s nice, and makes me laugh. We already hung out the other night. Then guess what? He walked me home and kissed me at my front door. I don’t think I need to impress anybody.” Your nails dig into the soft flesh of your palms, hands balling into fists at your side. How dare he.

What makes you even more mad is that it feels like it’s Steve who’s jealous. Steve who’s getting ready to go on a date with someone else. Steve who didn’t ask you when you were always right here.

”Oh, so that’s why we didn’t hang out the other night, got it.” He raises his eyebrows, lips turning into a frown before nodding his head. 

“We hang out almost every other night Steve, I don’t say anything to you when you go out on dates, and you go out on a ton of them. I think you’ve dated almost every girl in my Liberal Arts Class. I’m not appreciating this double standard, or you questioning my judgment.” Your words carry the kind of venom that stings, and you can see it all over his face. The worst part was how you immediately feel bad, frustrated tears threatening to spill over the shimmer that covers your cheeks. 

Steve’s quiet for a moment, looking down at his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. He meets your eyes after a few seconds, soft and apologetic, traces of unmistakable regret in the dark pools of his irises.

”You’re right, I’m sorry.” He sighs, straightening up, shifting his belt buckle around. “I don’t know why I’m being so-, I just think, I just -“

He takes a moment to gather his thoughts and decide if he really wants to say what’s trying to escape from the tip of his tongue.

”I just don’t think anyone’s good enough for you.”

You let his words sink it. They make the anger that fueled you cool down to a low simmer so that jealous pit can come back to reclaim its rightful throne.

”Well I could say the same thing for you too.” You mutter, refusing to meet his gaze, you weren’t ready to yet.

The silence that fills the space between you is full of those what if’s and half truths. It stays there just long enough for you to finally look at him with the mask you’re used to wearing. 

”Apology accepted. The game plan then is for you to try and not to end up getting tied to Brenda’s bed, and I’ll try to make sure Eddie doesn’t burn his trailer to the ground.”

Steve stares at you for a while, like he knows the conversation needs to move on but he doesn’t want it too. Logic wins out no matter how forced it seems, because he follows your lead.

“He’ll need you, buddy needs to cool it with the lighter fluid. And for what it’s worth your costume looks amazing. You guys did great.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

He spots the whip at the end of his bed, playfully flicking the head of one of the fly traps with his fingers as he walks past, and you have to stop yourself from inhaling the cedar and honey that invades your senses from his cologne. It’s not the one with cinnamon that you love, the one he only wears in the fall, the one that he wears for you. 

“Come on, I’ll drop you off on my way.”

Halloween - Now.

“So what’s the game plan chief?” Steve grins, leaning over your kitchen island, long fingers digging through the freshly filled candy bowl for a pack of Swedish fish.

”There’s no game plan, we hang out, kids walk up, they ring the door bell, then we give them candy and they walk away.” You swat his hand from the treats, but let him keep the gummy candy he searched so hard for. “No good supplier eats his stash Harrington, and I can’t believe I just had to explain the concept of trick or treating to you.”

You don’t tell him about the pile you already set aside to share later.

“What? I’m rusty! And, you gotta test the quality of the product honey, I’m a professional, I know what I’m doing.” He argues with his mouth full.

”Eww keep your mouth closed please and you can’t be rusty and a professional at the same time.”

He sticks his tongue out in response with a whole mini bag of half devoured Swedish fish on it.

”I hate you.”

”No you don’t.” He smirks, chewing the rest before pushing himself up right with a big gulp, letting you admire the cozy attire he changed into after you got back from the store. 

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone make grey sweatpants and a black crew neck sweater look so good. A sweater he made sure to tell you he wore just for you today, the only black top he owns. 

“I’m still mad you didn’t get me any Halloween socks.” Steve points to the fuzzy black ones with jack o lanterns on your feet.

You’d opted for a pair of leggings and an oversized sweater, Steve’s oversized sweater actually, he’d left at your place almost a year ago and never bothered to reclaim it. The dark burnt orange color of it reminded you of fall, and for a while it smelt like him too. You’d never admit that last part to anyone, or that you were excited at the prospect of getting that smell back after tonight.

”You could have easily grabbed a pair at the store earlier, it’s not my fault you don’t know how to be festive.” 

The roll of your eyes is hard, but the smile that twists at the corner of your lips is soft for him as you grab the bowls of candy, silently indicating for him to follow you to the living room.

”I’d like to think I’m pretty festive.” He scoffs, tube sock covered feet padding loudly against the old wood floors of your apartment. “This is the first year I’m not dressing up, actually.”

”Because you don’t have a girl you can do a couples costume with this year.” You retort, setting the candy down on the coffee table before lazily flinging yourself onto the blanket and pillow covered couch. 

“One, I could have very easily gotten a date for Tina’s party tonight, let's not pretend that you and I don’t both know that. And two, that’s not true either, the year before last I didn’t have a date, I went with Robin as Mario and Luigi. You were the one that had a date that year, it was that douche bag Ryan from your English Lit class.” He snorts at the memory and the boy you’d almost forgotten about, but clearly your best friend hadn’t. 

Dropping into the spot he always takes next to you, Steve lets himself melt into the familiar cushions. His knee bumps yours when he spreads his legs wide with an appreciative groan before leaning his head back against the headrest closing his eyes. 

“Ryan was not a douche bag.” He was.

Steve opens one eye, a lopsided grin pulling up on your favorite cheek dotted with two moles. 

“Yes, he was and you know it. He wrote you one poem and you were smitten, one shitty poem. I could’ve written you a better one.”

”Then why didn’t you.” 

Steve’s eyes shine, but he doesn’t answer you, instead the two of you just sit there in silence smiling at each other in a silent dare that's always there. His knee presses into yours harder, and the butterflies that’d you’d done a good job at keeping dormant flutter back to life. Then you see his gaze flick down to your lips again.

Self control.

”L-lets start the movie.” You stutter, unable to tell if you yelled the words or if it really was just that quiet. 

Leaning over, you grab the remote off the coffee table with a kind of quickness that would make you think there was a gun pointed to your head. Steve’s continued silence doesn’t help anything either, he just drapes both arms across the back of the couch, wiggling himself deeper into his spot. The movement has your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you press play, starting the VHS. You had finally settled on Nightmare on Elm street on the car ride back.

It’s second nature to lean over Steve to turn off the lamp, although after last week it feels taboo but it’s too late to stop by the time the realization dawns on you. The light disappears with a loud click leaving just the small one over the stove in the kitchen as your only source besides the TV and the porch light that bleeds through your blinds from outside.

Electricity sparks and fizzes in the air around you the moment the room succumbs to darkness, and your chest accidentally brushes with his as you plop back into your seat. Steve sucks in a sharp intake of breath from the unexpected contact, but still he doesn’t hesitate to scoop you up like he always does, long fingers wrapping around your knees to drape your legs over the top of his thighs. 

Tucked under his arm like this, it’s easy to inhale him, bask in him and the warm cinnamon that mixes into his usual amber in the fall. He’s wearing your favorite. You nuzzle your cheek into his chest becoming greedy, the cozy scent calming your nerves, you get lost in it, and if he notices he doesn’t show it. He squeezes you closer, the top of his chin finding a new home on the crown of your head, while the pad of his thumb rubs circles on the sore muscle of your calf with pointed pressure.

Secretly, you always knew this moment, the one right here, was the cheat code every time you had ‘movie nights’ just the two of you. The excuse to let yourselves have this one thing. A silent agreement to never ruin the friendship by giving in just enough to keep the temptation at bay. An equal craving for the kind of affection that only feels good with someone you love, but as the years go by, the bolder both your touches get under the cloak of a dark room and a blanket, you wonder if it’s more than that. If there’s a world where he thinks about risking it all too.

Halloween - Two Years Ago.

You weren’t supposed to end up at Tina’s Halloween Party, but Ryan wanted to make an appearance after the two of you left Reefer Rick’s. He’d offered to be the DD, but three group shots of pickle bombs into it, you and everyone could tell he wasn’t having a good time. So since your apartment was walking distance from Tina’s, it made sense to end the night there or at least that’s how he explained it when he told you he wanted to leave. 

The usual anxiety that tightens in your chest returns at the thought of seeing your best friend, somersaults in your stomach you refuse to call butterflies. In fact, you’ve done a good job at convincing yourself this is totally normal, because you can’t remember a time where it didn’t feel like this to see him.

Robin would be there too thankfully, because the two of them had entered Tina’s annual costume contest as Mario and Luigi. Costumes you watched them both make all week, sprawled out across Robin’s bedroom floor, pricking fingers till they bled trying to sew. The worst part about it though, was how cute Steve made the oversized mustache look. Some people really do have it all.

Ryan keeps you close to his side when the two of you enter the packed house dressed as Frankenstein and his bride. Monster Mash blares from the speakers so loud you wonder how much time you have left before Hopper comes knocking on the door to shut it down. You scan the crowd for the familiar red and green in a sea of witches, mermaids, and Top Gun characters, finding the two of them in the corner closest to the kitchen. Closest to the booze.

You can’t fight the way your face lights up when Steve’s gaze meets yours through the crowd, his own smile growing so big that half his mustache falls off. Suddenly coming to Tina’s was the best idea Ryan’s ever had. You tug at his arm, leading him towards the two Mario brothers that wave eagerly at you.

”Oh, great. Steve’s here.” Ryan mutters, sounding less than thrilled but you choose to ignore it, and the very obvious tension between the two men that’s existed since they met.

”Finally you come to the superior party!” Robin exclaims hugging you tight, before giving Ryan an awkward side one.

”She’s aliiiiive!” Steve who is clearly feeling very good yells over the music, before scooping you up in his arms. 

He gives you the kind of hug that’s usually reserved for the long goodbye after a self indulgent movie night. The kind that has his big palms splayed across your back, pulling you flush against him, the thin material of your ripped white dress and his ramshackled overalls leaves little to the imagination. His lips find their way to the shell of your ear, tequila and lime warm on his breath, pebbling goosebumps along the back of your neck. He’s wearing your favorite cologne.

”You look beautiful, honey.”

He lets you go with that, and you catch the smug way he looks at Ryan over the top of your head. The smile on Robin’s face is awkward as you meet her gaze with a silent plea for help, you don’t know what exactly you want her to do, but your body is on fire and someone needs to put it out. You stare a little longer as if to communicate this delima to her telepathically even though you would never admit it to her with your words, only giving up on your dead end mission when you feel Ryan tug you back to his side by your hip.

”She does, doesn’t she.” Ryan agrees, fingers threatening to dig bruises in your side unknowingly. Steve always did this to him, but tonight the alcohol intensified it.

“Seriously, literally always so stunning.” Robin agrees on your beauty nervously, giving you an apologetic look that she couldn’t think of anything better.

”Let’s get some shots!” You try with mock excitement in a desperate attempt to remind Ryan why you came here and that it’s not to punch Steve’s teeth in with a squeeze of his hand. It’s a fruitless effort to try and ignore the growing heat that warms under your cheeks and churns deep in your gut where your body always seems to betray you.

”Great idea!” Robin exclaims doing her best to copy your tone, it seems to be enough to shake the boys out of their silent dick swinging contest.

”Tequila or rum?” You ask your date, laying a hand on his chest doing your best to ignore the heat of Steve’s stare on the back of your head.

“Tequila.” He answers, placing his palm on the top of your hand, bending down, his eyes flick towards your best friend before kissing you. Marking his territory.

You’d think it was hot if your body had any kind of reaction to him, but it’s still practically humming for the one behind you and you hate yourself for it.

”I’ll be right back.” You wink, giving Ryan’s fingers a squeeze before slipping through the crowd towards the kitchen without looking back. 

It’s quieter in the yellow light of Tina’s kitchen, the music a low thump instead of overpowering all your senses at once. A shaky breath slips past your black painted lips, while uneasy hands half hazardly read the labels on the cheap bottles of liquor. The bold letters that spell Tequila finally catch your eye on the most generic looking bottle. You grimace at the thought of the hang over that seals your fate tomorrow, but then you remember the way the lime smelt on Steve’s breath.

“You look beautiful honey.”

Fuck it. You take one straight from the bottle for good measure. No salt, no lime, just regret. 

“Your boyfriend’s a little insecure isn’t he?”

As if thinking about him makes him appear, Steve walks through the kitchen pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the direction Ryan’s in.

“He’s not my boyfriend yet, and he won’t be because you keep egging him on,  Harrington.” You sigh exasperated, ignoring the way he chuckles not taking you seriously at all before turning around to face him, your palms finding purchase on the kitchen counter behind you. 

“Maybe, just a little.” He pinches his thumb and index finger together with a devious smirk that looks even more absurd in his costume. At least his oversized mustache must’ve been left with Robin. “I just don’t like him is all.” 

“You don’t like anyone I’m interested in, Steve.”

You want to ask him why. The alcohol almost starts to make you brave enough to do it too. Why does he do this every time it’s your turn to date around? Why does he always have a list of issues on how they simply aren’t good enough? Why is it always a competition? Sometimes you wonder if it’d just be easier to hear him say it out loud instead of doing whatever this is. 

“Well, that may be true, but you also have terrible taste.” He closes the space between you, mimicking your stance on the kitchen island across from where you face him. The tips of your shoes are close enough to touch. 

“Who would you like me to date then?”  Your question is supposed to sound snarky and mean, not quiet with weight wrapped around it like it does

The look in his glossy eyes steals the air from your lungs, like he’s daring you to say it. 

You both know you won’t and he changes the subject.

“I can’t believe I caught you doing a tequila shot without salt and lime. Especially that tequila.” He tsks, pushing himself off the counter and invades what little is left of the  space between you. You can smell the cinnamon again.

“Well I needed a quick stress reliever, no thanks to you.” You should be embarrassed by how breathy it comes out, but when he holds your gaze like this, like he wants to eat you alive, it’s hard to care. 

It's just the liquor you tell yourself, Steve’s been drinking all night. 

He mutters a ‘hmm’ under his breath, long fingers wrapping just tight enough around your wrist that you could pull away if you wanted too. You don’t though, instead you bite your bottom lip, too selfishly invested in what he might do next.

Steve reaches behind you, grabbing the salt shaker that dwarfs in his grasp, lifting your hand up to your mouth. 

“Lick.” He smirks devilishly, and you realize you’re getting the full force of his charm. 

“Steve.” You whisper, just barely audible over your heart thrumming out of your chest. You can feel it in your ears.

Thump, thump, thump, thump

“We’re gonna do a shot together, the right way.” He reasons like this is a completely normal interaction between two friends while the gold shimmering in his eyes darkens. 

You don’t say anything, searching his face for any sign of this being some kind of prank just to see how you’d react. But the way he licks his lips tells you pretty quickly that it’s not. 

So you do it. Holding his eyes the whole time, and you swear they turn onyx. 

It’s his turn to stay silent, breathing heavily through his nose as he taps the shaker over the corner of your hand before doing the same to his own, and now it’s your turn to stare as his pink tongue licks a perfect straight line. All the stories you’ve heard about him flood to the forefront of your mind, the endless pillow talk about Steve Harrington that fills the college halls. 

You hate that the motion has your thighs pressing together, especially with Ryan just outside waiting for your return, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to leave. Your eyes trace the veins in his neck, silently counting the freckles that explode across his skin as he pours up two shots. 

“Here honey.” He whispers, like he’s scared for this bubble to pop too. 

The two of you cheers, glass clinking loudly in the silence, eyes staying trained on each other like you need to memorize every detail of this moment. Like this was never going to happen again. 

The tequila doesn’t taste as bad followed up with the salt and the lime. Steve does it like a pro, like a boy who’s been to every party this small town has to offer. He doesn’t even take that ‘this is disgusting’ suck of breath through his teeth, he just smiles at you setting the shot glass down. 

“Hey, is everything okay? Do you need help? Oh.”

It’s only fitting that it’s Ryan who pops your carefully crafted bubble, and you know it will be another fight about Steve on the walk home. Another night to get buried with all the others just like this, and a night that has you and Steve avoid being alone together for a week.

Halloween - Now.

It’s hard to concentrate on Freddy terrorizing a young Johnny Depp when the tips of Steve’s fingers move from your calf to the top of your thigh, a motion he’s repeated for half the movie. A move that gets bolder, higher, pushing the boundaries with every swipe. He has to feel the way it makes you squirm, in fact, you think it’s spurring him on. Especially when he gets dangerously close to the soft outline of your underwear, a quiet gasp escaping past your lips.

Luckily, you're saved by the sound of your doorbell, the first trick or treaters of the night making you both jump.

“Finally!” Steve exclaims like he wasn’t just actively tempting you to cross the line for the second time this week, like he didn’t already know what your tongue tasted like. 

The bonfire comes back in flashes, teeth scraping, nipping, the whistles that got drowned out when his hand came up to your cheek opening you up more when it was just supposed to be a peck.

”Hello? Are we just going to keep them waiting?” He snaps you back to reality, standing over you with his hands out for you to take. “I don’t really want to beat you at your own game.”

”Again Steve, this is not a sport, you can’t win at something when there’s no prize.” You groan, refusing to meet eyes but slide your hands into his. 

“Sure you can.” He winks, letting you go the moment you get on your feet, extending his arm for you to lead the way. 

His playful demeanor has you feeling like maybe you just imagined the last thirty minutes. Was he not affected the way you were? Has it always just been you? Did the kiss not make him question everything?

”Whatever you say Harrington.” Sighing, you try for the hundredth time this week to push the thoughts of your bottom lip between his teeth down where they can’t see the light of day.

So distracted by the man behind you, the lack of candy in your hands has you stopping dead in your tracks without thinking, the domino effect slams his hard chest right into your back.

”Foul ball.” Steve huffs, steadying you both with hands on your hips. The warmth of them bleeding through the thick fabric of your sweater. “I thought you said this wasn’t a game.”

What you hated most about Steve Harrington was that he always knew how to make you laugh even when you didn’t want to.

”Well if this were a game, we’d be losing.”

Genuine panic paints his features like a truly serious offense has occurred. 

“We forgot the candy.”

He groans, running a hand through his hair that you wish was your own. 

”Wow, total rookie mistake, we gotta get it together or we’re gonna get benched.” Clapping loudly he turns on his heel to grab both bowls, “I do not wanna get on the coach's bad side.”

”You don’t have to bring both.” You try your hardest to fight the smile that wants to twist up the corners of your lips. “And who’s the coach?”

”We’re not going to be under prepared this time sweetheart, and I need to see who picked the better candy, if they’re even still there!” Steve tutts with a shake of his head gliding past you. “And you’re the coach, duh.”

”Why do you always like to participate in competitions you know you’re going to lose?” Crossing your arms, you light up at his narrowed gaze, his long fingers wrapped around the door handle, “I mean, we might as well take a poll of the ugly pumpkins you made us put out too while we’re at it.

“Sounds like a great idea.” He grins smugly, “I love how much you lean into intimidation tactics when you know you won’t win by the way.” He doesn’t give you any time to respond, swinging the door open with the kind of excitement that would rival a kid on Christmas morning.

Then you watch it drain from his face almost instantly, quickly replaced by pure annoyance. 

“What’s going on? What are you doing here?” Steve, stacks one of the candy bowls on top of the other, leaning on your door with a hand on his hip.

”What does it look like we’re doing?” You hear Mike Wheeler’s voice before you see him, but when you meet Steve at the door, you realize it’s all four of his ‘children’ and you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles past your lips because they’re all dressed as The Cone Heads. 

“It looks like legal adults going to strangers' houses asking for candy, instead of being at a party, meeting girls. Will you’re excluded in that last part, obviously.” Your best friend runs another irritated hand through his hair.

“I’m not sure they’ll be able to chase tail dressed as Beldar Conehead, Steve.” You can’t stop giggling. “Just give them some candy.”

”Yeah, listen to your girlfriend, Harrington.” Dustin antagonizes, shaking his empty pillow case in front of him. “Give us the sour candies and we’ll get out of your hair.”

”One, she’s not my girlfriend, dip shit, and two, what's wrong with Snickers?” 

“Sour candy’s just better.” Lucas shrugs, “Now hand over the Warheads.”

She’s not my girlfriend.

It feels like an expected punch in the gut. The final nail in the coffin your last shred of hope lays in. You should have known better, but the kiss made everything fuzzy, the self control you prided yourself on waning in a way that you weren’t sure you could ever get back. 

“You guys can have as much as you want.” You say ignoring Steve, snatching the bowls from his hand. 

“Seriously? They can buy their own!” He groans, leaning his back on the door crossing his arms over his chest.

“She’s not your girlfriend, huh? You seemed pretty whipped to me,” Mike laughs knowing just how much this is getting under Steve’s skin.

You know it’s supposed to be somewhat of a compliment but it just adds salt to a wound that won’t stay closed.

”Shut up, that’s enough,” Steve smacks the back of Mike’s head hard enough to get an ‘Ouch! Asshole!’, the cone on top wobbling. “Get out of here and go to a god damn party.”

The boys take half the bowl of Warheads, walking away arguing about who can put the most in their mouth without spitting them out. They only took a few pieces of Steve’s chocolate, leaving you the clear winner this round, something you’d be more excited about rubbing in his face if you weren’t trying to actively avoid it. The taste of disappointment is bitter on your tongue, but you do your best to swallow it down. A hard lesson learned, but one your heart can’t bear to repeat again. All you know is that you can’t go back to being best friends with wandering hands in the dark.    

Self control. 

The Bon Fire - Last Week

Eddie Munson’s filter always disappeared when he was drunk, it was part of the fun of drinking with him. Except for when his unfiltered thoughts were about you.

”Oh give me a fucking break!” Eddie yells at you from across the flames that lick the night sky violently. The excessive amount of lighter fluid he’s sprayed into them should be illegal. A half smoked cigarette dangles from the side of his mouth, dangerously close to falling out as he finishes.

“The only reason you and Steve are still single is because the two of you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you’re clearly in love with each other!”

”Fuck. Off. Munson.” Steve glowers from the lawn chair next to you, taking a swig from his 5th beer of the night.

”What? ‘Fuck off’ because I got your ass?” Eddie adjusts in his seat, saving his cigarette, fully prepared for this debate like he’s been waiting for it all his life.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You argue weakly, following Steve’s lead and taking another “sip” of your empty beer.

The metal head guffaws.

“Please, I’ve been watching the two of you for the past four years. Steve scares off any guy you try to date and you let him, which makes me believe you feel the same way, and Steve only dates girls he knows he’ll never have a connection with!” Eddie claps his hands every few words to really drive his point home, and it leaves your argument a jumbled mess on the tip of your tongue.

The vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington. 

”One, she dates horrible guys -“ Steve starts but immediately gets cut off by Eddie’s sarcastic “Sure!” And your “Hey!”

“Are you going to let me finish?” Your best friend narrows his eyes, polishing off his beer with an apologetic glance flashed briefly in your direction.

”You can if you want, but it’s not going to change my mind or anyone else’s at this party.” Eddie eggs him on more, taking a deep inhale of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of his nose like a bull. Taunting you both.

You look around the fire for help foolishly thinking your friends were going to be on your side only to realize literally everyone is avoiding your gaze, even Robin.

”Robin!” The gasp that escapes you shouldn’t sound so surprised. She spends the most time with both of you.

“What?! I’m not Eddie! Yell at him!” She exclaims defensively, but her eyes are still everywhere but yours.

”Then look at me.” You cross your arms, arching a brow with a tilt of your chin.

She mumbles something about killing Eddie under her breath, messing with the empty beer bottles next to her like she’s looking for something. She was procrastinating.

”Oh my god! Seriously?” 

Eddie chuckles victoriously and you swear you hear Nancy giggle from the spot next to Robin. Sinking into the hard plastic of your chair, you dare to sneak a glance at Steve who’s face is entirely unreadable. This was worse than your worst nightmare, this was reality. 

”Look,” Eddie starts again, leaning forward in his chair like some sort of evil mastermind from a bad action movie, “If it’s all in our heads like you keep saying it is. That she really does have terrible taste in men and that you’ve really just exhausted all your options in Hawkins. Kiss then.”

Robin gasps dramatically.

”Are you really doing this right now, Munson?” Steve glowers through gritted teeth before shooting Robin a look so harsh she covers her face.

”Why not? What’s it going to hurt? I’m sure you’ve both thought about it before.” He shrugs, a cheshire smile poking dimples into both his cheeks. “Unless you’re too scared to do it, which would then make me continue to believe everything I just said was true.”

God, Eddie Munson knew exactly what he was doing. He knew how to press Steve’s buttons. He knew exactly how dug in both your heels were, holding up that invisible line that’s saved you for the past four years. And you couldn’t figure out if you wanted to kill him, and dump his body into the lake or be eternally grateful for someone finally ripping this old bandaid off. You just didn’t know if there was going to be a scar underneath.

”And why’s that?” You chime in finally finding your voice, snarky and rude. You’ve decided to lean into the anger, and ignore the heat of Steve’s stare warming the side of your face.

“Guys, this is getting a little weird.” Robin tries to intervene, the rasp in her voice uneasy, holding both her arms out like both boys might jump through the fire at each other soon.

”I dare you both to prove me wrong, and then I’ll let it go.” He sits back in his chair, a cigarette put out by his combat boots, and folds his hands in front of him. ”Just a peck.”

”Eddie, come on-“ Robin starts but Steve cuts her off.

”No, no, no it’s fine Rob.” 

That’s when he does it, he turns to face you because Steve Harrington never backs down from a dare. Even if it means throwing a boulder at your glass house. Eddie was playing chess while Steve played checkers, and you start to believe all the drunken stories he told you about the campaigns he wrote for his DND club in high school. Your best friend will unfortunately always be an easy target.

“It’s fine, if this freak wants a little show to get off to later, we’re perfectly capable of a peck. My Mom gives out pecks like they’re candy! N-not like to me alone specifically,” He clears his throat awkwardly, “Like the rest of my family too.”

You grimace at the idea of Steve kissing you like his Mom and Eddie’s eyes sparkle.

”Okay,” Steve waves his hands, eyes closing tight in frustration, “This is coming out wrong! All I’m trying to say is, no big deal Munson, if it’ll get you to shut up, we’d love to prove you wrong, right?”

Wait, was Steve really agreeing to this? Were you really going to have your first kiss with him in front of all of your friends? A kiss you’ve shamefully thought about more than you should. Did he actually want to kiss you? Is he really doing this to shut Eddie up?

”Yeah, not a big deal. You’ll see, and then I’ll be expecting free weed for at least a month.” You try to over compensate with a brave face, but Eddie sees right through it.

”Sure.” He grins, utterly pleased with himself.

”Well what do I get?” Steve glares at his friend expectantly.

”You don’t get anything Harrington, shut up.” 

“Wow, doesn’t seem fair, but whatever.” He mumbles, before finally focusing on you, and you aren’t sure you’re ready.

It feels kismet the moment your eyes meet, the sounds of the party fading around you, leaving only the crackling fire and your heart beating so loud it rings in your ears, and thumps through the tips of all ten of your fingers. The bubble you’ve carefully made together, the one that’s kept you safe for this long comes out like a shield. The last defense.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.  

Steve licks his lips, eyes silently communicating with you to make sure this is really okay, that you guys were actually going to do this and all you can muster is a nod. He scoots his chair close enough for the sides of your hands to touch, amber and cinnamon wrapping around you like a spell.

”Just me and you okay?” He whispers loud enough for your ears only.

”Yeah,” you agree, hooking your pinky with his, “me and you.”

Steve smiles that smile he doesn’t give anyone else, and suddenly you don’t care about the answer to any of those questions swirling around loud in your brain. You want this. You want him. Even if it’s just for right now.

His nose brushes against yours, miller lite and mint hot on his breath. It makes your lashes flutter against the tops of your cheeks, your skin warming as if you were standing in front of the sun. It’s so gentle when his bottom lip connects with the top of yours, it almost tickles. He exhales a deep breath through his nose, mouth hovering for what feels like an eternity.

Thump, thump, tump, thump. 

When the soft silk of his lips finally meets yours, you swear the earth shakes, and after a few seconds when he pulls away with that dazed look on his face you wonder if he felt it too. He blinks a few times, slow and bewildered, something shifting behind his brown eyes that you can’t figure out. Steve doesn’t give you much time to try before his lips are on yours again, that big hand of his finding your cheek, tilting your willing chin up just enough to open you up. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip asking for more and you give it to him without question tasting him for the first time.

Steve Harrington was kissing you, really kissing you. 

“I hope those aren’t the kinda pecks your Mom’s handing out like candy, Harrington!” Eddie gloats loud enough to break through the haze, causing both of you to remember where you are.

Steve’s in no rush to pull away though, in fact, he takes his time, perfect teeth nipping gently at your bottom lip for good measure. He lingers like stopping this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. The tip of his nose runs along the length of yours, and for a second you think he might keep kissing you. His eyes are already fixated on yours when you meet his stare with fluttering lashes. He holds your gaze like he’s desperately trying to read your mind, the pad of his thumb swiping against your bottom lip not once but twice before finally letting you go. 

”You happy now, Munson?” Steve huffs flopping back into his chair with rose colored cheeks. He leans down to grab his beer, running a hand through his untamable hair before taking a swig like that didn’t just change everything.

Oh no.

“Literally couldn’t be happier, Harrington. I think I’m going to start charging double for my eighths now, actually.” Eddie grins winking at you, only for his face to soften meeting your unreadable expression. 

Frozen in your seat, your fingers press against your lips. You could still feel his teeth.

“What do you mean?” Steve interjects, refusing to look in your direction.

Oh no.

“What do you mean?” The metal head challenges, with a confused raise of his eyebrow. “There’s witnesses Harrington.” 

He waves his ringed finger in a circular motion reminding you both of the still very much ongoing party around you. It’s hard to feel the familiar ache of disappointment when your bones won’t stop buzzing. They don’t get it, they don’t realize they bore witness to the kind of moment that moved tectonic plates for you. The kind of moment that you know is going to change everything no matter how hard you try.

”We did your dare, she gets free weed.” Steve continues like it’s obvious.

“Yeah, no. You two were practically eating each other alive. I actually think people started to feel awkward, that’s how insane it was.” Eddie’s disbelief furrows his brows together, head cocking to the side. “So, clearly, I was right.”

At least he’s got the balls to say it. 

“When I win, I like to win big, okay?” Steve smirks with his kiss bitten lips, making the next thing he says sting even more. “You’d never let it go if it was just a peck.”

Oh no.

Your eyes meet Robin’s, and the expression on her face makes you wish you hadn’t. 

”Right?” It takes you a minute to realize Steve is talking to you, in fact it’s not until you feel a gentle tap on your shoulder from the hand that was just cupping your cheek. 

He’s asking you to agree that it meant nothing, that you both got Eddie, that you two are only everything you’ve ever said you were. Everyone stares at you, and for the second time tonight you wish this was a nightmare. You wonder if you should just pinch yourself to see.

”I’ll take my first free eighth tonight.” You finally manage, giving Eddie a weak smile.

Oh no.

Halloween - Now

Steve feels miles away on the other side of the couch, a conscious choice you made after his teenage children left, after he made it abundantly clear where he still stood with you. It’s a choice you’re going to dig your heels into no matter how much your body physically aches to be close to him, or how his knee hasn’t stopped bouncing almost three movies and a whole lot of trick or treaters later. 

The clear pink digital clock on your mantle reads 12:18 AM in bright red numbers, A Nightmare on Elm Street: Dream Warriors lights up your TV and despite the distance, Steve still hasn’t left. You know he wants to ask why you’re so far away, why you’re not wrapped up in his arms like it doesn’t matter, like last week never happened but then he would have to talk about it. Acknowledge it.

You fucking hated, ‘It’, and maybe Eddie Munson too.

Shadows dance across Steve’s face, eyes intent on the TV with knitted brows that meet in the middle of his forehead. Those hands that had wandered your body under blankets woven with secrets and what if’s for the past four years sit propped behind his head as he leans back into the cushions. His legs are spread wide, in a position that looks uncomfortable, letting you know he’s lost in whatever argument he’s been having with himself since the second movie after you had grabbed your own blanket. 

You were going to break the vicious cycle of you and Steve Harrington, right here, right now. While you still had a shred of willpower left. 

“I-I think I saw a full moon out there earlier.” His voice breaks through everything like it always does, hoarse from its lack of use, he clears his throat turning his head to look at you biting his nail.

The warm red lighting from Freddy’s boiler room illuminates his features in a way that dares those butterflies to wake back up from the eternal rest you banished them to. His sharp jaw, those high cheek bones kissed with freckles and moles. The dark pools of his irises beg you for something, surrounded by sparkling brown and gold. You couldn’t look away even if you tried. Movie star. 

”Yeah?” You manage, voice coming out quieter than intended, it softens his features almost instantly, like he missed the sound of it.

”Do you maybe wanna go for a drive?” 

You make him wait for an answer to a question you could never say no to even if you tried, doing your best to hang onto your fleeting self control for just a little bit longer before giving in with a,

“Let's go.”

Steve was right, there was a full moon tonight. It sits half hidden in the clouds but it still manages to shine bright enough to coat the sleeping town of Hawkins in an incandescent opal. He cranks the heat all the way up so you can rest your head on propped up hands along the open passenger window. Strings of orange and violet bulbs wrap around trees, twinkling off fences and front doors, lighting the dark spots that the moon can’t kiss. Flames still flicker and dance inside jack o lantern mouths that sit on front doorsteps, and you can’t help but inhale the bitter crisp fall air that hits your face. It even smells like Halloween outside. You can faintly hear the sound of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ spill from his speakers, and it curves up the corners of your lips. Closing your eyes, you let yourself bask in this moment, including the unmistakable feeling of Steve’s gaze.

The thing about Steve’s car is that it feels like you’re completely surrounded by him when you’re in it, wrapped up in him, consumed by him. The warm leather underneath you always smells rich, especially in the summer after it bakes in the sun. It’s soft to the touch, freshly lotioned by him at least once a week to prevent cracks, while the amber of his cologne permanently clings to the threads in his carpets, and soft chenille lining of his doors. Some days, you’ll catch hints of that Farrah Faucet spray he used in high school, but that was usually after a date. Loose change jingles in his cup holder, along with the stick of gum you almost always inevitably steal from it, and despite the internal battle you’ve been having with yourself, tonight was still no exception. Steve’s car felt like home.

Neither one of you talk as he drives the familiar path towards your favorite spot by the lake. His headlights illuminate the fog that wraps up the base of the trees, crawling up slowly to the dying leaves in a way that makes everything look like magic as you pass town lines. Including the boy next to you. It takes you a few minutes to work up the courage to steal a glance in his direction, but when you do he’s already looking at you too. His soft laugh after you both get caught makes your cheeks ignite, the corners of your lips twitching. 

”Eyes on the road, Harrington.” You manage, fighting the losing battle with your growing smile. You don’t look at him again, not until the BMW slowly rolls to a stop. 

Still, you waste no time jumping out of the car parked on the secret cliff you’d both discovered lost on a drive a few summers ago. Wind hits you in a heavy gust, free from anything that can slow it down up here, pebbling goosebumps along your skin. The cold ground cracks underneath your slippers you didn’t bother to change out of, while cinnamon and crimson leaves flutter in the trees. Crickets chirp in the distance, creating a melody with the wind howling through the dense forest that feels fitting for the holiday. Your heart swells from the feeling of nostalgia, filling you with the kind of joy something that a party could never do. 

“Spooky.” Steve whispers in your ear, coming up from behind you. The warmth of his spare jacket he keeps in the back seat drapes around your shoulders. It smells different than the one he wears regularly, but it's still him, so you selfishly pull it closer.

“Mmhmm.” You agree, eyelids growing heavy at the feeling of his breath against the soft skin at the back of your neck before his arms wrap around your waist like they belong there.

Steve pulls you close, mumbling something about being cold too and how you need to share. The tip of his nose traces the shell of your ear before burying his face into the crook of your neck. He inhales deeply, openly, like an addict that’s been denied his favorite drug and he’s finally got his hands on it. So just as quickly as they were banished, the butterflies come migrating back and you don’t have the energy to stop them, or to practice that new concept of self control because this feels too good right now. Maybe you’re an addict too.

Thin clouds spread out in wisps along the dark night sky, messily painted there by an invisible brush, the stars twinkle around them, shimmering bright even underneath it all. Your gaze traces the invisible lines of the Big Dipper, and it reminds you of the time you’d spent nearly twenty minutes trying to get Steve to see the formation sprawled out on a blanket at this very spot. You would’ve spent the whole evening if you had to. 

“Are you having a good Halloween?” He whispers, voice vibrating deep inside your bones while his cold fingertips trace along the waist band of your leggings under your sweater. You don’t remember when they got there.

You roll the answer around in your head with a thoughtful hum, admiring the orange glow of the town below. An owl calls out into the darkness and Steve’s lips curl into a grin pressing into your neck at the noise.

”Yeah, this is pretty perfect.” You start, thankful he can’t see your own smile that pushes up your cold cheeks, “Especially after getting the confirmation that I do have better taste in candy than you. I love when I’m right.”

He snorts loudly, and it vibrates against your skin making you giggle, his grip on you tightening playfully before pulling you deeper into his chest.

”I threw the game, I felt bad, you know, I didn’t want to outshine you on your favorite holiday. I purposely picked the candy no one would like.” His voice comes out right next to your ear, the baritone of it going straight to your legs threatening to turn them into jell-o.

“Mmmhmm.” You manage, voice cracking with nerves as the palm of his hand finds the plushness of your stomach and keeps it there. You wonder if he can feel the butterflies too. “Whatever you have to say to yourself to sleep better at night, Harrington.”

Steve laughs into your shoulder, the blunt end of his nails scratching lightly over the soft skin of your navel. Neither one of you try to fill the quiet after that, letting the million things that need to be said hang over you in the eerily beautiful silence of the canyon. They cling onto every swipe of his fingers, and the sighs that come from the back of your throat. The two of you stay wrapped up in each other like this for what feels like an hour, swaying back and forth, too scared to pop your favorite bubble. It’s not until a shiver runs up your spine, the frost in the air numbing the tip of your nose.

”We don’t have to leave, but we should at least sit in the car with the heater on for a while.” Steve breaks the silence with a slight chatter in his teeth, the pad of his thumb swiping against the smooth skin of your hip before untangling himself from your clothes. This was starting to feel like a sunrise kind of night.

”Yeah, that’s probably smart.” You clear your throat with a small smile, already missing the feeling of being surrounded by him, for once you don’t push it down.

You follow him to the car, letting your gaze greedily trace the outline of his shoulders in his crew neck sweater. His hair whips around wildly in the wind, the little product that was left in his hair standing no chance. He walks past the passenger door to open the back one instead of your usual spot in the front. The change makes you pause, you’d never really hung out in the backseat together, always using the center console as a barrier to stop you from doing the unthinkable. Everything always seems more romantic in the dead of night. 

“I had an idea earlier when I saw it was going to be a full moon tonight, I- uh, brought us a blanket.” He explains before the question even has a chance to leave your mouth, pink dusting his cheeks that you aren’t entirely sure is just from the cold.

It almost goes over your head, but the bashful way he won’t meet your gaze catches your attention. This wasn’t just some coincidence he saw the full moon from your front door, he had already known, probably with the help of the very kids that showed up dressed as Coneheads. 

Steve Harrington planned something for you. 

”I uh, stole this blank tape from Henderson too and recorded the re-run of Radio Mystery Theater, Eddie had told me about. Thought it might be something you’d like.”  

Your heart swells, threatening to burst in your chest with the unmistakable feeling of wanting to kiss him again.

“I can’t believe you did this Steve, I’ve always wanted to listen to an episode.” You practically beam, taking a few steps closer, looking up at him from under your lashes. “You remembered.”  

The crimson that deepens in the apple of his cheeks this time is definitely not from the cold.

”We’ve had a lot of shitty solo Halloweens, and since this was our first one together, I just wanted, I- I guess I just wanted to make this one special. Maybe we can start a new tradition or something?” he shrugs, muttering the last part with a scratch at the back of his neck pretending to be nonchalant but you can always see right through him.

”Yeah, I’d like that.” Your admission is quiet, but the smile he bites back threatens to be megawatt before reaching out his hand, ushering you into the car and out of the two am chill

”I’m gonna go grab the blanket.”

He closes the door gently after making sure you’re comfortable, and you watch him with hungry eyes from the back window pull out a down comforter from the trunk. It’s the one from his bed, the fabric a deep plush deep burgundy with a black trimming around the edges, it looks so warm in his grasp as another chill rattles through your bones. He comes around to his side, opening the door to hand it to you with a grin that only grows wider when you snatch it eagerly before popping to the driver's seat to turn his car on. The heat starts to blow through the vents instantly, sending another shiver up your spine and a chatter of your teeth. Your gaze falls on the sliver of skin that reveals itself to you where his sweater rides up his back as he leans over the center console to grab the cassette tape from his glove compartment. Of course there’s another cluster of moles and freckles there that make you want to explore where the rest hide.

He pops it in with ease, pressing play and waits until he hears the opening crackle through the speakers, a quiet ‘yes’ slipping past his lips. A gust of cold air follows him when he opens the passenger door again as he slides into the leather seats next to you, knees knocking into yours before shutting it. He wastes no time finding you under the covers, torturing you with his cold hands by slipping them back underneath your sweater.

”Steve!” You jump, scolding him with a giggle without pushing him away, and he takes this opportunity to pull you back into the position you were in on your couch at home before you tried to find some semblance of boundaries.

He keeps his hands under your sweater, even when they’re warmed back up, the pad of his thumb rubbing soft circles along your rib cage. His cheek rests on your forehead, full lips tickling your skin when he talks. You can feel his heart beat against your palm, and how it speeds up every time your fingers curl into the cotton of his sweater whenever you laugh, instinctively pulling him closer. He doesn’t fight it, instead his grip tightens on the soft dough of your thighs draped over his knees, making sure every inch of you stays pressed firmly against him.

This doesn’t feel like best friends. This feels like something more, but it’s always felt like something more.

In fact you think you’ve known you were in love with Steve Harrington long before you ever admitted it yourself. Burying it so far deep, the fleeting idea just didn’t exist to you anymore, but tonight in the soft glow of the moon sitting in the back seat of his car, you were sure of it and its existence. 

It feels like he can read your mind when his fingers curl under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. The stars twinkle in the gold of his auburn eyes like he plucked them from the sky and hung them there. So close, you can see those freckles you’d discovered the last time he looked at you just like this. That one badly behaved swoop of hair tickles the top of your forehead, and your fingers twitch to push it back for him. Movie star.

The tape stops with a loud click, leaving nothing but the low whistle of wind outside, and it mixes with your heavy breaths, electric currents stinging at your fingertips. His heart thumps wildly against your hand, like he was working himself up for something big. The notion sets a fire ablaze on every inch of your skin in anticipation.

”I want, I want to talk about something.” He says just barely above a whisper with a gaze so intense, it makes you want to look away. You don’t.

“What about?” Your voice comes out somehow even quieter, eyes falling to his lips on their own accord. He catches it, kicking his heart rate up even more. 

Was he going to do the unthinkable? You try to push the thought down, but it fights back this time. Refusing the denial exile you’ve shoved it in for the past four years. 

“Last week, at um, at Munson’s.” His eyebrows pinch together, visibly swallowing his nerves, as the tip of his nose dares to brush against yours. “God, I-I can’t stop thinking about it.”

The last part comes out like he’s being tortured by it. At least it’s not just you.

“If we’re being honest though,” He continues, his palm running up your thigh to squeeze at your hip, keeping you close, “I don’t think I ever stop thinking about you.”

His words crack your chest open, shining light on all the dark places that you’ve kept him in, just like the sunshine Steve Harrington is made of. 

”Really?” You manage to say, after fighting with the words that keep getting tangled up on the edge of your tongue, desperately trying to give him more than a one word answer but failing miserably. Years of daydreaming about this moment in silent shame freezing you up. 

He nods, pressing his forehead against yours, yearning eyes searching inside the dark pools of your pupils down the slope of his nose. 

“You just, you brushed it off so easily, I thought -“ You start, replaying the way he’d rolled back into his seat, sipping his beer so casually like nothing happened. The confidence in his voice bragging about how Eddie got it wrong, that he wasn’t in love with you.

”What’d you think?” He encourages gently, the hand on your hip coming up to cup your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing along the bone. 

”I just thought I was the only one.” You confess, that same defeated feeling from that night creeping back in despite the way his gaze softens all of your edges. 

“That night at Eddie’s, I freaked out. Robin told me it was pretty obvious that I have feelings for you and it got me in my head that I was secretly making you uncomfortable because if she noticed it, surely you did too. So I completely overcompensated after I lost control at the bonfire, there was just no way I could stop kissing you, and then I panicked again earlier at your house-“

“Steve.” You say his name like it's something romantic, successfully ending his rambling with another brush of your nose against his. .

”Yeah?” He breathes, the tension leaving his shoulders like hearing your voice was enough. 

You meet his heavy stare from underneath your lashes, the foggy glass of the windows creating a halo around his head from the soft glow of the moonlight. 

“I dare you to kiss me again.” There’s confidence in your voice you don’t recognize, and the corner of his mouth quirks at it. 

“What if I just wanted to kiss you because I wanted to?” Steve whispers, closing more of the little space that’s left between you.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

“Then, I’d say…” You brush your top lip against his bottom one, a low simmer starting to boil in the pit of your gut, spreading warmth between your thighs at his sharp intake of breath, “what are you waiting for, Harrington.”

His lips are curved into a smirk when he presses them to yours, his thumb finding the corner of your mouth to open you up just enough for him that your lips move like they were made for this, for him. He handles you differently in the back seat of his car than at the bonfire, he’s gentle, taking his time without prying eyes, savoring you. Your fingers curl into his sweater, pulling him closer because of it, like he can never be close enough, nose pressed into his cheek. He hums in response, and you can feel his smile return before his hand moves to the back of your neck, the pad of his thumb rubbing gentle circles on the soft skin behind your ear. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip begging you to finally let him in, and when you oblige, you both moan at the taste of each other.

It feels like Steve is everywhere, surrounding you with all of the little details of him embedded in every inch of his car. He’s in the leather underneath you that squeaks with your movements, in the amber and cinnamon that warm the air around you, comforting your nerves that threaten to fizz and burst like a live wire. His tongue explores every inch of your mouth like he’s hungry for it, like nothing else could satisfy him, massaging against your own in a way that earns a moan from the back of your throat. One you have no control over, but you’re starting to realize that maybe you never really had control when it came to Steve.

He breaks away just enough to whisper the word ‘perfect’ with a swipe of his nose against your own before pulling you onto his lap. You gasp at the feel of him as your knees press into the seat on either side of his hips. The effect you never really knew you had on him pressing into your heat with only the fabric of each other's pajama pants as a barrier, a feeling that only ever existed in your day dreams. But this was real, and he was closer to you than you’d ever allowed each other to be, dark wild eyes staring up at you like you were the one who painted the moon and the clouds in the sky. That swoop across his forehead has an extra curl to it from the sweat that beads at the top of his head, auburn hair turning into a wild untamable mess. His big hands grip the tops of your thighs, bringing you out of your thoughts and back to him.

”You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.” He confesses with an exhausted laugh, as if carrying the burden of ‘what if’ had been weighing him down. “I’m going to be insufferable now, I hope you know.”

His teeth shimmer in the white glow as his kiss bitten lips pull up into the kind of smile that’s contagious, even getting a giggle from you that cuts through the tension like a knife making Steve pull you closer. The tips of his fingers return to their favorite place under your sweater where they trace like a whisper against the warm skin of your lower back, and it makes your eyelids grow heavy. You slump more of your weight into him burying your head into his neck, your own hands traveling up his sweater, finger nails scratching against the rough trail of hair there before your palms rest on the thick thatch on his chest. Your lips press a kiss the two moles that had been begging you to do it for four years just below his ear, and he hums squeezing you closer despite running out of room to physically be able to.

”I want to do this with you all the time,” Steve whispers, lips brushing against your ear, “not just tonight, not just this.”

Hearing Steve say it out loud, confess the one thing you always had to pretend didn’t exist blooms something deep in your chest that you didn’t know could grow there. Shining light on all the darkness and doubts that had made themselves a far too comfortable home. Why keep denying something you both clearly want so bad?

”D-do you feel the same? Please tell me you feel the same.” You can hear the doubt creep into his voice from your misperceived silence when he whispers the plea hot against your lips, begging you to turn your head and meet them.

You almost want to laugh at the idea that Steve Harrington had reservations that you might not feel the same way about him. Wasn’t it obvious?

”Listen, Harrington.” You sigh, meeting his gaze from under your lashes, his heart kicking back up against your palm, his fingers going still. “If you think you’re going to be insufferable, you clearly have no idea who I really am.”

It takes Steve a minute to absorb your words, but when he does, the deep bellied laugh it earns you vibrates against the windows of the car and wraps around your heart. He pulls one hand from under your sweater, fingers curling under your chin again to get to what both of you want more of. A lopsided grin pushes up the vampire bites on his cheek, full lips hovering just over yours and it feels like the first time all over again. Part of you thinks it might always feel this way with him. 

“Don’t underestimate my capacity to yearn, baby.” His lips brush against yours with every word, a shiver running up your spine.

Baby.

“What if I dare you to show me?” You whisper, teeth nipping at his bottom lip enjoying the feeling of the blunt end of his nails digging into your back.

“Careful, you know I can’t say no to that.” He huffs with a grin, warm breath against your skin, silently offering up his own dare for you to close the rest of the distance and give in.

”I’m counting on it.”

The best you can call them are lessons learned, because boy have you learned your lesson. With each relationship you have, a part of your lover girl soul seems to chip away, each one leaving you with something new to take into your next.

With your first boyfriend, James, who you dated your sophomore year of high school, you learned how to be less sensitive. 

It was during that famous fall, when the entire town was holding its breath, scouring the woods for Will Byers. You’d cried yourself to sleep. He was just a kid, a quiet boy in your brother’s grade, and the thought of him lost, cold, and scared made your chest ache with a visceral, suffocating dread.

James had found your tears irritating. “Why are you so upset?” he’d asked, baffled. “You didn’t even know him like that. It’s not that deep.”

It’s not that deep. 

The words somehow became a mantra. James beat the idea into you so much you believed it. It’s not that deep. Not worth the emotions. 

You learned to swallow the lump in your throat when you saw Joyce Byers’ frantic eyes on the news, to school your features into something neutral when the search parties gathered.

You stopped being so sensitive. You made yourself smaller, quieter, less feeling. By the time Will was found, miraculously alive, the part of you that cried for near-strangers had been neatly packed away.

You hadn’t realized that in doing so, the phrase had started to apply to other aspects of your life as well. Like the part of you that cared for James. So you ended it. Your relationship was never that deep anyways.

Then came Mark, junior year. 

The best way you could describe Mark was that he was… a lot. He wanted passion, fire, drama. He wanted you to scream and fight and make up. All that exciting, borderline toxic stuff that made relationships feel real. But you’d forgotten how. Or rather you simply couldn’t be bothered. You were so practiced in calmness and in not making a scene with your emotions, that he called you heartless.

“Don’t you care about me at all?” he’d yell, his face flushed with a feeling you could no longer access. “It’s like you’re not even in this! You’re so emotionless!”

It wasn’t true. You cared. You just didn’t know how to show it anymore without the fear of being ‘too much’ clawing at your throat. 

You’d excised the sensitivity, and in doing so, you’d seemingly removed your ability to feel outwardly at all. Mark left you for a girl who threw a plate at his head during an argument at lunch. You heard him say she was “passionate.”

So, for your senior year, you tried to find a middle ground. And you found it in Ben. Ben, with his soft smile and softer hands, who loved films and basketball and knew all the words to your favorite songs. He felt like the one. 

The love of your life. 

You carefully, tentatively, began to unpack the boxes you’d sealed inside your heart. You let him in.

And it was the best decision of your life. Ben was the most loving thing you’d ever come close to.

You were sure. For the first time, you knew.

And then you found the lipstick stain on the collar of his shirt—a shimmery pink that was nothing like you would ever wear. 

The discovery was a physical blow, a nausea that started in your soul and radiated outwards. The confrontation was worse. Apparently it wasn’t a one-time thing. It went on for months. With a freshman. 

The words “love of your life” curdled in your mouth, leaving you sick and throwing up for a week straight.

That was the final lesson. The master class in heartbreak. You learned that trust was a fool’s game, and you, it turned out, were the biggest fool of all.

From then on, you swore off guys. 

You couldn’t give the emotional connection they were looking for anymore and now you had enough trust issues to fill Lover’s Lake. 

What you could do, you discovered in a blur of cheap beer and lower back tattoos during your first year of community college, was sleep around. 

It was a phase, a frantic, desperate attempt to feel something without the risk of feeling everything.

And god it was so easy.

It was so easy to slip into someone's bed knowing that they expected nothing of you. That you couldn’t say the wrong thing or even the right thing, which still wouldn't be enough anyways.

It was empty. And lonely. But oh so easy.

And when the phase ended, when you looked at the string of nameless faces and forgotten mornings, you crashed. 

Hard.

Depressed couldn’t even begin to describe it. It was this suffocating dread and loneliness that encapsulated you whole.

You turned to your friends, the ones in happy, stable relationships. “How did you know?” you’d ask, your voice thin with a desperation you hated. Your desire to be loved so bad made you physically ill.

They’d all give you the same infuriating smile. “You just know,” your best friend Sarah would say, squeezing her high school sweetheart's hand. “When you know, you know, ya know?”

But you didn’t know. You genuinely, honestly, did not know. 

You knew suspicion. You knew how to build walls and how to perform emotions you no longer felt. You knew the precise weight of betrayal. But you did not know how to know.

Which is why, when Steve Harrington, who just finished scooping your ice cream and handing it to you, asked you out to dinner, you had no real thoughts. 

It was just another data point in the long, miserable graph of your romantic failures. A blip. Steve Harrington. King Steve. A relic from high school you’d never really known, just observed from a distance.

He was handsome, sure, with his perfectly styled hair and a smile that had probably launched a thousand sighs. But that meant nothing to you anymore.

“Dinner?” you’d repeated, scrunching your brow.

“Yeah. You know, it could be fun? I pick you up, take you to that new diner downtown. The whole deal.” He’d grinned, but it wasn’t the cocky, predatory grin you remembered from the halls of Hawkins High. This one was softer, a little lopsided, with a hint of nerves at the edges.

You’d agreed because it was easier than refusing. Because you were tired. Because maybe, on some deeply buried level, you were a masochist.

But it started to feel different.

The first date was… nice. He talked about the kids he babysat—babysat, a high school legend now a glorified unpaid nanny—with a fond, almost paternal exasperation. He didn’t try to impress you with old stories of parties and his glory days of ruling Hawkins High. He asked you questions, and he actually listened to the answers. 

It was unsettling.

But not as unsettling as when he asked you on a second date. 

And you said yes.

The second date was a movie. He held your hand, his thumb stroking gentle circles on your knuckles. It was such a simple, cliché gesture, but your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You spent the entire second half of the film fighting the urge to pull your hand away, to retreat to the safe, familiar numbness.

When he asked you out on another date, you pretty much had it solidified in your head. 

This wasn’t real. It was all a dream, and you were going to wake up from it any minute now, because there was simply no possible way that Steve Harrington would be the one to make you question love.

But, nonetheless, it was real. 

It was all very real and on the third date, he cooked you pasta at his big, empty house. It was slightly overcooked, and the sauce was from a jar, but he’d lit candles and decorated and it was cute.

More than James or Mark or Ben had ever done for you before. You’d looked at him, bathed in the warm, flickering light, laughing as he almost set a potholder on fire, and you felt it—a tiny, fragile crack in the frost around your heart.

It was terrifying.

You started making an effort, a conscious, deliberate one, to get to the bottom of what it meant to be in love. 

You had to know before you were in too deep.

So, you observed Steve like a scientist studying a rare, potentially dangerous species. Because that’s what he was. A very rare male species who was now beginning to make his way to your heart, and that was the most dangerous thing of all.

You cataloged basically all his behaviors. The way he always walked on the street side of the sidewalk. How he remembered you liked extra pickles on your burger. The deep, weary concern in his eyes when he talked about the weird, unexplained things that seemed to follow the kids—the same things, you realized with a jolt, that were tied to Will Byers’ disappearance and the Starcourt Mall fire.

But with every thought and theory you had, you were coming up with blanks.

All your previous experiences had not prepared you for this. How to act and feel when everything was going right.

So right, in fact, that Steve had asked you to be his girl just two months after your first date, with a beautiful bouquet of lilies (your favorite) and takeout from your favorite Chinese place, at a cute picnic at the park right around the corner from your house.

You had said yes, and kissed him dizzy, because he was a great kisser and you loved getting to be close to him— your boyfriend, who you were starting to fall in love with. Whatever that meant.

The word “boyfriend” echoed in your head for days after, a sweet, terrifying bell you kept ringing just to hear the sound.

Steve Harrington is my boyfriend.

It felt like claiming a shooting star. Beautiful, impossible, and destined to burn out.

Except, it wasn’t burning out.

If anything, it just kept shining brighter and brighter.

He held your hand in public. He brought you a six-pack of your favorite soda just because he saw it at the grocery store. He bought lilies every chance he could. And he kissed you like you were something precious, his hands cupping your face sweetly every time. He never pushed, never demanded, and that both soothed and unnerved you.

What did this mean? Did this mean he was the one? Did you ‘know’ now?

Your mind continued to wrack itself for answers you couldn’t find. So you decided to do the next best option.

Go to his place.

Steve wouldn’t mind, right?

He enjoyed your company and most girlfriends occasionally surprise their boyfriends. You hoped he would enjoy this surprise, showing up unannounced. So you head over and stop at the market to pick up a small pizza and cake for the both of you to eat.

You ring his doorbell, anxious, but excited to hopefully get the answers from Steve you needed. No matter what, tonight, you would know.

When he answers, his face breaks into a smile so bright and unguarded it makes your breath catch. He’s in soft sweatpants and an old Hawkins High tee, his hair damp from a recent shower and delightfully messy.

“Hey you! What are you doing here,” he says, his voice warm as he steps back to let you in. The familiar, clean scent of his laundry detergent and shampoo envelops you.

“I come bearing gifts,” you announce, holding up the pizza box and the small cake. “I was hoping we could hang out.”

Steve smiles bigger at that, leaning down to give you a soft kiss that makes your head spin, and taking the pizza and cake from your hands.

“I love that idea.” Steve hums, “Hanging out and eating junk food with my girl? Perfect.”

My girl.

The words still sent a little thrill through you, even as you continued to analyze them.

You settle on the couch, the pizza box open between you as he queues up a cheesy, predictable romantic comedy. The house is quiet, save for the movie’s soundtrack and the comfortable sound of chewing. Steve’s arm is slung over the back of the couch, his fingers occasionally playing with the ends of your hair.

It’s domestic. It’s easy. It’s everything you’d once been terrified of.

About halfway through the movie, during a particularly cliché scene where the grand gesture fails, you both start yapping, dissecting the terrible writing with matching grins.

“No way,” Steve laughs, pausing the film. “He thinks showing up at the airport with a boombox is a good idea? He doesn’t even have a ticket! Security would tackle him in two seconds.”

“Right?” you giggle, leaning into his side. “And her new fiancé is just standing there? Just letting it happen. This is a disaster, not a romance.”

The conversation flows effortlessly from there, jumping from bad movies to good music, from his frustrating day at his new job at the video store, to a funny story about the kids. You’re laughing, your sides aching, and for a moment, you forget why you came over. You’re just happy.

Maybe that's a sign…

It’s during a natural lull, as you’re both picking at the last of the chocolate cake, that the topic shifts. You’re not even sure how it starts, but suddenly you’re talking about high school.

“It’s just weird,” you muse, licking the frosting off your finger. “Thinking about who we were then.”

Steve nods, a wry smile on his face. “Tell me about it. I think my brain was fully located in my hair back then.”

You laugh, but the opening is there. The question that has been burning in the back of your mind. You take a steadying breath. “Speaking of… I know you were with Nancy back then.”

You almost wince at how it sounds coming out of your mouth. He probably feels like you're interrogating him now.

“Yeah, yeah I was.”

You don’t really know how to ease into it anymore, so you just blurt out with a scrunch of your brow. “Were you in love with her?”Steve stiffens a bit and you contemplate making a run for it, but then he relaxes and his smile softens, becoming more thoughtful. He doesn’t seem surprised or mad by the question.

“Nancy,” he says simply. “That was… a whole thing. It was intense. She was the first girl I ever… really loved, I think. She was so smart, so driven. I was this dumb kid with a bad boy reputation and she saw right through it. Wanted to fix me, I guess. Or maybe I wanted her to.”

You nodded slowly, taking in the information. He looks down at you then, asking with his eyes if that answer was acceptable enough for you. Probably wondering where this all came from.

You sucked in a deep breath and asked your final question. “How did you know? Like know know.”

There was a long moment before Steve moved, and you almost thought he hadn’t heard you. But then he reached out brushing a strand of hair from your face, his warm brown eyes searching yours before speaking.

“Well, It was a lot of little things,” he began, his voice a low, thoughtful rumble. “The way she’d scrunch her brows when thinking hard about something. How she always loved to be close to me, even if it seemed like she didn’t know why. Or when I’d surprise her with her favorite flowers and she would smile oh so bright. Sometimes she would even surprise me back.” He paused, his eyes drifting to you. “I knew I was in love when the idea of her being hurt or sad felt like a physical pain in my own chest. When her happiness became more important to me than my own.”

His words settled over you, a rush of emotions you couldn’t explain filling up your body at his words. They were oddly familiar, the things he described, but you couldn’t quite place it.

So instead you just said, “Thank you, thank you for sharing that with me.”

He gave a small, understanding nod, his hand coming up to gently squeeze your knee. He didn’t turn the question back on you. He didn’t ask about James, or Mark, or Ben. He just let his truth sit there. You were immensely grateful for that.

But words still felt inadequate. You needed to show him. You needed to kiss the ghost of Nancy Wheeler from his thoughts and replace her with the tangible reality of you, here, now.

Slowly, you shifted, moving the empty pizza box aside. You crawled into his lap, straddling him, your knees sinking into the soft cushions on either side of his hips.

His eyes widened in surprise, then darkened with a warm, tender intensity. His hands came to rest automatically on your waist, steadying you.

You framed his face with your hands, your thumbs stroking the faint stubble along his jaw. You leaned in, capturing his mouth with yours in a deep, searching kiss. A silent communication of thank you and I’m here and I’m trying. You poured every ounce of your confused, hopeful, terrified heart into it, kissing away any further questions you might have had.

Steve responded instantly, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you back with a matching fervor, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

He knew deep down that this response was likely because of Nancy. But you were all he could ever think of. All he wanted to think of.

So, he kissed you even harder and vowed, from that moment on, that he would do whatever it takes to make sure that you knew, without a doubt, that he was the one.

━━━━━━━

It was, albeit, a bit harder than he anticipated.

Steve knows practically everything about you. What you like and don’t like, so finding something that was worthy of such a grand gesture felt impossible. He couldn't just buy you flowers again, or your favorite soda. That was baseline Steve. That was the man who was already, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with you. He needed to show you the depth of it.

He started small, but with intention.

He noticed you dog-earing the pages of your favorite paperback because you’d lost your bookmark. The next day, a beautiful, handcrafted bookmark with your initials on it was waiting on your nightstand.

Steve heard you mention offhandedly that the draft from your apartment window kept you up at night. That weekend, he showed up with a toolkit and fresh weatherstripping, spending the afternoon meticulously sealing the edges while you watched nearby.

They were never big declarations. They were just… evidence. Evidence that you were always on his mind, woven into his everyday life.

The big grand gesture came on a perfectly ordinary Friday. You’d had a brutal day—everything that could go wrong, did. You felt drained, brittle, and the old, familiar urge to retreat, to build the walls back up, was more enticing than ever.

So you did what you always did when you needed to feel better and dragged yourself to his doorstep. Steve didn't ask what was wrong. He just pulled you inside, sat you on the couch, and handed you a mug of tea. Then he disappeared into his bedroom.

He came back out holding a large, flat, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper. It looked… handmade.

You knew he was getting a bit more crafty, especially after making that bookmark for you, but this seemed much bigger. You were oddly impressed.

“I, uh… I made you something,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically shy. He handed it to you.

Puzzled, you tore the paper away. It was a shadow box frame. And inside, arranged with a painstaking, almost artistic care, were dozens of tiny, mundane objects.

Or at least you thought they were until you looked closer and those objects became more familiar.

The ticket stub from your first movie together.

Dried lily petals.

The paper wrapper from your favorite brand of gum.

Polaroid photos of the two of you together.

The pull-tab from the cans of soda he’d brought you that first time.

It was filled to the brim with small meaningful items that you had shared together throughout the course of your relationship. Each item was glued in place, a perfect museum of your relationship. It was the physical manifestation of all those little things he’d noticed, all the memories he’d cherished. At the bottom, in neat, block letters, he had written:

A Collection of Things That Made Me Fall in Love With You.You stared at it, your breath caught in your throat. Your eyes traced over every single item, each one a tiny spark igniting a memory. Your eyes started to well with tears. You hadn’t even known he was making this for you. The thought alone made your heart clench.

Suddenly, your mind drifted back to that night. When you were questioning Steve about how he knew he was in love with Nancy. The familiarity of his description of Nancy finally clicked into place. The scrunched brows, the favorite flowers, the surprises. He wasn’t describing Nancy.

He was describing you. He had been describing you all along.

A sob broke from your lips, but it was a happy cry. One of joy, and understanding, and love. The last of the frost around your heart melting away in the warm, brilliant light of his love.

You looked up at him, tears streaming freely down your face. He was watching you, his expression a mixture of hope and nervousness.

“Steve,” you whispered, your voice trembling but sure.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

You set the box down carefully and stood up. You walked to him, took his face in your hands, and looked directly into his warm, worried eyes and said with complete confidence.

“I love you.”

The words were clear. They were solid. And they were the truest thing you had ever given anyone.

You love Steve Harrington.

You love Steve Harrington.

You have all along. He made you feel wanted, and loved, and beautiful and you loved him so much for it.

Steve’s eyes widened with glee. He searched your face, and this time, he found no hesitation, no shadow of doubt. He found only the clear, certain reflection of his own love staring back at him. He knew that his plan was successful. You knew.

A shuddering breath escaped him, and his own eyes glistened with tears. A slow smile spread across his face, so full of relief and overwhelming joy that it made your heart swell.

“I know,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face in your hair. “I know you do.”

He held you for a long moment, just breathing you in, before pulling back to look at you. “I love you too. So much. More than anything. More than everything.”

And as he kissed you, deep and sweet and full of a promise that stretched into forever, you finally understood what everyone meant.

You just know.

And now, you did.

━━━━━━━

The moon was raising, sky covering itself with a dark, warm night drape.

You could count the stars from your bed, your eyes piercing through the window. One, two. A constellation there, another farther.

Your hand twirled your ghost-band around your wrist as if the device was the only thing able to ground you. And it some way, it was.

Its magnetic field detected your, almost, invisible cells. Changing your intoucheable form into flesh and bones. Making you human.

It was making you able to breath, taste, smell, touch. But if one thing, the bracelet couldn't make you sleep.

Ghost never needed sleep. You could, though, fall somewhere between light sleep and closing your eyes to escape the night. But you never truly slept nor dreamt about resting. You could spend a week without closing your eyes and your body would always be ready for whatever challenges you decided to face when the sun would rise.

It's the life you've known forever, the one you got used to. But since you started going out with Zed, night after nights. Month after months. The dark blue sky became unbearable.

You were supposed to be accustomed to being lonely, spending your nights between books, video games, studies, ghost parties or nightly ghost jobs.

Your confort zone became your own personal hell when it was that time of the day your green haired zombie boyfriend had to greet dreams into his arms. Leaving you on the cold sheets of your room.

Zed was your sun. The warmth only a fireplace and a good hot chocolate could provide.

He was a breath of fresh air, the only person capable of understanding your silence and yet twist your smile in one you used to wear when your childhood was worry free. The only one to make the rain a sight you would want to dance under.

Zed gave a sense to being alive. To being tangible.

He highlighted and showed off the side of you you weren't used to. But in some ways, he made the worst side of you emerge too.

The loneliness, the boredom, the fear of him disappearing into thin air. It was silly, but those thoughts were impossible to quiet down. Looking as if a worm was crawling under your skin, making you nauseous.

You counted down the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Everything that could make Zed unavailable for you to reach. Everything that made your world stop, your words stuck in your throat for you to save for hours later when his form would finally show up in your track of life.

You were becoming needy, greedy. And time couldn’t cure that.

But one thing could.

Zed.

You didn’t want to lose a second. Getting up from your bed, you desactivated your ghost-band.

Zed allowed you to sneak in his room, as long as his father wouldn’t experience a girlfriend jump scare at three a.m. He understood your struggle to stay alone, and the ghost need to follow people around and be a witness of others’s life.

So you took the habit, some nights, like this one, to turn off your ghost-band. The vibration made your skin disappear along with the electric bracelet that mimicked your electromagnetic field.

You started walking all the way to his house. Short cutting everything in your path by going through walls, field, fence.

And eventually, your journey took you to his room door, easing your nerves the further your cells merged with the wooden door to let you imagine a scent you couldn't experience again for the time being.

His form was still in the bed you knew a bit too well. Sleeping to the side, facing one of the wall, you took a step closer just to see his face. To hear his breathing, and remember how childish you've became.

Yet, it was mainly to remind you of how much you loved him. Even if everything you could encounter always was a reminder by existing and standing in your everyday life.

You let a few seconds flew by, admiring his peaceful form before shaking your head to gain back some sanity.

Your fingers acted their usual code on your ghost-band, bringing you back to the side where you could live, touch and love.

Silently, you pulled back his desk chair and found one of your book in his drawer.

It was one of the many things he did for you, storing a few books you liked in his room in case you needed something to distract yourself while being here. Or maybe just to have a little bit more of you with him.

Plus, you were sure you could find your favorite snack in the drawer just below.

It made you smile. And so, you opened the book, planning to drown in the pages and wait until morning to greet him. Or maybe just disappear before the sun would rise. Depends on how shameful you would feel in a few hours.

However, it took only a few chapters before you heard the sheets being moved. Brushing in that specific way only a half asleep body could provide.

Followed by a loud inhale from a young zombie coming to his senses.

You somehow wondered if zombies did have a sixth sense that made them notice when people stayed close for too long.

Or if it was just Zed boyfriend's instincts screaming in his dreams.

He sat down, his eyes looking for you in his chair. He didn't put much thought into it, doing it as a habit. As if he was expecting you.

"You're here." His groggy voice stated and you could discern the birth of a smile in the rythm silently echoing down his throat.

"Hi." A chuckle purred on your tongue.

Even with his body not fully listening to him, Zed came to you. Leaning in, his hand resting on the top rail of the chair, he kissed your hair.

"Hi my night princess."

The moon's rays spilled over his exposed, bare, pale skin. Tracing every countours, carving every muscles in silver tones and shadows. You haven't noticed the absence of a shirt before seeing him up close.

It took you a blink of your eyelashes to pretend his bare chest wasn't the most interesting thing right now.

"You didn't have to get out of bed."

"Are you kidding me ?" You could sense the need to fall right back asleep in the boy's voice, yet, his eyes desperately searched yours. "Who wouldn't get up for his lover."

"A guy who wants a decent night sleep." You smiled at his light hearted amusement, almost breaking a giggle at every last words and every drunk sleepy love eye contact.

"You know what I need ?" You waited for him to continue his sentence with a shake of your head. "You cuddling with me."

He kissed your temple with that same tenderness you experienced time and time again. His fingers slipped through yours and he pulled you towards him, encouraging your body to leave the chair and follow him.

At least that what you thought.

As soon as your legs stood your self up, Zed slightly crouched to draw his hands behind your upper legs, lifting your body onto his.

His sudden speed surprised you, pulling a squeal out of your lungs and a laugh out of his, followed by a shushing kiss.

Your arms swiftly seeked refuge and balance around his neck, your legs following the motion when they wrapped around his waist.

When he pulled away, you kissed him again. Eager to never stop, to stay glued to him like you were right now.

Your action earned a giggle vibrating against your soft lips.

He did as he said, partially letting go of you once he softly dropped you down on his bed.

You both found the perfect postion to sleep in one another arms. Legs intertwined, your face hidden away in the crook of his neck, your voice whispered up.

"I am sorry, for disturbing you."

Zed pulled his face slightly away, enough to fully see your face trying to escape the moonlight.

"Did I do something that made you think you needed to apologize ?"

"No, no ! Of course not... I just..."

You felt guilty. He knew it. Everytime you had the want, the need to see him. You felt guilty. You felt like you should losen the reins, not think so much. But you couldn't help it.

His brown eyes softened, feeling you spiraling by yourself.

"You know I gave you permission to come when you want right ?" He tried.

You nodded, still feeling down.

"And you also know that, by coming, you're offering me a free night with my lovely, precious girlfriend."

The pitch in Zed's voice changed, shifting into tease and amused flirt. His arms squeezed you against him and you now couldn't help yourself but smile shyly under his gaze.

"I love you." He hushed in that honey, sincere voice.

"I love you." Your words quickly followed his.

His lips kissed your face again, aiming for your forehead.

"Why don't you try to fall asleep with me ? You already dozed off a few times when we were together."

You felt your face grow warmer, imaginary fire igniting all of your senses.

Of course you had experienced a few naps in the care of his hold, finding that sweet relief of resting for the first time.

But it didn't happen because of the unwavering love of your lover and his dedication for your happiness. Even if you would have loved to.

It happened after Zed's skin searched for yours. His lips pleading his case, asking, begging to devour every angle every part of you.

It happened the nights you had to cover your mouth, and the nights he covered it for you. The nights you merged into one, and the nights he cared the most.

You couldn't even contain your shyness anymore, thoughts and past touches roaming over your body like unforgettable promises.

"Y-Yeah I know but..."

His eyes focused on yours, ready to hear anything you had to say, to understand your sudden shyness. Which was cute to him.

"It happened after we..." You trailed off.

Realisation struck him, opening his eyes wider and coloring his cheeks pink. Against you, he felt your hands fidgeting and the control you tried to keep on your feet to not move them around.

Zed was at a loss for words for a few seconds, he hadn't expected the conversation to aim this way nor did he anticipate your embarrassment. Even if he knew how much redder you could become when thinking about him and you like that.

"You're right."

He first thought about brushing it off, leaving room for you to get confortable again. But when your eyes met his, he felt like you just blasted his heart and stomach, snatching all the air from his lungs.

He recognized the way your pupils dilated with every passing beats, the way your eyes started to water to appear brighter.

He recognized the desire swirling in your eyes. The desire the memories brought you.

He knew you well enough to acknowledge the fact you would never ask him for this kind of things, only looking at him with puppy eyes the same way they would when food's involved.

Zed felt his whole body waking up, sleep and whatever he had to do tomorrow long forgotten.

He slightly stood up, leaning on his elbow to look at you from centimeters above.

"Do you need to let off a little steam ?"

His voice quietly asked you, his fingers brushing your cheek tenderly, smoothing your hair.

The thought of him was deep rooted into your body now. Inconceivable to get it, him, out.

You bit your lips in a thin line. It was in those moments you didn't know what to do anymore, love and yearning consuming you.

You knew what was coming, the touches, the words that would escape the zombie mouth, the way he was going to make you feel. You anticipated it all.

Even the eyes now looking at you for your green light, starting to crave you. It was your doing, it was your need bleeding under his skin.

"Do you ?" He asked again, knowing the state you were putting yourself through because of your adoration for him.

Your voice came out quiet, barely audible if he wasn't paying that much attention to you. You couldn't talk much louder, your throat already squeezing itself.

"Y-Yes..."

"Sure ?"

Even if you couldn't, he wanted one more validation from you, a word, a noise, a gesture.

You nodded. His heart exploded.

He kissed you four times, your forehead, both your cheeks, then your lips. The last one almost suffocating him and wiping his mission from his mind when you wrapped your arms around his neck. Making your kiss last, deepening it.

He pulled away from your mouth, much to your dismay and hold on him.

His stare asked you one last time, with one flicker between your eyes.

Your trembling legs, shaken by the goosebumps running down your spine answered for you.

And before you knew it, trails of kisses were left on your neck, on top of your chest before his face disappeared under the blanket.

A gasp escaped you.

Your clothes rolled down your legs.