For fox sake

Not the same apartment, of course. That would be... completely crazy. No, he was just in the unit directly across the hall from yours. Oh, and you both had keys to each other's places, so you could come and go as you pleased.

Okay, so maybe you've had a bit of a crush on Steve Harrington since high school -- you were a band dork and you'd watch doe-eyed as he jogged up and down the basketball court, sweating and panting, shoving other guys out of the way. There was even one time you had your lips pressed to the mouthpiece of your baritone, ready to take up the next part of the song, but his tiny little shorts rode up so high that you blew way too early and got an earful from your band director afterwards.

It happens to lots of people, don't make a big deal about it.

You knew, though, that he'd never be interested in you romantically though -- what did you have to offer King Steven Harrington of Hawkins, Indiana? So you settled for the next best thing -- being the best goddamn friend you could possibly be. To everyone in the group, really, but particularly to Steve.

You were there by his side when he was tortured by Russians, puking in a toilet bowl after your truth serum wore off and you told him you loved him. He'd said it back...he'd said it right back to you, and your stomach had lurched, and just before you felt like you might dive in for a kiss (it was the perfect moment), he had crushed you with the words, "You're the best friend I've ever had. Like, in my entire life. I love you."

You were there when he got to have his big eureka moment in front of the group. Something about a magic bean, you can't remember the exact wording he'd used because the sweater he wore that day hugged his arms and chest in such a tantalizing way, and how when he slid his fingers up the flashlight with that slinky it had made you sweat. You opted for giving him a noogie and telling him how proud you were of him. He'd blushed.

And you were there when you'd almost lost him, and it was one of the worst days of your life -- watching helplessly as his hand slipped out of yours and he rolled to the edge of the crashing radio tower, hazel eyes scared and locked onto yours. You wanted to squeeze yours shut, to not watch the love of your life and very best friend fall 500 feet to his death, but thank God for Jonathan Byers and his cat-like reflexes.

You'd kissed Jonathan on the cheek after that, and swore he'd never tell a soul. He'd smirked, knowingly.

In fact, probably the last person to know your true feelings for Steve, was Steve. But you were okay with that...mostly. Because what you didn't start up, you couldn't lose.

Still, you stuck to each other like glue after that night, mutually agreeing that space and time apart was for the birds. He wasn't going to school with you, but he just wanted to be close to hear about it and go through it with you. He still worked in Hawkins at the high school as a coach and sex ed teacher, funnily enough.

And he still dated. Like, a lot. It started shortly after you both moved here, he'd take a different girl out every weekend (sometimes multiple). That...okay, that kinda sucked, but you put on your big girl panties and decided if you couldn't be with him, you could at least tag along to clubs and dances with him and see if you could find someone for yourself. Steve was always more than happy to be your wingman (even though he was really, really terrible at it).

Once he told a guy you had had your eye on all night the story of why you had to switch from tuba to baritone in high school. You'd tripped on the turf during a march and broken your ankle, and around the time Steve started vividly describing how your bone twisted in the opposite direction it was supposed to go, the guy turned green and left.

Steve acted like he'd felt badly after, but then proceeded to explain why that guy had been all wrong for you. He did that a lot. Complained and nagged about any guys you brought home, while taking out some of the most vapid, ridiculous women. But you never said a word...because he was your best friend, and you wanted him to be happy.

This Saturday night, years later, you're sitting on your armchair with a plush blanket and a bit of crocheting you've been working on, some reality dating show on in the background and a steaming mug of coffee cooling on the side table.

The key turns in the door around 9 PM, and normally you wouldn't respond much at all, except that Steve was supposed to be on his date for a few more hours at least.

Maybe he needs something from over here, you thought. Maybe he's already got her in his apartment.

He walks in, tie loosened and the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone. The sleeves are rolled up, and he's got his jacket slung over his shoulders, which are slumped in defeat.

Well, that's not right.

You push up off the chair and toss your fluffy accoutrements down into it, crossing the room with a pinched brow.

"Hey, what's up? Bad date?" You immediately start pulling two of his beers from the fridge and hand one over.

He twists off the cap, then you hand him the other one, too. He gives a small, knowing smile, twisting it off for you, and handing it back.

"Try no date. She stood me up."

You scoff in disgust. "What a...cunt."

He nearly spits his beer across the kitchen, a bit of it dribbling down his chin. His eyes are wide with shock at your foul language, but you just shrug and take a swig of your own drink.

"Well, that's...sure, that's one way to put it. I dunno, maybe something came up. You never know." He shrugs, swiping his chin with his sleeved forearm.

"You give her too much credit, Steve. I actually have a couple of classes with Vivian, y'know. I've seen how..."

"...Cunt-y?"

"Yes! How cunt-y she can be. You dodged a bullet, I'd say."

He still looks away, dejected. You squeeze his arm reassuringly, and he smiles at you. It's sad, though.

"C'mon, let's watch bad TV. You can tell me about it."

As you both plop down onto the couch with a groan, Steve laments about his love life. How he just can't seem to find a connection with any of these girls, no matter how hard he's trying.

"And you know I'm trying." He grumbles, taking a deep slug of his beer.

"I do. It's very loud and very annoying when you try. Especially when you try one thing in particular -- I haven't quite figured out what it is yet, but it's deafening when you try that one." You glower, taking your hair out of your scrunchie and fluffing it out over your shoulders.

Steve blushes, suddenly hit with a waft of your strawberry-scented shampoo that he loves so much he gets you a bottle every Christmas.

"Sorry. I'm still workshopping that one."

"I mean, sounds like it's working just fine." You giggle, heat pooling low in your belly.

"It's just...no one wants to stick around. After, you know. It's like no one wants to hitch themselves to a loser like me. I don't know."

"Hey..." You whisper, suddenly alerted to the shift in tone. He looks away, intentionally avoiding your eyes.

You grip his chin with your thumb and forefinger and turn his face to you.

"Hey, dipshit. That isn't true. Someone is gonna wanna -- hitch themselves to you. You're good, Steve Harrington. You're a good guy. A great guy. The best..."

You feel your throat tightening up around your words and they're choked off. Steve's eyes grow glassy too, and suddenly you're breaking your hand away from him and sitting back to nurse your beer.

"Sorry, just -- you can't say stuff like that about you, y'know? You're talking about...my best friend, here."

"Is that all we are?" The question comes quietly from beside you, but it's deafening. You try to swallow, but your mouth has suddenly gone to cotton. He looks over at you, silently panicking. "Do you only love me like a friend? Say it. Please, tell me that so I can --"

"So you can what?"

"So I can move on from this. So I can stop pretending you'll walk over to my door one day, wanting to be with me. So I don't hope one day you'll say 'love you' like you always do, but you'll mean it...another way."

You set your beer gently down on the coffee table with a soft clink and throw your leg over Steve's, straddling his lap on the couch. Gently, you pry the bottle from his hands, guzzle the rest of it down, and toss it to the other end of the couch.

With delicate fingers you undo his tie (one you helped teach him to tie himself) and toss it to the floor. Then, you deftly undo three more buttons of his shirt before finally flicking your eyes to his. They're molten, swallowed up by his pupils; his nostrils are flared and lips slightly parted.

"Is this...okay?" You ask sheepishly.

"Are you kidding?" He nips out, pulling you down to his face by the back of your neck and crashing his lips into yours. The kiss is desperate and urgent, hungry and longing. Years and years of seemingly unrequited yearning on both sides, two idiots in love with each other and too oblivious to do anything about it.

"Steve --" you sigh between broken breaths as he presses warm, open kisses down your jaw and throat.

His fingers are digging into the meat of your hips, dimpling the flesh and deliciously stinging ever-so-slightly.

"Are you gonna take care of me?" He asks against your skin, not moving his lips away from performing his ministrations against your shoulders.

You know he isn't just asking if you're about to make him cum. Which, maybe you will. But no, the raw edge to Steve's voice tells you that he's asking if you'll be the one to take care of what he needs most -- a partner. To be the one that finally wants him back, just as he is.

"I've got you. I have you. Always have."

You thread your fingers through his hair and grind your hips down over his. Your cotton sleep pants do very little to buffer the friction of his khaki-clad cock, and you unleash a sharp, stuttered gasp at the contact.

"Oh, God, yes..." Steve growls, pinning your hips down and thrusting up between your folds, your pants so slick with arousal that you can actually see the outline of your lips through the fabric.

Your eyes flutter closed as Steve frantically thrums himself against you, his big hands roaming the expanse of your back and somehow managing to sneakily slip underneath and tug your oversized shirt over your head.

He pulls one of your nipples into his mouth, rolling the pebbled flesh between his pursed lips and gently nipping and licking at the soft mounds of flesh. Suddenly you're stricken with a mortifying realization that you're about to finish on his trousers. You weakly try to pull your pelvis away, but he brings you down harder over the rigid outline of his cock and you yelp.

"Steve, I'm gonna cum..." You whine.

"Mm-hm." He approves, kneading your other breast in his hand while he sucks a hickey onto the other, claiming you as his own.

"Oh, fuck!" You cry out as your hips falter and slide against him shakily, riding out the waves of your crashing orgasm.

You can feel how sticky and wet you've made his pants, a crazy amount compared to your usual dalliances. But this was Steve, so...

"God, s-sorry. I really...made a mess, here."

"Not just you, sweetheart." He pants, kissing the inside of your wrist and smirking up at you.

You glance down and back up in disbelief, realizing that just grinding on top of him had made him shoot a load into his own slacks.

"Wha -- I'm -- Well, to be honest, I'm flattered." You sputter out, both of you getting lost in a fit of giggles.

"You should be. You're stunning when you're riding my lap, I'd love to see it again sometime..."

You suddenly feel overcome with emotion again, because Jesus, how could you have both wasted all this time?

"Please, Steve. Anytime. You know where to find me."

"I can show you that thing...that I've been workshopping, you know?"

You grin from ear to ear, nodding as you lean down and kiss him. It's slower and deeper this time, like you want to taste and be tasted.

"Goddamnit dude, could you watch where you're going next time?" You groan as you jack the WSQK van up high enough to work on the decimated tire. Steve rolled his eyes behind you, his good hand on his cocked hip and his other arm tucked neatly in its sling. He 'd broken it horsing around with Dustin about a week and a half ago.

When he slammed into that pothole on Mirkwood just a few minutes earlier, and you both heard and felt the tell-tale signs of a blown out tire, he immediately cringed in his seat and gave you a painfully awkward, apologetic smile.

You would have to be the one to change it, and luckily you knew how. But you still weren't happy about having to do it at 11:30 at night.

"It's pitch black out here, babe. How was I supposed to see that tiny hole?"

"Tiny?! Steve it was at least a foot and a half wide. It blew our tire."

"For the last time, I'm sorry. For what it's worth, you're doing a great job."

You scoff as you start loosening lug nuts one by one. "Gee, thanks."

"No, really. The view from here is great."

You peek over your shoulder and sure enough his eyes are raking over you, on your knees with your back slightly arched, ass on full display in your little cut-off shorts. He chews his lower lip, trying to show some modicum of self-restraint.

"You are such a guy. Girl can't even change a tire without -- oh, hey!" You squeal as a huge, rough hand smacks your denim-clad ass cheek. "What was that for, asshole??"

"Being so mean, I'm a broken man, baby. Can you be a little sweeter, please?" He kneads the plush skin, imploring you to play along. You glance down either end of the road, the night swallowing everything and no lights on the horizon.

"We're alone baby, I'll be quick. You don't even have to stop what you're doing, okay? Can I just -- can you--?" He tugs at the waistband of your shorts pitifully, unable to rip them off the way he usually would (with your go ahead, of course).

You sigh and roll your eyes, feigning absolute inconvenience as you shimmy your shorts off, leaving you in just your thin cotton underwear.

"Fine. Now what are you --"

He lays on his back in roughly the area directly below where your cunt would be if you were to resume your work on the tire. You suck your teeth, smiling down at him, him smiling right back up at you.

"C'mon, Mama. Sit down, get to work. I've got my own stuff I need to get to."

You step over his head and stand directly above him, sneakered feet on either side of his lovely, luscious mop of hair, and as you sink back down to your knees you feel his free hand reverently grip the back of your thigh and guide you straight onto his waiting lips.

He kisses you chastely through the fabric, grinning at the already damp spot forming there. He licks the edge where the lace meets your skin and takes in your heady scent.

"God, you're so pretty baby. Can you tell me what you're doing up there?" He calls to you, slightly muffled by your thighs around his ears.

You softly sigh, but manage to compose yourself enough to tell him how you're just loosening the rest of the lug nuts to take the busted tire off. 3 to go.

"Mm, so smart. You know just how to work those lug nuts, don't you?"

"Oh. My God." You look down at him between your legs, and he's trying to look innocent, but his eyes are glittering wildly. "We're not doing this."

"Okay, okay. I won't -- I'll pull it back, I'm sorry. C'mere." He urges you back down to his face and licks across the seam of your cunt with the point of his tongue, making the fabric of your underwear more slick and molded to your body.

Then you feel him slide your panties to the side, spreading your folds and blowing a cool puff of air on your glistening center.

"So, so pretty." He mutters to himself, sliding the back of his middle finger through your slit and making your breath hitch every time one of his knuckles catches at your sensitive spots.

"Steve, can you --" You whine, pressing yourself further into his hand to chase the sensation.

"Sure baby. Anything for you." He plunges his digit into your needy hole, curling it upward to thrust against the little spongy wall that has you gritting your teeth and bucking forward, grinding your clit against his perfect, straight nose.

He tilts his chin up, licking a pattern onto your swollen, sensitive clit that feels intentional. Your brow furrows, wondering what exactly it is he's doing. Steve eats you out all the time, knows exactly how to suck and lap at your pussy to have you coming undone on his mouth in minutes. This is...different.

It pulls you far enough out of your haze that you look down at him again inquisitively.

"What are you doing, baby?"

You'd been rummaging through your closet for nearly twenty minutes, glaring hard enough would magically produce an outfit.

Across your bed lay the evidence of your crisis. Pink cardigans. Floral skirts. Graphic tees with cute characters. Soft cream sweaters. Five different hairclips.

You sighed dramatically.

Meanwhile, on the other side of New York, Joe and the band were already at the venue running through soundcheck, completely unaware that his girlfriend was currently losing a battle against her wardrobe.

Ponkan sat on the bed, lazily watching another cardigan land beside him. "Oh, Ponkan..." You dropped onto your knees in front of the closet. "I don't want to stand out."

The orange cat blinked. "I'm going to my boyfriend's concert." yoou held up a pink cardigan with little embroidered daisies. "...aaand my clothes make me look like I should live in a cottage, bake pies, and befriend woodland creatures."

Ponkan yawned. "I mean, look at this!" You grabbed another floral blouse. "I look like I hide in forests and help lost children find their way home."

Ponkan looked thoroughly unconcerned. You flopped backward onto the carpet with a groan. "What do people even wear to concerts that completely match the vibe?"

The ceiling, unfortunately, had no answer an idea suddenly crossed your mind. You reached for your phone. Your barista answered on the third ring. Hey! Everything okay?"

"Can I borrow your clothes?"

Silence followed, "...what?"

"I'm serious."

"What happened to your clothes?"

"My closet isn't... concert."

She laughed. "What does that even mean?"

"It means I'm going to Joe's show tonight and every outfit I own looks like I'm about to host a tea party for rabbits." That earned an even louder laugh.

"Give me thirty minutes."

True to her word, she knocked on your apartment door just before eight-thirty, carrying a tote bag overflowing with clothes. Twenty minutes later...

"...woooa."

You stared at yourself in the mirror.

Instead of your usual cardigan and long floral skirt, you wore a simple black top tucked into a delicate white lace skirt. A worn leather jacket rested comfortably over your shoulders, and a pair of black boots replaced your usual MJs. Still…you couldn't resist weaving tiny red lace ribbons through the boot laces.

Your barista folded her arms, grinning proudly from the couch. "I almost didn't recognize you."

You looked down at yourself. "...Do I look okay?"

"You look beautiful." She tilted her head. "You somehow managed to make a leather jacket look adorable."

"I think that's impossible."

"I thought so too."

You laughed, smoothing the sleeves nervously. "What time is it?"

She checked her phone. "Eight forty-four."

Your eyes widened. "Oh, shoot. I have to go!" You scrambled for your bag, nearly tripping over Ponkan in the process. You hurried over to hug your friend (yes your barista is also your closest friend) tightly. "Thank you, seriously."

"Have fun."

"I'll try."

You crouched one last time to kiss Ponkan between the ears. "Be good for Auntie." Ponkan answered with a tiny meow. "And don't let him guilt you into extra treats."

Your barista gasped dramatically. "I would never. Now go, your boyfriend is waiting."

With one last glance in the elevator reflection mirror, you took a deep breath. "Please let me blend in."

By the time you arrived, the venue was already buzzing with excitement. People lined up shoulder to shoulder, laughter and chatter blending with the muffled bass vibrating through the walls. Every few seconds, someone squealed after spotting a crew member or catching a glimpse of the stage through an opening curtain.

You pulled out your phone.

you: i'm here!! good luck, baby 🩷

Not even ten seconds later, your phone buzzed.

joe: Already told security to bring you backstage.

You smiled to yourself before quickly typing back.

you: Nooo. I want the full experience.

A few seconds of silence.

joe: ...you're sure? you: Very. joe: Okay. Stay where I can see you. Be safe.

You tucked your phone away, a grin spreading across your face. Being backstage would've been amazing but tonight, you wanted to experience this the way everyone else did.

You wanted to scream until your throat hurt. You wanted to jump with strangers. You wanted to watch your boyfriend become someone entirely different beneath stage lights.

The venue suddenly went dark. A chorus of screams erupted around you. The lights exploded across the stage. Then they walked out. The band was greeted by another deafening wave of cheers, and somewhere among all that noise, your heart swelled with pride.

Joe adjusted the strap of his guitar, flashed an easy smile toward the crowd, and stepped up to the microphone like he'd done it a thousand times before.

A few songs in, you noticed something. Joe kept glancing toward the wings of the stage even side. You couldn't help but giggle. He's looking for me. Little did he know...you were standing directly in front of him.

The opening notes of Fool echoed through the venue. The crowd erupted immediately. You clapped excitedly, already mouthing every lyric before Joe even reached the microphone.

Halfway through the song, he slipped effortlessly into the performance you'd seen only through videos online. He leaned into the microphone stand, swaying with the rhythm, fingers dancing across the guitar strings.

Your jaw nearly hit the floor. "...God." You laughed to yourself. My boyfriend is ridiculously attractive.

Joe sang, "Call me your, look into my eyes..."

His gaze drifted across the sea of faces, in every row.  A girl near the barricade was singing every single lyric back to him with the biggest smile he'd ever seen.

He smiled automatically. She's having fun. good. That's what concerts were supposed to feel like. Then another flash of white light swept across the audience.

Joe looked again—black leather jacket, white lace skirt, a bracelet with pink charms Wait, his eyebrows lifted. Holy shit.That's my girlfriend. he screamed in his mind.

You noticed the exact moment recognition crossed his face. His eyes widened just enough to make you laugh. Trying not to distract him too much, you simply gave him a tiny wave.

Then, with both hands around your mouth, you mouthed "you're doing great."

Joe bit back a smile that reached his eyes. The fans around you erupted into screams.

"Oh my God!"

"He smiled at this side!"

"He looked over here!"

Meanwhile, Joe was trying very hard to remember he still had another verse to sing.

As the show continued, whatever nervousness you'd felt about your outfit slowly melted away. Soon you weren't thinking about anything or whether you looked out of place.

You were dancing. Jumping with strangers. Singing every lyric until your voice grew hoarse, doing everything you'd expected.. Laughing whenever Joe wandered over to your side of the stage. Every time he did, the fans around you screamed louder. By the encore, you were breathless, your cheeks aching from smiling so much.

The venue slowly emptied, the echo of cheers fading into distant conversations as crew members began rolling cables and carrying equipment offstage.

A security guard spotted you near the barricade. "Miss? Mr. Keery asked me to bring you backstage."

You followed him through the maze of hallways, your heart still racing from the concert. The moment you stepped behind the curtain, you barely had time to look around before someone called your name.

"There's my girl."

Joe was already making his way toward you. The second he reached you, he wrapped both arms around your waist and lifted you clean off the ground.

You laughed, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck. "Joe!"

"I've been looking for you."

"You literally knew where I was."

"I know."

"You looked so confused tho." You couldn't stop laughing.

When he finally set you down, you didn't even care that his shirt was damp with sweat from the performance. "Oh my God," you said, cupping his face. "Joe, baby... you were incredible."

Your eyes practically sparkled. "The band sounded amazing. The crowd was insane. Everyone was singing along and....and when you played Fool..." You dramatically fanned yourself. "I get it now."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "Get what?"

"You looked... reallyreallyreally hot." He threw his head back laughing yet blushing. "So don't let it get to your head."

"No promises."

You stood on your tiptoes to kiss him anyway. "I’m so proud of you."

His smile softened immediately. "Thanks, honey."

"Oh! I almost forgot." You hurriedly opened your little shoulder bag, digging through receipts, lip balm, tissues, and what looked suspiciously like three pieces of confetti. "Hold on..." Joe watched, amused.

"There were supposed to be six."

"Six?"

"Mhm."

You finally pulled out one slightly crumpled red rose. You stared at it. "there were definitely six before the encore."

Joe looked at the lonely flower before looking back at you. "What happened?"

"I got excited."

"You..."

"I may have accidentally thrown some."

"........."

"And maybe gave one to the girl next to me because she cried during Chateau."

"And I genuinely don't know where the others went." Joe couldn't help it, laughed so hard he had to wipe tears from the corners of his eyes. "So..." you said sheepishly, holding out the single rose. "Congratulations."

He accepted it as if it were the most expensive bouquet in the world. "I love it."

"You do?"

"I do."

Then, before you could say another word, he leaned down and kissed you. Long enough that when he pulled away, you forgot what you were embarrassed about in the first place.

"Honey..." He tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "Not gonna lie, I almost didn't recognize you tonight."

Your heart dropped just a little. "Oh."

"I mean..." He smiled softly. "You looked hot no...beautiful."

"...but?"

"But you don't have to do that."

You looked down at the leather jacket. "I just i wanted to fit in." You shrugged.

Joe's entire expression melted he reached for both of your hands. His thumbs brushed gently over your knuckles. "You could've shown up wearing your pink cardigan with little strawberries on it."

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. "You remember that one?"

"I remember all of them." he chuckled. "You could've worn your floral skirt and your ridiculous hairclips collection."

"I love the hairclips collection." You laughed quietly.

Joe stepped closer. "You know what I saw tonight?"

"What?"

"The most beautiful girl in the entire venue."

You felt your cheeks warm. "and she just happened to be wearing a leather jacket." His smile grew gentler. "I didn't fall in love with cardigans or any leather jackets." he squeezed your hands. "I fell in love with the girl wearing them." Your eyes watered almost instantly. "So don't ever think you have to become someone else just because you're standing beside me." His forehead rested against yours. "You fit into my life because you're you."

A tear escaped before you could stop it. "you're gonna make me cry."

He smiled, brushing away the tear with his thumb. He suddenly reached into the pocket of his jeans. "I almost forgot."

He opened his hand, resting in his palm was your tiny apple-shaped hair clip.

You gasped. "I've been looking for that!"

Joe carefully clipped it back into your hair. "There."

"You stole it."

"I borrowed it." He grinned shamelessly. "It's my lucky charm now."

"You've had it this whole time?"

"Every show, sweetheart. I figured..." he rubbed the back of his neck. "if a little piece of you was with me, maybe I'd be less nervous."

You stared at him for a long moment. "I think you're the cutest person I've ever met."

His ears turned pink. "I've never been more embarrassed."

You laughed so hard you had to hide your face in his shoulder. Wrapping your arms around him again, you whispered against his neck, "I'll wear my pink cardigans or even those tees to every show from now on."

Joe smiled into your hair. "Good." He kissed the top of your head. "because that's my favorite version of you."

"And the leather jacket?" you raised your brow.

"I like that one too." He shrugged. "I love you more when you are you, and I know I'm going to love all versions of you I haven't met yet."

issy talks: uhm...joe, i have an idea for your new merch 🫶🏼🍎

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my emoji anon/s #🍪 anon

Sometimes it comes after a long life, peacefully, at home, surrounded by the people who love you most. Sometimes it's sudden. Sometimes it's cruel. Sometimes it arrives so slowly you have time to make peace with it. Other times it steals that chance away entirely.

Some people spend fortunes trying to outrun it. Chasing miracle drugs, freezing themselves in the hope science might one day wake them up again, searching for ways to reverse the very thing so many others pray they’ll live long enough to experience.

Wrinkles.

Grey hair.

Laugh lines etched beside smiling eyes.

Proof of a life fully lived.

Funny, really. Some people would give everything to look younger. Others would give everything just to grow old. But at the end of the day it’s all the same; our time is limited. It's an inescapable, heart-crushing fact. One you have far too much experience of for someone your age. 

Your next comment, however, is more opinion than inescapable fact, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone who disagrees—who isn't an interdimensional monster anyway.

And it’s that The Upside Down really fucking sucks. 

Really, really fucking sucks. 

You’d thought, last summer, that you’d seen the last of it. That it, and Vecna, and all the horrible things that called it home, had finally taken their last victim. It was over. O. V. E. R. Over. 

That finally, after everything you’d all been through—and were still going through, one hospital trip was proof of that–after months spent trying to piece yourselves back together, it was finally over. You really needed it to be over but–

Oh boy, were you all so dead wrong.

So dead wrong, in fact, that it would have been embarrassing, had you not all been so preoccupied with being terrified. Terrified for yourselves. For your families. Max. Each other. You’re not sure you could curate a list long enough, so let’s just say you were all too terrified to be embarrassed by how monumentally wrong you all were. 

The thought that scared you most was that the Upside Down had this terrible habit of taking things from people. More specifically, your people. Sometimes it was time. Sometimes it was pieces of yourself, left behind after surviving things nobody should even have to hear, let alone survive.

And sometimes, sometimes it was your people.

After all, the last time you’d been here, Eddie Munson had been by your side. 

If you let yourself, which you rarely did, unless alone and unable to sleep, you could still see him. Leaning against the graffiti-covered wall of Hawkins High with that stupid cheeky grin on his face. Shoving your shoulder with his own. Making some joke at Steve's expense because apparently even the end of the world wasn’t enough to stop him from running his mouth.

“Hell, if Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson can be in the same room as Steve ‘The King’ Harrington, shit must really be bad, huh? 

And even though he’d joked, shit really was bad. 

Worse than any of you had imagined.

Eddie, like everyone else who woke up that day, believed it was yet another day he’d see the end of. He wasn’t naive—none of you were. You couldn't afford to be. He knew, just as well as the rest of you, even though he was new to everything happening, how bad it was. How categorically, monumentally, utterly shit it was.

But knowing you're in danger and believing today is the day you die are two very different things.

It never feels like it'll be you.

You're more likely to win the lottery. More likely to be struck by lightning. More likely to wake up tomorrow exactly as you always have.

Until one day... you don't.

He still believed. Choose to–despite the odds–hope.  

Even standing in an alternate dimension. Even with Vecna looming over all of you. Even with monsters lurking in the shadows and the end of the world breathing down your necks, he had still found a reason to believe–to joke. 

To believe in a tomorrow. 

Ninety-nine percent of people—not an accurate statistic, admittedly, but probably not far off—start their day without ever considering it might be their last. They leave home, maybe throw a goodbye, a quick and fleeting kiss to their loved one–or maybe, they leave without a word. Why wouldn’t they? They don’t know this could be their last conversation.  

People make plans. Promises. They say I'll be right back and have no reason to think that they’re lying. 

After all, if you knew the date, the minute that will be your last, would you act differently? Of course. 

You’d never let an argument run on, or a grudge take hold; you’d let a hug last a little longer, tell all the people who know you love them that you do, one more time–even tell the ones who don’t know. 

You’d say all the things you keep putting off for tomorrow. 

But you don't.

Because there's always a tomorrow. 

Until there isn't.

So they leave, and sometimes they never come back.

The worst part was that Eddie had probably said goodbye to people that morning without realising it truly was goodbye. His uncle. His friends. Dustin. He'd probably made plans. Promised to see someone later. Told somebody he'd catch them tomorrow. And meant every word. 

He’d probably gone to sleep the night before thinking he had years left. 

Standing in Nancy Wheeler's living room–well, the upside down version of it—surrounded by the people you loved most in the world, you couldn't stop wondering which of them would be next. Maybe that’s why your eyes couldn't stop themselves from finding him every few seconds. 

Actually, scratch that, they would’ve found him anyway; they had a habit of that. You weren't sure you'd ever gone more than a minute in Steve Harrington's presence without looking his way. To check. For reassurance. To admire. That was your bad habit. 

Steve had another. 

Several, actually–like any of you. Yet, the worst one by miles was the way he seemed to think his life was worth less than everybody else's. The bruises scattered across his jaw and cheekbone were proof enough of that. The cut above his eyebrow was another. The fact that he'd spent the last ten minutes pretending his ribs weren't bothering him despite repeatedly reaching for them whenever he thought nobody was looking was yet another. 

Unfortunately for him, you were looking—intently. Which was why you caught the moment his attention drifted from Nancy's plan to the front door. Despite you all agreeing to stay put. Stay together. You knew he wanted to deviate from the plan and risk his life, in his mind, in exchange for all of yours. 

A demogorgon had followed you as soon as you all got through the gate and you’d escaped, but narrowly. Together, not alone. Robin was still sporting a cut along her arm from where she'd been grabbed before Steve had thrown himself between her and six inches of very sharp, bloody teeth. Owning himself a nice gash across his ribs. At this point, the group looked one strong gust of wind away from collapsing.

You knew that look. Had seen it far too many times. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his gaze kept flickering toward the door. The way he'd stopped paying attention to Nancy's plan several minutes ago because he'd already started forming one of his own. He was past considering his next move; he’d already made it. 

And yet despite all of this, or because of it, Steve took another step. Slow and careful–almost tiptoeing. As if you wouldn’t notice him leaving. As if you hadn’t spent the better part of the last few years tracking him unconsciously. As if he wasn't currently the source of at least seventy percent of your stress. Come on. 

The most heartbreaking part was that Steve would genuinely believe he was helping. Somewhere along the way he'd convinced himself that protecting everyone else meant doing it alone. 

Meanwhile, all that was running through your mind was Eddie.

About promises. About tomorrow. About all the people who'd genuinely believed they were coming back.

About all the things left unsaid. 

“Steve.”

It took him stopping mid-step, turning to look over his shoulder, for you to realise you’d spoken. The concern in his expression made the knot in your chest tighten—he looked at you like you were the one who needed protection. As if he hadn’t already decided that he was going to step out, alone, straight into whatever danger lurked in the dark.  

"Hey–" You cut him off. You couldn't bear to hear his explanation, his reassurances. The inevitable speech about being careful, staying put, how he'd only be gone for a minute and—you were done. Fed up. Completely over it. 

“Don’t.” you didn't need to say more: you knew what he was about to do, he knew what he was about to do and knew you knew. And yet his brow still furrowed, as if he genuinely didn't understand why you’d said it. 

The command hung between you and for half a second, something flickered across his face. Guilt, maybe. Regret, you hoped. But then he smiled. All soft and sweet and stupidly reassuring. 

"Honey, I'll be right back."

First thought? Bullshit.

Second? The words, even said in that tone of his that usually made you melt, hit like a punch. Because how could he know? Does he not think Bob thought the same? Eddie? 

"You don't know that."

Steve frowned immediately. "What?"

"You don't know that," you repeated, the words coming out steady and fast this time. "How could you? You don't even know what's out there."

"Hey—"

"No." You shook your head fiercely, already feeling your chest tighten. "Do you think Bob knew? Do you think Eddie did? Do you think anybody actually knows what they're walking into when they make that decision? Because if they did, if they actually knew the consequences, if they knew what it would cost and who it would hurt, don't you think they would've done things differently?"

The room had gone quiet around you, but you barely noticed. Your eyes never left Steve's. It was just you and him, and you were going to make him listen. 

"Nobody wakes up thinking today's the day. Nobody leaves believing they aren't coming back. That's the whole point." Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. "Eddie thought he was coming back. He had plans. He had people waiting for him. He thought there would be a tomorrow."

Something shifted in Steve's expression then, but it wasn't enough. Not when he was still standing there. Not when one fleeting look at him told you he'd already made up his mind. And it wasn’t to stay.

"We've seen what happens, Steve. We've lived it. We've buried people who all thought they had more time." Your throat tightened painfully. "And yet you're standing there acting like somehow it doesn't apply to you."

The accusation hung heavy between you.

"Like because it's you it'll be different, somehow. Like your life is the one exception to all the horrible things we've spent years watching happen." The laugh that escaped you was shaky and entirely humourless. "You don't get to make that promise."

Steve blinked. "I-"

"You don't get to stand there and tell me you'll be right back when you have absolutely no way of knowing that." Your voice dropped on the last few words. "Nobody does."

He opened his mouth but again you beat him to it, "You know that." Your voice sounds exactly how you feel. Tired, oh so painfully tired. 

"You know that," you repeated, shaking your head as your gaze finally dropped to the floor between you. "And you still say it."

You know you have an audience but to you, it's just Steve. As you practically beg him not to do this. To  himself. To them. You'd name anyone—say anything–if you thought it would stop him. 

"You say it and then just get to just walk away,” you can’t help the irritation that’s now creeping into your voice; your hand motioning with you, “and everybody else is just supposed to stand here and what? Believe you." And not wonder if that’s the last time they’ll see him like that: warm, breathing, alive. 

"It's reckless," you continued, your voice shaking despite every effort to control it. "It's selfish and it's stupid and it's—"

The word lodged itself in your throat.

You couldn't say it. Shouldn’t. You made a promise to yourself; but did life care about that? You force it past the ache sitting heavy in your chest, because saying it out loud would make it real. Would mean admitting just how much this affected you. How much he affected you.

But your heart was already saying it.

In every frantic beat. Every sleepless night. Every moment spent watching doors and waiting for him to walk back through them. So you forced the word out anyway. 

"It's heartbreaking."

If you were to describe Steve's expression after you said that, it'd probably be pretty similar to how you felt. Shattered. “Sweetheart—”

“No.”

You cut him off immediately because you knew exactly what was coming next. Once again the explanation, the reassurance only he believed–or at least, he wanted to. The promise that he understood but that he’d be careful. That he knew what he was doing and would he right back. But how many times could somebody promise they'd be careful before the promise stopped meaning anything? How many times could someone gamble with tomorrow before tomorrow finally ran out?

“You matter.” Years of frustration, fear and grief seemed to rise to the surface all at once, crashing into you hard, and then into him. Your hands landed against his chest as you stepped forward, the force of them making him rock back slightly. Had he not been so caught off guard, you knew he wouldn't have moved an inch; that only motivates you further.

“You matter too, Steve.” Your voice cracked.

Everyone in this room knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Steve would throw himself in front of any form of danger for them. Robin knew it. Nancy knew it. Hell, even Jonathan knew it.

Yet nobody had ever been able to convince him that he deserved the same kind of protection in return. That it was reciprocated—the care, the loyalty, the devotion. Everything Steve felt for the people he loved was reflected right back at him, whether he chose to see it or not. Hell, for you it was probably tripled.

Being in love with him and all.

“That pull you feel to protect us? To fight for us?” Your hands tightened against his shirt. “We feel it too.”

The words came out fierce. Immediate. You needed him to understand. Needed him to stop looking at himself like he was the expendable one. Your hands thudded against his chest once. Then again. And again.

Not at all hard enough to hurt him. Just hard enough to make your point. Hard enough that your own palms began to sting.

“You think you’re the only one who lies awake worrying? The only one who panics when somebody gets hurt? The only one who’d throw themselves in front of something if it meant everybody else got to go home?”

Before you could hit his chest again, his hands closed gently around your wrists. Not to stop you. Not to push you away. Just... To hold them?

Your throat tightened. “‘Cause you’re not.”

Steve's fingers loosened around your wrists, his thumbs absentmindedly brushing across your skin. His eyes hadn't left yours once and he’d gone completely still. He didn’t even seem to blink. Good. Maybe now he’d listen.

“Every. Single. Person. In this room would do exactly the same for you.” Your voice cracked again as you murmured under your breath. Your wrists flexed instinctively in his grasp, your body still wanting to physically make the point even though it was caged by him.

“And some of us would do even more.”

The words hung there. The only thing separating you now were two racing heartbeats and the fact neither of you seemed brave enough to say what had just become painfully obvious. You could actually feel his heartbeat beneath your palms, fast and uneven.

"Sweetheart."

The word was soft. Wrecked. And for one stupid, honestly naive, hopeful second—that you’d surely mock yourself for later–you thought you'd finally gotten through to him. Then something crashed outside.

The noise echoed through the house, loud enough to make everyone jump. Instinctively both of you looked toward the front door.

Your heart broke.

Because of the look Steve gave you.

It was so painfully Steve. Torn. Apologetic. Determined. He looked at you like he wished you hadn't made this so hard—like every word you'd said had found its mark, but hadn't been enough to change what he'd already decided because he had to do it. For whatever reason that remained unsaid he had to go. .

The conversation had affected him. You could see that. It had shaken him. Left him looking as devastated as you felt. It just hadn’t changed anything. Because of another fact you knew–Steve wasn’t doing this to hurt you. 

He wasn’t ignoring you, dismissing you, placating you. He genuinely believed this was how he kept everyone alive.

You couldn't do this again. Couldn't stand here and watch somebody you loved walk willingly toward danger while you stayed behind praying they'd come back. Couldn't spend months replaying a final conversation, wondering if one different sentence might've changed everything.

Not again.

Not Steve.

Before your brain had the chance to catch up with your heart, your hands slipped free from his grasp. They left his chest, lingering for only a fraction of a second against his wrists before they rose to cradle his face instead.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was long overdue. Maybe it was just pure desperation. Maybe—probably—it was all three.

You pulled him down and kissed him.

He didn’t move. 

For what felt like minutes–but was more accurately less than a second—he simply stared, frozen beneath your hands. 

Then he leaned in. Fully. 

Teeth knocking together. Your noses bumping. It wasn't smooth or practiced; it was a collision. A frantic, clumsy crash of relief, fear and years of buried feelings that neither of you had ever found the courage—or the timing—to say out loud.

You felt one of his hands slide up the side of your neck while the other settled against your jaw, holding you as though he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go. His fingers trembled beneath your ear, the tiny movement betraying him far more than his expression ever could.

It wasn’t cinematic, nor movie-esque in the slightest. In fact, the director would have called cut and probably pulled his hair out whilst screaming that it was all wrong. There was no slow-motion grace to it. No sudden hush of the world around you–expect you’re sure the others have gone quiet. 

There was only panic.

The kind of kiss that happened when tomorrow suddenly stopped feeling guaranteed.

You clung to him, your fingers digging into the warmth of his cheeks, pulling him impossibly closer as though proximity alone could keep him here. As though if you held him tightly enough, the Upside Down couldn't steal him from you too.

Steve made the smallest sound against your lips, something caught somewhere between a relieved laugh and a broken breath, and suddenly he was kissing you with every bit as much desperation as you were kissing him.

Years of almosts collapsed into seconds. Every glance that had lingered too long. Every brush of hands neither of you had acknowledged. Every moment that had been interrupted by monsters, bad timing or fear. It all found its way into this one kiss.

It was messy and uncoordinated, a frantic exchange of breath and heat in a place that felt cold and dead. In that moment, the plan, the monsters, the impossible odds waiting beyond the front door–all of it blurred into nothing. 

There was only this. 

There was only Steve. 

When he finally pulled back, it was only because breathing had become, rather unfortunately, unavoidable. Yet even then, he barely managed an inch, his forehead resting against yours while both of you fought to catch your breath. 

His eyes were blown wide, searching yours with a mixture of shock and an aching kind of tenderness. For the first time in years, Steve looked like he didn't have a single answer, his habitual controlled mask completely shattered.

"You can't do this," he whispered, his voice sounding like he’d been dragged through gravel. "You can't just... Honey."

The endearment should've comforted you. Instead, it sent your brain into a complete, and catastrophic free-fall.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

You'd just kissed Steve Harrington. Your best friend. You'd grabbed his face and kissed him without thinking, without asking, without giving him so much as half a second to process what was happening. 

What if he'd only kissed you back because he'd been too surprised not to? What if you'd just ruined everything? What if–

“I—I shouldn’t have done that,” you rushed out, the words tripping over one another in their desperation to escape. “I just panicked. I didn't—I mean, I did, obviously, but I wasn't thinking. I just... I don't know why I—”

“Hey.”

His voice cut straight through the spiral. Not sharply. Never sharply. Like he’d said it a hundred times—which he had— to calm you down from things considerably less catastrophic than accidentally confessing your feelings by kissing your best friend in the middle of the Upside Down. Actually… no. 

Now you say it out loud–in your head, in complete meltdown mode–you were pretty fucking sure this took first place. 

His thumbs brushed gently across your cheekbones, keeping you close even as every instinct screamed at you to bolt. He didn't tighten his grip. Didn't trap you. He just didn't let you run before you'd heard him out.

“Hey,” he repeated, quieter this time. “It’s okay.”

Your breath hitched. God, you wanted to cry. And scream. And run. Preferably all at once. 

“It’s not okay, Steve. I just kissed you.”

For a second, he simply looked at you. Then, to your utter bewilderment, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't even the sort of endearingly awkward smile someone wore when they were desperately trying not to make a situation worse.

If anything, it looked dangerously close to relieved. 

Which made absolutely no sense. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his smile growing by the smallest amount. “I noticed.”

Well... obviously. It was admittedly quite difficult to miss someone grabbing your face and kissing you—especially when that someone happened to be your best friend of several years.

Right. 

Brillant.

Excellent really. 

If you got really lucky there would be a gate nearby, that you could simply throw yourself into and save everybody the second-hand embarrassment. Granted, it was probably a little late for that, but optimism had gotten people through worse.

Your gaze darted anywhere but him, already preparing to launch yourself through that front door and become the biggest hypocrite in recorded history, when gentle fingers caught your chin. They didn't force you to move. They simply guided your face back towards his until your eyes met once more. 

Big mistake. Huge. 

Because he was smiling. The nerve. 

Not awkwardly in some failed but potentially sweet attempt to spare your feelings. Smiling. Softly. Warmly. Like you'd just handed him a gift he'd wanted for a very, very long time. It was, quite frankly, the sappiest smile you'd ever had the misfortune of witnessing.

God, he was beautiful.

Again, how unbelievably rude.

He just kept looking at you. Smiling all sweetly, all bashfully, all on that beautiful face of his. Like kissing him hadn't scared him half to death. Like it had almost made him... happy.

Your brain promptly gave up trying to understand any of it. “...Why are you smiling?”

That seemed to catch him off guard more than anything else that had happened in the last few minutes. He blinked once, but the smile never quite left his face.

“Because you kissed me?” He said as if it was the most obvious thing in the whole world and you were crazy to not know that. 

His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones again, grounding you in place even as your brain threatened to short-circuit once again. “You—” Your breath caught, your head spinning and no longer from the lack of air. “...what?”

Steve let out another quiet laugh, softer this time, disbelieving.

“Honey,” he murmured, shaking his head ever so slightly. “I've been thinking about you... a little—actually, a concerning amount—since way before this whole mess started.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. He watched your expression carefully, his smile slowly giving way to confusion as he searched your face.

“...You didn't know.”

It wasn't a question anymore. 

And in lieu of an answer, all you could do was stare at him.

 “Steve…”

“You really didn’t know.” He blinked, then let out another little laugh, shaking his head like the idea itself physically didn’t make sense. “I just spent the last few minutes assuming you’d finally figured it out.”

You tried. You really did. You tried to get your brain to cooperate, to line up words into something resembling coherent thought, but nothing quite stuck. You barely managed a small shake of your head.

Steve saw it immediately.

His expression shifted—softening, sharpening, all at once—as understanding dawned in slow, careful pieces. You could tell he was afraid of scaring you off. His thumb brushed lightly across your lower lip, almost absentminded in the way someone might reassure themselves you were actually there.

“Honey…” he murmured, quieter now. Breathless.

That did it. Something in you snapped back into place just enough to speak before you could lose your nerve entirely. 

“I thought there was too much going on for you to notice me.”

The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Honest in a way that felt far too exposed, even now, after everything you’d said mere minutes ago and for a second, he didn’t say anything at all. Then his brows pulled together, as if the thought genuinely didn't fit in his mind. 

“Notice you?”  His hands tightened slightly against your face. “Are you kidding?” he asked, another faint, incredulous laugh breaking through the words.

“Honey…” His voice softened on the memory, gaze never for even a second leaving yours. “I noticed you the moment you walked into Mrs Peters’ class in Hawkins Middle.”

His thumb slowed again against your cheekbone.

“And I’ve been noticing you ever since,” he added, quieter, voice certain. “Even when I really, really shouldn’t have been.”

You opened your mouth—to protest, to question, to fill the silence with something safer, or really anything at this point—but he didn’t let you.

“I notice everything about you,” he said, still gently, but just a little firmer now, like he needed you to actually hear him.  

This… This was really not how you expected today to go. Like, at all. You'd expected monsters. Running. Probably some mild-to-moderate trauma. Maybe another concussion if the universe was feeling particularly creative.

You had not expected Steve Harrington to be holding your face like you were something precious while calmly dismantling every insecurity you'd spent years building.

A horrifying thought crept into your mind.

…You’re not under Vecna’s spell, are you? 

It would certainly explain how he seemed to know every single thing you'd secretly wanted to hear for years from that gorgeous mouth. You very briefly considered pinching yourself. Then Steve started speaking again before you had the chance.

“I notice the way you chew the end of your pen when you’re thinking too hard,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing slowly across your cheek. “I notice how you always trip over that one loose floorboard in your hallway, then immediately look around to make sure nobody saw.”

Heat rushed to your face. “You've... seen that?”

“Honey.” He laughed softly. “I've seen it more times than I can count.”

Oh God, where’s that door again? 

“I notice you always carry two hair ties,” he continued, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not because you need two. Because you know Max is going to forget hers. And even with her in the hospital, not knowing if she’ll–you still do.” 

His smile softened. “I notice when you haven't slept well, because the next morning you always ask for an extra teaspoon of sugar in your coffee. I've noticed every haircut you've ever had, every new jumper, every time you've pretended you were okay because you don't want anybody worrying about you.” 

“I notice when you're actually okay, too.” His eyes searched yours, while his thumb stroked your cheek. “And I notice every single time you look for me.”

Your breath caught. Literally–you could not breath. 

Steve smiled—small, impossibly fond. “Because,” he whispered, his forehead dropping once more to rest against yours, “I'm looking right back.”

Fuck. What could you possibly say to that? 

To the fact that he'd been paying that much attention. That he'd noticed things you didn't even realise you did yourself. Tiny habits. Thoughtless little routines. The sort of details you only learned by watching someone over and over again.

All you could do was stare. 

Stare at the boy you'd spent years convincing yourself never noticed you—not the way you noticed him. And yet here he was. Standing impossibly close, one hand cradling your face like you were something precious, looking at you like you'd hung the damn moon and every star around it.

Your throat suddenly felt very tight. "I..." You swallowed, and said the only thing you could think of. "...I notice you too." 

The confession came out so quietly you weren't entirely convinced you'd actually said it aloud, and his reaction gave you no indication to the contrary. At least not until a second later, when his eyebrows shot up.

"...You do?" The words escaped him with an enthusiasm that was almost comical.

His eyes went impossibly wide, his hair still adorably mussed from where you'd grabbed him minutes earlier, his lips pink and slightly swollen from kissing you. He looked completely, utterly caught off guard.

God, he was beautiful.

He cleared his throat immediately, attempting—and failing—to scrape up even a speck of his dignity. "I mean..." He nodded once. "Good."

Then he nodded again and blurted out another, "...Good."

Before a thoughtful little hum escaped him and, for reasons known only to Steve Harrington, he nodded a third time. "That's...that's really good."

And you just couldn't help it. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. In your defence, it was only tiny at first—one he could only hear because you were standing so close—but then he looked at you with that hopelessly, ridiculously lovestruck expression on his face. 

That was it 

One quiet laugh became another. Then another. Until your shoulders were shaking and you had to press your lips together in a thoroughly unsuccessful attempt to contain yourself.

Not because he was being ridiculous—well, okay, maybe a little—but because somehow, absurdly, Steve Harrington looked even more flustered than you felt. Which, considering your brain had completely ceased functioning several minutes ago, was honestly impressive.

Steve didn't interrupt once. His thumb idly stroked beneath your jaw, completely content to simply stand there and watch you laugh.

Eventually, your laughter softened into the same quiet smile mirrored on his face.

For a few perfect seconds neither of you spoke. You just stood there, smiling at each other like two complete idiots who'd somehow managed to confess years of feelings in the middle of the worst place known to man.

Monsters outside. Friends definitely watching and getting ready to mock you (or at least Robin surely was). The fate of Hawkins hanging by a thread. And somehow, impossibly... neither of you cared one bit.

Well... until he decided to ruin the moment.

He cleared his throat. "So..." He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, looking almost sheepish. "Now that's sorted..."

He hooked a thumb vaguely over his shoulder towards the front door. "...I'm just gonna—"

The look you gave him stopped him dead.

It wasn't even a glare anymore. It was far past that. 

It was the face of someone who had spent the last several minutes explaining, in exhaustive detail, why he absolutely was not allowed to do exactly what he was implying. It also suggested that, should he ignore said explanation, you were more than willing to become the cause of the very death you'd just spent so long trying to prevent.

Steve looked towards the front door. Actually looked at it. Looking as if he was truly weighing up his options. Then he looked back at you.

Paused.

Took one look at your expression...

...and completely broke. This man was going to be the death of you. Fact.

"Okay," he breathed through another chuckle. "Okay."

Still smiling, he closed the tiny gap he'd created, his hand slipping into your hair, fingers combing gently through it before settling at the nape of your neck.

"What?" he asked, trying—and miserably failing—to sound innocent.

"You can't honestly think kissing me means you suddenly get to tell me what to do."

You raised one eyebrow. Nothing else. Just...One singular eyebrow.

Steve held your gaze with every intention of proving his point. His expression was wonderfully stubborn, almost smug, like he genuinely believed he could win this particular battle of wills.

He lasted all of three seconds.

His eyes flickered downward, landing squarely on your lips before he could stop them. He froze for a beat, seemingly realising exactly what he'd done, then squeezed his eyes shut with a quiet groan.

"...That," he sighed, sounding personally offended by himself, "was a terrible example."

Your smile escaped before you could stop it. His thumb caught it instantly, stroking gently along the corner of your mouth. His own smile answered yours—fond, hopeless and completely lacking the dignity he'd been trying so hard to recover.

And for a second, it was almost quiet again. Almost. Only the distant, echoing groans of the Upside Down, the occasional creak of something that definitely shouldn't have been moving, and whatever horrifying creature was politely waiting outside the front door reminded you the world was still ending. 

You found yourself almost begging for it to all shut up. Just to give you another minute. In this moment. With him. 

“…Can’t die before I take you on a date, right?” He said it lightly, though you knew he was only saying it that way to wind you up. And it worked. 

Your hand moved up before you even realised you’d decided anything. “Steve—are you serious right now?” You hit his chest. Not hard enough to really hurt him but absolutely hard enough that he definitely felt it.

He let out a soft laugh immediately, more breath than sound, and caught your hand against his chest before you could pull away. His fingers curled loosely around your wrist there, keeping it pressed to him just like he did mere moments ago. 

“Sorry, honey,” he murmured, and there it was again—that stupid softness in his voice. “I’m just… excited.”

His mouth tilted into a small, helpless pout, eyes flicking down to yours like he already knew exactly what he was doing to you. “Can you blame me?”

His entire face softened when he caught the look in your eyes–you trying to smile but it all just hitting too hard– teasing easing from his face until there was nothing left but something achingly earnest. His thumb brushed slowly across your knuckles where your hand still rested against his chest.

"I know," he murmured. "I can't promise forever." He gave the smallest shake of his head, as a tiny, humourless huff escaped him. "Hell… I can't even promise tomorrow."

The words hurt to hear, but before you could argue, he shook his head.

“But I can promise you this.” His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing gently. “I'm going to do everything in my power to come back to you. 

His thumb brushed across your knuckles. "I'll fight to come back to you."

His forehead rested against yours once more, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll fight for us."

You let out the smallest laugh, though it caught around the knot tightening your throat. "So.. Tomorrow?" you whispered.

For the first time since you'd met him, Steve Harrington answered without pretending certainty he didn't have.

"...Tomorrow."

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka my alter-ego)

P.S. I don't know what to say... but I've never not done this so... hi 👋🏼

Three rows in front of you in Biology class, always making wise-ass jokes about the topics being discussed and laughing too loudly with his friends. Flashing the teacher an easy smile and a wink as he apologized with arms raised in mock surrender. And for whatever unknown reason, the universe had decided to torture you by giving you a big, giant crush on the guy. You wanted to hate yourself for it, but honestly, who could blame you? He had the car, the hair, the athleticism. Girls fawning over him left and right, and you weren’t going to pretend like that wasn’t attractive to you. 

And so, you found yourself drifting off in third period every day, chin resting in your hand as you tried to take down notes on that day’s topic. Daydreaming about Steve coming up to you after class, asking you to go out with him. Picking you up in his car, with a bouquet of flowers. Holding your hand, paying for dinner, charming your socks off, and before he dropped you off at the end of the night, resting his hand on your jaw, pulling you in for a searing ki-

“Helloooo? Earth to lost girl?” Steve’s voice next to you made you jump. 

“Uh-hi, sorry. Did you need something?” Your voice shook, scared that he somehow heard your thoughts. 

Steve scoffed out a laugh, easy and unassuming like everything else he seemed to do. “I said, looks like we’re partners for the Krebs Cycle project. Wanna come over after school and work on it at mine?”

You narrowed your eyes at him. As much as you were crushing on him, this was King Steve asking, and with King Steve, there was usually an ulterior motive. “Depends… are you actually going to do any of the work or just flirt with me the whole time?” You willed the heat out of your cheeks as you said the words, because yeah, you’d really like for him to do that with you.

“Well, you know I’m open to pretty much anything.. but no. Yeah— I mean, I’ll actually do the work. My dad’s gonna be pissed if I fail this class and he has to pay for another summer make-up course.”

You fight against the disappointment sinking over your body. Of course Steve also sees you as a nobody; someone not even worth some stupid flirting over a school project. 

You nod curtly. “Cool, I’ll be at yours at six.”

-

Turns out, Steve is full of surprises. He has a stack of textbooks that he borrowed from the library waiting in his family’s study when you arrive at his place. His mom is home and greets you with a kind smile and hands you a glass of lemonade without you having to ask. Steve is attentive the entire time, outlining his sections on the poster board you brought, nudging your hip with his elbow when he wants you to check in on his progress and verify that his information is correct. Every nudge sends a jolt up your spine, butterflies taking flight in your ribs. 

Before you know it, it’s two hours later and the assignment is finished, but your stomach is grumbling. Steve chuckles at the sound. “You wanna stay for dinner? It’s just me and mom tonight.”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. I don’t want to intrude or—“ 

“Not intruding at all, I swear. It’ll give us something to talk about besides my dad,” he laughs, but it doesn’t sound sincere. “Unless, of course, if you don’t feel comfortable that’s totally cool, too, no pressure or anything.”

You’re taken aback at this version of Steve, walls down, crown tucked somewhere safe. It only makes you fall for him harder. You know he’ll never see you like that, that you should just say no and go home and forget about this, but your impulse gets the better of you and you find yourself agreeing. 

Steve’s mom is lovely. She asks you about your hobbies, interests, and if you know what you want to study in college yet. She coos when you say you’re interested in literature and makes a comment on how hopefully you’ll rub off on Steve. You glance over at him and notice his shoulders hunch in a little at the comment. “Well, I mostly just keep to myself, so I hope Steve’s extroversion will rub off on me, too,” you say between bites of chicken piccata. Steve’s eyes snap over to you, eyebrows sinking in gratitude before he continues eating. 

-

Your presentation goes well, and the two of you score an A-. Steve is over the moon, pulling you into a one-armed hug in the hallway after class. Your entire brain short circuits at the feeling of his warm body pressed so closely to yours, his cologne the only thing filling your senses. “Ew! Don’t tell me you two are dating now,” Carol’s grating voice calls from behind you, and Steve pulls himself away. You try to control your disappointment at the space. 

“Yeah, Carol, because every time a guy and a girl touch, they’re dating, right?” He hopes you miss the way his cheeks flush at the comment as he rubs the back of his neck. 

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Tommy needs your help with something in the cafeteria,” her eyes shift to you. “Have a nice day,” she says, so clearly not meaning it as she turns Steve around and pulls him in the other direction, him glancing back towards you and giving you a sheepish smile and wave goodbye that you reciprocate. 

-

A few days later, you’re in the library during free period, your second-to-last block of the day, catching up on homework. Carol and some of her friends are a few tables away, but if she’s noticed you, she doesn’t seem to care that you’re there. Perfect — just what you’re used to. 

As you take notes and cross things off of your to-do list in your planner, your mind wanders back to Steve. The lovely dinner with his mom, him gently nudging you to get your attention, voice soft as he asked if his understanding was correct. The two of you had started chatting more, with Steve walking with you anytime your classes were in the same direction, but nothing more. No invites back to his house or requests to hang out. You were becoming someone in the back of Steve’s mind, just like you were present in everybody else’s. 

Still, you couldn’t help but daydream about something more with him; about being seen by him in a way you haven’t been yet. Without thinking too much of anything, you wrote his name in the margin of your planner, next to your to-do list, adding hearts on either side of it. Below it, you wrote your name and added ‘+ Steve’ and another heart. You giggled a little at how ridiculous this felt, like some cheesy romcom scene wrapping itself around your life. Your reverie was interrupted by the sharp ring of the bell, signifying the end of the period. You gasped, scrambling up and grabbing all of your supplies that you’d strewn across the table and shoving them into your backpack before zipping it up and rushing off to your next class. 

-

You can almost feel your eyes drooping as you make the trek from last period pre-calculus (a crime to have math as your final class of the day) to your locker, backpack heavy across your shoulder. You decide to take a nap when you get home before starting on your tasks for the evening, nodding to yourself in delight at the thought when you hear Carol’s voice again. “See! I told you she had a crush on you Harrington! Look at it,” her cruel laughter echos around the corner of the hallway. Your veins turn to ice as you follow it up to see her, Tommy, and Steve at his locker with your planner shoved in his face. Your jaw drops open, as you tighten your grip on your backpack, realizing you must have left it in the library when rushing last period. 

You stand there, mortified as Tommy and Carol mock your doodles: “Oooh, Harrington look at all these hearts, you think that’s how many times she wants to kiss you?”

You’re about to turn and leave before it can get any more humiliating when Steve looks up and locks his eyes with yours. Tommy and Carol’s gazes follow his, and Carol barks out a laugh. “Pathetic,” she sneers. 

The insult works its way into the depths of your chest, where all of the hurt and insecurity hibernate. You turn on your heel and march out of the building before you start crying. You think you hear Steve calling your name, but convince yourself it’s your imagination as you keep walking.

By the time you get to your bike and shove the key into the lock on it, your hands are shaking and tears spill over your eyes. You wipe at your face harshly, sniffling and tugging the lock apart, shoving it into your backpack as quickly as you can.

You hear your name being called and the footfalls of Steve running to catch up to you. You move to hop on your bike but he’s faster, throwing a hand down onto the handlebars. He pants out your name between deep breaths. 

“What, Steve? Come to humiliate me some more?” You snap, voice thick with tears. 

He takes a moment to look over your face—eyes puffy from holding back tears, the tip of your nose an adorable shade of red, your top lip quivering— and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “No,” he says, voice hushed. One of his hands still grips between the handlebars on your bike, the other dropping down to your shoulder, making you jump ever so slightly. 

“No,” he continues. “Carol’s an idiot. She shouldn’t have taken your planner in the first place. I’m sorry.” You blink several times to make sure you’re not imagining this. 

“You’re… sorry?” You repeat back to him. 

“Yeah. I wasn’t meant to see the.. the stuff you put in there. Right?”

“Well, yeah, but.. now you did, so, do you just.. want to pretend you didn’t?” You braced yourself for his answer, knowing that he’d say yes, to please forget that he ever found out the random girl from biology class likes him. He’s Steve Harrington, he’s probably the main subject of dozens of planner doodles and journal entries that it didn’t even phase— 

“No, I-I don’t wanna pretend I didn’t see it, but, uh, feels kinda weird to say ‘hey, I saw you wrote our names in your planner with hearts around them because my shitty friends stole it, dinner Friday?” He bites out that same laugh as he did at his house, self deprecating, a little hopeless. 

You sniffle again, nodding. “I’ll have to admit I didn’t peg you for this decent of a guy, Harrington,” your voice is soft as you look up at him through your lashes. 

He shakes his head, an easy smile working back over his face. “But, uh, completely unrelated to what just happened back there,” he points a thumb towards the school. “Would you wanna get dinner with me, maybe a movie too, this weekend?”

You bite your lip, smiling as you nod your head. “Yeah, Steve, that sounds really nice.”

He huffs out a laugh, a real one this time that reaches his eyes and makes his ears go that pretty shade of pink. “And uh, do you need a ride home? Least I can do for making you late and uh, everything else.”

It’s your turn to giggle. “If you insist, Harrington, I won’t turn down a ride home from you.”

He takes your bike from you and walks it over to the car, you trailing by his side. Halfway to your house, his hand slips into yours over the center console. You can see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth and roll your eyes. “Don’t get cute, you’re not out of the woods for what your friends did back there.”

He holds his hands up in the same mock surrender as when he gets in trouble in class, doe eyes on full display from where he sits behind the drivers seat, and you begrudgingly admit to yourself that you can see why he gets off so easy with the teachers. “Didn’t say I was. Just holdin’ a pretty girl’s hand,” he lilts, and you have to pretend you have a sudden interest in the scenery outside of the window to hide your blush. 

When he pulls into park outside of your house, he tugs your hand towards him a little to get your attention. When you look at him, the playful demeanor he had during the drive is gone. His eyes are somber, serious as he looks at you. “I really am sorry. Thank you for giving me a chance still.”

You smile. “It’s okay. Thanks for being so cool about the whole thing.”

“Honestly?” He says, leaning in a little more. You tilt your head, inviting him to continue. “Ever since that day at my house, you stayed and hung out with my mom and I for dinner, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. I should’ve just asked you out the next day but… I don’t know,” he shrugged, suddenly shy, crown far removed again. 

You let out a small huff of air and shook your head. “You should have. I would’ve said yes. And now, I have to wait until Friday for it. I’m not sure I’ll survive.”

Steve chuckles at that, his eyes mischievous when he looks at you again. Your breath hitches at how close his face is to yours. “Well, maybe this will hold you over,” he says, smiling as he leans in further. 

Your eyes flick down to his lips, your joined hands between your bodies before you close them and lean forward, helping him close the gap. His lips are soft as they brush over yours, more careful than you would have thought. He pulls away for a millisecond and you can’t help but chase after him, pressing your lips to his again this time. You feel him smile into it as he brushes his tongue over your bottom lip before pulling away. 

Both of you let out soft laughs as your foreheads touch. “I should get inside,” you whisper. “Call me tonight?”

“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” Steve says. 

You're spreading yourself for him, your drooling cunt on display for him to play with, and the thought only fuels the dribbling, burning hot feeling in your gut. A whimpery noise pulls from your throat.

Steve kisses the skin of your neck generously, slow languid kisses that make your nipples peak against the sheets. A scrape of teeth. Heat burns between the shared skin.

Long, thick fingers draw circles at your entrance and you can't help how your back arches to push down onto them, a stuttering gasp escaping you. He's been teasing you for too damn long tonight.

"S-Steve."

His name has never sounded so filthy.

"Mm? What is it, baby?"

He's still circling your entrance tantalizingly, his thumb dancing over your clit so perfectly, so teasingly. Asshole. Teasing, stupidly hot, too-good-with-his-fingers asshole.

"Please," Is all you can manage, voice weak.

It's all you need for Steve give in, sinking his finger into your cunt and pulling simultaneous groans from both of you. You can feel the rumble of it against your spine. Your head tips back instinctively, your cunt fluttering in bliss.

Steve doesn't give you a moment to relax into it, another finger joining as he pumps them in. Lewd noises leak out as his fingers setting a punishing pace. They curl expertly, hitting the spot that makes your hole clench around him with every thrust of his fingers.

You clutch the sheets, your leg quivering and threatening to fall. A moan you can't contain pools in your chest and you bury your face in the pillow to muffle it.

Your hand shoots down to hold Steve's forearm — half to make sure he won't stop, half to keep yourself from falling apart too soon.

"God, look at you," Steve murmurs, his voice hot with praise.

All your whimpery noises, pressed into the pillow, going straight to his cock. It thickens in his boxers, straining against the fabric and Steve shivers in anticipation.

You can feel his trail of kisses up your neck but you know he’s watching the way your hips rock down onto his fingers. A fiery desire licks up your spine at the hardness you feel behind you. You feel yourself grow slicker at the feel of it, your mouth almost watering.

Steve's hips rolls up against yours roughly, no doubt eager to gain the same pleasure you were getting. His quiet grunts mix with your whiny breathes, pleasure burning and bubbling hotter and hotter.

Then a filthy moan scrapes out his throat when you clench down around his fingers — which disappear between your legs in a moment.

You barely get a moment to pout, a soft whine sounding, before you hear the fabric of his boxers being pushed down. It's frantic sounding, like he can't wait another second, like he needs to be buried inside you. You need it just as bad. You whine again.

"Sh, sh, sh, sh," Steve soothes, all too aware of your every noise. His needy baby. "I know, I got you."

His hand finds the bend in your knee and he holds it for you, keeping you spread for him. His nose nuzzles along your neck, kissing and suckling as he finally, finally, sinks his cock into you in one slow stroke.

You keen. A pitiful cry escapes your lips, the coil in your tummy twisting tighter at the gravelly moan that Steve makes. His hot breath of your neck, his closeness, the stretch of him inside you — you quiver and whimper, your cunt gushing on his cock.

"Oh f-fuck, honey," There's that whiny hitch in Steve's words now, the way there always is when nears pussy drunk.

You can feel the urge to close your shaky legs with how you cunt throbs in pleasure but Steve's hand is still tucked under your knee, keeping them apart, as he starts to rock into you.

The lewd noises from before return, the wet sound of your slick as Steve ruts into you. His hips move fast, his pace building.

A ragged moan drools from your lips and you push your head back instinctively, searching for more Steve. He's there already, his kisses resuming up your neck feverishly, his thrusts not faltering.

"Ste— Stevie," You gasp needily, letting one of your hands slip over your waist to hold him however you can. Your fingers find his bicep and you clutch it, breathy noises punched out with every roll of his hips. Steve groans loudly.

"God, you feel so fuckin' good around me," He pants, thick cock driving into you steadily enough to make you melt. He drops his hold on your leg for a moment, his hand darting up to your face. He pushes back the hair in your face, his lips kissing the exposed skin as he does.

"My pretty fuckin' girl," He hums, voice wavering in his own pleasure.

Your thighs start to ease close without thinking and Steve snakes his hand down, slapping lightly at your clit with his large hand. It makes you squeal, your legs jumping apart and your hole clenching down on his cock deliciously. Steve moans again, a thread of a whine in it.

"Told you," He huffs breathlessly, lips dragging up the sensitive skin of your neck. He nips at your ear. You whimper. "To keep 'em spread for me. You can- you can do that f'me, can't you?"

It's a trick question because there's no way you can answer anything right now. Steve's thrusts slow for a moment, as if he's giving you a moment's reprieve, only for you to realise it's for a more sinister reason all together.

He shifts forward and lets his hand find its place under your knee again, holding your legs apart, and this time when he fucks back in, your whole body twitches.

You make a pitiful noise, something between a moan and a gasp. And then you make it again and again, as Steve drives his cock into your cunt, hitting the spot every single time.

"Oh, there she is." Steve coos. "Is that it, yeah? That spot feel good, honey?"

It would nearly be embarrassing, the little uh, uh, uh's you keep making, if it didn't feel so fucking good. You thought you were on fire before but now you're molten. Your skin blazes. Pleasure twists the coil in your gut tighter. You clench down on Steve's cock and gush at the whimpery noise he makes.

"I- ngh, shit—" He's panting now, beginning to become undone at the silky feel of you wrapped around him. "I asked -ah- you a question, baby."

You wail softly into the pillow, head curling in. Your head swims in delirious pleasure, the question he asked a minute ago long gone. You whine at his cruelty, your mind utterly distracted by the filthy squelchy noises he's fucking out of you.

"B-Baby can't think right now?" Steve teases, his thrusts turning shallow but faster. He hikes your leg up higher, pulled back towards his hairy thigh. "Getting fucked too good, huh?"

"Uh huh," Your voice comes out all whiny, the words drooling out your mouth. Your cheek brushes the pillow as you reply, eyes screwing up as the tightness in your stomach looms closer, hotter, nearly bursting. You grip his bicep tighter.

"Pleasepleaseplease, don't- don't stop, baby, I'm— I'm," The words rush out of you in a frantic babble. "Please, fuck- I'm, uh,"

A moan warbles out of Steve at your pleading, feeling his balls draw up as his own orgasm creeps up on him. He dutifully listens to his baby, still fucking himself into you with a lustful fervor.

"Gonna cum?" He grunts. You whine.

"I wanna see you cum," Steve rasps, his tummy flexing as he tries to hold back his mounting pleasure. "C'mon, baby, cum all over my cock, yeah? Show me how good it is."

His hand slips from your beneath your knee once more, sliding down to pat at your clit and it's all it takes. You unravel. The heat in your bloodstream gives way to pure euphoria, confetti pumping through your body as you gasp and moan. Your cunt clenches and flutters, throbbing in just the right way.

Steve's hips stutter, the sudden snugness of you pushing him over the edge. It's everything to hear the little inhale he does; the whimper he makes as his cock twitches inside you, dribbling hot ropes of cum.

He keeps moving, milking out every dreg of pleasure for the both of you. Your hand on his arm shifts, moving up, searching for his face and when you tangle your hands in his hair, it's to turn and kiss him. It's sloppy, your lips barely aligned. Still, it hums with love.

The kiss breaks. Slowly, the pleasure and his movements taper off, til Steve's easing himself out of you. A warm buzz sits over the room, satisfaction rolling off the both of you in waves. You feel faint, a sluggish happy feeling settling into your skin.

"Mm, you okay?" Steve's voice sounds from behind you.

You're still snuggled close together, Steve dropping his head into the crook of your neck to nuzzle into it. You huff a happy laugh, reaching a hand up to bury it into his hair like you know he loves.

"More than okay." You sigh happily. Steve's responding hum vibrates against your shoulder. "You just fucked my brains out, baby."

Since moving to Hawkins that July, most of your summer went this way. Your mom already made friends with the other housewives in the neighborhood and dad worked all day at the plant. They left you with a nanny, a nice lady named Marie, but she didn’t care to play with you very much, just make you food and get you ready when your mom alerted her of places you needed to be at — like this one.

You hadn’t gotten to know any of the kids you’d be going to school with, let alone any other children in the neighborhood. In fact, Steve Harrington may have been the first person your age you’d seen in a month.

Steve’s parents acted like yours did. They puffed out their chests and laughed too nasally and drank too much wine. You watched Steve from across the dinner table, eyes slightly squinted, as if you were trying to tell if he was some sort of robot made by adults to make you feel less lonely. Steve was too busy kicking his feet out from under him and stuffing bread in his mouth to notice. Your mom wasn’t.

“Teresa, did you introduce these two?” your mom asked, taking a long sip from her wine glass. Teresa, you assume, was Steve’s mom, who somehow had bigger hair than your mom and a lot of perfume on. She blinked, then plastered a wide grin on. 

“How silly of me!” she exclaimed, and you suddenly felt uncomfortably small beneath her gaze. “Sweetheart, this is my son, Steven Harrington. You two will be at Hawkins Elementary together in the fall. You should get to know each other!”

That’s the only introduction you got before Teresa turned her back to you and Steve, immersing herself back into whatever discussion she’d been having prior.

You sighed heavily and reached forward to pluck a roll out of the bread basket. 

“You get used to it eventually,” The boy in front of you said, making you look up. Your eyes rounded, and he made a vague gesture at the room. “This whole thing. It’s not as bad when you get used to it.”

When he smiled at you, you can’t tell if it’s a genuine one, and you don’t know if you’ve ever seen a little boy look so sad before.

October 1981

The first time you hang out with Steve one-on-one is when you’re 14 years old. 

At first, you think it’s a prank. Over the summer, Steve must have gone through puberty, because he came back to school much taller, with better styled hair, and a deeper voice. You didn’t see him because your parents sent you to an all-girls sleepaway camp, which was a sort-of improvement from accompanying them to country club soirees. 

He also started hanging out with Tommy Hagan, who’s kind of a dick, and you don’t quite understand how they’re friends because Steve’s a nice guy. He’s always been really kind to you, even if you’re not the closest of friends. But that’s why you think the note slipped into your locker is some kind of cruel joke, because there’s no way Steve wants to hang out with you outside of school, tonight.

You quickly crumple up the looseleaf and stuff it in your jeans pocket, grab your textbooks for your next class, and slam your locker shut, deciding to forget about it for now. You’ll have time to ruminate over it after school. 

That’s your plan, anyway, until after eighth period, when Steve’s standing by your locker, hands shoved in his pockets. You want to turn around and run away, but you can’t bring yourself to do it — not when he looks like that. 

“Hey,” Steve greets as you approach your locker, “Did you, um, get my thing?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Your note?”

He nods. “Yeah. Did you get it?”

“That was real?”

The tips of Steve’s ears flush. 

“Of course it was real. Why wouldn’t it be?”

You shrug. 

“Well, are you gonna be there?”

You think for a moment. You have a strict curfew of 8 p.m., otherwise your dad will seriously kill you.

“Yeah, but I can’t be out any later than 8. My dad is really serious about that kind of thing.”

“You’ve never snuck out before?”

“No, Steve.”

He backs off. “Alright, meet me at the park on Grove at 6, then? After dinner?” 

“Sure,” you nod, “I’ll see you then.”

“Cool.” he says it with a smile, and this time, you know it’s real.

In 1980, secret meet-ups at the park become yours and Steve’s thing. 

It’s not so much that you’re hiding from anyone (well, you aren’t, anyway), but it’s nice to have privacy, away from nosy onlookers at school or overbearing opinions from your parents. It’s always at the same time, on the same bench, in the same park. 

At first, they were innocent, if not a little awkward. 

You’d avoid Steve’s eyes, even if conversation flowed freely. You’d gaze at the asphalt or the playground set as you talked about Tommy Hagan’s new girlfriend, Carol, or Steve wanting to try out for the basketball team. 

Within weeks, you felt a bit more comfortable.

“Tommy said he got to second base with Carol,” Steve revealed, and you rolled your eyes.

“As if. I heard her talking about it in the locker room today at gym and she said he went for it and she knocked him off her couch.”

Steve ended up making it on the basketball team after you encouraged him to try out, and your conversations got deeper. He started telling you about how his parents were leaving him alone more often and that he didn’t feel like they were very proud of him. You voiced your fears about making your parents proud. A few weeks later, when you watched the sun set together, he asked to kiss you.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” you said, gaze still set on the horizon. You weren’t sure why you admitted that. You were scared he wouldn’t want to kiss you anymore.

“That’s okay,” Steve replied softly, making your stomach do backflips, “I want to be your first.”

So you turned to look at him, and he was much closer than you anticipated, and you nodded. His eyebrows raised slightly, as if he was somewhat surprised that you wanted this too, and he waited a beat, like you were going to change your mind.

But you didn’t, and then he slowly leaned forward to gently seal his lips to yours, and it felt so perfect, so sweet, so Steve, that you can’t believe you hadn’t been spending all your time kissing him before.

April 1987

You’re home from college for the week when your friend, Brandy, convinces you to go with her to some house party. 

Admittedly, you were looking forward to spending your time in Hawkins decompressing from midterms and academics, but you know one night out isn’t going to kill you — especially in your tiny hometown. 

And at first, you’re having a blast. You’re not sure who’s house you’re in, but the vibes are great. The music is fun, the alcohol is flowing, and you’re dancing together without any creeps hitting on either one of you. You haven’t even run into anyone you know yet, which is a serious win considering how small Hawkins, Indiana is. 

“I have to go to the bathroom!” Brandy shouts in your ear, trying to overpower a Michael Jackson song blasting through the living room. “Do you wanna find it with me?”

You shake your head and give her hand a squeeze. “No, I’m okay! I’m gonna grab another drink, though! Meet me in the kitchen!”

Brandy nods and flashes you a smile, and you head to the kitchen while your friend goes in the direction of the stairs. With your red solo cup in hand, you push past some bodies, tugging your skirt down when you finally get to your destination. 

And truthfully, you probably would’ve missed him if you opened the tequila bottle a second or two earlier.

But instead, you looked around the kitchen, maybe subconsciously so, just in case you did know anyone at this party, and lo and behold, you did: Steve Harrington.  

He’s currently got his front pushed up against a pretty brunette, his hand pressed against the wall above her with a smirk on his lips as his other palm finds her ass. You grow nauseous just at the sight of it. 

He doesn’t notice you. He’s too involved with whoever he has in his grasp, and you try to tell yourself that that’s okay, because you, too, have hooked up and dated people since you last saw Steve Harrington. Of course you have.

But for some reason — and maybe it’s the nostalgia of it all, being home, or seeing him in person — all you can think about are those stupid park dates you used to have your freshman year of high school, when Steve became your entire world. Nothing ever came of them, much to your chagrin — you dreamt of the day he would ask you to be his girlfriend, especially once those evenings involved nightly makeout sessions — but then one day he started dating Nancy Wheeler, and your days no longer ended hand in hand.

It killed you. 

Piece by piece, and then all at once. You felt like a shell of a human, all because you let Steve Harrington be your first heartbreak.

Your hand is still wrapped around the handle of vodka when Brandy barrels in the kitchen, talking about how long the bathroom line was. You swallow harshly and reach out to grab her elbow, and she immediately stops when she sees your watery eyes.

“Can we go?” you ask softly. 

She nods and loops her arm around your shoulders.

November 1993

You’re staring at a package of chicken in the poultry aisle, trying to decide if you even want to eat chicken for dinner this week, when you hear your name being called.

You drop the chicken and turn around, eyebrows furrowed. You want to duck and hide when you see its source.

“Holy crap! When’d you get back to town?” Steve asks with a grin, pushing his shopping cart and stopping it next to yours.

“Um…” you shift your weight from foot to foot, wondering if it’s too late to bolt. “Uh, a few weeks ago. My… my dad passed away, so I’m kind of here, settling and taking care of stuff for the time being.”

“Shit,” Steve says, and he genuinely looks like he feels bad, “I’m so sorry, I had no idea. How’s your mom doing? Do you guys need anything?”

“She died in that big earthquake that hit a few years ago,” you reply dismissively, shaking your head. “It’s fine. You know I wasn’t very close with them. I kind of cut things off with them once I graduated college, but they don’t have anyone else to do this type of stuff, and they left everything to me.”

“Wow. That’s… a lot.”

You nod. “Yeah, it is.”

“I mean… if you need anything, I’m still more than happy to help,” Steve says, and you don’t know why but even with years and miles of distance between you two, the mere offer is enough to make you smile. 

“Why am I not surprised that you’re still in this shitty town?” you ask playfully, picking the package of chicken back up and placing it in your cart. He laughs.

“Well, I’ll have you know, I’m the Hawkins Middle baseball coach and sex ed teacher,” he replies, and you let out a loud cackle that makes you smack your hand over your mouth. “I also… I have a daughter. Her mom and I aren’t together, but we co-parent. She lives here, too.”

You raise your eyebrows. “No shit, huh? King Steve’s a dad now.”

“King Steve died a long time ago, sweetheart.”

The pet name makes your face warm and you shake your head, pushing your cart forward. Steve follows your lead.

“What’s your daughter like?” you ask.

“Amazing,” he immediately says. You smile. “Her name’s Ella. She’s four now, so she just started kindergarten. She’s so smart and funny and she’s taught me so much. Being a dad is my favorite thing in the world. I don’t think I knew who I was before this.”

You look over at him, and you swear he’s glowing. In all the years you’ve known Steve, you’ve never seen him look so naturally happy, and it makes your stomach flip, just like it did when you were a teenager kissing him on a bench just before your curfew. 

“I’m really happy to hear that, Steve.” you say, reaching out to touch his hand on the handle of his cart. He stalls for a moment, almost as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself, before allowing himself to relax into your touch, just as you issue a gentle squeeze. 

“She would love you,” Steve continues before grabbing a box of Cheerios off the shelf. “She’d probably think you’re the coolest person ever.”

You snort. “Why?”

“‘Cos you are,” he says with a shrug. “You always have been. The coolest, smartest, prettiest… I was too stupid to see it for a long time, but I figured it out.”

You blink, wondering if you’re stuck in some kind of alternate timeline. Steve clears his throat. You look down at the speckled tiled floors, then back up at the brunette man before you, who somehow isn’t a little boy or a lost teenager with sad eyes anymore. 

“Um, I’m staying in my parents’ house and it’s weird,” you admit, laughing breathily, “But I feel like… I don’t know, maybe it would be a little less weird with you in it? So if that offer to… if I need anything, if that still stands, you can come over. I would like you to come over, is what I’m saying.”

A grin paints itself on Steve’s face. Small wrinkles edge themselves at the edges of his eyes, and he’s never looked so beautiful. 

“I would love to,” he says. “Ella’s at her mom’s tonight. Does— is that okay?”

“That’s perfect.”

In 10 years or so, you’ll tell a lie to yourself and say that your love story with Steve Harrington began in the poultry aisle at the grocery store, which is one of the more unremarkably romantic spots in the world. 

You remember it so vividly.

You’d get ice cream, and go on the ferris wheel with your best friend– Jonathon Byers at the time.

That was before his brother went missing a couple years ago. Before monsters were real, and secret Russian labs lived under the town mall.

Before you were weird friends with Steve Harrington and a handful of neighbourhood kids.

And now, here you were on Fourth of July, in a subterranean lab ran by the KGB, with Dustin Henderson driving you away from men with guns.

Letting the kid drive probably wasn’t the wise choice. But someone had to hold little Erica into their chest to prevent her from falling off the edge of the kart. Plus Steve who was usually your driver was in the back, painted in his own blood and bruises, incapacitated beyond the bounds of driving.

None of this was supposed to happen.

You guys were out of the woods with the upside down. The mind-flayer was gone. You were only in the damn mall because you were Erica Sinclair's babysitter.

But then Steve– who’d you’d only just recently decided you didn’t hate– ropes you into Henderson's scheme. You should’ve known better. It always came with trouble.

It’s your fault for not putting your foot down. And now you would go down in history as the worst babysitter that’s ever lived.

Steve and Robin– the newest recruit– had been held hostage. You had tried to stay with them, but Steve insisted upon someone staying with kids. And now you were the only responsible adult amongst a gaggle of the enfeebled and underage.

You try not to let the panic get the best of you when you open the doors of the cage to reveal the pair of belligerent idiots you were now in charge of. They’re like toddlers hopped up on sugar, who also had zero access to the burdens of shame, or tact. You don’t know for certain what had happened to them, but your best guess was concussion, shock or drugs.

Perhaps all three.

Steve was a tricky one. You weren’t a fan of him in school. You don’t appreciate the banal cruelty he inflicted onto Jonathon. But after last winter with the demodogs, and your friendship with Jon in limbo with his new relationship with Nancy, you’d been spending an inordinate amount of time with the former King of Hawkins High.

Despite yourself, you like him. He’s nicer now. Plus he was kind of pathetic with his sailors uniform and army of child soldiers. You felt bad for him. But you related to him now. You know how it feels to be forgotten by someone you love.

You liked getting ice cream from him and speaking about your day. You've done it almost every day this summer.

You didn’t imagine you guys would become so tight.

Today would see that notion off completely. You don’t want to make a thing about it, but it seems like seeing him in this vulnerable state might take your new friendship from tentative to close.

He’s collapsed in on himself against the fenced walls. Robin in a similar position. You fight the urge to press your thumb into your eye in exasperation.

You guys had very little time to get back up the elevator before you were inevitably shot to death. They don’t seem to be anchored to any kind of time construct.

“What’s shaking, cupcake?” He smiles goofily at you.

You don’t even have the mental space to respond to him. You just usher the two of them forward to get out as fast as their lazy limbs would allow.

Robins pushes him by the shoulder in a wheezing gasp. “You call her cupcake?”

You take charge of pulling Steve, as Dustin shushes the tall girl before him, both of you dragging them to the shaft.

Steve’s hanging loosely off of you, poking your cheeks. “Noooo…” he giggles. “But I do now. She’s soft, like frosting.”

“Steve– not that I don’t appreciate your kind words– I just really don’t want to get shot, so can you do me a favour and help me out here?” You mutter through gritted teeth when you collapse both of you down onto the cold ground.

Dustin pushes the panel to propel you all up into the air, ascending back the way you had come from a mere couple hours ago. It felt like it’d been days. Especially when you’d spent almost all of it thinking your friends were dead.

Steve and Robin continued their path of destruction. Jumping on boxes, skating with trollies.

Steve falls over at one point and you catch Dustin’s concern regarding over him.

“What’s wrong with them?” Erica asks, holding onto the wall for balance.

You push forward to crawl over to Steve, placing a hand over his forehead. He’s like a furnace.

Steve is bemused by your sudden position over him and pulls you hand down to his mouth to kiss it like he was greeting a princess.

It’s endearing more than embarrassing. Probably won't be how he feels about it when he comes to eventually.

“I think they’ve been drugged.” You announce uneasily.

“With what?” Dustin yells back at you.

“I do not do drugs.” Robin screams from the place she lays on her back.

You’re silent to Dustin’s question, too busy looking at Steve who is holding your hand to his cheek now. You push forward to hold his cheeks still, inspecting his pupils that were blown out horrendously.

He holds your stare, enigmatically. “Your eyes are pretty up close.” He breathes dreamily. “So are your tits. Especially in the rain earlier. Couldn’t stop looking at the–“

You panic and clasp your palm over his mouth to muffle the extremely personal words he was about to say in front of kids. And maybe worse, you.

You keep your hand tactically placed and look back at Dustin who’s smirking wildly.

“Something strong.” You confirm with a bashing blush beating your cheeks.

“Truth serum.” He grins gummily. “Russian truth serum. This is so awesome. Ask him more stuff.”

You glare back at the boy, tentatively removing your hand to see Steve had caught sight of something else to crawl over to and inspect.

Robin and Steve are stumbling on their hands and knees like toddlers at a day care.

Getting them out into the hallway is nearly impossible. Especially because it’s the movie theater. All the bright lights and shiny posters. It must be like fucked up heaven to someone on experimental drugs.

Steve won’t stop petting at you. It’s easier to let him do it than fight it off. He wasn’t hurting anyone, but he was going to have a violent headache and maybe the worst type of Sunday scaries in a few hours.

It takes a lot of dipping and dodging but eventually you find enough steam to lose the soldiers hunting you guys down.

Just in enough time for Steve to announce loudly in your ear that he was going to hurl. You’re working on pure instinct when you push him into the bathroom to let him begin puking.

You’ve never seen a person throw up as much as he does. It’s tough to watch without being of any real use. The best you can offer is the occasional rub of his back. He doesn’t help himself by continually trying to speak to you through violent retches.

It’s mostly barely coherent apologies. You feel bad that you’re seeing him like this without his permission, but it doesn’t feel safe to leave him.

When he eventually stops, he leans back against the cubicle wall to wipe his mouth. He’s lucky he’s so handsome because even with the bruises and blood shot eyes, he’s a catch.

“I feel gross.” He whimpers. The effects seem to be wearing off a little, but it doesn’t stop him from laying down, curling his head into your lap. You lean back against the cool wall and card your fingers through his hair even though you know you’re in a time crunch. “I really wish you hadn’t seen that.”

You bite back a laugh. It’s funny that’s where he draws the line. You seeing him vomit. Especially after he almost told you that he got off on your cleavage earlier.

“Better me than Robin.” You point out. You’d been there when Dustin had tried to show him how right they were for each other. You were finding it hard to unsee. “Can’t have the girl you’re into watching you throw up. Set’s a bad tone.”

There’s a static quiet when he turns the head in your lap to regard you with confusion.

“Robin isn’t the girl I like.” He says carefully. He keeps his eyes locked on you, his usually light hearted face is full of steely sincerity and uncertainty.

The way he says it feels firm. Pointed.

It doesn’t take a genius to work out what he means. It’s not what he says, it’s how he says it.

Your heart plummets down through your chest, trying to find the words to say back to him. You want to say that it’s something you’d considered before. You had him being together. But that would be a lie.

Steve liking you– Steve as a concept actually– was so new and foreign that you wouldn’t even let your mind wander down the garden path with it because it was so unlikely. Especially when up until last year you were just Jonathon Byers burn-out friend.

You remember the way Steve would look through you in the halls. Sometimes he’d be with Nancy, sometimes not. But you never really felt like he saw you until you guys ended up together after Halloween looking for Nancy and Jon– finding Dustin instead.

The rest was history. But not a story of love. A story of what you thought would only be unlikely companionship.

But here he was drugged up, curled in your lap like a cat, saying he liked you.

Did you even feel the same? Did you envision yourself kissing him over ice cream instead of telling him about your weekend and recommending movies?

All you know for sure is that the best part of your days tends to be when you see him. And sometimes when you see him your chest fills with a burning ball of fond.

You’re having to really take stock of things you had maybe ignored on purpose. Maybe you were blind– or maybe you’d never gotten over being so invisible all those years that it made you doubt your desirability.

The chance to answer him is stolen by Robin throwing herself through the door and collapsing into the cubicle next to you to empty the contents of her stomach, just as Steve had been only moments ago. It seems her noises set him off once more. You decide you ought to give him his privacy. Especially when you know how much of it had been taken from him today.

–

Sitting outside of the now burning mall, legs hanging over the back of an ambulance you remind yourself to never assume that there’s such a thing as coincidence in Hawkins.

Of course the Russian spies were connected to the upside down. You were trying to mentally catalogue the events that followed finding the kids.

Watching Billy die, the mind-flayer, all those people dead.

You think you’re in a mild state of shock. You don’t realise you’re shivering until Jonathon places a hand on your shoulder to try and absorb some of the stuttering nerves.

“Is your mom coming to get you?” He asks with a small smile.

You were the first one to be looked at, and discharged. There wasn’t a mark on you. Steve, Nancy and Jonathon were in the back of the bus– Steve had just had his face cleaned up. But no one could leave until the paramedics checked you out.

In the mess of everything that had happened you’d forgotten that you would need to go home after. This time felt different than the others. You don’t know how you go home to your family after this one and pretend it was just a fire.

Besides, your mom wasn’t even in town right now. You’d be going home to an empty dark house. You’d taken Erica on the bus to the mall. You only had a learners permit.

“My moms out of town.” You mumble back. “Is Hopper really dead?”

Your voice is a broken husk.

The quiet that follows is echoey. The summer breeze felt like a storm.

You don’t realise that Steve is climbing round you, past Nancy and Jonathon to pull you up by the hand. You let him do it numbly.

“Cmon, I’ll take you back.” He announces, wrapping an arm round your shoulder in a gentle tug.

You let him swoop you forward under the stretch of his warmth. There’s more stuff to address with him but you don’t think you have it in you tonight. A ride home would be good though.

“Are you sure?” Jonathon asks. “I’m sure we won’t be long.”

You’re not looking back at his voice, you just press yourself further into Steve’s chest.

“Just…get Nance back.” Steve sighs back at him.

If Jonathon disagrees you don’t hear it. You just follow Steve’s path to his car in the lot. You don’t realise how cold you are until you’re in the enclosed warmth of the beamer. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly regretful that you’d dressed for the fair.

Steve squeezes your knee before he starts the car. The smile he gives you is reassuring but you can’t say it translates well with the swollen eye he’s wearing. If anyone should be entering a state of catatonic shock, it’s him.

He’s the one who was locked in a bunker and tortured.

You drive to your street in silence. You don’t live far from the mall. You could’ve walked but you don’t think you’d have been able to remember the way in your current state. When you pull up, the front of the house is dark. It doesn’t look like anyone lives there.

You don’t mean to weep when you think about being alone but you can’t help it. You tilt forward to place your fists on the dash and let your body shudder out panicked sobs. You could’ve died, Erica, Dustin, Robin…Steve.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out through cries. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You feel the smoothing circles rubbing their way into your back. You’re so thankful for that you don’t know you could even put it into words. You guys sit like that for an indiscernible amount of time, but eventually your cries fall way to hiccups and you find the strength to push your head back up again.

Your face is sore so you can imagine that it’s puckered in a swollen, blotchy mass. You’re too relieved to get it out to care. Besides, Steve had already laid himself bare to you today, so you suppose it’s your turn to be vulnerable. It’s only fair.

He leans across the console to smudge away the last tear with his thumb when you face him meekly. It sends shooting sparks across the skin it meets.

“I look crazy, don’t I?” You ask with a weak smile.

He shrugs lazily, smiling back at you. “No worse than me. I still think you’re pretty, even when you’re blotchy.”

You flush even darker, and tilt your head down to avoid retaining eye contact with him during.

“Truth serum definitely isn’t working anymore then?” You joke.

When you look back up, he isn’t smiling at your joke. He’s pensive, almost sullen.

“About that…” he starts, but you shake your head wildly.

“Not right now, Steve.” You plead. “We will talk about it. But right now, I really just need you to come inside with me and stay. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

You see the words digest. There is a part of you that thinks he might argue but eventually his shoulders sag as he sighs. “Of course. I’ll stay as long as you need.”

You guys get into the house which feels emptier than it’s ever been. You don’t bother turning the lights on. There was no point, not when you’d just be going to bed anyway. You pull Steve through the halls you know by heart.

Your room is messy. Clothes hung over a chair and makeup scattered at the dresser– you don’t care though. It all seems so small now. You wonder if anything will ever feel big again.

“I don’t have any clothes for you to wear.” You say, pulling your T-shirt overhead.

You can see Steve shifting, trying not to look. After the last day you weren’t really worried about the way he viewed you. You were pretty sure that you guys had surpassed humility. Steve had no say in the things he let you privy to this evening. You were lightening the load for him by allowing him past the walls too. There wasn’t much left to hide.

He shrugs plainly. “I can sleep in this.” He motions down to his sailors uniform.

You scrunch your eyebrows up in disgust at the thought of anything that had touched what was in that mall being in your bed.

“No, definitely not.” You say, pulling up shorts to hide your modesty. They weren’t exactly flattering but oh well.

“It’s that or boxers.” He replies jokingly, slipping off his sneakers.

“Boxers it is.” You say pushing yourself under the inviting softness of your sheets.

Steve pings his eyes back to yours, eyebrows almost meeting his hairline. He doesn’t argue, but he’s slow in removing his clothes, like he was giving you the option to change your mind. You don’t though. And you only have to slightly conceal the gasp that pulls through you when you see him half naked, a glow with the moon against his golden skin.

Steve was beautiful. You don’t appreciate it enough. But now that you understand the fleeting nature of life, you resolve that you’ll do it more often.

That’s what the problem really was for you. You’re here, and then you’re not. Some of those people who died were your age. Gone in the snap of a finger, like they’d never been here at all. And you couldn’t even use your precious minutes to take things you want because you’re too busy worrying about if they’re even possible or not.

You could’ve said something to Steve in the bathroom. There was time before Robin came in. But instead you chose to analyse every possible outcome. Analyse the intricacies of the way you used to be. You’re too busy thinking about the things you aren’t anymore that you’re missing out on being who you’ve become.

Steve crawls into the bed with less sheepishness than he had while he undressed. Your clear lack of care at the skin he was presenting must have reassured him that you meant what you’d said.

You don’t shy away from attaching yourself onto his warm torso. You’d never hugged Steve before tonight and here you were wrapping yourself around his middle like you’d done it a thousand times before. The sound of his heart beating under your ear reminds you that you’re alive.

You feel his muscles unclench, and eventually he sinks lower into the sheets to pull his arms around you, gripping you to him in a bruising crush. It doesn’t feel bad. It feels good to be held like you’re precious cargo.

“I’m sorry I told you I liked your boobs.” He says into the darkness.

You don’t laugh really, just exhale through your nose to indicate that if you weren’t so scared still, it would be funny.

“You only need to be sorry if it was a lie.” You muffle. It sounds compressed from the way your cheek is mashed into his chest.

“Nothing I said tonight was a lie.” He whispers.

It’s quiet for a minute. The only noise is the ticking of your alarm clock.

It was as good a confession as any. Better than on the bathroom floor of the starcourt mall, that’s for sure.

You figure you won’t get many days where you’re offered a second chance to do something right so instead of saying anything, you push yourself up to place your hand on his surprisingly hairy chest. You search his eyes for signs of deception, but there isn’t any. Because it was the truth.

You push forward to softly kiss his lips. It’s chaste. Gentle. You’re testing the water. When you pull back his eyes are shut. When he opens them, they’re filled with hope.

He pulls the back of your head down to him to reattach your quivering lips to his. It’s not fiery, or dirty. It’s passionate.

You open your mouth to pull his air into yours with a burn of wanting to take as much of his essence into you as you can. To savour every second of him while you still can.

You roll onto your back to let him lead. The hand that isn’t propping his head up is cupping your cheek, rubbing thumbed circles into it. You kick forward to brush your tongue along his, and he accepts your suggestion with a pleading moan.

You curl your hands round his hair, and try to pull him even closer to you, careful not to push against any of the welts on his face.

It seems easier for him to just push his body lithe between your spread legs instead. The covers are long forgotten, pushed down to the foot of the bed. He tangles his arm under your waist to pull your back into an arch so you’re pressed against his hardening mass.

You’re panting when you pull back. Set alight with greed. Want.

You’d only had sex with one other person. And you don’t even know if it counted because it lasted twenty seconds but you find yourself suddenly suffocated with the need to have Steve inside you.

You take your top off without thinking, revealing your bare chest to him. He traces your eyes down to the mounds of flesh lay out; just for him– he whines pathetically.

He tilts forward to kiss your chest from all angels. No bit of skin is left untended to. You keep a firm hold on his hair as he goes. You gasp rigidly when he grazes over the stiff peak of your nipple.

Your noise springs him back from you. He’s breathing heavily, sitting back on his calves.

You push up onto your elbows, trying not to look too dejected that he’d stopped.

“Why’d you stop?” You ask, almost pathetic.

He runs a shaky hand through his hair, pulling a little on the drag. He seems to be having internal conflict that he won’t confess.

“Do you not want to?” You whisper. “Did I do something wrong?”

You’re sitting up now– wobbling over tears, that you don’t quite understand. You didn’t even know how bad you wanted him until it was offered. Now it feels like life or death.

He looks back at you, agape that you would ever think it was something you had done.

“No– absolutely not.” He insists, reaching over to stroke your cheek. “The stuff I want to do… I can’t even get into it. It’s just that if I do it, if we do it– that’ll be it. I’ll fall completely in love with you. And I don’t even know if that’s what you want.”

You think about what he’s saying. You’re trying to remind yourself that not every moment is promised, but this one is. This one you can allow yourself to be in without any doubt or question.

You were more than okay for Steve to fall for you. Over and over again. You don’t want the chance to not have him.

“I want it. I want it so bad.” You plead. “Please, just touch me.”

He plunges forward to drag you into him. You push yourself back again, pulling your sleep shorts down onto the bed to expose yourself completely. He’s still capturing you in fevered kisses, dragging his hands over the bare flesh of your boobs.

You’re making way to clumsily tug his boxers down his thighs. He doesn’t break away to kick them off.

You wrap your hands around his thick girth and pull back to stare at him with wide eyes. You catch the knowing smirk he throws back at you.

Even at this moment he can’t help but be Steve. Proud, sometimes arrogant Steve.

You squeeze it experimentally, and he bites forward to nip the skin of your throat.

“Can I fuck you?” He gasps into your neck.

You feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperately needing to be full of something that isn't the cruel knowing that it was all so deeply impermanent.

“Please. Please. Please.” You chant, pulling his hand down to guide him to the pooling wet between your legs.

“Fuck.” He groans, running the pad of his finger down your weeping opening.

You're clawing at him, trying to feel his skin back on yours. He follows your lead, enclosing your head between his straining arms, dragging the head of his dick along the wetness eventually catching on the hood of your clit.

He’s hissing, neck rising in a deep crimson. You can feel your whole body quivering in the anticipation of it all. He leans back so that he can watch himself push slowly into you. Just the head first to gauge your reaction.

You throw your head back into the pillow to bite back the moan of relief to finally have something going in. The second inch is a little bit more stretching, definitely more uncomfortable.

You’re trying to focus yourself into the burning feeling, thankful to feel something more in your physical body than the mortal fear of death and destruction as you know it. He stops again, you look up to find him watching you, eyes pooled with fiery darkness. He’s tensing his jaw.

“We’ll go slow, yeah?” He finally bites out.

You nod frantically, already feeling that it was going to take a minute to get used to his size.

You keep going steadily, and he attaches his thumb to your clit to rub circles onto your bundle of nerves. You’re incoherent. The pushing of his length and the delicious stimulation are creating coiling churns around your belly.

You didn’t think you'd ever felt so full. Or good.

“You’re doing so well.” He cooes, rolling his head down to kiss your neck. “My perfect girl.”

You pull a shaky hand to drag your nails over the soft flesh of his back when he bottoms out. You can feel the way he vibrates, trying to not move despite probably being desperate to pull back and sink himself back into your warmth.

You press your forehead up into his, keeping your eyes locked on him, before leaning up to his lips.

“You can move.” You breathe.

He lets out a deep sigh of relief and curls his fingers around yours with one hand, circling your hip with another, pulling himself out almost the entire length before plunging back into you.

The scream you let out is guttural– animal almost. You didn’t even know that you had the depth to pull those kinds of noises from.

His pace is brutal, frantic pumps of agonising desperation. You keep your eyes on his face, analysing every bite of his lip, every pull of his brow. You want to commit it all to memory.

You’re struggling to keep a coherent thought, all that you have is stevestevesteve.

The curling ball of need is expanding, enclosing your whole body into a warm fitful grasp. You don’t realise how much your body is reacting to him.

“You’re shaking, baby.” He muses, slowing to grind slowly into you.

The change of pace plummets you past the point of no return. The coil snaps and you’re arching away from the mattress, clenching your legs and cunt around him in a vice.

“I love you.” You wail, turning your face to absorb some of the screams into the pillow.

He bucks foward a few more times before shoving himself as far as he can go into the depths of your warmth, emptying everything he has to give into you.

“Oh, fuck.” He grunts, collapsing down onto your still convulsing body.

He rolls to lay flat on his back, both of you breathing in broken unison. Neither of you make a move to dress. There’s no need now, you suppose.

“Did you mean that?” He whispers, rolling on his side to regard you distantly. He’s swiping hair off of your face that you don’t even realise is there.

“More than you can know.” You reply, intertwining your fingers through his.

—