pbs-bookshelf

In a reality where you fought inter-dimensional monsters and befriended a young girl with telekinesis, you would think there’s nothing worse than dealing with that.

But it’s pretty easy to say going through a breakup with Steve Harrington is infinitely worse.

You’re standing behind the counter of Family Video, eyes fixated on a small piece of fuzz swirling around the air. You’re trying really hard to ignore the customer flirting with your ex boyfriend ten feet away from you.

You’re grateful he doesn’t seem to be reciprocating her advances, but its probably because you’re nearby. Steve really grew out of being an asshole and flirting with her in front of you would put him right back at the top of the official asshole list.

It’s been a month since your breakup and just know whenever someone says it gets easier with time, they’re lying. The first week was spent on Nancy’s couch, surrounded by tissues and a family sized tub of ice cream. You called in sick from work the whole week and cried enough tears to fill an entire ocean.

The second week, she forced you to socialize more. She was considerate enough to start small – an invitation to have breakfast with her and Jonathan. The opportunity to take Mike and El to the new skating rink. Max spent some time with you too but she didn’t push you to talk about it, she just sat with you through four different movies. All horror, there was absolutely no room for romance or comedy.

By the third week, you really had to pull it together. There was no word from Steve and it was probably better that way. Eddie, Mike and Lucas did all the work to get your things from Steve’s house and pack it up to bring to Nancy’s. You really didn’t want to move into her apartment but it was a stepping stone after leaving Steve’s.

Looking back on it now, the breakup was .. well, it was stupid. It was a cumulation of arguing and stress and lack of space all in one. Petty arguments over chores and snide remarks about each others habits. It was something that should’ve been solved with one conversation but you were both equally stubborn and when you angrily shouted maybe you needed space, he didn’t argue.

Still, you missed him. You really fucking missed him.

And the worst part is he seemed to be doing perfectly fine.

Dustin swore he wasn’t taking sides but you haven’t seen much of him these past couple weeks. Whenever the kids hung around you, he and Robin were both missing and Mike let it slip they were at Steve’s. It’s not like you blamed them, you were all friends but Steve was their best friend.

Now, it’s day 34 without him and you’re wishing the ground will swallow you whole and save you from hearing this girl drape herself all over him.

“It’s just so good to see you, Steve,” She says. She wears a wide smile on her face, one palm resting on his bicep. Steve doesn’t seem to mind, he just fiddles with the tape in his hand and smiles back.

“Yeah, you too, Stacey,” He responds.

Stacey.

He never mentioned a Stacey when you two were together and now suddenly they’re a pair of good friends who wish they kept up with each other over the years.

You try not to stare but then she grabs his forearm and snags the pen he had clipped to his vest. Your stomach twists when she begins to write on the skin of his arm. Steve watches her, his brows pulled together and when she finishes, she raises his arm to her mouth – she presses her red lipstick covered lips against his skin, flicking her eyes back up to his and leaves a kiss mark.

You physically feel sick.

She removes her mouth, a quiet pop sound fills the store. You can see now she’s written her phone number on him, the kiss mark a cute little signature. Her thumb brushes over the lipstick stain and smiles up at him again.

“Call me tonight,” Her voice is low and sultry. Steve glances at you and when he sees you already looking, he swallows hard.

You can feel your eyes prick with tears and tear your gaze away from him. Your throat feels tight, you clench your jaw to keep yourself from crying.

Thankfully, a different customer approaches the counter with their own tapes to check out. You clear your throat and take a deep breath, then plaster on the best customer service smile you can muster.

“Find everything okay, Mrs. Langston?” You ask, typing in her information as you complete her sale. The older woman is easy to talk to and maybe for a few seconds, you’re able to forget all about Steve and Stacey.

You’re unsure how the conversation ends but when you hand the receipt to her, Stacey’s gone and Steve is carefully approaching the counter opposite of you.

You bid your goodbyes to Mrs. Langston and busy yourself with cleaning up the papers near the register. There’s nobody left in the store except you and him. Tension fills the air quickly and you can feel him looking at you.

You hope he doesn’t try to make conversation about Stacey. Aside from things related to work, you haven’t spoken since the night you broke up. If he tries now, you’re almost certain you’d burst into tears.

If he’s moving on – even though it’s only been 34 days – you won’t stop him, and you definitely won’t beg him not to.

“Hey, uh listen,” Steve’s voice breaks the awkward silence. “About Stacey, I just want you to know -,”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me,” You cut him off quickly. Your back is still turned to him and you’ve re-piled  the same stack of papers four times now to look busy.

“I know, but I want to.”

You freeze then. Steve notices and you hear the sound of his footsteps coming closer. He approaches you carefully, like he knows you’re seconds away from running away, and stops a few steps behind you. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth from his body.

He says your name softly but you still don’t turn. “I’m sorry you saw that,”

Sorry you saw that.

He’s apologizing it for happening in front of you, not that it happened in the first place. Because he’s not sorry. Clearly, the breakup and space has been good for him and while you’ve been a walking zombie, he’s been moving on.

You swallow hard and bite your lip. “It’s fine, Steve.”

He moves again. This time to stand beside you and his head bends to try and catch your eyes. You keep your eyes trained on the stack of papers and pray he’ll drop it.

Before he has a chance to say anything, the bell at the top of the door sings and the door swings up. You’re more than thankful for the distraction and you look up to greet the customer but you’re met with Eddie, Max and El.

Max and El are talking amongst themselves but Eddie’s eyes are stuck on you. You don’t miss the mischievous glint in his eyes as he looks between you and Steve.

“Look at my two favorite Family Video employees,” He sings and approaches the counter. Max and El follow.

“Hey guys,” Steve greets them, but you can feel his eyes still on you. Eddie clearly notices as well and smirks at you.

“We’re here to pick up the tapes Robin put on hold yesterday. Y’know, movie night and all,”

“Right, I’ll go get those,” You say quickly, taking any opportunity to get as far away from Steve as possible. You miss the way his eyes sadden but he doesn’t stop you.

As you scurry to the break room, Max and El trail behind you.

“You’re coming tonight, right?” Max asks suspiciously. You send her a sideways glance as you fish around the room for where Robin hid the tapes.

You already know your answer – no, you will not be going because movie night is always held at Steve’s house and you can’t bear the thought of being there again so soon. But you haven’t told anybody you weren’t going. Honestly, you planned to just skip out on the whole thing without a word. Clearly, Max knows you well enough to know that’s exactly what you intended.

“I don’t think so, Max. I’m not feeling great today,”

She sees right through you. “Bullshit.”

You scowl at her. “Language, Mayfield.”

“You feel fine, you just don’t want to be around Steve,”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You wave her off, and kneel to the ground in front of a crate of old tapes.

“Why don’t you two get back together?” El asks. You look up from where you’re shuffling through tapes. “Max and Lucas break up and get back together all the time. Even me and Mike have done it before. He still likes you,”

Her oblivious nature is cute and you can feel yourself soften. “Steve and I are a little different from you guys, El. And I don’t think he wants to get back together.”

“That’s bullshit again!” Max exclaims.

“Max!” You groan and finally find the tapes Robin hid. Rising to your feet, you head back up to the front. “It’s just movie night, it’s not a big deal, alright?”

You push through the beaded curtain, the girls following suit and nobody misses Max’s sour face.

“It is a big deal! Eddie, will you tell her it’s a big deal?”

Eddie pulls himself away from the conversation with Steve and looks at you three. “What’s a big deal?”

“Nothing.” You say.

“She doesn’t wanna come tonight,” Max says at the same time.

Eddie makes a face. “Why not? It’s the third time you’ve bailed on movie night.”

Max gasps, realization dawning on her. “It is the third time!” 

You glare at him. Damn him for keeping count.

“Can you two relax? I just feel sick today,” You grumble, punching in Robin’s phone number into the computer.

“Bull.Shit.”

“Maxine Mayfield, I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap!” You threaten, a finger pointed in her direction. She rolls her eyes but before she can respond, Steve speaks up.

“What’s wrong? Is it your head?” He asks. You look up at him and immediately regret it. He’s looking down at you with those chocolate brown eyes and they’re swirling with concern. “Have you been sleeping okay?”

You still for a moment because no, you haven’t been sleeping okay. Actually, you haven’t been sleeping at all.

“I’m fine,” You say quickly. “Can all of you relax? It’s just movie night,”

Steve ignores you. “But you said you were sick. What’s bothering you?”

“See?” El speaks up. “I told you he still liked -,”

“Okay, I’ll go!” You cut her off. She was one word away from completely embarrassing you. “Can everybody lay off now?”

Max and El look pleased enough, Eddie as well but Steve’s look of concern doesn’t disappear. Still, he doesn’t press you on it and you’re grateful.

The rest of your shift is spent carefully avoiding Steve and taking every opportunity to help a customer or stock shelves. You’re painfully aware of how he keeps an eye on you the whole time but he seems to respect your wishes to not talk.

By the time 8PM rolls around, the store is cleaned and ready to be locked up. Steve waits behind you as you lock the door before you both make your way through the parking lot. Three steps into the same direction, you realize he parked right next to you.

Thick tension surrounds you, and you’re silently wishing the birds chirping will be loud enough to make him not talk.

“Are you sure everything’s okay?” Steve’s voice is low and hesitant. Your heart pinches at that soft tone he carries – it’s something you got so used to but have been deprived of for the last month.

You nod without looking up at him, and pull the strap of your bag closer to your chest. “Everything’s fine,”

He looks torn between asking again or being quiet completely, and he chooses to be quiet.

This is the most you’ve spoken to him since the breakup and it’s even harder than you thought it would be. It’s taking every ounce of self control not to throw yourself into his arms and beg him to hold you. To come back to you and make everything better.

Your ego wins the battle. He didn’t fight for you to stay and hasn’t fought to bring you back either. If anything, he’s proving he prefers being apart from you.

You’ll get there, with time. Hopefully.

You make it to your car and surprising to you, Steve jogs ahead of you to open your car door. You finally look up at him and see him already looking down at you – he has one hand clutched around the handle and the other resting atop the door.

It’s hard looking at him, especially doing something to gentle like opening your door for no reason. Based on the look in his eyes, you’re sure he can see the pain in your eyes.

“Thanks.” You mumble softly and slide into the seat. He doesn’t shut it right away, so you glance up at him.

He takes a deep breath and moves to stand between the car and the open door. Carefully, he bends down to kneel so he’s eye level with you.

Gently, he says your name. “I don’t want you to miss out on things because of me,” He says and your heart sinks.

“I’m not,” You say instinctively. It was a lie and he sees right through you.

“If you’re uncomfortable being around me, I’ll skip out on tonight,”

You sit up, ready to argue that it’s his house and they’re his friends – he shouldn’t have to worry about your feelings. It’s not his responsibility anymore.

But he continues before you have a chance.

“I can find something else to do, it’s really not a problem.”

You frown at his words and your mind immediately goes back to Stacey.

He didn’t say he’d try to be around you, or that he won’t let it get weird – he was offering to leave completely. Maybe this was his way of finding an excuse to go out with her.

Your eyes flick to his arm and you see the faint trace of her phone number still on his skin. He follows your gaze and drops his arm from where it rests on your door.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He says quickly, almost defensively.

Maybe he didn’t. Or maybe he did.

Truthfully, there was no way for you to know. And it wasn’t like you had the right to know either. He wasn’t yours anymore.

When you look back up at him, your face is blank, eyes void.

“You can do whatever you’d like, I won’t make it awkward.” You say simply and Steve’s eyes sadden.

He can tell exactly what you’re doing – steeling yourself off from him and he hates it.

Before he gets the chance, you turn away from him. After sliding the key into the ignition, your hands curl around the steering wheel and you look straight ahead. “I already promised Max and El. I don’t want to let them down,”

He looks at you while you avoid looking at him again. From beside you, you see him nod before standing upright and shutting your door softly.

You don’t waste a second before you’re peeling out of the lot and making your way home, all without even glancing at him again.

Whatever he chooses to do will be on him and has nothing to do with you.

You want to cry – you can feel it about to happen – but you’re so tired of it. Crying and wallowing hasn’t helped you these past few weeks and it’s not about to start now.

Even then, you’re debating just breaking your promise to the girls and staying home. At least then you wouldn’t know if Steve decides to stay home or go do whatever he has planned with whoever.

But you miss your friends, and you’re tired of sitting on Nancy’s couch alone all night and tormenting yourself with your own thoughts.

When you make it home – Nancy’s home – you drag yourself into her apartment and avoid all her questions about how your day was, how it was seeing Steve, if you’re okay.

You give short and simple answers, making sure to skip over the Stacey incident, and tell her you’re going to shower before you leave. She’s happy you’re at least going tonight.

By the time you finish, you showered and changed into more comfortable clothes. You managed to talk yourself off the metaphorical cliff – you’ll stay for one movie and drive separately so you can make an early escape.

You haven’t figured out a way to feel normal once you step back inside his house and when you park on the curb, that feeling of dread consumes you.

You turn the car off but stay sitting for a few seconds as you stare at the house. A month ago, it was your house – your home. Now you’re knocking for someone to let you in. It’s a saddening difference and it just makes you regret coming even more.

You’re five seconds from starting the car and leaving before Nancy knocks on your window, Jonathan next to her. She urges you to get out and you can see the look on her face – the one that’s reading into your every move and it’s obvious she’s worried.

So you gather your things and pull yourself together.

Robin is the one to let you guys in and you glance behind you to see if Steve’s car was in the driveway.

Relief sits heavy in your chest when you see the maroon car.

You follow behind Nancy wordlessly but when you see El peak her head around the corner, Mike lingering next to her, it’s hard to fight your smile – because you really did miss them.

She rushes to you, practically dragging you further into the house and to where she claimed her spot on the floor.

Max and Lucas have their own setup next to El and Mike’s and they’re completely engrossed in their own conversation. Dustin has taken over the recliner on the other side of the room, and Eddie takes the end of the couch closest to him.

Nancy and Jonathan settle into the longer couch, and Robin sits on the obnoxiously big beanbag chair she begged Steve to buy her for Christmas last year.

You still haven’t seen Steve, and you wonder if he did choose to skip out and hide in his room.

You take the chance to look further around the living room. It almost looks like nothing has changed. The furniture is still set up the same way, the color palette is still warm and full.

The posed family pictures he once had with his parents are still replaced with pictures of the group across the room. But when you continue looking around, your heart sinks.

Because all the pictures he had of just you and him are still there.

A picture of you and him at the beach sits on the coffee table. One of you two hugging at graduation hangs on the wall beside the TV. Another one of just you, smiling up at the camera at your birthday two years ago is sitting front and center on the fireplace.

Your throat burns and you feel it begin to tighten. You never really let yourself think of the possibility that he hasn’t moved on either. Leaving of group photos was one thing, but the ones of you both? The one of only you?

It’s all too much and it’s slowly breaking your resolve. It’s only proving the fact that the breakup was all for nothing and if you weren’t so damn prideful, you could’ve fixed it.

Suddenly, Steve emerges from the kitchen with his hands full. He’s holding three different bowls of popcorn and bags of chips and candy tucked into his arms.

Your eyes meet and for just a second, he halts. He looks surprised you actually showed and you don’t blame him. Still, he gives you a half smile and you try your best to mirror it.

Dustin jumps from his spot on the seat and makes grabby hands at the snacks Steve holds. Eddie leans up and helps pass them out and you watch Steve swat Dustin’s hands away as he tries to steal everything.

Beside you, El talks your ear off and you’re eager to welcome the distraction. Otherwise, you would’ve spent the whole night staring at Steve.

Before long, Robin starts the movie and Mike begins to argue with Dustin about being quiet. There’s bickering, and laughing, and food being thrown but it feels nice. Happy even.

Steve ends up settling almost directly behind you on the couch. His elbow sits on the arm rest to his left and your back is directly against the foot of the couch. His legs are almost touching your shoulder. Neither of you say anything.

But even though you’re having a good time and aren’t completely regretting coming, you’re painfully aware of how close Steve is. You can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the smell of his cologne is almost all you can focus on. Your hand twitches in your lap – begging you to hold onto his ankle and lean your head onto his thigh.

And as you watch the movie, your eyes keep finding the picture of you two at graduation. Steve has you pulled back into his chest, his arms iron clad around you. He’s resting his chin on your shoulder and you’re holding both your diplomas up at the camera. Your shared smiles gleam back at you and it’s enough to make you smile in real time.

It’s also enough to make you sad all over again.

Because it’s not your reality anymore, and you’re not sure it ever will be.

Somehow you end up staying through three movies. By the time credits roll on the last one, everyone is asleep. Mike’s leaning against the wall, his neck bent in a way that’ll leave him with a cramp in the morning, and El’s head resting in his lap.

Max and Lucas are sprawled along the floor across from them, one of his arms tucked under her head. Dustin has his face smushed into a pillow, one arm and one leg hanging off the side of the chair. Eddie is slumped beside him, drool pooling at his mouth.

Robin is curled into a ball on her beanbag chair, quietly snoring. Nancy and Jonathan are curled into each other on their side of the couch. You’re too scared to turn and look at Steve, but he hasn’t moved a muscle in an hour so you’re sure he’s asleep too.

It’s the perfect time to slip out undetected.

Carefully, you push yourself off the floor. It’s a mess around the room and even in a rush, you feel bad just leaving things the way they are. So you grab the bowls and snacks from the coffee table and move towards the kitchen.

“Let me help,”

Steve’s voice startles you so much that you drop the bags of candy to the floor, your palm covering your mouth to minimize the scream ready to slip out.

His eyes widen and he smiles. “Sorry, sorry,”

You exhale and it’s hard not to smile back.

He doesn’t look like he’d been asleep at all, which means he probably just sat there thinking the same thing you were. His hair is a little messy, a few pieces covering his forehead and you’re itching to fix it.

He leans down to pick up the bags and you go back to picking up the cups and bowls. You’re both careful not to wake anyone else as you carry everything to the kitchen.

It’s domestic – the way you fall back into rhythm of cleaning. Steve takes care of the dirty dishes and you begin putting the snacks back into the pantry.

When everything is cleaned, you’re unsure what to do next. At first, you figured you’d clean and leave without having to talk to anyone but now, you’re left alone with only him and he’s looking at you like that again and it’s hard to think properly.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, facing each other. He has one hand resting on the counter, tapping his finger on the granite. Your bottom lip is pulled between your teeth.

“I, uh, I should go,” You finally say.

“You don’t have to,” He replies easily. “It’s late, you shouldn’t be driving right now,”

You glance at the clock on the stove and it reads back 2:19AM.

He was sweet for offering but it wasn’t far and the last thing you wanted was to prolong the inevitable awkwardness that would come in the morning.

Steve notices your apprehension easily. “You can take the guest room and leave first thing in the morning,”

Your head is screaming at you to say no thank you. To bid him a farewell and get home as quickly as possible. Your heart, however, is begging you to accept and take the chance to be close to him – even just for one night.

And you’re sick of sleeping on Nancy’s couch.

“Okay,” You nod.

His face lights up, a smile covering his mouth. “Okay.” He repeats.

Quietly, he shuts off the lights and TV before setting off upstairs. You follow behind him and when you make it down the hall, you both stop in front of his bedroom door. He turns around to face you.

“Uh, guest rooms right there,” He points at the door across the hall. “Bathroom is just down the hall. Second door on the -,”

“I know,” You cut him off and he nods quickly.

“Right, yeah. Of course,”

It’s awkward to say the least, but it’s not unkind. It’s nice to hear him talk again, even if it’s just telling you where things were.

You stare at each other for a moment. The clock in the hall ticks loudly and you wonder if he can hear how loud your heart is beating.

You break first. “Goodnight, Steve.”

He gives you a soft smile. “Goodnight.”

You enter the room and seconds later, hear his bedroom door click shut.

The guest bedroom is dull. There’s no pictures along the wall, only a painting of a red Cadillac from the 70s. There’s beige curtains covering the window and a matching beige bedspread on the mattress. There’s a small lamp on the bedside table and a desk on the opposite wall.

It’s a drastic contrast from Steve’s bedroom – especially after you helped get rid of his matching striped curtains and wallpaper.

It feels cold and lonely.

But you climb into bed anyway and do your best to stop thinking about how much better you’d sleep with him next to you.

On the other side of the wall, Steve lays on his own bed and feels the same way. His room hasn’t felt like his room since the day you left and now that he knows you’re so close, he’s using all his strength not to climb into bed with you.

He’s spent the last month trying to convince himself if he let you have some space, things would get better and you’d come back to him. To him, it was never a breakup – just a stupid stepping stone in your relationship.

But as the days passed, you pulled further away from him, and next thing he knew, the boys were coming over and packing up your things. He wanted to fight them on it, actually he tried – but then Mike said it was your idea and suddenly everything felt too real.

Maybe he fucked up so bad you were fed up. He thought about showing up to Nancy’s, thought about begging you to come home, but he didn’t want you to feel cornered. So he backed off.

But then he saw the way you reacted when you saw him with Stacey.

It’s not like it meant anything – it took her writing her number on him to realize she was flirting with him, all because he couldn’t stop staring at you. After he tried to talk to you about it, he spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub it off his skin. And you saw the remnants stained onto his arm later that night.

He didn’t want you to feel jealous or upset over it, he didn’t plan on ever calling her, but a small part inside of him felt relieved you did feel like that. At least you still felt something for him.

And he knew what you were thinking all night as he watched your eyes filter back to the pictures of you two. He didn’t leave them up to prove something, he just couldn’t stand the thought of taking them down. You would always be his, no matter what.

Still, the argument escalated so quickly because of him and he had to make sure if – when – you came back to him, it was on your terms. He wouldn’t rush you.

So he offered the guest room and hoped that would be the first step into forgiveness.

It’s maybe an hour after he’s climbed into bed when he hears the faint sound of .. crying?  

His ears perk up and he leans up on his elbows, turning his head towards the door. He listens for a moment but all he hears is the ticking of the clock.

He thinks he must have imagined it until he hears it again.

It’s still quiet, and easy to miss if he wasn’t already awake, but he can hear it – and it’s familiar.

It’s you.

It’s a cry he’s heard a hundred times over the years. It’s soft, and not the same one that comes from you during a sad movie - it’s fear.

He knows what’s causing it – your nightmares used to be overwhelming but ever since you moved in with him two years ago, they’ve become less frequent. Having him next to you was enough to tether you to reality and comfort you.

But now he hasn’t been there. Have you been dealing with them ever since you left? All the while he’s been making you feel like you should be gone.

His feet are moving before he even has a chance to think – like his body was made with a built in magnetic connected to you. He pulls his door open and pads directly across the hall to your door.

He presses his ear to the door and can hear your crying more clearly. They’re still quiet but they sound more intense now. His hand curls around the handle but then he hesitates.

Should he be the one to comfort you? Should he get Nancy to instead? Would you want him?

When he hears you cry out again, this time louder, he pushes the door open. The light from the hall shines through the doorway and he finds her curled in on yourself, sheets skewed across the bed. He can see you shivering, your brows pulled tight, creasing the beautiful skin of your forehead. He sees your skin is flushed red and your cheeks are stained with tears.

Guilt sits in his chest and without thinking, he’s climbing into bed with you. The mattress dips below his weight and he slides one arm under your head and pulls you from your fetal position so you’re facing him instead. He pulls you into his chest, an arm curled around your shoulders and the other cupping your cheek.

His warmth transfers to you, and as if you were searching for him the entire time, your body instantly relaxes in his hold. Your shaking stops, a soft sigh escapes past your lips, and your hand raises to clutch the fabric of his t-shirt.

You watches the way you bury your face into his chest, the crease between your brows disappears, and he hears the soft melody of your voice.

“Steve..” You don’t say his name as a question – he’s pretty sure you’re still not even awake. It’s relief. Even unconscious, you were given comfort again and you knew with absolute certainty, that comfort was him.

He feels his heart contract in his chest and he tightens his hold on you. “It’s me, baby,” He says softly, lips touching your hairline. “You’re safe, I got you.”

As he holds you in his arms, he knows without an ounce of doubt, he’s never letting go again. Nothing is completely fixed and won’t be overnight but when morning comes, he’s going to tell you exactly this.

He won’t ever let you forget how much he loves you.

When you wake up in the morning, you’re practically shackled to the bed by Steve’s arms. They’re wrapped tightly around your waist and his cheek is resting against the top of your head.

Confusion takes hold of you immediately, but you don’t pull away from his hold. If anything, you burrow yourself deeper into his head but it’s enough to make him stir and groan quietly.

Internally, you’re cursing at yourself for moving even an inch but then his hold tightens around you – if that was even possible. You can feel his head lift from where it rested atop of yours and you hold your breath.

“Hey, you awake?” His morning voice is gruff and it makes your stomach swirl. You hesitate for a second before giving him a timid nod.

“Mhm..”

He pulls his arms apart but only enough to spread his palms over your arms, his thumbs brushing back and forth over your skin.

Silence settles over the room, only the sound of your  breathing and the sound of his heart beating in your ear. It feels normal again.

“You were having a nightmare,” Steve says suddenly and your stomach drops. “Last night. That’s why I came in,”

You sigh softly, eyes squeezing shut from embarrassment.

“I’m-I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up,”

Steve shakes his head quickly. “No, don’t apologize. Seriously.” His tone leaves no room for arguing.

You’re both blanketed in silence again but for the first time in weeks, it’s not uncomfortable. The feeling of his arms around you again, your body tucked perfectly against his – it feels warm and safe and grounding.

“Thank you,” You say quietly, fingers tracing shapes over his shirt covered chest.

“You don’t need to thank me either, baby,”

The pet name slips out so casually and your heart splits in two, but you grip his shirt even tighter. Steve picks up on your reaction and gently cups your face, encouraging you to look up at him.

You’re more than sure you look disgusting – bags under your eyes, and they’re probably puffy from crying in your sleep, cheeks flushed pink, hair a tousled mess – but he doesn’t look at you like you do, even for a second.

Steve looks down at you like you hung the fucking moon and stars. It’s intense enough to have you nearly shying away but he holds you firmly in place.

“I’m sorry about everything,” He says and you blink up at him. “This past month without you has been fucking hell. And seeing you last night, I don’t ever want you to deal with that alone.”

Tears well in your eyes almost immediately and when one slips down your cheek, he swipes it away gently.

“I love you so much and I don’t want to spend even another  second without –.” Steve makes a surprise sound when you cut him off by pressing your lips to his.

He recovers quickly, arms pulling you tighter into his chest and kissing you back just as hard. Every ounce of emotion you’ve kept bottled up are poured into this kiss and as he keeps kissing you, he’s gently wiping away the tears falling from your eyes.

When you finally pull away for air, you don’t go far – you rest your forehead against his and smile.

“I don’t want to be without you either.” You whisper softly.

Steve’s smile is bright and he quickly tosses you onto your back before he hovers over you, sweetly attacking your face with more kisses.

Steve Harrington had a knack for throwing himself onto the metaphorical grenade and you were sick of it.

You won’t lie, his instinctual nature of being the hero and protecting the people he loved was one of the things that drew you to him in the first place. But what first came off as charming, is now infuriating.

Every bone in your body is tense, fingers clenched tightly into fists at your sides, and your feet stomp across the grass outside the WSQK building as you speed walk inside. Without looking behind you, you know Steve is fast on your trail.

Nancy and Jonathan stay behind, clearly aware of the simmering tension between you and Steve, near the van and try to occupy themselves with talk but you know they must feel awkward at the argument they’re about to witness.

“Baby, will you please slow down and talk to me?” Steve begs from behind you. Rather than listening to him, your feet carry you up the three steps and you swing open the glass door and step inside.

The gesture is only enough for you to slip through and you hear Steve groan when his chest collides with the door trying to shut itself before he can stop it.

Good, serves him right after his stunt tonight.

You ignore the passive glances aimed towards you from Dustin and Lucas who are sitting on the couch in the middle of the common room. Despite not being there physically, everyone is aware of the events of tonight and you’d like to think they’re on your side.

But you’re also not in the mood to discuss them. You continue on your path, although you’re not even really sure you know where you’re planning to go but for now, you head towards the kitchen.

You’re ready for an argument with him, truly you’re craving it – maybe then you’ll have an outlet for the anger you’ve been feeling lately. Tonight marks the third time in a single month where he’s put himself in danger and you’re at your wits end. And while you have every intention of fully laying into him, you prefer not to do it in front of an audience.

Steve calls your name again, still carrying the most patient tone he always embodies when it comes to you. Tonight, it only angers you even more. How can he stand there and be so calm and sweet when he nearly died less than an hour ago?

Once you’re both away from the others, safely tucked inside the small kitchenette of the radio station, you spin on your heels to face him. His feet all but screech to a halt when he realizes you’re finally looking at him, but you don’t give him a chance to even be relieved before you’re speaking.

“Are you set on carrying out a suicide mission or have all those blows to the head you’ve taken over the years knocked some screws loose in there?” You demand.

Steve watches your arms cross tightly over your chest and your eyes blaze up at him. He’s a 5’11” man and looking down at you now, he knows it should be physically impossible for him to fear you and yet that look in your eye has him nearly cowering away.

“What?” He asks stupidly.

“I’m serious, Steve. You went way off track tonight and not only did you put yourself in danger, you put the rest of us in danger!”

Truth be told, you couldn’t care less about yourself being in danger. It was Steve you were worried about, he was the only one you were ever truly worried about but there was a stubborn part of yourself who was too scared to admit it, even now.

“I know, I know,” Steve sighed, taking a step toward you but you take one backwards, insistent on keeping the distance between you two. You watch his eyes sadden and fight the urge to run into his arms and make it better for him but damnnit, he gave you another memory of his near death and you needed him to understand that.

Steve swallows and doesn’t fight the distance. “I didn’t mean to, okay? I figured it was our last chance and I wanted to make it count. I’d never let you get hurt, or Nancy and Jonathan, you know that,” He pleads.

You shake your head. “That’s not the point, Steve. This is the third time this month you’ve done something so stupid and careless, and you still don’t seem to learn.”

It’s Steve’s turn to shake his head. “That’s not fair. I’m trying to keep everyone safe, I’m trying to get us closer to Vecna!”

“Using your body as a human shield isn’t going to do that!”

“Wha – I’m not using myself like that!” He argues. Based off his tone, you can tell he’s still not getting it. It seems like he has such little regard for himself that he can’t even recognize when he puts himself in harms way.

“You are! We all agreed going to that gate was only to make sure nothing could fit in or out, and what did you do? You –“ Steve cuts you off.

“I had to! The plan we ‘agreed on’ –“ He uses his fingers to make air quotes over the word – “was made when we didn’t know it was guarded with goddamn Demobats. Nancy and Jonathan were pinned, I was making sure they got out!”

“And your bright idea was sacrificing yourself?” You shout back at him. You’re aware of the increased volume of your voices and how the others inside the building no doubt are hearing your argument to some degree but that doesn’t stop you.

“Would you quit saying it like I was trying to kill myself? I wasn’t thinking about that, I was thinking of a way to keep everyone alive,”

“Exactly, you weren’t thinking about it. You never think about it! You just do stupid shit and expect me to be there to pick up the pieces.”

Steve’s expression pinches, and you can see the last of his patience begin to dissipate. “Hold on, I don’t expect anything from you. And again, what I did wasn’t stupid, I’m the one who kept us all alive tonight,”

You bark our a humorless laugh. “No, Nancy and her shotgun are what kept us alive tonight. If she hadn’t followed you, those bats would’ve tore you apart just like they did last year!”

It was a low blow, you know it was. Steve hated the reminder of his first time in the Upside Down – ironically, a time where you did exactly why you’re yelling at him for now and jumped through the watergate to save him – and he confided in you about that many times. He told you about his nightmares about that night, about how much he hates his scars and how scared he was and yet here you were, practically throwing it back in his face.

And you can tell the argument has hit a point of no return when his eyes lose all their softness. You hit the exact nerve you were aiming for but now, you’re not so sure you’re able to deal with the consequences.

“Right. I guess I should be thanking Nancy instead of wasting my time trying to apologize to you, especially after you did basically nothing the entire time tonight,”

Your eyes narrow at him and his implication. “Excuse me?”

Steve shrugs. “You heard me. You’re on my case about how I put myself in danger but at least I was doing something. Nancy was the one who followed after me, all while you stayed behind and pouted until I got back,”

A piece of heart splinters from itself and it lodges deep in your gut. Just as you were aware of Steve’s fears, he was aware of your insecurities when it came to Nancy. You’d been sort of friends with Steve growing up and were a distant viewer of his relationship with her. You knew of their history, something you didn’t share despite your relationship with him now and you’d done your best to be up front with him about it. Not once has he ever given you a reason to doubt him, his love for you, or his lack of feelings for Nancy. Until now.

In all fairness, you started the war below the belt so, you reap what you sow. But still, it stung. It really stung.

“Oh I see, you’re just reliving your glory days then, is that it?” You mock him and he’s quick to pick up on it. But you’ve started now and there’s no coming back. “Is this whole thing your weak attempt at regaining Nancy’s attention? You’re doing whatever you can to make yourself seem like the King Steve that Nancy Wheeler fell in love with three years ago?”

You see the way his jaw ticks when you say his old nickname and you know you’re heading in the right – wrong, really fucking wrong – direction.

“I hate to break it to you, Steve, but you were knocked clean off that high horse in high school. You’re so worried about being forgotten and replaced that you can’t even see how careless you’re being. You’re not in high school anymore and no matter how much you try and chase it, you’ll never be what you were back then and it’s embarrassing having to watch your pathetic attempts anyway!”

Your chest is heaving by the time you’re done and you’ve spent the last two minutes ignoring that small voice in your head telling you to stop, that you’re hurting him, that you’re ruining things. A voice you didn’t listen to even thought you know you should have.

Steve stands in front of you, shoulders tense and his hands loosely curled into fists but all you can focus on is his face. His irritatingly handsome face, usually covered with an even handsomer smile, is now covered in a look you can only describe as hurt. Pure hurt.

Your stomach twists with guilt and you know you have to apologize, but no words seem adequate enough to make up for the things you said.

In a matter of seconds, he pulls his gaze away from yours and casts his eyes at the ground instead. He shakes his head, biting his lip and when he looks back up at you, his face is stoic. He’s sealed you off from him and his emotions.

“I’m done,” He says suddenly and you feel your heart drop to the floor. He doesn’t clarify what he means, although you’re not sure there’s much clarity to give. You pushed him too far, something you’ve done plenty of times, and he finally reached his breaking point. He’s done with you.

He doesn’t wait for a response or offer anymore before he walks out of the kitchen and all you’re left with is the distant sound of his footsteps moving further and further away from you.

Your throat tightens and your eyes burn with unshed tears threatening to fall. Your mind tries to piece together how things got so bad so fast but you know exactly how – because of you. Always because of you.

You got what you wanted. You wanted him to hurt like you did, so why did you still feel so bad?

You’re not sure how much time had passed by the time you left the station. All you know is when you did, the building was clear. The kids weren’t occupying the common room like they were when you arrived, Nancy and Jonathan weren’t by the van and Steve was nowhere to be found.

The air around you was suffocating despite you being alone and you know it’s because you’re wallowing in a state of self hatred. You crossed a line tonight, and you were certain Steve would never forgive you. Not that you could really blame him.

Your drive home is silent, save for the sound of your own subconscious screaming at you for being so mean and stupid. There were some other things she’d yelled at you but vulgar enough you don’t care to repeat.

When you finally get home, it’s just after 8 o’clock and you feel like a zombie as you run through the motions of a bedtime routine. You don’t bother with dinner or a shower, and quickly change into pajamas – your bottoms and one of Steve’s shirts – before shutting all the lights out and climbing into bed. 

You’re foolish enough to hope he’ll come over tonight. He’s spent the majority of your relationship here now that Dustin and Eddie have sort of moved into his house. It’s not like there wasn’t enough room for all of you, but Steve really enjoyed having space where it was you and him. Just you two.

It’s been a little over a year since you two became official, but you both know now how long you’ve spent secretly in love with each other. Your love for Steve has been something you’ve always been open about, something you’re proud of but there’s always been a distance you’ve kept with him.

Blame it on the dismissive approach your mother took to parenting, or the heartbreak from your father abandoning you as a child, or the bad luck you’ve had in your singular relationship before Steve that ended with him cheating on you – it didn’t matter. No matter how much you loved Steve, it was hard to trust him. Not his intentions or his loyalty, no there wasn’t a single part of you that worried he was a cruel man but who was to say one day he wouldn’t wake up and decide he didn’t want you anymore?

How could you know for certain that if you trusted him with every part of yourself, light and dark, he wouldn’t leave? You couldn’t be certain, that was the problem. And his instinct to hurl himself toward danger only made that feeling worsen. If he didn’t break up with you, he could leave you by dying and that was your worst nightmare. At least he’d still be alive if he didn’t love you anymore, but if he was no longer breathing? There’d be no reason left for you.

You’re tossing and turning in your sheets, clinging to his pillow that smells just like him, while your mind races and your chest aches.

You’re being unfair, and unreasonable. Steve’s never given you a reason to doubt him, as a matter of fact, he’s worked serious overtime to try and break down the walls you’ve spent years building. He’s kind, and selfless and so fucking patient it makes your heart bleed.

And in minutes, you’ve managed to break that. You’ve had exactly one good thing in your life and you broke it. You’ve broken him. The look on his face after hearing what you said is permanently etched in your brain and it worsens your guilt. Suddenly, you sit up in bed and you’re reaching for the landline on the bedside table. You don’t expect him to forgive you, you’re not even sure you want him to after the awful things you said to him, and you won’t try and change his mind on the breakup but he has to know everything you said tonight was a lie.

You’re dialing his number without a second thought and you ignore the way your hands shake with nerves. You’re not sure he’ll pick up, or that he won’t immediately hang up on you once he hears your voice but you need to try.

The line rings several times, all while you feel your body shake from anxiety. Your finger wraps around the cord, so tight you should worry about blood circulation. It’s still pitch black around you but all you can focus on is trying to find the right worlds.

None of it matters however, because after seven rings, you’re met with his parents voices on the voicemail.

And while you should take it as a sign to give him space, you’re shoving the covers off yourself and quickly slipping your shoes on instead. Your body is moving on its own accord, like a magnet being pulled to metal, you’re being pulled towards him.

You’re basically on autopilot as you drive to his house, still trying to find the right words to make it up to him. You’re pretty sure there’s nothing you could say to make it up to him but you’re determined to try.

The first thing you notice when you get to his house is the absence of his car, and then how dark it is – not even the porch light is on. When you glance at the clock in your car, it reads 1:03AM. You’re surprised he’s not home, and try not to think too hard of where he could be. You park on the curb across from his house and you’re hoping either Eddie or Dustin are here as you climb out of the car to knock on the door. Maybe waiting inside wouldn’t be such a good idea, but it increases the likelihood of him listening to you and not slamming the door in your face whenever he gets home. Not that you wouldn’t deserve it.

You walk up his driveway and knock on the door, nervously rocking on the balls of your feet. After a few moments and no answer, you assume either nobody’s home or whoever is must be asleep. Which means you either wait here for Steve to get home – if he comes home – or for one of the other two boys to potentially wake up and let you in.

Or go home.

With a sigh, you make your decision and sit on the second step of his porch. Your arms hug your knees to your chest and you rest your chin on the tops of them. With your decision made, you spend even more time internally berating yourself and trying to figure out what to say.

I’m sorry for throwing your worst fear and biggest regret in your face, I was being stubborn and instead of trying to ask for help, I acted like a bitch. Will you forgive me?

Yeah. That probably wasn’t going to work.

And anyway, this wasn’t about forgiveness. This was about making sure Steve knew he wasn’t pathetic and he’s so much more than who he was in high school. It was about making sure your own fears didn’t make him feel stupid or useless. He was none of those things.

Thinking back on it, there was probably a lot more truth to his words than you would’ve liked to admit. Nancy was the one who went after him, you did stay behind but it wasn’t because you couldn’t do something – it was because you were scared all you’d find was his body. But regardless of the reason, he was right. Tonight, you were the useless one and he made the call to try and protect everyone else, yourself included, when the group was faced with a threat. That was more than you did.

It’s relatively dark along his street and the lack of light on his porch makes it worse. There’s a breeze in the air and you’re beginning to regret not bringing a jacket in your quick frenzy to get here.

Suddenly it hits you.

Five hours ago, you said some of the worst things you could think of and without insulting you back, Steve walked away and ended things. He didn’t want you anymore, he couldn’t handle it and instead of listening to him and respecting his choice, you showed up at his home in the middle of the night. With what – a demand that he listens to you, all to appease your own guilt?

Oh God, you should not be here.

Just as you’re ready to scramble upright and head back to your car, headlights cover the pavement and you recognize them almost immediately. Your breathing has shallowed and your anxiety spikes. You’re still not set on what you’re going to say to him but it doesn’t seem like you have much of a chance to rethink anything – or leave like you’d now like to.

Steve cuts the engine off, returning you into darkness before he steps out of the car. He doesn’t seem to have noticed you or your car as he makes his way up the driveway. He’s lazily spinning his keys around his fingers, eyes trained on the concrete beneath him.

As he gets closer to the porch, his head lifts and it’s only when he’s a few feet away from you, that he finally notices you. He freezes almost instantly and at the same time, you practically jump to your feet.

For a moment, you both just stare at each other. He’s still in the same clothes from earlier, but his hair is messier than he’d ever kept it and he looks tired. You’re not sure if you’re to blame or because the late hour. Surely a mix of both.

You’re visibly nervous as he quickly takes in your appearance. Your pajama bottoms that are too long for you, one of his old favorite t-shirts you stole from him, and some random shoes that aren’t even laced all the way. Your hands are in front of you, wringing together and once he sees that, Steve realizes you’re here.

He finally meets your gaze and you watch his face twist from surprise to .. worry?

He says your name quickly, almost a breathless sound. “It’s 2AM, what’re you doing out here?”

You swallow and your throat suddenly feels dry. You’ve been trying to answer that exact question to yourself for the past hour. But despite his worrisome expression, you notice his words and it’s pretty easy to think your earlier assumptions were right, he doesn’t want you here.

“I.. I was waiting for you,” You offer softly.

It’s lame is what it is.

His brows furrow, and you’re both unsure what to say next and you figure it’s best if you start.

“I got here but you weren’t home, and nobody answered the door, so I-I just thought I’d wait here,”

Steve nods once. “Was at Robin’s. Eddie took Dustin to Mike’s, probably decided to stay,”

You don’t miss the shortness in his words and your heart pinches, but you have nobody to blame by yourself for that. After all, that’s why you’re here.

“Oh.” You nod, trying to give a smile but you’re sure it ends up looking more like a painful grimace.

Without you really noticing, Steve’s eyes drop down to your hands in front of you again. He watches the way you’re wringing them together so roughly and it’s your tell tale sign of not just how nervous you are, but how scared you are.

Unbeknownst to you, Steve is five seconds away from rushing towards you and forcing you into his arms. He hates seeing you scared, much less being the cause of it. He’d just spent the last five hours with Robin trying to come up with a plan to fix things between you two.

He hated what you said, of course he did, and he knows there’s absolutely no truth in the things you said about him and Nancy but maybe you weren’t so far off from the other things. Maybe he does the dangerous jobs because he has something to prove, something to fix, but not because of Nancy. Because he spent years being the worst version of himself and he’s desperate to make up for it.

He knows he’d be just as upset, if not more, if the roles were reserved and he was constantly watching you put yourself in danger, no matter the reason. He also knows you well enough to know the anger and mean words were your way of telling him how you really felt.

You were scared to lose him. He couldn’t fault you for that.

Just as he’s ready to break the silence and ask for forgiveness, you beat him to it.

“Listen, I just wanted to apologize for the things I said,” You’re avoiding eye contact and Steve can already feel his heart constricting in his chest. He knows how hard it is to be vulnerable with him, and especially how hard it is for you to apologize and yet, you’re doing it anyway. For him.

“Breakup or not, I don’t ever want you to think any of that was true,”

Wait, what?

Your words are nice and your tone is so kind, but they fall on practically deaf ears because all Steve can focus on is the word ‘breakup’. It’s ringing in his ears, practically taunting him.

“Hold on, hold on,” He rushes, shaking his head. “Who said anything about a breakup?”

He sure as hell didn’t. He wouldn’t let you go even if his life depended on it. Not unless you told him you no longer loved him and wanted him to let you go. Even then, he wasn’t sure he’d actually listen. But he was sure you hadn’t said that tonight. Sure, you were angry – so was he – but that wasn’t a breakup. Was it?

It’s his turn to internally panic but you only blink at him.

“Earlier, y-you said you were done. I get it, I really do, I-I was awful to you and you didn’t deserve that,” Your stuttering is hard to control and it’s only making your anxiety all the more obvious.

You shake your head, force your eyes to the ground and before your brain can tell your heart to shut up and protect itself, the words are spilling from your mouth.

“You never deserved that. I was just scared. I was scared that one day you’re going to do something and you won’t come back to me and instead of admitting that, I got mean and pushed you away but I swear, I didn’t mean any of it. Everything you do is from the most selfless parts of yourself,”

You still haven’t met his gaze.

“You’re so good, Steve. Too good for me, and I just proved that even more tonight. I’ve never been easy to be around, let alone be easy to love, but you did, and I want – no, I need you to know nothing I said was true. None of it,”

With your eyes trained on the floor, you see his shoes suddenly appear in your vision. He’s so close you can smell him, so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, and just as suddenly, you feel the softness of his palms cradling your face.

You nearly sob at the contact. Your eyes squeeze shut and it’s only then that you realize your cheeks are wet from tears, while more continue to fall freely. His warm hands hold your face, and you feel the light touch of his thumbs brushing away the tears.

Steve says your name so softly, so full of love and it nearly overwhelms you. It’s an encouragement for you to look at him and so helpless for him, you listen and finally meet his gaze. The look in his eyes match the softness of his voice.

“Baby, that wasn’t me breaking up with you. I just didn’t want to make it worse, I was saying some pretty bad things,”

Relief sits heavy in your heart but it’s short lived.

He was saying bad things? You were the awful one.

“I’m sorry for storming out like that. I should’ve told you what I meant, not let you think I broke up with you all night,”

Immediately, you protest in his arms.

“Steve, you don’t have to apologize for anything. I was so awful to you,”

His expression shifts and his shakes his head. “Hey, stop. None of that. You’re not awful, baby. And I’m not too good for you,”

You hear in his tone how you speaking those words really upset him and a small part of yourself is happy to hear the disagreement, even if you don’t really believe it. He knows you’re ready to argue but he cuts in.

“I’m serious. I don’t wanna hear you talking badly about yourself. I don’t care what it is, there’s nothing you could say that would make me believe you’re not enough for me. You’re everything to me.” Steve leaves no room for arguing and the weight of his words sink into your bones.

Even after everything, he’s still so sweet to you. What the hell did you do to deserve him?

All the love and adoration seeping from his tone and eyes finally overwhelms you and you don’t even bother stopping yourself from launching into his arms completely. You jump to the tips of your toes, wrap your arms around his neck tightly and bury your face into his shoulder. Your chest is pressed firmly against his and he can feel the way your heart races. He catches you easily, one large hand cradling the back of your head and the other anchored around your waist.

You cling so tightly, Steve almost worries you’re about to merge into one being. Not that either of you would care.

He continues to hold you as you cry, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. He’d take a lifetime of nasty arguments with you over a life without you.

“Sweetheart, I know it’s been hard for you to trust people before, and I’m sorry I wasn’t always around to protect you..” You’re unsure where he’s going with this but you don’t move from your place at his neck. “But I promise, I’m not going anywhere. You were right earlier, I throw myself into danger and didn’t stop to think about how that would affect you, I’m sorry,”

Gently, he pulls you from his skin so he can look at you. Despite all the heavy tears, your puffy eyes and reddened cheeks, you’re still the most beautiful girl in the world. He smiles despite himself.

“Please don’t apologize anymore,” You say softly. “I’m sorry for everything,”

His thumb strokes across your wet cheek. “I know, sweet girl,”

When you move to bury yourself into him again, he notices the way you shiver and he remembers how you’re still outside in the middle of the night.

“Come on baby, let’s go inside, yeah?” He murmurs. You nod immediately but make no movements to separate. A smile reappears on his face and without a second thought, your hands wrap around the back of your thighs and he effortlessly lifts you into the air.

You let out a startled gasp and instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist. You feel the rumble of his chest when he chuckles and he quickly kisses the top of your nose.

“Don’t worry baby, I won’t drop you. Trust me,”

You smile at him, you own palms coming up to cradle his cheeks this time. “I trust you, Steve, I promise.”

Eddie’s eyes are roaming your body, your glistening bare skin, the skimpy bikini bottoms that are only held together by the strings on the sides, the little bow coming undone slowly. He kneels down before you, making a gasp fall from your lips when the water from his hair drips on your belly and his cold hands touch your hip, fingers reaching for the strings so he can fix the little bow. 

You open your eyes to find him looking down with a smug smile as he plays with the strings on your bottoms, re-tying it for you. Your breath hitches in your throat from the touch of his hand and the closeness of him, if you were to sit up, your noses would bump together but you stay in place, only pushing yourself up on your elbows. 

“I’m sorry, sweets,” he chuckles softly, taking his sweet time as his fingertips graze your bare hip, “didn’t mean to get you wet,” he smirks, a look of mischief flashes in his eyes as water continues to drip from his body onto yours. 

“Are you sure?” You challenge him the way you always do, blinking at him innocently as you bring your knees up higher and bite your lip, making him gulp and blush instantly. 

You always know how to break him. 

Eddie is oh so confident and flirty, throwing looks and comments your way that are a little too suggestive for someone who is considered a best friend, but the moment you join in on his game, even if only subtly, he turns into a blushing mess, no longer the confident, cocky guy he wishes to be. 

But even when he turns into this, blushing and nervous, you can still feel that one certain energy radiating off him and it makes you squirm, it fills you with curiosity and the urge to cross that invisible line, your deepest desires, the ones that are locked away begging to be released. You never let them, you never even looked or paid attention to what you really wanted or craved. You played his game, you flirted back, you teased him but you never admitted to yourself that there was… something. 

“Hm, no,” Eddie murmurs, suggestively. He ties the knot, strongly and then, he hooks his finger around the strap, he pulls it back and lets it snap against your skin, making you jolt in your place, a tiny gasp falling from your lips once more as a bigger smirk appears on his face. His eyes roam your body, he takes you in fully before he leans back and plops down on his own towel, laying down, he places his arm behind his head, closing his eyes to the sun, he lets out a sigh of contentment, acting as though he didn’t just touch you the way best friends normally don’t do. Asshole. 

“This is nice, I’m glad we came out here.” 

You hum in agreement, taking advantage of the fact that his eyes are closed, you allow yourself to take a closer, better look at the man who had become your best and closest friend. He is attractive, very handsome, you aren’t blind, you never have been but he is your friend, you never allowed yourself to look at him a certain way but lately it’s become harder to stay so… blind, to not let his lingering touches make you weak in the knees, to not let his comments fill you with giddiness, to not feel something when he holds you in his arms, when he plays with your hair or places his hand on your thigh when you’re in his passenger seat. 

You don’t know where this sudden change has come from, it’s always been that way with him, from the very beginning, he’s been touchy and affectionate with you but it didn’t always make you so excited, it’s been a recent development, something that Nancy and Robin teased you about, they saw your reactions whenever he kissed your cheek and called you pet names, whenever he walked into a room only smiling the moment his eyes would meet yours. 

You never noticed it before, the feelings he left you with after all his sweet gestures and touches, only when your friends had brought it up to you, leaving you a blushing and a confused mess, did you start to open your eyes… a little, and suddenly things started to change, your reactions to his comments, no matter if they are flirty or sweet, your reactions to his lingering touches, the way his fingers would play with yours, the way they would drum against your skin, so very close to the hem of your skirt or your shirt, the way he would tuck your hair behind your ear or wipe the foam off your upper lip after taking the first sip of your morning latte before taking his thumb into his mouth and licking it off, moaning while doing so – what was normal before, suddenly wasn’t anymore, everything he did, everything he does now drives you crazy and leaves you yearning for more but you never dared to be the one to take another step forward, to cross that daring line, to make the first real move. 

He is still Eddie, your best friend, your soulmate, the person you don’t want to lose, especially over something like this, over reading into something that might not be there, over losing control of your own feelings. After all, this could all just be a part of… him. Maybe it’s just who he is, affectionate, teasing, flirty, daring. Maybe he is like that with everybody, not just you. 

But maybe not, maybe you are the only one and maybe, just maybe he is waiting for you to be the one to make another move, to take another step, maybe he has been waiting, maybe he has been waiting for a while now. 

You bite your lips so hard, you almost rip the skin open, your eyes are glued to his form, to the way his chest rises up and down, his wet hair a mess around him, lashes fluttering as his eyes are squeezed shut, your fingers itch to touch the ink on his pale skin, you lick your lips as your eyes follow his happy trail, mouth watering at the way his swim trunks are so low on his hips, his bulge so… god, you need to stop – but how can you? Your best friend is just so pretty. And his hands are so big, fingers so long and you have felt them on your skin before but you would be a goddamn liar if you said you didn’t think about them in other places. 

Your cheeks heat up at your own thoughts, though it doesn’t stop you from daydreaming some more and the longer you do, the more you start to lose yourself in them, wondering about all the different what if’s, wondering what would happen if you just made the move your friends have begged you to make, to be more daring, to be more teasing, to break him enough for him to do something you both clearly want. 

A bravery you don’t usually have, surges through your body, taking over completely. The urge to tease him back the way he teases you is so strong, so before you chicken out, before you think too much and too long, you reach behind you, undoing the bow he tied on your bikini top, you turn away from him and take the skimpy black thing off, throwing it down next to you, the cool breeze kisses your skin and if Eddie opened his eyes right now, he’d be met with the sight of your bare chest. 

You press your lips together and turn around, flipping your hair over your shoulder, you lay down on your stomach, stretching your arms out and letting out a sigh of contentment. You turn your head into his direction but close your eyes, even though you’re dying to see his reaction to you being topless but you are trying to play it cool, like it’s nothing. 

Eddie peeks one eye open after listening to all your movement and he almost chokes on his spit when he does, jaw falling slack, both eyes shoot open as he takes in the sight of you, of the skin that wasn’t bare only seconds ago – how, when, what?

He blinks, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted as he is gawking at you, at the way your boobs are pressed against the towel beneath you, at the softness of your skin, at the single drops of water still clinging to your body that he wants to touch oh so badly, your hair looks so shiny and soft, your face so content as you lay half naked next to him. 

Eddie’s cheeks heat up when he realizes that he would have seen you bare if only he opened his eyes a few seconds sooner. He licks his lips, nearly drooling over the sight of you. Suddenly, his trunks feel tighter than before when his mind takes him to places he only reserves for late nights when he is all alone and not afraid to risk to pop a boner. 

He tries to look away, he really does but he can’t, not when you look this hot. He allows his eyes to roam again and it only makes his case worse, his breathing quickens, his skin heats up, his hands itch to touch your soft skin, his lips long to trail kisses down your body, to have a little taste of you. 

If you were his, he would, he would start on your neck and he would kiss down to your shoulder and then your back, and he’d take it lower and lower until his lips would reach those skimpy panties, he’d take them off and taste you the way he always dreamed of, he’d lick a stripe up your pussy, suck on your clit, eat you out like the starved man that he is and he would get lost in your moans and your whines, in the pleasure that only he could make you feel. 

Eddie clears his throat, he nearly curses when he feels his dick twitching in need of you. He clenches his jaw, even more so when he sees your lips twitching into a smirk. Oh… Oh. 

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, his breath halting for a moment when he realizes what you did, you did this on purpose, you aimed to tease him. 

It’s not exactly something new, you being a tease but you have never taken things this far, you have never stepped up to his level. 

But now that you did… he can take things further as well, right?

If you decide to tease him like this, then he will tease right back. 

He pushes himself up, adjusting his trunks, he nearly lets out a groan when you wiggle your butt a little, pretending to get more comfortable. 

He bites his lip as he looks around in search for the sunscreen you have brought with you, he finds the bottle peeking out of your bag. He presses his palm on the grass beneath him, leaning over your body to reach for the yellow bottle. 

“What’re you doing, Eds?” You murmur, rather seductively

A smirk tugs at Eddie’s lips, the tone in your voice tells him that you believe you are in charge here and… maybe you are, right now, but he won’t let you win so easily. 

He chuckles lowly when a gasp tears from your pretty lips after he squirts the cold cream on your back. 

“Don’t want you to get burned, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the cap of the bottle, he throws it on the ground before he lays his palms flat against your hot skin, spreading the white cream all over your back. 

You grow flustered and you start blushing, your breathing gets heavier and you visibly gulp when he starts massaging the sunscreen into your skin. You suck in a sharp breath when his hands move up to your shoulders, gripping you there for a moment before he moves back down, the coldness of his rings making you shudder a little. 

Eddie can’t even hide the smug look on his face after feeling your reaction, pride swelling in his chest when you sigh so beautifully because of his touch. 

You easily get lost in this, eyelashes fluttering, soft breaths and sighs falling from your lips as his strong hands move up and down your skin, touching you in ways that make you squirm beneath him. 

“Feels good,” you whisper as you arch your back a little, not knowing that just a small movement like this is enough to drive him insane, once again. 

“Fuck,” he curses softly under his breath, he swallows harshly. 

“What was that?” You ask, not hiding the smugness in your voice, very well. 

“Nothing,” he lies, “nothing, sweets.” 

“You sure?” 

He hums, shaking his head at your teasing, at the way you think that you will win the game that he started. 

Eddie moves his hands down to your sides, making sure to get the cream everywhere, so you won’t get burned, of course. His fingers dip dangerously low to the side of your boobs, and while it was only meant to tease you, to get a reaction out of you, he realizes that it was a mistake, only a little too late – it only makes his case worse when he feels just how soft and smooth your skin is that is usually hidden under all your clothes, when he feels himself craving to touch a little lower, to feel more of you, to make you feel–

“Mmmh.” 

Eddie freezes, hands halting at your sides, his big brown eyes widen and his lips part once again, he stares at the back of your head, stunned. 

You moaned at his touch, whimpered even, making those butterflies in his stomach feel stronger than ever. 

“Why’d you stop?” You mumble, wiggling your butt as though to tell him to keep going. 

Do you even know the power you hold over him? 

Do you even understand what you do to him? 

Eddie bites his lip, he bites hard, hard enough to taste iron. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting back the growl that threatens to fall from his mouth when he adjusts behind you, the rough material of his swim trunks rubbing against his dick. He is fucking rock hard and if you only turned around to take a look at him, you would see it. 

“I’m sorry, got a little distracted,” he says lowly, voice getting a little shaky. 

He feels so hot, and it’s not the sun that is making him sweat, it’s all you. 

He can see the way your lip twitches, the way your dimple shows when you smirk at his words. 

“Oh? By what, the birds?” You giggle. 

He chuckles, shaking his head at your question even though your eyes are still closed. He takes a moment to look at your surroundings, at the beautiful scenery, the trees and the big lake in front of Steve’s cabin – well, his parents cabin. 

God, he wonders where this weekend will take him, you and him. 

A weekend you were both supposed to spend with your friends, turned into this. Just you and him, and no one else. 

It’s only day one, and you are already close to making him cum in his swim trunks, like some pathetic teenage boy who couldn’t handle his crush’s teasing or touching. 

This will either be the best weekend of his life, or this might kill him – if you are only teasing, then this will surely kill him but if you are not, then he owes your friends a lot, for pretending to be sick or busy. He knows that they were lying when Robin fake coughed on the phone after telling him that she couldn’t make it, that she and Steve couldn’t make it, cause he got sick too… apparently. 

And Nancy forgot that she promised to help her mom with something, and if Nancy couldn’t come, then Jonathan couldn’t either of course – which led to Argyle staying back as well, cause where would he ever go without his best buddy? 

Eddie looks back down at you, at his best friend, who is laying half naked before him so comfortably, teasing him so freely. Another sigh escapes your lips and you squirm beneath him once again. 

Yeah, no matter how this will end, you will be the death of him. 

“Yeah, the birds,” he mumbles, snorting at his own words. 

He leans down closer to you, squeezing your sides which makes you jolt a little, a giggle falling from your lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, eyes lighting up at the sweet sound, “I forgot how ticklish you are,” he teases, as if. 

“Mhmm sure you did, Eddie.” 

With a mischievous smile, he decides to take his teasing further, playfully digging his fingers into your waist, he begins to tickle you, making you yelp and jolt in surprise as you start squirming beneath his touch, giggles now falling freely from your mouth as his name rolls off your tongue so effortlessly, awakening those butterflies in his stomach. God, he wishes he could make you call out his name in different ways. 

You jump up, with your arms covering your front, one hand pressing against your boobs, hiding only just a little as you turn to face your best friend. You watch the way his eyes widen as they instantly fall to your chest, lust flashing in them, jaw dropping as his cheeks redden right this second, his expression makes you giggle even harder, even more so when you push him back and he falls onto the grass, flat on his butt, wet curls hanging in front of his hair. 

Eddie is so stunned by you, he can barely move as he stares at you, at your half naked form. God, you are so beautiful it hurts. 

The afternoon sun begins to turn golden, kissing your glowy skin and all your curves, your hair cascades down your shoulders, your hand that barely hides anything pressing against your boobs, he wishes it was his own. Licking his lips, he pushes himself up on his elbows, letting his eyes roam your body, shamelessly, dreaming about the way he would love to get between those delicious looking thighs of yours, the way he’d kiss every inch of your body, leaving no trace unmarked, the way he would nuzzle his nose into your neck and inhale your sweet scent, not playfully the way he usually does, but with a trail of kisses that he would leave behind. 

He would worship you in ways he can’t even begin to describe. Oh, how often Eddie finds himself up at night, working on yet another song about you, thinking of words that haven’t been created yet, strong enough to describe you. 

He feels uncomfortable in his swim trunks that are getting a little too tight, his skin feels on fire, not from the sun but from you. He lusts after you, yes, but there is also more than that, so much more. It isn’t just the lust that makes these feelings so intense, it’s all his deepest feelings for you, feelings that only his notebook filled with song texts know about… and maybe your friends, who aren’t as oblivious as you are. 

“I’m gonna take a shower, and you should too,” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts. 

Eddie clears his throat, watching you get up, not bothering to pick up your top or your dress that you wore earlier, you simply keep your chest hidden by your right arm. 

“You’re helping me cook dinner,” you give him a pointed look before you turn around and begin to walk back to the house. 

Eddie smiles cheekily as he pushes himself up further, eyes glued to your butt now. 

“Are you telling me to get into the shower with you?” He calls after you, unaware of the butterflies that he caused in your stomach now. 

You don’t turn around, you keep walking, hiding the flustered expression on your face from him. You flip him off without looking back, biting back your smile when he laughs loudly. 

Eddie watches, craning his neck to see more of you, the way your butt jiggles as you skip up the stairs. He bites his lip, groaning at the sight of it. 

“Goddamn.” 

You will be the death of him.

-

It’s dark outside by the time Eddie comes out of the steamy bathroom, the cabin is mostly dark too, candles illuminate the living room and the sound of music fills the space. A smile lingers on his face as he makes his way down the hallway, his wet curls bouncing with each step that he takes, he throws on a clean shirt, his gray sweatpants hang low on his hips. 

A groan almost falls from his lips when he walks into the kitchen to you standing there in nothing but one of his shirts, now that sight is nothing new to him but it never fails to take his breath away, though usually you have on more than just the shirt. Your bare legs are glowy beneath the dim lights, from hours in the sun and that delicious smelling cream you always put on your skin after showering, you sway your hips to the music, shirt riding up in the process. Eddie can’t help but wonder if you are wearing any panties at all beneath his shirt. Fuck. He shouldn’t let his mind go there, you have done enough teasing for the day, he almost jerked off in the shower and maybe he should have, maybe that would have released some of the tension in him but he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet, he never is. 

God, this really will be a long weekend filled with torture and teasing. He knows he should probably stop playing this dangerous game but he just can’t help but play into it. 

He slowly makes his way to you, you’re humming to the music, knife held in your hand as you cut up vegetables, an opened bottle of beer on the counter before you, your damp hair is braided loosely, falling down your back. He can smell your body wash from here, the sweetness of it – of you is so intoxicating to him, he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around your waist, pull you into him and bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhale your scent and kissing your soft skin, he craves it so very badly, even more so, he craves for it to be something normal. 

Eddie wants you to be more than just his best friend. 

Everybody knows it, everybody but you. 

And maybe it’s better this way, maybe he would lose you if you did find out. 

You might be a tease, you might let him touch you in ways no one else is allowed to, you might give him hope sometimes, the hope that you could feel more than just something platonic for him but at the end of the day you are still best friends and he can’t lose that, especially not because he can’t control his feelings. 

Because what happens when you do find out and you don’t feel the same? 

What happens then? 

What happens if it drives you away? 

What happens if he loses you? 

And he can’t allow that to happen, he can’t lose you, not you, anyone but you. 

Eddie knows he should do himself a favor and stop being so touchy and affectionate with you, it does him no good, if anything, it makes him want you even more but he can’t help it, he has to take what he can get… right? 

He comes up behind you, snaking his arms around your waist, he breathes in your sweetness, chuckling when you tense up for a second before a cute giggle falls from your lips. 

“You scared me,” you whisper, tilting your head back, you look up at him as you ease into his touch. 

“Sorry sweets, didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, teasing you with that pretty smile of his as he snatches a piece of the cucumber you’ve been cutting and bites into it, winking at you as he steps away again and takes a look into the large pot on the stove. 

“Pasta?”

“Pasta Arrabiata,” you say, imitating the Italian accent that Steve always makes whenever he is cooking. 

Eddie chuckles, “wow that was horrible.” 

“Shut up,” you giggle, scrunching your nose at him. 

If you knew how his heart flutters at your laughter and at your cute nose scrunches. 

“Since when do we put cucumber in pasta?”

The disgusted look on your face makes him laugh again, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyes you up and down. 

“I’m also making a salad, it’s for you, you need to eat more veggies.”

His lips curl into yet another smile, warmth blooms in his chest. 

You take care of him, you always do. From making sure that he eats enough when he gets a little too lost in writing songs or working on campaigns to making sure that he wears a hat and a scarf when it’s cold outside, whether it’s something small or big, you are always there to look after him, you’ve always been there. 

“Alright, I’m eating the greens just for you, sweets.” 

He licks his lips as he eyes every inch of your exposed skin, tracing your soft features with the longing look in his brown eyes. The way his shirt looks on your body, the way your hair falls in front of your eyes despite you tucking it behind your ear just moments ago, the way you bite your lower up as you give him a disapproving look. 

“No,” you shake your head, pointing your knife at him, “you gotta eat them for yourself.”

“Are you threatening me?” He smirks, closing the gap between you both again, you instantly lower the knife and place it on the counter. 

You shrug, teasing him with a sweet smile, “what if I am?”

Eddie licks his lips, inching closer and closer to you, a smile tugs at his mouth, he hums as he raises his hand up to your face, combing his fingers through your wet hair before he tucks the fallen pieces behind your ear again. 

He is unaware of the effect he has on you, of the fluttering in your chest, of the burning in your skin, of the shaky breaths you suck in. 

“Then I think that’s really hot,” he winks at you as he moves his hand down your neck and then your shoulder, sliding it down along your spine, lower and lower until he’s holding your hip and pressing himself against you as he moves onto your other side, slower than necessary. 

Your lips part in surprise, every trace that he has touched starts to burn, your knees grow weak and your heart starts beating faster – how much longer can you deny the emotions he causes inside you?

“So, how can I help?” 

He is teasing you, you can hear it in his voice, and you don’t have to turn around to face him to know that there is a smirk on his face. 

“Set the table, pick a movie to watch later, dinner is almost ready.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your ear before he walks away without another word, giving you a moment to take a few deep breaths. 

You take a sip of your cold beer, closing your eyes for a moment, you listen to your beating heart, you feel the goosebumps on your skin, you feel the rush of blood to your cheeks, the weakness you feel for your best friend. 

How much longer can you deny what is really inside of you, that it’s not just physical attraction? 

Your heart flutters when his deep voice sounds through the dining room as he sings along to the music, your lips curl into an adoring smile. You can hear him rummaging through the drawers, trying to find the table cloth you assume. 

Picking up the knife again, you continue chopping your vegetables, finishing up on your salad, though you quickly get lost in this… domestic energy you both have created. It feels so warm, so safe, so familiar. A feeling you can’t imagine sharing with anyone other than your Eddie. 

He comes back into the kitchen, humming, he grabs two plates and cutlery and places them on the counter before he passes by you, without a teasing smile or comment, he places his hand on your lower back, he reaches over your shoulder to retrieve two wine glasses from the shelf and steps away again, leaving the kitchen once more. 

It all feels so natural, so normal and yet, it makes you struggle to breathe because the butterflies in your stomach go wild – just the way they always do, but now it becomes harder and harder to not pay attention to them. 

You take another deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, to push aside your feelings, to keep doing what you did before… be unaware of what is buried deep within your heart. So, you move along and distract yourself with finishing cooking dinner, not allowing your mind to take you further into this pit of hell as you call it, because that’s what love and feelings are, hell. 

There is no good in love, there is no peace in having feelings.

It’s a rollercoaster ride that ends no matter how long it lasts, pleasant or not, it ends. 

And you refuse to let feelings get in the way of yours and Eddie’s friendship, he means too much to you to risk taking a step further into something that your stupid heart desires, you love him too much to let your lingering feelings ruin what you both have, besides… who is to say that he could feel something for you? 

You are his best friend and he is yours, that’s all you’ve ever been and it’s all you’ll ever be, best friends, nothing more or less, best friends who are affectionate with one another, who tease each other, who sleep in each other’s arms and do things that other best friend’s might not do… Though when you step into the dining room with the heavy pot in your hands, you halt in your tracks, freezing at the sight before you. 

The table is set but not like usual, it makes you struggle to keep pushing away those feelings that have been sneaking their way to the surface because why did he place the plates so close to each other when the table is so big? And why did he place candles on the table and light them up instead of keeping the lights on? And why did he change the channel on the radio? Why is slow music playing instead of the rock channel he usually settles for when there is no better option for him? 

You can handle his teasing, you can handle his touching, his flirting, his suggestive comments and looks he gives you so often. 

But this is something else, this is something that would have normally made you run, a table set up so romantically, a dinner that seems to become something intimate. Yeah, if someone else had set this up, you would’ve definitely ran, you would’ve felt anxious, suffocated. 

Those feelings don’t exist with him though, it’s quite the opposite, even with the lingering fear inside of you for what you feel for him. You feel giddy. 

“Picked the movie, sweets,” Eddie calls from the living room, snapping you out of your troubled thoughts. He enters the room with a grin on his face. 

You clear your throat and finally take the final steps to the table, putting down the pot in the middle, you glance at your best friend. 

“Yeah? What’d you pick?” 

“Something neither of us have seen yet,” he winks at you, moving closer and closer until he is right in front of you again. He grabs the chair and pulls it back, gazing down at you with his dark eyes, “sit.”

“I gotta get the rest of the food–”

“I’ll get it, now sit down, princess,” he murmurs. 

Whenever his voice gets so low, your knees feel like they’ll buckle at any moment, shivers run down your spine and your cheeks grow hot. 

“Alright,” you chuckle, plopping down on the wooden chair, you gaze up at your best friend, batting your eyelashes at him. 

Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, there is not much you have to do to drive him crazy. 

“Smells really good in here,” he comments, the mouth watering smell of pasta sauce and garlic bread makes his stomach growl. 

“Thanks Eds, now get the rest of the food before it gets cold.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he winks at you, squeezing your shoulder before he turns around and makes his way out of the room and into the kitchen. 

You take a deep breath when he’s gone, rolling your shoulders and trying to calm your nerves, your heart is racing and it makes you feel ridiculous. You are here with Eddie, your best friend, Eddie. You got nothing to feel nervous about, you’ve been here plenty of times before, at dinner alone with him… though, it was never like this, you never had candle light dinners with slow music playing in the back. And his touches, his smiles, his voice never drove you this crazy before, he never made your heart flutter, his hands never made your skin feel hot, he never made you feel like you’d fall to the ground because your knees felt like jelly, he never made you feel those things before until recently… or did he? 

“I’m starving,” Eddie says dramatically as he places the salad bowl and the garlic bread on the table. Before he takes a seat, he opens the wine bottle and reaches for your glass, he glances at you as he starts pouring it in your glass, he notices your flushed cheeks and how fidgety you are in your seat as you eye him up and down, it makes his heart flutter. 

“We can’t have that,” you chuckle, reaching for his plate, you start filling it with salad first to which he protests, claiming that it will only make him starve even more. “You need some healthy food!”

“Not too much of it though,” he shakes his head as he lifts the lid of the pot, inhaling with a smile on his face, “I need that.” 

Your giggle makes his smile widen. 

“Alright.”

“You know I love your pasta,” he grins as he watches you fill the plate. 

“That’s Steve’s pasta,” you chuckle. 

“Nah, that’s his recipe, you cooked it,” he retorts, tilting his head to the side, “besides, you do it better.”

Warmth fills your chest and your cheeks, your smile gets even bigger now. 

“Don’t tell him that! He’ll be distraught!” 

“Don’t worry, it’s our secret,” he mumbles with a grin on his face as he finally takes the seat across from you, taking the plate from your hands when you hand it to him with a soft ‘thank you’. 

He waits for you to fill your own plate before he picks up the fork or even takes a sip of the wine you picked when you went grocery shopping together this morning. He leans back and takes a look around, your surroundings are so different than usual, so unlike the small apartment he recently moved into where you eat your dinners at his tiny kitchen table. He appreciates the home cooked meals you always bless him with and the way you always want to take care of him, it makes him feel warm, it makes him feel safe. 

Eddie wants to do the same for you, he wants to make you feel the way you make him feel but he believes that he can’t measure up, that he can’t give you what you give him, that he can’t provide you the same feeling of safety or warmth and maybe that is the sole reason why he hasn’t made a move on you yet, not because he is scared of ruining your friendship – god, he wants to ruin it so bad. But because you deserve more than he can give you, you deserve this, a big house with a stupid fireplace, a big garden, stability, someone who can take care of you, someone who can give you more than a small, shitty apartment, someone who can give you more than just the flowers he gives you or the pastries he brings you when you’re taking your lunch breaks at work. 

Yeah, your friendship is very precious to him, he is scared of losing you, every goddamn day he wonders if this will be the day where you don’t show up for him but it isn’t the reason for his lack of effort in fighting for what he actually wants, it’s the fact that he believes that you deserve better than him, someone less like him, someone more like… Steve. 

So he settles for loving you from afar, he tries to spoil you, he tries as best as he can. He teases you whenever he gets the chance to, he becomes giddy when you react to it, when you blush and giggle or even tease him back the way you did today, it sparks something in him, maybe it’s confidence or maybe just an illusion that you could feel the same, whatever it is, he basks in the feeling in those moments. 

His eyes soften and the beating of his heart becomes stronger as he watches you, the way you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, the way your beautiful eyes shine in the dim light, the light flush in your cheeks making you look so damn cute, the way your smile only widens when you glance at him, a small huff falling from your mouth. 

“What are you looking at?” You tease, putting down your plate before you. 

You. 

He always looks at you. 

Eddie knows he won’t have this forever, someday you will meet someone who will give you everything that he wishes he could, someday he won’t be the one sitting across from you enjoying your dinner, someday he won’t be the one in your life. 

“At your shirt, is it new… or?” He teases, acting like he didn’t just get lost in his head, thinking of your future that he might not be a part of. 

You look down at his shirt, smiling proudly, you stole it from him the last time you stayed over,  “mhm got it from this store called the drawer.”

Eddie snorts, though he adores the look on your face, “you’re so lame, the drawer? Really?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, picking up the fork you start eating happily. 

“Who sold it to you?” Eddie asks, squinting his eyes at you. 

“Oh, this uh… really handsome guy, said he’s in a band, corroded coffin?” You raise your brow, pretending to think. “Yeah, that’s what it was.”

Eddie’s stomach flips in excitement at the compliment. You’ve called him handsome plenty of times before, but it never fails to make him blush. 

“Damn, he sounds really cool,” Eddie says, laughing. 

You nod, a serious and adoring look now flashing in your features, no hint of amusement behind those eyes, no teasing, just pure adoration for him, “he is, he is the coolest actually.”

He gets flustered easily when he’s with you but when you look at him like this, with that sweet smile and those soft eyes, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he doesn’t know what to say or how to act, so he hides his face by looking down at the delicious food in front of him, a sheepish smile resting on his face, one that makes your own even bigger. He finally takes a bite of the pasta and his eyes instantly close as he moans at the taste of it, making you giggle yet again. 

“Fuck me, yeah I’m sorry sweets, but I ain’t letting you get married, you’re stuck with me,” he jokes as he takes another bite, completely forgetting about all the anxious thoughts that swirled in his mind just moments ago. 

“Oh, you mean I’m stuck being your private chef?” 

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

You raise your eyebrows at him, chewing on the garlic bread slowly, you try to ignore the heat building up in your stomach as you look into his chocolate eyes, waiting for him to say that word.

“Oh, then what would you call it?”

Eddie looks at you through hooded eyes, a teasing smirk tugging at his plump lips.

“Housewife.”

A surprised giggle falls from your lips, though your cheeks start burning, especially under his gaze. Something tugs at your chest, something strong, something warm. Housewife. You never craved to be that, you never had such desires. Sure, you always dreamed of finding the one, finding true love, finding someone who will love you the way you can love, the way you always wished to love but that’s it, you never imagined yourself past the dating stage, you never daydreamed of weddings and a husband, you never thought of becoming a wife, a housewife at that but… when you think of yourself as that with Eddie by your side, with your best friend, with the one who had always been by your side through thick and thin, something in you beats a little stronger. 

You clear your throat, lowering your gaze to his ringed fingers, you can’t help but let your mind take you to sacred places. 

Eddie watches you intensely, eyes lighting up at the flustered state you are suddenly in, a state he only ever sees you in when he teases you with touches, with pick up lines, with his flirtations but never this. There is a little spark in him now, the sparkle of hope. 

“Well that would make you my husband.” Your voice is shaky, filled with nerves and something else that he can’t decipher at this moment. 

Oh, Eddie would put a ring on your fingers right this second. 

He never really planned his future, he never really saw one, especially not one in which he would be happy with a wife and kids by his side but he would be lying if he said that he doesn’t want these things with you. You make him crave things that were never even a thought of his before he met you, you make him want to be that for you, a husband. 

He doesn’t believe that he can give you what you want, what you need, what you deserve but he knows one thing for sure, if he was given the chance, he would make you so damn happy. 

“Would that be so bad?” 

You look up again and into his eyes, something in them is different now, something in the way he looks at you is so… intense and raw, there is a softness in them, one stronger than usual. 

Would that be bad?

You shake your head before you can even come up with the right words to say, or with words you should say. Something has changed, perhaps a long time ago or just now, but you know one thing for sure, your heart never beat this strongly before and your hands never itched to touch his so badly. 

You know the truth is hidden behind the walls you have put up, but that wall started crumbling a long time ago, long before you had the chance to even notice. 

The energy in the room has shifted into something more… intimate and it’s not the candles or the music, it adds to it, but those aren’t the main reasons, it’s the energy you both have created, it’s the lingering touches, it’s his foot touching yours under the table, not playfully like usual, it’s different, it’s all so different but it’s good. A comfortable silence takes over the room as you continue eating and as the seconds and the minutes pass, and you both sip on your wines, pouring a second glass, you both get a little bolder when the alcohol hits you. 

Your hands inch closer and closer to each other, your eye contact becomes a little more intense, making your breathing stutter and your heart skip several beats. 

And when he is done with his food, he pushes his plate aside and leans his elbows on the table, he clears his throat and takes a deep breath and then, he brushes his fingertips against your own before he envelopes your hand fully, taking it into his large one. 

You can’t describe the feelings rushing through you, he held your hand plenty of times before but until now, you never let yourself feel the rush of it, you never allowed yourself to pay attention to the electric feeling cursing through your veins but you allow it now, slowly… you allow it. 

“They’re really missing out, aren’t they?” You speak the first words that come to your mind as you stare into your best friend's beautiful eyes. 

Eddie looks around the dining room, shrugging when he looks back at you, his eyes roaming your face, his lips curl into a smile. 

“I don’t know, I kinda like it just being the two of us, we never really get the chance to be alone like this.”

You nod in agreement, “that’s true, I like it too,” you murmur before you reach for your glass and take a big sip of wine. 

“More wine and weed for us,” Eddie jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at you. 

You roll your eyes playfully, setting the glass back down, you tilt your head to the side, “speaking of weed, wanna roll us a joint?” 

Eddie doesn’t want to let go of your hand just yet but he nods, he could use that relaxation anyways, maybe it will calm his nerves around you before he does something that he might end up regretting later on. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna clean this up first.”

You shake your head, “no, I can do it–”

“Sweetheart,” Eddie says sternly, glaring at you, “I know I said housewife, I hope you know that doesn’t mean slave.” 

You can’t help but giggle at the seriousness on his face or in his voice, “Eddie, I hope you know that that’s exactly what most men think of when they want a housewife.” 

He frowns in disgust, scoffing at that, he begrudgingly lets go of your hand and pushes his chair back. 

“Well, most men are pigs who don’t even deserve a wife in the first place,” he says, getting up, he glares at you and points at you to stay seated. “You don’t have to do all the work, you cook, I clean up, it’s simple.”

A smile graces your features, you tap the table before you reach for the wine bottle, pouring yourself a third glass, “well then, whatever you say, husband,” you giggle and get up as well, holding your hands up in surrender when he gives you a warning glance, “don’t worry, I won’t lift a finger, I’m gonna grab my wine and wait for you in the living room.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs as he gathers the dirty plates, “sit your pretty ass down.” 

You definitely feel the wine in your system now, that fuzzy feeling and the slight dizziness feels so welcoming though. 

“Yes, sir.”

Before Eddie can stop his mouth from running, those words tumble out of his mouth just like that. 

“Good girl.” 

You nearly choke on your spit and trip over nothing, his words rush right to your core, your cheeks start burning hotter than before. 

Good girl. 

He called you a good girl, with that raspy, deep voice of his that never fails to make your insides crawl with need, that never fails to ring through your head when you’re in your bed with your hand between your thighs, imagining him and his voice calling you just that. 

You don’t know how you manage to keep your composure but you do, only allowing a soft giggle to leave your lips as you continue your way out of the dining room and into the living room, you round the corner and rush to the big couch where he luckily can’t see you, your knees almost buckle before you can even take a seat. 

You close your eyes and sigh out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Pressing a hand to your chest, you nearly gasp at the beating of your heart. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself. 

Eddie will be the death of you, you are sure of it, if not tonight then tomorrow, and if not then, then on the last day of your trip. 

The veil that was hiding all your truths was already being lifted when you were still in Hawkins, slowly everything was coming out, all the feelings you were denying, all the things you were so afraid of admitting, you lost control and power a long time ago. The moment Robin opened her eyes to what was there this whole time, the moment she confronted you about your feelings for him was the moment you could no longer hide. The veil is no longer there, it’s long gone and lost with the wind. 

You run your fingers through your hair and lean back into the soft cushions, taking a big gulp of the red wine that will surely give you a headache tomorrow morning, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, you begin to curse her out in your head because all your reactions to his words and touches just now only confirmed all her beliefs. 

Fuck Robin for saying all that shit to you that changed your feelings and opened your eyes completely, a month ago. Fuck her for telling you that you indeed have feelings for Eddie, for your best friend. Fuck her for making you start realizing it and be self conscious for it. Fuck her for making you feel scared of losing Eddie because of it. 

“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, you open your eyes and look around the lightly dimmed room, you take in the sound of Eddie’s voice, of his humming to the music, of the way your heart flutters more and more. 

You are so fucked. 

You will ruin the friendship, you are sure of it. 

If only you knew that this is exactly what he wants. 

You keep yourself busy with your wine glass, staring into blank space as you continue letting your thoughts eat at you, letting the insecurities and the doubts creep in, when all you want to do is get lost in the feeling of what he gave to you at the dinner table, just moments ago. 

You are so lost in your head, you don’t even notice the music being turned off, you don’t even hear his footsteps or his voice until he is standing right before you after throwing a bunch of different snacks on the coffee table. 

“I know the munchies are gonna hit you,” your best friend chuckles as he finally sits down beside you, joint already between his fingers, lighter on the coffee table. He turns to you, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he offers you the joint. 

Yeah, maybe this will help, maybe this will relax you enough to get a grip on yourself again, maybe this will stop you from doing something that will make you regret. 

Your heart, your body, everything in you seems to be sick of living in denial though because before your mind can kill this moment, you are already moving forward, looking into his eyes, you lean down, closer and closer, you wrap your lips around the joint that is still snug between his fingers. 

The widening of his eyes, the parting of his lips, snaps you out of whatever had possessed you, though not enough, not even in the slightest. 

You raise your brows at him expectedly, waiting for him to light up the joint for you. 

The flush in his cheeks, the rosy color taking over his face, his squirming makes satisfaction rush you. 

You were teasing him all morning, all afternoon and every time you added one more, you wanted to risk more, but now things just have gotten out of hand, you got lost in your own little game and you let your feelings, your desires take full control of you. 

Poor Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself as he looks down at you, if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his system, he would lose all composure and stutter like a little kid around his crush. He manages to reach for the lighter and he never looks away from your pretty eyes or your lips, or the shirt that keeps riding up on your thighs, a little more and more. 

He lights the joint and he is surprised when you don’t look away, when your eyes stay locked with his and a satisfied moan escapes you – only worsening his case. You inhale deeply and furrow your eyebrows in concentration, a lazy smile spreads on your kissable lips and you lean back further after blowing out the smoke. You bring your knees up to your chest and hand him the joint. “That’s nice,” you sigh out in pleasure, “I needed that.” 

“You’re starting to sound like an addict,” Eddie smirks, hiding his blushing cheeks behind his curls as he takes the joint from your fingers and places it between his lips, unaware of the way you follow his every movement as he gets comfortable beside you, resting his feet on the table, he stretches his arm out and wraps it around the headrest behind you. 

“What… movie did you pick out?” You ask him and he doesn’t even notice your stuttering or the way your eyes are glued to his exposed skin as his shirt rides up, exposing his happy trail. 

Eddie shrugs, reaching for the remote, he glances at you, “I dunno, one of the movies Steve recommended we should watch.” 

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” He nods and presses play before he throws the remote on the coffee table, “let’s see how good his taste is.”

“You already know he loves the cheesy shit,” you laugh and scoot closer to him with your wine glass still in your hand, you’re searching for his warmth. 

“Yeah, he does,” Eddie chuckles. 

He lowers his gaze to your thighs, noticing the goosebumps on your skin, he puts the joint into the ashtray and he reaches for the knitted blanket thrown over the couch, he spreads it open and covers your legs with it, “don’t want you freezing, sweets,” he murmurs. 

Your eyes soften for him, a smile spreading on your lips. You lean forward and place your wine glass on the coffee table and then you scoot closer to him and throw the blanket over his lap as well before you place your head on his chest, snuggling up against him with a content look on your face… beside the blushing on your cheeks. 

Eddie wraps his arm around you without a second thought – this is nothing unusual for you, neither is the hand holding, or the sharing of clothes or the intimate touches but everything you do today, that you usually do as well, feels so different, it makes him nervous, it makes you nervous, it feels like the first time. 

And when you place your hand above his heart, he grows anxious that you might feel just how strongly it’s beating for you, he is scared that you will figure out his feelings and that that will make you run, run from him. 

“Your heart is racing,” you whisper softly, causing him to tense up a little but when you press your chin against his chest and you gaze up into his eyes, he feels a sense of calmness bleed through him, safety. 

Eddie blinks, not knowing what to say without giving away the truth, without giving away just how much he wants to kiss you right now, how much he wants to make you his, how badly he wants to confess and get it off his chest. 

“Is everything okay?” Your angelic voice makes him feel weak, the candle light makes you look so soft, your scent makes him feel drunk, his lips yearn to touch yours, his heart screams for you. 

God, he really wants to kiss you so bad. 

And he wants to kiss you even more when he sees the way your own eyes flicker between his lips, his neck and his eyes. He tightens his hold on you, prompting you to scoot even closer as you lean your warm body into his as your hand slips down to his stomach, your nails grazing the sliver of exposed skin on his stomach, he nearly whimpers at the feeling. You truly know how to drive him crazy. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile, “everything is perfect.” 

Almost perfect. 

It would be perfect if he could just grab your face and smash his lips against yours, kissing you breathless. 

You bite your lower lip as you keep staring up at him, you look as though you want to say something, your eyebrows pull together whenever you hold something back, whenever you desire to speak up about something – he doesn’t pressure you to talk though, he never does, he gives you time, as always. 

His eyelashes flutter, his lips part in surprise when he watches you move closer to him, closer and closer until your lips are pressed against his jaw, you peck him once before you shyly pull away and bury your face in his chest, turning your attention back to the TV right as the movie begins to play and he is glad that you do, because his eyes widen the way they probably never did before and blood rushes to his cheeks, no doubt making him look like a tomato right now, his heart feels as though it will beat out of his chest at any moment. 

You were teasing him this morning, you were very clear about that, the smirk and the smugness on your face gave it away every time but you are no longer teasing now, this is different, this is something else, this is something new. 

Eddie swallows the lump in his throat and he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly and shakily. 

He wonders if you know the effect you have on him, he wonders if you know how he feels for you, he wonders if you know just what he would do for you. 

“Pass me the joint?” He whispers, not recognizing his own voice due to how shaky it is. 

You do as he asks, pulling away for just a second, you reach for the joint and hand it to him before you settle back comfortably against his chest, pressing your cheek tightly against it. 

Despite the nervousness in him, he keeps his arm wrapped around you tightly, and he even takes it a little further, becoming a little bolder, he sneaks his hand under your shirt and lays his plat flatly against your warm back.

You sigh in contentment and curl further into him, welcoming the touch of his hand, especially when he starts rubbing up and down. 

“That feels so nice,” you murmur, moaning softly, “don’t stop, Eddie.” 

Of course it wasn’t the greatest move to make, of course it would backfire, of course he would be the one with the problem. It’s already not helping that you’re almost fully on top of him, hand underneath his shirt as your nails scratch against his skin and now you are moaning because of him. 

He places the joint between his lips and takes a long drag, needing it desperately. 

“Your hands always feel so nice, Eds.” The words tumble fall from your lips just like that, like you no longer find yourself caring about the consequences of your words or your actions, maybe it’s the alcohol and the weed in your system that makes you so careless and bold, or maybe it’s the reassuring touch of your best friend that gives you the confidence to let you say what’s on your mind. 

Eddie freezes, shocked he stares at the movie playing on the screen, his hand stops moving as well for a moment, he wonders if he really heard you right. You press against his hand again, wanting more. 

“And you don’t know what they can do, sweets,” he rasps into your ear, confidently and like he isn’t losing his mind over you. 

A whimper sounds through the room, your whimper. You try to conceal it by coughing into your hand but he heard it, and he felt how you tensed up at his words.

He swallows harshly, squirming beneath you, he tries his hardest to hold back that growl. His hand slips from under your shirt and down to your thigh when you lean forward to reach for the joint in the ashtray. 

“Rolling good joints?” You murmur, trying to hide your nervousness and how flustered you really are. 

Eddie can’t help but snort, mumbling a soft ‘sure’ to your question. 

Despite the tension in the room and your unwanted awkwardness, time keeps passing and the night goes on, the movie continues playing, moving into a direction that neither of you expected at the start of it – what begins with an innocent scene of the beautiful lead getting ready for her date with the guy she is keeping a secret, develops into something different, something more, something that should not have the effect on you that it does right now but when they start kissing in his car, slowly and sensually at first, her fingers buried in his long hair as his slip under her shirt, you can’t help but bite your lip. Your skin grows hot, your thighs clench together, your grip on his shirt tightens as your mind flips this scene into you kissing Eddie in his car. 

The wine was supposed to help, the weed too, but neither of them did, neither of them managed to give you the calming effect that you were hoping for, if anything both only heightened your senses and intensified absolutely everything in you, because suddenly, his body feels so much closer, his cologne so much more intoxicating than usual, his touch heating your skin on fire, his breath on your skin tickles you and those evil thoughts in your head make you wonder what it would feel like to feel his breath elsewhere, to feel his lips on your skin and his hands holding you tightly, keeping you in place as his lips touch parts of you only your hands did before. 

Your heart starts beating faster and you begin to lose composure, the rational voice in your head is gone for good, desire and need taking over now, a confidence you didn’t know you had rushing through you as you move your leg, pressing the heel of your foot against his shin. 

And while you are getting bolder, Eddie is trying his best to stay calm, to not act upon his feelings and ruin the one good thing in his life, despite the clear signs you are currently giving, he makes no move, even when he wants nothing more but to bury his face in your neck and suck on your skin until you are marked up by him. The smell of your perfume drives him insane, the feeling of your skin pressed against his makes his stomach flutter with no end near in sight, his heart hasn’t stopped racing yet. 

The blanket slips from your lower half, his shirt has ridden up on your body, revealing the panties you are wearing, the black lace resting so perfectly on your soft skin. He clenches his jaw at the sight of it, biting back the moan that wants to fall off his lips so badly. 

Something else flutters now, not just his heart or those butterflies in his stomach and it makes him so uncomfortable because he won’t be able to hide it, not right now. 

Soft moans fill the living room, along with the sounds of lips smacking together. You bite your lip even harder, hold onto him even tighter as your eyes stay glued to the screen, watching intently as the couple undresses each other slowly, their hands becoming more and more desperate on each other, whimpers getting louder. 

You are so lost in it, you let your body move on its own, your foot continues to slide up his shin and his knee, hip angling as you twist your body further into him. As the scene gets more and more intense, the thoughts in your head do too. 

The coil in your stomach grows, burning hotly, you are throbbing between your legs, growing wetter and wetter each passing second as you imagine yourself moaning like the girl on the TV – moaning for him, with him. 

Eddie is frozen in place, stunned at everything that is happening this very moment, not only is the scene very erotic but the moves you are pulling now are just about enough for him to get hard – and he can’t exactly conceal anything, not when he is wearing grey sweatpants and you are tightly pressed against him. 

Do you even know what you are doing to him? 

When Eddie shifts beneath you and his fingers dig deeper into your skin, you lower your head and tear your eyes from the screen to his lap and your mouth waters in an instant, eyes growing wide and the burning in your stomach only worsens. 

“Got a problem there, Eds?” You blurt out as you stare at the very prominent bulge.

He wants to crawl under the blanket and hide his flustered face but instead he rolls his eyes, trying to act cool, averting his gaze from you and back to the screen, pretending that it’s the girl in the movie that caused this. 

“I am just a man, leave me alone…”

A giggle escapes you, and you look up at your best friend to find him blushing furiously. His long lashes kissing his skin every time he blinks, his dark eyes shine so prettily, his lips are just so… so kissable. His neck is so perfect to be marked up by you. His dark hair cascading down to his shoulders so perfectly, but you want to make a mess of him. 

“Aw, poor man,” you tease him before you finally let go of any doubts, of any fears or anxious thoughts, you grab the joint from between his fingers and put it back on the ashtray and then, you lean back to him and do something that you always craved to do, you press your lips against his jaw, kissing him. 

His lips part in surprise, heart stopping for a moment, he stares into blank space now as you repeat the motion, pressing your lips against his skin again and again, humming in contentment. 

His legs feel like jelly and if he wasn’t sitting down already, he surely would’ve felt his knees buckle at this electric touch. Words can’t describe the feeling of this, of you. He imagined this so many times, your lips on his skin, just the imagination of it had him feeling giddy but this, he can’t even function. 

You move closer and closer, your hand finding the chain around his neck, your breath kissing his skin, you gaze up at him with those pretty eyes that could make him do anything you would ask for. 

“Sweetheart, what are you doing…?” He finds his voice again. 

You shrug, looking at him innocently, “I don’t know, I just want to kiss your face, is that so bad?” You ask before you lean in again, not waiting for an answer from him, you press your lips back against his jaw, finger hooked around his chain and your other hand moving from his chest and up to his hair, giving it a slight pull. 

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, the soft smile that rested on his features before slowly falling now. He clenches his jaw when you kiss it again and again, his heart races like crazy now, the feelings in him, the love he feels for you bursting in him as he finally gets a taste of what things could be like if you were his girl. 

You light up a fire in him, but make him weak at the same time, you make him feel safe but he also burns for you, he desires you in ways he wasn’t even aware existed, only a taste of this, of you, could kill him because if he can’t have you again after having you once, he surely will die slowly and torturously as he forever will be reminded of this, of what could be. 

He breathes in shakily as his hands fall to your waist, gripping you tighter than ever before, it takes everything in him not to grab your face and kiss you senseless but it takes even more to stop you. 

He wants this, he wants you so bad, he wants to keep feeling your lips, your touch, you. 

But what is this to you? 

His hand moves up to the back of your neck, he wraps his fingers around it, pulling you away softly with a deep inhale.

“Don’t do this to me now, darling,” he whispers weakly, not caring about how vulnerable he sounds, how vulnerable he must look right now. 

You ignore his pleading, and you move closer again, straddling his thigh as you wrap your arms around his neck, you look into his eyes as you inch closer and closer to him, no longer caring about anything. You kiss his cheek softly and then the other, noting the soft sigh falling from his lips, the grip of his hand on you becoming tighter and stronger. 

Eddie is breathing heavily now, he doesn’t even know what to do with himself as your lips are so close to his own. 

“You’re killing me here, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

You pull back to look at him, taking in the intense emotions flashing in his eyes as he stares at you with nothing but hunger, his eyes flicking back and forth between your lips and your neck. 

“Why?” You whisper innocently as you lean in again and without thinking, you press your lips to the corner of his mouth. 

Eddie’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, a curse word falls from his lips as he clenches his jaw again. 

“Because I’m trying to hold back.” 

“Who says I want you to?” You ask softly and he opens his eyes again, tilting his head to the side, he furrows his brows at you. 

“Don’t do this to me, baby, you know how bad I–” 

The brush of your knee against his bulge as you throw your leg over his thigh completely leaves the words stuck in his throat, you straddle him the way you only ever did in his dreams. 

“How bad you what?” You whisper as you slowly lean your forehead against his, letting your lips brush against his own as you gaze into his eyes. 

You can see the way he is holding back from doing what he wants, what you both want, so you give him a little push. You nuzzle your nose against his, giving him that soft look that gets you anything you want, that makes him weak. 

If only you knew just the feelings you cause inside of him. 

Eddie takes a deep breath, he shuts down all the racing thoughts in his head and finally, he cups your cheeks, holding your face gently. 

“Oh, fuck me,” he whispers and smashes his lips against yours, kissing you finally. He pushes all his fears and his insecurities aside, not wanting to dwell on them any longer, not wanting to think of them now when he gets the chance to do this and your whimper, that needy little sound that comes from you when you kiss him back only fuels his need to kiss you harder and deeper. 

You press yourself against him, wrapping your arms around him tightly, you bury your fingers into his curls, taking a fistful of his hair as you move your lips against his, slowly at first. You get so lost in it, loving the way it feels to kiss his lips, to kiss your best friend. It’s everything and more than you imagined it to feel like, it feels so perfect, so right, so safe. You let yourself fall into him, melting into his embrace as his hands move down to your waist, holding you tightly the way you do to him. 

The sound of your sighs and moans, lips smacking and the movie still playing in the back, whimpers coming from the girl on the TV makes it all a little more intense, because the burning in your thighs becomes unbearable, the feeling of his tongue brushing against your lower lip as he pushes you down against his bulge has you aching and yearning. 

To Eddie this feels like a dream, like it’s something not real, not even close to being real because this is something that only ever lived in his mind, whether he was just thinking about you at work, while writing songs, while sitting next to you or while getting off in the middle of the night, this was only ever a dream but now it isn’t. The kiss is real, your moans are real, your body is truly pressed against his, you are sitting right on top of him, slowly dragging your hips along his aching dick and it feels so fucking good, better than he could ever even dream of. 

Everything in him burns for you, his heart, his soul, every cell, every organ, you are like a drug to him that he was already addicted to before he even tried it, but now? He is gone forever. A kiss that could lead to nothing, that could only stay this, a kiss, perhaps a mistake for you that you will regret come morning, enough to break him. 

What is it gonna be? The kiss that will lead to the start of something his heart screamed for since the very beginning? Or will this be his kiss of death? 

He has to be sure, he needs to be sure so he pulls away, begrudgingly so, he pulls away from the kiss that he never wants to stop, breathlessly, he opens his eyes to look at you for the first time after this change between you both but you are not having it, leaning in with a whine, you peck his lips again, making his heart flutter. 

“Baby–” You cut him off by kissing him again, desperately and he once again has to pull away reluctantly. 

“Baby, hear me out first, fuck–” he groans when you peck his lips again, whining at him in a way that has him clenching his jaw but this time, he cups your cheeks and pulls you away from him and you finally open your eyes and look at him, pouting at him with a needy look on your face. Fuck. “Fucking hell, wait– you need to tell me if you really want this or if its the alcohol and the weed talking.” 

You shake your head wildly, grabbing his wrists as you lean closer again, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his chin and finally his lips again, the way you always desired to, the way you always dreamed of, the way you always denied yourself of it when it’s all you ever wanted. 

“Is it the alcohol and the weed talking for you?” You murmur against his lips, looking at him through hooded eyes. 

With a frown he shakes his head, “fuck no, I’ve wanted this for so long, sweetheart, you have no idea for how long.” He admits openly, not caring about being vulnerable right now, about admitting his feelings for you – the friendship is ruined now. 

Your lips twitch, eyes shining with nothing but love for him, for your best friend, your heart bursts in your chest, everything in you calms down yet screams in joy. You can see the anxiety in his eyes, the fear that lingers within him, you want to take it. 

“Good, then we’re on the same page,” you whisper happily, nuzzling your nose against his. 

Eddie blinks, staring at you, stunned. A shaky breath falls from his lips, his heart has stopped beating for a moment, the world has stopped moving, time has stopped. He had dreamed of this for so long, fantasized about what it would feel like to kiss you, to touch you, to hold you, to love on you but he had never thought of this, simply because he never thought it would happen, that it would be a possibility, you feeling the same. He thought he was doomed, cursed to spend his life loving you from afar and watching you slip through his fingers as the years would pass, he would love you while you would love someone else, while you would build a life with someone else, he would stay your best friend, the obsessed, lovesick best friend who would never move on, the best friend who would choose you over and over again even if he was given the chance to be loved by someone else, he would never love anyone the way he loves you, his heart belongs to you, fully. He is yours, he had always been yours but he never thought that you could be his, no matter how many nights he spent wishing for it. Life had never been kind to him so why would it grant him the highest wish he has? And yet, here you are, looking at him as though he hung the stars and the moon, as though he is the best thing that was ever created, like he is something pure, something beautiful, something worth loving. Have you always looked at him this way? 

His eyes start burning as his heart starts beating again, the warmth he felt because of you, turning into burning desire, the desire to claim you like he had always wanted to, to rip his heart from his chest and give it to you. 

You whisper his name sweetly, grabbing his hand softly, you move it down your shoulder, your chest and finally placing it above your beating heart. 

“All for you, baby.” 

His breath hitches in his throat, his eyes flicker between your face and his hand, feeling the racing of your heart that matches the beat of his own. His eyes soften, love taking over the lust that was flashing in them just moments ago. He doesn’t know what to say, the words are stuck in his throat, he is speechless. 

You can see it, you can see the shock in his eyes, he stares at you like he wonders if this is real or not. He is breathing heavily, blinking slowly, his lips part, cheeks flushing. 

“Eddie–”

Suddenly, he moves forward and grabs your cheeks again, slamming his lips against yours roughly, desperately. He kisses you hotly, strongly, more intensely than he did before, like he is scared that you might slip away if he doesn’t do it this way. 

You throw your arms around his neck again, whining needily into the kiss, you part his lips with your tongue and slip it into his mouth, deepening the kiss further as you grind your hips against him, making him moan against your lips as he holds you stronger, gripping you tightly as though he is scared that you will slip away if he doesn’t. 

This kiss is much hungrier than the first, so much deeper and intense, it’s filled with a desperation that was pent up for a long, long time – not weeks or even months, but years. He waited for years for this, you can feel it and your heart races wildly for him. The need to show him just how much you want him too, how you reciprocate his love burns so deeply within you. 

You grind your hips against his, feeling just how hard he is for you, the ache between your legs becomes worse, unbearable, and he can tell, he can feel by the way you move your hips, by the sounds of your needy whines. 

Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself, never had he felt such desperation before, such an overwhelming amount of love. He feels stuck between wanting to cry out of pure happiness while making love to you and devouring you vigorously as he shows you just how much he needs, wants you. 

His ringed fingers dig into your waist and he begins to push you off of him, guiding you down against the soft cushions without breaking the kiss, he groans against your lips when you spread your legs for him, tugging him on top of you before he can even do it himself. God, you truly want him just as much.

Eddie slides his hand up your body, cupping your cheek once more, he continues kissing you, clashing his tongue against yours, making you mewl as he takes control and grinds against you, a movement that tears out a different kind of sound in you, a whine so needy that it sends shockwaves through his body. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes against your lips heavily as he pulls away from the kiss and opens his eyes to reveal just how dark they are now. 

You wrap your legs around his waist, causing your shirt to ride up in the process, your panties exposed to him now. 

He clenches his jaw, trying to control himself but it’s becoming so hard when you are under him like this, looking up at him with those needy eyes as you grab each side of his neck, leaning up to kiss him, again and again, pecking his cheeks and his lips before you trail the kisses down to his jawline. 

“I need you so bad, Eds,” you whisper into his skin, moving your hand down his shoulder and his arm, fingernails grazing his goosebump covered skin, you take his hand in yours and bring it back down to your body, placing it on your chest, “please?” You ask in desperation. 

He takes a deep breath, making his heart flutter and his body burn when he grabs at your boobs for the very first time. 

“Please what?” He murmurs as he presses you down again so he can latch his lips onto your jawline. “Tell me what you need, sweet girl. My fingers, my tongue… or my cock?” He surprises himself when those words fall off his lips when he doesn’t even know how to function at this moment. 

You shut your eyes and bite your lip when he kisses down your neck, finding your sweet spot with no struggle, he starts sucking. 

“Mmm, y-your fingers,” you whimper as you take his other free hand and guide it down your stomach slowly, “want your fingers, Eddie and then your cock.”

He could cum right here and there, he had dreamed of this too many times. 

“Yeah?” He rasps against you, still kissing your neck, “you want me to fuck you with my fingers first?”

You nod wildly, bringing his hand down to your laced panties, you spread your legs further, grinding against him needily. You are so wet, having soaked through your panties already. 

“I-I always think about you when I touch myself, I imagine it’s your fingers instead of mine,” you admit with burning cheeks. 

Eddie opens his eyes widely, leaning back from your neck after marking it up, he looks at your blushing face. 

“R-Really?” He stutters, though with a satisfied look on his face. 

Through hooded eyes, you look at your best friend as you nod shyly, humming. 

“Guess we got something in common then,” Eddie smirks as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, he pecks your lips as he slips his fingers down between your legs, finally, cupping your pussy, he presses against your wetness, growling at the feeling. 

“Fuck baby, you’re soaked.”

“I always am for you!” You whine, desperately grinding against the heel of his hand. 

His cock twitches at your words, stomach tensing up. 

The thought that you might’ve been sitting next to him during movie nights, squirming because of him, waiting to go home so you could touch yourself while thinking of him drives him insane. If he had known… he could’ve done this way sooner. 

Eddie pushes your panties aside, dipping his fingers through your folds, he makes both you and himself moan. 

“Don’t tease,” you whimper, bucking your hips and pressing yourself against him as he teases your entrance. 

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Eddie says as he brings his digits up to your clit, “can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”

While the shocked look on his face and the disbelief is cute, you can tell what is going on – what went on in his head all this time that he thought that his feelings would never be reciprocated. 

You grab his face and smash your lips against his again, kissing him just as roughly as he kissed you the second time, you try to show him, to make him feel what had been there all this time, and he welcomes it so happily, kissing you back right away while his fingers continue to move against your clit, teasingly at first, intensifying the aching inside of you. He licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours as he moans needily, getting lost in the feeling he had craved for so long.

His stomach flutters when you wrap one leg around his waist while rolling your hips, wanting and needing more, he can feel you getting wetter and wetter, moans getting louder, lips moving sloppier. He slips his fingers lower, dipping his middle finger into you slowly, inching it inside of you, pulling the neediest sounds out of you as you clench around him already. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your mouth, “you’re so tight.”

“More!” You demand with a whine, making him chuckle. 

“More huh? One finger not enough for you, sweets?” He asks to which you shake your head, furrowing your brows when he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside of you as he opens you up. 

“No, I-I want more,” you whimper at the feeling of him splitting you open, preparing you for his dick, just the thought of it has you drooling already. “I need–” the words die on your tongue and you quickly forget what you even wanted to say when he starts fucking you in slow but deep movements. 

“You need what, hmm?” He taunts you, unable to hide the satisfied smirk on his face as he watches you fall apart beneath him, losing your mind over just his fingers as your jaw falls slack and those sweet sounds begin to fill the room along with the squelching of your pussy. “God… You’re so fucking wet.” Eddie doesn’t even know what to do with himself, his heart is beating like crazy, his cock is aching in his grey sweats that feel way too tight by now, pre cum already leaking through the thick material, something he should feel embarrassed about, but he can’t, not when you look him up and down like you’re some hungry and feral animal in heat. 

“All because of you, I’ve been wet all day!” You whine as you grab at his hair when he buries his face in your neck, breathing heavily against your skin as he covers you in love bites. He growls against you, loving those words a little too much. 

His wrist starts moving faster, fingers splitting you open, he fucks them in and out of you. 

“Do you fuck your tight little pussy like this too?” 

Your brows are scrunched together so tightly, eyes rolling back when he curls them inside of you, hitting just the right spot to make you cry out. 

“N-No! Not t-this good!” 

You roll your hips against his hand, craving to feel him deeper. Your hands are all over him, his hair, his shoulders, his back, gripping at his shirt as you hold on for dear life while he sucks on your neck and fingerfucks your sopping pussy. The room is filled with such dirty sounds, something that should leave you a blushing mess, something that should leave your cheeks burning in embarrassment but you cannot bother to care, it just feels so good and Eddie fucking loves it. 

He pulls back to look at you, to admire your face and those marks he left on you, proudly he looks down at you, a look of love, a look of lust flashing in his eyes. He watches the way you bite your lip, eyes open widely again, you admire him too. And then, you push yourself up on your elbow, pecking his lips before you look down at his hand, wanting to see, wanting to watch his fingers moving in and out of you. 

“You like that, huh?” He mumbles as he presses his forehead against yours, “you like being fucked by your best friend like this?” 

You whimper again, louder this time as you nod, clenching around his fingers so tightly that he can’t help but growl – how is he going to last? How will he be able to control himself not to cum the second he enters you? 

Everything becomes so much hotter, the air around you, the energy in this room, his body against yours, his fingers inside of you, the coil in your stomach, everything starts burning and somehow, it only fuels the need in you. 

You grab at the hem of your shirt and push it up to your collarbones, exposing your chest to him, your boobs bounce as you throw your head back against the pillow to see him better and his reaction does not disappoint, if you weren’t so lost in pleasure you would have giggled at the awestruck look on his face, at the wide eyes and the parted lips. 

“Baby,” he whispers as he presses his large hand to your now bare waist, slipping it upwards slowly, “you’re unreal, fuck… you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as though in disbelief, staring down at you as though you are something that came straight out of his imagination. He grabs your boob roughly, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he leans down and wraps his lips against the other, wasting no time to suck on it, making you arch your back against him as you throw your hand into his curls, fingers grazing his scalp as you give it a harsh tug, something that he fucking loves. 

“I-I… oh my god!” You whimper as tears begin to pull in your eyes when he presses his thumb to your clit, teasing you. “D-Don’t stop! Don’t stop, Eddie! That feels so good!” You nearly scream as he starts moving his fingers faster than before, fucking them in and out of you roughly. You are clenching around him, digging your heel into his ass as you move along to his thrusts. 

He looks up at you, loving the sight of you coming undone before him, it’s the prettiest sight to him. He can’t wait to watch you fall apart beneath him when he actually fucks you. He licks around your nipple, adding more pleasure to your body. 

“Eddie!” You writhe beneath him, blinking the tears away as you look down at him. Your stomach tenses up, burning as the pleasure builds up more and more, almost becoming unbearable, everything inside of you is lit on fire, absolutely every part of you. Your toes curl, your knuckles turn white from how rough you are grabbing at his curls, the sounds that fall from your mouth are almost not recognizable, sounding too pornographic but you have never felt anything like this before, especially not from just being finger fucked. 

Eddie pushes himself back up, straightening his back, he slides his hand further up your chest, passing your collarbones and settling around your throat, he tests the waters at first, needing you to be okay with this – he watches the way your eyes darken at this, lips parting as you push yourself up on your elbows, you bring your hand up to his wrist, wrapping your fingers tightly around it, you press it harder against your throat, asking him to choke you. 

Eddie laughs darkly, lips curling into a satisfied grin, he shakes his head at you, “of course you’re into that shit. You’re a naughty girl aren’t you?” 

It takes you a moment to answer his question because the view before you is just a little too distracting. Eddie hovers over you with one hand between your thighs, knuckle deep buried inside of you while his other hand is now wrapped around your throat, rings on, veins popping out of his tattooed forearm, dark curls falling in front of his face as he looks down at you like he wants to devour you but make love to you at the same time. 

God, he is beautiful. 

Your eyes move down his body, the wet patch on his sweatpants, the bulge making you drool, making you want to drop to your knees for him, worship him, choke on him, suck the soul out of him. You can’t help yourself, moving your hand down his stomach, you grab his dick, wiping the smirk off his face completely as he moans loudly. 

“F-Fuck, sweetheart.”

You palm him through his sweats, teasing him the way he teased you, though Eddie is less patient than you are. His hips stutter, a whimper falls off his lips so prettily and you almost tease him for it but he curls his fingers so deeply inside of you, presses his thumb against your clit so strongly that your vision blurs for a second. 

“Eddie… Eddie!” You say his name twice, pressing your hand stronger against him, you hook your fingers around the band of his pants. 

“D-Don’t tease me or else I’ll cum right this second,” he growls as his cheeks start burning at his words. 

“Don’t do that,” you warn as you push his pants down just enough, his dick slaps against his stomach, precum leaking out and rolling down his length, his tip an angry red, thick veins so prominent. Your eyes widen and your mouth waters at the sight of him, of his size, his length. 

Eddie looks down at you with burning cheeks and begging eyes, he feels the way you clench around his fingers, feels how you soak his digits. 

You look at him intensely, watching him fall apart at nothing but the touch of your hand, his eyelashes flutter, a content sigh falling from his lips when you wrap your fingers around his length, “your cock is so pretty, Eds,” you purr, jerking him off slowly, you tease him a little, “I want to choke on it.”

His hips stutter, cock twitching in your hand as he whimpers at your words, “fuck… you can’t just say that to me.”

You pull your hand away from him, holding it up to him, “spit.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, eyes darkening further but he complies, right away, he spits into your hand and watches the way you bring it back down to his dick, wrapping your fingers around him again, you grip him just perfectly, jerking him off in a way that he only ever dreamed off. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he moans, clenching his jaw in concentration, his eyes moving back and forth between your glistening pussy and your hand getting him off. “I-I won’t last long,” he warns you, wanting to get lost in the pleasure, but even more so, he wants to feel you wrapped around him. 

With your free hand, you tug at his wrist, needing to feel his lips on yours again and without wasting a second, he slams his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly as he takes full control, parting your lips with his tongue, he moans into your mouth when you clench around his fingers again. 

The room is now filled with heavy moans, no longer coming from the TV but from you and him, desperation so clear in both your voices, lips smacking against one another so needily and the alcohol, the weed in your systems only makes it all a tad bit more intense. 

As much as Eddie is enjoying the feeling of your hand wrapped around him, he has to stop you or else he will cum before getting what he actually wants. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, lips twitching when you already whine in protest, “baby, I-I fuck… I need you stop or else I’ll cum too fucking soon.”

You pull away begrudgingly, wanting to pout at him but he quickly distracts you by speeding up his fingers inside of you. Letting go of your throat, he brings his now free hand down to your clit, wasting no second to play with your sensitive nub while he curls and slams his fingers in and out of you. 

A gasp falls from your lips as he repeatedly brushes your sweet spot, the one that allows you to see stars. A single tear slips down your cheek, one that he instantly kisses away. You want to look at him, you want to watch your best friend but the pleasure becomes too much and you can’t help but shut your eyes tightly. Your stomach burns in a way that has you whimpering and when you try to close your legs to relieve that pleasurable pain, he grabs your knee and stops you. 

“I can feel you clenching around my fingers, baby,” he murmurs hotly against your lips, “I know you want to cum, so let go for me,” he whispers, “let go.” One more swipe against your clit, one last thrust, one more kiss to your neck and you come undone for your Eddie, leaking around his fingers as your body trembles beneath his. 

“Oh my god,” you whisper. 

He slows down his movements, looking down at your legs to see them shaking, just from this. He lets you ride out your orgasm, giving you a moment to catch your breath. He kisses your face, your cheeks, your forehead, your jawline and your lips. And then, he pulls his fingers out of you, his mouth waters at the sight of your slick, wasting no time to bring his digits up to his lips, he dips them on his tongue, closing his eyes at your taste, he moans loudly. 

You open your eyes at the sound, stunned, you stare at him in hunger and lust, watching the way he laps at his fingers that were inside of you just seconds ago. His eyes are closed and he looks content. If you hadn’t been so feral already, you definitely would have been by now. 

“You’re even sweeter than I thought,” he mewls after releasing his fingers with a pop, opening his eyes to look down at you with a smirk. “I can’t wait to take my time and eat your pussy.” 

You grab him by the chain around his neck, tugging at it harshly, you’re surprised it doesn’t break by the force, you pull him back down against you and kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

Eddie smiles against your lips, loving the way you moan at your own taste. He feels your hands sliding down his back, tugging at his shirt, demanding him to take it off and he does so instantly, only breaking the kiss for a second so he can tear it off his skin before his lips are back on yours, his pants are next to go as you push them down further, with your help he kicks them off, not caring where they land. 

He hooks his finger around your ruined panties, he begins to tug at them and you push your hips up so he can take them off, dragging them down your legs, he throws them to the ground beside his clothes before you both pull away from the kiss to take off the shirt that is still bunched up over your chest. 

“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, looking at you in awe and then, his lips return to you and he places his elbows on either side of your head, pressing his chest against yours as you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him closer and closer until nothing separates you any longer, until he feels your heat against his aching dick and he is so close, so close to getting what he wanted, until he remembers. 

“Fuck,” he curses in annoyance, clenching his jaw already as he breaks the kiss, “wait…” But you don’t listen, cupping his cheeks, you make it even harder for him when you keep kissing him, pleading for more. 

Frustration bubbles up inside of him and he almost wants to cry. 

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, shakily. “Wait, wait, wait…”

Finally, you pull away, eyes filled with curiosity, “what?”

“I don’t–” he cuts himself off, rolling his eyes as he clenches his fists and closes his eyes for a moment, “I don’t have a condom,” he says through gritted teeth, feeling dejected but then he feels you pull him closer again, cupping the back of his neck, you press your lips back against his.

“It’s okay, I’m on birth control and I’m clean,” you whisper, pressing your heel against his bum, “I waited too long for this, so don’t stop… please, Eddie.” 

A growl threatens to spill from his lips, the feeling of frustration is suddenly replaced by something else, not only the need he had felt for so long but something else, something much stronger, something that has him fighting his inner demons. 

He opens his eyes, staring at you as though you had gone crazy. 

“Do you have any idea what you do to me, sweets?” 

You giggle so cutely at that, in a way that makes him want to pound you into this couch until you are nothing but a screaming mess. 

“I have an idea,” you admit smugly, batting your eyelashes at him as your eyes flicker back and forth between his tattoos and his lips, hand already moving down his stomach, fingers reaching for him, you bite your lip as you look into his eyes, he is staring at you so intensely that it makes you blush. You wrap your fingers around his length again, mewling when you guide him through your wet folds, teasing both you and himself. 

Eddie grips the pillow beneath your head, cursing at the feeling. You can tell that he is trying to control himself, trying to keep his composure but he is losing it quickly when he feels your heat, your wetness. 

With your free hand, you hold onto his bicep, looking up at him with begging eyes, “please, fuck me, Eddie,” you whisper as you tilt your head up to kiss his lips, “show me how bad you want me, don’t hold back… please–” 

With a growl, he lets your words die on your tongue, replacing your hand with his own, he guides himself to your entrance, nudging it with the leaking tip of his cock, he presses his forehead and his lips to yours as he thrusts inside of you, torturously, splitting you open around his length. 

His heart could burst for feeling you so close, so intimately, his love for you burning stronger than ever, the immortal flame getting bigger and bigger, his body feels on fire, his soul feels at home and now he knows you feel the same, when you hold him close and you kiss him so passionately, tightening your legs around his waist in order to feel him closer, whimpering into him in such a needy way while you keep grabbing at him like he isn’t close enough despite being pressed against you, he knows you feel the same, in every way. 

He pushes into you deeper and deeper, scrunching his eyebrows in concentration as he feels you fully, working you open with nothing between you. He feels your warmth, feels your heat around him, your wetness dripping down onto the couch beneath you as fills you up completely. He never felt anything like this before, he never thought he would but god, he is already addicted, he had always been to you but now even worse, he will never be the same again, he will come back to Hawkins a changed man. 

“Fucking hell, darling,” he growls against your lips as he stills inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size and himself a moment to concentrate so he doesn’t ruin this by coming too soon, though the thought of filling you up with his seed drives everything in him crazy, he wants it, craves it so bad. “You feel so… so perfect.”

You’re wailing, squirming beneath him, already looking down, wanting to see your bodies connected as sensitive whimpers escape your mouth. 

“Y-You’re so big, Eddie,” you say, eyes blurred with tears, words leaving your mouth breathlessly, “hurts so good.”

Your words don’t exactly do him a favor, especially when he opens his eyes and he looks down at you, watching the way your chest rises up and down heavily, the way you look down between your legs in desperation before your big eyes look up at him, glassy. Your lips are so puffy from all the kissing, your forehead glistening with sweat, your cheeks flushed. 

Your walls flutter around him, making it harder and harder for him. 

Eddie grabs your chin, “you’re so fucking gorgeous, baby, so fucking sweet and good for me but you’re driving me crazy, right now.”

“Fuck me,” you whimper, pouting at him as you hold his bicep harder, “please, fuck me, Eddie. I need it, I need you so bad– ah!” You scream out when he pulls out and slams back inside of you again. 

“Shh, I got you, I got you, baby,” he shushes your words, “can’t believe you are so desperate for my cock.” 

Your nails dig into his skin, your free hand gets lost in his hair, tugging at his curls as you roll your hips against his, going crazy at the feeling of him inside of you. 

“Please, please, please!” 

Eddie groans at your pleading, at the obvious desperation, at the need that you feel for him, and only him. His left knee digs into the soft cushions on the couch and he places his right foot against the floor, watching your face intently as he starts rolling his hips, making you gasp out loudly. 

“Oh my–” He pants, eyes rolling back as your name falls from his lips. 

“You… I…” You stutter, unable to find the right words, to even come up with anything as you lose yourself in this feeling. Your mouth waters and so do your eyes, his chain dangles before your face as he thrusts into you, faster and faster, deeper and rougher. You can’t help but clench around him, he fills you up so perfectly, his tip brushes against that one spot so rightly. 

You throw your arms around him as he cups the top of your head, holding eye contact with you as he rolls his hips harder. 

“I’m so fucking obsessed with you, do you even know that?” He kisses your lips, smacking them loudly against yours. 

“Mmm, I’m obsessed with you too, baby,” you whimper as you meet his thrusts, rolling your hips as well. 

“I never thought I’d get to have this, to have you.” 

You only hold onto him tighter in response, leaning into his neck, you brush your nose against it and latch your lips onto his neck, pecking along until you find that one spot that makes him whine, you start sucking, marking him up the way he did to you, not knowing just how feral that makes him. 

To wear your marks on his skin, to be claimed as yours makes his heart burst but it awakens something in him, because suddenly, he feels the need to pound you into this couch and he does so, he snaps his hips into yours, thrusting roughly. 

“Eddie!” You scream out in a choked sob, digging your nails into his skin as you cling to his body. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he moans loudly, not bothering to hide just how desperate you make him feel. He cups the back of your neck and pulls you back down, wanting and needing to see your face, he wastes no second before his lips are back on yours and his hips strike roughly into you, cock slamming in and out of you, the squelching sounds of your pussy filling the room, along with your moans and the slapping sounds as he fucks you. 

Neither of you want to pull away from the kiss, no matter how sloppy it gets, you don’t want to break the kiss and neither does he, not even when you grow breathless. You cling to each like you never did before, welcoming the pleasure that becomes almost too much. There is soreness in your thighs, burning in your lower back and an overwhelming sensation inside of you, an itch that only he can mend. 

And Eddie, he feels as though he is losing his mind, getting to feel this, to feel you, to kiss you and swallow your moans as your dripping walls cling to his cock, twitching around him and begging to be filled. Your arms and legs are so tight around him, you beneath him like he had only seen you in his dreams and in his imagination, you’re shaking, whining and trembling and you are close, he can feel it by the way you are getting tighter and tighter after each of his thrusts. 

Reaching down, he hooks his forearm around the back of your knee and he brings it up, pushing it higher until he can thrust into you from a different angle, one that makes you scream out with a high pitched moan and the neediest look he had ever seen on your face. 

“Fuck… just like that, baby, scream for me,” he rasps out. 

“Y-You’re so good, fuck me… Eds! Your cock feels so nice, please don’t stop, don’t ever stop!” You sputter, not knowing just how those words make him feel. 

You don’t know where to look, his pretty face, how he looks as he fucks you like you only ever dreamed of, how pretty his face is when he moans your name so sexily or how his glistening cock pounds in and out of you. 

And Eddie struggles just the same, though he settles on watching your beautiful face, wanting to see you fall apart more and more. 

And though you don’t want this moment to end, and neither does he, you both drag it out for as long as you can, not caring about anything anymore, not caring about the mess you are making on the couch. You are both sweaty, you are leaking down onto the cushions and Eddie is sure that he ripped a hole into the pillow beneath you earlier from how roughly he held it. 

A strangled whine leaves your lips and he knows you can’t hold on any longer, so he brings his hand down your stomach, pressing his fingers against your clit, causing you to jerk and whimper against him. 

“You’re close, baby, I can feel it,” he whispers against your neck, not slowing down his movements in the slightest, if anything, he starts fucking you even deeper, making you scream louder now as your fingernails rip through his skin from how hard you’re grabbing him and he welcome that pleasuring burn, “cum around my cock, do it for me, sweetheart. I know you want to be my good girl.” 

With another loud whine, you finally let go of him, arching your back and shutting your eyes tightly, you cum around your best friend's cock, for the first but definitely not the last time. You tighten around him so strongly that his hips stutter and his knees almost buckle, heat spreads through his skin and his stomach tightens as his own body screams for release. 

He can’t wait any longer either and panic ripples through him when you hold him tighter than before, locking him in as you refuse to let go. It makes his heart flutter and it does make him want to release but–

“I need to pull out, sweetheart,” he says shakily, knowing all too well that he doesn’t actually want it and apparently, you don’t either because you start shaking your head at him, opening your needy eyes. 

“No, no, don’t make a mess– cum inside of me, please!” 

His hips stutter once more, his dick twitches achingly inside of you, “you can’t just fucking say that–” he whimpers, unable to finish the sentence, one more thrust and he spills inside of you, coating your walls with his seed as your name falls from his lips before he smashes his lips to yours for the hundredth time tonight, swallowing your cry. 

Tears of pleasure run down your cheeks, your leg starts slipping from his waist and his thrusts slow down, though his grip doesn’t loosen on you, he continues to hold you close, the way you do as well as you grab his shoulder and his bicep, squeezing him tightly while your tongue clashes against his. 

Your walls spasm and contract around his length, sending shockwaves and an unbearable amount of pleasure through his sensitive body. 

Slowly, he removes his hand from between your legs, sliding it up your hot body until he is cupping your cheek again, he makes you both whimper when he pulls his softening cock out of you. 

Your name rolls off his tongue when you both pull away from the kiss, he says it like it’s a blessing, like a prayer. Your eyes make contact again and you stare at each other for a moment, lovingly, adoringly, and then, you both smile and giggle and press your lips back against each other, pecking one another again and again. 

“My Eddie,” you whisper as you admire the marks you left on him. 

“Fuck,” he whispers when he realizes that this isn’t just a moment, that this isn’t just for now, for tonight, that you waited for it just like he has. He looks down at you, brushing away and tucking your hair behind your ear as he caresses your cheek, his heart soaring in his chest. “I can’t believe this happened.”

You giggle at him, “I’m glad it happened.”

“Yeah?” He grins lazily, eyes dropping to your chest as he leans down and presses his lips to your jaw, “I’m fucking on top of the world right now.”

You brush your fingers through his curls, giggling yet again. 

“You’re a dork.”

“Yeah, but I’m your dork, right?” He asks with a hopeful glint in his eyes, one that questions more than just this. He wants to be yours, he wants it so badly. 

You nod happily, eyes flashing with happiness. 

“Mhmm, you’re mine, all mine.”

“Fuck,” he whispers as he feels his sensitive dick twitching at your words, heart bursting inside of him, “I’m yours, all yours.” 

You tug him closer and closer, breathing against his lips as you eye him hungrily again, you feel him leaking out of you and it only makes your thighs burn again, “and I’m yours.” 

“Yeah, you are,” he rasps as his fingers dip inside of you, he groans at the feeling of his cum leaking out of you, he pushes it back into you with a moan, “you’re mine, sweetheart.”

“Mmm, Eddie,” you mewl, pushing your hips up and chasing for more already. 

“You want more?” 

You nod, “yes… more, please!”

Not needing to be told twice, he slowly pushes his fingers and his cum back into you, making you both moan at that. 

“You know what, I'm glad we did this today,” Eddie mumbles against your lips. 

“Yeah?” You moan, arching your back in pleasure when he curls his fingers inside of you. 

“Mhmm, that means I get to fuck you over and over and over for the whole weekend,” he smirks before he slams his lips against yours again, kissing you passionately and sensually while his fingers move and in out of you, creating a mess with his cum leaking out of you and your own wetness sticking to your thighs and his. 

You both fill the room with filthy noises, needy and desperately you touch each other, grabbing and pulling at each others hair as the night goes on, continuing to mark each other up, to taste one another, to fuck like animals in heat, the movie long forgotten as his tongue laps at your pussy when he is kneeled on the ground with your legs dangling of his shoulders and your fingers pull at his hair roughly. 

This night never ends, the pleasure continuing until the early morning hours, until you can no longer take it, until you both get too sensitive, until you’re both nothing but a panting, sweaty mess and even then, you still kiss and cling to one another. 

The night was filled with desperation, with pent up emotions, with filthiness yet with love and adoration, and this night has changed you both forever, for good. 

-

“So… What you’re telling me is–…” Steve begins, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched as he stands before you and Eddie with a stern look on his face. You are both on his couch, looking up at him like scolded children. “You need to buy me a new… bed?” 

You are blushing furiously, embarrassment written all over your face. You glare at Robin who is standing in the corner, sipping on her soda with an amused look on her face. 

“Uh… yeah.”

You know how badly Eddie wants to laugh, he is smug, you can see it on his face but he stays quiet, for a second at least. 

“And a new arm chair?” Steve mumbles, looking between you both. 

“Yeah.” Eddie snorts to which you elbow him, shushing him. 

“Don’t forget the flower vase,” Robin snickers. 

Steve throws his hands up, “and a fucking flower vase, thanks Robin!”

You put your finger up and straighten your back, “actually, the flower vase fell by itself–”

“Because you were fucking on top of the table!” Steve retorts to which your boyfriend chuckles in satisfaction, not being embarrassed by anything in the slightest. 

You turn to look at him, he only smirks at you and shrugs, holding your thigh tighter than before. 

“I’d buy a new couch too–”

“Eddie!” 

Robin moves closer and eyes you both, eyeing the matching marks on your necks. 

“I hope you used protection, at least.”

Steve raises his eyebrows, looking at you both expectedly, your flustered face gives you away completely as you sink deeper into the couch, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in Eddie’s neck. 

“Great, now I might be a fucking uncle.”

“Godfather,” Eddie corrects him, making you giggle. 

“Go to hell,” Steve shakes his head, though he can’t hide the look on his face and how delighted he is to hear that he would be considered a godfather if it were to happen. And despite the clear distaste on his face after hearing what you did at his cabin, he can’t help but feel happy for you both. 

Robin looks down with a smile on her face when Eddie wraps his arm around you and kisses your cheek softly and Steve’s eyes soften as well. 

He sighs and rolls his eyes as he finally takes a seat, he reaches for his beer and takes a sip. 

“I’m happy my plan worked but you both will go back, replace the furniture and clean everything up before I lose my shit and I kill you before my parents kill me.”

You nod at him with wide eyes, while Eddie furrows his eyebrows, “clean up? Oh, we did clean up and besides, we didn’t waste a single drop.” 

“Eddie,” you whine as you bury your face in your hands while Robin groans in disgust. 

Steve only sighs but his lips twitch slightly, curling into a smirk as he nods at Eddie. 

“At least I know your children aren’t running around my cabin.” 

You give Eddie a warning glance but he is already smirking at you, gripping your thigh harder, slipping under your skirt. 

“They’re somewhere else.” 

“Oh, gross!” Robin coughs and turns away with a frown on her face. 

“Eddie!” You whine and slap his chest to which he pulls you closer and kisses your cheek, chuckling in amusement. 

Steve shakes his head, sighing. 

Not Hawkins—Hawkins is full of grown-ups who bend down too close, their eyelashes like moving spiders as they pinch his cheeks and say, Oh, Catherine, he looks just like Daniel already, doesn’t he?

No. Steve wants to go home to his room. Where all his dinosaurs live. Where his blue night-light makes everything soft and underwater-colored. Where no one tells him Smile, Stephen, or Be polite, Stephen, or For heaven’s sake, Stephen, stop fidgeting.

His new sandals hurt. Bad. The buckle is sharp and keeps poking the soft part of his ankle every time he moves. His shirt itches him everywhere—his neck, his sides, his armpits—and no amount of wriggling seems to help.

He tugs at the collar, trying to make it stop.

His mom’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Stephen, sweetheart, keep still.”

He tries. He really, really does.

But all around him, the grown-ups are being very loud. They stand in little circles, laughing these big, sharp HA-HA-HA laughs that poke straight into his ears. Every time his dad says something, it’s like someone presses a button and they all explode at once.

Someone tells his mom how tall Steve’s getting. Someone else winks at his dad and keeps saying the word “Princeton,” which Steve thinks might be a kind of car, but it makes his dad laugh loudly and look at Steve with a funny smile.

Another woman bends down and tells him he’s going to “break so many hearts one day.”

Steve frowns.

Why would he do that?

He likes hearts.

Hearts are for loving, not hurting.

He looks past the grown-ups—past the chairs and tables and the flowers that smell too strong—toward the tiny slice of ocean peeking between the dunes. Blue and shiny and very, very far away.

He wants it.

Wants to touch the sand with his bare feet. Wants water he’s allowed to splash in.  

Wants a summer that belongs to him instead of everyone else.

His mom squeezes his shoulder again. “Posture, Stephen. Stand up straight.”

He thinks maybe that’s his name now: Posture Stephen.

“I am standing straight,” he mutters.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

He wants to run.

Run until the HA-HA-HA sounds disappear. Run until nobody’s watching him. Run until he hits the water.

So when his mom gets called over by someone waving a fancy glass, and his dad tells another joke that makes everyone explode-laugh again—

Steve sneaks away.

He’s fast and light, like a ninja.

He slips between chairs, tiptoes down the wooden steps, and as soon as the dunes come into view, he runs.

The sand squishes under his feet, and Steve sighs so big his whole chest feels lighter. He breathes in deep, holding as much salty air as his lungs can fit.

The beach is huge. Bigger than his school playground. Bigger than Hawkins, even. Tall grasses wave on the dunes like they’re saying hello, and beyond them is nothing but water—blue and green and silver, stretching all the way to forever.  

The ocean roars, but it’s a good sound. A soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that fills his ears without hurting them.

On his way toward the water, he finds a stick.

A really good stick. Long and a little pointy on one end.

It could be a cool pirate sword. He’s gonna use it to make the biggest hole in the world.

He plops down, criss-cross-applesauce, and starts digging. Sand sticks to his shorts, but that’s okay. He can say he tripped later.

He stabs the stick into the ground and drags it out.

The sand slides back in.

He digs again.

Slides back in again.

He huffs and tosses the stick away.

“This is dumb,” he mutters. “You’re dumb.” He means the hole. And the stick. And the sandals. And maybe the whole world.

He’s just about to flop onto his back and stare at the sky, because that usually gets someone to notice him—

When a shadow falls over his hole.

“What’re you doing?”   

Steve looks up.

It’s a girl. About his age.

You stand there, barefoot, hair wild like you ran through ten windstorms. Sand is smudged on your cheek like face paint. He stares at your toes curling happily in the sand and feels a sharp pinch of jealousy.

You drop a bright plastic bucket beside him. It’s full of shells and rocks and something that moves.

A crab lifts its tiny claws and clicks at him.

Steve jerks back. You don’t.

Instead, you plant your hands on your hips and squint down at him like you’ve known him forever.

“You’re not diggin’ right.” you announce.

He blinks. “…I’m not?”

“Nope.” You point at the hole with your whole arm. “Sand’s too dry. It just falls in. You gotta use wet sand.”

“Oh.” He feels silly for not knowing that. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” You plop down beside him. Your knees are dirty, covered in scratches and tiny dots from the sand, but you don’t seem to care. “Wanna see how?”

Nobody ever asks him that.

Nobody ever asks him if he wants to see something.

He nods fast. “Yeah.”

You grin and grab his hand, yanking him up so quickly he stumbles.

“I-I’m Steve,” he blurts as he gets dragged toward the ocean, because he knows he’s supposed to introduce himself to new people.

You tell him your name proudly. Then you tilt your head, thinking.

“Can I call you Stevie?”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah! My mom’s favorite singer’s named Stevie.”

Steve thinks about it.

Nobody’s ever given him a nickname before.

It feels special. Like a secret.

“Okay,” he nods, smiling.

You beam and tug him toward the water. “C’mon, Stevie!”

Stevie.

He likes it.

Loves it.

It feels like the sun just turned on inside his chest.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 6 years old when summers suddenly mean everything.

The Hamptons stop being itchy shirts and sharp laughs that hurt his ears.

They become you.

Summer means you. It means your laugh, your bucket full of strange treasures, your hair decorated with seashells “because it looks cool.” It means your brave, bossy voice telling him what to do, but always in a fun way.  

Every month of the school year, Steve waits.

And every night before bed, he lines his stuffed dinosaurs up by his pillow and tells them stories about the beach. About the girl with the crab bucket and the sand-matted hair the wind couldn’t catch. About how you call him Stevie because it’s the name of your mom’s favorite singer. About how you don’t care when he wiggles, or gets dirty, or says some words wrong.

When his mom asks if he’s excited for the Hamptons, he just shrugs. “I guess.”

But inside, his chest feels all tight and fizzy, like a soda can he’s not supposed to open yet: Coca-Cola, his favorite.

The whole flight to New York, Steve squints at the numbers on his watch, trying to decide if the big hand is halfway or not. He’s still not very good at telling the time, but he knows enough to know the flight feels like forever.

He ends up staring out the little oval window instead, at clouds that look like giant dinosaur eggs. He wonders if you’d think so, too. He’ll ask you when he sees you.

If he sees you.

What if you aren’t there this year? What if you forgot him?

The thought makes his stomach feel all wiggly and twisty. He doesn’t like it.

He hopes you’re there. He hopes you didn’t forget him.

The moment the car turns onto the long, winding road toward the summer house, Steve scoots forward as far as the belt lets him, pressing his face to the window. When he sees the ocean shining in the distance like a giant blue secret, his chest gets so tight he can hardly breathe.

He can’t wait. He can’t.

He barely waits for the car to stop.

“Stephen! Shoes! Your shoes are going to—oh, for heaven’s sake…”

He doesn’t listen. He takes the steps two at a time, sandals smacking hard against the wood.

He’s taller now. A whole two inches and a half, thank you very much.

He’s faster, too. Knows he is. He’s been practicing during recess, racing Tommy H. behind the swings.

He leaps off the last step and skids into the sand—

“STEVIE!”

He spins around so fast the world blurs.

You’re barreling toward him at top speed. Sand spraying behind you, hair flying everywhere. Your bucket bangs against your knee as you run, rattling and clanking and sounding even fuller than last year.

Steve’s face splits into the biggest grin he’s ever had.

You crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, and the force of it nearly knocks him onto his back.

“HI! Stevie, Stevie—you gotta see this shell I found! Wait, hang on—”

You pull back just far enough to dig frantically through your bucket, dumping half of it into the sand. Rocks tumble out. Then a string of green, slimy seaweed. You grab something big and lumpy and shove it up toward his face.

“See?”  

Steve blinks.

The shell is huge, bigger than his whole hand. Pale pink and creamy white, spiraled tight at one end and opening wide at the other. The outside is dotted with rounded little spikes that feel rough when he traces his fingers over them, but the inside is smooth and shiny.

“That’s really cool,” he says, because everything you do is cool. “It kind of looks like…” He squints hard, turns it sideways. “…a horn?”

Your eyes light up. “Yeah! Like a unicorn.”

He smiles. “Or a dinosaur.” 

“That’s better,” you nod seriously. “Okay now listen!”

Before he can ask what you mean, you press the wide end right against his ear. It’s cold and sandy against his cheek.

“…What’s it do?”

“Just listen.”

He holds very still, not sure what he’s supposed to be listening for.

And then—

Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

His eyes go huge.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“Cool, right?”

“It’s loud.”

“That’s the ocean.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s stuck in there.”

You drop the shell into his hands and curl his fingers around it. “Keep it.”

He frowns. “But… you found it.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug like it’s obvious. “I’ll find another one. The beach has, like, a million.”

He looks down at the shell again, then back at you. His chest feels funny, all warm and full. It feels good. Really good.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, squinting out toward the water. “Wanna see something even cooler?”

Of course he does.

⚓︎

You drag him everywhere.

To tide pools where little fish zip and hide under wet rocks and the seaweed shimmers in the water. Look, look, a crab!

To a secret hideout between the dunes where the grass grows taller than your heads. This way, Stevie!

To the treasure spot, because every beach has one if you know how to look. You draw an X in the sand with a stick and make a crooked map with squiggly lines and arrows. Quick, Stevie, dig! We have to find the gold before the sea monsters come!

You show him your jar full of hopping sand bugs. One brushes his thumb and he squeaks.

You laugh. He stands up straighter and pretends he wasn’t scared.

You even show him your Very Important rock collection. which is a big deal because you don’t show anyone your rocks—not even your cousins, who are “mean poop-heads who don’t appreciate cool stuff.”

Later, you’re sitting in the sand, sorting shells by color—white pile, pink pile, stripey pile—when you tell him you’re flying back to California when the summer’s over.

“Cal-ee-for-nee-yah,” you say proudly.

Steve blinks. “Why?”

“That’s where my house is.” You shrug. “I stay here with my aunt in the summer.”

“Oh.” He digs his toe into the sand. “So… you’re goin’ away?”

“Just for school.” You glance at him. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”

He looks at you fast, careful, like maybe it’s a trick. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“Next summer.”

He thinks about that. A whole year sounds really long, but summers always come back. They have to.

“You promise?”

“Promise,” you nod, sticking out your pinky.

He hooks his around yours immediately, serious as anything. Pinky promises are the strongest kind. Everybody knows that.

“Okay,” he says, finally breathing again. Then his forehead scrunches.

“Where’s… um…” He sticks his tongue out, trying to remember how you said it. “Cal… Cal-uh-for-nee… Cal-uh-for-na?” He shakes his head, mad that he can’t say it right.

You smile. “Yeah! It’s super, super far. You gotta take two planes.”

“Oh.” He nods slowly. Two planes sounds like forever.

You tell him it’s hotter there. That the trees are huge and tall, with giant leaves like green fireworks stuck in the sky.

You tell him the beaches there are bigger. Way bigger.

Steve looks out at the miles of Hamptons shoreline and frowns. “How?”

“They just are,” you insist, tossing a shell onto the striped pile. “And people surf there.”

“What’s that?”

You squint up at the sky. “It’s like… flying. But on water. They stand on boards and go really, really fast.”

Steve blinks, tries to imagine it.  

Flying… but on water.

He knows you can’t fly. Birds can. Planes can. People can’t.

And you definitely can’t stand on water. He tried once in the bathtub. You just sink.

His mouth twists.

“That’s not real,” he says, sure of it.

You scrunch your nose, lip jutting out. “It is too!”  

You shove him—not hard, just enough that he flops backward into the sand with a surprised oof.

For half a second, his stomach drops. Maybe he did something wrong.

He stares up at you, eyes wide, waiting for your face to go tight like grown-ups’ faces when he messes up.

But you’re laughing.

Bright and easy, like nothing’s wrong at all.

Sand sprays as you jump up and spin away, yelling over your shoulder, “Race you to that big rock!”

And you’re gone before he can say wait up.

The tight feeling in his chest disappears.

He scrambles up, laughing too, chasing after you with everything he’s got. Legs burning, sandals slipping, but he doesn’t care.  

It’s perfect.

It’s the best day of his whole life.

Until you fall.

It happens so fast.

One second you’re running ahead of him, laughing, hair flying everywhere.

The next, you stumble over a hard patch in the sand and go down hard.

“Ow!”

Steve skids to a stop so fast he almost falls too. His heart leaps into his throat.

He drops beside you right away. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh no, oh no—” His eyes dart all over you, scared and frantic. There’s a smear of red mixed with the sand on your knee. His breath catches.

“Your... your knee,” he whispers.

You sniffle, lip wobbling. “H-hurts.”

It’s the worst word he’s ever heard.

“It’s okay,” he says fast, even though his hands are shaking. He reaches for your arm, then stops, afraid he’ll make it worse if he touches you wrong. “It’s okay. I can fix it. I know how.”

You look up at him, eyes shiny. “…You do?”

He nods hard. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t really know. But his mom fixed his knee once after he fell off his bike. He remembers the cold wipe. The sting. The band-aid after.

“I’m gonna get the band-aid box,” he blurts, pointing up at the house. “I’ll be super fast. I promise.”

“O-okay.”

Before he runs, he leans in and gives you a quick, careful hug around your shoulders, making sure not to touch your knee. It always makes him feel better when you hug him.

“I’ll be fast,” he promises again. “Really fast.”

And then he sprints.

He sprints like he’s never sprinted in his life.

Across the beach, up the steps, through the house, ignoring the sharp call of “Stephen! Shoes!” as he dives into the bathroom.

He drops to his knees and yanks open the cabinet under the sink. He grabs the entire first aid kit, almost the size of his head, and runs back with it rattling in his arms.

You’re still there when he gets back, sitting exactly where he left you.

“I got it!” he pants.

He flips the kit open, hands clumsy, trying to remember how his mom did it. He finds a wipe, tears it open, and gently presses it to your knee—

You hiss and pull back.   

“Sorry!” His eyes go wide. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll do it softer.”

He leans down and blows carefully on your knee.

“Better?”

“…Yeah,” you sniff. “A little.”

He nods, relieved. He wipes as fast and gentle as he can, tongue poking out while he concentrates. Then he grabs a band-aid, peeling it open with his teeth because his fingers won’t work right. He sticks it on crooked, pressing the edges down with both thumbs.

“There,” he breathes, nodding to himself. “All done.”

When he looks up, your eyes are huge and your mouth is open like you just saw a unicorn.

“Hey, are you oka—oof!”

All the air is knocked out of him when you lunge forward, both arms wrapping tight around his neck.

A warm, squishy, full-body hug.

“You’re the nicest boy ever,” you mumble into his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

His ears go hot. His whole chest feels too full, like it might pop.

No one’s ever said that to him before.

“Oh... okay,” he whispers, because he can’t think of any other words.

He hugs you back, being careful and gentle.

And inside him, something huge and glowing starts to form.

Something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he will carry it with him forever.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 10 years old when he realizes he’ll never forget you.

It’s the end-of-the-summer fireworks festival.

He sprints down the familiar sandy path, sneakers thudding, two glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinking together in his hand. A crinkly bag of potato chips is tucked tight under his arm—salt and vinegar, your favorite, even though they make your mouth pucker and your nose wrinkle.

His heart thumps in that way it always does during the very last week of summer, when everything fun is happening all at once—and also ending.

He knows you’re there, waiting for him.

You always are.

Your spot is exactly where it’s been for five summers now: a small dip between two grassy dunes, hidden from the rest of the beach. The sand curves around it like arms, blocking the wind and the noise from the crowd.

You’re sitting on your blanket, legs crossed, tongue poking out as you carefully tie pieces of sea grass together into a bracelet.

When you see him, your whole face lights up.

“Stevie! You got it!”

“’Course I did,” he grins, holding up the chips. “My mom wouldn’t stop talking to Mrs. Aldridge about… I dunno. Hair stuff? It took forever.”

“That’s ’cause grown-ups love being boring,” you say, scooting over. “Sit, sit! The first one’s gonna happen any second.”

He flops down beside you, and you shuffle closer until your shoulder presses against his.

Closer than last year, he thinks.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for the snacks. Steve pretends he doesn’t notice, but he notices like crazy.

The first firework explodes with a loud crack, red sparks bursting across the sky.

You gasp, sharp and happy, and grab his hand without thinking.

Your fingers slide between his.

Steve looks down, startled.

Your palm is warm, a little sweaty. His own hand is rough in spots, scraped from climbing the rope at recess back home and picking at scabs he shouldn’t. Your thumb rests right against it.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

“Whoa,” you whisper as the sparks fade. “Did you see that? It looked like a flower.”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

But he’s not looking at the sky at all.

The fireworks flash over your face, turning your eyes all sorts of bright, pretty colors: blue, then gold, then pink. Your nose scrunches when one pops extra bright. Every time a big one crackles, you squeeze his hand tighter.

So he squeezes back.

Carefully at first. Then a little braver.

Green fireworks shoot out like tree branches, spiraling high into the dark, but he only really notices because they shine in your eyes.

You’re brighter.

You’re always brighter.

When the sky goes dark for a second and everything is quiet, you turn to him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you whisper.

“Ye-ah?” His voice cracks halfway through. That’s been happening a lot lately. He clears his throat fast and hopes you didn’t hear it.

You smile at him.

“You’re my best friend.”

His stomach flips, like that time he went on the biggest roller coaster at Indiana Beach and thought he might fly right out of his seat.

He sits up a little straighter, squeezing your hand.

“You’re mine too,” he blurts. “Like—like the most. Outta everyone. In the whole world.”

Your face breaks into the biggest smile yet, and before he can think about it, you lean in and wrap your arms around his neck.

A hug.

It feels familiar. But also different.

Bigger. Like it means more than it used to, even if he doesn’t know why.

He hugs you back right away, pressing his nose into your hair. You smell like sunscreen and grape popsicles and the ocean.

“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper into his shoulder. “The best ever.”

That fluttery feeling in his stomach comes back, stronger this time. He swallows, nods even though you can’t see it.

“You too,” he says quietly, squeezing you just a little tighter.

Then, just as you pull back, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Barely there.

But it feels like something exploding inside his chest.

His face goes burning hot. He’s really glad it’s dark, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks are as red as the fireworks.

Up above, the finale roars to life: fountains of silver streaking upward, bursting into brilliant gold that lights up the entire beach.

You turn back to watch like nothing happened, scooting closer until your head tips and rests against his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

When he finally has to, he does it slowly, careful not to move an inch. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your breath is warm against his neck when you let out a small, sleepy sigh.

The fireworks crash and boom overhead, sparkling like giant flowers.

Steve stares at the sky, heart pounding, feeling something change inside him.

Something big.

It’s the first time he understands something he’s never felt before.

Steve Harrington is ten years old when he falls in love with his best friend in the whole world.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 12 years old when everything gets... weird.

He’s a lot taller now, second tallest out of the boys his class. He’s faster, stronger. His shoulders are broader, his arms a little longer than he expects when he stretches them out. His hair brushes the tops of his ears, and he kind of likes it that way, even though his mom keeps telling him it’s time for a trim.

And his voice... his voice keeps doing that awful, traitorous squeak. Especially when he’s around you.

But none of that really matters.

Because you’re here.

You’re back.

And you’re different, too.

Not in a big, obvious way. You still run like you’ve got rocket boosters strapped to your ankles. You still crouch by tide pools and whisper to crabs like they’re old friends. You still call him Stevie in the exact same way.

But now...

Now you lean on him sometimes when you sit together. You don’t move away when your knees touch. Now your eyes flick to his mouth when he’s talking, and Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he knows it means something.

The wind is steady and warm today, bending the dune grass in lazy waves. The two of you sit cross-legged in your secret spot, the same hidden hollow you’ve shared since you were five. Piles of shells and weird rocks you swear might be fossils are scattered between you.

You hand him a perfectly round one with swirls. “This one looks like Neptune,” you declare.  

Steve nods, even though the only thing he knows about Neptune is that it's blue.

He’s not looking at the rock, anyway.

You’re telling him a story about a crab you swear was as big as a dog. You stretch your arms out to demonstrate the size, ridiculously wide.

“Stevie, I swear,” you insist. “Its claws were this big. Could’ve snipped your big toe off.”

Steve nods along, trying to focus on the part where he should laugh.  

But he can’t stop staring.

At the color of your eyes in the sunlight. At the way the breeze lifts strands of your hair and drops them back against your cheek. At the curve of your mouth when you get excited.

He feels weird all the time now. Fluttery and unsteady, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster right before it drops. It happens every time he looks at you, or thinks about you, which is basically always.

He’s thinking about how pretty the sun looks reflecting off your skin, how it catches the little beads of water on your cheek and makes them glint like tiny stars, when suddenly—

You go quiet.

Really quiet.

Steve’s stomach tightens instantly.

You’re never quiet unless you’re asleep or thinking about pulling a prank on him. He stiffens, glancing around for whatever bug or crab you might’ve hidden.

There’s nothing.

You’re just… looking at him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you say softly.

His throat makes a weird clicking noise. “Yeah?”

You scoot closer. Your knee presses against his leg and doesn’t move away.

Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna do something. Don’t freak out.”

He’s already freaking out. He doesn’t think he’s ever freaked out this much in his entire life.

“O-okay,” he manages.

You nod once, take a tiny breath, lean forward—

And you kiss him.

Right on the mouth.

His first kiss.

Your lips are soft and warm. They press against his for just a second, shorter than a blink, gone before he can react.

You pull back, eyes still closed. Steve is frozen, eyes wide open, mouth puckered.

Your nose crinkles when you open your eyes and see him.

“Stevie,” you giggle. “Close your mouth!”

He snaps it shut so fast his teeth click together.

You completely lose it, laughing as you fall sideways into the sand.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You looked like a fish!”

He groans, mortified, covering his face with both hands as he flops down next to you. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry!” you say, laughing harder. “I’m not—it’s just—”

He peeks through his fingers, smiling despite himself. He loves the sound of your laugh, even when it’s at his expense.

When your giggles finally soften, you scoot closer on your back until you’re nose to nose, lined up from shoulder to ankle.

Steve turns his head to look at you.

Up close, he can see the little grains of sand stuck to your forehead, the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. His face burns.

“Is…” His voice cracks again, and he swallows. “Is it okay if we… do that again?

Your smile is huge and immediate. “Yeah. I wanna.”

This time, he leans in first.

And this time, he’s ready.

He closes his eyes. Keeps his lips together. Moves slow and careful. His nose bumps your cheek, squishing awkwardly from the angle, and you break into giggles again, turning the kiss wobbly and messy.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling the exact same way.

“Oh my god, your face is so red.”

“It’s—it’s because it’s hot out,” he stammers.

“Nope. It’s you.”

You reach up and ruffle his hair, messing it up completely.  

“Hey!” he sputters, batting at your hand.

You climb halfway on top of him, not really tackling, just laughing, squirming, wrestling in that loose, joyful way where nobody’s trying to win, and he'd let you anyway.

You’re both out of breath by the time you flop back onto the sand, laughing so hard it hurts.

Steve throws an arm over his face, smiling wide, everything dizzy and bright.

The wind brushes over him. The sun hums overhead.

After a while, you stretch your pinky toward him.

He feels it tap against his hand and hooks it without even looking.

“Promise we’ll hang out every summer,” you say.

“That’s easy,” he answers immediately. “Promise.”

Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, suddenly serious.

“Actually, next time, I’m gonna bring something.”

Your eyes go bright. “Like what?”

“It’s a secret.”

You shove him lightly. “What? Tell me!”

“Nope.” He flops back onto the sand, grinning. “You gotta wait.”

You groan dramatically at the sky, pinky still tangled in his. 

“I hate you.”

He closes his eyes, smiles at the sun.

“No you don’t.”

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 13 years old when his world stops for the first time.

It happens on a warm June morning, with sunlight slanting through tall windows and the smell of pancakes drifting through the house.

He starts the day happy.

He hums as he packs, can’t help it. He doesn’t even care that his room’s a disaster: swimsuits tossed over the chair, T-shirts half-folded, socks everywhere.

On his desk sits a small shoe box.

He pauses in front of it.

Inside are the things you’ve given him over the years. Precious, timeless treasures.

The spiral shell shaped like a dinosaur horn. The seaweed bracelet, brittle now, faded pale from time. The smooth blue stone you said looked like Neptune.  

He picks up each thing carefully, touches it, turns it over in his hand.  Then he puts them back exactly how they were and closes the lid.

The box goes into the bottom drawer, where it’s safe.

Then he picks up his gift.

It’s clumsy. Strung together with twine, wrapped messily in torn comic-book pages because he couldn’t find real wrapping paper. The corners are taped crooked, the edges uneven. He’s worked on it for years, adding to it bit by bit every summer, telling himself next year every time.

But this year feels different.

This year, he thinks he can give them to you.

He’s even written his address on the top one—carefully, in his neatest handwriting—so maybe you could write to him in California. You’re smart. You’d know how.

He smooths the edges with nervous fingers.

He’s practiced what he’ll say all week.

Hey, these are for you. Too boring.

You can have these, or whatever. Too nothing.

You mean everything to me. Too much. Way too much.

He settles on a smile instead.

You always say he has a nice one, that he smiles with his whole face, that his eyes squish up “like a happy chipmunk.”

No one else ever says things like that to him. Not the way you do.

He’s halfway through folding a beach towel when his mom’s voice floats up the stairs.

“Stephen? Breakfast.”

“Coming!” he calls, already jogging down barefoot, taking the steps two at a time, giddy.

His mom is in the kitchen, stirring her coffee neatly. His dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread wide.

“Hey, Mom,” Steve says, breathless. “Have you seen my hat? The one with the red stripe? I can’t find it.”  

She doesn’t look up.

“Stephen,” she says evenly, “we aren’t going to the Hamptons this summer.”

The world stops.

“...Huh?”

She sets her spoon down. “We’ve decided to do Europe instead.”

For one second, he thinks it’s a joke. He lets out a short, confused laugh and looks at his dad.

His throat goes tight when nobody smiles.

“What?” Steve croaks.

“You’re thirteen now, Stephen,” his dad says, turning the page. “It’s time you saw culture. Real culture.”

“But...” Steve shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But we always go to the Hamptons.”

“This will be good for you,” his mom says, smiling lightly. “Europe will be lovely.”

Lovely.

Like the sound of your laugh.

Like the colors of fireworks in your eyes.

Like the warmth of your hug when you called him the nicest boy ever.

“N-no, but—” His voice cracks. “But I have a friend.”

“You’ll make new ones.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, words tripping over each other, panic rising fast. “I have to—I promised—I told her I’d—”

His dad sighs, newspaper crinkling. “Stop whining.”

Steve flinches.

“I’m not whining,” he whispers.

His mom steps closer and smooths his hair back like he’s still little. “You’ll love Europe, darling. Now eat your breakfast. You can finish packing after.”  

Something hot and awful swells in his chest.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw the coffee pot at the wall and watch it shatter.

Instead, he tries again.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking completely now. “Please, Mom. We have to go. She’ll be waiting. I told her I’d come back. Just this year. Please.”

He promises to be good. That he won’t run off to the beach without permission. That he won’t complain during parties. He swears he’ll do more chores, stop arguing, get better grades. He’ll be perfect. He’ll be anything.

Anything.

“Stephen,” his father snaps, voice like a slammed door. “Drop it.”

Something inside Steve drops with it.

Falls.

Cracks.

Shatters.

⚓︎

He runs upstairs, slams his door and locks it. Drags his dresser in front of it with shaking arms. Slides down onto the carpet, breaths coming in sharp, broken pieces.

He doesn’t come out the rest of the day.

That night, he sleeps with your shell clutched in his hand, pressed tight against his ear. The ocean hums inside it. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there—pretend you’re tugging his hand, pulling him toward the water.

Stevie, look!

He cries until his pillow is soaked.

⚓︎

The Hamptons house stays closed all summer; curtains drawn, doors locked, a whole season going on without him.

On the way to the airport, Steve presses his cheek to the car window and watches the world blur past.

He doesn’t know how to send a letter. He doesn’t know where in California you live.  

He can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t find you.

There is no treasure map back.  

Just sandcastles washed away by tides and a pinky promise he couldn’t keep.

He pictures you standing in the dunes, bucket in hand, looking over your shoulder.

Waiting.

Maybe you’re mad.

Maybe you’re worried.

Maybe you’re thinking he forgot you.

That thought hurts so badly he has to bite down on his knuckle to keep quiet.

⚓︎

In hotel rooms across Europe, Steve lies awake at night, staring at unfamiliar ceilings.

He tries not to cry.

Some nights, he fails.

But he does it silently, face shoved into a pillow, because boys his age aren’t supposed to do that anymore.

In Florence, he stares at the Arno River and thinks of the ocean. Wonders if you’re there right now, toes buried in the sand, waiting for him to complain that the water’s cold just so you can grab his wrist and drag him in, laughing.

In Paris, he watches fireworks bloom over the Eiffel Tower and feels sick.

Red, gold, and blue explodes across the sky, but all he can see is your eyes. Your hand laced through his, your head heavy and warm on his shoulder.

You’re my best friend.

He cries himself to sleep on expensive hotel sheets, muffling his sobs into Egyptian cotton until it’s dark with salt.

In dreams, he is flying.

The wide blue waters of California stretching endlessly below him, carrying him closer to you.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 15 years old when he learns how to disappear.

The hallways are packed tight with shouting and shrill laughter. Boys slam into each other on purpose. Everyone pretends they’re bigger, tougher, cooler than they were three months ago.

So Steve pretends, too.

He discovers the power of hairspray, learns how to make his hair work for him.

By October, everybody has an opinion about him. Mostly girls.

“Oh my god, Steve Harrington is so cute.” “Right? He looks taller than last year.” “Did you see his hair? Total dream.”

He smiles. He flirts. He jokes. He learns to be charming the way his father is at dinner parties—making people laugh, making them lean in close.

It works.

High school is a costume. And Steve Harrington wears it well.

⚓︎

One afternoon in P.E., Tommy Hagan decides Steve is “my best bud, actually.”

It happens after the 100-meter sprint. Steve wins without really trying, legs strong and fast from years of racing barefoot across sand dunes.

Tommy slaps him on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“Harrington! Jesus, dude, you move.”

Steve grins, even though his shoulder stings.

Harrington. Not Stevie.

Tommy hooks an arm around his neck like they’ve been friends for years. Carol Perkins tells him she likes his hair.  

And for the first time since losing you, Steve feels something close to relief.

He’s not alone.

⚓︎

Sophomore year, someone calls him King Steve for the first time.

He laughs, because it sounds stupid.

But the name sticks, like gum on a shoe.

He’s captain of the swim team now. Sixteen years old and he’s already broken the state record for the 200-yard freestyle. His body does what he tells it to, and he likes that. Likes the rush of being good at something, the roar of the crowd every time he touches the wall first.

His parents are almost never home anymore. No more summer trips to Europe, or anywhere. They leave him with a credit card and a spotless house.

Steve makes it his personal mission to ruin that.

He throws the loudest, wildest parties he can, every chance he gets. Music shaking the walls. People jumping on furniture, spilling drinks, diving into the pool with all their clothes on.

Everyone loves the parties.

Everyone loves King Steve.

⚓︎

Steve has a drawer that no one opens.

Not his parents. Not the housekeeper. Not even him, most days.

The wood sticks when it’s pulled, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.

Inside it is a shoe box.

Shells. Rocks. A bracelet that doesn’t fit anymore.

Remains of summers he pretends not to remember.

Most nights, he leaves it alone.

But sometimes—when the house feels too big, when everyone’s gone home and the silence presses in—he opens the drawer.

Lifts the lid.

He doesn’t touch anything.

Just looks.

He wonders if you remember him.

If you still call him Stevie in your head.

If you ever think of those summers: the dunes, the fireworks, the scrape on your knee.

Then he closes the box. Slides it back into the dark.

In the morning, he is Harrington once again.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 18 years old when the letter finally arrives.

It sits on his desk for three days, unopened.

The envelope is thick, cream-colored and heavy. He knows what it says. He’s known since the phone call, since his coach clapped him on the shoulder and grinned, since the guidance counselor told him he should be so proud of himself.

He isn’t sure if he is.

On the fourth day, he carries it downstairs.

His father takes the packet without ceremony, skims the first page, and scoffs.

“California,” he says flatly.

Steve nods, throat tight. “They’ve got a really strong swim program.”

His father exhales through his nose and sets the packet down like it might stain the table.

“A public university. On the other side of the country.”

“It’s—” Steve clears his throat. “They offered me a scholarship.”

The look he gets says more than words ever could.

“Stephen,” his father says, tone perfectly level, “state schools are for kids who don’t have better options. California is lazy, full of idlers. It’s not the kind of place where you get serious about your future.”

Steve feels a familiar pressure building up in his chest, hand around his ribs, that same old relentless squeeze.

“Real academics are here, on the East Coast," his father continues. “Institutions with standards. History. You don’t see men running this country who went to beach schools.”

“Dad,” Steve says quietly. “I worked for this. I earned it.”

His father doesn’t even look up. “You were recruited. Because you can swim.”

Steve’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening beneath the table.

“I’m not paying for you to run off to California,” his father says, voice precise, final. “Just so you can throw parties and chase girls and waste your life on nonsense.”

The room shrinks.

For a moment, Steve is thirteen again.

Bare feet on cold tile, begging for one last summer.

Promising he’ll behave. Promising he’ll try harder. Promising he’ll be whatever they want him to be.

He really thought this time would be different. Thought being older meant they’d finally listen.

Something quiet settles inside him.

“Fine,” he says, pushing his chair back. “I’ll pay for it myself.”

His father lets out a short laugh. “With what money?”

Steve picks up the envelope. Feels its weight.

Possibility, distance, risk.

Hope.

“I’ll figure it out.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He goes upstairs and starts packing that night.

⚓︎

Numbers race furiously through his mind as he clears his room.

The scholarship covers some of the tuition, but not housing. Not books. Not fees.

He’ll start lifeguarding again in the summers. Take early morning shifts during the year, work weekends. Take out loans under his own name.

It won’t be easy.

But it will be his.

⚓︎

He loads his entire world into the BMW.

It doesn’t take long.

For someone who’s grown up with so much, there isn’t much that’s actually his.

Clothes. Swim trophies. His alarm clock. A framed photo from a family vacation he’s too young to remember: his parents smiling, arms around each other. He hesitates, then slides it into a box face-down.

The last thing he opens is the drawer.

It sticks, like it always does.

Inside is the shoe box.

And beneath it, the gift he never got to give you. Built slowly, carefully, over summers that feel like they happened to someone else now.

He tucks them both into his duffel bag, wedged between folded clothes so they won’t shift.

His father doesn’t come outside.

His mother stands at the edge of the driveway, watching him pack the car in silence. When he’s finished, she steps forward and smooths his collar the way she used to when he was little.

Then she presses a folded envelope into his hand.

It’s heavy.

He doesn’t open it. Just nods, gives her the best smile he can manage.

Closes the trunk.

Gets behind the wheel.

Looks west.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 20 years old when his world stops for a second time.

He likes California.

The weather, the people, the food. He likes the way the air always smells like the ocean here, the way winter barely exists. He never liked the cold anyway.

College is different in ways he didn’t know to expect. He’s found classes that actually interest him, professors who ask questions and wait for real answers.

He has friends now who say they’ll see him tomorrow and mean it. Who sit on the floor with him at two in the morning talking about nothing and everything: music, stupid theories, what they want to do after graduation, whether anyone really knows who they are yet.

He still gets tired sometimes.

Tired of himself. Tired of that old, hollow echo that never fully went away. But that weight isn’t constant anymore. It shifts. Recedes. It loosens its grip when he’s laughing with his roommates, tossing a beach ball across the sand, swimming lap after lap until his muscles burn and his mind goes quiet.    

The house is packed tonight.

Last party of the school year. Spilled soda, cheap perfume, summer sweat and warm beer. Music thunders through the walls. Bodies press together, shouting and laughing over the noise.

An older teammate claps him on the back. “Harrington! Hell of a party, man.”

Steve smiles, nods, laughs along.

Can’t shake off that feeling, still. That faint sense of displacement that hums under everything.  

He drifts through the crowd, eyes unfocused, letting motion and color wash over him. Someone nearly spills a drink on his shoes. Someone dances too close. It all registers. None of it sticks.

Then, he hears it.

A laugh.

Clear. Bright. A recognition that tightens his chest before his brain can catch up.

Steve turns slowly, frowning, not sure why his body is moving toward the sound.

Near the doorway, head tipped back in laughter, hair catching the light—

There’s a girl.

Not quite a stranger. Not quite someone he knows.

Familiar in the way a dream is: sharp in feeling, slippery in detail. Memories flicker past him, too fast to grab—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—dissolving like sand through his fingers.

He stares without meaning to.

You turn.

Your eyes find his.

Your drink freezes halfway to your lips. Confusion flickers across your face, soft and fleeting.

Then recognition.

Disbelief.

“...Stevie?”

Something in his chest detonates.

The hollow feeling he’s been carrying shatters into a thousand fragments of warmth and longing he didn’t know he’d been saving.

You step closer, eyes wide, face lit with a smile he hasn’t seen in years but never truly forgot.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, half-laughing. “It’s you.”

Steve can’t speak.

His throat closes. The world narrows.

He’s thirteen again, standing barefoot on cold tile, begging for a summer that never came.

He’s ten, sunburned and breathless, watching fireworks bloom in your eyes.

He’s six, running barefoot toward the sound of your laughter, sand sticking to his ankles.

He’s five, staring up at a girl with a bucketful of stolen seashells, telling him he’s digging wrong.

He’s a lonely kid on the beach, carving crooked shapes into the sand, waiting for someone to come find him.

And you did.

You always did.

The cup slips from his hand. Beer splashes across the floor, unnoticed.

He whispers your name.

A decade of wanting, released in one sound.

⚓︎

“...Hi.”

“...Hi.”

“How—”

“What—”

He laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His palms are damp, heart stumbling over itself.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t believe you’re actually—”

You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck, tight enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper against his ear, voice breaking. “I missed you.”

For a second, Steve just stands there.

Stricken. Breathless. His brain lagging behind what his heart already knows.

Then his arms come up—slowly, instinctively, carefully folding around you. He lowers his head, presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing you in like proof.

He doesn’t say I missed you too.

It wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t come close. Wouldn’t touch the years, the distance, everything he’s lost and carried and never learned how to put down. How your memory has lived inside him like a second spine, holding him upright when nothing else did.

Instead, he tightens his grip and whispers:

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t say it’s okay.

But you let out a soft breath and pull him closer, arms firm around his shoulders.

And that, more than words, feels like forgiveness.

⚓︎

The place is called Scoops Ahoy. 

Steve hasn’t been inside it in years, but the second he steps through the door, it all comes rushing back.

The headache-bright fluorescents. The aggressively nautical theme: ropes and anchors, boat-shaped displays that never quite made sense. The faint, permanent stickiness of the floor, no matter how often it gets mopped.

He worked here his freshman year, back when he was desperate for cash and all the good jobs were taken by upperclassmen with better timing. It had been fine. Mind-numbing, but fine. The ice cream was decent if you ignored the décor and the way the lighting made everyone look a little sickly.  

At this hour, it’s dead.

Completely empty except for the girl working the register—short, sandy-brown hair, half-slouched over the counter as she flips through a comic, clearly counting down the seconds until closing.

But Steve can't bring himself to focus on any of it.

Because you’re here.

You’re actually here, leaning over the glass case, eyes flicking back and forth between flavors like this is the most important decision you’ve made all day. You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, unbidden.

He can’t stop staring.

The whole thing feels surreal, like a fever dream his brain stitched together out of old memories and wishful thinking.  

Like he might blink and you’ll disappear.

But the details are all the same.

The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The faint crease between your eyebrows when you’re overanalyzing something that really shouldn’t matter this much. The way your mouth presses into that familiar line when you can’t decide.

And when you glance back at him, eyes warm and expectant, that exact same light glows there. 

You smile. “What’re you getting?”

Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring for way too long. He clears his throat and forces himself to look down at the ice cream like he hasn’t seen this exact lineup a hundred times before.

“Uh,” he says, squinting thoughtfully. “The salted caramel’s usually pretty good.”

“Ooh.” You nod, completely serious. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

His eyes flick up to the menu on the wall, scanning for something he half-hopes they got rid of. But no—there it is, in all its over-the-top glory.

The Triple Decker Extravaganza.

“Why don’t we just get the sundae?” he offers. “That way you can pick whatever you want.”

You turn to him, eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Go nuts.”

Your face brightens instantly, and something in his chest goes warm as he watches you lean forward again, picking out flavors, debating them out loud.

Steve just stands there, smiling like an idiot.

When he pulls out his wallet without thinking, you don’t stop him.

“Thanks,” you say softly, glancing at him.

“Don’t mention it.”

He shoots the girl behind the register an apologetic look as he pays, knows this order’s a nightmare. Hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, cherries. Those stupid little sail-shaped cone pieces that always break in half. He slips an extra ten into the tip jar, and her expression improves instantly.

The sundae arrives in a ridiculous plastic boat, wobbling under the weight of it all.

You laugh, delighted, as Steve carefully carries it over to the counter by the window. You hop up onto a stool, legs swinging as you settle in.

Outside, the street is calm, washed in neon and soft sodium light. The glass reflects both of you faintly, past and present overlapping in double exposure.

Steve sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

You start asking questions the same way you always did, listening like every answer matters.  

“What’s your major?”

“Business,” he shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “But… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about switching. I like my psych classes way more than econ.”

“Really? What kind of psych?”

“Developmental stuff, mostly. Kids, families. That kind of thing.”

You nod, thoughtful, spoon hovering midair. “You’d be really great with kids.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah? I mean... I don’t know.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insist, turning on your stool to face him. “You’ve always been patient. You’re a great listener. You care.”  

He blinks, goes quiet. Looks at you for a beat too long before remembering to glance away.

“Thanks… uh, what about you?”

You tell him about your classes, your roommates. The professor who assigns too much reading. The weird smell in your dorm hallway no one can identify. How the ocean never really gets old, even when you see it every day.

“So,” you ask eventually, tilting your head. “How’d you end up picking a school all the way out here?”

Steve stirs the melted ice cream with his spoon, not meeting your eyes.

“I don’t know. I mean, the scholarship helped, but I guess I just wanted somewhere warmer. Closer to the water.”

He doesn’t say how much of it was quiet, impossible hope.

Doesn’t say how a tiny part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find you here.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “I should’ve asked for your phone number back then. Or your address. Or... something.” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Hey,” you slide your hand over his, squeezing once. “We’re here now. Right?”

He nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

You smile and return to the ice cream. He does too.

A new song crackles over the speakers, and you start humming along absentmindedly. It takes him a second to realize what it is.

Edge of Seventeen.

Stevie Nicks.

He meets your eyes.

Feels something click, then.

He’s never really believed in fate.

But if there were ever a reason to try, a reason to hope in a world that so often disappoints, he thinks that reason would be you.

⚓︎

When the ice cream’s gone and the girl behind the counter starts wiping things down a little too pointedly, you hop off the stool.  

June nights in Santa Barbara are warm, carrying faint traces of salt from the ocean. You stop beneath the neon glow of the marquee outside, the lights painting your silhouette in soft blues and pinks.

Steve’s heart stutters.

What happens now?

He's dreading the ending; there are years stretched between you now, whole versions of you he’s never met. So much left to ask, to know. To say.

He rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s late,” he says. “I should probably let you go. Maybe I could get your dorm’s phone number? Or we could grab lunch someti—”

You’re smiling when you kiss him.

Up on your toes, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as you pull him down. Your lips taste sweet: strawberry and chocolate, cherry and vanilla. Every flavor, because you couldn’t decide. Because he wanted to share.

The neon hums above you. The world narrows again.

This kiss lasts longer than the last one he shared with you. Long enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb along your jaw, to realize, distantly, how much better he is at this now.

He knows how to angle his head just right, slant his lips to deepen the press, to pull you closer by the small of your back and have you flush against him.

When you pull back, he chases your lips all the way until you've dropped back onto your heels.

You blink your eyes open, tongue darting over your lip like you’re tasting him, too.

He has to force himself to step back, fight the urge to lean in again.

You both speak at once.

“So—"

“Would you—”

He laughs. “Sorry. You first.”

You laugh too, shaking your head. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine. My roommates are gone for the weekend.”

He stares at you, stunned. Hopes the neon glow is bright enough to wash out the red rushing to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

You smile and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

⚓︎

You’re kissing him the moment the door clicks shut.

There’s no pause, no awkward second-guessing—just the soft thud of the door and then you’re there, hands fisted in his shirt, lips warm and insistent against his. It’s messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath tangling, soft laughter trapped between two mouths as he murmurs, We should—we should probably slow down, even as he’s nudging his sneakers off with his heel.

Your apartment is small in the best way, quiet and lived-in. Soft amber lamplight, a throw blanket folded over the couch, lingering scents of citrus and cinnamon. Steve takes it in only in flashes, details flickering at the edges of his vision before your fingers slide back into his hair and the rest of the world drops away.

Clothes come off in a scattered trail to your bedroom.

Your jeans get kicked aside in the hallway. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and he has to pull back, laughing breathlessly while you help tug it free, your hands warm against his sides. He keeps his lips pressed to yours as he guides you backward, hands around your waist, bumping his shoulder in the doorframe and grinning like an idiot.

It’s not until you’re straddling him that he really stops.

Until he’s sitting on your bed, your sheets rumpled under his hands, your pillow pressed against his back.

You’re in his lap in nothing but your underwear, knees snug around his hips, solid and warm and real.

Steve looks down.

Feels it hit him all at once.

He hasn’t done this in a while. Hasn’t had a real girlfriend in college, too busy chasing grades, covering rent, picking up shifts whenever he could. A few dates here and there—awkward dinners, polite kisses—nothing that ever stayed.

Nothing that felt like this.

Your hand comes up, soft and sure, brushing along his cheek.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”

He swallows.

Steve doesn’t know if there is a word for what he’s feeling. Okay feels laughably small for what’s sitting in his chest right now, this swelling mix of affection and disbelief and something like gratitude.

“Yeah,” he starts, instinctively reaching for easy words. Fine. Good. All good.

Then he stops, shakes his head. Why hold back? Why say anything less than the truth?   

“God, I just—” He exhales, voice thick, heart full, "I can’t believe I found you.”

Your expression softens, eyes shining as you lean down to kiss him again.

And that, more than words, feels like being found right back.

⚓︎

What happens next is a slow unlearning of loneliness.

A careful dismantling of habits built around absence, years of swallowed affection and muted instincts.

Steve Harrington has learned to hush the restless stirrings of his heart, to press down the parts that ache too loudly, that reach too far, that insist on wanting. He’s gotten good at filling his days with noise, instead. Convinced himself that wanting too much is the same as wanting wrong. That loneliness is a failing, something you earn by expecting more than you’re allowed to have.

He's blamed himself for it for as long as he can remember.

But being with you is like a light dropped straight into the darkest hollow of him, the deepest pit in the sand, a sudden clarity that leaves nowhere to hide. He realizes, with quiet devastation, just how far down the emptiness goes. How much he’s learned to live without.

And now, here, with you, he has to unlearn it.

It happens slowly. In inches. In pauses.

A quiet rediscovery of loving you in this new, intimate way.   

He wants to know everything.

He wants to know what makes your breath hitch. What makes your fingers curl into the sheets. What makes you go quiet in that way that tells him he’s doing something right.

He kisses you constantly. Your mouth, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, the hollow at your throat—familiar paths he remembers tracing once upon a time, and new ones he maps with reverent patience.

He slides down over your stomach, kissing his way lower, gaze fixed on the heavy flutter of your lashes, the swell of your ribs when you let out a pleasured sigh. He takes your hand and fists it into his hair, hoping you’ll guide him—let him learn you, let him get this right.

And when he buries his face between your thighs for the first time—nose pressing into your mound, breathing you in, tasting you—it feels like coming home.

He’s missed this, being on his knees, giving. It used to be his favorite thing, always loved the way it quieted his mind, narrowed the world down to a single purpose. It made him feel useful, wanted.

But with you, this ritual turns into something else entirely.

He tracks your reactions with obsessive devotion: the furrow of your brow, the slow roll of your hips. The way your mouth falls open when he does something just right, when you want him to stay still, right there, exactly where you need him.

When he kisses his way back up your body, when he lines himself up with shaking hands and presses inside you, it’s face to face.

There’s no other way he could do it. Mouth to mouth. Forehead to forehead. Kissing, kissing, never not kissing; he needs the contact, the anchor, the constant reassurance that this is real.

That you’re here.

He wants to swallow the sounds you’re making, the way you gasp his name, and lock it inside himself. Let it sink deep, press it into bone and marrow. Carry it into that hollow place in his chest and let it bloom, fill him up until there’s no room left for doubt.

He knows he’s not going to last very long. You’re so soft, so wet, so impossibly beautiful, he can already feel the tension gathering low in his gut.

He only fights it long enough to get the words out.

Words that have been there for years. Pressed down, swallowed, buried under caution and embarrassment and the certainty that he always feels too much, too fast. Nobody ever wanted that kind of intensity for very long.

But he’s tired of pretending.  

And with you, he doesn’t have to.

He holds your hand against the bed, brings his forehead to yours.

The words cling to his throat, years of longing coiled tight—but this time, he doesn’t force them down.

With his lips brushing yours, he finally lets them go.

“I love you.”

The fear is instinctive. Familiar. A split-second flinch where he waits for the recoil, the moment someone decides it’s too much after all.

But it melts clean away when you answer him without hesitation, arms tightening around his neck as you kiss him back.

“I love you, too.”

And the hollow place in his chest turns into the sun once more.

⚓︎

The rest of the night is spent talking.

Kissing, touching, holding, kissing some more, just because he can.

He starts with the easy things. The dumb things. Stories about bad roommates, the worst job he ever worked, the time he locked himself out of his car in the rain and had to wait two hours for a tow.

Eventually, the jokes thin out. The pauses stretch.

He shifts, breathes in, and starts talking about the things he doesn’t like to think about. The quiet fears he keeps folded away. The weight of expectations, some inherited, some entirely his own. How surreal it feels to wake up as someone his younger self could never have pictured. To realize that the future he imagined so clearly once—simple, linear, inevitable—never actually existed.

He admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries there’s something wrong with him.

That everyone else seems to know how to be casual about life in a way he never has. Like they can want things lightly, hold them loosely, walk away without it costing them anything.

He’s never been built that way.

He feels things fast and deep. And for a long time, he resented it. Resented how much it hurt, how impossible it felt to turn it off.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen, fingers laced through his, thumb brushing slow circles over his knuckles. Every so often, you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

Once the hardest parts are out, his thoughts drift forward.

He talks about wanting a job that matters to people. That helps. Something that lets him look at himself at the end of the day and feel like he showed up right, even if he hasn’t figured out what that’s supposed to look like yet. He wants to believe there’s a place for him in this world where caring isn’t a weakness.

When the conversation lulls into silence, you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Did you ever learn how to surf?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Surf. I remember you always wanted to see what that was like. When we were kids.”

He lets out a small smile. “No. I mean, I thought about it, but... just never had the time. Or the balance.”  

You hum and settle comfortably against his chest. “Tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you repeat. “There’s a part of the beach I want to show you. You have to squeeze between some rocks to get there, but it opens up into this hidden alcove. Could be like our new secret spot.”

Steve smiles into your hair, already imaging it. Doing what he’s always done: throwing himself into the picture, letting it fill him up.

Tomorrow, you’ll take him to the beach.

Down between the rocks, your favorite spot.

You’ll show him where to step and where not to. You’ll rent two surfboards from that tiny shack down the road. You’ll laugh when he wipes out the second he hits the water, sputtering and embarrassed.

You’ll teach him how to stand. How to trust the water.

How to fly, just a little.

Tomorrow, he’ll show you the shoebox.

The one tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one that followed him through moving days and borrowed apartments. Filled with pieces of you he never let himself leave behind.

Tomorrow, he’ll give you what he couldn’t at the age of thirteen.

A stack of letters, one for every year since the summer he met you. ’72 all the way through ’79.

He always wrote them the night before he left for the Hamptons, lying awake with his heart pounding, thinking about the long stretch of coast waiting for him—and the best friend he’d get to share it with.  

He never found the courage to bring them with him when he was younger. But he kept writing anyway. Promising himself that, one day, he’d be brave enough to give them all to you.

He imagines sitting beside you while you read each one out loud. Smiling, shaking your head.  

Maybe you’ll tease him, call him cheesy, a hopeless romantic.

He doesn’t think you will, though. He thinks you’ll be gentle. He thinks you’ll love him more for it.

And once that thought takes hold, the future comes rushing in—faster, fuller, harder to stop.

He starts imagining days that stretch far beyond tomorrow, days where he wakes before you and watches the sunlight move across your face. Burnt toast and cheap coffee. Walking you home after class, fingers laced, listening to you talk about your day.

A shared place down by the water. Small, probably. Close enough to the beach that the sand never really leaves. Grocery lists on the fridge. Music playing while you cook together, bumping hips, stealing kisses.

He catches himself, shakes the thoughts loose with a soft, embarrassed breath.

Eight years is a long time to be apart. He knows there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know. True to form, he’s moving too fast, chasing desire before reason can catch up.

But eight years is also nothing.

Nothing measured against a lifetime. Nothing but a detour that still carried him back toward the main path. It only ever led to one place.

You stir softly in half-sleep, nestled beneath his arm, and Steve presses a little closer.

Sleep pulls at him too, heavy and kind.

He surrenders to it, lets it take him, because for now, it’s enough.

For now, he has tomorrow.

⚓︎

In dreams, he is thirteen again.

He is twelve, he is ten, he is six, and he is five.

He is walking down a wide, endless expanse of blue, waves whispering at his feet, the sky stretching forever overhead.

And beside him, hand in hand, is his best friend in the whole world.

June 24th, 1979

Hi!

I know I’m going to see you tomorow but I wanted to write this anyway. Sometimes when I try to say stuff out loud it doesn’t come out right. I know what I meen in my head but it gets all messed up or I forget what I was going to say. Writing it down makes it better.

I wrote you a letter every summer. One for every year. So you won’t forget me and all the fun things we did and the stuff we talked about. I keep all of them in a box, kind of like how you keep all your rocks and shells. Some of the older ones are really bad and there’s a lot of drawings and speling mistakes but maybe you’ll still like them.

I think about you a lot when we’re not together. Like when something funny happens or when I see something you like. Last week I saw a picture of a crab in my science book and I thought about what name you would give it.

I really really like you. You’re funny and nice and you understand me better than anyone else. You listen to me even when I talk too much or can’t say some words right. You make me feel special. I don’t have to pretend to be different or cooler or anything when I’m with you.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Californiya so we could see each other every day. I think about that a lot. Like we could just hang out whenever we wanted. Go to the beach and do surfing and stuff. Maybe one day I could come visit you or you could come visit me.

I’m really excited to see you tomorow. I hope you like this and I hope you don't think it’s dumb. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.

P.S. This is my adress so you can write me back if you want. 1590 willow creek lane, loch nora, hawkins, indiana 46001

P.P.S. I listened to that band you told me about. I really like the song You Make Loving Fun. It makes me think about you. Maybe we can listen to it together when I see you tomorrow?

Your best friend, Stevie

“w-wha…” his voice cracked, still heavy with sleep, as his bleary eyes found you under the covers. you didn’t stop to answer, lips sliding lower as you took more of him into your mouth. your hand worked in tandem with your tongue, swirling and stroking in slow movements, savoring the way his breathing hitched with every little shift of your mouth.“oh, fuck,” he whimpered, hips twitching upward involuntarily. his hands scrambled to grip the sheets, knuckles white as he fought the urge to bury them in your hair. “please—ah, feels so good…”

his head fell back against the pillow, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths as you set a steady rhythm, the wet sounds of your mouth on him filling the room. you could feel the way he was already trembling, his body hypersensitive from the way you dragged your lips along every inch, tongue teasing at the veins along his length.

“please—” his voice cracked again, higher this time, pleasure and desperation mingled together. “i’m gonna—oh god, i’m gonna—” his thighs shook as he came, a broken sob tearing from his throat as his release hit him hard, spilling hot and salty on your tongue. but you didn’t stop—not when his body jolted, not when he whimpered and tried to pull away, his hips squirming restlessly.

“n-no, wait,” he gasped, voice trembling as tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. his fingers clawed at the sheets, his head thrashing against the pillow. “too much—i can’t—oh, fuck, please—” you hummed around him, the vibration making him cry out, his body arching off the mattress as another choked sob left his lips. his thighs quivered uncontrollably, and tears slid down his flushed cheeks as you pushed him further, your lips and tongue relentless.

You watched him silently as he fixed two mugs, putting cream in yours exactly how you liked it. You wanted to tell him. Say it out loud. Ask the question that had been sitting on your tongue for weeks now.

Instead, you said, “You think we’ll get deer in the garden again this year?”

Kit laughed. “If you keep planting carrots like you did last spring, yeah. You spoiling the wildlife.”

There was a beat of silence. You watched his eyes flick to the window, something thoughtful behind them.

“I was thinkin’…” he started, then trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck.

You perked up, sensing his nerves. “Thinking what?”

He looked at you like he might chicken out, so you stepped closer again, resting your head against his chest.

Kit’s heart was beating a little faster than normal.

“I was thinkin’ this place is real good for kids,” he finally said, voice quiet. “Big yard. Safe. You and me, we could… raise ‘em right. Not like what we had.”

Your breath caught, not because it was a surprise, but because you’d been thinking the same thing for weeks now. Maybe longer.

“…Yeah,” you whispered. “I think they’d be real happy here.”

He pulled back slightly to look at you, as if making sure you meant it. When he saw you smiling, really smiling, he kissed you slow and sweet like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Guess I should fix that loose step on the porch, huh?” he murmured against your lips.

You laughed, giddy with the weight lifted between you both. “Yeah. Safety first, Mr. Walker.”

The coffee sat forgotten on the counter.

Kit was still holding you, his hands settling on your hips like they belonged there—which, truthfully, they did. It was one of the many quiet things you’d come to learn in this new life: how well your body fit into his, how often his touch felt like home.

You reached up and toyed with the collar of his shirt, that familiar flannel material soft under your fingertips. “You really mean it?” you asked, a little breathless now, not from nerves—but from the way his eyes had darkened just slightly. “About the kids.”

His voice was low and sure. “I do. I want that—with you.”

There was something in the way he said it that made your heart trip over itself. Kit wasn’t just playing house. He meant it. Every word. Every glance. Every little touch that lingered longer than necessary.

You leaned up to kiss him again—this time slower, more lingering. The kind of kiss that said more than words could. His hands slid up your sides, pulling you just a little closer until your bodies were flush.

When you broke the kiss, you didn’t go far. Your noses brushed. Your forehead rested against his.

“So…” you murmured, voice teasing, “should we start trying?”

Kit blinked, then grinned. A flush crept into his cheeks, but he didn’t look away. “You serious?”

You nodded, heart pounding. “If you are.”

He didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he scooped you up in one smooth motion, making you yelp and laugh as he carried you down the hall toward the bedroom—though he paused long enough to kick the door closed behind him with his heel.

Sunlight streamed in through the thin curtains, casting golden light over the rumpled sheets you’d left just hours ago. He laid you down with such care, like you were something precious—then crawled over you, kissing a path from your jaw to your collarbone.

His hands slid under the hem of his shirt you were wearing, and his voice was rough at your ear. “Been wantin’ to have you all morning.”

You smiled against his mouth, already breathless. “Then don’t let me stop you.”

Kit's lips moved down to your neck, his breath fanning over your skin as he pressed slow kisses along the curve of your throat. His hands—calloused but gentle brushed lightly along your ribs, then down again, mapping you out like he’d never get tired of relearning every inch.

“You always this distracting first thing in the morning?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and thick with affection—and something deeper now.

You smiled, letting your fingers curl into the soft hair at the back of his neck. “Only when I’m trying to seduce my husband.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling in his chest, before kissing you again—deeper this time. Slower. Like he had all the time in the world. And he did, really. This moment was yours, with no cold floors or fluorescent lights waiting beyond the door. Just the rustle of trees outside and the soft creak of the bed beneath you.

Kit's hands were steady as they snagged the hem of your shirt—his shirt—pushing the soft flannel up your body inch by inch. You lifted your arms to help him, and he peeled it away with slow reverence, letting it fall to the floor behind him.

He just looked at you for a moment, his eyes sweeping over your bare chest like he was memorizing every detail. His breath hitched—just enough to betray how much he was holding himself back.

“Jesus,” he whispered, breathing like it surprised him, like he hadn't seen you before. "You're so beautiful."

You reached out to him, fingertips brushing along his waist, dragging his shirt up and over his head in return. His skin was warm, the lines of his shoulders solid and comforting. You ran your palms up his chest, slow, savoring the way his muscles flexed under your touch.

Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, a little more eager—like all the patience in the world was starting to unravel between his ribs.

You barely noticed when he started undoing the button on your pants, his fingers moving with practiced ease. He slipped your pants down over your hips, pressing kisses to your skin as he went—over your stomach, your hipbones, your thighs—until he peeled them all the way off you and to the floor they went.

Kit looked up at you, his hands gently holding your thighs as he pushed them apart,. He leaned in to press a kiss over your belly, then just above the band of your underwear.

He hooked his thumbs there, eyes still on yours, and slowly slid the last barrier down. The cool air hit your skin, but it was quickly replaced by the warmth of his mouth—first more kisses, then the gentle drag of his tongue, slow and searching.

Your hands curled into fists against the sheets you as he dipped between your thighs with aching tenderness. His tongue moved in languid circles, teasing and tasting, taking his time like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

The way he looked up at you—eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide—made your stomach flip. He loved this. Loved you. Every sound you made, every shiver, every soft gasp—it only pushed him further.

“Kit,” you whispered, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging just a little when he hit that perfect spot. Your legs trembled, and he growled low against you, the vibration sending sparks down your spine.

He didn’t stop. If anything, he doubled down—flicking his tongue, sucking gently, adding just enough pressure with his fingers to make that familiar knot on your stomach tighten.

You whined and whimpered, your thighs trembling against either side of his head. He knew you were close, Kit knew your body like no one else. And that was exactly why he pulled away, just before your sweet release.

Kit settled over you, his body warm and solid, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he braced himself on his elbows, his face just above yours. You reached up to cradle his jaw, brushing your thumb over the stubble there, marveling at the way his expression shifted—soft, almost reverent.

“I love you,” you whispered.

His gaze locked with yours, something deep and molten sparking behind it. “And I love you,” he said, and you could feel it in every word—how much he meant it. How much he meant you.

He reached down between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, dragging the tip slowly through your slick folds. The first push of him inside was slow, steady—he was careful, like he always was, letting you adjust, watching every flicker of your face.

You gasped, your hands clutching his shoulders, legs curling up around his waist as he sank deeper.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless.

“God—yes,” you whispered, overwhelmed already. “Please don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

Kit began to move, slow at first—rolling his hips into yours in smooth, deep thrusts that sent sparks blooming behind your eyes. You could feel every inch of him, the stretch, the warmth, the way he filled you so perfectly it bordered on too much.

Each time he pressed forward, he angled his hips just right, dragging against that spot inside you that made your back arch off the mattress. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your mouth finding his again and again—messy, hungry kisses that didn’t care about breath or precision, only closeness.

He groaned softly into your mouth, picking up his pace, the rhythm growing more urgent. His name left your lips in gasps, in moans, in broken syllables that only made him lose himself more.

You could feel it building—tight and fast and impossible to ignore. Your body clenched around him, trembling, your breath catching as heat coiled low in your stomach.

“I’m close,” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

“Me too,” he growled, hips stuttering for just a second.

Pleasure surged through you in a wave, crashing and pulling you under all at once. Your body locked around him, shivering and pulsing as you cried out his name, vision going white at the edges. Kit followed just moments after with a low, guttural moan, burying himself deep inside you as he came—his whole body shuddering, sweat-slicked and overwhelmed.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then he collapsed onto his side, pulling you with him, his arms wrapping tightly around your body. You pressed your face into his chest, your heartbeat slowly syncing to his.

Kit kissed the top of your head, voice a quiet rasp. “Just incase it didn’t work,” he murmured, smiling into your hair, “I say we keep trying. Maybe… all day.”

The arm draped over the back of your chair is a familiar, warm weight as you methodically chew on a slice of cafeteria pizza. His fingers trail absently along your bicep, short nails grazing your skin as he eviscerates a dinner roll with his free hand.

“You got something against bread all of a sudden?” Letha asks, wrinkling her nose at the pile of mulch in front of her cousin.

Roman smirks, flicking a crumb across the table at her. “I’m off gluten.”

You snort, you can’t help it, and Roman’s fingers curl around your arm and squeeze. Your heart skips a beat at the contact, heat churning in your stomach. It’s awful, the way you still react to him. It’s been this way for years, insufferable, unbearable years of the butterflies in your stomach fluttering every time Roman Godfrey looks at you, of chills skittering up your spine every time he touches you. Years of one-sided, pathetic pining for the best friend who has never seen you as anything more than his sidekick.

 If you could quit Roman Godfrey, you would. But it’s not like there were other prospects, anyway. Anytime a guy at Hemlock Grove High School showed a little interest in you, Roman would hover. There was no other word to describe it really – he’d be overly present, overly interested until the guy disappeared. You couldn’t prove it, but it felt intentional. And he’d always be so attentive after, so sympathetic to the breakdown of yet another situationship.

“Holyyyyy new guy.” Letha breathes, and your attention snaps back to her as you follow her sightline to the cafeteria door. A new kid at HGHS is not a common occurrence. Almost nothing ever changes in this town, and you feel the change in the air like a static charge.

*

A week later, Roman’s arm slips over thin air and he almost stumbles. It’s muscle memory, and he stares at the empty seat beside him with genuine shock on his face. His eyes lift, landing first on Letha, who presses her lips into a thin line and looks down at her plate. Then across to you. In the four years you’ve been at this school, you have never, not once, sat anywhere other than beside Roman. Unless you were sick, or Roman was skipping school, and in both cases you’d have lunch in his car, either shivering in your PJs outside your house or parked up in a lot somewhere trying (and failing) to convince him to come back to school. There’s another arm around the back of your chair, leather jacket crinkling faintly as ringed fingers glide up and down your arm. The world tilts for a moment, and Roman feels the shift like ice in his guts. His mouth twists to the side, eyes assessing this new threat to the natural order.

Peter Rumancek has no interest in getting in the way of any bullshit high school drama, but you’re available far as he can tell. He’d asked the blonde girl on his first day, and she’d told him so. “Oh, that’s just Roman. They’re best friends, have been forever. He’s a whore.” She’d said it with a shrug, like that explained everything, and maybe it did. Because Peter asked you out that same day, made it real fucking clear that he intended to be more than your friend, and you’d blushed and stammered and smiled and he’d known immediately you were his kind of girl.

“There’s a party.” Peter says around a mouthful of his burger. “Some kid in chem gave me a flyer or whatever.”

“Lemme see.” Letha makes grabby hands and Peter slides the grease-stained copy across to her.

She scans the paper, eyes rolling. “Aunt Olivia is gunna be so pissed.”

That gets Roman’s interest, draws him out of his silent brooding enough to snatch the flyer from his cousin. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Peter asks, brows furrowing. He hates being out of the loop, and the three people at the table are all looking at each other like something big has happened.

“Castle Godfrey is the old steel mill just outside town.” You explain softly, turning in your seat to meet Peter’s eye. “Roman’s family owns it.”

Peter glances at Roman, who has his eyes narrowed on the paper. “Mom is gunna shit a bowling ball.”

“What do you wanna do?” You ask, and Peter is surprised by how much softer your voice is when you talk to Roman. So much smaller.

“Nothing.” Roman purses his lips and taps the flyer against the table. “Party is a party.”

*

You smooth down the front of your dress and huff at your reflection in the mirror. A party is a party, Roman had said, but this one felt different. Because Peter was picking you up, not Roman. Because you were going with Peter, and not Roman. Because you’d had to tell your best friend this, and he’d looked at you like you’d spoken a different language. Like he didn’t get it, like it couldn’t make sense. And for the first time ever, you’d snapped at him.

“I know it sounds unbelievable to you, but yeah, I have a date. Peter asked me to go with him as his date.”

“Okay, so meet him there.” Roman had rolled his eyes.

“He wants to pick me up.”

“You know how many girls want me to pick them up for parties and shit? I always say no, because I gotta pick you up.”

You’d scoffed at him. “Oh, like you’re doing me some big favour? Like it’s a huge sacrifice for you?”

Roman’s jaw had ticked, his expression darkening in a way you were used to seeing but not used to feeling directed at you. “You have any idea how often I have to turn down girls for you? Because of you? Because they feel threatened?”

“What threat could I possibly pose, Roman?” You’d sighed, feeling a lump of nauseous anxiety balling in the pit of your stomach. “I’m just your friend. Only your friend.”

Roman had grit his teeth, but he hadn't said anything. There wasn't anything else to say.

*

The party is in full swing by the time you reach it, and Peter has to park his car a good distance away from the steel mill. He laces his fingers with yours as you walk, and you feel a fluttering of hopeful butterflies in your chest at the easy, obvious contact. Peter Rumancek did not want platonic. He wanted you, and it felt so incredibly good to be wanted.

You push through the rusted out door first, Peter climbing through the hole after you. There are people everywhere, music thumping through the enormous space from a smattering of speakers spread throughout the building. You spot Letha first, because she wants to be spotted, dancing shakily on a stack of crates you hope are sound enough to hold her weight. She grins and waves at you, beer sloshing from her solo cup.

“She looks wasted.” You mutter, and Peter cocks his head to the side.

“I should get her down from there. You okay for a minute?” His fingers brush the side of your cheek, and you feel the blush as you nod. Watching him care about your friend was sexy. He returns just a minute later with two red cups full to the brim and a bedraggled Letha hanging off his arm.

“Your boyfriend is a prince,” Letha slurs, detaching herself from Peter and wrapping her arms around your neck. You stumble a little under the weight of her, but manage to get an arm around her waist and help prop her upright.

“She needs water.” You say to Peter, trying very hard to ignore the word boyfriend hanging in the air between you. Peter was not your boyfriend. Yet, you add in your head, because with the way he’s looking at you, blue eyes dark pools of warm water, you think maybe he wants to be. Someday.

You stumble a step, and Peter puts the two beers on an upturned empty keg to pry the drunk girl out of your arms. “I’ll get her some water and take her outside for a minute. She come here with Roman? Maybe he should take her home.”

You swallow, and nod, picking up the beers and scanning the room for your best friend. He won’t want to take Letha home if he’s busy, and it will probably fall to you and Peter to get her out of here.

“Roman?” You ask a passing girl, who smirks and points a manicured finger towards the foreman’s office. Your mouth dries out as you nod, heading for the back room. You know what you’re walking into before you open the door, but it still feels like a punch to the gut. Because Roman is not alone, he’s never alone. There are not one, not two, but three girls draped over him, and he’s doing a line of coke off the bare back of the girl laying over his lap. He finishes the line with a grunt, open palm coming down to smack against her ass and making her squeal. He laughs, the sound bright and sharp, and his eyes lift from her bare flesh to meet yours.

“Letha’s wasted.”

“It’s a party.” Roman rolls his eyes, leaning back against the ratty couch and tilting his head to the side. “You brought me a drink?”

Your fingers tighten around the two solo cups in your hands, the plastic buckling as warm beer spills over the rims a little. Roman’s eyes drop to your hands, the smirk on his face dropping a little. “No. These are for me and Peter. He’s outside trying to sober her up. I thought you should know.”

Roman pushes the girl off his lap and she lands with a meaty thud at his feet. “Roman what the fuck?” She groans. Roman steps over her like so much discarded trash, and your stomach twists. You hate this part of him. The part that treats everyone else like they’re disposable, like the only real thing in any room is him.

“You thought I should know?” He asks, closing the distance between you and taking one of the beers from your hand. You let him, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows the entire cup before tossing it to the ground like the drunk cheerleader.

“Yeah, I thought you should know. Pe-Peter thought maybe you’d want to drive her home.” You hate the way your voice gutters out.

“Oh, Peter thought.” Roman nods, rubbing over his wet mouth with the back of his hand. “And you just do whatever Peter wants, even if that means you gotta come talk to me?”

You swallow hard. “How much blow have you done, Roman? Maybe we should get you home too.”

Roman’s eyes narrow. “Like you give a shit.”

Your own eyes narrow right back at him. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Roman huffs, taking the second beer from you and taking a sip. “Nothing. Forget about it.”

This is the part where you’d push him. Gently, coaxingly, until he’d tell you what had him all twisted up and you’d bend over backwards to make him feel better. He’s expecting it, is already thinking about kicking all these bitches out so you can sit thigh-to-thigh with him on the couch and remind him that he’s your number one.

So it’s a crushing fucking blow, and the world tilts horribly again when you shrug, and take your drink back. “Alright, consider it forgotten. I’ll get Letha home, don’t worry about it. Have fun.”

You turn on your heel and leave, and Roman is drowning in the chaos you leave behind. A hand snakes around his waist, fingers tugging at his belt buckle, and he half turns. The girl from the floor has managed to drag herself to her feet and she’s sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, desperate to redeem herself and regain his attention. Revulsion churns in his gut, but his cock stirs to life at the glassy look in her eyes and he pushes her to her knees, thumbing his jeans down his thighs and wrapping a fist around her hair. Because fuck you. Fuck you.

*

Peter Rumancek kisses you for the first time in the cafeteria, on a Monday. He doesn’t even completely mean to, or rather, he means to but he doesn’t really register that it’s the first time he’s done it. He’s been thinking about kissing you a lot, and he imagines he does it every time you do something cute or considerate, like saving him a seat or leaning into him when he says something funny. So really he’s been imagining he’s kissing you about a hundred times a day. You slide a strawberry milk carton across to him as he sits down. “Last one, grabbed it for you.”

And he slips his fingers up your jaw, turns your head, and kisses you on the mouth. Because you’d saved him the last strawberry milk. And because he wants to. He doesn’t register the shock on your face, too wrapped up in how soft your lips are against his. He doesn’t register the black fury rolling off Roman Godfrey either, until icy, sickly sweet pink liquid shoots directly into his face and he splutters as he accidentally inhales some of the spray. “Did you just… Roman what the fuck?”

Roman’s eyes are fixed on his own closed fist, the crumpled remains of the strawberry milk carton poking out the sides of his fingers. He’s had an out-of-body experience, that’s the only way to describe it. Because one second he was thinking about inviting you to hang out after school to talk, and the next Peter Rumancek was covered in strawberry milk and you’re staring at him with wide eyes and abject rage is plastered across your face. He’s skipped over the middle part, the part where he saw Peter Rumancek’s mouth on your mouth, his hand on your face. He’s skipped that part because he literally can’t process it right now.

“Sweet Jesus, Roman.” Letha sighs.

“I just, I mean.” Roman starts, and stops. “I mean, the milks a marked improvement, I think.”

You narrow your eyes at him, and Roman knows he’s fucked. “Outside. Now.” You spit through gritted teeth. Roman considers shrugging you off and staying put, but Peter’s fists are balling at his sides and Roman isn’t 100% sure he’d win in a fistfight, and losing would be humiliating here in front of half the school. Everyone is looking, everyone watches as he shoves out of his seat and strides for the exit, not bothering to wait for you. He smirks as he passes people, rolling his eyes like you’re the one who can’t take a joke, but anxiety is roaring in his ears.

“What the fuck, Roman?” You ask when you get him into the corridor.

Roman leans against the lockers on the far wall, slipping a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and twirling one around in his fingers.

“You want a smoke?”

You shake your head, swallowing your anger down as you look him up and down. Roman’s eyes are fixed on the packet in his hand, fingers opening and closing the lid over and over and over. You force your breathing to slow, matching your in and outs to his open and close. “Roman. Look at me.”

He does, his expression unreadable but his eyes are shining wetly and you know him better than you know yourself. You close the gap between you, taking the cigarettes from his hands and shoving them into your own pockets before closing your hands around his larger ones and bringing them to your face. You press his palms against your cheeks, noting the way his face softens and his lips part at the contact. “You squirted strawberry milk all over Peter.”

“Yeah.” Roman swallows thickly.

“You know why?”

“Yeah.” He repeats. It’s getting hard to force the words out through his rapidly closing throat, and Roman is terrified suddenly that he’s about to cry. But God, you’re so close. You’re touching him again, and he can smell your shampoo and your lunch on your breath and he fucking missed you.

“Because he kissed me?” You ask softly, your own voice barely a whisper.

Roman half shakes his head, pressing his thumbs into the soft flesh of your cheeks. “The fuckin milk.”

You swallow, brows furrowing as you stroke your fingertips over his knuckles. “The milk?”

“You got it for him. Strawberry milk’s my favourite too.”

And holy shit, there it was. You step back, letting Roman’s hands drop from your face as ice douses your stomach. He wasn’t jealous of the kiss. He was angry that you’d stopped serving him. That you were prioritizing Peter over him, his needs. It was a terrible reminder that Roman Godfrey saw you as his property, but not for the reasons you’d hoped.

“You’re perfectly capable of getting your own goddamn milk, Roman. Or getting one of your harem of sluts to get it for you. You don’t need me for that. You have everything else.”

Roman blinks, his head spinning from the complete 180 you’ve done. He doesn’t know what he said wrong. Of course he was upset that Peter Rumancek had kissed you, but he couldn’t’ come out and fucking say that, could he? That was something you and him didn’t talk about, something that was just there.

But you’d known what he meant about the milk. You had to. You knew him. “I didn’t mean it like that.” Roman starts, but you shake your head.

“No, Roman. I don’t wanna do this. You’re such an entitled, spoilt little-“ you cut yourself off with a groan, and step back. Roman almost steps towards you, but he doesn’t. He wants to tell you to forget about the milk, to go back to holding his hands against your face and talking to him softly. He wants to demand that you forget about Peter and sit next to him tomorrow, and laugh at his jokes and ride in his car and be his again. But he doesn’t say any of it, and you walk away, back to the cafeteria to sit at the wrong side of the table with the wrong arm resting on the back of your chair, and you still have his goddamn cigarettes.

*

Peter’s smoking underneath the bleachers when Roman Godfrey approaches him. Peter’s spine straightens, adrenaline kicking up ready for a confrontation, but Roman only leans against the bleacher beside him and asks to bum a smoke.

A thin plume curls out of his mouth before he sucks it back in, and Peter feels confusing, sorta gay things as he watches Roman’s mouth. Roman is pretty, much prettier than Peter, far as he can tell. But it was Peter you were with, anyway. He can’t make sense of that, so he chooses to stop thinking about it and waits for the other boy to do something.

“I have a lot of money.” Roman says after a minute, voice an octave deeper as smoke burns his lungs.

“Good for you.”

“I would be willing… more than willing to part with a sizeable amount of it.”

Peter cocks his head to the side. “And this has… what to do with me?”

Roman sucks in a breath, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette. “You live in the trailer park off the reservoir. Your car is a piece of shit. Your mom isn’t working far as I can tell. I’m sure a guy in your position could do a whole lot with, I don’t know, say fifty grand?”

Peter blinks. “Fifty grand.”

“Fifty grand.”

“And for this I’d have to…” Peter trails off. He already knows the answer, but he wants Roman to say it. Wants them both to hear it out loud.

“Just… go. It’s not like you were planning to stay in town long, right? Consider it a parting incentive to get on the road that much quicker.”

This isn’t good enough for Peter. “I was planning to stay for the year. Graduate. What’s the hurry, man?”

Roman’s lip curls. A year of watching you and Peter get closer, of maybe watching you fall in love with him? There was no way he could do it. Peter would get a lot worse than strawberry milk thrown at him.

“A hundred grand and you leave today.”

“Roman.” Peter tosses the end of his cigarette and grinds it under his boot. “What’s this about?”

Roman grits his teeth. “You know.”

“Yeah.” Peter huffs a laugh. “But I think you’re in denial. I think you both are, and I’d like you to fucking say it out loud.”

“Fuck off, I don’t have anything to say to you.” The retort comes automatic, but Peter lets it roll off him.

“No confession, no deal Godfrey.” He pushes off from the bleachers, gets as far as the end of the row before Roman cracks.

“Wait!”

Peter turns, walking slowly back towards the hunched figure of the taller boy. Roman looks wrecked, positively tormented, and Peter almost feels bad for him before remembering he’s about to give you up, and then he decides he’ll enjoy this for just a bit longer.

“Look, I don’t… I’ve never said it. To her, or to anyone. She’s my best friend, man.” Roman chews his lip into his mouth. “I’ll fuck it up.”

Peter nods, lifting a hand to rub the stubble on his chin. “Far as I can see you’ve already fucked it up. Maybe time to rip off the band aid.”

“You’ll… you’d be cool with that?” Roman asks. He can already feel the swell of hope and terror rising in his stomach.

“Cool with it? No, it fucking sucks for me. But I just got here. If you and her are… I don’t like drama. I don’t wanna get in the middle of whatever this is, if you’re gunna do something about it.”

*

He maybe doesn’t mean to ambush you, but that’s how it feels when Roman wraps a hand around your forearm and drags you into an empty classroom when you’re headed for the door at the end of the day.

“What the fuck?” You demand, pulling out of his grip as Roman flips the blind down over the door and presses his back against it.

“I fucked up.”

You blink at him, mouth opening and closing. “What?”

“I fucked up, Today, with the fucking milk. I shoulda told you the truth. I thought maybe you’d just get it, but you didn’t.”

You shake your head. He’s gunning to twist this around, to make you apologize to him. “You were pretty clear.”

Roman makes an annoyed sound, a grumble low in his throat. “No. I wasn’t. I thought… we don’t talk about it.”

Your legs start to shake, and you pull yourself up to sit on the edge of a table. “About what?”

“You know.” Roman says softly.

“No. Roman, it’s been years of this. I need you to say exactly what you mean. I need you to be as clear as you fucking can be.”

Roman swallows hard. He considers opening the door and bolting, but then he’s sure to lose you for good. He gets the feeling Peter’s generosity is a one time offer and if he fucks it up again…

“You’re my best friend.” Roman says carefully, hating the shake in his own voice. “You’ve always been there. Right there. And I… took that for granted.”

You suck in a breath, your heart thumping irregularly. Roman’s gone deathly pale, his hands shaking at his sides. You want to slide off the table and grab his hands and press them to your face until he stops shaking, but you don’t. No more letting him off the hook.

“And I knew that you… I’ve always known how you felt about me. And I liked that you liked me.”

God, it’s worse than you ever imagined, hearing him force those words out. The agony of acknowledgement is second only to your growing fear about what comes next, about him vocalizing the fact that he doesn’t see you like that.

“Roman…” you whisper.

“Please let me.” He says, holding out a hand that shakes so violently you wonder if he’s going to pass out. “I liked that you liked me, and I took advantage of it. Because being with you felt good. You saw all my shitty parts and you liked me anyway.”

Roman swallows again, pushing off from the door and crossing the room carefully, like he’s approaching a wild animal that might bolt. “And I told myself that it was fine, that you were fine being friends whilst I did whatever I wanted to do. While I killed myself with blow and booze and fucked whoever I wanted to. That you liked picking up the pieces because you liked me.”

He steps between your legs, bringing his thumb and forefinger to your face and pinching your chin, tilting your head up to look at him. “I told myself that this was all fine. And it was, until… until you sat on the other side of the lunch table. He put his arm around you and you laughed at his jokes and I…” Roman cuts himself off with an almost sob, and your heart aches.

“And I had to watch you give parts of yourself to him, and I couldn’t even be mad at you about it because they were all the parts I told myself I didn’t want.”

Your breath hitches as he dips his head, lips brushing against yours in the lightest of touches. You feel heat spark in your core, your clit flaring at the feeling of his mouth against yours.

“Roman,” you whisper again, feeling your throat closing. “What are you doing?”

Roman pulls back enough to look in your eyes, and your pulse jumps at the rapidly expanding pupils staring back at you. “I’ve been lying to myself about you for a long time.” He mumbles. “I don’t wanna do that anymore.”

His other hand glides up your thigh, palm pressing you back against the table as his mouth closes over yours again, pressing more firmly, and you feel the tip of his tongue slide along the seam of your mouth. You gasp into the kiss and Roman moans, his tongue pushing into your mouth and licking against your own with maddening pressure.

His grip on your chin is almost painful, and you focus on that sensation as you pull back, leaning away from him. Roman’s eyes open, glazed over with lust, and your stomach flips.

“So what are you saying? Because if you think giving me a pity-fuck will fix things between us, you’re wrong.”

Roman flinches, stepping away and withdrawing his hands from your body. It’s a little bit easier to think clearly with some distance between you. “I want you back.”

“Okay.” You huff. “And the next time Peter kisses me, you’ll… what?”

Roman’s jaw tenses as he grinds his teeth together. “I don’t want you to kiss Peter.”

“Okay.” You say again, folding your arms over your chest. “So what do you want? I need to hear it. Properly, Roman.”

Roman squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second before he steps back into your space and splays his palms on the table either side of your thighs. “I want to kiss you. I want to be the only guy who gets to kiss you. And I don’t… wanna kiss anyone else. Just you.”

You stare at him, blinking dumbly. “I need to… feed my cat.”

Roman’s body tilts to the side like he might keel over when you push against him and slide to the floor, walking on gelatine legs towards the door. You make it, your hand curling around the handle. Then an arm snakes around your waist and yanks you away, spinning you and shoving you against the wall beside the door with a violence that shakes the shock from your bones.

“You don’t have a cat.” Roman spits, his face inches from yours. He’s caged you in, his body pressed against yours and his thigh sandwiched between your legs.

“I know.”

“What the fuck?” He seethes. “I tell you that I fucking love you and you make up a house pet?”

Your hands come up around his neck automatically, fingers lacing into the perfectly styled hair at the back of his head. You’ve imagined this moment a million times, though in your fantasies Roman isn’t looking at you like he hates you. But he doesn’t hate you, because he just told you he-

“You love me?”

Roman’s eyes go wide, before he rolls them and smirks. “Yeah, stupid. I’ve been in love with you forever. I was just too much of an asshole to-“

You cut him off with a hard press of your mouth to his, licking your tongue past his lips and tasting his cigarettes. Roman moans into your mouth, the sound sending vibrations right to your core, and you grind down against his thigh. You don’t mean to, and the whine that slips out of you at the friction is embarrassing, but Roman responds immediately, pressing his thigh against your center and seizing your hips in his hands, lifting you off the ground before catching you around the backs of your thighs and wrapping your legs around his hips.

“No more girls, Roman.” You gasp into his mouth, and Roman nods aggressively as he rolls his hips against yours, the hard press of his cock a delicious friction against your jeans.

“No more Peter.” He mumbles, lips smashing against yours like he can’t bear to break the kiss for even a second.

“No more pretending,” you say, reaching for his belt and snapping the buckle open. It’s all much too fast, but you’re desperate for him. After years of imagining what his cock would feel like whilst riding your own hand, you need him. You shove his jeans down to his knees, grazing your nails over the prominent bulge in his boxers, and Roman hums.

“No more,” he punctuates his words with a yank on your jeans, dragging them to your knees. Your feet drop to the floor just long enough to shimmy out of the denim, and Roman lifts you back up to bracket your legs around him. When he ruts against you now there’s just two scraps of thin fabric between you, and you can feel the hot pulsing of his hard length as he rubs against your slick panties.

“Shit,” you whimper, and Roman’s answering chuckle is breathless as he reaches into your panties and drags his fingers through your folds.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers, lips painting the words against your mouth as he drags his fingers up and down, collecting your arousal before pressing his thumb to your clit. “You have no idea how often I’ve thought about this.”

You whine, grinding against his hand, and Roman smothers the sound with a harsh kiss as he rubs rough circles against your clit. You buck violently into his hand, walls clenching around nothing, and your hands reach for his boxers, squeezing his cock through the material until he breaks the kiss to hiss at the sensation.

“No more blow on school nights,” you mutter, and he pulls back from your mouth then, eyes narrowing.

“We’ll talk.”

You open your mouth to retort, but Roman’s shoved his boxers down and he lines the leaking head of his cock up with your entrance at that moment and pushes in, stretching you to the point of almost pain as he sinks into your heat, and your mouth falls open on a moan instead.

“Oh shit,” he groans, thumbs digging into the meat of your hips as he bottoms out. “Shit, you feel so good.”

You can’t respond, arms wrapping tightly around his neck like you’re worried you’ll collapse if you don’t cling to him. Roman’s thumbs rub circles on your hips. “You okay? Too much?”

You shake your head, clenching around his cock experimentally. Roman groans but holds himself still, letting you get used to the feeling of him inside you. This isn’t how any of this was supposed to happen, his first time with you was supposed to be more than this, dinner and movies and candles and flowers and clean sheets, but with the way you flutter around him and your slick drying on his fingers and your little whines in his mouth, he’ll fucking take it.

“Fuck me, Rome.” You whisper. And damn, if the nickname doesn’t make his balls tighten like he’s gunna cum without ever fucking you properly.

“Shit, don’t say stuff like that,” he whines as he pulls half out and pushes back into you, every ridge and vein on his cock dragging against the tightness of your cunt. “Gunna make me fuckin bust.”

You suck his bottom lip into your mouth, revelling in the meaty, pulsing warmth of it under your teeth, and Roman’s hips snap against yours faster, his cock pummelling into you at a punishing pace as you grind down against him.

You release his mouth and tilt your hips back towards the wall, changing the angle of his thrusts and allowing your clit to drag against his length every time he pulls out. The fresh jolts of pleasure have you unravelling, words spilling from your lips with every thrust.

“Shit Roman, you feel so good. Feels so good. Fuck! Shit, I love it. I love you.”

Roman moans, his hands shifting to lift you higher, spread you open wider so he can fuck into you impossibly deeper. “Mine.” He grunts. “Mine, mine, mine.” Each word punctuated with a snap of his hips into yours.

Your head lolls back, skull hitting the wall with each thrust, and you can’t bring yourself to care. You’ve gone completely boneless, utterly blissed out under the waves of pleasure rolling through you as your orgasm approaches and your clit twitches against the silk of his skin.

“I’m gunna cum, Rome.” You whimper, “Keep doing that. Exactly that.”

Roman huffs a breathless laugh, surprised at how much he likes you telling him what to do. That’s something to explore later, absolutely.

He holds position, jackhammering into you, feeling the rub of the head of his cock against the sensitive flesh inside you. He feels the moment you fall apart, too. Your walls seize around him and release, seize and release, like you’re trying to milk his orgasm right out of him. It works, too, he cums buried deep inside you, hot spurts of his release coating your insides as you jerk and writhe against him, your own release soaking his cock in a way that makes his mouth water. God fucking damn, he loves you.

When you stop clenching around him he pulls his softening cock out of you, keeping you pinned to the wall until he’s sure your legs won’t collapse underneath you. Your hair is slicked to your forehead with sweat, and Roman doesn’t resist the urge to smooth it out of your face like he usually would. He runs his fingers over your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw, and your eyes flutter closed like his touch is the best thing in the world.

“I can’t believe we just did that.” You mumble, and Roman is almost worried until he sees your pretty lips curl into a smile and your eyes open. “In school.”

Roman almost reminds you that he’s done this dozens of times but he manages to bite his tongue. “I can’t believe we did that at all.” He says instead, dipping his head to press another kiss to your mouth because he’s greedy and because he can, because he’s allowed to now. “I’m sorry it was like this, for the first time.”

You huff, slipping into a crouch to grab his jeans and pull them up his legs. Roman’s throat feels thick as he watches you button his jeans and buckle his belt before you reach for your own. Taking care of him first, even now. No one has ever taken care of him before you, and he can’t quite believe there’s a way for him to have this and still have you. Because no one ever stays, after.

“I’m not.” You say eventually, reaching up to peck his lips. “I’m only sorry it took you this long to come to your senses.”

Roman scoffs, but his arms wrap around your waist and he pulls you close, holding you a bit too tightly. “Don’t leave me.” He mumbles into your hair. You don’t respond, and Roman is a little relieved that you didn’t hear him blurt something so needy and dumb.

But when he pulls away from you, there are tears streaking down your cheeks and Roman feels them like they’re drowning him.

“Never, Roman. You… I love you. I always have. And you need to know that… if this doesn’t work out like we want it to… I’ll still love you. I’ll always love you. You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Your voice doesn’t shake, even as more tears slip down your cheeks. Because you’re completely fucking sure about this. It’s an indisputable fact.

Roman can’t say anything, he hasn’t got the words and thank you wouldn’t be nearly enough, so he says nothing, and he pulls you back in, and he presses his lips to yours and he kisses everything he can’t say into your mouth and he prays you’ll understand. You kiss him back, and you taste the unspoken things, and you do understand.

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

“Yeah,” she said. “We’re familiar.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you both burst out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut up,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he stopped abruptly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Then—”

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

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

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

You exhaled, relieved.

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

“Your mom,” he said.

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “She did?”

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

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

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

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded once. “Yeah. I am.”

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

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

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

He nodded quickly. “Deal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gave him a look.

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

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

“Agreed,” he said.

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

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

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

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

He nodded. “Right. Slow rollout.”

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

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

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

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

You raised an eyebrow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” she said. “What did I miss?”

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

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

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

You had nearly dropped the tapes you were holding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had both ignored her.

That, in hindsight, might have been a mistake.

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

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

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

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

Steve visibly gulped.

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

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

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

Your father watched him take a bite of pasta.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked at him.

Your mother blinked at him.

Your father did not blink at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded vigorously. “Yes. Exactly.”

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

Your father stared at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled so hard you almost saw stars.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you noticed the customer.

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

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

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

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

You stared at him. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes widened. His eyes widened. Time paused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You opened the door and immediately stopped.

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

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

He looked up.

He stopped talking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Steve blinked at you. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, smiling at seeing you impressed.

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

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

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

He blinked. “That’s your move?”

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

“Hawkins,” he said.

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

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

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

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

You grinned. “Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

He froze.

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped. “The noodles?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the back room, Steve immediately started pacing.

“I think I broke the rules,” he said.

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

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

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

“Finally,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked. “You think she likes me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He started for the door.

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

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

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

Steve opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

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

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

He swallowed. Tried again.

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except the opposite happened.

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

Much worse.

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

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

Instead, you started getting used to it.

Then you started liking it.

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

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

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

At group hangouts, it only got worse.

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

No one questioned it.

That was the wildest part.

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

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

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

He did not do that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh. Yeah. Okay,” he muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knew what he needed to do.

He just. . . didn’t want to do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words hung in the air between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He huffed a weak laugh. “Yeah. Okay.”

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

“Everything good?” she asked.

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

Lucas frowned. “Already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are not deeply unappealing,” Nancy said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello?” Robin’s voice came through.

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

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

“Oh oh,” Robin said.

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

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

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

The door swung inward and there he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You. . . what?” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Robin leaned over, grabbed your milkshake, and took a obnoxiously loud sip through the straw. “I genuinely don’t know why you don’t just ask him out,” she said, licking whipped cream off her lip. “It’s not like he can do better than you. Actually, scientifically speaking? He cannot.”

You opened your mouth to argue but Robin’s eyebrows shot up. “Speaking of the dingus,” she muttered, turning her head toward the counter.

You followed her gaze just in time to see Steve swinging his ice-cream scoop. A gaggle of ten-year-olds watched with awe as he attempted some kind of Scoops Ahoy–themed trick.

He spun it once. Twice.

On the third swing, it slipped straight out of his hand and clattered across the floor. The kids burst into laughter. Steve just stood there, hands on his hips like that had been the plan all along.

Robin pointed with the straw still between her fingers. “Really? That guy? That guy is the one you’re down bad for?”

A soft, helpless smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “Yeah,” you breathed, chin dropping into your hand again. “Isn’t he amazing?”

Robin jabbed you in the ribs with her elbow. “C’mon,” she said around another mouthful of your milkshake, “go. Hit your chance before the universe smites you for being a coward.”

“You really think—?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding so aggressively her hair bounced… though the effect was slightly ruined by how she was giving you a distracted thumbs-up while still sipping through the straw.

You pushed yourself out of the booth before your brain could stop you, smoothing your shirt. By the time you reached the counter, the ten-year-olds had dispersed, leaving Steve standing alone.

“Cool trick,” you said, leaning an elbow on the counter because Robin always claimed it made you look ‘effortless.’

Steve brightened immediately. “Would you like to set sail on this ocean of flavor with me?” he intoned in that ridiculous nautical voice.

You couldn’t help but laugh, matching his grin. “Depends, sailor. What flavor do you recommend sailing on today?”

His eyes flicked to where Robin was sitting with your half-finished milkshake.

“Uh—why don’t you just… have that one again?” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You tried again, leaning in just a bit. “But you haven’t told me your favorite. C’mon, what’s your go-to?”

“But you didn’t even finish that one,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward Robin with a soft frown. “You should try it properly this time.”

God. He really didn’t get it.

You watched his brows pinch in that soft, boyish confusion—like he thought he was helping, like he genuinely believed he’d cracked the code of what you wanted. And maybe that was the worst part. That he cared enough to try but not enough to see.

Your smile faltered for half a second. “Right,” you said quietly. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll just have that again.”

“Great!” Steve said, already turning to gather ingredients.

You turned your head just enough that Steve wouldn’t notice, giving Robin the smallest shake. Robin’s face fell around the straw. She mouthed what happened?but you only shrugged, because how were you supposed to explain something that felt stupid and small and somehow enormous all at once?

Your eyes drifted back to Steve, watching the easy way he moved behind the counter, the way his stupid hat bobbed with every step. He looked so completely unbothered, so far from the storm brewing in your chest. And the thoughts started piling up like dominoes you couldn’t stop tipping over.

Maybe he just didn’t see you like that, maybe he never had. Maybe every smile you’d memorized and every laugh you’d tucked away like a pressed flower had been nothing more than… friendliness. Harmless, casual affection he gave to everyone. Maybe you’d taken crumbs and convinced yourself they were a meal.

You tried to steady your breathing, tried to focus on anything else, but your brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept pulling threads until everything began to unravel.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for someone new. Maybe his heart was still snagged on something old, someone familiar. You remembered the way his voice softened every time Nancy’s name slipped into conversatio. How he never talked about her, not really, but the silence said more than any words could.

Robin had sworn up and down he’d moved on, but maybe she only said that because she hated seeing you hurt. Because she was trying to protect you from the obvious truth.

Because why else would he look so confused by your flirting? Why else would he never meet you halfway?

Your fingers curled against the countertop. Suddenly the whole picture felt painfully, humiliatingly clear. Of course Steve didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t see you trying. Of course he wasn’t picking up on hints, he wasn’t looking for any.

He was still in love with Nancy.

Steve turned around with a blinding, boyish grin and set the milkshake on the counter

“Here you go!” he said, like he hadn’t just unknowingly stepped on every fragile feeling you’d spent months trying to hide.

You forced your lips into something resembling a smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Thanks, Steve.”

You carried it back to the booth, sliding into the seat across from Robin without a word. She sat up straighter, ready to ask a hundred questions, but you just nudged the milkshake toward her with two fingers.

“I’m… not in the mood anymore,” you muttered.

Robin stared at the glass, then at you, her expression softening as your gaze drifted somewhere far away. You tried to drown out your thoughts, tried not to replay every moment of confusion on his face, every hint he’d never picked up, every dream you’d apparently made up alone.

“Hey, Steve!”

Nancy Wheeler’s voice cut through the air like a needle scraping off a record.

You closed your eyes for half a second, exhaling through your nose. Of course. Because the universe didn’t just hate you, it wanted to make you suffer.

You looked over just in time to see Nancy walk up to the counter, and Steve—God, Steve—lighting up in that easy, familiar way. Like slipping into a jacket that used to fit perfectly.

You watched them talk, your heart deflating in slow, measured beats. That was it then. The conclusion you’d spiraled into was right, he wasn’t confused because he was oblivious. He was confused because he wasn’t looking for anyone. Because he’d already loved someone with everything he had once, and even if he wasn’t stuck in the past, he definitely wasn’t stuck on you.

“Rob?” you said softly, reaching for your purse.

She startled, glancing up. “Wait, where are you going?”

You stood, forcing another weak little smile. “I’ll… see you later, okay?”

You walked away, hearing Robin mutter Stupid dingus under her breath but you ignored it. Cause maybe this time, you were the stupid one.

You lay sprawled across your bed, the landline cord wrapped twice around your wrist because you kept fidgeting with it. Down the hall, your dad and El were in the middle of World War III over… cereal? curfew? Who knew. Their voices rose and fell like badly-tuned radio static behind Robin’s sighing in your ear.

“I don’t know, Rob,” you said, rubbing your temple. “Maybe he just… hasn’t moved on from Nancy yet. And even if he had, what’s the guarantee he’d ever like me?”

Robin made a noise like she’d just been stabbed. “Oh my God, I can’t do this. I’m actually aging, I hope you know that. I have wrinkles now. Actual wrinkles.”

“And besides,” you continued, ignoring her dramatics, “I don’t even think I’m his type.”

Robin sucked in a breath so sharp you could practically picture her clutching her imaginary pearls. “Not his—not his type? Are you kidding me? What type do you think he has? Do you think his type is ‘random girl who breaks his heart in a bathroom’ because that didn’t exactly work out for him!”

“I’m being serious,” you argued softly, curling onto your side. “He deserves someone… I don’t know. Someone like Nancy. Someone who fits.”

“You fit!” Robin practically shouted, then lowered her voice when she remembered your dad could be lurking. “You fit so stupidly well it makes me want to scream. I promise you, he—ugh—he likes you. Like, capital-L likes you.”

“Then why doesn’t he act like it?” you shot back, voice small. “If he really liked me, wouldn’t he… I don’t know… notice when I’m flirting? Or maybe flirt back? Or at least look at me the way he looks at—”

“Nancy?” Robin groaned. “Oh my god. We are back to Nancy. We’ve made a full lap.”

You hugged your pillow tighter, eyes stinging. “He still lights up around her, Rob. I saw it today. The way he smiled? It was so easy. Like they still just… clicked. And I—”

“You click with him too!” Robin argued. “Better than Nancy ever did! He goes dumb and sparkly around you!”

Your laugh came out tired and hollow. “He goes dumb around everyone. That’s Steve’s natural state.”

“That is true,” Robin admitted. “But he’s sparkly around you.”

“How can you even say it so surely?” you whispered, a pathetic little laugh catching in your throat. “You don’t know what he feels.”

“Yes I do!” Robin insisted, voice pitching high. “Because he to—”

A door slammed somewhere in the house, loud enough to rattle your bedroom window. You winced, pulling the phone slightly away from your ear.

Robin’s voice fuzzed on the other end, drowned out as Hopper’s booming bass echoed down the hall and El shouted back, something about ‘you never listen’.

You sighed, pressing your eyes shut. “Rob,” you murmured, “I’ll… talk to you later, okay?”

“No—wait, don’t you—”

But you’d already clicked the receiver back into its cradle.

Robin was already waiting for you the next morning at Scoops Ahoy, pacing behind the counter. You barely stepped through the door before she lunged at you, grabbing your shoulders like she was about to deliver life-changing news .

“Okay,” she whispered urgently, dragging you behind the counter so fast you nearly tripped over a mop bucket. “Today is the day. Today. I’m doing this. I’m setting you two up, and I’m not letting you run away, and I’m not letting him be an idiot, and if anyone tries to stop me—God help them.”

You blinked at her, still emotionally hungover from everything you’d spiraled through last night. “Robin… what are you talking about?”

She held up a finger. “Don’t. Don’t even start.”

You opened your mouth and Robin slapped her hand over it. “Shh. Do not ruin this for me. I am dying. A shell of a woman. But I will go out with dignity and possibly a concussion when I knock your two thick skulls together.”

Before you could respond, Steve emerged from the back room, hair perfect, swinging his keys around his finger like he’d never been the source of ninety percent of your emotional turmoil.

“Hey!” he chirped brightly when he saw you. “You’re early today.”

Robin lit up like a nervous bomb. She shoved you forward, “Yeah, because we have something to ask you.”

“Robin—” you hissed, mortified.

But she marched on, committed to the bit. “So! Dingus! She and I were thinking, you know, since you’re free tonight—”

“Oh!” Steve cut in, his face lighting up even more, if that were possible. “Right. I actually meant to tell you guys. I’m… uh… I’m not free tonight.”

You froze.

“Oh?” Robin said tightly, voice straining like a crack in glass. “Why not?”

Steve leaned casually against the counter, cheeks slightly pink. “I have a date.”

Your heart stuttered. Like something inside you tried to stand up and then immediately sat back down.

“A… oh,” you said, throat suddenly too small. “A date?”

Robin went rigid beside you. You could practically hear her internal screaming.

“Yeah!” Steve continued obliviously, grinning like he hadn’t just punched a hole through your ribcage without noticing. “She’s really cool. So I figured why not?”

Why not. Why not. The words echoed inside you, mocking, hollow, sharp around the edges.

Robin stared at him like she was seriously, genuinely contemplating committing a felony. “You… have a date,” she repeated, as if her brain needed time to reboot.

Steve nodded enthusiastically. “Yep! And actually—” He turned to you with that same bright, easy smile he always gave you, the one your heart stupidly stored like a treasure. “I was actually hoping you could help me get ready?”

The world tilted. Painfully.

“You… want me to—”

“Well yeah!” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the universe. “You’re good at that stuff. You always tell me when my hair’s doing that weird flippy thing, and you know what shirts make me look less like a suburban dad, so I figured you could help me pick something out?”

Robin made a sound beside you that could only be described as the noise someone makes when witnessing a slow-motion train wreck.

You swallowed, smiling even though it burned. “Sure,” you said softly. “Yeah. Of course.”

His grin widened. “You’re the best.”

And with that, he went back to reorganizing cones like he hadn’t just peeled another layer off your already bruised heart.

Robin pulled you aside the second his back was turned, gripping your shoulders.

“I’m going to die,” she whispered. “I’m actually going to die. I can’t do this anymore. I’m retiring from matchmaking. I refuse to witness this level of obliviousness for one more day—”

You barely heard her. Because your brain was looping one thought, over and over, louder and heavier each time:

Of course he had a date. He wasn't in love with Nancy anymore. Of course he moved on. Just… not with you.

And you were going to help him get ready for her. You were going to stand in his room and pretend your heart wasn’t folding itself into smaller and smaller shapes just to survive being near him.

Robin stared at you, eyes softening into heartbreak for you and secondhand exhaustion for herself. “Please,” she murmured, “for my sanity, tell me you’re not going to make this hurt worse.”

But you already knew you would. Because it was Steve.

And loving him hurt no matter what you did.

Steve’s room looked exactly like you would think a boy-in-denial-about-his-feelings room would look. He held up two shirts—one blue, one a softer green—and looked at you with that expression that always, always managed to knock the wind out of you.

“Okay, so… which one says ‘cool but not trying too hard’?” he asked, brows raised, lips pursing.

You swallowed and pointed at the green one. It made his eyes brighter. Made him look unfairly good. Made your stomach twist into something sharp and stupid and agonizing.

He grinned, delighted, and tossed it onto the bed. “Knew you’d pick that one. You have good taste.”

“Yeah,” you murmured, fingers curling in your palms, “sometimes.”

He didn’t hear the wobble in your voice, of course he didn’t. Steve could hear a twig snap in the woods from twenty feet away and mistake it for Nancy calling his name, but he couldn’t hear you cracking right in front of him. He turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair, fussing with the collar, stepping back and forth like he was trying to solve himself.

And there you were behind him, reflected in the glass, sitting on the edge of his bed holding a pair of his sunglasses you’d been fidgeting with. You looked like someone pretending to be composed. Someone pretending they weren’t guiding the boy they loved into someone else’s arms.

You cleared your throat lightly. “So… what’s the plan? For the date.”

He nervously ran a hand through his hair. “Dunno yet. I want it to be good, though. Like… memorable? Y’know?”

Your heart turned over so painfully you had to look down at your hands. “Well,” you said, keeping your voice light and steady despite the ache climbing up your throat, “if it were me… I’d want something easy. Something that doesn’t feel like a performance.”

His eyes flicked up to the mirror, catching yours. He listened the way he always did. It almost made you dizzy.

“Like what?” he asked.

You shrugged, swallowing hard. “Just… I dunno. Something small. Ice cream, maybe. Or records. Or a late drive with the windows down. Stuff that feels like you… not something you read in a magazine last minute.”

He grinned again. “Yeah. That sounds good. That sounds really good actually. She’d probably like that.”

She. Of course.

You nodded, trying not to let your smile—or your chest—collapse. “Yeah. Most girls would.”

He turned back to the mirror, adjusting the chain around his neck. He had no idea that you were cataloguing every piece of him, burning each detail into your memory like you’d need it later, like you were preparing for a life where you didn’t get to see him like this anymore.

Your mind spiraled again, like it had been doing for days now. You thought about the way he would look at the girl when she would enter the room, how effortlessly they would talk. You thought about how easy it must be for someone like her to be loved. How simple it must be to be the girl Steve Harrington never had to question wanting.

You thought about yourself in comparison. You’d always been the backup dancer in your own life, and standing here next to him, watching him dress for a date with a girl who wasn’t you, made that sting with humiliating clarity.

He turned then and held out two jackets.

“Okay, so—help me out here. Denim or the bomber?”

You took a breath so deep it hurt your ribs. “Bomber,” you whispered.

He laughed like you’d made his night.

“God, what would I do without you?” he asked, slipping into the jacket with a grateful grin.

The question lodged itself in your throat. You knew the answer. He’d live just fine. You were the one who’d fold without him, not the other way around. But he looked at you with such fondness, such blinding affection, that you couldn’t force the truth out. You could barely breathe around it.

You stood. Smoothed the hem of your shirt. Wiped away any stray emotion that might’ve clung to your face.

“Well,” you said softly, keeping your tone tight and controlled, “you look great. She’s lucky.”

Steve blinked at you, something in his expression flickering—confusion? Or maybe that was just your wishful thinking trying to make itself useful. “Thanks,” he said finally, nudging your shoulder with his. “Seriously. You always know how to make me feel… I dunno. Like I’m doing something right.”

Your laugh came out thin and brittle. “I try.”

He grabbed his wallet, checked the time, and with a nervous energy you’d never seen him carry for anyone else, he made for the door. He didn’t notice the way your hands shook. Didn’t notice the way your breath stuttered. Didn’t notice the way you stayed in his room long after he’d left, staring at the empty space he’d occupied like if you stared long enough, maybe you’d figure out how to unlove him.

But you couldn’t.

Because you did. Too much.

You wiped at your cheek before the tear could fall, furious at it for slipping free. You refused to cry in Steve Harrington’s room. You refused to cry in the room of someone who couldn't see you hurting. You refused to cry anywhere except the one place where you could fall apart without witnesses.

The walk home felt endless and directionless all at once. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you block after block while your brain played a highlight reel of every moment you’d ever mistaken for something more.

You hugged your arms around yourself, the cool evening air stinging your skin as if trying to keep you awake, keep you from spiraling any further. But your thoughts swarmed, relentless and hungry. You pictured him sitting across from some girl wearing the jacket you picked out, smelling like the cologne you told him suited him best, using the words and plans you knowingly crafted for someone who wasn’t you.

By the time your house came into view, something tight and exhausted inside you snapped. You slipped your key into the lock and stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind you as though gentleness could keep the heartbreak contained.

And then the tears came.

Hot, furious, humiliating tears spilling over faster than you could wipe them. You pressed your back to the door, slid down until you were sitting on the floor with your knees tucked up, and sobbed into your palms. You cried like you’d been holding it in for weeks. Maybe you had. Maybe loving someone who didn’t even notice had been carving quiet, invisible cracks into you for so long that tonight was the first time you finally shattered.

You were grateful—so stupidly, overwhelmingly grateful—that the house was empty. If your dad had been home, he would’ve gone full protective-parent-mode, pacing the living room with a baseball bat, swearing vengeance on whoever broke you. If El had been home, she’d have gone full telekinetic vendetta before you could even choke out a name.

But it was just you. Alone with your aching ribs and your blotchy face and the sound of your own heart cracking in your ears.

You scrubbed at your cheeks, trying to get the tears under control—slow, shaky breaths, the kind that made your nose sting and your chest hiccup. You forced yourself back onto unsteady feet, ready to drag yourself upstairs and collapse face-first into a pillow.

And that was when you heard it.

A knock.

Your breath caught mid-inhale, your fingers freezing on their way to brush the last tear from your jaw. You stood there for a second, swaying where you stood, heart thumping unevenly as another knock followed.

You wiped your face with your sleeve, pushed your hair out of your eyes, and slowly turned toward the door, panic climbing your spine.

Your hand trembled on the doorknob as you cracked it open.

And then you froze.

Steve Harrington stood on your porch, shifting nervously from foot to foot, hair a little messed up from the wind, and in his hands—held awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right to hold them—was a bouquet of your favorite flowers.

Your favorite. Down to the exact shades you always stopped to look at whenever you passed the florist downtown.

Your eyebrows pulled tight. Your breath hitched. “H-hey,” you managed, voice thin and scratchy from crying. “What are you… what are you doing here?”

Steve blinked, swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Uh… hey. Um, is your dad home?”

You shook your head slowly, confusion knitting deeper into your face. “No. He took El out to the carnival tonight.”

“Oh.” Steve nodded. Then nodded again. Then nodded a third time like he didn’t know what else to do with his body. “Okay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

You stared at him. He stared at you.

And then his eyes darted down to the flowers, and he jolted like he’d forgotten he was holding them.

“Oh! Right! Sorry, these are, uh… here.” He thrust them at you with both hands, almost dropping them in the process.

You automatically took them, looking down at the petals, then back up at him, utterly lost. “Steve… what? Why? You don’t have to give me flowers for helping you get ready. Seriously. You really don’t.” Your voice cracked in the middle, but you pushed through it. “It’s… it’s what a friend would do.”

The word friend tasted like metal in your mouth. You felt it slice something inside you just saying it.

Steve’s face twisted into the most baffled expression you’d ever seen on a human being.

“Uh, what?”

You hugged the bouquet closer to your chest, shrugging helplessly. “Friends help friends. You said you needed help, so I helped. And you don’t owe me anything for that, okay? I don’t need flowers, Steve.”

He blinked once. Then twice. Then his eyes narrowed, offended on a molecular level.

“Are you dumb?”

Your mouth fell open, outrage flaring hot. “Excuse me?!”

He winced immediately, raising both hands. “Wait—no—okay, that came out wrong. Really wrong. Horrifically wrong. Let me try again.”

You glared at him, still clutching the flowers like a shield, waiting.

“I meant,” he said, stumbling over his words, “are you… not smart? Like, in this one, extremely specific scenario? Because clearly something is not connecting here.” He gestured wildly between you and the flowers. “Because I’m not giving you these as, like— a thanks-for-the-fashion-tips thing. Or a hey-buddy-pal-champ thing. Or a cool-friends-being-cool-friends thing.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, exasperated, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted here.

You kept staring at him, brain buffering like a TV stuck between channels. Your fingers tightened around the stems of the flowers.

“Okay,” he said, dragging a hand down his face like he was seconds away from yanking his own hair out. “Right. I’m just, I’m gonna say it. Directly. Straight up.”

You nodded in the world’s slowest, most confused motion.

“I’m taking you out on a date,” Steve said.

For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe. Your mouth opened a fraction, mind blank except for a single thought: He didn’t say that. He did not say that. You hallucinated it. You’re dehydrated from crying. You’ve finally snapped.

“I… you… I—what?” you stammered, every neuron in your brain collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

Steve stared at you. You stared at him. His expression shifted from hopeful to confused to offended in under three seconds.

“I thought you’d get that,” he said helplessly, gesturing to the flowers like they were supposed to speak for him. “I mean, this is what people do, right? They show up at your house with flowers and ask you out and Dustin swore this would make sense!”

Your brain hiccupped. “I’m sorry— Dustin? Dustin Henderson? You took date advice from a thirteen-year-old?!”

Steve flinched like you’d physically slapped him with the truth. “Okay, probably not my best decision,” he admitted, waving his hands defensively. “But in my defense, he was very confident, and he used, like… charts! And color coding! And this whole thing about emotional wavelengths I didn’t fully understand!”

“That’s the worst decision ever,” you blurted out, too shocked to filter anything. “Who does that? Who goes to a middle-schooler for romantic guidance like he’s some kind of love guru?!”

“Apparently me!” Steve nearly shouted, equally mortified. “Can we maybe not focus on how much of an idiot I am right now? Can we circle back to that later? Like way later? Preferably never?”

You just stared, stunned and speechless and unbelievably overwhelmed. The flowers felt heavier in your hands. The knot in your chest loosened just slightly, like it wasn’t sure if it needed to hold on anymore.

Steve took a breath, steadier than before, and met your eyes with something soft and earnest that made your stomach flip.

“What I’m trying to say,” he said quietly, “is that I like you. And I’ve liked you for a while. And I… I really want to take you out. Like… properly. Like a real date. With me. And you. And not Dustin.”

You made a strangled sound that might’ve been laughter. Or maybe a sob. Hard to tell.

Steve stepped closer, but slow, like he didn’t want to spook you. “So… would you mind, um… getting ready? Really quickly? So we can go? Before I completely lose my nerve and Dustin ends up writing a breakup flowchart for me on Monday?”

You stood there in stunned silence, heart thundering, tears drying unevenly on your cheeks, flowers clutched to your chest like a fragile truth you’d been waiting your whole life to hold.

And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel like the universe was plotting against you.

It felt like it had just… finally let you catch up.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until your head was nodding. A breathy, startled laugh escaped you. And then you were smiling, the first real one you’d managed all day, the kind that warmed your cheeks and loosened your shoulders.

Steve blinked at you, wide-eyed and nervous, as if he wasn’t sure whether your reaction was good or bad. And before he could spiral into whatever anxious loop Dustin clearly trained him into, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.

His breath hitched.

For half a second, he stood frozen. And then, with this tiny, disbelieving exhale, he melted. His hands found the small of your back pulling you in like he’d been waiting for permission. His chin nudged your shoulder; you felt the smile pressed against your neck. He smelled like the cologne you picked, and something distinctly, stupidly Steve.

You held him tighter, burying your face against his collarbone. The flowers were still clutched in one hand, crushed slightly between you, but you didn’t care. For the first time that night, you didn’t feel like you were pretending or trying or reaching for something unreachable. You felt… held. Wanted. Seen.

When you pulled back, your palms skimmed the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing barely-there along his jaw. His breath stuttered again, like you’d short-circuited whatever brain cells he had left. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your mouth.

You leaned in, barely a whisper of space between you, and murmured against his lips, “I like you too, Steve Harrington.”

He made a sound that punched straight through your ribs.

And then you kissed him.

Slow at first, because you were afraid if you pushed too fast you’d wake up in your room and realize this was all a grief-induced hallucination. His lips were warm, hesitant, a little clumsy, like he wasn’t used to wanting something this much. His hands tightened at your waist, pulling you closer, and something inside you sparked.

When you tilted your head and deepened it just slightly, Steve responded like he’d been waiting his entire life for that exact moment. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. His breathing went uneven. His lips moved with this stunned kind of reverence that made your legs feel like water.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a hysterical thought flickered: Oh my god, he’s so hot. Which was insane because you already knew that, had known it for months, but apparently kissing him turned the volume up on that realization by about a thousand.

You pulled back just enough for your lips to brush his cheek, warm and flushed and stupidly soft, and pressed a quick kiss there. Steve made a noise that he immediately tried to swallow and failed miserably.

His face went pink. Actually pink. Steve Harrington looked completely undone and flustered and like his brain had officially left the building.

You smiled up at him, breathless and glowing in a way you could feel all the way in your fingertips. “I’ll be right back,” you whispered, brushing your thumb once more along his jaw before stepping away.

He froze again, watching you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics in front of him. “O—oh. Yeah. Cool. Cool. I’ll just—um—stand here. Not move. Or breathe. Or… whatever people do when they’re not… doing anything.”

You bit back a laugh, gave him one last kiss to the cheek and slipped inside to get ready.

Behind, you heard him exhale shakily and mutter, “Henderson is never gonna let me live this down.”

“Neither is Robin.” You called back and he visibly groaned.

You and Eddie are the kind of opposites people write songs about without ever expecting to actually meet, the kind that don’t make sense on paper but somehow settle together like they were always meant to. 

Because you are warmth without trying, soft smiles and paint-stained fingers, and a laugh that carries across rooms. 

He is all sharp edges and tangled hair and a reputation that walks into a place before he does, people turning their heads at the sound of your voice and their backs at the sight of him.

And still, every single time, without hesitation, without even thinking about it, you choose him, crossing crowded hallways and noisy rooms like there’s nothing else worth your attention, like he is not something to be avoided but something to be found.

You talk to everyone, easy and open, asking questions and remembering answers, collecting people without even realizing you’re doing it. 

Eddie talks to almost no one at all, words kept close and guarded unless it’s you, unless it’s late and quiet and he’s sprawled across your bed or the hood of his van, voice softer than anyone else ever gets to hear. 

Like you’ve been given something private, something fragile, something he doesn’t trust the rest of the world to hold without breaking, and maybe that’s part of why it works, because where you are light, he is shadow, and somehow neither of you seems to mind the contrast.

In the beginning, it is so easy it almost feels unreal, like something you’ll wake up from, all soft edges and gentle moments that stack on top of each other until they feel permanent. 

Like you sitting cross-legged in the grass behind the school with a handful of tiny wildflowers, carefully tucking them into his curls while he complains under his breath about looking ridiculous, swatting half-heartedly at your hands but never actually stopping you.

Letting you turn him into something softer, something prettier, because it’s you asking, because it’s you smiling at him like that, like he’s already perfect and you’re just decorating what’s there.

You drag him out into the sun at lunch, ignoring the way he groans about it. Ignoring the way he insists he’s going to melt or burst into flames, and yet, he still goes, still follows, still drops down beside you with a dramatic sigh before letting his head fall into your lap like it belongs there. 

Eyes closing as your fingers move through his hair, tracing slow patterns against his scalp while you ramble about something small and inconsequential, something that doesn’t matter to anyone else but matters because it matters to you, and he listens, or pretends not to, but never asks you to stop.

You call him pretty like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t even occur to you that anyone could disagree, and he rolls his eyes every time, scoffing, muttering something about you being insane. 

But it lingers anyway, sticks somewhere deep and quiet, replaying later when he’s alone, when the noise of everything else fades, and all that’s left is your voice saying it so easily, so certainly, like it’s not a joke or a kindness but a fact.

And maybe that’s the thing, the part neither of you names out loud, because it’s too good to question. Too fragile to pick apart, the way he lets himself have it, lets himself be loved like that, openly and without conditions, like it isn’t something that could disappear. Like it isn’t something he could lose. 

The shift started small. Nothing loud enough to draw a crowd, nothing obvious enough for anyone to step in right away, just a moment that slips in between everything else, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it, easy to excuse if you are.

You’re sitting on the edge of one of the library tables with Nancy beside you, her notes spread out in neat, color-coded stacks while yours are less structured.

Pages half-filled with doodles and pressed flowers tucked between them, the afternoon sun spilling through the windows and catching in your hair, making everything feel softer than it really is, like one of those quiet moments that stretch out and settle comfortably.

Eddie shows up late, like he usually does, dropping his bag onto the table with a dull thud before dragging a chair back with his foot, loud enough to make Nancy glance up, sharp and unimpressed, while you just smile like you’ve been waiting for him.

“Hi,” you say, bright and easy, like you always do, like nothing in the world has ever made you hesitate before speaking to him.

He looks at you for a second, something unreadable flickering across his face before it settles into something more familiar, something guarded, something a little too sharp around the edges.

“Jesus,” he mutters, glancing at the mess of your notes. “Do you actually study, or do you just decorate the page and hope for the best?”

It lands lightly on the surface, but it doesn’t feel light. You laugh anyway, because that’s what you do, because it’s easier, brushing it off with a small shrug as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I like to think it’s a system.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, dropping into the chair. “A bad one.”

Nancy’s pen stills, just for a second. It’s subtle, the way her posture shifts, the way her eyes flick between the two of you like she’s trying to decide if she heard that right, if she’s supposed to say something, if you need her to.

You don’t look at her. You just keep smiling, softer now, a little more careful, like you’re smoothing something over that no one else can quite see.

“Hey,” you say instead, nudging his foot lightly under the table, gentle, grounding. “I missed you.”

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair like the words don’t land, like they don’t matter as much as they do. “You saw me this morning.”

“For like, two seconds,” you reply, still warm, still trying, like you can fill the space he’s leaving with enough softness that it won’t feel so empty. “That doesn’t count.”

He doesn’t answer right away, just exhales through his nose, eyes drifting somewhere past you, past the table, like he’s already half checked out of the moment, and when he does speak again, it’s quieter but not kinder.

“You don’t have to act like that all the time, you know.”

The words catch. Not sharp enough to cut clean through, but dull enough to bruise.

“Like what?” you ask, still smiling, even as something in your chest tightens just slightly.

“All…” he gestures vaguely toward you, toward the brightness of you, the way you sit, the way you exist. “That. It’s a lot.”

A small, fragile pause passes where something could be said, where something could be fixed. You let it pass anyway, you always do. 

“Good thing you like a lot,” you tease instead, light and easy, like it doesn’t matter, like it doesn’t stick, reaching out to flick the edge of his sleeve with your fingers, soft and familiar. He doesn’t pull away, and he doesn’t lean in, either.

Nancy closes her notebook. Not loudly, not dramatically, just enough to mark the end of something, her gaze settling on you a little longer than usual, searching, careful.

“I’m gonna go print these,” she says, already gathering her things, but her attention doesn’t leave you, not really.

You nod, still smiling. “Okay. I’ll be here.”

She hesitates, just for a second. Then, quieter, more direct, “Are you okay?”

It’s gentle, concerned. Too perceptive. You blink at her like the question doesn’t make sense, like there’s nothing there to notice in the first place, your expression softening into something almost amused.

“Yeah,” you say easily. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Your tone is light, unbothered, convincing in the way it’s practiced, like the answer has already been decided long before she asked the question.

Nancy doesn’t look convinced. But she nods anyway.

“Okay,” she says, though it sounds like she doesn’t quite believe it, slinging her bag over her shoulder before stepping away, glancing back once before disappearing out of the library.

And just like that, it’s quiet again. Just you and him. Just the space where something small settled and stayed. Because the truth is, it isn’t new. The comments.

The little digs wrapped in something casual, something easy to brush off if you don’t look too closely, the way his tone shifts sometimes, just enough to make you pause before smoothing it over, laughing it off, turning it into something softer so it won’t sit as heavy as it wants to.

You’ve learned how to do that. Learned how to catch the words before they land too hard, how to reshape them into something harmless, something that fits better with the version of him you know, the one who lets you tuck flowers into his hair and rest his head in your lap like he trusts you with something no one else gets to touch.

So you smile, you always smile. Because it’s easier than asking why. Because it’s easier than admitting it doesn’t feel as small as it sounds.

The afternoon settles into something softer and dimmer, the kind of light that usually makes everything feel warmer, easier, like the world is exhaling around you. You keep pace beside him anyway, like you always do. Like nothing shifted back there.

Eddie doesn’t say much, just lights a cigarette halfway down the path, the flame briefly illuminating the tension still sitting in his jaw, the set of his shoulders a little too tight, like he’s carrying something he doesn’t want to name, and you watch him for a second before reaching over and plucking it gently from his fingers.

“Hey,” you murmur, soft, almost playful, taking a drag just to make him look at you, just to pull him out of wherever he’s gone.

He does. His brows knit immediately, irritation flickering. “You don’t even like those.”

“I like stealing them from you,” you counter lightly, offering it back with a small smile, something warm and familiar, like a peace offering he doesn’t realize he needs.

He takes it, but his fingers brush yours a little sharper than usual. Not enough to hurt, but enough to notice.

“Yeah, well,” he mutters, looking away again. “You like a lot of things you shouldn’t.” It’s said under his breath. 

By the time you reach the trailer, the sky is dipping into gold, the air cooling just enough to make you pull your sleeves over your hands as Eddie pushes the door open without knocking, like he always does, like it’s second nature.

“Wayne?” he calls out, voice louder now, different, a little less sharp.

“In here,” comes the reply from down the hall.

You follow Eddie inside, the familiar clutter wrapping around you, the faint smell of coffee and metal and something comforting you’ve never quite been able to name, and for a moment, just a moment, it feels normal again. Easy.

Wayne appears a second later, wiping his hands on a rag, eyes flicking between the two of you in that quiet, observant way of his, taking in more than he ever says out loud.

“Well, look who it is,” he hums, a small smile pulling at his mouth when he sees you. “Thought I heard sunshine at the door.”

Your face brightens instantly. “Hi, Wayne.”

You step forward without thinking, wrapping your arms around him in a quick hug, and he returns it just as easily, patting your back once before pulling away, something soft lingering in his expression when he looks at you. “Been a while,” he says.

“Like, two days,” you laugh.

“Too long,” he nods, like he means it.

Eddie huffs behind you, not quite annoyed, not quite amused, something in between. “Alright, alright, don’t get all sentimental on me.”

You glance back at him, smile still there, still gentle. “Jealous?”

“Of what?” he scoffs. “You stealing all his attention?”

“Mm,” you hum, tilting your head. “Maybe.”

Wayne watches the exchange. Not obviously. Not in a way that interrupts. But his eyes linger just a second longer than usual, something thoughtful settling in the lines of his face, like he’s listening to more than just the words.

You drift toward the couch like you’ve done a hundred times before, kicking your shoes off, tucking your legs up beneath you, hands already reaching for the edge of one of Eddie’s cassette tapes left on the table, turning it over between your fingers.

“You ever think about organizing these?” you ask lightly, glancing up at him. “You could alphabetize—”

“Jesus,” Eddie cuts in, sharper than necessary, dropping his keys onto the counter with a clatter. “Or I could not touch them, and they’d still be fine.”

The room stills, just slightly. You blink, the tape still in your hands, your smile faltering for half a second before you smooth it back into place, softer now, quieter.

“Okay,” you say, easy, like it doesn’t matter. “Just a thought.”

Wayne’s rag stills in his hands. He doesn’t look at Eddie, not yet. But something in his posture shifts, something subtle and solid, like he’s filing it away, like he’s noticing the way your voice dipped just a fraction, the way you made yourself smaller in the space of a single sentence.

Eddie exhales, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, like maybe he hears it too, like maybe something in him recognizes the edge he just used.

“Whatever,” he mutters, not quite looking at you. “Do what you want.”

You nod, gentle, compliant, setting the tape back down exactly where you found it, careful, like you don’t want to disrupt anything else.

“Okay.” And it’s so soft. So easy. Like it didn’t cost you anything at all.

Wayne finally glances up then, eyes moving between the two of you, lingering on you just a second longer, something unreadable but not unkind settling there, like he’s seeing something he doesn’t like, something he’s not going to ignore forever.

But not yet, not today. Today, he just clears his throat, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “I’m heading out to the store,” he says, voice even. “You two need anything?”

You shake your head immediately. “No, I’m okay.”

Eddie shrugs. “Nah.”

Wayne nods, but his gaze flicks back to you one more time before he moves toward the door, something quiet and watchful in it, something that lingers even after he’s gone.

The trailer feels different when it closes behind him. Quieter. Smaller. You shift on the couch, glancing over at Eddie, offering him another smile, softer this time, a little more tentative, like you’re testing the space between you.

“Hey,” you murmur.

He looks at you. And for a second, just a second, there’s something there, something almost apologetic, something like he might reach for you the way he usually does. But it passes.

“Hey,” he echoes instead. And you nod, like that’s enough.

You’re still on the couch. Still soft, still looking at him like you always do. And that’s the problem.

Because Eddie can feel it now, sitting heavy in his chest, something sour and restless that he doesn’t quite know how to name without sounding pathetic, without sounding exactly like the kind of guy he swore he’d never be, the kind who gets jealous of something as simple as the way you exist.

It would be easier if you were different. If you were colder, meaner, harder to reach, something he had to fight for instead of something that came to him so easily, it almost feels like a mistake. But you’re not. You’re, well, you.

All warmth and open hands and easy smiles, the kind of person people lean toward without thinking, the kind of person who gets chosen without having to ask, and he sees it every single day, the way people look at you, the way they talk to you, the way they soften around you in a way they’ve never, not once, done for him.

And he tells himself it doesn’t matter. He tells himself you chose him. But that’s the part that gets stuck. Because he doesn’t understand why, not really.

Not in a way that feels stable, something he can trust won’t shift the second you realize what everyone else already seems to know, that you could have someone easier, someone lighter, someone who doesn’t come with a reputation that makes people cross the street or whisper behind their hands.

He thinks about the library. About the way you were laughing with Nancy, bright and easy, fitting so effortlessly into a world that has never had room for him, and how natural it looked, how right, as you belonged there in a way he never will.

He thinks about the way Nancy looked at him. Not afraid, not exactly. But aware. Assessing. Like she was taking inventory of something she didn’t quite approve of. Like she was wondering what you were doing with him.

And something in his chest twists at that, sharp and familiar, something that’s been there long before you, long before this, something that knows exactly how this goes, how people like you eventually figure it out, how they move on, how they outgrow.

He hates that he thought it. Hates that it made him want to pull you back, make you smaller, quieter, less visible, like if he could just keep you close enough, keep you from shining quite so brightly around everyone else, maybe it wouldn’t feel like he’s constantly on the verge of losing you.

And he hates even more that it came out the way it did. Sharp. Dismissive. Like he was trying to cut you down instead of holding on. Because he saw it.

He saw the way your smile changed, just for a second, the way it softened into something more careful, more measured, like you were adjusting yourself to fit whatever space he was giving you.

And that’s not what he wants. It’s not. He doesn’t want you smaller. He doesn’t want you quieter. He just doesn’t know how to exist next to something so good without feeling like it’s temporary. Like it’s borrowed. Like it’s already halfway gone.

So instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossed like that might hold everything in place, like that might stop whatever is unraveling in his chest from spilling out in a way he can’t take back.

His eyes flick to you again. Still there. Still looking at him like he hasn’t done anything wrong. Like you never even considered the possibility. And it makes something in him ache, low and complicated, something that feels a little too close to guilt to ignore.

He exhales, quieter this time, the edge in him dulling just slightly as he watches you tuck your legs beneath you, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, still waiting for him in that patient, open way that feels like both a comfort and a threat. Because if you’re still here, he hasn’t ruined it yet.

The next day, Nancy’s room feels like somewhere you can breathe again.

Not because anything is particularly different, but because everything is the same in a way that doesn’t ask anything from you. The soft yellow lamp on her bedside table, the faint hum of music in the background, the quiet rhythm of pages turning and pens tapping as the two of you sit side by side, knees brushing every so often like it’s second nature.

You’re talking. You’re always talking here.

Something easy, something light, your voice filling the space in that warm, familiar way while Nancy listens, adding in small comments here and there, the kind that let you know she’s paying attention even when she’s pretending not to.

It feels normal, it feels like you.

The knock at the door doesn’t interrupt so much as blend in, Nancy calling out “It’s open” without looking up, already knowing who it’ll be, and sure enough, the door swings open to Robin first, words already spilling out mid-thought as she steps inside, followed closely by Jonathan who offers you a small, familiar nod when he sees you, something soft and acknowledging that makes you smile back instantly.

“Hi,” you say, bright.

“Hi,” Robin echoes, dropping onto the floor like she’s been here all day. “We brought snacks. Well, Jonathan brought snacks. I just supervised.”

Jonathan huffs quietly, setting the bag down. “You ate half of them.”

“Quality control,” she shoots back.

You laugh, easy and unguarded, leaning forward to peek into the bag, already reaching for something without thinking, the movement natural, comfortable, like this is a space you belong in. And it is. They treat you like you do.

Robin starts rambling about something ridiculous within seconds, pulling you into it without hesitation, asking your opinion as if it matters, like it’s expected, and you answer just as easily, slipping into the conversation as if you’ve always been part of it, because you have been.

It’s light. It’s good. And then there’s another knock. This one is different, more deliberate.

Nancy frowns slightly, glancing at the door before standing to answer it, and when it opens, there’s a brief pause, just a flicker of surprise, before she steps aside.

“Oh,” she says. “Hey.”

Steve lingers in the doorway for a second like he’s not entirely sure he’s in the right place, like he didn’t expect the room to already be full, and then his eyes land on you. And something in his expression shifts. Not in a way that’s uncomfortable, just curious.

“Oh,” he echoes, stepping inside. “Didn’t realize this was a party.”

“It’s not,” Nancy replies, a little too quickly.

“It is now,” Robin mutters.

You glance up, meeting his gaze for the first time, offering a small, polite smile out of instinct more than anything else. “Hi.”

Steve blinks. Like he wasn’t expecting you to speak first. Then he smiles back, a little slower, a little more deliberate. “Hi.”

There’s a beat where he just kind of looks at you, like he’s trying to place you, like he knows he’s seen you around but never like this, never up close, never in a room where you’re relaxed enough to just be.

“You’re—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head slightly. “You hang out with these guys?”

Robin snorts. “Rude.”

You laugh softly, shrugging. “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Jonathan repeats under his breath, like that’s an understatement.

Steve huffs a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Huh.”

Nancy’s room feels like somewhere the world slows down just enough for you to forget yourself a little, the lamp casting that same soft glow over everything while the four of you sit scattered across the floor, backs against furniture, legs tangled in that absent, comfortable way that comes from being used to each other.

You’re laughing, really laughing.

Robin is mid-ramble about something ridiculous, hands moving as fast as her words while Jonathan quietly corrects her every few sentences, and Nancy is half-listening, half-watching you, like she always is, like she’s measuring something she hasn’t quite said out loud yet.

Steve lingers on the edge of it all, still not entirely woven in the way the others are, but trying, chiming in here and there, his attention drifting back to you more often than not, like you’re something easy to focus on in a room he doesn’t quite belong to.

At some point, the conversation shifts. It’s subtle. Barely noticeable at first.

Robin asks something offhand, something light. “So, what’s Munson up to today?”

“Probably sulking somewhere,” you joke, smiling faintly, like it’s fond, like it’s familiar.

Jonathan huffs a quiet laugh. Nancy doesn’t.

She tilts her head slightly instead, watching you. “He didn’t want to come with you?”

You shake your head. “No, he doesn’t really like things like this.”

“This?” Steve echoes.

You gesture vaguely around the room, the people, the ease of it all. “People. Groups. Nancy’s house.” You smile a little. “You know.”

Robin snorts. “Yeah, sounds like him.”

It should end there; it almost does. But Nancy’s still looking at you. Still thinking.

“…Does he ever?” she asks, softer now. “Come with you to stuff like this?”

You hesitate just for a second. “Sometimes. He used to,” you say, but it comes out lighter than it is, like you’re smoothing something over without fully realizing it.

Robin glances at Nancy. Then back at you. 

“Okay, but like,” she starts, slower now, more careful, “not to be whatever, but he’s kinda… intense with you, right?”

You blink, the smile still on your face but shifting, just slightly. “What do you mean?”

Nancy sits up a little straighter, her voice gentle when she speaks. “He just… talks to you differently sometimes.”

Your brows knit, confusion slipping in around the edges. “Differently how?”

Nancy exhales, running a hand through her hair. “Like earlier,” she says. “At school. In the library.”

“He wasn’t—” she searches for the word, then settles on something softer. “Nice.”

Your instinct is immediate. Defensive in the gentlest way possible.

“He didn’t mean it like that,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “That’s just how he jokes.”

Nancy doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t push. She just watches you, something careful and steady in her expression. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you say, a little firmer this time, like you need them to believe it. “He’s just like that sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”

Jonathan shifts slightly where he’s sitting, his voice quiet but present. “You shouldn’t have to brush it off every time.”

You look at him, the words catching somewhere in your chest, but you don’t let them sit there long enough to grow.

“I don’t,” you insist softly. “It’s really not like that.”

Robin presses her lips together, like she’s trying to decide how far to go, how much to say, and when she does speak again, it’s gentler than before. “He just cuts at you sometimes,” she says. “And you laugh like it didn’t hurt.”

“It doesn’t,” you reply, almost immediately. Nancy’s gaze softens, not in agreement, but in understanding, like she sees the shape of what you’re doing even if you don’t.

“You don’t have to defend him to us,” she says quietly.

“I’m not defending him,” you say, a little breathless now, like the conversation is slipping somewhere you don’t want it to go. “I’m just telling you how he is.”

“And how he is,” Nancy continues carefully, “is sometimes not fair to you.”

You shake your head again, shorter this time. “He’s just—he’s had a rough time, okay? People treat him like shit, they always have. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Robin tilts her head. “That doesn’t mean you should be the one taking it.”

You swallow. Your hands twist together in your lap, something restless creeping in where the ease used to be.

“He doesn’t treat me badly,” you say, softer now. “He loves me.”

No one argues that, not directly. But the silence that follows isn’t agreement either. It’s something else. Something heavier.

Nancy reaches out slightly, her voice quieter than before. “We’re not saying he doesn’t.”

Your chest tightens. “Then what are you saying?”

Another pause this time. Careful, measured. “That you deserve to feel good all the time,” Nancy says gently. “Not just most of the time. Not just when he’s in a good mood.”

You look down at your hands, noticing the way your fingers have started to fidget without you noticing. “I do feel good,” you murmur, but it sounds smaller now, less certain.

Robin exhales softly. “Okay.” Not convinced. Not pushing.

And the conversation drifts after that, it has to. No one wants to press it further, not when they can feel the way you’ve pulled in just slightly, the way something in you has tightened around the edges.

But it lingers. It stays with you, even when you’re laughing again. Even when you’re saying goodbye. Even when you step out into the cool evening air and start the walk home. Because for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something small.

And by the time you reach your door, keys in hand, the quiet of your house settling around you, your phone rings. You glance down at the screen. Eddie.

Your chest tightens, just slightly. But you answer anyway. “Hey.”

Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, still carrying that leftover quiet from Nancy’s room, from everything that was said and everything you didn’t let yourself fully sit with. And for a second, there’s just the sound of his breathing on the other end, like he’s deciding something before he even answers you.

“Where are you?” Eddie asks, and it’s not harsh, not exactly, but there’s something tight wrapped around the words, something already a little off.

“At home,” you say, slipping your bag down onto the floor, nudging the door shut behind you with your foot. “I just got back.”

“You were at Wheeler’s all day.” It’s not a question.

You lean back against the door, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Robin and Jonathan were there too.”

“And?”

You hesitate, just for a second, like you can feel the weight of the name before you even say it.

“…Steve showed up.”

There’s a shift on the other end, subtle but immediate, like something in him pulls tight all at once. “Of course he did,” Eddie mutters.

You frown slightly, pushing off the door, pacing a slow step into your living room. “I don’t think he knew we were all there.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, dry. “I’m sure it was a real shock.”

“It wasn’t like that,” you say gently, not defensive, just trying to smooth it before it sharpens. “We were all just hanging out.”

“With Harrington,” he adds.

You exhale softly, rubbing your thumb along the edge of your sleeve. “With everyone.”

He hums, low and unconvinced, and you can almost picture him, slouched somewhere, jaw tight, picking at something invisible just to keep his hands busy.

“He flirt with you?” he asks after a second, too casual, like he doesn’t care.

You hesitate, not because it matters. But because you know it will to him.

“…A little,” you admit, keeping your tone light, like it’s nothing. “But that’s just how he is.”

Silence, thicker this time. Then, “And you liked that?”

Your brows knit, something in your chest dipping. “It didn’t mean anything, Eddie.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You swallow, shifting your weight, your voice staying soft even as something in you tightens. 

“I didn’t think about it like that.”

He lets out a short breath, something almost like a laugh but not quite, something without humor in it. 

“Right,” he mutters.

There’s a moment where it could turn. Where it could tilt into something heavier, something you don’t have the energy for tonight, not after everything, not with Nancy’s voice still lingering somewhere in the back of your mind, quiet and careful and impossible to fully ignore.

So you don’t let it. You soften it, like you always do.

“Hey,” you say, quieter now, gentler, like you’re reaching for him through the line. “Do you wanna… go out or something tomorrow?”

There’s a pause, longer than it should be. “…What?”

“Like a date,” you clarify, a small smile tugging at your mouth even though he can’t see it. “We haven’t done that in a while.”

You hear him shift, something creaking faintly on his end, like he’s sitting up or turning away, as the question caught him off guard in a way he didn’t expect.

“I don’t know,” he says, and it’s not harsh, just hesitant. “Why?”

The word sits wrong. You blink, the smile faltering just slightly before you steady it again. “Because I want to?”

“I just thought it could be nice,” you add, softer now. “Just us.”

There’s something in the silence that follows, something that shifts under the surface, like the jealousy doesn’t disappear, but it redirects, curls into something else, something closer to uncertainty.

“…Where,” he asks finally.

It’s not enthusiasm, but it’s not no. Your shoulders relax just a fraction. “Anywhere. We could just drive, or go to the diner, or… I don’t know, whatever you want.”

He exhales, slower this time, the tension in it easing just slightly, like he’s coming down from something he didn’t mean to climb into.

“…Yeah,” he says after a second. “Okay.”

It’s reluctant, careful. But it’s yes. Your smile comes back, softer now, something warm settling into your chest even if it doesn’t fully reach the parts that still feel a little off. “Okay,” you echo.

Another small pause. Then, quieter, almost like he doesn’t want to say it but does anyway, “You didn’t like him, right?”

The question is softer now. Not accusatory. Your chest tightens, just a little.

“No,” you say gently. “I love you.”

And for the first time since he called, something in him settles.

“…Okay,” Eddie murmurs. And you hold onto that. Even if it doesn’t feel as solid as it used to.

The next day feels softer than it should, like something is trying to reset itself.

You stand in front of your closet longer than you need to, fingers brushing over fabric without really seeing it at first, your mind somewhere between last night’s call and the quiet weight of Nancy’s voice still tucked into the back of your thoughts, not loud enough to take over, but not gone either.

You push it away, you always do. Instead, you reach for the sundress.

The one he said he liked, voice softer than usual when he told you, fingers brushing the hem like it meant something more than just fabric, like it was tied to a version of you he held onto a little tighter than the rest. 

You smooth it out between your hands before pulling it on, the light material settling against your skin, familiar, easy, like stepping into something you’ve worn a hundred times before, something safe. Your hair takes a little longer. You redo it twice. Not because it looks bad, just because it doesn’t look right. Not until it does.

Not until it looks the way you know he likes it, soft and loose, framing your face just enough, something he once tucked behind your ear with a quiet kind of care that still lingers in the memory.

You pause for a second after, staring at yourself in the mirror. Then you smile. Small. Hopeful.

By the time you meet him, the sun is dipping lower, casting everything in that golden light that makes the world feel warmer than it really is, and he’s already there, leaning against his van, arms crossed, boot scuffing idly at the dirt like he’s been waiting just long enough to start getting restless.

You walk towards him, like you always do. And when his eyes lift to you, you feel it, that small flicker in your chest, that quiet anticipation, waiting for something as simple as a look, a word, anything that tells you he sees you the way he used to.

He doesn’t say anything. Just straightens slightly, pushing off the van, his gaze lingering for a second before shifting away like it didn’t matter as much as it does.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you reply, still warm, still soft, even as something small in you tilts just slightly. You don’t mention it.

Instead, you fall into step beside him, the walk to the field familiar, easy in its routine if not in its feeling, the quiet between you stretching just a little longer than usual, filled with things neither of you says.

The field looks the same. It always does. Wildflowers scattered across it in uneven patches, the grass soft beneath your feet, the sky stretching wide and open above you like nothing could possibly touch you here.

You spread the blanket out like you’ve done a hundred times before, smoothing the corners down, tucking yourself onto it while Eddie drops down beside you a little heavier, a little less careful.

For a moment, it almost feels right. The breeze, the quiet, the way the world seems to narrow down to just the two of you.

You glance at him. Waiting. Still, nothing. He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t even hint at it. No “you look nice.” No second glance. Just silence, broken only by the faint rustle of grass and the distant hum of something far away.

You tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingers brushing against the way you styled it, the way you chose it, something small tightening in your chest before you force it to loosen.

“It’s nice out,” you say instead, gentle, offering something easy to hold onto.

“Yeah,” he replies, flat.

You nod, pressing your lips together briefly before letting them part again. “I missed this.”

He hums. Noncommittal, like he doesn’t quite agree. The quiet stretches again, longer this time. And it starts to feel heavier. Not the comfortable kind, not the kind you’re used to with him.