I Just Wanna Stay In That Lavender Haze 🕐🕘🕗

You did end up watching the last D&D campaign, much to Eddie's initial dismay when you'd settled yourself at the folding table in Nancy Wheeler's basement, squeezing into the chair next to Steve instead of taking one of the empty seats across from him.

"Really?" Eddie had said, looking between you both with exaggerated suspicion. "You're gonna sit there?"

"Problem?" you'd asked sweetly.

"Multiple," Eddie had muttered, but he'd dropped it, launching into his opening narration with the kind of theatrical flair that made it clear why he was the Dungeon Master.

There hadn't been much protest from Steve either. If anything, he'd seemed pleased, scooting his chair closer to yours under the pretense of needing to share the Player's Handbook, his thigh pressing warm against yours under the table.

Occasionally, he'd sneak his hand under the table and squeeze your thigh—nothing inappropriate given the audience, just his palm settling heavy and possessive above your knee, thumb rubbing small circles through your jeans. And sometimes, you'd do the same thing, your fingers finding the hard muscle of his leg, feeling it tense under your touch.

Max had narrowed her eyes at you more than once during those moments, followed immediately by a smirk that said she knew exactly what was happening and found it highly entertaining.

You were quick to discover a fondness for the kids that surprised you.

Mike had eased up considerably after that first night at the New Year's party, his initial wariness dissolving into something approaching friendship. He still had that sharp edge to him, that quick wit that could cut if he wanted it to, but mostly he used it to make you laugh, to include you in inside jokes you were slowly becoming part of.

Will had become more comfortable too, losing that quiet nervousness that had made him seem younger than he was. By the end of the campaign, when his character had made a particularly clever move that saved the party from certain death, you'd thrown your arm around his shoulders and squeezed, and he'd actually hugged you back.

And right when you were climbing into Steve's car to drive back to Robin's house, you'd caught them—Mike and Will, standing by the side of the Wheeler house, sharing a kiss that was sweet and tentative and clearly not meant for anyone else to see.

You'd looked away immediately, smiling to yourself as you buckled your seatbelt.

Dustin and El were adorable in a way that made your teeth hurt. Anytime El felt frustrated during the game—her character missing an attack roll or failing a saving throw—Dustin would lean over, completely earnest, and say, "Janie-kins, you're doing so good," before kissing her cheek with a loud smack that made her giggle and blush.

Max and Lucas were equally a force, though in a completely different way. Max would get off-task during the campaign just to bully or antagonize Lucas's character, rolling her eyes at his tactical suggestions and deliberately making choices that complicated his plans. But the way she looked at him when she thought no one was watching—soft and fond and completely gone—gave her away every time.

And Eddie.

This side of Eddie—the Dungeon Master side, fully immersed in his element—made everything make sense. He became someone else entirely when he sat behind that screen, voices changing for different NPCs, hands gesturing wildly as he described encounters, eyes blazing with the kind of passion usually reserved for his music. He was magnetic, commanding the table with an authority that had even Mike deferring to him without argument.

At one point, during a break while everyone raided the Wheeler kitchen for snacks, you'd pulled Eddie aside.

"Why didn't you ever pursue theatre?" you'd asked. "You're incredible at this."

Eddie had hung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, and sadly shook his head. "Sweetheart, I fear I need to have some humility in my life." He'd grinned, but there was something wistful underneath. "An upcoming rockstar and actor? That's too much power for one man."

Then there was Steve.

Although you were ostensibly there to help him—to explain mechanics he supposedly didn't understand, to clarify rules that seemed to confuse him—he definitely knew what he was doing. You'd catch him scribbling down his next attack before his turn, calculating modifiers and damage with the kind of focus he probably should've applied to his actual schoolwork. But before he'd announce his move, he'd turn to you, those hazel eyes finding yours, and say, "What do you think I should do, Hot Shot? Wanna roll my d20?"

And no matter if the roll was a nat 1 that made the whole table groan or high enough to land a critical hit that had everyone cheering, he'd lean over afterward, smirking, voice low enough that only you could hear: "I think you're my lucky charm, Hot Shot."

The two of you didn't hook up, per se. Didn't want to break the rules and all—only once a week, and you'd already used up your allotted time. But there had been a heated exchange in the back of his BMW one night when he'd driven you back to Robin's, the windows fogging up as his hands found their way under your shirt, your mouth on his neck, both of you panting and frustrated until you'd finally pulled away, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the small space.

"Next week," Steve had whispered, and you'd nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.

So it's no surprise that he's shown up tonight, after not really seeing him all week. You'd moved back into your dorm three days ago, spent the week unpacking and reorganizing, getting coffee with friends who'd returned early, avoiding the reality that classes start Monday and you're absolutely not prepared.

The knock on your door comes at eight o'clock, three sharp raps that you recognize immediately.

When you open it, Steve is leaning against the doorframe in that way he does—all casual confidence, one shoulder propped against the wood, hand tucked into his pocket. He's wearing dark jeans that fit him perfectly, a burgundy henley pushed up to his elbows, and those wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

The glasses.

You know immediately what he's wanting, because he'd brought it up that night in his room, right before you'd finally peeled yourself off his bed to go to your assigned guest room. You'd paused at his door, hand on the knob, and turned back.

"I had fun tonight," you'd said.

"Yeah, me too."

You'd bitten your lip, considering, then added, "I'm serious though. You need to wear the glasses more often."

Steve had propped himself up on his elbows, that crooked smile spreading across his face. "Or maybe I could just wear them when I want your attention?"

He'd worn them the rest of the stay in Hawkins. Every single day.

But there's something different about Steve tonight.

Your eyes shoot up to his hair immediately, and your mouth actually falls open slightly.

It's much shorter—still wavy, but now it hits just above his ears instead of curling past them, the sides trimmed close while the top remains longer and swept back. And it's streaked with blonde. Not fully bleached, but highlighted, honey-colored streaks running through the brown in a way that catches the hallway light and makes the whole thing look sun-kissed and expensive and completely, utterly unfair.

His cocky smirk widens when he catches your expression, eyes trailing deliberately up and down your body—you're wearing sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, nothing special, but the way he looks at you makes you feel like you're dressed in something far more interesting.

"Good evening, Hot Shot."

He pushes off the doorframe, walking forward with purpose, and you step back automatically to let him in. He kicks the door closed behind him without looking, hands settling immediately on your hips, fingers digging into the soft skin there as his mouth finds your neck.

Your hands come up to run through his hair, and it feels different—softer somehow, the shorter length making your fingers tangle differently, and you can smell the salon products still clinging to the strands.

"What is this?" you manage, voice coming out breathier than intended as his teeth graze your pulse point.

"You like?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, that smirk still firmly in place. "Thought I could do something new since I'm president and all."

You push him back slightly, still running your fingers through his hair, studying it in the light. The blonde streaks are subtle, not brassy or obvious, woven through in a way that looks natural, like he's spent the summer at the beach instead of winter in Indiana. Combined with the glasses and the shorter cut, he looks older somehow, more put-together, less like the high school king and more like someone who's figured out who he wants to be.

You walk him backward toward your bed, fingers still tangled in his hair, and the back of his knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sits with a soft "oof," hands immediately finding your ass and pulling you to stand between his spread legs.

You continue playing with his hair, testing the texture, the length, watching the way the light catches the blonde. His hands knead your ass through the thin fabric of your shorts, thumbs hooking under the elastic.

Your gaze drops to his neck, to the constellation of moles scattered there that you've memorized without meaning to. You lean down and kiss one, just below his ear, and feel him shudder. Then another, lower, where his pulse beats visibly beneath skin. You tug his hair—gently at first, then harder when he groans, the sound vibrating against your lips.

"Fuck," he breathes, hands tightening on your ass. "I've been thinking about this all week."

"Yeah?" You tug harder, and his head falls back, exposing more of his throat.

"Yeah." His voice is wrecked already, pupils blown wide behind those glasses. "Couldn't stop thinking about you."

You kiss another mole, teeth grazing, and his hips buck up involuntarily.

Later—much later—you're both panting on the floor, sprawled on the decorative shaggy rug Robin had insisted you needed, the bristles scratching against your damp skin. The glasses are askew on Steve's face, one lens smudged, and he's staring at the ceiling with a crooked smile.

"Jesus," he whispers, chest still heaving.

You look over at him, propping yourself up on one elbow. Sweat has made his hair stick up in odd directions, the blonde streaks even more visible now, and there's a hickey blooming purple on his collarbone that you don't remember making but must have.

You sit up fully, reaching for the shirt he'd pulled off you earlier—his henley, you realize, not yours—and tug it over your head along with your shorts that had ended up near your desk. You have no clue where your shirt is. 

"You hungry?" you ask, standing and stretching. Your legs feel like jelly.

Steve's still lying there, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest bare and marked with your fingerprints in faint red lines, competing against his pink scars. "Yeah, I could eat."

"Cool, I'll order a pizza."

He almost looks like he's going to argue—his mouth opens, brow furrowing like he wants to protest or suggest something else—but then he closes it and nods. He clears his throat, sitting up to reach for his jeans. "Yeah. Okay. Pizza sounds good."

You pad over to your desk, fishing out the menu for the place that delivers until midnight, and call in the order while Steve finishes getting dressed. When you come back in, he has only his jeans pulled up to his waist. You can feel him watching you, that heavy gaze tracking your movements, possibly looking at how his shirt looks on you, but when you glance over he's focused on buttoning his jeans. You rip off his shirt, tossing it to him, and you notice the way his eyes flashes your bare chest along with a look that tells you he is conflicted if he’d rather you keep it on or take it off. He turns his back to put it on. And then it’s your turn to watch, finding your shirt, pulling it on, staring at how his muscles stretched against his skin. God, did he somehow have even more moles down the line of his back? 

He turns, and you don’t look away. 

Twenty minutes later, the pizza arrives—only pepperoni, because you'd asked what he wanted and he'd just shrugged and said "whatever you like"—and you're both sitting on the floor with your backs against your bed, the box open between you on the rug.

The room is quiet except for chewing and the occasional rustle of the cardboard box. Steve takes a bite of his slice, cheese stretching in long strings before breaking, and you notice the way he's not quite looking at you. There's something nervous in the set of his shoulders, the way his free hand keeps adjusting his glasses even though they don't need adjusting.

Finally, he speaks. "I, uh... this week I signed up for an intro to child development class."

You stop mid-bite, lowering your slice to look at him. "Really?"

He shrugs, still not meeting your eyes, studying the pizza like it holds the secrets of the universe. "I still haven't made a decision, but I dunno... my advisor thought it'd be good for me to try. See if I actually like it or if it was just—" he waves his hand vaguely, "—wishful thinking."

"Steve." You wait until he looks at you. "That's awesome."

The shorter hair makes it impossible for him to hide the blush that spreads across his cheeks, turning them pink and splotchy. He bites into his slice again, chewing thoroughly, clearly using it as an excuse not to respond right away.

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest that has nothing to do with the pizza or the physical activity from earlier. You decide it’s because you’re excited for him. "I'm proud of you."

His eyes snap to yours, something vulnerable flickering there. "Yeah?"

The word comes out small, almost disbelieving, and the blush that was already present deepens—spreads from his cheeks down his neck, visible now with the shorter hair that can't hide it. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, a nervous gesture you've seen before but never quite like this. His shoulders hunch slightly inward, like he's trying to make himself smaller, and his gaze drops to the pizza box, unable to hold eye contact.

It strikes you suddenly, with a clarity that makes your chest ache—this might be the first time anyone has ever said that to him. Ever told him they were proud of him for trying something, for taking a risk that wasn't about popularity or living up to some impossible standard his father set.

"Yeah." You bump your shoulder against his. "That took guts. Trying something new."

He huffs out a laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders. "Or stupidity. Haven't decided which yet."

"Definitely guts," you say firmly. Then, because you can't resist, "Plus, if it works out, can you imagine how good you'll look teaching kids while wearing those glasses? You'll be fighting off moms left and right."

Steve chokes on his pizza, coughing and laughing at the same time, and you pat his back helpfully while trying not to laugh yourself.

"A man can only dream," he says when he can breathe again, but he's grinning. Then he adds, “you’re terrible.”

"You love it," you tease, teeth pulling your bottom lip. 

"Unfortunately." The word slips out before he seems to realize it, and his eyes widen slightly, like he's said something he didn't mean to.

But you just laugh, reaching for another slice, and the moment passes.

You eat in comfortable silence for a while, and you find yourself studying him in the low lamplight—the new haircut that somehow makes his features sharper, more defined.

It feels domestic in a way that should probably worry you but doesn't.

"So," you say eventually, wiping your hands on a napkin. "President Harrington. How does it feel?"

He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. "Exactly the same as before, except now I have to actually show up to meetings."

"Sounds exhausting."

"It will be." He stretches his legs out in front of him, socked feet crossing at the ankle. "But, uh... it's good, I guess. Gives me something to focus on besides—" he stops abruptly.

"Besides what?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head, reaching for another slice. "Just, you know. School. Life. The usual existential dread."

You snort, but don’t press. 

"What about you?" He glances at you sideways. "Ready for the semester?"

"Absolutely not." You groan, letting your head fall back against the bed. "I haven't even bought my textbooks yet."

"Hot Shot, classes start Monday."

"I'm aware, thank you."

He laughs, and the sound fills the small room, warm and genuine. "You're a disaster."

"Says the guy who showed up at my dorm on a Saturday night with no warning."

"You let me in."

"Touché." You turn your head to look at him, still leaning against the bed. "I'm weak for the glasses. It's becoming a problem."

Then you look at his hair, licking your lips. You run your fingers through the blonde locks, and you swear he leans towards you, giving you better access. “I like the blonde.” 

Steve's smile turns smug, that cocky edge returning. "Good to know."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late," he says, and you shove his shoulder, and he shoves back, and suddenly you're both laughing again, the tension from earlier completely dissolved.

When the laughter fades, you find yourself just sitting there, shoulders touching, sharing pizza on your dorm room floor like this is something you do all the time. Like it's normal. And maybe it is, you think.

Maybe this is just what you and Steve are now—whatever this is. 

Very good friends. 

.-.-.-.

Monday's classes go better than expected. They're the usual first-week affairs—syllabus reviews, introductions, professors setting expectations that seem reasonable now but will inevitably become overwhelming by midterms. And yes, you did end up buying your textbooks, though your bank account is currently weeping over the damage.

You're looking for the classroom for your Art Appreciation elective, squinting at room numbers that seem to follow no logical pattern, when you reach a door at the exact same moment as someone else. You bump slightly, shoulder colliding with an arm.

"Oh, I'm sorry—" You look up and your face breaks into an immediate smile, eyes widening. "Oh! Hi!"

It's Sammy, looking equally pleased to see you, though there's a nervous energy radiating off him that's almost endearing. God, what is he? Like six feet tall? Maybe more? He towers over you, but somehow doesn't make you feel small—just makes you acutely aware of the height difference. His smile is charming, easy, those green eyes crinkling at the corners as he points into the classroom.

"Are you taking Art Appreciation?"

You nod. "Yeah! Taking it as an elective. What about you?"

"Same here."

You both look at one another, and you feel warm under his green-eyed gaze. There's something open about the way he looks at you, none of the complicated layers you've grown used to navigating.

He clears his throat, making a motion with his hands toward the door. "Ladies first."

You smile, stepping into the classroom and scanning for a seat. You choose one about halfway back—not too eager, not too disengaged—and settle in, pulling out your notebook and a pen.

Sammy grins at you but doesn't sit next to you. Instead, he approaches another boy a few rows over, someone you vaguely recognize wearing the same Greek letters as Sammy's frat. They do an elaborate handshake-fist-bump combination that speaks to years of friendship, and Sammy drops into the seat beside him.

But as soon as he's settled, his eyes drift over to you.

And you're unashamedly looking at him too.

His smile widens, just slightly, before he turns his attention to the front of the classroom as the professor begins going over the syllabus.

Once class is over—a mercifully short fifty minutes of the professor explaining grading policies and showing slides of art movements you'll be studying—you purposefully take your time putting your belongings in your bag. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sammy talking to his frat brother, leaning in to say something that makes the other guy laugh and clap him on the shoulder.

"I'll catch you at the house later," Sammy says, loud enough for you to hear, before adjusting the strap of his satchel. Because of course he carries a satchel instead of a backpack, brown leather that looks expensive and well-worn, probably a gift from his parents.

He makes his way over slowly, deliberately, like he doesn't want to seem too eager but also can't quite help himself.

"Hey," he says.

You're cool, collected. "Hi." You turn, slinging your backpack over one shoulder. "Excited for this class after today?"

"Well..." He pauses, considering. "At first, no. But now..." He makes a point to scan you, gaze traveling from your face down to your feet and back up again in a way that should probably annoy you but doesn't. He clears his throat, looking at his watch. "I have a break before my next class. Do you want to grab lunch with me?"

You hug your textbook to your chest. "Sure."

You end up at one of the little lunch spots just outside the quad—a sandwich place with outdoor seating, red umbrellas providing shade even though it’s January. 

Sammy had insisted on paying despite your protests, waving away your wallet with an easy smile and a "my treat" that felt natural. Now you're sitting across from him at a small metal table, your empty plate pushed to the side, watching him try to explain something that clearly delights him.

You're laughing, properly laughing, the kind that makes your shoulders shake. "Okay, okay. So how exactly did your brother get stuck in the wall?"

"We still have no idea!" Sammy's grinning, hands gesturing animatedly. "Pretty sure it was my other brother, Sawyer. But Simon wouldn't tell us. Just kept saying he 'slipped.'"

"How did no one notice for four hours?" You lean forward, propping your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hand, genuinely invested in this story.

Sammy laughs, his hand coming up to cover his face, shaking his head. His cheeks are red, embarrassed but in a fond way. "It's a big family. Sometimes it's easy to lose track. There's Sawyer, Sally, me, the twins Shaun and Seth, and Simon."

"And I see your parents have a trend with S names."

Sammy laughs again, shrugging with a self-deprecating smile. "Yeah, my mom thought it would be cute. It's a nightmare when you're trying to get someone's attention and you have to run through the whole list. Even poor Sally is a victim."

There's a moment of comfortable silence, both of you smiling, and then he chuckles to himself, glancing at his watch. His eyebrows raise. "God, it's nearly been an hour and a half. I should get going to my next class" He looks up, and there's something nervous in his expression now, hopeful but cautious. "Is it a bad time to maybe see if a date is still on the table sometime?"

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. "I thought this was a date?"

The corner of his mouth lifts, pleased. He brushes back his dark hair with one hand. "I wasn't sure, since you never called me back over break."

Your face falters a little. You pinch your lips to the side, leaning back in your chair, guilt settling in your stomach. You remember it clearly—one afternoon, your mom calling up the stairs that you had a boy named Sammy on the phone. You'd been in the middle of reading, comfortable and warm under a blanket, and you'd called back down to tell her to say you'd call him back.

But you never did.

You chew the inside of your cheek briefly. "Yeah... sorry. I was just really busy... and—"

Sammy cuts you off, shrugging easily. "I get it. You don't know me all that well."

"Well... no... that's not it. I just..." You take a deep breath, deciding honesty is probably the best approach here. "Look, I'm going to be totally honest with you. You seem really sweet, and I do want to go on a date with you, but I don't really want to lead you on with hopes of being anything serious."

"I see," Sammy says slowly, processing this. His expression doesn't close off, exactly—just becomes more thoughtful.

You let out another sigh. "I don't want to get involved if you're not aware that I'm seeing other people."

Well, not really people. One person. But he doesn't have to know who.

Sammy nods, looking at you for a long moment, those green eyes steady and considering. Then his smile comes back, slow and knowing. He tilts his head. "Who says that I'm not okay with that? Why can't I want both? To take you on a nice date... and who knows what happens right after."

Warmth floods your cheeks and settles between your legs. You don't break eye contact with him, even as your pulse picks up. "This Friday."

He smirks, leaning back in his chair. "That eager?"

You roll your eyes. "Pick me up at my dorm at eight."

He narrows his eyes, that toothy grin spreading. "Okay. Dress cute."

You let the comment slide, choosing instead to stand and gather your things. "See you Thursday in class?"

"Can't wait," Sammy says, standing as well. He gives you one last deliberate up-and-down look before walking away, satchel swinging at his hip.

You watch him go, that warmth still present in your cheeks, and wonder if you've just made things more complicated or simply more interesting.

Later, you and Robin are in your dorm room. Robin is hanging upside down off her bed, face slowly turning red from the blood rushing to her head, textbook open on the floor beneath her.

"Remind me why I became an English major?" she groans. "I can't take it. How do we have assignments due next week already? Maybe I should drop out. Do you think it's hard to be a deejay? Always thought Rockin’ Robin would be a good stage name."

You roll your eyes, not looking up from your own reading. "It's not that bad, Rob. And you say this like you're not the top student in the department."

Robin blushes, the color even more visible with her already flushed face. "It's a curse. Now I have to be good or our professors are going to do a wellness check on me."

You grab a crumpled piece of paper from your desk and throw it at her forehead. It bounces off with a satisfying thwack.

Robin tries to reach for the paper to throw it back, overextending, and suddenly she's slipping, tumbling off the bed in an ungraceful heap of limbs and swearing.

You both burst out laughing, the sound filling the small dorm room, and for a moment everything feels simple and uncomplicated.

.-.-.-.

Wednesday night finds you in the backseat of Steve's BMW, panting, coming down from the heated frenzy of fucking in a parking lot. You slip off him carefully, pulling your skirt back down over your thighs. You're both still mostly dressed—your shirt rucked up, his jeans pulled down just enough, nothing removed entirely because there wasn't time, wasn't patience for that.

Steve collects himself, fingers fumbling slightly as he slips off the condom and ties it, reaching forward to drop it in the small plastic bag he keeps in the front seat. Then he's pulling up his jeans, buttoning them, his other hand running through his blonde-streaked hair. His face is flushed even in the dark, lips swollen from kissing your neck.

You hadn't planned this at all. You'd just happened to be walking back from the library, backpack heavy with books you'd been pretending to study, when you'd seen him walking from the rec center. It was a little after eight, and he didn't look sweaty or like he'd just showered, so you'd wondered why he'd been there.

You'd called out his name, and he'd turned, face lighting up in a way that made something warm bloom in your chest.

You both chatted for a few minutes—generic small talk, how was your day, how's the first week of classes going, the usual things people say when they're trying to figure out if something more is on the table.

And then you'd suggested continuing the conversation in his car.

You'd both known what that meant.

Now you sit there in the cooling aftermath, your breathing slowly returning to normal, the windows fogged from your combined heat. You look through the condensation at the rec center, its windows still lit up on the first floor.

"What were you doing before I ran into you?" you ask.

Steve looks startled, then a little shy, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "Oh... uh... I'm volunteering for this after-school program on Wednesdays. For kids. They come and we kind of do a bit of everything, like tutoring and then play games." He pauses, and you notice the way he's choosing his words carefully. "Polly..." He mentions her name, looking at you for a second, almost like he's watching for a reaction.

His face drops a little when you don't have one.

"She teaches a yoga class in the mornings and she heard about it, and mentioned it to me."

"That's cool," you say, and you mean it. You feel a sort of admiration for him, mixed with the realization that maybe you've underestimated him. "You're taking this teaching thing really seriously."

You watch his face change—something conflicted passing over his features. He shrugs, the gesture too casual to be genuine. "Nah, it's more to get volunteer hours for the frat. I'll probably end up getting bored quickly anyway."

The words land heavy in your chest.

You recall the rules—the ones he'd laid out so carefully at the beginning. Either party can end it whenever they want. If he gets bored.

You wonder how many girls there have been that he felt bored by. How many times he's done exactly this before deciding it wasn't worth the effort anymore.

Reality crashes in as you examine him in the dim light—the blonde streaks in his hair catching what little illumination filters through the fogged windows, the fading hickey on his neck that you know you didn't put there.

You realize that if you talk more, this might be blurring the line of the rule for no pillow talk. But then again, does it count since you're not tangled together cuddling or in an actual bed? This is just like when you sat on the floor of your dorm room and shared pizza.

But you don't want to cross any lines. Don't want to give him a reason to invoke that clause about getting bored.

"I should get going." You pick up your bag from the floorboard where you'd thrown it before your mouth had been occupied with his neck.

As you shift, preparing to leave, you catch sight of the hickey again. The one you didn't make. It's small—one wouldn't even notice it unless they were looking closely, positioned just below his ear. You'd seen it earlier and avoided it, kissing around it, next to it, marking the areas beside the mark that isn't yours.

When you'd first spotted it, you'd felt a sudden territorial nerve spike through you. Not jealousy, you'd told yourself. Just something biological coming over you in the heated moment. A little bit of hatred that was purely physical, purely chemical.

Steve grabs your wrist as you reach for the door handle, then immediately lets go like he's been burned. "Hey, uh... Eddie scored tickets to this gig in the city on Friday. You in?"

You keep your face cool, neutral. "Sorry, I can't."

He laughs, smug and easy, like he's already sure of your answer. "Why, you got a date?" He teases like it's become an inside joke between you.

You're serious, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. "Yes, actually."

He blinks. His face falls, smile disappearing completely as he looks away. But he makes no further comment, no follow-up question. "Oh... okay."

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. "I just figured it'd be okay since you see other people that I'm allowed to, too."

Steve's brows furrow, jaw tightening. "I'm not one of those assholes who says you can't. I'm not stopping you." The muscle in his jaw flexes visibly. He adds, voice flat, "Don't need my permission."

"Well, I really wasn't asking for it," you say, and there's more attitude in your voice than you intended.

He groans, hand coming up to his forehead like he has a headache. "Look, I..." He pauses, like the words are physically difficult to get out, like he's going to vomit. "I don't care if you got a date with someone else." Then he mutters, quieter, "Not like I'm gonna fuck you again this week, so do whatever you want."

You don't know why you're mad. You don't know why you're getting defensive, why your chest feels tight and your hands are clenched into fists. You don't know why maybe you wish he would be upset, would care, so that maybe you could tease him about it, could make it into something playful instead of this cold dismissal.

But he doesn't seem to care.

"Fine. Whatever."

"Wait!" he calls out when you open the door and step out into the cool night air.

You try to close it, but Steve has crawled on his knees across the seat, eyes frantic, hand stopping the door from closing completely. You have to lean down a little to see his face through the gap, and you feel that pinch in your chest when you see how the parking lot lights illuminate his hair, make his skin look warm and golden. You're still so pissed.

"What?"

His jaw ticks. "I'll see you next week."

"Maybe. If I'm not too busy."

He laughs, but it's not a happy sound. He's smirking, but there's something sharp underneath it. His hazel eyes are piercing, intense. "That wasn't a question, Hot Shot."

"And I said maybe. We'll see how this date goes."

That finally gets him. His jaw snaps shut and he gives you the same burning look he had when you'd kissed Eddie at the party—possessive and wounded and furious all at once.

There's no "good night" this time. You shut the door and scurry off before you can make the mistake of jumping back into the backseat and fucking him again, before you can do something stupid like ask why he has someone else's mark on his neck or why the thought of him being bored makes you feel all wonky.

Robin is already asleep when you get back to the dorm, her textbook open next to her face, drool on her chin, one arm hanging off the bed.

You smile despite your mood and move the textbook carefully, setting it on her desk. You grab a blanket from the foot of her bed and drape it over her. Robin is a heavy sleeper and doesn't stir, just makes a small sound and burrows deeper into her pillow.

When you're finally ready—teeth brushed, face washed, pajamas on—you lay in your own bed and stare at the ceiling. Your blood is still boiling. Fuming.

And why are you so fucking pissed off about the hickey still?

.-.-.-.

Friday night, Sammy ends up pulling into the parking lot at 8:32. You're acutely aware he's technically late because Eddie had picked up Robin at eight sharp, and you'd been able to see Steve in the passenger seat, looking at you through the windshield before deliberately turning away. You have made a point to acknowledge him, turning slightly so you can’t be tempted to see if he looked at you again.

Robin had insisted on staying until Sammy arrived, but you'd told her no, that you'd be fine waiting the few minutes. Eddie's van had peeled off with a rumble of exhaust and loud music bleeding through the closed windows.

When Sammy finally pulls up, he waves at you from inside, leaning over to push open the passenger door from the inside. There's an apologetic look on his face, eyebrows drawn together in genuine regret.

"Hey, so sorry I’m late. Someone managed to let loose two pigs in the Alpha Tau house right when I was about to leave to come get you." He shakes his head, running a hand through his dark hair. "Would've been here earlier, but it took us an hour to catch them both."

You can't help but smile as you slide into the passenger seat, the interior clean and smelling faintly of the air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. "It's okay. And that's... wow." You laugh, buckling your seatbelt. "Two pigs?"

You wonder who managed to pull that off. 

Sammy sighs, pulling out of the parking lot. "I know. I'm—" He stops to rub his face with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel, then looks at you. Really looks, his eyes traveling over you in a way that makes you glad you'd spent the extra twenty minutes getting ready. "You look really pretty."

"Thank you." You smooth your dress over your thighs—a simple blue number that hits mid-thigh, nothing too fancy but definitely nicer than your usual attire. "You look handsome."

And he does. Dark jeans, a button-down in deep green that brings out his eyes, sleeves rolled to his elbows showing tanned forearms. His hair is styled with what looks like minimal product, just enough to keep it from falling in his face.

He looks at you for a moment, something warm and appreciative in his expression, and you laugh. "Are we going to go somewhere, or...?"

And honestly, you wouldn't mind either way. The car is comfortable, he smells good—cologne mixing with laundry detergent—and there's something easy about being in this space with him.

Sammy blushes, the color visible even in the dim light from the dashboard. "Oh yeah, right." Then he drives, pulling onto the main road that leads away from campus.

He takes you to a restaurant about fifteen minutes off campus—not a chain, but a local Italian place with checkered tablecloths and candles in old wine bottles, the kind of spot that's trying for romantic without being too over-the-top about it. The hostess seats you at a corner table, and Sammy pulls out your chair before you can do it yourself.

"Thank you," you say, settling in as he takes his own seat across from you.

The conversation flows easily enough. He asks about your major, and you ask about his—accounting, which makes sense given the organized way he'd laid out his napkin and silverware, a piece of paper in his car you saw with neat handwriting. 

"Why accounting?" you ask, taking a sip of water. The restaurant is warm, almost too warm, and you're glad you'd worn short sleeves.

"Honestly?" Sammy leans back in his chair, that charming smile playing at his lips. "I'm good with numbers. Always have been. And my dad's an accountant, so I kind of grew up around it." He shrugs. "Seemed like the practical choice."

Practical. The word sits between you, neither good nor bad, just there.

"What made you join a fraternity?" you ask, genuinely curious. He doesn't seem like the typical frat guy—too clean-cut, too earnest, none of that aggressive bravado you've seen from others. Not like— nope. 

Sammy grins, and there's something almost rehearsed about the way he answers. "I've been surrounded by brothers my whole life, so it'd feel weird not to have more." He pauses, then adds, "Plus, the networking is great for my major. Half the accounting firms recruit directly from Greek life."

Networking. Practical. You nod, filing these observations away.

The waiter comes and takes your orders—you get chicken parmesan, he gets fettuccine alfredo—and the conversation continues. Sammy talks about his family, and you find yourself entertained by his stories about his siblings, the chaos of growing up in a house with six kids, the elaborate pranks they'd pull on each other.

But you notice, as the night wears on, that he doesn't ask you much. Not really. He asks about your major, about where you're from, surface-level questions that you answer easily. But he doesn't ask why you chose your major, or what you want to do with it, or anything that requires you to dig deeper than the basics.

When you ask him about his goals after graduation, he launches into a detailed explanation about CPA certification and climbing the corporate ladder. When he asks you the same question, and you start to talk about how you're still figuring it out, how you're not sure what you want yet, he nods along but his eyes glaze slightly, like he's waiting for you to finish rather than actually listening.

"That's cool," he says when you trail off. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

The food arrives, and you eat, and it's good—the chicken is perfectly cooked, the sauce rich and tangy— you try not to think about the chicken parmesan you had at Thanksgiving. Sammy tells you about the pig incident in more detail, how they'd finally cornered both animals in the basement laundry room, and you laugh because it is genuinely funny.

But there's something missing. Some spark or connection or depth that you can't quite name. Like you're both performing "first date" rather than actually being on one.

Still, he's nice. Polite. He doesn't monopolize the conversation entirely, even if his questions don't dig very deep. He pays for dinner without making a big show of it, and when you walk back to his car, he opens your door again.

The drive back to campus is quieter, a comfortable silence filled by the radio playing something soft and inoffensive. You watch the streetlights pass, the campus buildings coming into view, and try to figure out how you feel about the night.

It was nice. That's the word that keeps coming back. Nice.

Sammy pulls into the parking lot of your dorm and turns off the car, the engine ticking as it cools. He sits there nervously, hands on the steering wheel, waiting for you to speak.

"I had a nice time," you say, and you mean it. You did. Nice.

God, you’re an English major, there are other words than nice.

"Yeah, me too," he answers, and there's relief in his voice, like he'd been worried you hadn't.

You look at his lips—full, well-shaped, the kind that probably look good in photographs. And you realize, with a start, how much you've missed kissing someone. Not the frantic, heated kissing that leads to more, but just kissing for the sake of it. Slow, exploratory, getting to know someone through the press of mouths.

You never knew you could be sexually deprived from only kissing, but apparently you can, because your mouth literally aches with wanting it.

Sammy looks at your lips too, tongue darting out to wet his own, and he leans in shyly. "You're really cute," he says, voice soft.

You know what he's doing. Trying to butter you up so when he leans in all the way, you'll accept it, you'll want it. But you kind of wish he'd just do it already, skip the preamble and just kiss you.

But you play along anyway. "Yeah?" You lean in, closing more of the distance between you.

You think he's going to press his lips to yours when he stops, barely an inch away, and asks, "Can I kiss you?"

You have to fight back an eye roll. The momentum is completely gone now, shattered by the question. You wish he would just do it. You're clearly both into this, both want it, so why is he being so... slow? So careful? But who else is going to kiss you tonight?

"Yeah," you mutter, eyes fluttering closed.

When his lips finally meet yours, you can't help but compare it to the last kiss at the bonfire—months ago now, when you'd both been drunk and sloppy and desperate. This is more sober-minded. Less messy. Controlled.

It's nic— pleasant.

He's a good kisser, technically speaking. Knows how to angle his head, how to apply the right amount of pressure, when to part his lips slightly to deepen it. There's nothing wrong with it.

But your mind betrays you, straying to wonder what Steve would kiss like. Would it be like this? Slow and sweet and technically proficient? Or would it make your body ache for more, would it be consuming and desperate and utterly overwhelming?

You need more. Need to stop thinking. So you grab Sammy's hand and place it over your breast, letting out a sigh when he squeezes gently. He opens his mouth in response, letting your tongues meet, and it's good, it's fine, it's exactly what this should be.

Your hand moves from the back of his head, fingers that had been tangled in his hair sliding down his chest to his thigh. You can feel him harden under your touch, his breath hitching, and it becomes heavy petting—hands and mouths and the windows starting to fog slightly.

Then Sammy pulls away, chuckling breathlessly. He wipes the spit from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then wipes that on his pants. He looks at you, eyes dark and wanting but also... restrained. "We can take it slow, yeah?"

No, you think. No, I don't want slow. I want fast and hard and consuming.

"Yeah, of course," you say instead.

His smile widens, pleased. "Is it maybe too early to ask for a second date?"

"No," you say, because what else are you going to say?

He leans in and offers a quick, chaste kiss—completely different from the one moments before, almost juvenile in its brevity. "Can't wait. See you Tuesday? In class?"

"Yeah," you respond, smiling because that's what you're supposed to do. You adjust your dress strap that had slipped down your shoulder and get out of the car.

He drives off, waving at you through the window with a shy smile, and you wave back before turning toward your building.

Tessa is at the desk again, feet propped up, talking on the front desk landline. She waves at you without interrupting her conversation, and you wave back, heading for the stairs.

You walk up to your room, fishing your key out of your small purse, and unlock the door. The room is dark, and immediately you hear loud snores—God, Robin must have had a wild night wherever they'd gone. You walk in carefully, not wanting to turn on the light and wake her, heading toward your dresser to change into something more comfortable.

That's when you trip over something.

You let out a yelp as your foot catches on what feels like a body, and whoever it is makes an "oomph" sound.

"What the hell?" you whisper-shout, heart pounding.

The lamp on Robin's side clicks on, and she sleepily rubs her eyes, squinting at you. The light fills the room, and you look down to see two bodies on the floor—Steve and Eddie, both still fully dressed, sprawled on the thin rug between your beds.

"Easy there, Hot Shot," Steve mumbles. He's the one you tripped over, and he's pushing himself up on one elbow, hair mussed and sticking up at odd angles, glasses nowhere to be seen, eyes heavy-lidded with sleep.

Robin yawns, stretching. "Sorry... is it okay if they stay here? I had to drive these two dinguses home because they got too drunk to stay the whole time at the show."

Eddie is still passed out, face-down, the source of the thunderous snoring. But Steve is staring right at you, his eyes assessing, taking in your dress, your slightly smudged makeup, the fact that you're just now getting home. He swallows, looking away briefly before his gaze returns to you, something unreadable flickering there.

You shrug, trying for casual. "Yeah, it's fine."

You rummage through your dresser, pulling out an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, acutely aware of Steve's eyes tracking your movements. You grab your toiletry bag and head to the bathroom down the hall, taking your time washing your face, brushing your teeth, changing into your sleep clothes.

When you come back, Robin is already asleep again, soft snores mixing with Eddie's louder ones. But your lamp is on now, casting a warm glow over your side of the room.

And Steve has moved. He's no longer where you'd left him, sprawled near the door. Now he's closer to your bed, his back against the wall beneath your window, knees pulled up, arms resting on them. He's still dressed in jeans and a dark t-shirt, socked feet crossed at the ankle. His eyes are closed, but you can tell he's not actually asleep.

You crawl into your bed carefully, the springs creaking softly. You reach over to switch off the lamp, and the room plunges into darkness, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside filtering through the thin curtains.

You settle under your blanket, facing the wall, trying to get comfortable. The room is quiet except for the snoring and the occasional car passing outside.

Then you hear it. So quiet you almost miss it, barely more than a whisper, coming from right beside your bed.

"Night, Hot Shot."

.-.-.-.

The Pike winter formal is hosted at a hotel in the city—not one of the luxury high-rises with marble lobbies and crystal chandeliers, but a mid-range place with decent carpet and functioning air conditioning. The ballroom they've rented isn't elaborately decorated, but there's effort visible in the details: white and gold streamers draped across the ceiling, balloon arrangements in the corners, a few rented spotlights casting colored patterns across the dance floor. You suspect most of the decorating was done by some of the guys' girlfriends, judging by the coordination of the centerpieces on each table.

You'd been invited. Just because. At least according to Steve when he'd mentioned it offhandedly a week ago, leaning against your doorframe like the invitation was no big deal, like he hadn't been avoiding eye contact with you since the car incident.

Whatever irritation exists between you hadn't stopped you from having another late-night rendezvous in his bedroom two nights ago. You'd known he was still angry because neither of you had spoken. No heated words, no playful banter, no conversation at all. Just torn clothes and your body pushed over the edge of his bed while he drove into you from behind, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave a burn, his breath harsh and ragged in your ear but never forming words.

Nancy had come in for the occasion too, taking the bus down Friday afternoon. You'd had to step out of the dorm room earlier while she and Robin were both getting dressed, unable to watch them anymore—the way they kept gravitating toward each other, hands constantly finding excuses to touch, voices going soft and sweet.

"Babe, you look so gorgeous."

"No, you look gorgeous."

"Stop, you're going to make me cry and ruin my makeup."

"Then stop being so beautiful."

It had been too much. Too intimate. You'd grabbed your own dress and makeup bag and finished getting ready in the communal bathroom down the hall.

Now you're in the hotel ballroom, bass thumping through the speakers as bodies crowd the dance floor. Robin's arm is hooked into Steve's, the two of them playing their parts perfectly—laughing at something one of Steve's frat brothers is saying, Steve's hand resting possessively on Robin's lower back. Nancy stands a few feet away, and you keep catching the way she looks at Robin. Sad and longing, her eyes tracking Robin's movements even while she's mid-conversation with someone else. They came together but not really, not in the way they wish they could.

Eddie is dressed nice like he was at the New Year's party—black slacks and a button-down that's actually tucked in, his hair pulled back in a low ponytail that shows off his sharp jawline. After his drunken night two weeks ago that had ended with him passed out on your dorm room floor, he'd claimed abstinence from alcohol for at least a month. But he's one hundred percent in the clouds high, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, grin perpetually plastered across his face as he sways slightly to the music.

And you—your arm is hooked into Sammy's.

Sammy, who'd picked you up right on time, who'd complimented your dress three times before you even got to his car. Sammy, the boy you have lunch with after Tuesday and Thursday classes now, sharing a table at the sandwich place that's become "your spot" without either of you officially claiming it. The boy you've had two more dates with since that first one—a movie on Sunday where his hand had found yours in the darkness, and coffee on Wednesday that had turned into three hours of talking about nothing in particular. The boy you still haven't slept with but really, really want to, if only he'd stop being so frustratingly careful and slow about everything.

The boy Steve Harrington keeps staring at like he wants to set him on fire with his mind alone.

You'd felt it the moment you and Sammy had arrived together, Sammy's hand on the small of your back as he guided you through the hotel lobby. Steve's eyes had found you immediately, tracked your entrance, his jaw going tight as concrete. His gaze had dragged over Sammy—assessing, dismissive, proprietary—before landing back on you with something that made your stomach flip. Not quite anger. Not quite hurt. Something burning and complicated that lived between the two.

The night has continued like that. Every time you look up, Steve is watching. Every time Sammy's hand finds your waist or his lips get close to your ear to speak over the music, Steve's hands ball into fists. His smile never falters though—the practiced, easy one he wears like armor—but his eyes tell a different story entirely. They follow you across the dance floor, trace the line of your dress, linger on Sammy's hand where it rests on your hip, and burn with something volcanic.

At one point in the night, after dancing wildly to a string of fast songs that have left you breathless and warm, Sammy leans in close. "I see some brothers I should probably say hi to. I'll find you in a bit?"

"Yeah, of course." You smile, and he presses a quick kiss to your temple before disappearing into the crowd.

You make your way over to Eddie, who's standing near the edge of the dance floor, clearly people-watching with the kind of glazed contentment only weed can provide.

"Hey," you say, bumping your shoulder against his.

"Hot Shot." He grins, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "You having fun?"

"Yeah." You settle into his side, letting yourself people-watch too—something you haven't been able to do properly in a while, always too busy being watched yourself.

Your eyes find Steve immediately, like a compass finding north. He's with Nancy and Robin now, the three of them standing in a loose triangle, drinks in hand. Nancy is saying something that makes Robin laugh, her head tipping back, and Steve smiles at them both with genuine warmth. But then his eyes lift, find yours across the room like they've been searching, and he holds your gaze while taking a long, slow sip of his drink.

Your breath catches.

There's nothing that can happen tonight between you—you'd hooked up two days ago, used up your allotted time, the rules clear and unbreakable. But god, he looks good. The white suit shouldn't work on him—it's bold, almost ostentatious, the kind of thing that would make most guys look like they're trying too hard. But on Steve, with his blonde-streaked hair and tan skin and the confident way he wears it like he was born in formal wear, it's devastating. The jacket fits perfectly across his shoulders, the white shirt beneath it unbuttoned at the collar just enough to show the hollow of his throat, and when he moves you can see the way the fabric pulls across his back, his arms, the lean muscle underneath.

He's not wearing his glasses though. That detail registers with a small, private disappointment. He only wears them when he wants to hook up, you've learned. When he wants your attention in that specific way. Tonight he's just Steve Harrington, Pike president, Robin's devoted boyfriend, nothing to signal that he's thinking about you at all.

Except for the way he's looking at you now. Like he's memorizing you. Like he's imagining something he can't have.

"You two are exhausting," Eddie mutters, and you realize you're still staring.

"What?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head, grinning. "Absolutely nothing."

Before you can respond, a familiar voice cuts in, sweet and edged with something playful.

"Well, Munson, I had no idea you could look like a respectable person of society."

Eddie's entire body goes rigid. He rolls his eyes so hard you're surprised they don't fall out of his head before turning to face Polly with a smile that's pure sarcasm.

You've never seen Eddie irritated with anyone before, especially not pretty girls like Polly. But the look he gives her now is withering, his gaze dragging up and down her body in a way that should be appreciative but somehow comes across as critical.

"And I had no idea you'd be here at all. Who even invited you?."

Polly smiles, unbothered, her red hair catching the colored lights as she tilts her head. "I have my ways, Munson. You're not the only one with connections, you know." She pauses, her expression shifting into something coy. "Besides, some of us don't need a formal invitation to show up looking this good."

Eddie scoffs. "Looking good doesn't mean you're welcome."

"And looking respectable doesn't mean you've changed," she shoots back without missing a beat. "Still the same Eddie who thinks showing up is the same as making an effort."

"I'm making plenty of effort not to leave right now, thank you very much."

"Oh please, you're not going anywhere." Her smile widens. "You're having too much fun pretending you're not having fun."

Eddie's jaw twitches, his fingers drumming against his thigh in a way that betrays his agitation. "You're real cute when you're trying to be clever."

"And you're real obvious when you're trying to pretend you don't care."

You watch them, fascinated. There's something electric in the air between them, something that crackles and sparks like a live wire. They're standing too close, leaning in even as they're verbally sparring, and you're not entirely sure if they want to kill each other or—

"Okay," you interrupt. "Do you two hate each other?"

They both laugh, the sound coming out simultaneously, and exchange a look that makes you feel like you're intruding on something private.

"Hate?" Eddie turns back to you, grin widening. "'Course not. But would I want to be alone in a room with her? Definitely not."

Polly lets out a laugh that's honey-sweet, her Texas accent coming through stronger. "Oh really? You wanted to be alone with me when you asked me on that date first semester freshman year. Right before you stood me up."

Eddie groans, throwing his head back. "Oh please, I did not stand you up. I told you I couldn't make it anymore."

"Thirty minutes before!"

"That's not standing you up, that's rescheduling!"

"Rescheduling requires suggesting a new time, Munson!"

Eddie turns to you, gesturing at Polly with exasperation. "She won't let me live it down. It's been over a year."

"Because it was rude!" Polly's cheeks are flushed now, whether from anger or something else, you can't tell.

Eddie waves his hand dismissively, but there's something in his eyes—something warm despite the irritation. "Go be cute somewhere else," he mumbles.

And unfortunately for him, you hear it.

So does Polly, apparently, because her entire demeanor shifts. The sharp edge softens, something uncertain flickering across her face before she masks it with that same sweet smile. She gives Eddie a look—slow, assessing, her gaze dropping from his face down his body and back up in a way that's unmistakably interested—before tilting her head.

"Maybe I didn't come over here for you, Munson." Her eyes shift to you.

Eddie looks between the two of you, processing, then lets out an exasperated sigh. "Christ. I'm not high enough for this." He extracts himself from beside you and walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

You're left alone with Polly, feeling suddenly uncomfortable under her gaze. You have no idea what's about to come out of her mouth, and your mind is already running through escape routes.

But then Polly smiles—genuinely, warmly—and says, "I wanted to tell you I really love your dress."

You look down at the blue satin dress you'd spent an hour deliberating over, the way it hugs your curves and hits mid-thigh, the thin straps that had seemed like a good idea until you stepped into the air-conditioned ballroom. "Thank you."

And because it’s completely and totally true, you reply, "You look really pretty."

Polly does. Her dress is a soft pink, fitted at the top and flowing at the bottom, making her look like something out of a fairy tale. Her red hair is curled and pinned half-up, and she's wearing more makeup than usual, her eyes lined and dramatic.

Her smile widens. "Thank you."

She lets out a small sigh, her fingers playing with the stem of her drink. "I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now. I want you to know... I know you're the new girl Steve's been seeing."

Your brain immediately goes into fight-or-flight mode. Is this a confrontation? Do you need to run? You've never been in this situation before—standing face-to-face with someone else who's sleeping with the same guy. Your muscles tense, preparing for—what? A slap? An insult?

But Polly is looking at you with something that almost looks like admiration. She must notice your anxiety because she holds up a hand, letting out a small laugh. "I'm sorry, that's a little forward. I didn't mean that to be intimidating. I just... wanted—well, I don't know." She pauses, searching for words. "You always seem so laid back. Like... to be frank, just cool. What does he call you again? Hot Shot?"

You're taken aback, completely thrown off balance. You're always the one watching others, analyzing, staying on the periphery. But now to be the one watched, to be the subject of someone else's observation—it's weird. Unsettling.

You let out a breath. "Oh... uh... so do you know the other girls too?"

Polly nods. "Yes. I mean, we're not friends or anything, but I talk with them sometimes. You know, compare notes." She says it lightly, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

You finally crack a smile, some of the tension bleeding out. "I suppose we should start having a weekly support group."

"As long as it's not about him, then sure." Polly giggles, the sound bright and genuine. "Once a month is all I need with Steve Harrington."

The words don't register at first. You're still smiling, still in the moment, but then they sink in.

"Once a month?"

Polly smiles, taking a sip of her drink. "Yeah. The rule that he won't sleep with anyone more than once a month."

Your eyes snap toward Steve. Your brows furrow, confusion knotting in your chest as you watch him laugh at something one of his frat brothers is saying, his hand coming up to run through his hair, completely oblivious to the small bomb Polly just dropped.

Once a month.

Not once a week. Once a month.

You look back at Polly, who's shamelessly looking at Eddie across the room before catching his gaze and smiling when he flips her off.

Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Steve had seen Polly the day after Thanksgiving. But then the next weekend at the party. But wait, that had been December. A new month, technically. And you hadn't really seen Polly around at parties the rest of December, now that you think about it.

But then there’s you. And then winter break. You'd hooked up in his room. Multiple times in one night, but still within the same 24-hour period. January.

The night he'd shown up at your dorm with the new haircut. Still January.

In his car after running into him. Last week. February.

Three nights ago in his room. Still February.

Once a month. Not once a week.

He'd been seeing you multiple times a month. Breaking his own rule. Repeatedly.

Polly doesn't seem to notice the internal crisis you're having, your world tilting slightly on its axis. She's still smiling, her attention divided between you and tracking Eddie's movements across the room.

"You know," she says, turning back to you, "I'd really like to be your friend. Like, actually hang out. Talk about things other than Steve."

She doesn't wait for a response, just smiles and catches sight of someone across the room—another girl in pink waving at her—and walks off with a little wave.

You stand there, drink in hand, trying to process what just happened.

How did I just become friends with one of Steve's other girls? you think, slightly hysterical. And more importantly—what the fuck does "once a month" mean? Does Robin know he’s breaking this rule? Did she know you’ve been seeing him once a week? You two don’t ever talk about it. It’s the biggest elephant in the room… but surely she must know. Right?

You find Sammy again near the refreshment table, talking to another guy from his frat—the same one from art class. When he sees you approaching, his face lights up, excusing himself from the conversation and meeting you halfway.

He kisses your cheek, the gesture sweet and chaste, and your eyes immediately find Steve across the room like they're magnetized.

Steve is watching. His jaw is set, the hand holding his drink gripping so tight you can see the tension in his forearm even from here. His eyes are locked on where Sammy's lips just touched your skin, and when he finally drags his gaze up to meet yours, the intensity in it makes your breath stutter in your chest.

Then the music shifts. The fast, pulsing beat that's been driving the crowd into a frenzy fades out, replaced by something slow and syrupy. The opening notes of "Careless Whisper" fill the ballroom, and couples immediately start pairing off, bodies swaying close together.

"Dance with me?" Sammy asks, already pulling you toward the floor.

"Sure," you say, because what else are you going to say?

His hands find your waist, and yours come up to rest on his shoulders. He pulls you close—not inappropriately so, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him, smell his cologne mixing with the faint scent of whatever hair product he uses. He's a good dancer, you realize. Better than you expected. He leads confidently, swaying you both in time with the music, and when he spins you gently, you laugh despite yourself.

But your eyes find Steve again over Sammy's shoulder.

He's dancing with Robin, his arms around her waist, her hands on his shoulders in that same practiced position they've perfected over however long they've been doing this. They look good together—anyone watching would think so. The height difference works, Robin fitting perfectly under his chin, Steve's head bent slightly to hear whatever she's saying that's making her giggle.

But Steve isn't looking at Robin.

He's looking at you.

Even while his “girlfriend” talks to him, even while his hands rest on her waist and they move together in perfect synchronization, his eyes are locked on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle with heat. The colored lights from the dance floor catch in his hair, those blonde streaks gleaming, and shadows play across his face in a way that makes his features look sharper, more dangerous.

The saxophone solo swells, sultry and slow, and Sammy pulls you slightly closer. You let him, leaning into his chest, but you're still watching Steve. Still caught in whatever this is between you—this fucked up push and pull that has no name and no rules except the ones he made that apparently don't even apply to you the same way they apply to everyone else.

Once a month, Polly had said. But not for you.

Steve's jaw tightens as Sammy's hand slides lower on your back, not inappropriately but enough to stake a claim. Steve's eyes track the movement, his fingers flexing on Robin's waist, and even from across the crowded dance floor you can see the way his chest rises and falls with measured breaths, like he's trying to control something violent threatening to break free.

You tilt your head slightly, maintaining eye contact, and watch as Steve's throat works in a hard swallow. Robin says something to him—you can see her lips moving—but he doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge that she spoke. He's too busy staring at you like everyone else in the room has disappeared.

The song continues, George Michael's voice crooning about guilty feet and wasted chances, and the irony isn't lost on you. You're dancing with Sammy, Steve is dancing with Robin, and yet somehow it feels like it's just the two of you in the ballroom, having a conversation without words that's far more intimate than anything happening with your actual dance partners.

Sammy says something near your ear, and you force yourself to look at him, to smile and nod even though you didn't hear a word of it over the blood rushing in your ears. When you glance back at Steve, his expression has shifted into something darker, more frustrated, like your attention being anywhere but on him is physically painful.

But then your gaze shifts, catching on Eddie and Nancy dancing a few couples away. Eddie has his arms around Nancy's waist, swaying her gently, and she's resting her head on his shoulder. But she's not looking at Eddie.

She's looking at Robin.

And when you follow her gaze back, you see Robin looking right back at her, their eyes locked across the space separating them with such naked longing it makes your chest ache. They both look incredibly sad—not crying, nothing that obvious, but there's a weight to their expressions that speaks of wanting something so badly and not being able to have it.

The song transitions into another slow one—"Time After Time" starts up, Cyndi Lauper's voice filling the ballroom—and Sammy tries to pull you closer. His hands slide up your back, drawing you against his chest, but something in you resists.

"Uh, excuse me," you say, stepping back and dropping your hands from his shoulders. "Give me one second."

"Oh, okay—" Sammy looks confused but nods. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, I just—one second." You're already moving, weaving through the swaying couples toward where Steve and Robin are dancing.

Steve sees you first, a small smile pulling at his lips, something hopeful and questioning in his eyes as you approach. Until you grab Robin's hand and pull her away from him.

"Sorry, I'm cutting in," you say, already dragging Robin toward where Eddie and Nancy are still swaying together.

"What—" Robin starts, but then she sees where you're heading and understanding floods her face.

You grab Nancy's hand next, gently extracting her from Eddie's arms with a look that says trust me. Eddie catches on immediately, stepping back with a knowing grin and a little salute.

And then it's just the three of you—you, Robin, and Nancy—in a small circle on the dance floor. You pull them close, the three of you swaying together, and guide their hands to each other's waists while yours rest on both their shoulders.

"Put your foreheads together," you murmur, and they do, immediately, like they've been waiting for permission.

The moment their foreheads touch, Nancy lets out a small, broken sound that might be a laugh or might be a sob. Robin's hand finds hers where it rests on your shoulder, fingers intertwining, and they both squeeze their eyes shut like they're trying to memorize this moment, this contact, this brief allowance of intimacy in a room full of people who can't know.

You sway with them, providing cover, and when you glance down you catch Robin rubbing her thumb across Nancy's knuckles in small, tender circles. The gesture is so intimate, so full of love and longing, that you feel like you're intruding even though you're the one holding them together.

They both look at you then—eyes opening at the same time, tears threatening at the corners—and mouth "thank you" in perfect unison.

And even though you're there, clearly and literally being the third wheel, creating this space for them, it's the most romantic thing you've ever witnessed. More romantic than any of your own dates, any of the times Sammy has been sweet or Steve has made you feel wanted. This—this desperate, stolen moment of two people who love each other being allowed to touch in a way that means something—this is what romance actually looks like. 

A part of you wonders if you’ll ever have that. If you’ll even allow it, that is. 

The song ends, transitioning into something upbeat again, and you reluctantly step back, letting them separate. They both squeeze your hands once more before melting back into the crowd in different directions—Nancy toward Eddie, Robin back toward Steve who's standing exactly where you left him, watching with an unreadable expression.

You make your way back to Sammy, who's been joined by a couple of his frat brothers but immediately turns his full attention to you when you approach.

"Everything okay?" he asks, concerned.

"Yeah, everything's good." You smile, and he accepts it without question.

"You want to get some air? Walk around a bit? It's getting kind of stuffy in here."

"Yes," you say immediately, grateful for the escape.

He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours, and leads you out of the ballroom. The hallway is cooler, quieter, the music muffled behind the heavy doors. You can hear it still—the thumping bass, the high-energy beat of whatever's playing now—but it's distant enough to feel like you've entered a different world.

Sammy finds a small alcove near the elevators, a little pocket of space partially hidden by a decorative column. He leans back against the wall, pulling you close so you're standing between his legs, his hands settling on your hips.

He tilts your chin up with one finger, and you know what's coming. "Can I kiss you?"

There it is. Again. Every single time. And every single time you say yes because you aren't going to deny what he might be into, even though the asking has lost its charm, even though you wish he'd just take what he clearly wants.

"Yeah."

The kiss is brief. A peck, really, barely more than a press of lips before he's pulling back with a smile.

Sammy clears his throat, suddenly looking nervous in a way you haven't seen before. His hands fidget on your hips, thumbs rubbing small circles. "So, uh... listen. This might be presumptuous, or I don't know. I was just thinking..." He pauses, gathering courage. "Maybe I wouldn't drive back tonight. Maybe I could book a room? For... us?"

Internally, you're jumping up and down, screaming thank god he's finally getting the hint. Externally, you keep your face interested but not desperate. "Really?"

"Yeah. I mean, I don't want you to feel rushed or—"

You finally break. "Sammy, please. I've been thinking about it all night."

His grin widens, and there's that flirty look he's given you before—at the bonfire, when you danced earlier tonight—the one that suggests there's more underneath his polite exterior. His grip on your hips tightens, pulling you flush against him. "Oh really? So you wouldn't be freaked out that I already booked it?"

He reaches into his jacket pocket with one hand and pulls out a keycard, white with the hotel logo, holding it up between two fingers. His teeth gleam in the dim hallway light, and for the first time all night, he looks less like the careful, considerate guy and more like someone who knows exactly what he wants.

You don't wait for him to ask permission. You pull him in for a kiss, setting the tempo this time—harder, faster, your mouth opening against his immediately. He responds with enthusiasm, his hands sliding from your hips to your ass, pulling you against him as he pushes off the wall.

And you realize, with a sinking sort of resignation, that Sammy is a sloppy kisser when things get intense. His tongue is too eager, too much too fast, and there's no rhythm to it, no building tension. It's just wet and enthusiastic and... fine. Okay. You can work with this. You've worked with worse.

You're about to deepen the kiss, to try to guide him into something better, when you hear it.

"Oh. Sorry."

You and Sammy break apart, and your stomach drops.

Standing a few feet away is Steve. His face is unreadable—no, that's not true. You can read it perfectly. His jaw is ticked, muscle jumping beneath skin. His fists are balled at his sides, fingernails digging crescents into his palms. His gaze is burning, intense, and slightly glassy like he's had one drink too many or is fighting something back with every ounce of control he has.

But worst of all—your eyes fall on the glasses perched on his nose.

He wasn't wearing them before. You'd noticed specifically, had felt that small prick of disappointment earlier when you realized they were absent.

And your mind immediately wanders to the only explanation that makes sense: he'd come out here looking for you. Had put on the glasses because that's what he does when he wants your attention in that specific way, when he wants to hook up, and he'd come out here to find you. He was going to break his rule… for you. 

And instead found you kissing someone else.

You don't have time to process, don't have time to say anything or react, because Steve is already turning around, walking back toward the ballroom with quick, purposeful strides that eat up the hallway.

And you don't run after him.

You don't call his name or make excuses to Sammy or do anything except stand there, watching Steve's back disappear through the doors, the glasses catching the light one more time before he's gone.

"You okay?" Sammy asks, his hand on your lower back, concern in his voice.

"Yeah," you say, forcing yourself to turn and look at him, to smile. "I'm good. Let's go."

He grins, pressing the elevator button, and when it arrives with a soft ding, you let him pull you inside. You let him press you against the wall as the doors close, let him kiss you again as the elevator climbs toward whatever floor he booked. You let him lead you down the hallway to the room, let him fumble with the keycard while his other hand stays on your waist.

And when the door finally opens and he pulls you inside, you don't think about Steve at all.

You don't.