Steve goes through several stages of self-doubt when he finally meets the woman that those six walking disasters have been raving about for weeks. Apparently you're so cool that you've even won Max over, which is impressive to Steve because he doesn't even know if he's done that yet, and it's been four years since they've met.

It helps, of course, that you work at a movie theater. Steve tries to defend himself when Dustin says you've got the coolest job in the world, but the kid insists that the theater is better than Family Video because you give him free access to new movies, and you butter his popcorn halfway through instead of waiting until the end so that it's all on the top.

Apparently you're very versatile- you chat with Max about horror and chick flicks alike, and you even have a skateboard to match hers. But the boys eagerly recount the two hour gossip session they'd had with you about whatever nerd movie you'd snuck them in to see, and it seems like you'd given equal enthusiasm to both.

Will had even broken into a smile as he shrugged off the scrape on his arm, telling Jonathan he didn't have to worry about beating anyone up for shoving him because you'd already done it. Apparently you'd been tasked with picking the kids up from school because Steve was working, and you'd been there early enough to see Will get bumped into the brick wall he'd been sticking tight to. The boy says there's a bloodstain on the bricks that won't wash out from where you'd slammed the dick's face into it.

Additionally, he has reliable intel that you're gorgeous.

Robin said so, and she's always right about girls.

So, all things considered, Steve's happy to tell Mike he can invite you for movie night at his place. He's eager to finally meet you, the new addition to their ever-growing group of day-savers and monster-fighters. Words like amazing, awesome, and cool are thrown around constantly to describe you, and even Eddie nods thoughtfully, proclaiming you, 'pretty badass'.

It's why Steve's so thrown when you knock on his door looking like that.

You're shifting back and forth on your feet, eyes wide and nervous as they blink at him when he greets you. He's surprised none of the little shits draped all over his couch had gotten there before he had, but it's just the two of you in the massive entryway to his house.

"Hi," You smile, but it comes out looking like a grimace, like there's a dull ache in your back that won't go away, "Um, the kids said I could come to movie night? I hope that's okay."

Steve nods mechanically, his hair bouncing and dipping into his eyes on the upswing, "Yeah, yeah! You're Y/N, right?"

He's genuinely asking.

He hasn't once heard anyone describe you as timid but that's the only word for it, doe-eyed and cautious as you step in and your eyes flit around the foyer. It's a wide empty space, but it's dotted with photos and decor that makes it look like an art gallery more than a home. It's excessive to say the least, and Steve feels the urge to usher you through it before you think he's the curator.

He's about to say something, but it gets caught in his throat as you slowly inch towards the den. There's barely any lighting in the house, only the flicker of the tv from the next room over and the glow from the streetlamps outside that spills in through the front windows. But it's enough to see you with, and Steve curses the way he's such a sucker for girls.

He's so predictable. His eyes skate over your profile as you stare at a painting on the wall, watching the way your gaze hangs there like you're interested in it and not beelining for the den. He can tell it intrigues you because you gravitate towards it, body turning slowly and unconsciously, drifting towards the wall as you peer at the abstract, textured smears of paint. Steve's never thought it worthy of much contemplation before but he can admit it's visually appealing, and evidently it's working on you.

He glances at your hands, seeing them slowly curling into the fabric of your jeans and bunching them up at your thighs. He steps forwards like he's been beckoned, it's barely a conscious choice. He stops a foot behind you, but his voice carries enough that you still jolt, "I think that one's supposed to have some deeper meaning.

You turn bewilderedly, nearly bumping into his chest with how suddenly close he is. It means your eyes flare wide, and your lips part then squeeze shut with a gasp that turns Steve's heart to goop.

So predictable.

"Sorry," He breathes, smiling sheepishly, "The painting? I, uh- I think it just looks like a bunch of squares. Pretty squares," He cocks his head, finding immense difficulty in tearing his eyes away from you to nod pointedly back at the painting, "But squares."

"Oh." You nod dazedly, your hands resuming their scrunching of their jeans, "Yeah. I don't know if I can find some hidden message in it." You turn again, flashing the logo of the movie theaters whose vest you're still wearing, evidently straight off of your shift, "But it's really pretty."

Steve can't say thank you because he didn't buy it, or paint it. He also can't tell you that you're really pretty, because that would be fumbling, and he's determined not to do that anymore. So instead he reaches for the hem of your vest, the left front panel that hangs loosely off of your frame instead of sticking tight to it, "Did you want to take this off? You can hang it by the door."

You flounder when you realize Steve's got your vest in his hand. You do this awful side-step that pulls it out of his grip, like he's a mangy dog sniffing around you at a restaurant and you're gonna talk to the manager about him. His hand awkwardly drifts back down to his side, but you fumble for the meshy fabric of your vest with a deep swallow that sounds painfully dry.

"I forgot," You breathe out a laugh, "I didn't realize I still had it on. That's embarrassing." You note, then your eyes screw shut like saying it out loud was worse, "You don't have to hang it, it's- it's not that important." You bunch a corner of it up and tuck the entire thing into your back pocket, much like the way Eddie hangs a bandana from his, and you brush your palms off like it had been dirty.

"Movie room's this way," Steve gestures, pointing towards the flashing light coming from the den, "It's Risky Business. Hope that's okay."

"Mhm," Is all you say as you hightail it towards the den's doorway, a sudden urgency propelling you there.

Steve liked it better when you'd drifted through his foyer, giving him ample time to look at you.

He has to admit, everyone seems like they'd been wrong about you. Well, everyone but Robin, of course. He doesn't get chatterbox vibes from you, nor can he picture you punching out a leering high schooler for getting in Will's face. You seem like a spooked deer, one loud noise away from bolting and high tailing it down the street. But who knows- maybe you're not good with new people. Maybe all it'll take is some Steve Time to get you to loosen up, and he follows you to the den distinctly determined.

"Y/N!" El and Max shriek in unison as you pad over the threshold, and Lucas is promptly kicked off of the sofa to give you room. You apologize for it by squeezing the boy's shoulder, and when El and Max each drape themselves over one of your legs you draw them in closer with arms around their shoulders.

"Hey," Eddie calls, chucking a balled-up hershey's wrapper at you in lieu of a greeting. Steve stands by the doorway, surveying the room for a spot to sit. It looks like he's condemned to Robin's feet, but at least he'll be able to subtly glance at you out of the side of his vision.

Predictable. So fucking predictable, he fights the urge to scrub a hand over his face. He's got to get this under control, because he can't keep falling for girls that he's got no shot with. But if you're just shy, he reasons, that doesn't mean he doesn't have a shot. It means he's got to make one for himself, and he leans himself against the wall while Eddie scrounges around for another wrapper to chuck.

"Hey to you, too," You fling it back at him, and he's so caught up in finding more garbage that you hit him square in the forehead. He yelps, a garbled sound, and Steve snorts at the triumphant grin on your face. Your eyes dart to him at the sound, and widen as your smile dims.

Steve feels his stomach beginning to hurt.

"You were supposed to bring popcorn." Eddie gripes, "And unless you've got it in your bra I think we're all about to go hungry."

"I brought it!" You insist, nudging Max off of your shoulder carefully. You bend down, reaching into your bag with the arm that El has wrapped her own around. You retrieve a bag of kernels- a massive one, but definitely unpopped. There's a few groans that cut across the movie's dialogue but you defend yourself, "I know, I know! But I can't just steal from the popper, they'd totally know. And it doesn't take long to make," Your eyes flit over to Steve, and his stomach melts at the way you duck your head down a few degrees. Your voice comes out softer when you speak to him, "Um, do you have a big pan I could use to pop some? It'll take a few batches, but I can finish in about thirty minutes."

"I'll check." He bites his tongue, "I think so? I'll be back."

He rushes off towards the kitchen, bumping his shoulder into the doorframe on the way out and hissing at the pain.

Smooth.

He fumbles through a noisy cabinet of cookware, and finds a wide-mouthed pan that looks like it'll suit a big batch of popcorn. He even manages to extract a matching lid, and he's eager to provide you with them, even more eager to linger in the kitchen with you and try to sneak past that nervous air you've got about you. This will totally work, he decides, and he strides back into the movie room with a purpose.

You're standing when he enters. You've somehow extracted yourself from the gaggle of girls hanging off of your arms, and they're swinging wide, then joining to clasp your hands between them as you nearly shout. Everyone's gazes are trained on you, amusement tinging their features and Steve only catches nine measly words from you before you notice he's back.

"-so I'm like, sir, we don't sell movies, we-"

You turn to gesticulate in Steve's direction, and when you catch him there you freeze. It's heartbreaking, actually, the way the life leaves your body, your arms dropping back to your sides and your spine going stiff. It's like you've been turned to stone, and he marvels at the way he feels like an intruder in his own home. Now all of a sudden his stomach is dropping further, and not in a good way. How has he fumbled already?

He can barely speak, not while you're looking at him like you're a little afraid of him, "I- uh, I found the pans," He jerks a thumb backwards, "Can I show you to the kitchen?"

"Yeah." You murmur, your voice a far cry away from how boisterous it was mere seconds ago, and you scramble to grab the bag of kernels from El's lap before trailing after him back to the kitchen.

Your eyes rove across this room similar to the last, but they land on the pan and stay there. Before you can reach for them Steve grabs them himself, lid in one hand and pan in the other.

"These," He holds them out, like you couldn't see them before, "Will these work?"

You look cowed, perhaps because he's swinging around pans like he's trying to hit you with them. But you nod, a timid thing, and he sighs through his nose and prays you can't hear it.

"Perfect, I can- I can help you, if you want." He offers, setting the pans back on the counter and trying not to get his hopes up.

It doesn't work, because when you shake your head he feels a wave of shame roll over him like nausea. He's trying to pinpoint exactly what came across as too much to you- if he'd come on too strong with his greeting and triggered this cautious defense mechanism you've initiated.

"It's okay." You hum, voice still dim and low, "I do this all day at work. I don't need help."

"Right," Steve smiles, laughing off the awkward tension. But he pulls a barstool out anyways, sinking down onto the cushion and bracing himself on the counter, "No, I'm sure you know what you're doing. It's just- sometimes my stove is a little unpredictable," He lies through his grin, "So, I mean, I can hang out in case you need help with that."

"O-kay," You nod slowly, hands carefully arranging the pot over the burner, "Am I gonna, like, light myself on fire if I turn the dial?"

"No! No, that's not- it's fine." Steve shakes his head so hard it hurts, "Just- it's just, fire safety, y'know? I'll just stay."

"Okay." You repeat, head tucked nearly to your chest, "Sounds good."

It doesn't sound like it sounds good. It sounds like- it sounds like you're angry, almost, and Steve is hit with yet another wave of dread.

Are you angry at him? God, do you hate him already? This has gotta be the fastest that's ever happened, aside from that one time during the summer he worked at Scoops when he'd spilled a milkshake down a girl's new top just trying to hand it to her.

He's starting to feel hopeless.

Is there something wrong with him? He doesn't understand- he looks the same as he did when he was 'king'. Better, even, cooler hair and a fuller frame. What's wrong with him now that wasn't then? He thinks he's nicer now, even if he's lame, but are you really that put-off by his current demeanor to be irritated with him already?

Or, Steve thinks, and he's not sure which is worse, do you hate him because of his brief reign as king? Had he been rude to you? He'd been rude to a lot of people. The thought makes his chest sting on a normal day, but now it's all-encompassing, aching down to the tips of his toes as he tries frantically recalling if he'd messed around with you during school. He comes up empty, but there's gotta be a reason you're pulling so hard away from him now, and he stands up so suddenly that the barstool nearly tips over behind him.

"I actually- I gotta go make sure they don't break anything," He excuses himself, his voice tight with emotion, "Uh, let me know if you need me."

"Oh-okay!" You blurt, watching bewilderedly as he rushes for the door, "-thank you!"

He charges into the den fast enough to draw attention. Then he flounders, and Robin sits at attention when he nods towards her.

"Uh, can I talk to you outside?" Steve asks, and she throws a cautious glance to Eddie who shrugs minutely.

"Sure thing, dingus," She braces herself on Will's knee to stand, and Steve fights the urge to grab her hand and drag her outside so that she'll move faster and he can barf all the words in his brain out of his mouth.

"Yes, bozo?" She asks, when they're finally outside in the cold Hawkins night, "Why are you all jittery?"

"What did I do?" He asks expectantly, and her brows raise in the way that means sarcasm is imminent.

"What did you do, when?" She asks, "Are we playing this like Clue? Where, with what, what do you want me to say?"

"To Y/N," Steve sneers, "You didn't watch her, like, completely shut down when I walked in the room?"

"Oh. Yeah, I saw that," Robin's aloof posture slumps slightly, "But- she might just be tired after work."

"Only tired around me?" Steve asks, crossing his arms over his chest, "She seems fine around you guys."

"I know, but you barely know her! Just let her warm up to you," Robin shrugs, her voice far too light and airy for a situation of this magnitude, "I'm sure she'll be fine by the end of the night."

"I don't think i did anything to her." Steve speaks more to himself than to his friend, but she throws a sympathetic palm against his arm anyways.

"I'm sure she doesn't hate you." She reasons, "Seriously, not everyone can just jump into a conversation like you do. Even if you don't know what to say, you just- you just say it."

"What?" His brows furrow and his nose scrunches, "What are you talking about?"

"It's like a popular guy thing," She explains, "You can just talk to anyone like you've known them forever. I can't, though. And maybe Y/N can't either, maybe she just needs to get to know you first. So let her."

"Okay." Steve grumbles, because there's nothing else to do. He follows her back into the house still feeling discouraged, but he's softened slightly by the way you offer him the first bite of popcorn from the bowl you'd scrounged around for.

"I hope it's okay I'm using this," You hold up the bowl, and that downcast gaze you shoot through your lashes at Steve makes him forget anything but the way you're looking at him, "Try some?"

He reaches for the bowl, eating a few pieces as politely as he can. In the theater he might try shoving twelve above his molars but he savors the sparse mouthful, nodding appreciatively.

"It's good." He insists, and the smallest smile Steve's ever seen curls your lips at the corners, "It tastes just like the movies."

It's a stupid thing to say, considering that's where it came from. And Steve's glad that you don't say anything about it, though it's because you don't speak to him at all for the rest of the night. Nothing, not a single word, not a 'can you turn it up, please?' or a 'where's the bathroom?'. He's waiting for it all night, waiting to analyze your voice and see if it's brightened at all, strengthened, grown more confident but your mouth remains shut until you stand up to leave post-credits.

"Thanks for inviting me," You stretch out your stiff limbs, talking to the group as Dustin gravitates towards you for a ride home instead of making Steve leave his own house, "It was a good movie."

Steve knows he's fishing but he can't help it, not as you gather your bag to leave and he's about to lose you to the front door, "I can hook up with- I can hook you up with any movie." He offers, stammering over his slip of the tongue, "I mean- like, I can get 'em for you. If you want a tape, just call the store and I'll put something aside for you."

You don't thank him. You look at him, which is why he's such a blubbering mess in the first place, but all you grant him is a soft smile and a nod. It's better than nothing, but Steve's heart clenches as you deny him your voice, and he watches you leave helplessly with Dustin on your tail.

"Close call," Robin smacks his arm once the rest of the kids have migrated towards the door, "She definitely wouldn't warm up to you if you offered to hook up with her."

"I didn't mean to say that," Steve grunts, and Robin laughs, "Just- I figured she'd say thank you."

"I'm sure she meant to," Robin hums, "I mean, she kind of did. She nodded, that's enough."

Not for Steve. He wanted to hear your voice, he wanted you to ask for the store's number so that he could scrawl two down on a scrap of paper, hoping you'd call the wrong one first and his home landline would ring.

"I thought she was supposed to be this motormouth who likes everyone," Steve can't help but mumble, and the way that Robin sucks her lips between her teeth to bite them doesn't help the disheartening feeling Steve's throat is clogged with.

"Steve... she is," Robin sighs, "I don't know. She was- a little quiet tonight." She admits, "But that's not a guarantee that she hates you! Just give her time."

"How much time did it take you?" Steve asks, and Robin winces.

"Ten minutes."

Steve ushers her out within five short minutes so he can wallow in self-pity.

Clocking in at Family Video the next morning makes Steve's stomach churn. Part of it is dread, because he fucking hates the regular who comes on Wednesdays and he knows they'll be busting down the door as soon as he flicks the lights on. But the rest of it is because he'd found your vest on his couch when he'd turned the lights on to clean up stray popcorn kernels- it must have fallen out of your pocket the further you'd slouched into the cushions. It's your work uniform, and he'd brought it with him just in case you wanted to bound through the doors and reward him for returning it to you with a kiss. Probably not, but he's got it clutched in his fist anyways. It smells really nice, which is something he knows not because he'd smelled it on purpose, but because he'd flung it over his shoulder when leaving the house and a whiff of your perfume had hit him like a wave.

The morning is slow, and Steve suffers through the ramblings of their regular nuisance, but it gives him time to daydream, and he's so convinced that you're the one on the other line when the phone rings that he forgoes his company greeting and just blurts your name into the receiver.

"Y/N?" He asks, and a familiar sarcastic scoff comes from the other end.

"Is that how you answer the phones now?" Robin asks, and Steve rolls his eyes even if it's lost on her.

"Why are you calling your own store?" He asks, and Robin shifts around on the other end, muffling her words.

"What?" Steve asks, and she sighs into the phone like it's his problem.

"I said, Y/N asked me to ask you if she left her vest at your house last night. It's her uniform, she works in an hour."

"Yeah, actually," Steve glances at it under the counter, hope blooming in his chest, "I have it here. I figured she'd need it- tell her to stop by."

"Look at you, thinking ahead!" Robin gushes, and Steve has half a mind to hang up on her, "I'll send her over. Hey- I come in at four, don't leave a mess for me!"

The thirty minutes that it takes you to peel into the Family Video parking lot is agonizing for both parties. Steve's drumming his fingers against the counter, trying to keep them out of his hair that he's fluffed and ruffled ten times over. You're gunning it down the icy Hawkins roads, trying not to die from a car wreck before you get murdered for either showing up to work out of uniform, or showing up late.

The bell above the door jingles when you shove it open, and Steve smacks his thigh on the bottom of the counter in an effort to launch himself to his feet.

"Shit," He hisses, "Hi!"

"Hi," Your eyes flit wildly around the store, "Robin said you had my vest?"

Steve takes it as a good sign that you're talking to him now. But you're not as soft as last night, limbs tense and eyes wild. "Here-" He fumbles for your vest beneath the counter and as soon as it's in sight you snatch it up, halfway out the door before he can even register the way your fingers had brushed against his.

"Thanks!" You call, and Steve tries figuring out as he watches you speed away whether you'd been inside the store for more than thirty seconds, or less.

So definitely no reward kiss, then.

Barely any eye contact, either. You hadn't said anything you didn't need to, no small talk, no questions, no inquiries about movies. You'd run in, taken what you needed, and run back out again, and Steve feels frustration thick in his chest as he sits back down again.

He's really having trouble believing that you don't hate him.

"Rob," Steve scoffs, leftover popcorn ground beneath his teeth, a kernel lodged in his gums, "You don't understand. She ran in, she grabbed it, she ran out."

"And she didn't say anything?" Robin asks, balancing an armful of tapes that need rewinding, "Like, anything at all?"

"She said, 'hi' and 'thanks'." Steve recalls, "Oh- and! 'Robin said you had my vest?'. Seriously! Nothing!"

"She was running late for work, and she was panicked!" Robin shrugs, "I wouldn't read into it. Seriously, she's cool. She might just have to warm up to you like I said. It's not like she had time to chat. But she thanked you this time! And that's gotta mean something." Robin eyes him pointedly, "Don't start to spiral about this. Why does it matter, anyways?"

"Because!" Steve starts too strong, and has to rein himself back in, "Because, Robin, everyone's been talking my ear off about how fun and crazy she is, and whenever I walk into a room it's like someone takes her batteries out! I want to know why!"

"Why, though? Why do you care? Plenty of people in Hawkins don't like you," Robin reminds him, and Steve drops his head into his palm, blocking the light from his eyes.

"Yes, I'm aware. Thank you."

"I'm not saying it to be mean." Robin sighs, abandoning all hope of ever getting any actual work done and setting the tapes on the counter to rub a tentatively soothing hand down Steve's back. Their touches usually consists of punches or shoves, but she can tell the former king needs something nicer right now, "Just- don't let it bother you. Even if she does have some sort of crazy hatred for you, don't worry about it. Sometimes people just aren't gonna like you."

He gives her a despairing look, and one shared glance is all Robin needs.

"Oh, fuck." She declares, and Steve's brows furrow, "This again!"

"What?"

"You!" She gushes, "You fall in love with everyone!"

"What?" He sits ramrod straight on his stool, "What does that have to do with this conversation?"

"That's why you care," She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers, "Because a new woman has entered your life and she's neither taken nor gay, so she's gotta be your girlfriend now."

"That's not fair," Steve tries, but it totally is, and Robin nails him with a deadly glare.

"Don't even start with me! Are you forgetting that I counted every swing and miss you committed at Scoops? You're a total player!"

"Not anymore," Steve argues, "I haven't done that in a while, okay? Because it wasn't working for me! And all I was ever really after was a date. You really think I saw my future in Jenny Bates or Christie Langfield? I just wanted to feel like I wasn't the biggest loser in Hawkins!"

"You literally never got one 'yes'." Robin reminds him, and he groans despairingly.

"Yeah, I know. Again, that's why I stopped doing it! And- okay, I have a tendency to crush a lot, I don't know! I like women, sue me! So do you!"

Robin's eyes flash wide; he's got her there.

"But I'm not just asking out everything with boobs anymore, okay? I'm trying to only engage in relationships I think might actually work."

"And you think that's Y/N?" Robin asks, collapsing onto her own stool, deep in thought.

Steve flounders, blushes, "It would- I mean, it'd be nice if it was. I think she's really pretty, and she drives the kids around so I don't have to, and she's- y'know, everyone says she's awesome."

"You don't even know her," Robin glares scrutinizingly at him, "We've had this entire conversation because she's not herself when she's around you."

"Which is why I'm trying to get to know her better! I'm not gonna propose," Steve huffs, "I just- I just want a chance. I want one chance, and I want her to like me."

Robin doesn't speak- not right away. She chews on the info, mulling it over while her eyes are glued to Patrick Swayze on the cover of the tape she'd neglected to rewind. She gnaws at the inside of her cheek, then drags her gaze towards Steve who looks entirely too downcast for her liking.

"Alright." She decides, "I'll help you. If you really mean this, and you're serious, and you're not gonna dump her and totally ruin our group dynamic, I'll try to get intel from her."

"Intel?" He asks, instantly nervous.

"I'm going to her place tomorrow," Robin nods, "We're having a sleepover. And sleepovers are, like, prime 'boy talk' time. I might not have anything to contribute myself, but I can definitely weasel something out of her. I promise," She offers a pinky to Steve, and he takes it with a soft, amused grin, "I'm gonna help you land this one, dingus."

"Y/N," El stares boldly at you from the backseat, meeting your eyes through the rearview mirror, "Why don't you kiss Steve?"

You nearly swerve off of the road, and Max snickers while you regain your composure.

"What?" You ask, and El cautiously explains.

"It said in Max's magazine that girls get shy when they like a boy. And you get very quiet around Steve. And that means you like him, and kissing is what you do when you like someone. So why don't you kiss Steve?"

"I don't get quiet around Steve." You defend yourself despite the heat in your cheeks, "I just don't know him."

"So?" Max scoffs, "You're all extroverted and stuff. It doesn't matter when you meet anyone else. It's just Steve that it happens around. You go dead silent and you stare at him with those ooey-gooey eyes, it's disgusting."

"That's so not true!" You're happy to pull into Max's driveway, the cool winter breeze filtering through the windows, "Now get out, before I lock you in here and torture you with bad music."

The girls fumble for the doors, but Max leans in before she leaves to gloat, "You're so, totally in love with Steve Harrington."

"I don't like Steve!" You shriek, clinging to the lie desperately like it'll come true if you say it with enough fervor.

Max blinks blankly at you. No- she blinks blankly behind you, and your head jerks to the side to see a maroon BMW that makes your heart sink.

Steve Harrington is leaning against it, and he's frozen in his tracks, eyes wide and cheek between his teeth. There's no way he hasn't heard you.

"Wow." Max snorts, and El shuts her door behind her, "What are you doing here, Steve?"

"Uh," He has trouble tearing his gaze away from you, his suspicions confirmed but at what cost? Looking away feels like a breakup, like shutting the door and never coming back, like throwing away a phone number. It feels like being alone, like a too-big empty house and no friends to fill it with. Like having no one that wants to be around him. "Your- your dad called, El, wanted to know if you were getting a ride home from me today or if you'd need one. And I said I could get you, so... so he said you'd probably be at Max's. So I'm here," He trails off, and you grip your steering wheel so tightly that you're surprised it doesn't snap, "And... I can drive you home."

There's got to be a reason. He just doesn't know what it is- maybe there is something wrong with him. Maybe he's unlikeable, like he'd always worried about, and maybe he is just a glorified babysitter. He honestly can't remember the last time Dustin called him to do anything but beg him for a ride, and the fact that he has so few friends his own age that he has to rely on validation from a kid hits him like a semi-truck, nausea rushing to his stomach and roiling there so viciously he pales.

El ducks towards your window before joining Steve, and you fight down your own nausea and rushing blood through your ears to hear her.

"That sounded mean." She notes, "Do you want me to tell him you do like him? And that you want to kiss him?"

"No," You seethe, panic making your heart pound, "Just- go! Go and don't say anything!"

You're really not sure how much worse that could have gone. Of course, the girls were right. Unfortunately, those teeny bopper magazines do have the formula down to a science, and you've been crushing on Steve Harrington since you first saw him wait until Max's seatbelt was buckled before driving out of the school parking lot. You hadn't met him for months, but you'd seen him around, sometimes through the window at family video, sometimes at the gas station filling his car up.

He's undeniably handsome, and the exasperated masquerade that he uses when dealing with the kids doesn't fool you. They're your little friends too, and pairing a pretty face with a heart of gold did you in.

Now, however, that you've gone and ruined everything, you're quite certain you won't get any more chances. You hadn't even been able to work up the courage to actually say anything to him, despite having been in his house, and now you don't have a shot in hell, because he slams his door so hard the car shakes.

El would follow your instructions, but it would be rather rude to ride all the way to Hopper's cabin in Steve's car and not say anything. So she settles into the seat, awkward silence thick in the air as your tires screech against the road, and hums, "She does like you."

"That's-" Steve chokes out a laugh, "That's nice of you, El. Really, thanks, but I don't think there's anything you can say to fix that."

"Really," El's brows furrow, "I read it in a magazine. She likes you." She holds up fingers for each piece of evidence, "She doesn't talk to you, and she talks to everyone! And she avoids you, and she tells people she doesn't like you."

"Yeah- thank you," Steve sighs, his own grip on the wheel tight enough to pale his knuckles as he begins the trip to Hopper's cabin, "Now that you put it that way, things are really looking up for me."

You think you have the salesman beat when you ignore the bell three times, but then Robin Buckley falls through your window with an overnight bag, and you realize you're fucked.

"Oh my god!" You shriek, sinking to the floor to help her, "Oh my god, you- that was you! Shit, you were gonna sleep over," You remember as she rubs her stinging elbow, carpet burn evident on her skin, "Robin, I'm so sorry-"

"Hey, don't worry about it," Any indignation she might have felt is gone as soon as she gets a glimpse of your face, tear-stained a puffy, "What's wrong?"

"What?" You ask, but when you're unable to breathe through your nose you remember, "Oh. Oh, god, don't even ask, I- I can't talk about it."

"Did someone die?" She asks, eyes blown wide.

"No," You snort wetly, "I wish."

"Then we can fix it." She declares primly, her cheeks flushed from her second-story window adventure, "Tell me about it."

You should. You know Robin's closer to Steve than anyone else, and you're sure if you don't tell her now, she'll know the second she gets home and gets a phone call from him. And you don't want to lie to her, so you muscle up the courage to smear a tear off of your cheek and admit, "I fucked up."

"I gathered," She nods at the tissues scattered around your room, "Did you trip and fall and split your pants open? Did you drop your favorite ring down the gutter? Did you use your mom's leg razor on your peach fuzz?" She sticks out a finger to poke at your upper lip and it startles you so much you have to laugh.

Her responding grin is toothy and adorable, and you hope that after everything you tell her tonight, Robin still wants to be your friend.

"I messed up things with..." You breathe, in, out, "Steve."

She pales slightly.

"Steve?" She asks, "What- Steve Harrington?"

"What other Steve do you know?" You narrow your eyes at her, unfairly perhaps, because she's set out to help you, "Of course Steve Harrington."

"Sorry." She shakes her head, tucking her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them as you two huddle on the floor together, "What happened?"

"He overheard me," You begin, a rather kind way to put it considering you'd shouted it to Max's whole neighborhood, "-saying that I didn't like him."

Her eyes dim.

"Oh. You don't- uh, you don't like him?" She asks, her voice forcibly casual, too tight and coiled like a snake about to strike.

"No, that's not-!" You struggle for the words, and accept defeat, "I do. I do like him, I-" You scrub your hand over your face, hiding behind it, "I said it because I was trying to keep it private, but Robin... I like him. Like- romantically. Maybe."

She's never been more grateful in her life than she is right now, because the way you're avoiding her gaze means you can't see the blinding grin she's sporting.

"Okay," She muscles it down, treading lightly, "Okay, so you like him! Who could blame you, what a guy!" She exclaims, reaching for your arms and tugging them away from your face, "I mean, he's got a nice car, he's got a steady job, he's got hair that's a foot tall- what else does a girl need!"

"Courage!" You wail, "I need to put on my big girl panties, apparently, because every time I'm around him it's like I'm all sweaty and nervous and blubbery," You recall the movie night where you'd absorbed maybe half of the dialogue, and even less of the plot, "He- like, drives me crazy or something. I'm a total loser around him," You despair, "And now he thinks I hate him!"

She neglects to inform you that he'd thought that from the beginning. It won't help. But she will, and she squeezes your hands with so much excitement they might bruise come morning.

"Okay, so, he heard you say something unflattering. But that doesn't mean he'll shoot you the next time he sees you! We can fix this!" She swears, "I'll call him right now, and you can-"

"No!" You gush, horrified, "Do not call him!"

"You have to fix this!" She moves her hands from your shoulders, shaking them violently, "You have to tell him!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

"Yes! You have to, I told him I'd help!"

Your brows furrow, and you push Robin's hands off of you.

"Help with what?"

Several silent seconds later, you snap, "Robin, now's not the time to develop the ability to shut your mouth. Open it, and tell me what you're talking about."

She groans low in her throat, "Fine. We were kind of sort of talking about you yesterday, and he was telling me that you seemed like maybe you weren't crazy about him. So today definitely didn't help," She reasons, "But the only reason he even cared about your opinion of him is 'cause he likes you too! Romantically," She gives you a suave smirk, "So call him, and tell him you didn't mean it, and then kiss!"

"You sound like El," You try griping at her, but the giddiness you feel at her words is undeniable. You're smiling, cheeks burning, chest heaving like you're a lovesick fool. "He really said that?"

"Oh yeah." She nods, tongue jabbing into her inner cheek, "We had a whole fight about it."

She reaches for your phone, finger spinning the dialer so fast she's not even sure she's hit the right numbers. She keeps it pressed to her ear, soothing your nerves with a hand on your knee.

"It's fine," She whispers when the line rings three times, "He's probably peeing or something."

"Oh." Your nose scrunches, and she eyes you pointedly.

"Hey, get used to it. You're about to get a boyfriend."

You shrug, the b-word igniting another wave of elation through you.

He doesn't answer.

"Okay," She hums, dialing again, "He's listening to really loud music, maybe?"

The third time, she guesses that he's taking a walk around the block.

"One more time," She speaks through gritted teeth, "Come on, Harrington."

"Hello?" A lazy voice answers.

"Steve!" She cheers, "Hey, are you busy?"

"No," He drawls, and her brows furrow, inching closer together, "No, I'm not busy. I'm never busy! Not unless someone needs a ride from me!"

"Are you drunk, Steve?" She asks, sharing a worried glance with you.

"Yep," He laughs, "Yeah, because- because why not? Because it's not like there's anyone around to stop me. I don't have any friends," He gripes, "Not besides you, and you're only still hanging out with me because we got tied together and drugged last summer!"

"You got what?" You ask, head rearing backwards.

"Later," Robin hisses, slamming the phone back to her ear, "Steve, listen to me, you're spiraling. You have tons of friends-"

"Yeah, that are all twelve years old." Steve's words run together, unsteady like you're sure he is on his feet, "Which is a great look for me. And nobody likes me, and I don't know why, because I'm trying so hard to be nice and good now, but nothing's working, so I'm drinking instead. And that's at least fun," He chuckles dryly, and your heart feels like it's being squeezed to the verge of pulverization, "Because when I lay on the floor, it feels like I'm spinning."

"Okay," Robin chirps, alarmingly cheery, "Stay on the floor, Steve. Don't drive anywhere, just stay there and spin around."

"Will do," He rasps dryly, "Buh-bye."

The line goes dead, and you share a petrified look with her.

"Let's go," You decide, springing to your feet, and she grins, racing after you.

"Hell yeah! Let's go." She grabs your keys and tosses them to you, "Are you squeamish around puke?"

"Why?" You stop dead in your tracks, so she beats you to your car."

"He's a lightweight," Robin reveals, her lips puffing out in a pout, "Come on! No time to waste."

You steel yourself against vomit, and speed to Steve's house.

It's just as ridiculously large as you remember it. You'd been so caught up in ogling the inside when you'd been here a few days ago that you hadn't remembered the outside much, but it's foreboding and empty with all of the lights off. You picture Steve laying alone in the dark, puking on the carpet, and you beeline for the front door.

"Ah-ah-ah," Robin grabs your elbow, tugging you to the side gate, "He always leaves this one open in case I stop by when he's out."

She holds open a sliding door for you, and you try not to stare at the gorgeous pool the opposite direction. You're here to help Steve, and if all goes well, you'll make it a point to have a pool party afterwards.

"Steve?" Robin calls, traipsing through the dark rooms and flicking lights on as she goes, "Steve, where are you?"

"Robin?" He answers, and you veer left to follow the sound of his garbled speech, "You- s'that you Rob? You come to- are you here my... house?"

You're the one that finds him, flat on his back in the bathroom, a trash can just out of reach. His head is pressed up against the bathtub, and you hope he hadn't hit it on the way to the floor.

"Steve," You breathe, and you wonder if Robin's on her way.

Steve's head shoots up, but the rest of him doesn't. He blinks blearily at you, neck craned, brows pinched in confusion, "Y/N?"

Then, he pukes.

You're quick enough to see it coming, but not quick enough to ensure there's no damage done. He coughs first, and you bolt for the trash can, but there's definitely going to be a stain on his shirt from the few precious nanoseconds you'd lagged in stuffing the can under his chin.

"Oh, fuck," You grunt, steeling yourself against your own queasiness at the sight and sound and smell, "Oh, Steve, how much did you drink?"

"I followed the sounds of retching," Robin declares, appearing behind you in the doorway, her mouth set in a firm grimace as Steve hurls into the bin you're still holding for him, "Well, look on the bright side. Romantic!"

"Robin," You hiss, and Steve hangs his head over the mouth of the trash can for ten seconds after he finishes puking, just to make sure there's nothing left. He dry heaves, but there's simply nothing else in his stomach, and you sympathize with the knotting his gut must be doing right now, uncomfortable and tight.

He groans, throaty and open-mouthed and pathetic. It's really the only sound that sums up the situation, and you wholeheartedly agree.

"Is there more?" You ask, and your voice comes out sweet and kind, doting, even, "Or do you want to go to bed?"

"Bed." He whines, head hanging even when you set the trash can aside, "It's so far."

"Walk with me, Harrington." Robin offers her arm, eyeing the puke stain on his shirt warily, "Just- don't try to give me a hug or anything."

You watch as Robin helps pull Steve off of the floor, giving him time to adjust to his new orientation before he starts barfing again. They inch towards the stairs and Robin calls back towards you, "Get water and pills! Meet us there, first door on the left."

You set off towards the kitchen, hands trembling as you root through the cabinets.

You feel ridiculously guilty.

Evidently you've sent Steve into some existential crisis about how no one likes him. That might honestly be the worst case scenario, the greatest fumble in the history of dating. Your heart gets choked out again as you think about Steve racing home and raiding the liquor cabinet, desperate to distract himself from his big empty house and from his own self-loathing.

You tuck two aspirin into your palm and fill a glass of water to the brim, making your way to Steve's bedroom.

It's... plaid.

Monstrously so, wallpaper and comforter and lampshade and curtains and rug. It's hideous, but you'll look past it for now. Later- if this miraculously works out, you're buying him some new drapes.

"There we go, big boy," Robin congratulates, propping him up shirtless against his headboard and dropping his stained shirt in the laundry, "Y/N brought you some medicine for tomorrow, and some water!"

"Y/N," He mumbles, eyes closed, head still hung, "Why's Y/N here? She- she doesn'even like me."

"That's my cue," Robin smiles sweetly, backing towards the door, "Hurry, before he crashes!"

"Steve," You step warily towards his bed, hearing the door click shut behind Robin, "Can I sit with you?"

"Yeah, sure," He breathes, his voice dull and lifeless, "I'on'care."

You purse your lips as you sit down, spotting a smear of puke on his chin.

"You're a little pukey, Steve." You note, "Do you want to brush your teeth?"

"I can't." He moans, "Bathroom's too far. And my arms don't work."

You march in, retrieve toothpaste and toothbrush and trash can, and march back out.

"Okay," You squeeze the toothpaste onto the bristles, wetting it with a splash of water from the glass you'd filled, "Open up, Steve."

"Huh?" He asks, finally lifting his head. You reach for his jaw, and he watches you with a dazed expression, his eyes half-lidded and dilated as he stares up at you.

"Open," You thumb across his lips, and they part to breathe a sigh onto the pad of your finger.

He widens his mouth, and you get to brushing.

You hadn't realized how awkward it is to brush someone else's teeth. But it's Steve, and he's narrowly avoided drinking himself to death because of you, so you scrub like he's about to see the dentist.

"Tongue," You say, "Show me your tongue."

He sticks it out, and foamy drool drips off of it into the trash can you'd stuffed beneath his chin again.

You scrub his tongue, and fight to keep it extended when he decides it feels weird and retracts it again.

"Steve, you've still got vomit back there." You coax him with another stroke to his jawline, "Stick your tongue out again."

"Why are you doing this?" He moans, but he does as he's told, and you ponder your response as you scrub away at his poor taste buds.

"Rinse," You hum quietly, holding the glass of water to his lips. When he's cleaned and rinsed and spit and swallowed you drop the trash can beside the bed, foreseeing a very nauseous morning in his future.

"I'm doing this because," You finally answer, "I don't- not like you. I don't dislike you, I like you," You insist, unable to stop yourself from guiding his upper body to the mattress and dragging the blankets up beneath his chin, "I was just embarrassed because Max was teasing me, so I said I didn't. And I said it loud, and you heard, and now we're here and you're going to have the hangover of a lifetime all week."

"Why was Max teasing you?" He asks groggily, a yawn eclipsing his features before they smooth again. You sigh, eyeing his hair and fighting to stop yourself from running your fingers through it to elicit a sleepy sigh from the man.

"Because I like you," You repeat, "Like- romantically. Maybe."

His brows raise.

"Romantically? That's-" He laughs, a puff of air from his chest, "'Cause, I like you, romantically. For sure."

"Yeah?" You can't help but grin, squeezing his hand when it erupts from the blankets in search of yours, "Good. I hope you still like me even after you heard me today. I'm sorry," You cringe, relishing the way his palm fits against yours, "I'm really sorry, Steve, I feel awful."

"No, I feel awful," He mumbles, "I've got- I'm drunk. But you- don't feel bad. We can- oh," HIs eyes widen, then scrunch shut, and he rips his hand out of yours to drag it down his face, "Oh, no."

"What? Steve," You reach for the bucket on instinct, "What's wrong?"

"I'm gonna forget this," He wails, "I'm gonna forget this in the morning because I'm stupid and drunk and you're not gonna tell me again because you're gonna run off and avoid me like you always do."

"Steve," You wince, "No, no that's- that's not what's gonna happen. I mean," You eye him carefully, "I'm pretty sure you're gonna forget this. But I'll tell you, I swear. And if I didn't," You reason, "Robin would. You know she almost shook me to death earlier trying to get me to confess to you? She wouldn't let me run away again. And," You sigh, "I'm sorry for running away earlier today. I was just embarrassed, and scared. You're a really good guy, and it's not your fault that I was afraid."

"Robin'll tell me," He nods along, and you wonder if he's absorbed any other information you've presented him with. But it doesn't matter, because it's a conversation better suited for tomorrow than tonight. And you'll have it- you will tell him, and he'll tell you, too, and you'll... kiss, hopefully.

It's an exciting prospect, kissing Steve. You're glad the feeling in your stomach is butterflies and not barf, and you stand up to re-smooth the covers around Steve's drowsy form.

"Go to sleep, Steve." You croon, "You'll need it, as much as you can get. And tomorrow, you can call me." You snag a pen and paper from his desk, "I'm leaving my phone number right here. Call me, and I'll come over, and we can talk."

"Y'swear?" He asks, squinting suspiciously at you. It's endearing, his eyes narrowed and his cheeks flushed.

You nod like a bobblehead, "I swear, Steve." You offer him a pinky, and his teeth gleam in the low light of his bedroom when he grins, hooking his around yours.

"I'm tired," He announces, dragging his arm back under the blankets, and he's out in no more than five seconds as you pad quietly towards the door.

Robin's sitting on the top step. She turns when she hears you, and springs to her feet, "He's out?"

"He's out." You nod.

"You told him?" She asks, her eyes shining.

"I told him," You confirm, your own smile growing, "And I left my number, so he can call me tomorrow."

"And you'll tell him again," She leads you down the stairs, "Because he's probably gonna wake up with no memory of us even being here."

"I know," You laugh softly, "He told me the same thing. But yeah, I'll tell him again," You promise, "And if things really work out, again. And again, and again, and again, 'cause I really do think I like him a ton. I wouldn't brush just anyone's teeth."

"That is intense," Robin nods, accompanying you back out the side gate and crunching gravel beneath her feet as she heads for your car, "But it's cute, in a gross way. Romantic, maybe."

"Yeah," You grin, glancing back at Steve's dark window as you tug open your car door, "Maybe."

When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust. 

Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you. 

The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.

They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness. 

Until Eddie.

The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.

And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started. 

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life. 

That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.

He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.

Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-

“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.” 

He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached. 

You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable. 

You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings. 

But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.

Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.

No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them. 

The second time, it stung even more.

Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass. 

But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.

You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.

You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.

Everyone but you.

When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.

He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly. 

That’s it. That’s all.

Fuck. 

“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you. 

He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.” 

If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.

When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair. 

You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained. 

You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.

“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.

No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t. 

It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied. 

You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.

You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.

You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling? 

The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble. 

Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap. 

After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.

Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up. 

You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched. 

“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?” 

Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.

Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?” 

The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.

Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!” 

“Do not!”

“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.” 

“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?” 

“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.” 

“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?” 

Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut. 

You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.

“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.” 

“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”

Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”

“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”

You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.

The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.

You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!

“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.” 

To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them. 

You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.

Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them. 

“I need your help.” 

Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen. 

“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“

“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.” 

Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“

You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.

“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”

“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?” 

This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.

“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”

Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in. 

“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.” 

“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”

There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom. 

“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“

“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.” 

There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?” 

You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers. 

You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?” 

“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”

“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.” 

The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him. 

And so you do.

Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group. 

All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.

By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.

“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him. 

You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.” 

A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.

The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie. 

The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.

The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had. 

During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you. 

You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.

“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks. 

“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?” 

You nod.

There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch. 

Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.

Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.

You pray to God her plan works.

“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”

He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically. 

You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.

Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.

He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats. 

Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.

“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked. 

You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-

You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.” 

And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss. 

Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.

You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue. 

“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”

And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly. 

Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.

“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?” 

He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-

“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.” 

It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.” 

For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning. 

“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues. 

“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.” 

“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.” 

“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.

He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.” 

On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.

“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable. 

Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!” 

Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.

If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection? 

“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed. 

The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.

You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his. 

You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity. 

Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan. 

“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you. 

Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.” 

Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile. 

If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.

“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction. 

Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud. 

But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad. 

You try not to think of it too hard. 

You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.

You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.

This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too. 

To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.

You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation. 

God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks. 

What if he doesn’t want that? 

The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.

“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.” 

She doesn’t even have to say your name.

Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“ 

“Oh, I know she would have.” 

Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.

“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.

“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”

Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”

“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?” 

Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?” 

It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.

It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.

“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”

“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.

Don’t blow this, Dingus.

“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”

“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“

“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”

He’s not convinced.

So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.” 

A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you. 

“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?” 

Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.” 

“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.

“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.” 

They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them. 

The house is a ghost town from above.

“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.” 

Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.

You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you. 

“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs. 

When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.

“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.

He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.” 

You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?” 

“You have no clue.”

A warning glare comes from Robin.

Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory. 

When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.

Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.

He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.

Whatever Robin had said was working.

“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you. 

Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight. 

It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin. 

When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.

When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.

You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?” 

Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.

You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.

Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?” 

“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.

Warmth. Tender. Softness.

Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.

“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.

Robin. 

She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.

“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.” 

“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.” 

A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head. 

“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.” 

“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.

A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside. 

And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn. 

“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.

He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.

“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.” 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him. 

That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days. 

Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.

You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled. 

“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?” 

Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down. 

Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room. 

They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.

“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.

You felt his breath on your ear.  A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact. 

“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.” 

“Very.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.” 

“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.

You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.

“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.

“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.” 

“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.” 

You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.” 

“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.” 

You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.

A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb. 

“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.

Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.

“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“

“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.

Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”

Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.

The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you. 

You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night. 

They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.

The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.

Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.

And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.

“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. 

You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes. 

“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.

You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.” 

You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.

“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.” 

“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.

“It is some big secret?”

“Nope.”

“Hmph.” 

This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter. 

“What?” 

His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.” 

For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold. 

It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored. 

“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault. 

You produce his lighter like magic.

“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.” 

“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.” 

In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.

“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.

“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.

You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking. 

You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”

“You just did-“

“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.

Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.

“Ask away, sweetheart.”

A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?” 

He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be. 

It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though. 

“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”

“You guess?” 

“I guess,” he repeats.

Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do. 

When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary. 

For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that. 

“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”

The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.

“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you. 

“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.” 

Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.

Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more. 

“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”

Another crack.

“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”

“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”

A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.

“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”

“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.” 

One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter. 

You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite. 

“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?” 

He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down. 

It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana. 

One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment. 

Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.

His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.

His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you. 

He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment. 

It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you. 

He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?” 

A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.

“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.” 

“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?” 

You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.

“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.” 

You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember. 

“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?” 

“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.” 

“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.” 

You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.” 

“Oh, have I?”

His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other. 

He gave you that lopsided grin, the one that always sat just shy of confident when it was directed at you. “Hey. Dropping these off before Henderson scratches them. I swear he puts the tapes in the VCR with the same enthusiasm he has for summoning demodogs.” He lifted a paper bag full of rentals and offered it out.

You stepped aside to let him in, taking the bag but not before his fingers brushed yours. The contact sent a flick of warmth up your arm, not the dramatic kind that makes people gasp in books, but the kind that catches quietly under your ribs. You weren’t sure if he noticed, but his hand pulled away a little quicker than necessary.

Dustin shouted something from the back room, loud enough to rattle the vents. Steve huffed a laugh and nudged the door closed behind him as he walked into the living room. He kicked his shoes off like he’d done it a thousand times, because he had. This place had become familiar to him. You’d become familiar to him. And somehow that knowledge warmed you more than the afternoon sun slanting across the carpet.

He flopped onto the couch, elbows over the back, letting his head fall back dramatically. “I swear, every time I pick something up from Family Video, Kline shows up to yell about our shelving. Every time. Like I chose the shelving. Like I personally installed the shelving.” He peeked at you through the fall of his hair, the grin returning. “Anyway. I figured you might need something new to watch, unless Dustin has you trapped in one of his weird sci-fi marathons.”

You settled on the other end of the couch, cross-legged, the tapes set between you. “It’s not that weird,” you said softly, though the smile gave you away. “And you survived the marathons, too.”

“Barely.” He let out a dramatic sigh, then let the act falter as he turned to face you fully. His knee brushed yours in a way that felt almost accidental but never quite was when it came from him. He always hovered near you—not close enough to overwhelm, but close enough that you felt seen. You’d gotten used to it. Maybe too used to it.

There was something different in his face today, something you couldn’t place. Not nerves exactly, but something halfway between steady and uncertain. His gaze lingered on you longer than normal before shifting to the tapes in your lap. “You find anything good?”

Your fingers drifted over the covers without thinking. “Trying to. He mixed everything up again. I’m pretty sure one of these cases has two different movies shoved in it.”

“Classic Henderson,” Steve murmured, but he didn’t seem focused on the tapes anymore. His eyes had softened in a way that made your pulse stumble. He looked like he was about to say something—something real, something heavy enough that he hesitated. “Hey, I was actually gonna—”

Dustin barreled into the hallway, a crash of sound and limbs. “Steve! You’re here! Good, because I figured out what was wrong with the antenna, and you have to see it, it’s so sick—”

Steve deflated in an instant, head dropping back against the couch. The moment snapped like it had never been there at all. Dustin launched himself into the room, completely oblivious, waving a broken piece of metal dangerously close to Steve’s face.

Steve sat up with a tight smile, rubbing his hands over his jeans like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. You felt the shift, that soft invisible thread between you pulled taut before disappearing entirely. He shot you a glance—quick, almost apologetic—before catching whatever Dustin was waving at him. “Okay, okay, dude, relax before you impale me. What’d you do now?”

Dustin launched into an enthusiastic explanation, words tumbling over each other. Steve tried to look interested. Mostly, he looked like a man who’d been shoved out of a doorway he’d just worked up the courage to walk through.

You sat quietly beside him, listening to your brother ramble, but your attention kept drifting back to Steve. It was in the set of his shoulders, the unfinished words still lingering behind his eyes. He’d been trying to tell you something. And whatever it was, he wasn’t done trying.

You weren’t sure what would happen when he finally managed to get you alone long enough to say it. But for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t scare you. It sent that same gentle warmth rising in your chest—the kind you didn’t quite know how to name yet, but couldn’t ignore anymore.

---

The ride home from the Wheelers’ had always been a cramped, loud, chaotic experience, mostly because Dustin treated the back seat like a moving laboratory. Tonight was no different—he’d tossed a backpack stuffed with papers, wires, and half-built gadgets across the seat before climbing in, muttering about how he needed to reorganize everything “for efficiency.” Steve had glanced at you in the driveway with a weary, amused smile that told you he already regretted offering the ride, but he’d unlocked the car anyway. He always did.

You slid into the passenger seat and buckled in while Dustin slammed the back door shut with enough force to make Steve wince. Once everyone was settled, Steve started the car, the headlights cutting through the warm, late-evening haze that hovered over the quiet street. The windows were cracked just enough to let in the summer air, and you rested your hands in your lap, feeling that comfortable, familiar tension settle between you and Steve—the kind that was never unpleasant, only warm and awkward in a way you’d grown used to.

He glanced over as he pulled away from the curb. “So. Did you guys have fun or did you suffer through another round of Wheeler Monopoly hell?”

The question was casual, but the look he slid you was not. It lingered, soft at the corners, a little nervous in the middle. You felt the weight of it press lightly beneath your ribs. “It wasn’t that bad,” you said quietly. “Dustin tried to cheat four times.”

“Hey!” Dustin snapped from the back seat. “Three times. The fourth doesn’t count because the rulebook didn’t specify—”

“It absolutely specified, dude,” Steve said, shaking his head. “It’s a published game. There are rules. You can’t just invent your own stock market mid-round.”

“I was innovating,” Dustin insisted, already rummaging for something in his bag.

Steve exhaled through a laugh and shot another glance your way. He always did that—threw his jokes toward the air, but aimed his eyes at you, as if checking whether you were smiling. And you were, even if you looked down to hide it.

The road curved toward your neighborhood, streetlamps drifting past in golden streaks. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Steve tap his fingers nervously on the wheel, like he was working himself up to something. His shoulders were tight, his jaw flexing softly the way it did when he was trying to gather courage without drawing attention.

After a moment of silence, he tried again. “Listen, I—” He cleared his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Actually, not tell you, more like… ask you? Or maybe—”

Dustin leaned forward between the seats so suddenly that both you and Steve flinched. “Okay, so imagine this,” he said, breathless with excitement, waving a notebook near Steve’s face. “If I rewire the antenna and get the gain up by just, like, one decibel—”

“Dude, hold on,” Steve said, swatting the notebook away gently. He tried to keep his voice even, but you could hear the frustration simmering underneath. “I’m talking.”

“You weren’t saying anything important yet.”

“I was literally in the middle of talking!”

“To me,” Dustin corrected smugly. “You weren’t saying anything interesting to me.”

Steve inhaled slowly through his nose, gripping the wheel like it might keep him grounded. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing, because you could see the exact moment he abandoned his almost-confession and resigned himself to Dustin’s rambling.

“Just… go back to whatever you were doing back there,” Steve muttered.

“You mean saving science? Already on it.” Dustin retreated to the back seat and immediately started scribbling again.

Steve let out a long, slow breath, the kind he usually saved for demobat stories or Customer Service Nightmares at Family Video. He didn’t look at you yet. You didn’t look at him either. The interrupted moment hung between you, fragile and obvious.

When he finally risked a side glance, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth—a mix of embarrassment and something softer. “Anyway,” he said quietly, “I was just gonna ask if you, uh… had a good time tonight.”

He’d changed his wording at the last second. You heard it. You wondered if he knew you heard it. “I did,” you murmured, letting your gaze settle on him. “It was nice.”

That small smile of his grew a little, warming the dim car. He was about to say something else—you saw the breath he pulled in, the shift of his shoulders—but Dustin cut him off again. “Steve, turn left! You missed the shortcut!”

“It’s literally two minutes longer,” Steve snapped. “Two minutes! We’re talking blocks, man, not a cross-country trip.” You stifled another laugh. Steve shot you an exhausted, pleading look before turning onto the familiar street. When he parked outside your house, he put the car in park but didn’t immediately shut off the engine. His fingers tapped the wheel again, a restless rhythm. “Hey,” he tried once more, turning slightly in his seat. “I wanted to—”

“Steve, can you help me carry my stuff!?” Dustin bellowed as he launched himself out of the back seat, already grabbing for the door to your house. “I need both hands and probably yours too!”

Steve sagged back against his seat like someone had deflated him. He dragged a hand down his face, muttering something that sounded like a plea for mercy.

You reached for the door handle, hesitating for just a heartbeat. “You can tell me whatever it was later,” you said, voice soft enough that only he would hear.

His eyes found yours again. Whatever he’d been trying to say was still there, simmering just under the surface. A slow smile curved onto his lips, small but genuine. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Later.”

You stepped out of the car, the warm summer air brushing your face. Dustin yelled your name from the porch. Steve groaned, climbed out of the driver’s side, and shot you one last look before going to help your brother.

It wasn’t the confession he’d wanted to give you. But it was coming—you could feel it. And judging by the way he watched you walk toward the house, he wasn’t giving up yet.

---

Family Video was quiet in that late-afternoon way that made the fluorescent lights buzz louder than any customer ever could. The aisles were empty, the return bin was half-full, and Steve was leaning over the counter like a man whose soul had been wrestled out of his body. He kept folding and unfolding the same tape return slip, eyes unfocused, jaw set in that defeated angle that Robin recognized instantly. She flicked a pen cap at his shoulder. “Okay, what’s with the tragic slouch? Did someone rent all the good horror movies again, or are you just being dramatic for attention?”

Steve didn’t look up. He just made a noise that could’ve meant many things: frustration, embarrassment, existential collapse. Robin sighed, circled around the counter, and planted herself across from him with the posture of someone preparing for an interrogation. “Talk,” she demanded, snapping her fingers in front of his face.

He swatted her hand away. “Stop. I’m not a dog.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered. “Now spill it. Your energy today is… weird. And not the usual ‘I’m pretty but tired’ weird. This is ‘something happened and I’m repressing it like a coward’ weird.”

Steve groaned, then let his forehead drop onto the counter with an audible thunk. “I tried to talk to her again.”

Robin perked up instantly. “Oh! Finally! Great! So what’d you say? Did you ask her out? Did you actually form a full sentence? Did you—”

“I didn’t get that far,” he mumbled into the countertop. “Dustin wouldn’t shut up.”

Robin blinked once. “Like… interrupting you?”

“Like climbing over the front seat of my car with a notebook to show me a sketch of an antenna while I was trying to confess my feelings.” Steve lifted his head, eyes hollow with dramatic suffering. “It was like being attacked by a hyperactive raccoon.”

Robin snorted so hard she almost choked. “God, that’s beautiful. Horrible. Hilarious. But mostly horrible.”

“Thank you for your support,” he said dryly.

“Oh, I’m supporting you,” she assured, tapping the counter rhythmically. “Just not your terrible strategy. You need to stop trying to talk to her when Dustin is within a three-mile radius. He’s like a tiny tornado with opinions.”

Steve pushed his hair back with both hands. “I know, I know. I just thought maybe he’d… I don’t know, fall asleep? Or get distracted? Or explode?”

“He’s Dustin,” Robin reminded him, eyebrows raised. “He gets more energized as the day goes on. By midnight he’s seconds away from achieving orbital lift.”

Steve sighed again and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tight. “I just… I’m not good at this stuff, okay? She’s not like those other girls I used to date. I don’t want to rush it or freak her out.”

“That’s sweet,” Robin said. “But also incredibly stupid.”

He glared at her. “How is that stupid?”

“Because you’re overthinking it, dingus,” she said, flicking his forehead as punishment. “She already likes you.”

Steve froze, blinking. “She—she does?”

“Oh my god.” Robin pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. “You’re helpless. You’re actually helpless.”

“That’s not an answer!” he hissed.

Robin dropped her hands and stared him down, speaking slowly for maximum effect. “She. Likes. You.”

Steve stared back, a flush creeping up the side of his neck. “You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You get all flustered and stupid around her, and she gets all quiet and wide-eyed around you. It’s like watching two baby deer try to merge onto a highway.”

Steve let out a despairing noise. “I can’t believe you compared me to a deer.”

“Oh, you’re both deer,” she insisted. “Deer in love. Pathetic. Adorable. Infuriatingly slow.”

He ran a hand over his face again, groaning. “I just… I want it to be the right moment. And every time it almost is—”

“Dustin blows it,” Robin finished. “Because that kid has zero awareness of anything except science and snacks.”

Steve laughed, but it was tired around the edges. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

Robin planted her hands on her hips like she was about to deliver a lecture. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to ask her out. Soon. Not ‘eventually’ or ‘when the universe aligns.’ Soon. Before Dustin adopts you into his personal schedule for the week.”

“I’m working on it,” he insisted.

“No, you’re not,” she said. “You’re waiting for signs and moments and dramatic lighting. What you need to do is open your mouth and say, ‘Hey, I like you. Want to go out?’”

Steve looked deeply scandalized. “That’s—no, that’s too blunt. I can’t just say it like that.”

“Well, you definitely can’t say it while Henderson is crawling on the car seat like a feral goblin.”

“Okay, that’s fair.”

Robin leaned her elbows against the counter, eyeing him closely. “Be honest. Are you scared because she’s quiet?”

He hesitated before nodding once. “I don’t want to make her uncomfortable. She’s been through… a lot. We all have, but she… you know.”

Robin softened. “Yeah. I get it. But trust me, she’s not scared of you. She’s scared of… saying the wrong thing. Or being too much. Or not enough. You two speak in the same dialect.”

Steve’s breath stalled at that, chest tightening with something warm and nervous. “So… what do I do?”

“What I’ve been telling you from the start.” Robin shrugged, smirking. “Ask her out, dingus.”

The bell above the door chimed as a customer wandered in, and Robin gave Steve one last pointed look before heading into the aisle to help. Steve stayed behind the counter, resting both palms flat on its surface, grounding himself. He took a deep breath and whispered to no one, “Okay. Ask her out. I can do that. I can do that.”

But even as he said it, he already knew one thing for sure: if Dustin showed up again, this plan didn’t stand a chance. And somehow, that made him smile anyway.

---

The Henderson garage always smelled faintly like dust, motor oil, and whatever science experiment Dustin had last abandoned on the workbench. That afternoon, the air was warm enough that the open door let in a slow spill of sunlight, brightening the cluttered space in strips. You stood beside one of the folding tables, sorting through the mess of screws and wires Dustin had dumped out “for easier access,” which, in reality, only made everything harder to find.

Steve hovered nearby with a half-hearted attempt at organization. He picked up tools, put them down, nudged wires into a neater line, and occasionally wiped his palms on his jeans like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. You noticed the way he kept drifting closer, every few seconds glancing at the house as if waiting for an opening that hadn’t come yet.

Dustin had barreled inside moments earlier shouting something about a “crucial component” and promising to return quickly. Experience had taught you that “quickly” usually meant at least fifteen minutes. The sudden silence left the garage feeling strangely private, a pocket of quiet neither of you were used to sharing without your brother’s voice filling it.

Steve leaned a hip against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “You’d think for someone so obsessed with organization, he’d, I don’t know… actually organize things.”

A soft laugh slipped out of you before you could hide it. “He says he has a system.”

“Yeah, well, his system is ‘pile everything in the same place and pray.’”

You didn’t mean to meet his eyes, but when you did, the warmth there caught you off guard. He smiled—not the big, charming grin he saved for customers or jokes, but the smaller one he used when it was just you. Something quieter, something that made your stomach tug downward and your breath lift higher at the same time.

For a moment you thought he might look away. Instead he took a step closer, letting his fingers trail lightly over the table until they stopped near yours. He didn’t touch you, but the space between you shrank until it was impossible not to feel the gravity of him. “Hey,” he said softly, more serious now, “can I ask you something?”

Your pulse jumped. He didn’t try to hide the nerves this time—his voice was careful, his eyes steady but uncertain, like he was testing thin ice. You tucked a loose screw back into the tray just to have something to do, but you nodded. “Yeah. What is it?”

Steve drew in a slow breath, shoulders rising, then dropping. He shifted so he was standing directly across from you now, close enough that you felt his warmth even through the small distance. “I’ve been… trying to find the right moment to say this. Probably overthinking it. Definitely overthinking it,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But every time I try, something happens, and then I lose the nerve, and—”

He stopped, hands falling to his sides. His gaze flicked to your lips before returning to your eyes, almost apologetically, like the glance had slipped out by accident. “I really like—”

He didn’t get the rest out because Dustin slammed the back door open so hard it ricocheted off the wall with a loud crack. “Found it!” he shouted triumphantly.

Steve jolted back like someone had yanked him by the collar. You startled, the sound hitting you like a small explosion in the otherwise quiet garage.

Dustin sprinted inside with a fistful of random parts, not noticing the way Steve took two hasty steps backward or the way your breath had caught halfway up your throat. He launched straight into an explanation, words tumbling over each other at impossible speed.

“Okay, okay, okay, so remember last week when the signal strength dropped? I swear it wasn’t my fault, but I triple-checked, and it turns out the grounding was off by like a millimeter, but I fixed it, and then I realized if we attach this—this right here—” He shoved the piece of metal inches from Steve’s face. Steve blinked rapidly, stunned, trapped in the whirlwind of Dustin’s enthusiasm. “—then the whole thing works even better! Isn’t that awesome?”

“Yeah,” Steve croaked, the word paper-thin. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, buddy. That’s—uh. Great.”

Dustin looked between the two of you, oblivious to the tension he’d vaporized. “Come on, we have to test it. Steve, you hold the end with the clamp. And don’t drop it this time.”

You watched as Dustin pulled Steve by the wrist toward the other table. Steve threw you a look over his shoulder—a silent, desperate I was so close—before letting himself be dragged into whatever experiment Dustin was constructing.

You swallowed, grounding yourself against the table as the adrenaline slowly ebbed. You replayed the moment in your mind, the warmth in his voice, the way he’d leaned in like he was finally ready to say the thing he’d been dancing around for weeks.

You didn’t need the rest to know what he’d meant. And even though the confession had shattered midair, it left a soft, glowing heat in your chest that didn’t disappear.

Steve shot you another look while Dustin explained the next step, his expression full of apology and frustration and wanting. He wasn’t done trying. And now, for the first time, you knew that for certain. Even if Dustin was determined to make it the longest confession in history.

---

The Wheelers’ basement was the kind of cramped, mismatched space that should’ve felt chaotic, yet somehow always managed to settle into its own kind of rhythm. Blankets draped over the back of the couch, half-finished board games littered the coffee table, and a small mountain of snacks threatened to avalanche off the folding card table by the wall. The worn carpet muffled footsteps, and the single lamp cast the whole room in a warm amber glow that made everyone look a little softer, a little more like themselves.

Mike sat cross-legged near the TV, fiddling with the dials like he was performing surgery. Will had his sketchpad propped on his knee, quietly drawing as he waited. Lucas and Max were arguing over whose movie pick was superior—which mostly meant Max was calling Lucas boring and Lucas insisting she had no taste. Eleven sat beside Max, combing her fingers through a bowl of M&M’s in strict color order. Nancy leaned against the far wall, arms crossed as she offered periodic commentary, half amused and half exhausted by the group’s indecision.

Robin stood behind the couch drumming her fingers along the backrest, eyes drifting toward you with the kind of knowing smirk that made you want to hide under a blanket. She’d been watching Steve all night like she was tracking wildlife behavior for a nature documentary.

And Steve—Steve had claimed the floor beside you the moment everyone settled. He hadn’t even pretended to consider another spot. He’d just dropped down next to you, close enough that your knees brushed whenever either of you shifted. Every now and then you felt the light press of his shoulder barely grazing yours, the warmth of him almost magnetic. He looked relaxed, but you’d known him long enough to recognize the tension coiled beneath the easy slouch. He wasn’t just sitting near you; he was waiting.

The chaos around you built into its usual storm of voices, and you let yourself sink into the noise until it felt like background static. You were comfortable like this—surrounded by people you trusted, tucked into a corner where nothing demanded too much of you. Steve must’ve sensed the way your shoulders unknotted, because he leaned in slightly, voice pitched softer than the rest. “Hey,” he murmured, letting the word drift just for you. “You holding up with all these maniacs fighting about cinema like it’s life or death?”

You smiled, looking down at your hands for a moment. “I’ve witnessed worse. Dustin tried to convince me Star Wars counts as a Thanksgiving movie.”

Steve snorted, head tipping just a little closer. “He tried that on me too. Henderson logic is a dangerous thing.”

The way he said it—soft and amused, with that small, private grin—made your cheeks warm. You felt it before you could control it, and you ducked your head slightly, pretending to focus on Max and Lucas arguing in the middle of the room. Max pointed her movie case at Lucas like a weapon. “This is a classic. You have no taste.”

Lucas folded his arms. “You say that about everything you like.”

“That’s because I’m right.”

Robin leaned closer to Nancy and muttered, “I’m taking bets on when this turns into a wrestling match.”

Steve laughed under his breath, then looked back at you. The basement noise faded as his attention settled directly on you, the air shifting in that fluttery way it always did when he got close. His knee nudged yours—gentle, deliberate. You looked up, and the moment your eyes met, something tender flickered across his face.

He angled toward you fully now, ignoring the group entirely. “Hey,” he said again, quieter this time, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to—”

“Oh my god.” Dustin’s voice ricocheted down the stairs like a missile.

Steve closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in a despair that bordered on spiritual defeat. You startled just slightly as Dustin burst into the basement carrying two bags of popcorn and a bowl of something that was probably too sticky to be allowed near the carpet.

“I got snacks!” Dustin declared triumphantly. “Mike, move over! Will, stop drawing sad trees! Everyone, I have news!”

Robin groaned. “Here we go.”

Nancy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do we want to know?”

Dustin ignored everyone and marched directly toward you and Steve. “Okay, so, you’re all gonna think this is genius, because it is,” he announced, setting the popcorn in the middle of the floor like it was an offering to the gods. “I mixed extra sugar into the caramel corn so we can stay awake through Lucas’ boring movie pick.”

Lucas sputtered. “It’s not boring!”

Max kicked him lightly. “It’s very boring.”

Steve tried to inhale, tried to restart the thing he’d been about to say, but Dustin plopped down between the two of you before he could get a syllable out, wedging himself with a full-body flop. Steve’s head snapped toward the ceiling like he was pleading for divine help.

“Dude,” Steve said weakly, “I—I was literally talking—”

“Great, you can finish later,” Dustin chirped while shoving popcorn into Steve’s hands. “Right now we need someone to test if the caramel-to-corn ratio is perfect.”

Robin snickered from behind the couch. “That’s the face of a man in agony.” Steve shot her a death glare. Robin only winked.

You sat very still, aware of how drastically the moment had shifted. Steve’s knee no longer brushed yours. His shoulder was no longer angled toward you. His expression, however, still carried that raw, half-exposed something he’d tried so hard to reveal before the interruption.

He looked at you again, a brief, fragile glance over Dustin’s head—apology, longing, frustration, all tangled together. You smiled gently, a small reassurance even if the moment was lost. His chest eased, just a bit.

Dustin, oblivious, leaned back between you both. “Okay! So. Who’s ready for a triple-feature?!”

Mike groaned loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. Eleven offered a polite but confused nod. Will kept drawing. Nancy debated walking out. Lucas and Max started another argument. Robin leaned over the couch, whispering something at Steve that made him mutter a threat with no real bite.

And you sat there, tucked between your friends and your brother, with Steve only inches away behind an accidental Dustin-shaped barricade.

Another moment ruined.

Another truth postponed.

But Steve caught your eye again, a small promise resting quietly behind the frustration. He wasn’t giving up. Not yet. Not at all.

And you found yourself hoping—maybe for the first time—that Dustin might eventually take a snack break long enough for everything to finally fall into place.

---

A Saturday afternoon at your place was usually a safe bet for quiet, especially when Dustin wasn’t home. He’d taken off earlier with Lucas and Mike, something about a “high-stakes campaign planning session,” which meant you finally had a few hours where the house wasn’t vibrating with teenage enthusiasm. Steve had stopped by under the guise of “checking on that toolbox he left in the garage,” even though you both knew he’d left it on purpose the last time he was here.

You were sitting beside him on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a gentle buzz of nerves threading through your chest. He was closer than usual—not subtle about it, either. His knee brushed yours whenever he shifted, and he kept glancing over with this determined little crease between his brows. You could tell he’d spent all morning psyching himself up to try again.

He cleared his throat and leaned toward you, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he needed to keep them steady. “So I’ve been thinking,” he started, voice softer than the TV hum filling the room. “There’s something I’ve, uh… wanted to ask you. For a while.”

Your breath caught, your pulse fluttering. You met his eyes, and the look there—hesitant, hopeful, warm—made the room feel smaller. You felt him gather courage, felt something inside you answer it without needing words.

His knee bumped yours again, this time deliberate. “I just— when it’s us, like this… I feel—”

The front door slammed open so hard the hinges squealed. “There you are!” Max’s voice echoed down the hallway.

Steve’s shoulders sagged with the kind of dramatic despair that would’ve been funny if your heart hadn’t been thumping so hard a moment before. You both sat up straighter as Max stormed in, Eleven close behind her, both flushed from the walk and carrying enough urgency to power the whole house.

“Okay,” Max announced breathlessly, hands on her hips, “we need a ride.”

Eleven nodded with solemn intensity. “Very important.”

Steve blinked. “Why… why do you need a ride?”

“Because Robin said it was a good idea,” Max said, as if that answered everything.

You frowned. “Where is Robin?”

A beat later, Robin burst in through the still-open door, out of breath and dramatically pointing at the girls like an indictment. “They asked me first. But I don’t drive. And I told them that. Repeatedly.”

Eleven stepped forward with wide, pleading eyes. “Mall?”

Steve groaned into his hands. “Right now?”

Max crossed her arms, fully annoyed. “Yes, right now. We need new tape for Eleven’s headphones, a book I have to return, and Robin wants pretzels. Also, I’m bored.”

Robin raised a finger. “The pretzels are a necessary part of this trip. Not optional.”

Steve exhaled, long and pained, rubbing his face like fate had personally wronged him. You watched him, and even though frustration drew tight lines around his mouth, you saw the faint flicker of something else—desperation. Not for escape, but for the moment he’d been trying so hard to build. He’d almost done it this time. He had been right there, the words practically in the air between you when the cavalry burst in.

Max stepped closer. “Can you take us?”

You opened your mouth, but Steve sat up quickly, eyes wide. “Wait, she doesn’t have to. I can—”

“Nope,” Max interrupted. “We saw your car on the street. There’s a giant metal pipe sticking out the window and it looks like someone attacked your backseat with a screwdriver.”

Steve blanched. “That was Dustin’s… whatever. I told him not to—”

Eleven nodded solemnly. “It is broken.”

“It’s not broken,” Steve protested weakly, then looked at you with a kind of pleading horror. “Please don’t let them make you drive them. You don’t have to—”

Robin clapped her hands together. “You’re literally the only one here with a functioning car and a valid license.”

Max added, “also the only one we trust with directions.”

Eleven finished with, “Please? Please, please?”

Their combined staring was intense enough to melt steel. You sighed softly, looking at Steve with an apologetic tilt of your head. “It’s okay. I can take them.”

Steve’s mouth opened like he wanted to protest again, but something gentler ran through his expression. He softened, sitting back a little like he didn’t want to push. “Only if you want to,” he said quietly, voice low enough for just you.

“I don’t mind,” you said, even though part of you did—not the drive itself, but the interruption, the way the moment had slipped through your fingers again just when it felt like it might finally settle.

Max grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door. “Yes! Thank you.”

Robin followed, muttering about soft pretzels and cinnamon sugar. Eleven smiled at you like you were the solution to every problem she’d ever had. You moved toward the doorway, keys in hand, but paused when you felt a gentle touch on your wrist. Steve had stepped after you, stopping you with light fingers that traced warmth across your skin. “Hey,” he murmured, eyes meeting yours with that same earnest something from earlier, “when you get back… can we finish that conversation?”

The question hit you softly, settling under your ribs in a place already warm for him. You nodded. “Yeah. We can.”

A slow, relieved smile spread across his face, not the charming one he used to flirt or joke, but something smaller, realer—something just for you.

Robin’s voice echoed from outside. “Let’s go, I’m starving!”

You stepped away from Steve and toward the chaos gathering around your car, but you looked back once. He stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets, trying and failing to hide the way he was smiling. This time, you knew the moment wouldn’t slip away forever. It was waiting for you. So was he.

---

The mall on a Saturday was a maze of sound — laughter echoing off tile, music thumping faintly from different stores, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the chatter of people weaving around one another like they were all part of some vast busy hive. The second you stepped inside with Max, Eleven, and Robin, it felt like stepping into a warm wave of noise and movement. Max immediately scanned the storefronts like a general surveying a battlefield, Eleven stayed close to your side with quiet determination, and Robin pointed at the pretzel shop with the single-minded hunger of someone who had already been thinking about it for hours.

The girls moved quickly, practically dragging you along, their energy sweeping you forward before you even realized you were fully inside. The light overhead was bright, reflecting off the glossy floor, and you adjusted to it slowly, breathing in the smell of cinnamon sugar and perfume samples drifting from the nearby department store. Even with the crowd, the moment felt surprisingly calm—nothing like the monster-hunting days, nothing like the chaos of Dustin’s science experiments or the loud clusters of voices in the Wheeler basement. Just… the mall. Just a typical weekend afternoon.

Max took the lead, weaving down the walkway toward the bookstore. “This won’t take long,” she promised, even though her tone strongly suggested she planned to browse. “I just need to drop off the return, maybe look at the new releases, maybe check the comics—"

Robin groaned dramatically. “I’m going to starve before the pretzels. And then who’s gonna explain to Steve that you let me die of hunger in a suburban mall? He’ll never forgive you.”

Eleven blinked up at you. “She needs pretzels first,” she said with the same seriousness she used when discussing mind flayers.

You smiled because you knew it was hopeless to try changing their priorities. “Okay. Pretzels first, then the bookstore.”

Robin fist-pumped like she’d just won a war. “Yes. Justice prevails.”

You led the way toward the food court, letting the steady hum of conversation settle around you. Eleven walked close enough that her sleeve brushed yours every few steps, her eyes darting between the crowds with a watchfulness that came from experience, not fear. Max strode ahead, confident and unbothered, her ponytail swinging behind her with each purposeful movement.

When you reached the pretzel stand, Robin stepped forward eagerly. “Four pretzels,” she told the teenager behind the counter. “One cinnamon, one butter, one salted, and one mystery pick for Eleven.”

The kid blinked, confused. “Mystery pick?”

Robin waved broadly. “Dealer’s choice. Make it fun.” Max rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Eleven seemed excited by the idea, gaze fixed on the warming racks with awe.

You helped gather napkins and drinks while everyone else debated who got which pretzel, though Eleven’s mystery pretzel was so coated in cheese that Robin declared it a masterpiece of culinary chaos. You all found an empty table near the railing overlooking the lower floor, and the four of you sat down, the air filled with warmth and chatter that felt strangely comforting.

Max took a bite of her pretzel before pointing it at you. “So what were you and Steve talking about before we barged in?”

Robin inhaled sharply and kicked Max lightly under the table. “We don’t ask those questions.”

“But I just did,” Max said, completely unapologetic. “I’m curious.”

Eleven tilted her head. “You and Steve were sitting very close.”

Heat crept up the back of your neck, and you tried to hide it by taking a long sip of your drink. “We were just talking,” you said softly, though you felt the weight of the truth under your ribs. You were almost talking about something else—something bigger—and that weight felt warm in a way that wasn’t unpleasant at all.

Max watched you knowingly, like she was piecing together a puzzle she’d already solved. “Uh-huh. Sure. Talking.”

Robin sighed with the posture of someone carrying too much knowledge. “We’re not interrogating her. We’re here for snacks, not emotional espionage.”

You wanted to thank her, but before you could, Eleven leaned in with genuine curiosity. “Do you like him?”

Your breath caught, and the world seemed to soften—not collapse, not tighten, just… soften. The noise of the mall blurred into a distant hum, and your hands stilled around the napkin you were folding subconsciously.

Max kicked her under the table. “El! You can’t just ask!”

Eleven frowned. “Why not? If she likes him, she should say.” Robin groaned but didn’t disagree.

You set the napkin down slowly, heart thumping against your ribs in that quiet, fluttery way it always did whenever Steve said your name a little too gently or leaned just a little too close. “I… I don’t know,” you said, though that wasn’t the truth. You knew. You just weren’t used to saying it out loud. “Maybe.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Maybe yes?”

You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “Maybe… yes.”

Robin slapped her palms on the table and grinned like she’d been waiting for this revelation for months. “Finally. Emotional progress. Steve is going to combust when he hears that.”

You stared at her. “Robin!”

“What? He’s still alive. Mostly. Probably pacing in your living room right now practicing a speech.”

Eleven smiled brightly, lifting her pretzel. “I am happy,” she said, content and certain.

Max leaned back in her chair with smug satisfaction. “Called it.”

Despite the embarrassing warmth on your face, you felt something untangle inside you—something quiet, hopeful, and strangely steady. Saying it aloud didn’t feel as terrifying as you’d expected. If anything, it felt like you’d opened a small door that had been waiting for too long.

Robin nudged your foot under the table. “Finish your pretzel,” she said playfully. “We should get back soon. Wouldn’t want to keep loverboy waiting.”

You groaned, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway.

And across the mall, beyond the noise and the shining floors and the crowds moving in every direction, you found yourself thinking not about monsters or interruptions or whatever chaos awaited at home—but about Steve.

And the conversation he’d asked to finish.

---

Dustin had invited Lucas, Mike, and Will over with the promise of “the most important campaign decision of their lives,” which meant the basement was already cluttered with graph paper, dice, snack wrappers, and an unnecessary number of pencils. They were mid-argument about whether the party should take the mountain pass or the hidden forest trail when Steve wandered down the stairs, hands shoved in his pockets, pacing with a restless energy that immediately caught Dustin’s attention.

“Why are you down here?” Dustin asked, squinting at him suspiciously from behind his Dungeon Master screen. “Aren’t you supposed to be home? Or at work? Or not pacing around my basement like you’re trying to burn a hole into the carpet?”

Steve ignored him, and that alone was weird enough that Mike, Lucas, and Will exchanged glances. Steve never ignored Dustin. Not unless something had gone very, very wrong.

Steve raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. He crossed the room, turned around, crossed it again, muttering under his breath. “She said we’d talk later. Later. Which could mean anything. What if something happens? What if she changes her mind? What if—”

Will’s pencil rolled off the table as he slowly lowered it. Mike froze mid-chew with a pretzel rod sticking out of his mouth. Lucas leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. Dustin set his pencil down slowly, staring at Steve with an expression that drew gradually from confusion into dawning horror. “Why do you look like you’re waiting for the apocalypse?”

Steve stopped pacing. “I mean—it might be. For me.”

Mike slapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh. Lucas elbowed him hard. Will quietly slid his chair just a few inches farther away from the table.

Dustin rose from his seat like someone being pulled upward by invisible strings. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. “Steve. What did you do.”

Steve swallowed. “Okay, so don’t freak out—”

Instant freak-out. Dustin threw his hands up. “Why would you say that? Why would you say that unless there is something to freak out about?”

Will stood. Mike stood. Lucas stood. It was like watching prey animals rise together, ready to bolt.

Steve ran both hands down his face and groaned. “I didn’t do anything. I tried to do something. But, like… the universe hates me. Every time I get close, someone interrupts. Mostly you. Actually, almost always you.”

Dustin blinked twice. “Interrupts what?”

Steve held up a finger like he was about to explain something complicated. “Okay. Just listen. I wanted to talk to her—”

Will paled. Lucas’s eyes widened. Mike mouthed oh no under his breath.

“—because I really like—”

“No.” Dustin cut him off, both hands raised like he was physically blocking the words. “No. No, no, no. You’re not—you can’t—that’s my sister!” He said it like it was a curse, a prophecy, and a threat rolled into one.

Steve exhaled, bracing himself. “Yeah. I know. Believe me, I know. But I—”

Mike took a step toward the stairs. Lucas followed. Will whispered, “should we… leave?”

Mike nodded slowly. “We should leave.”

But Dustin wasn’t paying attention to anything except the tidal wave of emotion crashing over him. He advanced on Steve like a general ready to declare war. “You can’t like her!” Dustin yelled, jabbing a finger into Steve’s chest. “She’s my sister! There are rules!”

Steve threw up his hands. “What rules?”

“The unwritten ones!”

Lucas tugged Will toward the stairs. “Back away slowly.”

“Already doing that,” Will whispered, clutching his sketchbook to his chest.

Mike didn’t even whisper. “Steve, this is gonna be bad. Good luck,” he said before sprinting up the stairs and abandoning him entirely.

Dustin kept going, and Steve kept retreating until his back hit the wall. “You can’t—you can’t just date her! What if you break up? What if things get weird? What if she gets hurt? What if you hurt her? I can't—I can’t be stuck in the middle of that!” Steve opened his mouth to respond, but Dustin didn’t give him a chance. “And I swear—I swear— if you ever hurt her, I will kill you.”

Steve blinked. “Dustin, you can’t even reach my neck.”

“I’ll use a ladder!”

Steve threw his hands up. “Oh my god—listen! I would never hurt her. Ever. I like her. I’ve liked her. For a long time. Okay? That’s why I’m freaking out. That’s why I’m pacing. Because I’m terrified. Not of you—”

“Oh really?” Dustin snapped, crossing his arms.

“—but of her.”

Dustin paused. “Her?”

Steve nodded emphatically. “Yes! Do you remember the demogorgon? Because I do. I watched your sister take a baseball bat with nails in it and swing so hard the thing went flying. I have nightmares about that moment sometimes. She was feral.”

Dustin hesitated. “…okay, yeah, that was cool.”

“It was terrifying!”

“Also cool,” Dustin corrected, but the fire behind his words had dimmed. He stopped pacing, shoulders dropping slightly as the panic drained from his face. “She really was awesome that day.”

Steve softened, his voice calmer now. “I like her because she’s… her. And she deserves someone who actually pays attention. Someone who cares about her, and wants to make her feel safe, and doesn’t push her to be someone she’s not. I’m trying to be that person. But every time I try to tell her how I feel, you interrupt and drag me to test an antenna or fix a wire or—”

“That was important,” Dustin muttered weakly.

“It really wasn’t!”

Dustin went quiet. He looked at Steve, really looked at him, as if seeing him differently for the first time. The frantic defensiveness slowly melted into something begrudging, conflicted, but not outright hostile. After a long silence, Dustin let out a tired breath. “You really like her.”

Steve nodded. “Yeah. I really do.”

“And you’re not gonna screw it up.”

Steve shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

Dustin pressed his lips together, thinking hard, weighing his loyalty to you against his loyalty to Steve. Eventually he let out a groan loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling. “Fine! Fine. But I swear, Harrington, if you hurt her—”

“I know,” Steve said quickly. “Ladder. Got it.”

Dustin pointed at him one last time. “And my point still stands!”

“Which point?”

“That she’s scarier than I’ll ever be.”

Steve actually laughed, shoulders relaxing for the first time in hours. “Yeah. She is.”

Dustin huffed, then turned toward the stairs. “I need a snack. And time to emotionally process this.”

From the top of the stairs, Mike’s voice drifted back down. “Is it safe to come back?”

“No!” Dustin shouted, slamming the door behind him.

And Steve let out a long, relieved breath—because the hardest part was over. Now all he had to do was actually talk to you.

---

You returned home before sunset, the sky outside tinted gold and pink as the heat of the day finally began to fade. The girls piled out of your car with arms full of pretzels, shopping bags, and the chaotic energy of teenagers loose in a mall. Max jogged ahead toward the front door, Eleven lingered close to you with a quiet smile, and Robin walked backward while lecturing both of them about “the importance of proper snack distribution in a household ecosystem.”

But the moment you stepped inside, the energy shifted. Something hung in the air—not tension, exactly, but a strange, anticipatory stillness. The lights in the living room were on. The TV was off. Steve was perched on the edge of the couch like he’d been waiting for hours and didn’t know what to do with his hands, his posture, or his entire existence.

Dustin stood beside him, arms crossed, nodding solemnly like he had just finished delivering a very long speech. All three girls froze mid-step.

Steve shot to his feet the second he saw you. “Hey. You’re back.”

You blinked, half smiling. “Yeah. We—"

“You,” Dustin interrupted loudly, pointing at Steve with one hand and at you with the other, “need to talk. Now. Immediately. Right now.”

You stared at him. “Dustin?”

Dustin nodded with the seriousness of a courtroom judge. “I’ve… reflected.” He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “And I have decided that I am granting you two permission to have a conversation without interruptions.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Oh god. He found out, didn’t he.”

Max elbowed Eleven and whispered, “told you.”

Steve’s face turned the shade of someone who had been emotionally waterboarded all afternoon. “Reflected,” he muttered. “He screamed at me for twenty minutes.”

Dustin glared at him. “Emotional reflection is loud sometimes.”

Robin snorted. Max barely held in a laugh. Eleven leaned close and whispered, “he must’ve been very loud.”

Dustin cleared his throat theatrically and stepped forward like he was taking center stage. “Anyway,” he said, arms spreading with dramatic flair, “I am officially leaving the premises. As are the rest of you.” He pointed toward the door like a tiny general evacuating troops. “Go. All of you. Get out. I need this to happen so my sister stops looking at Steve like a kicked puppy and Steve stops pacing grooves into our floor.”

Your face went hot. “Dustin!”

“What?” he said. “It’s embarrassing. For both of you. Fix it.”

Steve groaned into his hands.

Max shrugged and headed for the hallway. “Come on. Let’s leave the awkward adults alone.”

Eleven nodded gravely. “Important moment.”

Robin gave Steve a long, slow, knowing smirk. “Don’t choke, dingus.”

And just like that, the girls disappeared down the hall. Dustin lingered one more second, squinting at Steve like a overprotective watchdog. “Remember,” he warned, “I will absolutely end you if—”

“I know!” Steve snapped. “Ladder. Got it.”

“Good.” Dustin huffed, then looked at you, softened, and squeezed your arm gently. “He’s nervous. Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” you murmured.

Steve made a strangled noise. Dustin pointed at him one more time, then marched off after the others. And then there was silence. The house felt suddenly huge. The space between you and Steve felt even bigger. He let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at you with a dozen emotions flickering across his face—fear, hope, determination, affection. “So,” he said, voice rough but warm, “we… finally have a minute.”

You stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind you. “We do.”

He didn’t sit. He didn’t pace. He stayed exactly where he was, like moving even a step might break whatever fragile, shimmering moment had finally landed in his hands. “Look,” he started, letting his arms fall to his sides, “I’ve been trying to tell you something for—actually, I don’t even know how long anymore. Weeks? Months? A while. And I kept messing it up. Or people kept messing it up. Mostly Henderson.”

You breathed out a soft laugh. “He does that.”

“He does,” Steve agreed. Then his expression shifted—softer now, more sure. “But I’m glad he’s not here right now. Because I… I don’t want to keep dancing around this.”

You looked up at him, and the way he stared back made your chest tighten with something warm and heavy and sweet.

He took a steady breath. “I like you,” he said simply, without theatrics or stumbling, every word shaped with sincerity. “I really, really like you. More than I meant to. More than I planned to. Definitely more than I told Dustin when he cornered me today.”

You blinked, startled. “He cornered you?”

“Oh yeah. Full interrogation mode. I thought he was gonna map out my emotional failings on a chalkboard.” He shook his head, then took another step toward you, closing the distance until he was right in front of you—close enough to feel the quiet warmth radiating between you.

Your breath caught.

Steve swallowed, voice dropping softer. “And I know you’re… you. You get quiet. And nervous. And sometimes I can’t tell what you’re thinking. But I’ve seen the way you look at me sometimes. The same way I probably look at you. And I just—I needed you to know. Even if it freaked you out. Even if it scared me to say it.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, skipping unevenly as you tried to gather your voice. “It doesn’t freak me out.”

He smiled—small, startled, almost relieved. “No?”

You shook your head, letting your eyes meet his without dropping away this time. “I… like you too.”

The warmth that spread across his face was immediate—bright, soft, disbelieving in a way that made something inside you loosen and settle all at once. He let out a breath he had clearly been holding for far too long, his shoulders dropping as tension melted from them.

He reached for your hand slowly, giving you room to pull back. You didn’t. His fingers brushed yours, then curled around them gently—warm and steady, not asking for anything more than the space you chose to give. “I was really scared you’d say no,” he admitted quietly.

“I was scared you’d get tired of trying,” you whispered.

He laughed under his breath—a soft, breathless sound—and shook his head. “Not a chance.”

The moment stretched comfortably, a soft glow settling between you both like something that had been waiting a long time to finally land. Then, from down the hall, “is it safe yet!?” Dustin shouted.

Steve groaned, squeezing your hand. “He’s going to make this so complicated.”

You smiled—full, warm, a little shy but no longer afraid of the feeling settling inside your chest. “We’ll handle him.”

Steve grinned. “Yeah. We will.”

And this time, nothing interrupted the moment you shared—warm hands, quiet breath, and the certainty that this was only the beginning.

everything taglist: @clxt-lamb1 @person-005

When you plop down in his lap, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t groan —annoyed he may be, but cruel he is not. A hand flies automatically to the small of your back as you settle your weight against one of the armrests. 

His eyes relax, though his frown lingers. 

“Did you hear me?” you ask. “I said I’m sorry you got the blame.” 

“Well, I don’t want you to be sorry,” he says, like it’s obvious. 

“It’s nice to be sorry when the people we love get bitched at.”

“Who said I want apologies from you?” he asks, believably pissed until he continues, “You literally never do anything wrong, ever. Shut up.” 

“I like your tone.”

“Just. Why does everyone hate me?” 

You laugh, which does nothing to help his bad mood. Hand bracing against the slight of his jaw, you lean in slowly until you’re kissing his tense mouth. He stays like a statue, letting you kiss him without leading into it, perhaps without even closing his eyes. Your own are shuttered, leaving the world dark as you turn your hand against his cheek to draw nothingshapes into his stubble. The softest of soft touches until you’ve climbed to his cheekbone. Then you turn your hand back and sew your fingers into his silky hair. 

His lips give a little. He melds under touching, can’t keep fighting the smile his lips want to curl into as you scrabble at his face and hair. Your free hand slinks down his neck to flirt with the triangle of chest he’s exposed, holding there, twitching uselessly when he parts his mouth and licks at your tongue, your teeth, a subdued sigh escaping him like he’s found something warming there.

You pull away enough to check he’s totally into things before you give a sigh all your own, a whiny, breathy thing meant to provoke him and somehow entirely real, brought upon by the splayed, thick fingers of his hand where they’re gripping your back. He shoves your shirt up to feel your skin. Nothing more than that. Just to touch you. 

He settles as you pull apart, face chasing yours before he realises you’re catching your breath quietly. 

“Do I hate you?” you ask, catching the want in the glaze of his eyes as he sinks back into the couch. 

“You love me,” Steve says, as though this is a very generous thing to give, made worse by his obvious breathlessness. 

All the bitchy heat seems to have drained from Steve in one fell swoop. His hand softens where it’s been gripping your back, his jaw losing that wretched rigidity. He pokes you in the chest and kisses your nose when you look down, which somehow turns into slow, sluggish kisses pressed half-open around your nose and against the corner of your lips. 

“Lost my shit all day when all I needed was you,” he murmurs, with the good sense to sound somewhat shame-faced. 

“When all you needed was to blow off steam,” you correct. 

“That’s not what that was,” he says, tipping your chin up to kiss you again. When he speaks again, it makes your lips buzz. “S’like you snuffed out all the bad. You don’t get how much I need you.”

Loser, you think, heavy and unapologetic in his lap.

You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.

Until the knocking starts.

Correction: pounding.

Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.

You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.

But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.

It’s Robin.

Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.  

You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.

“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.

Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.

The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.

This time? She’s brought a car with her.

A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.

Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.

A boy.

Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead. 

You squint.

“Who the fuck is that?” … Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.

You don’t know him. Not really.

Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.

But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.

Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.

Poof. King Steve: dethroned.

Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.

You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.

You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.

And Robin Buckley had Steve.     

Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.

He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker. 

You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.

Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.

He smiled. You didn’t smile back.

You didn’t care.  

It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)

But now, he’s here.

Dying on your lawn.

Ruining your Friday. … Up close, he looks worse.

Biblically bad.

Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.

His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.

His eyes flutter.

Then, absurdly, he smiles.

“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”

You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.

“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”

He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.

Then promptly goes limp. … “It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”

Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.

“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”

You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”

Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”

“Robin.”

“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”

Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.

You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”

“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”

You level her with a look.

She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”

You glance down at Steve.

His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.” … You do fix him.

Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming. 

And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.

Like he’s sorry.

Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.

You hate that.

You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.

You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.

And something inside you goes still. 

These are... bite marks.

Not scrapes. Not scratches.

Bites.

His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.

Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.

“Jesus christ,” you whisper.

You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.

Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.

Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die. 

You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:

“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”

Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.

“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.  

You blink. “Bats.”

“Like. Big ones? Really big?”

You stare at her. Then at Steve.  

You don’t believe her.

But also… you kind of do.    

Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.

It fed. … “Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”

She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.

“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”

“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”

“Right. On it.”

She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.

You turn back to Steve.

His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.

“Harrington. You with me?”

His hand twitches once, thumb up. … He doesn’t scream.

You wish he would.

Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.

But Steve just… takes it.

His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.

You kind of hate him for it.

Because you know this type.

Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.

You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.

It’s not bravery. It’s habit.

A mask. 

And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.

Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.

You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.

Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.  

Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.

“Shit. S-sorry.”

You don’t answer.

You can’t. … It takes two hours.

Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.

It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.

Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.

Of course he does.

In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.  

As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.

“Talk.”

Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.

“…Demobats.” She mutters.

 “I’m sorry?”

“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”

You wait. There’s no punchline.

“…You’re serious.”

She nods.

And then it all spills out.

Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.

You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”

But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.

And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.

“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”

“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”

“And you were tortured?”

 “I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”

“Jesus christ, Robin.”

“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”

She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”

You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”

“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”

You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.

Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”

You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”

She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.

You scowl.

“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”

Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.

You stiffen. Then sigh.

“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.

“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.” …   Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.

You stay on the couch next to Steve.

Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.

You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.

You stay up.

Because someone has to. … It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.

Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.

But then his lips part.

Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.

“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”

It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.

You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.

And goddammit.

Goddammit, you didn’t want this.

Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly. 

Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.

But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.  

Without thinking, you lean forward.

Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.

“Steve,” you whisper.

No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.

Your throat tightens.

You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.

His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.

“You’re okay. You’re safe.”

And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.

You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people. She meant hearts. You meant bones. You’re starting to think maybe she was right. … You wake to yelling.

Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.

“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”

“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”

There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”

“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.

“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”

“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”

“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”

“Yes, I can.”

“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”

“Why do you always do that?”

“Because it works!”

You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.

“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”

Instant silence.

When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.

“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”

“Unfortunately.”

Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”

You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.

You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not.”

“I just need to—”

“Now, Harrington.”

You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”

Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.

Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.

You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?” … The coffee is yesterday’s.

Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.

You pour three cups anyway.

Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.

Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.

Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.

Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.

You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:

“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”

He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”

“Clearly.”     

He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.

“Thank you. For last night.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.” 

He huffs a weak laugh.

“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”

Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.

“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”

She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.

“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.

Gives his face a little shake.

“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”

You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"

“Got it?”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”

She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”

Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.

“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”

Slam!

“—licensed.”

You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.

Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.  

He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”

You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.

It hurts worse looking at him.

Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.

You blink.

Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.

“Harrington.”

“Yeah?”

“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”  

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.

You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”  

He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”

You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.

You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.

And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know. … You try to make pancakes.

Try being the operative word.

There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.

Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.

It’s distracting.

It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.

Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.   

“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.

You don’t turn around. “Fine.”

A beat.

“You sure?”

You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.

Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.

“I said I’m fine,” you warn.

He ignores that.

Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.

“Here,” he murmurs.

Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.

Then: flip.

One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.

You blink at it, betrayed.

“I was handling it.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”

He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.

You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?” 

He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”

You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.

You file that away, too.

“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”

“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”

He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”

You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”

He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

And fuck, it lands.

It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.

You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.

And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.

You lunge for it like a lifeline.

It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.

“Hello? …You WHAT?”

Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”

“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”

“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”   

You glance back.

Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.    

You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.

He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?

You raise your brows like, Try me.

You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”

“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"

Click.

Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.

“She grounded?”

“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”

He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”

Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.

You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.

In your head, you run through the math.

Ten days. Minimum.

Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.

God help you. It’s gonna be a long week. … Breakfast is awkward.

No other word for it.

Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.

Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.

Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.

When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.

“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”  

His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.

You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”

“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.

“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.

The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.

You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.   

He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.

The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.

Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—

Jesus.

He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.

You get the hoodie off.

His chest is bare.

And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.

His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.

You both freeze.

There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.  

Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.

Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.   

You don’t.

You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.

“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”

Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.

Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”

He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.

You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat. … There’s an old joke your friends like to make.

That you’re a sadist.

That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.

But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.

You’re not a sadist.

No. What you are is a fucking masochist.

Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.

Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.

You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.

But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.

Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.

You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.

Something twists low in your stomach.

You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.

A light knock.

“You good?”

A pause, then:

“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”

There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.

And Steve—

Well.

He’s wet.

And shirtless. And pink.

Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.

Your gaze follows it.

The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.

He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.

“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.” 

Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.

You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.

Instead, you say:

“Sit.” 

He blinks. “…What?”

“On the floor. Back against the tub.”

There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.  

You don’t blink.

He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”

“Steve.”

It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.

His first name, in your voice. 

You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.

But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.

He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.

Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.

One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.  

You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.

“Lean your head back.”

He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."

There’s a long pause.

Then he does.

His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.

The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.

“Too hot?”

He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”

So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead. 

It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.

Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.

And that’s when it happens.

The shift.

Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.

Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.

No, he goes rigid.

His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.

And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.

A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.

You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”

His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”

Then, after a beat:

“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”

Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.

You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.

“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.

So you keep going.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.    

And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.

His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.

Then, he leans.

Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.

Like a plant bending toward light.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.

And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.

Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?

The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.

King Steve.

But this? This isn’t him.

This is the After.                                                                                       

The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.

The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.

This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.

And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.

And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.  

You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.

But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.

And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.

You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.

And then a quiet thought hits you.   

A hunch, really.

You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.

You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat. 

Strangled. That’s what Robin said.  

You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.

Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.

But you don’t let up.

You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.

There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.

He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.

“Too hard?” you ask quietly.

His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”

The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.  

And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.

He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.

And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.

At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.

That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.

It wants to lean in.

Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.

Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.

To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.

God, you’re losing it.

You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.

Cross. Adjust.

You glance down without thinking.

And oh.

Oh.

The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.

And beneath that?

Yeah.

Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.

You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.

His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.

His eyes flutter open.

And the look he gives you…

It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.

Softer than longing. Sharper than want.

It's something that aches.

You don’t know what to do with it.

So you just keep your hands in his hair.

And you rinse.   … You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.

After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.

The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.

When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.

Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.

His eyes are still on you.

“Thanks,” he says, quiet.  

You nod, not trusting your voice.

The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.

Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.

His breath brushes your cheek.

You’re too close.

It’s too much.

You could kiss him. 

God help you, you could.

Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.

And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.

That’s want.

And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.

You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”

Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.

His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”

You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”

He nods, a little too slow.

You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.

Then you turn.

And you walk out.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go. ... It starts the way summer storms do. 

Not with thunder. Not with rain.

With pressure.

The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.

Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.

The moment before it tips. 

It’s here now. In this room.

In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.

The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.

The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.

His voice breaks the quiet.

“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”

“Ten days.”

“Hm. I like this show.”

“Knight Rider?”

“Yeah. It’s cool.”

“No. It’s dumb.”

“What? C’mon, the car talks.”

“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”

“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”

“You hungry?”

“No, you?”

“No.”

And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.

Storm pressure.   

It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.

You can’t.

The blanket’s too warm.

He’s too close.

And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.  

“…You’re doing it again.”

“Hm?”

You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”

His lips part. “Like what?”

Your eyes drop to his mouth.

His pinky brushes yours.

And just like that, the storm breaks. … Steve leans in first.

The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.

Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.

You meet him halfway.

His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.

And then your lips meet.

A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.

There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—

It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.  

Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.

You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.

His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.

Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.

Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.

You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.

“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.  

“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”

You nod, catching your breath.

But he doesn’t stop looking at you

And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

But you know.

You just… know.

The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.

So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.

“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.

Still, you don’t stop. 

You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.

“Jesus,” he breathes. 

You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.

“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”

He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes.   

And that word—

It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.

You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.

Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.

Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.

You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.

And it guts you. The honesty of it.

How easy it is to see now.     

That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want. 

Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.

You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.

His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—

You blink. Your mouth goes dry.

Because he’s—

Wow. Okay.

Noted.

It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.

You swallow hard.

“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”

You look up at him, eyes wide.   

“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”

His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.

And there it is.

That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.

“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”

You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow.  

You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.

He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.

“Shut up,” you mutter.

“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.

You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.

He quiets instantly.

Because your hands are on him now.

You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.

“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.

You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.

“You can touch me,” you murmur.      

His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”

You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”

Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.

Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.  

“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”

You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.  

Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.

And Steve unravels beautifully.

You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.

Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.

Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”

His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.

So you double down.

You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.  

You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.

“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"

You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.

“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”

He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.

Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:

“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?” 

You pause, stunned.  

You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”

You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay.”

You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.

What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.

You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.

The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.

Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.

Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.

“Shit, are you—?”

“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”  

He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.

And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.

“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”

You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.

“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”  

The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.

And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.

“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”

His fingers circle faster.  

And your body breaks.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.     

He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.

“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”

You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.

You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.

“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”

His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.

And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.

And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.

Things too raw for daylight.

Things meant only for him. … You never ask him to stay.

Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.

Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.  

He never asks. You never offer. … You learn the little things first.

That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.

And sometimes, you catch him staring again.

Only now, you don’t look away.  

You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”

He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."

You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.

Then he moves.

Three steps. That’s all it takes.

Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.

“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.

He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”

You don’t.

You kind of never do. … The days bleed together after that.  

A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.

He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.

He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.

A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.

You scowl at checkout. He grins.

“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.

You do.

First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.

Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs. … Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.

It starts to feel owned.  

You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.

He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.

On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.

He’s watching you. Again.   

You glance up. "What?"

He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”

“Steve.”

“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”

You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”

He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.

“Yeah,” he says.

But it’s not what he means.

You both know that. … The sex changes, too.

In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.

But at night? He’s something else entirely.

He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.

And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation. 

He knows you now.

Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.

One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.

“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”

You break on his name.

He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.

And afterward, he stays.

Inside you. Around you.

He never pulls away first. … Not all nights are easy.

Some nights, you wake alone.

You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.    

You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.

He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.

When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.

Lets you guide him back to bed. … Your mornings are different now.  

You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.

It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.

The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.

He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.

Like maybe he was meant to be here all along. … Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count. 

Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.

And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t. … Like tonight.

You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.

It would be so easy to stay here.

To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.

But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.

“Why’d you do it?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.

“…Do what?”  

“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”

He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”

And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.

That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.

Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.

You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.

“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”

His hand stills.

“I’m not.”  

“Not what?”

“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”

You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.

“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”

He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”

Then, quieter:

“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”

Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?

You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.  

The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.

Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel. 

That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.

Sinks its teeth in. Festers.   

Until guilt turns into remorse,

Remorse turns into habit,

And habit drags on as penance.

So he made himself useful.

Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.

Diving first. Bleeding first.

Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.

That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.

You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.  

“You’re for you, Steve.” 

He blinks, brows knitting.

“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”

His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.

Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.

You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.

Eventually, he sleeps.

You don’t.

You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.   

You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.

You stay up.  

Because someone has to. … You get used to the quiet.

Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.

To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.

To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.

You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.

So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.

Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.

You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.

“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”

Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.

You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.

“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”   

You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.

You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”

Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.

“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”

But his ears are pink by the time you close the door. …

After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.

Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker. 

“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”

Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.

You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.

“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?

You glance over your shoulder.

Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.

You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”

Dustin beams. “Awesome.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:

“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”

The room goes still.

Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.

Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.

“No.”

You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”

You blink at him like, Seriously?

He raises his brows like, Try me. 

You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.

He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.

“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”

You frown. “Our what now?”

“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”

You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”

But Steve isn’t laughing.

“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?” … The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.      

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.

You wait.

Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.

Fear.

You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”

He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”

“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”

His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”

“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.” 

For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.

But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.  

“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.

“...I just got you.”

The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.

His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.

“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”   

He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.

He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”

You smile into his shirt. “Deal.” … It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.

The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.

“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”

You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”  

He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”

“You needed it.”

Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.

He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.

The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.

You let it breathe.  

It’s been three weeks.

Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist. 

Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.

Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.

That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.

Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.

The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.   

And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.

You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.

He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.

And he’s learning to let you.

You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”

You hum. “Just thinking.”

“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.

You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:

“I was just… thinking about what you said.”

He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”

“At the gate.”

That’s all you have to say. You both remember.

The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.

I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—

You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:

I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.

You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”

Steve looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”

“When?”

He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.

“Not out loud. But you did.”

You think back.

To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.

Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.

Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.

Your fingers find his jaw.

“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”

He tilts his head, waiting.

And you do.

Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.

And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it. … The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.

But it’s home.

More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.

The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.

Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.

But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.

And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.

It’s just time, now.

Yours.

Together. … Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.

She meant hearts. You meant bones.

Maybe she was right.  

But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

You've named it something else now, anyway. …

epilogue

You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.

You’ve got prep to do for night.

Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.

“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”

You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”

“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”

“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”

He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.

“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”

Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.

Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.

But for now, it’s just him.

Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light. And the sun keeps pouring in.   

And it always sits crooked. Always. Just a few degrees off-kilter, tilted like an afterthought.

But you know better. It's not an accident.

It's a choice. A statement.

A big-ole fuck you in cotton-polyester blend.

And Steve Harrington? He wears that thing like a goddamn crown.

Former high school royalty, alleged lady-killer, owner of the most absurdly perfect hair in a hundred-mile radius.

Once king of the Hawkins High food chain, now demoted to ice cream court jester.

He stands exactly two feet away from you, day after day, under headache-bright fluorescents and a scratched-up sneeze guard, slinging overpriced sludge to sticky-fingered kids and dead-eyed parents.

Six days a week. Eight hours a day.  

And Steve Harrington doesn’t flinch.

Not once.

It’s like your brain commits arson every time you see that sailor hat bobbing around your periphery. Every time you clock the V-dip of the red neckerchief. Those shorts that show way more thigh than any job should legally require.

And god, the way he says "Ahoy."

Announced about a dozen times an hour. Delivered with the kind of forced enthusiasm that sounds like a cry for help, like it physically wounds him every time it leaves his mouth.

It’s not fair. It’s not normal.

But Steve?

He owns it. Every time.

The fake smiles. The playful eyebrow raises. The casual lean over the counter when a herd of teenage girls comes flocking to the register, pretending they came for ice cream and not to gawk at Hawkins’ former prom king doing time in nautical hell. 

And still—still—he doesn’t flinch.

You hate that.

You hate him.  

You hate that he makes it work. That you’re here at all. How this dumbass job in this fluorescent ice cream prison has become your entire summer. How you're trapped here with him, two matching cartoon characters in sailor suits, mopping up toddler puke for minimum wage and the occasional broken cookie.

This is your life now: Scoops Ahoy, where dignity goes to die and all roads lead right back to Steve-motherfucking-Harrington.

But mostly?

You hate that it’s been a month, and you still haven’t figured out a way to stop thinking about him.   ᥫ᭡ He’s late. Again.   

You’ve taken to counting the seconds now, one elbow propped on the register, the other draped across a stack of napkins you were supposed to restock when you clocked in. But no one cares. Certainly not—

Clunk.

The employee door swings open in the back room.

You don’t look up.

“Late again, Harrington.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know—sorry—”

He’s not sorry.

“—but, hey! Look what I brought.”

You glance up just in time to see him bound through the doorway like a Labrador that just discovered a tennis ball. Hair a little damp, polo shirt untucked. And in his hand, held like it’s Excalibur?

A coffee cup.

You narrow your eyes at it, then at him.

“I told you I was quitting caffeine.”

He rolls his eyes, gives you the bitchiest little really? look you’ve ever seen in your life, and sets the cup down on the counter. Slowly rotates it so the logo faces you.

There’s a tea bag string dangling out the side.

He beams. “It’s chamomile! No caffeine. Look at me, being a good coworker.”

You hate that he remembered.

You hate it more that your stomach does a traitorous little flip, and you have to look down at the register to keep from smiling like a loser.

He hums, tapping at the display case. “Strawberry’s low.”

“Wow, look at that. You do work here.”

“Oh excuse me for trying.”

He grins, ducking behind the counter to grab his apron before heading to the back. But then he pauses, just a second too long, one hand on the swinging door.

When you glance over, he’s looking at you.

Staring, more like.

“…What?”

“Nothing, just—” He shrugs. “You replacing it? I gotta change.”

You scoff. “Harrington, the day I replace your precious Strawberry Sailor or whatever the hell it’s called is the day I let you drive my car.”

“Ok, first of all? It’s the S.S. Strawberry.”

“Christ.”

“And second—really? You’d let me drive the Wagoneer?”

“No.”

“Aw, c’mon—”

“It was a metaphor.”

He pouts. Actually pouts. Full lower lip, eyes big and tragic.

“So… that’s a no?”

“Hard no. Stick to your Beemer, pretty boy.”

He grins like it wasn’t the scathing insult you meant it to be. “Oh you think I’m pretty, huh?”     

You freeze, catching his smirk full on, and shove past him so fast you almost send him stumbling. You retreat to the back room before your tongue can betray you with something embarrassing.

The hum of the freezer is loud in the absence of your dignity.

You stare at it, hands braced on cold steel, forehead pressed to the door, trying to ice the thoughts out of your skull.

It takes way too long for your face to stop burning.

Because here’s the thing: 

Steve Harrington is not supposed to be funny. Or sweet. Or thoughtful.

He’s not supposed to remember stupid shit you said two weeks ago while wrestling with a whipped cream canister. He’s not supposed to make you laugh while five-year-olds scream “NO. BLUE. NOW.” in your face.    

He’s not supposed to see you.

He’s supposed to be—

Worse.

He’s supposed to be worse. ᥫ᭡ The thing about working with Steve Harrington is that you learn him faster than the Scoops Ahoy menu.

Which is unfortunate, because the menu is aggressively simple: sixteen flavors, seven toppings, three cone types. One cursed novelty ice cream cake that looks like a Titanic reenactment.

But Steve? Steve’s not simple.

Steve is a mess.

The worst kind. The kind that worms its way under your skin and sticks.

Like glitter. Or day-old gum in your hair.

He grunts when he scoops. Gives himself pep talks under his breath like he’s training for the Dairy Olympics. He gets brain freeze, rubs his forehead like a cartoon character, then immediately does it again like he’s got something to prove.

And also? He hums.

Not good songs. Not cool songs.

The Scoops Ahoy playlist is curated for maximum cheese, and somehow Steve Harrington thinks it’s banger after banger.

Today, it’s “Take On Me.”  

He’s all in: swaying his hips, twirling the scooper like a mic. You’re in the back, elbow-deep in the freezer, pretending not to sneak glances using the pass-through. 

The shorts are still shorting. You’ve made your peace with that.

What you haven’t made peace with is The Straw.

Because Steve has this habit, this thing, where he chews on the end of a plastic straw when he’s bored. Which, in this hellhole, is basically always. He barely drinks the lemonade attached to it. Just chews. Works it between his teeth like it owes him money.

Lips all slick and lazy—he’s got nowhere else to be and nothing better to do but ruin your life one casual jaw flex at a time. There’s frankly an obscene amount of tongue involved for something that’s allegedly absentminded.

You catch him mid-pop, mouth glossy, eyes wandering, like he’s deep in thought about world peace. Or maybe just the words to “Africa.”

You’re three seconds away from swan-diving into the fountain outside.

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, dragging out a tub of rock-solid Vanilla Voyage. “You gonna make out with that thing or what?”

Straw dangling from his lips, he leans in through the window.

“Why, you jealous?”

You slam the tub down like a threat.

“Yeah. Totally. I’ve always dreamed of being tongue-fucked by a guy in a sailor costume.”

Well.

Shit.

Steve blinks. His mouth opens then closes again like his brain short-circuited halfway through a comeback.

Then he lets out a soft snort, shakes his head, and turns back to the register.

You close your eyes. Maybe you could fit inside the deep freezer. Just curl up next to the Ocean Breeze Sherbet and fade into oblivion.

If only you didn’t catch his face right before he turned.

That tiny patch of color, right under his cheekbones:

S.S. Strawberry-pink. ᥫ᭡ Sundays are hell.

By noon, the store turns into a warzone: a hellish cocktail of crying toddlers, sleep-deprived parents, and preteens on sugar benders demanding triple scoops like it’s a constitutional right. Somewhere in the corner, a baby starts wailing. The floor is already a minefield of sticky napkins and waffle cone shrapnel.

And then it happens.

The worst sound in the Scoops Ahoy auditory catalog:

Velcro sneakers slapping tile.

A sea of neon tie-dye floods through the entrance. Tiny gremlins shrieking and giggling like they’ve just escaped captivity, herded by a single, dead-eyed camp counselor trailing behind them.

Steve sighs like he’s being drafted. “Incoming.”

“You take the loud ones,” you mutter, already retreating toward the toppings station.

“They’re all loud.”

“Exactly.”

The first kid beelines straight for the display case and smushes her entire face to the glass, fogging it up. You’re going to have to clean that. Again.

The questions start before anyone’s even picked a flavor.

“Do you have anything that tastes like watermelon but not pink?”

“Can I get a cup inside a cone?”

“My cousin says if I eat too much sugar I’ll explode. Is that true?”

You shoot a glance at Steve.  

He’s already crouched down, eye-level with a kid who’s just slapped a crumpled dollar on the counter with the swagger of a high-stakes gambler.

“I want the biggest ice cream you have.”

Steve raises a brow. “Biggest? You sure, dude? That’s a pretty serious request.”

“I’m eight.”

“Oh, well if that’s the case.” He nods solemnly, then stands, tossing you a grin. “Well? You heard the man. Triple Decker Extravaganza.”

You sigh, reaching for the scooper. “If he pukes, it’s your turn to mop.” ᥫ᭡ The rhythm is second nature now.

He scoops, you top. He wipes down, you ring up. A weird little dance born from too many shifts with someone you pretended not to like for way too long.

It’s seamless. Unspoken. Stupidly easy.

And maybe it’s that. Or maybe it’s the way he’s crouched down again, high-fiving a kid who just declared “Mint chip is for teachers” like it’s the most brilliant thing he’s heard all week.  

But really, it’s this:

The crowd’s changed.

The giggling teen girls that used to swarm the counter? They don’t come around anymore. Novelty burned off like mist.

Turns out, even teenage ridicule has a shelf life.

What’s left now are the kids. The regulars.

The ones who sprint up to the counter asking for Steve. Not you. Not even the ice cream.

Steve.

They beg for tricks—scooper flips, upside-down cones, dumb games where he dares them to pick a mystery flavor. They want him to guess their favorite color, their favorite animal. He almost always gets it right.

Sometimes he’ll be on break, slumped on a milk crate with a half‑eaten banana and a look that says ten more minutes or I quit, and a kid will march up to you and ask, “Can Steve do mine instead?”

You brace for the eye-roll. The groan. The Are you kidding me?

But Steve?

Steve lights up.

He doesn’t just tolerate the chaos, he lives for it. The noise, the mess, the full-sprint joy of it all. Like it feeds something he doesn’t get anywhere else.

And maybe, you think, it’s something a little more than that. More than the hyperactive kids and the excuse to act silly in a cartoonish sailor hat.

Maybe it’s the being needed.

Being seen.

Knowing that someone tiny and honest looks up at him and thinks:

He’ll get it right. He’ll make it better.

You’re watching them now—the summer campers, clawing their way over the vinyl booths, sticky with glitter and sugar and god knows what else—when one of the smallest kids toddles up to the counter.

She’s tiny, maybe six.

She holds something out to Steve.

A drawing.

Crayon-smudged. Sloppy. Wonderful.

It's an ice cream cone wearing a cape and a tiny sailor hat.

“It’s you,” she says. “But like, a superhero.”

And Steve...

Steve just stares. Eyes gone achingly soft in that wide, blinking way.

Then, slowly, he crouches down.      

“Hey,” he says. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. You made this?”

She nods, twisting her lanyard between nervous fingers.

“Can I keep it?”

She nods again, shy smile blooming.

“I’m gonna hang it up in the back. So I see it every shift.”

He takes the paper like it’s made of glass. Holds it with both hands, cradles it.

And you watch.

You watch him stand there long after she’s gone, tracing his thumb over the crayon lines. Like if he lets go too soon, it might disappear.

And it’s in that moment—somewhere between his smile and the way his fingers linger on every scribble like it matters—that something just… snaps into focus.

It’s like you’ve been squinting at him through a funhouse mirror this whole time. Sailor hat, dorky shorts, dumb jokes.

But now?

Now all of that falls away.

And all you see is him.

Steve.

This dumbass you’ve worked with all summer. The one you swore you wouldn’t like. The one you promised yourself you’d hate.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

The worst part of this job isn’t the sticky counters or the screeching toddlers.  

It’s that you can’t hate Steve Harrington the way you’re supposed to.

Not since he quietly slipped a crumpled five into the tip jar after a family of seven stiffed you. Not since he wrapped your hand with the first-aid kit after that milkshake blender incident, called you a “klutz” but refused to let you near the machine for a month.

Not since that gaggle of overgrown teens—his, even if he’ll never admit it—first showed up demanding free scoops. He always gives in. Even when it comes out of his paycheck. Even when he grumbles the whole time.

You watched him clean chocolate syrup off the curly-haired one’s shirt, muttering, “Dude, c’mon,” while using the hem of his own uniform to wipe the stain away.

You’re not supposed to notice things like that.

You’re not supposed to care.

But summer has teeth.  

And you let it bite you the day you walked into Scoops, saw the guy in the sailor suit with the unfairly pretty eyes, and—instead of turning around—stayed.

Now, here you are. Standing behind the toppings station, plastic spoon in hand, watching him hold that kid’s drawing like it’s proof of life.

It’s there that you feel it.

The shift.

Because when you look back on this summer—when the mall’s gone dark, when the smell of freezer burn fades from your hair, when Scoops Ahoy is just another entry on a long list of bad jobs—

This is what you’ll remember.

This exact second.

The one where you stopped pretending.

The one where you realized you’re screwed.

Utterly and irreversibly fucked. ᥫ᭡ Eventually, the mob clears.

Kids wander off in clumps, half-finished cones dripping down their arms. They wave enthusiastically at Steve, who beams and waves back.

You lean against the counter with a groan. “Pretty sure I pulled something scooping for that last one.”

Steve rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck.

“Worth it.” ᥫ᭡ You’re on break.

Well, technically, you’re not. But Steve scribbled a “Back in 10!” sign on a napkin (complete with a smiley face and what you think is supposed to be an anchor) and slapped it to the glass.

So yeah. Good enough.

Now you're sitting by the mall fountain. The bench is too hot from the sun pouring through the atrium glass, and your legs stick to the plastic like the worst kind of summer betrayal. A tray of lukewarm fries sits between you, salt soggy from condensation. The last of a melting Coke sweats in a cup you’re both too lazy to toss.

Steve’s already stolen most of the good fries.

You’re watching a group of kids toss pennies into the fountain, their faces scrunched with the kind of hope only eight-year-olds can get away with. Like their wishes would end up as anything more than glorified litter headed straight for a clogged drainpipe.

Wordlessly, Steve reaches over and plucks the last decent fry right out of your hand.

You stare at him. “That’s theft, you know.”

He grins mid-chew, a smear of ketchup bright on his bottom lip. “Sharing’s caring.”

"Give me one good reason not to shove you into that fountain.”

He leans back, all long limbs and smugness. “I’d drag you in with me.”

You sigh like he’s the greatest burden you’ve ever endured. He smirks like it’s his greatest achievement.

The midafternoon light pours through the glass ceiling, painting the ends of his hair honey-gold. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

And that’s when you notice it.

His fingers, drumming lightly against the bench. Barely audible over the mall noise, but you notice. You notice everything about him these days.

“You okay?” you ask, before you even mean to.

His eyes flick to you, sharp, then soften.   

“Yeah,” he nods. “Just… tired.”

You nod back. Because same. 

The mall hums around you. The whir of the Orange Julius blender dying a slow death. Kids’ laughter. The chatter of bored shoppers. The AC kicking on like distant thunder.

Steve slurps the last of the Coke and tosses the straw into the cup. Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the fountain.

After a minute, he says it. Almost too quietly to hear:

"You ever think about just… leaving?"

You blink over at him, surprised.  

His neckerchief’s askew. There’s a smear of chocolate syrup on his sleeve. His sailor hat is crumpled and sitting upside down in his lap.

But out here, outside the awful white fluorescents of Scoops, in this strange afternoon stillness, he looks tired. Older, somehow.    

“Like... Bonnie-and-Clyde it?”   

He snorts, quiet. “No, just like—get in the car. Take off for a bit. Get out of Hawkins.” He shrugs, eyes on the floor as he nudges a scuff mark with his shoe. “Go somewhere where not everyone’s known you since kindergarten, you know? Just… figure out what else is out there.”

You watch him for a long moment. Then you say, voice quiet:

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

He nods, like he’s been holding his breath for your answer.

And because silence makes you squirm, because you’re not brave enough for whatever this is becoming, you flick a soggy fry at his face.

Hard.

It hits him square on the nose.

“Jesus—what the hell?” He scrubs his face, bewildered.

You shrug. “For being corny.”

Steve laughs. A real one. The kind that starts low in his chest and rolls out of him until he’s leaning back, hair flopping into his eyes, grinning like an idiot.

“So much for honesty, huh?”

“It’s overrated.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners in that way you’ve always kind of liked.

Then he flicks the fry back.

It misses by a mile. ᥫ᭡ You’re five minutes to closing when it happens.

You’re wiping down the counter, Steve’s putting away the cones. And then—

Footsteps.

Heavy. Confident. A swagger that doesn’t belong in a mall ice cream shop.

You both look up.

The guy’s around your age. Gold chain. Gum snap. Letterman jacket even though it’s ninety degrees outside. You clock it immediately: The Type. 

Steve sees it too, shoulders pulling back, jaw set. That customer-service smile is already plastered on.

The guy saunters up like he owns the place. “Yo, can I—”

Then his eyes land on Steve.

Double-take.

“No way,” he says, grinning wide. “You’re Harrington, right?”

Steve’s voice is completely neutral. “Yeah.”

“Dude!” The guy laughs like they’re best friends. They’re not. “Man. Steve Harrington. Didn’t you used to be, like, varsity everything? Basketball? Baseball?”

Steve nods, noncommittal. “Yup. Bit of everything.”

The guy whistles low. “Damn. You were the guy in high school. And now you’re, uh…”

He glances around the store. “…here.”

Subtle.

But Steve doesn’t flinch. “Yeah. Summer job, you know? Ice cream’s not gonna scoop itself.”

The guy snorts, gives the uniform a little once-over. “Yeah, no, I get it, man. Hustle and grind or whatever.” 

Then he leans in, like he’s letting Steve in on some great cosmic joke. “Still. Wild, seeing you like this. With the hat and everything.”

Steve doesn’t respond. But you do. 

“Sorry,” you say, syrupy-sweet. “We’re fresh out of Pathetic Dickhead Swirl today.”

Eh, not your sharpest. But it lands.

The guy blinks, regards you for the first time. “What?”

You lean over the display, palms pressed against the icy top. “I said: we don’t serve entitled assholes here. But if you’re hungry, there’s a perfectly good dumpster out back.”

Better.

The jock bristles, forcing out a laugh that’s more teeth than humor. Then he turns to Steve, eyes narrowing like he’s expecting backup. “What, is this your little sidekick?”

Steve’s jaw ticks at that.  

He looks the guy dead in the eye, voice low and even, colder than you’ve ever heard it.

“Hey man. I’m just here to scoop ice cream. You want something or not?”

There’s a pause. The guy blinks, brain clearly working overtime, though you doubt it’s capable of much more than remembering his gym locker combo.

Then he mutters something under his breath and slinks off.

The moment he’s gone, it’s like the pressure in the room drops.

You hadn’t even realized you were holding your breath.

Steve stands rigid, eyes locked on the spot where the guy disappeared.

You glance at him, waiting. Then give his arm a soft nudge. “Want me to go after him? Dump some hot fudge down his pants?”

He blinks, then huffs out a breath. Not quite a laugh, but something close.

“Don’t bother. Waste of good fudge.” ᥫ᭡ Steve Harrington has this way of taking up space.

Not just physically—though, with the way he sprawls across the chair in the break room, you’d think he pays rent on it.

Not just with noise—god knows there’s plenty of that, too: bad puns, worse singing, yawns so dramatic you’d swear he’s suffering more than anyone else alive.

But more like… emotionally. Energetically. Existentially.

He hums when he thinks. Taps when he’s nervous. His presence is a constant, like the freezer fan that never shuts up or the mall Muzak playing ABBA on an infinite loop.

And somehow, people just gravitate to him. To that offbeat, magnetic kind of ease.

Not because he’s smooth or cool or whatever he used to be. He’s not, really. Half the time, he’s fumbling with the register or forgetting where he left the sprinkles tub.

But the way he does it—like it matters, like he’s trying—makes all the difference.

He doesn’t chase the attention. Doesn’t even seem to notice when it’s there.

It just finds him. Rolls on and sticks, like lint on a sweater.

And sure, yeah, maybe you’ve noticed. Maybe you’ve more than noticed.

But you're not supposed to fall for a guy like that.

A guy who wears knee-high socks with tragic levels of pride. Who says things like, “You can’t triple-scoop a double cone” like he’s defending a moral law.

A guy who, despite all that, is still good at the job. Fast on register. Patient with customers. He’s even sharp with inventory, which you’d previously believed to be physically impossible for someone with that much hair and that little visible brain activity.

And if you’re being honest—not that you ever plan to be—the whole Scoops gig would be hell of a lot worse without him. For all his boyish charm and tragic hairspray addiction, he makes the days suck a little less.

Still.

Does he have to look at you like that?

Like today. Like now.

You’re wiping down the display case ten minutes before open, gearing up for another thrilling shift in dairy-based retail hell, when you catch him behind the counter, just… staring.

“What?” you mutter, not looking up.

He blinks, then nods toward the sneeze guard. “Missed a spot.”

You reward him with a face-full of damp rag.

“Hey!”

“You said I missed a spot.”

He tosses it back.

Misses. Again.   ᥫ᭡   Some days, you wonder whether homicide by ice cream scoop would legally count as self-defense.

Today is one of those days.

“Thank you! Now, was that so hard?”

Middle-aged. Over-tanned into leather territory. Wearing sunglasses indoors and radiating that special brand of entitlement reserved for people who’ve never worked a service job a day in their lives.

You bite back a sigh and pass her demon spawn, who’s changed his order four times in under two minute, his cursed request: "The blue one, but no sharks, but also sprinkles, but not touching."

You had the audacity to pause—to make sure the sprinkles weren’t, god forbid, touching—and she’d glared at you like you’d slapped her child.

“Anything else I can do for you?” you smile, teeth grinding.  

“No, just your job,” she hums, then flounces off like she’s solved world hunger with that zinger.

Your left eye twitches. You fantasize about hurling the nearest waffle cone like a ninja star.

That’s when Steve appears at your side, bumping your arm with his elbow.

“Come on. Back hallway. Five minutes.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He plucks the service bell off the window and sets it in front of the register.

Then, before you can argue, he takes your hand.

Threads his fingers through yours. Easy, like it’s no big deal.

And just like that, you follow. ᥫ᭡ The service corridor behind Scoops Ahoy isn’t made for moments.

The walls are an uninspired shade of off-white. The linoleum is scuffed to hell. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering like they’re one bad day from giving up entirely.

You lean back against the door with a dull thunk, scrubbing a hand down your face.

“I hate people.”

Steve settles in beside you, shoulder to shoulder, thigh brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he nods quietly. “They suck.”

The silence that follows stretches. Thick, but not uncomfortable. Just the kind that says more than any rant ever could.

His hand is still wrapped around yours.

You glance down, then up at him. “Why do you even work here?”

You’re aiming for light. For a distraction.

He shrugs. “I like the hat.”

You snort.  

Then, softly:

“...You.”

You blink, eyes snapping over. “What?”

He doesn’t meet your gaze. Just stares down at his sneaker like they’ve got answers he hasn’t worked out yet.

“I mean… yeah, I needed a job. But you’re kinda the reason I stuck with it.”

You go still.

He’s fidgeting with the hem of his shirt now, jaw tight, shoulders hunched like he’s bracing for impact.

And he looks... god, he looks nervous. You’ve never seen Steve nervous. 

“Steve…” you murmur, unsure.

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You just—you make it feel less dumb. This job. The hat. Like I don’t hate showing up when I know I’ll see you. It’s stupid, right?”

You turn to face him fully.

Your smile wobbles, caught somewhere between amusement and something else entirely.

“You could’ve just told me you like me, Harrington.”

He finally meets your eyes.

There’s no smirk. No sarcasm. Just a quiet breath, and a nod.

“Okay,” he says. “I like you.”   

It hits you like a warm wave. Simple. Honest. Inevitable.

Your smile breaks wider as he steps in.

His hand lifts to your jaw, slow and feather-light, still giving you space to pull away.

You don’t.

You lean in. ᥫ᭡ It starts soft.

A breath. A heartbeat. A question asked with the press of his lips against yours.  

You answer by pulling him close.

One hand slips into his hair, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. The other stays laced tight with his. You can feel the heat pouring off him, his whole body thrumming with tension like he’s been holding this in for weeks.

You exhale softly into his mouth, and something in him gives way.

He presses you back against the metal door, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The chill bites through your shirt, but all you feel is him—his shape, his weight, the low groan vibrating against your lips when you tug at his hair. Cherry syrup and that half-faded cologne he only remembers to wear on good days.

He lifts your joined hands, pinning them gently beside your head. The back of his hand flexes as he adjusts his grip, anchoring you there. His mouth trails lower, brushing along your jaw, down the curve of your throat, each kiss slow enough to make you shiver. Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut.  

“Jesus,” you breathe, half-laughing, half-dazed. “Y-you must really like me, huh?”

He smiles against your skin, breath hot. “What gave it away?"

You laugh as he kisses you again, deeper this time, thumb dragging slow, dizzying circles along the sliver of bare skin above your waistband. Your free hand slips up under his shirt, palm grazing warm skin, lean muscle. He sucks in a sharp breath, teeth catching gently on your bottom lip.

He pulls back, breath ragged, lips barely leaving yours. "God, I've been—been thinking about this for weeks."

Your stomach jolts. Your knees threaten collapse. You’re halfway to climbing him like a tree when—

Ding!

You both freeze.

He falters for half a second. Then, stubbornly, he leans back in. Kisses you again. Softer this time, like punctuation.  

“Steve,” you murmur, dazed. “The bell.”

He noses at your cheek, still pressed close, still not letting go. “Hm? What bell?”

“Hellooo? Anyone working here?”

You flinch. Steve groans and drops his head to your shoulder.

Still, he pulls back, peeling off your body like molasses, gaze lingering on your face the whole time. His thumb brushes your cheek, once, before he lets his fingers slip free from yours.

Then he’s gone. Back through the door. Back to the register and the endless drone of summer crowds.

You stay behind.

Spine against the wall, lips tingling, chest heaving like you just ran a mile.

It takes five whole minutes for your legs to stop shaking.

You can still taste him.

It’s barely July.

But for the first time all summer, two more months doesn’t feel like nearly enough time.

a/n: this fic will likely have one more part! pt.2 will be a lot angstier 🥲

He wasn’t looking at the three of you. Darlene, the singer, was staggering to her feet, looking unsteady and exhausted in a way that went beyond physicality, but you paid her little mind. You were more concerned about the man with his head half-bloody as he slowly approached the sobbing girl on the floor.

The girl with plenty of names, who all this revolved around. Rose. Rosie. Boots. She was sobbing over the man who’d called her the latter name, a sound all wild and complicated. She hadn’t cried like that over her sister, who was laying dead somewhere to your right. Something cold curled softly in your chest. You’d dealt with plenty of men like that fucknut before. You gathered your wits and approached her behind Miles, your feet soundless against the floor.

Miles had set his gun down, crouching unsteadily just behind her. He was so shaky, but he was still reaching for her, his hand resting on her shoulder.

“I’m sorry.” You heard him whisper softly.

The girl paused, her tears stopping as she slowly straightened. You saw it before Miles had any chance to—the flash of silver clutched in her hand. You had little idea how the girl had hidden a knife like that in her dress, but her intent was clear.

“I’m so sorry—” Miles started to say again just as you stepped forward and grabbed the girl’s wrist, stopping the knife a breath from Miles’ stomach.

Thunder boomed outside, like something had shifted in the air. Your hand curled decisively around the girl’s wrist, wrenching her hand back as the knife begged to dip into the man’s abdomen.

“Easy now,” You said lowly. “Easy, easy, easy—”

The girl screamed, struggling in your grip. Rage lit her eyes up bright. She didn’t even look at you—instead, she was still glaring at Miles like she wanted to tear him limb from limb. She struggled, but you pulled her back. She was a strong thing, but she was emotional, and you weren’t ready to let more people die today.

“Darlene,” you called, wrenching the knife away from the girl and kicking it aside somewhere. “The knife.”

The singer was quick to respond, shuffling somewhere behind you. Flynn was standing with a gun in his hands, but he lowered it as you held the girl’s arms to her side and let her scream and shake in your hands. Miles had moved a few steps back. He had tears in his eyes again, blinking at the girl and then at you as you made eye contact with him.

You nodded slightly. “It’s okay,” you said, not sure if you were talking to him or the girl you were restraining. “It’s okay.” It wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. The hotel was on fire and everything was wrong.

The girl’s screaming turned back into crying. She cried and struggled until it stopped and she just leaned her head back into you and cried, shaking for breath. You weren’t sure what to think of her aside from her just being exhausted and brainwashed and traumatized, but you supposed everybody here was going through similar feelings.

“Miles,” you addressed him quietly, stroking the girl’s hair with one hand as she shook against you. “You got things here that you wanna save? Any belongings?”

He blinked at you, like he wasn’t sure he was really being spoken to. He reminded you of a rabbit. Big, wet eyes and a flinching face that had seen way too much. Miles nodded slowly after a moment. You nodded back.

“Go and get anything you want to keep. Fast. Now.”

That seemed to snap him out of whatever dazed state he’d been in. He stumbled over his feet, swerved through the burning lobby, and disappeared somewhere behind the front desk, a door slamming open in the distance. Darlene and Flynn were just standing there, staring.

“Get your damn money.” You spoke to them now. “And burn that fuckin’ ledger.”

Everyone snapped into motion. There was a haze that settled over situations like this, and the fire didn’t exactly help. You stood there, letting the girl cry into your arms as people moved around you. Everyone seemed to share the same grim understanding that there was only one route right now that didn’t involve death.

You spoke to the girl after a moment, watching Flynn and Darlene shove bills into a bag. “Your name is Rose, right?”

The girl managed a nod. That cemented it, then. She was still shaking. Didn’t seem entirely there, though you knew nobody would be in that situation.

“Alright. Rose. Listen to me.” You kept your voice low and soft and gentle as you possibly could. You decided Rose wasn’t exactly a rabbit. Maybe a cat. Still had claws, still hissed at you if you moved too fast, but you could picture her in a happier time, lounged somewhere in the sun with a smile on her face. “This hotel is going to burn and there’s nothing we can do about it.” You started. “I do not want to hurt you. Nobody here does. But if you try to kill or hurt any of us, we’re gonna have to restrain you. And I don’t wanna do that. Now, you can come with some of us, or you can stay here. It’s your choice. And I know it’s a big one. But we can’t save anyone here who’s on the ground right now.”

“... I hate you.” Rose whispered against your chest.

“I know.”

“Let me go.”

“Okay.”

You pulled back. Rose didn’t try to hit you like you expected. Instead, she stood there with balled fists, furiously staring at the ground until she sat right there on the floor next to the body of the man she knew. Billy Lee, you thought.

“I’ll come back." You promised her as you walked by, scooping up the gun leaning on a piece of furniture next to her. She didn’t acknowledge hearing you.

You walked past Darlene and Flynn and pointed in Rose’s direction. “Watch her. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” Flynn asked.

“I said I’ll be right back.”

You walked out the main doors of the lobby to the sound of rain. It had lightened just slightly, but there was still a significant downpour. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the dreary parking lot for one heartbeat of a moment. You sighed, raising a hand to shield your face as you jogged through the rain to your room. You’d been lucky enough to know not to unpack. A single duffel bag and a backpack were all you had as you grabbed your things and headed back out into the rain. Thunder rumbled ominously above you as you yanked your car trunk open, shoving your luggage into the trunk before slamming it closed and returning to the lobby.

The fire was still spreading as you pushed the door open, fighting to wipe water from your damp face. Everybody but Rose turned as you re-entered, including Miles, who stood with a small bag at his feet, his hands shaking as Darlene inspected his face.

“You all packed?” You asked him. He just nodded again, blinking at you.

“The cars don’t work,” You addressed everyone as you descended the steps of the entryway. “Anyone know anything about that?”

“That man, the… cop, or something. He sabotaged the cars.” Darlene explained. She patted her dress, searching for something. “There were some kind of tubes he had on his body. I grabbed them all. They- they should be in my car.”

“Okay.” You nodded, slowly. “Did your car work when you put it in?”

“... kind of.” She said. “Didn’t really get a chance to—”

“Go and check it. We need to finish up in here.” You said. “When you find the other parts, put one in my car. Miles?”

“Yeah?” His voice cracked slightly as he looked at you.

“You come with me. You’re gonna put your things in my trunk.”

“Okay.” He whispered hoarsely.

You were vaguely aware of Flynn and Darlene exiting the building as you made your way to Rose. You crouched next to her, tilting your head to try and catch her gaze.

“Have you been thinking?” You asked, softening your voice again. She nodded. “You comin’ with?” She nodded again. “Okay. Come on.”

You stood and turned, gesturing Miles along with you. The rain was still loud outside, but you didn’t make as much of an effort to jog through it, instead grimacing and wiping at your face as you made yet another trip to your car. You popped the trunk, and Miles put his bag in, similarly blinking the rain from his eyes. You glanced through the rain. Rose was hugging herself as she trudged through the rain towards you. You went to Darlene’s car and opened a door, gesturing for her to get in. She obeyed wordlessly. There was an empty look in her eyes. You couldn’t decide if it was good that she was listening.

“Alright,” You told Miles. “Here, come with me.” You closed the trunk and returned to a hotel room. You didn’t bother to close the door, but Miles didn’t fully come in with you. Just stood in the doorway, shaking like a leaf, clothes damp and bloodstained.

Some people were very much like rabbits.

You found what you were looking for. Towels. You shoved them under an arm, ripped a pillowcase off a pillow, and gestured Miles inside. “Come here.”

Miles obeyed blankly, stepping inside. You nodded your head towards the bed in the room, and he sank down blankly, looking over at you as you got one towel wet.

“Can’t say this won’t hurt.” You said quietly as you walked back over to him. “But we need to look after your head.”

He swallowed up at you. “You sure?”

“At the very least, that blood needs to come off.” You said as you looked down at him. “Would you let me?”

Miles stared at you for a moment. Clearly debating. You didn’t blame him for how he was reacting. He’d had a hell of a night, and clearly a hell of a career from what Flynn had said to Billy Lee earlier. You found yourself unable to hate him for that in any way. Tonight had been one of the most insane experiences of your life. Trusting the shaking man sitting in front of you didn’t seem like the worst idea you’d had lately.

“Yeah.” Miles spoke finally, voice cracking slightly. “Yeah, okay.”

You nodded wordlessly, reaching forward to touch his chin. You tilted his head to the side, holding him still and dabbing experimentally at a bloody patch. He winced, squirming. You held firm and kept going.

“Ow,” Miles said, voice a soft whine, squirming slightly in your touch. You hated it, hated the pain that was always in people’s voice when you tended to them, but you kept going, dabbing away the blood on his face.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” You whispered softly. “You’re doing good, just breathe…”

It was a painful sort of rhythm. The rain continued outside. Miles squirmed and choked on half-sobs on the bed. You kept cleaning. When the blood was clear from his face, you took a closer look. Small impacts.

“It was a shotgun, right?” You murmured. Miles nodded, though you more felt the motion than saw it from how closely you were leaned in.

“Is it bad?” He stammered out. “She- she didn’t exactly say—”

“It might scar.” You said softly. “You’re lucky, these look like buckshot pellets, but it's not as extreme as it could've been.”

“What… what’s the difference?”

You looked down at him as you pulled back, working on tearing the pillowcase the way you wanted. “You just shot five guys and you don’t know the difference between shotgun shells?”

He flinched a bit, glancing down at his hands as he shrugged helplessly. “Shotguns… they aren’t really my thing.”

“Okay.” You softened your voice slightly. “Okay. That’s fine. Uh, buckshots, they’re… real lethal, usually. Bigger pellets. Then there are birdshot ones. Smaller. Considering you also didn’t get the entire blast, it’s better for you.”

He made a noise, almost bitterly amused. “It’s a lot to call this situation better.”

“Oh, a sense of humor. That’s good too.” You approached him again, starting to wrap his head. “Anyways–it’s a bit too early to tell. You might need some stitches, but I don’t have the supplies for that right now. We’re gonna wrap the wound, and you’re gonna tell me if you start feeling worse.”

“Worse?” Miles stared at you, flinching as you tied the pillowcase strips firmly around his head, his hair sticking in an odd direction.

“Whether that means pain or you start getting confused. I don’t want you havin’ a concussion. Or brain bleed.” You said quietly, studying your makeshift wrappings as you wiped a bit of blood off his neck.

“Oh.” Miles blinked. His gaze shifted to the doorway, and you turned just as knuckles hesitantly rapped on the doorframe.

Darlene and Flynn stood there, looking as wet and defeated as you felt. Flynn ran a hand through his hair, wincing. “Don’t suppose you can do a check-over on me?”

“If you're able enough to ask, you should be fine, but sure.” You gestured him to the other bed, and the not-priest sat down with a heavy sigh.

“You doing alright?” Darlene questioned Miles softly. He shrugged, then nodded, then shook his head, not meeting her gaze.

“I put the car part back in,” Darlene explained to you as you studied Flynn’s head. “We just gotta pray it runs.”

“Did your car run?” You questioned. Flynn grunted as you pressed at a spot on his head.

Darlene sighed, wringing her hands. “Finally, yeah.”

“That’s good. Mine will too, then.” You said. There was no room to be doubtful right now.

“How can you be so sure?” Miles asked hoarsely as he stared at you.

You shifted, shrugging as you avoided the pairs of eyes on you. “Nothing left but being sure.”

You glanced over at Darlene. “Where y’all headed?”

“Reno.” She shifted, holding her head high for a moment. “I’ve got a performance there tomorrow night.” She hesitated. “Tonight, I guess. It’s past midnight.”

“Damn.” You whistled. “Well, it’s reachable. Not too much of a drive, just a few hours north."

“Yeah.” She smiled a little, but it was still rather sad. “It’s odd how distant that feels now.”

“It’s not distant. It’s your future.” You made eye contact with Flynn as you pulled back from him. “You’re gonna be sore, but you’ll be okay. You heading off with her?”

He nodded. “Gotta look out for the singer.” He said, cracking a tired smile. "And… that poor cultist girl, I guess. We'll see where that goes."

You sighed, nodding as you looked over at Darlene. “Well, you’d better head the hell outta here.” You glanced outside. Still raining, but it was a little gentler. “Drive carefully, though. Rain’s still pretty serious.”

“And what about you?” Darlene shot a glance between you and Miles, who was still sitting on the bed and looking like he didn’t want to exist. “Where will you go?”

“Medical attention, first.” You said, turning your gaze to Miles. “After that… we’ll have to see.”

Darlene’s expression broke. She opened her arms and pulled you into a hug. You blinked. It surprised you, the tenderness behind such an action from someone you’d met just a few hours earlier. Trauma made bonds of everybody, you supposed. Still, you hugged her just as tight, forcing down the emotion swelling in your chest.

Darlene pulled back, hands on your shoulders. “You stay safe.” She whispered, blinking a few times in a way that was clearly disguising tears.

You nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. Okay.” A small smile cracked over your face. “I’ll be sure to keep an ear out for the voice of Darlene Sweet on the radio, alright?”

She smiled, wet-eyed, squeezing your shoulders. “I’ll see you later.”

It felt better like that. Not a goodbye, just a possibility. Darlene left you, putting a hand on Miles’ shoulder. “You gonna be alright?” She asked softly. Miles paused, then dragged his gaze from her to you. His lip quivered slightly, wet eyes gazing at you like there was an answer inside you he was specifically looking for.

“I think so.” He said finally, looking back at Darlene.

Your chest felt tight.

“I’m sorry,” Flynn said to Miles as he stood, groaning slightly. Miles flinched at the movement, staring at him with wild eyes. There was a flicker of betrayal there, hurt that went deeper than you understood.

“I told you—” Miles started to choke out.

“I know. I know.” Flynn reached out, then hesitated, retracting his hand. “I’m sorry, Miles. I won’t tell anybody.”

The hotel worker just clenched his jaw, hands shaking in his lap, and looked away. “You’re not a priest,” he mumbled under his breath. “And I- and I told you everything, and you just let me do it—”

Flynn just looked weary. Guilty. He blinked a few times, like there was something he was remembering, and then he looked away too. “We ready, Darlene?” he asked.

“Mhm.” Darlene spared a worried glance to Miles, but she gave his shoulder a little squeeze before stepping away. “Let’s get going. It’s a ways to Reno.”

“Drive safe, y’all.” You said, raising your hand in a small wave.

The last sight you saw of the singer, the con man, and the cultist was the two of them getting into Darlene’s car, their forms plastered by the rain. Flynn raised an arm in a farewell, ducked his head in, and their car drove out through the rain.

You exhaled a breath, turning to Miles. “You ready to go?” You asked softly.

“I think I have to be.” He said, shuffling to his feet, all damp and sad.

Wet rabbit. You thought, but you didn’t say that. Instead, you nodded and tucked a bunch of spare towels under your arm. Nobody was getting hypothermia on your watch. “Then let’s go.”

You could’ve stolen more from the hotel.

But you weren’t greedy, and you weren’t stupid, and the hotel was on fire. So instead, you’d packed the gun in the trunk with everything else and you’d started driving.

Miles, occupying the passenger seat, stayed awake only a bit longer. For a time, he stared solemnly out the window, watching the rain and the dark with his unbandaged side. At one point, he’d clasped his hands and bowed his head and muttered to himself, praying, but it hadn’t lasted too long. He just seemed tired and wet and cold. You’d given him two towels. The two of you drove for hours—the direct opposite way from where the others had been headed. They went to Nevada. You went to California. It was silent, save for the road and the rain, and you weren’t going to start conversation right now, so you just kept driving, even if you had no idea where you were trying to go.

It was just past seven in the morning when you rolled into a town, which you only knew because you’d long ago stuck a watch in a part of your car. The town was small, tiny, had some name you didn’t remember. There was a diner, a pharmacist, and an inn, all along the little main road. It was everything you needed. You just hoped you could buy some clothes somewhere. You slowed the car to a stop in the back lot of the pharmacy. You took a moment to breathe in the silence. You’d been driving nonstop for hours after what was arguably one of the worst nights of your life, and you were just… exhausted. But too tense to back down now. Still, you rested your head carefully on the wheel, taking in slow breaths and making a mental list of priorities. You wondered if it was safe to leave Miles in the car like this. What if he was less okay than he seemed? What if he woke up and left you? What if—

“What’s goin’ on?”

Miles’ voice was a sleepy, hoarse sound to the side. You flinched, straightening in your seat as you carefully turned in your seat.

“Good morning. How you feelin’?” You questioned in a whisper.

“I… uh.” He shifted, swallowing noticeably. One hand reached up, patting lightly at the pillowcase bandages over the left of his face. He winced slightly, a whine in the back of his throat as he leaned back.

“Hurts.” Miles managed finally.

“I just parked behind a pharmacy,” You explained, chest tightening at the hazy look of pain on his face. “This town, it has an inn and a diner. Hopefully a store for some new clothes too.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice cracking.

“Can you stand?”

Miles sniffed, shuffling. “Um.” He blinked a few times, looking at you, then nodded his head as his visible eye watered. “I can manage.”

“Okay.” You reached for the handle of the driver’s seat, grabbing your key and your money. "Let's get going."

You gave Miles your jacket. He took it without argument, pulling it on and zipping it up to cover the dried blood on his shirt. He looked incredibly pathetic like this in the early morning, blinking around at the area there like something could hurt him. His hair was flat on the right from where he'd pressed it against the window, and you had to fight off the urge to gently run your fingers through it and fix the mess. The pharmacy was manned by a man with the biggest glasses you'd ever seen. He blinked at the two of you like you were ghosts, and maybe you were. You didn’t have much noticeable blood on you, had rolled your sleeves so the blood on there wouldn’t be visible, but you knew what you looked like. It didn’t help that Miles looked like he had been crying.

“Hi.” You forced a smile on your lips as you approached the counter. “We’re looking for some pain relief medication.”

“Uh… yeah.” The man looked at Miles, who was nervously huddling in the doorway, shoulders hunched like he could look any smaller. “That all?”

“You got any bandages?” You fished out your wallet, being sure to flash your money. It wasn’t anything incredible, but it was enough for a small town.

It worked. The guy’s eyes gleamed. “We’ve got some genuine medical supplies, yeah. I’m… not the town doctor, but we supply nonetheless.”

“Well.” You flashed a grin, blinking your eyes firmly at him. “We’d be ever so grateful to see what you have.”

You left the pharmacy with medication and medical supplies. You’d bought a lot of it, not sure how much would be needed. You figured bulking up was the best option right now.

“Here, take this.” You passed back some medication to Miles as the two of you walked to the diner. He took it and nodded wordlessly. You firmly told yourself you were not going to lose it.

The diner was alright. Filled with locals who were trying not to watch you. Miles’ hands shook as he took the menu and glanced at his options. You were trying your best to socialize with the waitress without seeming like the psycho who had fucked up the man next to you.

“So, where are y’all from?” The waitress asked. Minnie. Short lady in her mid-thirties with way too much makeup on for the morning.

“Further west. Near Los Angeles.” You answered, even though you were sure absolutely neither of you really were. Miles definitely wasn't even from California. Minnie nodded like it made sense.

You ordered bacon, eggs, and hash for the two of you. Miles’ voice shook when he murmured it to you. The rest of breakfast was silent. Both of you seemed lost in your own thoughts, and frankly, you were starting to wear thin. As the sun rose, the diner was cast in a warm light as you huddled over your individual plates of breakfast. At least your companion had a bit of an appetite. Miles nearly gagged with every couple of bites, but it was progress. You just prayed the peace would last. Minnie started asking too many questions at some point. You answered her with a hefty tip and a tight smile. She shut up fast.

“Anywhere to go clothes shopping in town?” You asked her as you started to stand.

“We’ve got a general store about two blocks down,” Minnie said with a nod. “They’ll likely have some things, though if you want my two cents, the quality isn’t the best regarding shoes.”

You stared at her for a moment, blinking. “Ah. Uh. That’ll be fine. We have fine shoes.”

“My shoes are still damp,” Miles murmured behind you as the two of you exited the diner.

“Worry about that at the clothing store, Miles.”

The clothing store was staffed by two people, two old men who were brothers with the thickest heads of hair you’d seen on people who were at the very least eighty. They murmured behind the counter, already smoking, heads swiveling in unison as a bell on the door announced your arrival.

“Hi,” you called. “You guys got clothes?”

One man took a long drag of his cigarette. “You guys got money?” He rumbled back, clearly mocking as his eyes swept over you judgmentally. You stared back at him, nearly twitching. You wanted to slap the guy. You’d barely slept in the last thirty-eight hours and this man had no idea what you’d been through and—

“We have money, sir.”

Miles’ voice was soft as he appeared at your elbow, staring down the men with that same nervous, customer-serving look he’d had on the first time you saw him. The men let you buy clothes. You didn’t get anything for yourself. Instead, you watched as Miles checked through clothing, holding things up to himself and feeling fabric. He kept glancing at you, as if unsure he was allowed anything he was holding. You made a point to shoot him a nod whenever his gaze found its way to you, and he'd always glance away like he'd been caught red-handed in a criminal act. Miles eventually decided on some outfit you didn’t fully see. You fished money from your wallet, paid for what he'd bought, and ushered the man out like you were guarding a lost puppy. The smell of smoke and the image of sullen, old faces followed you.

You didn’t remember checking into the inn, but you did. A room with two beds, a shower, a bathroom. It didn’t remind you of the El Royale. There was peeling wallpaper in a far-off corner. The radio barely worked. “If you want to, uh, take a shower or anything, feel free to. They’ve got towels and shit in there.” You plopped onto a bed, running a hand down your face. “I just… I need a few hours outta the car, to think ‘n whatever…”

“You okay?”

You blinked, raising your gaze. Miles had moved in front of you, sitting on the bed opposite of you. His clothes were to his side, hands patiently folded in his lap, his single visible eye focused on you.

“I don’t…” You laughed weakly. “I don’t even know how to answer that right now.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been going as long as you have.” He blinked at you, gaze soft. “I mean, you drove us for… hours. Even after everything. And you bought me clothes and you bought me drugs and I-” He rubbed at his eye. “I just… thank you for, you know. Everything. You didn’t have to bring me with.”

“And you didn’t have to come.” You returned quietly.

"There wasn't anything left for me." He swallowed, gaze ducking down. You watched him quietly, waiting for anything more. "Just… fire. And a lot of regrets. Better if they thought I went up with the place, I guess."

You studied him for a moment longer. "I'm glad you're here with me." You said softly.

Miles looked back up at you. He smiled a little. "I… yeah, I am too. But also, I’m… I’m tired.” He blew out a heavy breath, then chuckled a bit. “I, uh, think we both are, though.” He fixed his gaze on yours. “You should sleep.”

“Miles—"

“I’ll watch.” His response was clear and firm, the most firm thing you’d heard from him so far, but his voice softened slightly as he gripped at his pants. “... I’ll watch. We’re safe.”

"The walls are, like, thin enough to punch through."

“And I am very aware of that." He said quickly, nodding. "I just… you look like hell. And I don’t want you hurting when you’ve been helping so much.”

Oh, he was sweet. Sweet, helpful boy. You wondered who’d made him doubt himself so much in the past. You just nodded, blinking as you tried to shove down the emotion in your chest. “Thank you.” You whispered. “Don’t let me sleep past five.”

“... okay,” he whispered in return, like this was a secret held between the two of you. Then he pointed to the bed. “Sleep.”

You found it in you to laugh- the first real laugh since… you didn’t know how long. You nodded as you pulled aside the covers and nestled in, tarnished clothes and all. It had been a long time since you’d fallen asleep that fast, but there was something about having someone watch over you for once. Maybe you weren’t so alone.

One day ago. Parking lot of the El Royale.

You’d been driving almost nonstop for hours until you found the hotel.

You weren’t really sure when you’d exhausted all other options. The space between California and Nevada wasn’t somewhere you thought you’d end up. You hadn’t even known there was a hotel on the border of California and Nevada. You stared down at the line straight down the middle of the parking lot. California marked one side, Nevada the other. You didn’t see much of a difference from where you stood.

You lugged your bags through the parking lot, backpack slung over your shoulder, duffel bag on your arm. As you pushed through the door, you blinked as you took in the sprawling lobby. It was decked in two different color schemes, the red line still running all the way through like it had a destination to reach. Three sets of eyes turned to you, which looked like the start of a joke. “A priest, a lady, and some guy in an ugly jacket walk into a hotel…”

“Uh. Hello.” You greeted, halting your movement as you stood there awkwardly. Your gaze shifted behind them–an empty reception desk, a clear story emerging.

“... no receptionist?” You assumed as your gaze moved back to the strangers.

The man with the terrible jacket sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately, yes.” He pointed to a group of luggage on the ground. “Those are mine. I have first pick- honeymoon suite.” He said it proudly, puffing up his chest. You just nodded slowly.

“... oooookay.”

"You want coffee? We've been helpin' ourselves considering this bastion of influence has no influence to be seen." The man raised a small cup he held. Your eyes flicked from the priest to the woman, both of whom looked vaguely awkward. You pitied them for enduring this man longer than you had.

"Erm, no thank you." You shook your head as your eyes swept over the lobby. "You're familiar with this place?"

"Familiar with what it once was, rather." The man scoffed, but he kept talking as you walked around, scanning over old photos on the wall. He started spouting some story about influential figures and the life of extravagant gambling that used to live in the walls of this place. Your eyes fell on a few pictures on the wall. JFK. Marilyn Monroe. Big names indeed. "And so in the end, it's become quite the the place. However, I will say their rooms can still be kept to service, hence my wishing for the honeymoon suite despite not being on my own personal honeymoon—"

The woman moved past the man, walking behind the receptionist desk and putting her coffee cup aside. You stood there, blinking, watching as she slammed a firm palm several times on the door behind the desk. As you stepped closer, you distantly heard something thud and the distinct sound of someone groaning. You winced slightly. That sounded solid.

Annoying loud jacket man let out a chuckle. "The lady's got a harder hand than we do, Father." He said to the priest.

"It sounds like somebody just fell." You said slowly.

"Well, let's hope that kicked some sense into whoever it is." The man grumbled, just as the door behind the desk opened and the four of you swiveled your hands.

Your first impression of the hotel worker was a soft face and hair purposefully pressed into a short, nice hairstyle. The second impression was that he had on the wrinkliest nice shirt you'd ever seen. His eyes swept over all of you in an instant—bleary but big—and he exhaled a breath, shaking his head as he tugged on a nice employee's jacket. "Oh, I am… very sorry to keep you waiting." He cleared his throat, fumbling with his shirt and his jacket in a clear attempt to get himself ordered.

"Damn, boy, where you been?" Jacket man said, clearly scrutinizing the younger man. "Waitin' in this lobby so long, I could use a shave. What's wrong with you?"

"I am very sorry," the man mumbled again, shaking his head and avoiding the man's gaze. He cleared his throat yet again, raising his gaze, only to land on the priest who was wandering around the lobby. His mouth parted, a look of something that you almost dared to call terror flickering over his expression.

"… what are you doing here, Father?" He asked, his voice tightening slightly.

The priest stared at him, squinting slightly. "Do I know you, son?"

"N-noo." The hotel worker shook his head slightly, swallowing. "But I mean, this is not a place for a priest, Father. You shouldn't be here."

What did that mean, exactly, you wondered? Were the floors cursed? The walls? The picture of JFK accusingly stared eyes into your back, grumbling something like Well how do you think I turned out this way, huh? I came here. You glanced to your side, where the woman had a look on your face similar to what you probably did. She leveled a gaze at you, something quietly, like What is up with these people? You shrugged. Her lips twitched.

"We might need to work on your sales pitch, son." Jacket man said, chuckling as he spread out a hand. "'The El Royale, no place for a priest.'"

"There are other hotels, Father." The receptionist was saying, gaze still fixed on the priest. "Maybe closer to Tahoe. I could help you find one. I'm sure you would be…. happier, there."

The priest, who'd approached the desk again where the rest of you stood, squinted at the man's name tag. "Er, Miles, is it?"

"Mmm-hmm." Miles affirmed softly. You wondered if Miles ever didn't look nervous.

"If this is not a place for a priest, Miles, then this is exactly where the Lord wants me." The priest put his palms on the desk. You and the woman exchanged another gaze and you resisted the urge swelling in your chest to just ask if you could camp out in the parking lot for the night if you paid a little money. You weren't sure how worth it this was. People. Fascinating people, at that.

"Well, the Lord don't want you in the honeymoon suite. I can promise you that." Jacket man leaned forward, catching the clerk's gaze. "Miles, those are my accoutrement there and I stake my claim as such. But you can go ahead and check them in first, I don't mind."

Miles looked extremely nervous at all the attention. His gaze ran over the priest again, and he swallowed thickly. The priest shot him what he'd probably hoped was a reassuring smile. "It's all right, son."

The clerk had just about looked ready to relax when the other man spoke up again. "C'mon, boy!" He rolled his hand in a get on with it gesture. "Give 'em the whole spiel. The El Royale. And blah blah blah."

Miles cleared his throat. You watched with no small amount of pity as he moved out from behind the receptionist desk, standing to face the four of you. His posture straightened slightly, eyes scanning over all of you as he cleared his throat and took in a breath. "The El Royale is a bi-state establishment," He started, voice cracking slightly as he clasped his hands in front of him. "You have the option to stay in either the great state of California—" He gestured with one arm to the yellow side of the room. "—or the great state of Nevada." He gestured to the other side, all cool blues and purples, before folding his arms behind him. "Warmth and sunshine to the west, or hope and opportunity to the east." Miles nodded, gaze focusing in slightly on the priest. "Which would you prefer?"

The priest was standing there like he was vaguely regretting his life choices. "What's the difference?" He asked, old voice nearly sounding amused.

Miles' confidence faded with the end of his speech. He started fidgeting with his hands again. "… between California and Nevada?"

"Between the rooms."

Miles blinked. "Well for starters, rooms in California cost a dollar more."

Jacket man whistled. "Really? When did that happen? What makes 'em a dollar better?"

Miles shifted. "They're in… California."

"And that's worth a dollar?"

He raised his shoulders in a half-shrug. "Some people think so."

"You got a phone number for any of those people? Because I'd sure love to sell 'em one of these vacuums." Jacket man kicked one of his items and chuckled, awkwardly. You and the woman next to you looked at each other again. You were very genuinely starting to eye the door. "Hey, speaking of which, who handles your hospitality here at the hotel?" The man was asking Miles, who was looking nervous again.

"Currently… that is also me."

"Oh. Well… shit." The man said with a sigh. "We'll have to worry about that later."

"May I see a map of the hotel, please?" The priest asked. You were grateful for the distraction opportunity.

Miles passed a map across the counter. As the priest leaned over it, you leaned over too, getting as close as you dared to a stranger to glance down at the map. Miles was explaining something, rambling on about California and Nevada amenities, but you were more focused in on the map. The hotel was decently large, even if it was only the main lodge available. You wondered how gloriously busy it used to be. It was a thought that tugged at your heartstrings. Ghosted, once-loved places of glory got you weirdly emotional.

"So if we wanna drink," Jacket man was saying, "we gotta do it on that side of the room?" He gestured to California, which, while expensive, was apparently more accepting of alcohol.

"That is correct, sir." said Miles, who you were marveling at the tailored patience of. The clerk's eyes flicked down to the coffee cup in the man's hands, and he tilted his head slightly. "Also, coffee is twenty-five cents a cup."

The man was chuckling as he fished money from his pocket. "Let me guess, you're also the bartender?"

"That is correct, sir." Miles said softly.

"Alright. Well." He slapped a quarter on the table next to the priest. "Feel free to flip that if you need to make a decision, Father." He clapped the priest's back (who offered a small chuckle) and paced away, grumbling about how it was costing him money waiting around the hotel.

Your attention was pulled away from the urge to sock the guy in the face with the sound of a car ripping through the parking lot. All of you simultaneously leaned, trying to peer at whoever was making a racket. You only caught a glance of a blue car before you gave up on your attempt. The priest was still deciding on a room. He flipped the coin, smacked his hand on it, and smiled calmly at Miles. "Four. I'll take room four."

"I'll need one night in advance. Eight dollars." Miles was working at something behind the desk, and his gaze flicked to the cups of coffee. "And it's twenty-five cents for the coffee."

You wondered how hard his bosses were on him. What kind of bosses existed here, anyways? It was just him, as far as you'd seen, handling absolutely everything one could think of. The woman in yellow had sat down on a nearby bench, but you stood, leaned against the counter, watching as Miles pulled out a ledger for the priest to sign. He shot a small smile at the priest as he moved to grab a key, and something about it made your chest flip. You watched the priest sign the ledger—Father Daniel Flynn—and watched Miles pass the key over. His gaze swept over you, the woman, and the man remaining in the lobby.

"Who's next?"

Jacket man gestured for one of you to go. You nodded to the woman. "You were here first."

"Thank you," she murmured appreciatively before she stood. "May I have a room in Nevada please, Miles?"

You watched him retrieve a key, passing it over. "Room five."

"Uh…" The woman hesitated. "… is there another room available? Possibly further away?"

Miles was already apologetically shaking his head. "Um, those rooms have not been serviced and are unsuitable."

"He also does the housekeeping, remember?" Jacket man called unsuccessfully from where he was peering out at the parking lot, likely surveying whatever situation was unfolding outside.

"There are rooms in California available, ma'am." Miles said quietly to the women.

"Miles! She don't wanna be near the priest." The man exclaimed. Father Flynn awkwardly shifted on his feet as he turned to the man, pulling on his coat. "I mean, it's not like we didn't see her walkin' in here with her own bed rolls under her arms. No judgment on ya there, darlin'." Jacket man continued to ramble, chuckling at his own annoying ass. "Maybe you can talk to the Father here about, uh, Mary Magdalene and forgiveness and whatnot."

An awkward silence lingered for a moment. Miles and the woman were staring at each other with a sort of commiserative energy. The woman sighed slightly, shoulders shifting. "Room five will be fine." She declared softly.

The door opened rather loudly, bell above it dinging. You swung your head, watching a woman barge in looking all the part of a hippie. Sunglasses, outfit, general attitude as she stared at all of you, and then around the hotel lobby, surveying. You were still watching her as the woman gathered her money, only shifting aside when Father Flynn passed a quarter to the counter to pay for the woman's coffee. "Can I give you a hand to your room?" Father Flynn asked the woman as she finalized her payment, signed the ledger, and spun around with her key firmly clutched in her hand.

"No." She said quickly, then paused, taking a breath and slowly turning to face the man. "… sorry, Father, uh… that's very kind of you. But I can manage from here." She was quick to leave. The jacket man held the door for her and the priest, and as it swung shut, Miles shot a small smile at the three of you that remained. "Who's next?"

You glanced at the others, but considering you were closest to the desk and incredibly eager to no longer occupy the same room as the man with the jacket, so you stepped up to the reception desk. "Hi," You greeted with a small smile.

Miles' lips pulled into a small smile. "Hi."

"You are admirable for how well you've been handling everybody." You rifled through your bag. "I'd like a room in California, please. Closest one to the hotel."

"It's just… part of the job." He murmured, but you caught the smallest hint of a pleased look slip over his expression as he turned to grab a key. As you counted out the money—nine dollars, considering you were on the California side—Miles tapped at the ledger, voice softening.

"Please sign the ledger." He said quietly. You nodded, passed him the ledger, and picked up the pen.

Two names already marked the space of the page. Father Daniel Flynn, And Darlene Sweet, which firmly cemented the name of the woman in your head. You ducked your head down, clearing your throat slightly as you scribbled down your name. When you set the pen down and raised your head, you re-caught Miles' gaze, whose eyes flicked from your name to your face before he shot you another small smile and handed you the key. "Room 2A." He said softly. "Enjoy your stay."

"Thank you kindly, Miles." You said, nodding to him, before you turned, picked up your things, and started walking to the door. Jacket man held it open for you and you nodded. "Sir."

He nodded back at you. You spared a glance to the hippie lady one last time before you left. You couldn't see her eyes beneath the glasses. She seemed… off. Tense. Still, you shook it off. You were sure you were overthinking things.

You didn't have a destination in mind, but you drove north.

California was always California. Warmth and sunshine. You'd been in Nevada before the El Royale, surrounded by the jazzy life of Vegas for who knew how long, and the feeling of this was different. Gone were the slots, the applause, the alcohol. Instead, your car radio hummed The Beatles and you watched the world pass around you.

Miles was… Miles. He napped a lot, stared at the meds you’d bought him, looked out the window. You changed his bandages every morning with real bandages. You bought a cream that was supposed to help, something with aloe in it. He shivered when you applied it, avoided your gaze, but you could tell it helped, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He never really asked for anything, but you didn’t either. You’d burned the old clothes from the El Royale. The backseat was a nap spot when someone was exhausted. You didn't ask questions, and neither did Miles. But you didn't exactly talk, either.

One day, you found yourself parked on the side of the road, looking out over some landscape. You always seemed to be driving near national parks, but that was apparently what northern California had a lot of. You laid a spare blanket on the hood of your car, and you and Miles sat there, watching the sun creep towards the horizon as you studied his wounds.

"How's the stiffness?" You asked, blowing a light but purposeful breath against his face. Miles blinked, leaning back slightly as his gaze shifted from the landscape to you.

"Not as bad as yesterday," he mumbled. "It doesn't hurt too much when I grimace either."

"Well, that's good." You reached for the cream, humming as you dabbed some on your pointer finger and raised it to his face. "It's looking mighty fine."

"Really?" There was a mix of hope and skepticism in his voice. A raised eyebrow in your direction made your lips pull a little upwards.

To tell the truth? Of course it was different. But the damage hadn't been as bad as you'd initially feared. Miles' face was looking better. There was a bit of bruising now, but greater damages were starting to knit back together. His face still looked young, that same sweetness preserved. Nothing hindered his soft gaze, his lips parted slightly as he looked at you like you were holding everything up. You liked the way he looked. And the way he looked at you. But you didn't say that. You just nodded as you started to spread the cream over his face. "Yeah, really."

It was silent for a moment. You were so focused on your work that you didn't notice when Miles reached up and took your wrist in his hand. You paused, gaze shifting from his fingers to his eyes. "Sorry, did I hurt you?"

"No." He looked at you for a moment, possibly gauging your reaction to what he'd done, before he swallowed, cleared his throat, and scooted a little closer. "I wanted to talk about what we're doing."

"Oh. You mean…" You gestured loosely around you. Stupid car. Setting sun. Birdsong in the distance.

"Yeah." Miles released your wrist, and you let your hand fall in your lap as he blinked at you.

"What are we doing?" He said after another moment of silence.

You found you didn't have an answer for that. Your gaze drifted out over the landscape. It really was pretty. You hadn't had too much experience with California scenery like this—no, you were all about the beaches, before. Most of everybody liked beaches, they were easy to do. Push and pull of the California waves. Sticky ice cream and popsicles. That sort of thing. But you didn't know this. Any of this. At all. You didn't know what you were doing here, or anywhere, or where to go or what to do. You didn't know what you wanted. You didn't know why Miles had stuck around like this, or why you'd stuck with him. Were you both that much in the dark?

"… I don't know," you said finally, defeatedly, like you were confessing a sin. "I don't know what we're doing." The confession made you emotional for some reason, frustration bubbling in your chest. You sniffed, blinking rapidly. "I don't know." You said again, scrubbing at your face.

Silence for a moment.

"I don't know either."

You blinked over at Miles, feeling foolish for your tears, only to feel your shoulders easing when you found him looking at you with a small, almost sheepish smile.

"Isn't that good, though?" He said tentatively. "We can figure it out together."

You were too baffled to respond for a moment. You just stared at him. "And you want that?" You clarified finally, almost afraid to ask. "Doing… this together?"

He nodded very fast. Then paused, a pinkness spreading over his pretty cheeks. "I think it's worth it if you do. I don't have anything else to lose."

Well, that was a pleasant thought. For some reason, it made you smile, the fact that both of you had absolutely nothing anymore. You have him. A voice in your head said. You slapped it firmly and shot your smile at Miles. "I do think it's worth it." He smiled back, all shy and sweet, and that feeling in your chest shot you a raised eyebrow. You looked out at the scenery before it could deepen.

The two of you crossed the Oregon border and stopped in a small town. It was a nice town. Small, but established. You just needed a few days out of the car, walking around somewhere, feeling like you could live a somewhat normal life. You booked a room to stay in, actually unloaded your things from the car trunk, and let yourselves breathe for a bit. Miles slept for twelve hours straight. You let him. He deserved it. Nobody asked too many questions here, which you appreciated. You bought some new supplies, loaded up on gas, and came back just two minutes before Miles started stirring under the covers of his bed.

You turned your head from where you were organizing new supplies on the other bed. "Good afternoon."

"I'm very sorry to…" He yawned. "… keep you waiting, I didn't realize-"

"Miles." You interrupted him softly, lips pulling into a small smile. "We're not at the El Royale."

"Oh." He paused, raising his head slightly to blink around the room. "… right." He was groggy, sitting upright in bed and watching as you sorted through your newly purchased items. A new outfit for Miles, a shirt and pants, was tossed at him, and he caught it mindlessly, blinking down at the fabric. "How do you have so much money?"

You'd been expecting the question for a week now—you were surprised he hadn't asked you sooner. It was an honest question. You had a lot of money. The kind that wasn't rich, but comfortable. Miles didn't snoop, but he'd probably seen glimpses of you retrieving bills from your duffel bag.

"I… came from Vegas." You admitted. Your back was to him as you folded a new outfit you'd bought, fingers running over the fabric to soothe yourself. "I'd worked at a casino there for a few years. Learned all the ins and outs. But I got tired of the life there, and the people I'd meet."

You exhaled a slow breath, shifting uncomfortably. You'd entertained the idea of leaving for months previously, but it had never seemed probable. There was always something or someone in your way. The weekend rush, a special event, something for you to fix, an angry higher-up. You'd always been nobody, sneaking by on a decent wage that let you live in the most glamorous, hopeful place in America. Which was, of course, entirely bullshit. You cleared your throat, blinking away the memories, and continued. "So one night, I was off of work. I went to another casino nearby, another rich one, where nobody knew me. Thought I could maybe have a drink without someone trying to gossip about our bosses with me. But then I'm there, and this lady comes over to me and asks if I was any kind of lucky."

"Are you?" Miles asked quietly behind you.

You turned your head. He wasn't looking at you judgmentally, just quietly, a sort of light in his eyes. You realized this was the most you'd ever said to him at one time.

Lips twitching, you shrugged as you sat on your bed, hands in your lap as you faced him. "Well, I'll let you decide. I tell this lady 'sorta', and she takes my arm, drags me to this table with a bunch of rich people. This guy, either her husband or her lover, asks me if I know how to play poker. I say yes, because I do. Poker's everywhere, not just in Vegas. But it's always different in Vegas." You took in a breath, gripping at your pants. "The guy makes me stand next to him, and the lady's practically humping his back. But he's got a good hand. A great hand. Clearly doesn't think it's good, though. He asks me what I think. Everyone around the table's not paying any attention, because everybody's drunk. But I just nod and say 'do it'. And he does do it. And he wins."

"… a lot of money?" Miles asked quietly. You nodded. His eyes got a little bigger. "And you got some of it?"

"They gave me a quarter of the winnings. I barely even did anything and those rich folks just gave me some." You laugh a little. "Scared the shit out of me. I'd never had so much money just belong to me. I quit and left town as fast as possible before some coworker heard and tried to jump me."

His eyes widened even more. "People would do that to you?"

"People would do a lot for money." You said, falling a little quiet. Darlene. Father fucking Flynn. Even Billy Lee and his group. Everyone always searched for money, were desperate for it.

You cleared your throat slightly, turning your gaze back to the things you bought. "I'm trying to be smart about it." You said eventually.

"You're using it for me." Miles said it like he was coming to a realization, glancing down with that wide gaze at the clothes in his hands. He shook his head slowly, licking his lips. "You- you don't need to do this. Don't need to worry about me like this."

"Miles." You stopped him firmly, reaching over to touch his leg. He froze at the contact, staring at you. Rabbit eyes, you thought, that look he got when he was surprised and debating his level of reaction. "I don't want to spend this any way but for the two of us." You said firmly as you met his gaze. You were surprised by how fully you meant it, how the regret didn't wash over you immediately.

Miles stared at you like you'd announced your dreams to be a circus traveler. Which, hey, maybe that would be the best option for the two of you. However, before you could get that joke out, his hand reached out, closing over your own. Fingers curled slightly around your hand as he took it, squeezed it, and nodded. "… thank you." Miles whispered hoarsely. "That's all I can say."

"That's all you need to." You responded with a nod. "I'll keep saying that kinda stuff until you believe it." He squeezed your hand one last time, then let it go. The warmth stayed. And you let yourself believe it could last this time.

Two weeks ago. Room 2A of the El Royale. California side.

You were bored out of your fucking mind. You'd never been good at willing yourself to sleep. Nor were you staying long enough to unpack your belongings. Instead, you'd dragged everything inside, locked the door, and laid sprawled out on a bed while you stared at the ceiling. You tried to remember why you'd paid for such a damn expensive room. The others weren't serviced. What does that guy do all day behind that desk? There can't be that much to do, nobody else was even staying here.

You pressed your face into the sheets, where the faint smell of some detergent pressed at your senses. They really were nice beds. You couldn't remember the last time you'd slept on a bed this nice. Maybe a shower or a bath would be nice. Something to kill the time before you found something to eat. Now that you thought of that, though, had there even been anything to eat in that lobby? An image conjured in your mind. Miles the all-around hotel worker, nervous-faced, squinting over a pan while he poked at a chicken breast like it would hurt him. The El Royale's featured gourmet, anxious pretty boys and all.

You sat up and checked the bathroom. There was a shower and a bath. Sink. It was well-furnished… aside from the fact there were no towels. You restrained a groan as you shoved your key in your pocket. A journey it was, then.

The lobby was eerily empty when you came in. The door swung open and closed with a slight creak, and you cast an apprehensive gaze over the area. The late afternoon light still came in from outside as you descended the steps, glancing around. You located some kind of food machines in one section, beneath something titled Refreshments. The thought amused you—what kind of ex-famous hotel had food machines like that?—but you'd ask about it if you could get ahold of the man overlooking the place. You stood awkwardly at the desk for a moment before you tentatively tapped on the bell. It barely dinged, but the sound bounced off the walls. You dinged it a little firmer. There was another scuffling noise behind the door. A head poked out before a body did, Miles blinking over at you like he was deciding if you were real or not.

You offered a small smile, folding your hands in front of you. "Hello."

"… hello." His voice was hoarse. He cleared it and tried again. "Hi. Sorry if I took—"

"Don't worry, I just rang it." You said reassuringly. The man nodded, stepping out from behind the door and starting to struggle with his jacket. "You don't have to do that," you said, watching him. "It's just me."

"Company policy, I insist." He pulled it on, rubbing his eyes with one hand. "What, uh, can I do for you, uh…?" He trailed off, blinking down behind the desk. He murmured your name as he glanced up at you, and something about it made you smile a little wider.

"Oh. I, um, I wanted to take a shower or a bath but I didn't have any towels."

You could've told Miles the world was ending and he probably would've made the same expression of horror. His mouth dropped open, a small gasp leaving him. "I am very sorry, so sorry, that is a very big problem and I'm sorry you had to walk all the way over to tell me—"

"Woah, hey, no, it's alright." You blinked, almost laughing but ending it in more of an exhale. "Really, that's okay. You're handling this whole place alone, it must be rough."

"I should've remembered." Miles had ducked under the reception desk. You resisted the urge to lean over and look at him as he rustled around beneath. "I am so sorry, we have towels right here, they're cleanly washed and—" He raised up with a giant stack of towels in his head. You never thought you'd meet such a hotel worker who nervously overcompensated with insane amounts of towels.

"Oh. My." You blinked as Miles set the towels down and leaned to the side, looking at you nervously. "Thank you. This is more than enough, and really, it's no trouble. Again, you're the only person here, it seems a lot to take care of."

"It's… my job." He smoothed down his shirt, shooting a nervous smile in your direction.

"Well, thank you for the towels, Miles." You turned your head and nodded towards the food machines. "Are those the food options?"

"Yes, they are."

"Are they any good?" You swiveled your head back to Miles, whose eyebrows started raising so high you thought they'd leave his face and float into the ceiling. He paused, licking his lips, eyes darting from the distant food items to you. Then to the ground.

He shifted. "Um."

"Will I not get food poisoning, at the very least?" You said, lips twitching.

Miles caught the almost-smile. His shoulders relaxed just slightly, which you were relieved about, because he had almost looked ready to cry and you weren't sure if you could deal with that right now. He nodded after a moment, his own lips almost quirking. "I haven't yet." He said softly.

"You eat from those?" You said incredulously, gesturing to the machines with no small amount of alarm.

Miles fidgeted with his hands as they rested on the reception desk. "That… would be correct, yes."

"Well, gosh. What's your favorite? Got a recommendation?"

His eyes moved from you. To the food. To you again. A minute later, both of you were standing in front of the Refreshments section, awkwardly surveying the selection of dodgily preserved food. You decided this was the most fascinating hotel you'd ever been to. Miles cleared his throat, shifting as he pointed to the sandwiches. "Those are very bad. But they taste better in the morning, so I would… suggest that for a breakfast if you didn't want pie."

"Noted." You turned your head to him, more watching him now than the pie display spinning in an endless circle. "So pie's the best choice, then? No Fruit-o-Matic?"

"The Fruit-O-Matic is… operational," Miles said slowly. "Though the El Royale's pies are still revered as a staple of the resort."

"You don't have to sales pitch me." You said softly, tilting your head with a smile. You stepped past him, shaking some change into your palm to insert into the pie machine. "You want anything?"

"Oh, no, thank you. You're the guest, anyways." Miles said from behind you, sounding a little awkward at the question.

"Suit yourself."

The pie did look like the most promising item available, and it was appetizing. You shoveled it down quickly for an early dinner—you'd eat an early breakfast when you got up tomorrow—before you thanked Miles again for the towels, reaching for the pile. "Would you like some help?" Miles stood at the corner of your vision, hands clasped in front of him.

"You've done plenty already, Miles, don't worry about me." You shot him what you hoped was a reassuring smile as you juggled the towels in your arms. "I'd appreciate you holding the door on the way out, though."

"Oh. Yes, of course." He nodded, following you as you navigated your way back to the door, peering around the pile of towels and feeling half-blind. As Miles pulled the heavy lobby door open, you took in a breath, the smell of distant rain on your tongue.

"Hm. Smells like a storm's comin'." You murmured, peering up at the sky as you stepped out. You turned to Miles, smiling again, who was looking at the sky with the most sweetly befuddled expression you'd ever seen. "I hope you keep warm tonight. Thank you for the towels, I'm the most well-furnished in the hotel now."

He opened his mouth, lips forming a 'O'. "The El Royale tries to make sure all of its guests have equal accommodations—"

You shot him a look. "Miles."

His lips pulled up, just a little bit, which was a victory you hadn't expected to gain today. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Have a nice night, alright? I mean it when I say stay warm."

"Thank you," he murmured, gaze flicking away from you. "You have a good evening as well."

You nodded before you stepped away fully. The door closed behind you, and you watched the sky, eyes scanning over the distant clouds that would soon roll in. You just sighed and hefted the towels higher. It was bath time.

You woke to Johnny Cash on the radio and the familiar rumble-rumble of the road under your car.

For a moment, you didn't move, sleep still hazing the edges of your mind. It was late, so dark you couldn't see out the windows in the back. But you weren't scared. You were nestled comfortably in the backseat of your car, a warm blanket pulled over your body, and Miles was driving. He'd insisted on it more often lately. He said you drove too much, that you deserved your rest as much as he did. You hadn't been sure how to acknowledge it, much less how to thank him, so you'd just nodded, asked if he was sure, and let him take the wheel. Even with one eye compromised, he was a good driver. A safe driver. You couldn't remember the last time you'd truly felt safe with someone. You sat up slightly, exhaling as you rubbed at your eyes. A yawn stretched from your lips as you glanced at Miles.

"Hi." He greeted before you could say anything, voice quiet. He didn't turn his head, but you saw him glance in the rear view mirror at you.

"Hey." You cleared your throat, shifting in your spot. "How you doing?"

"I'm alright."

"How's the gas? What time is it?"

"We'll need to pull over and use the can soon. We're almost out." Miles shifted slightly, glancing down where your watch was resting on the console. "It's almost four in the morning."

Even though he couldn't see you, you nodded, rubbing at your eyes. "Well, just pull over whenever we need to refill." You murmured, leaning against one side of the car and gazing out at the window. Forest rushed by around you, mostly blanketed by the night. The two of you had been tracing through Oregon blindly, heading northeast. At the time, you were seeing where the wind blew you. Unfortunately, the wind didn't seem to want you to settle down yet.

It was silent for a bit. You couldn't find yourself falling back asleep, so you just… watched. Watched Miles drive without fear, his hands neatly at ten and two, the radio rumbling with the reassuring buzz of static. He seemed tired tonight. Weighted. You knew how long drives felt, how in silence your thoughts had plenty of time to catch up to you. You shifted forward slightly, elbows on your knees as you spoke lowly, brave after your recent awakening. "Can I ask you something? About the El Royale?"

There was a slight tightening of his posture. Miles cleared his throat before speaking. "I, uh. Why are you curious about that?"

"I guess I've just been thinking a lot about that place. Everything that happened there." You watched him as best you could, softening your voice. "I won't ask more if you don't want me to."

Miles shook his head quickly. "No, no, it's… it's fine." He was definitely lying, but his voice was convincing enough that you nearly believed him. "… what do you want to know?"

You took in a soft inhale, moving closer. The radio was mumbling something familiar—That Makes Two of Us—and it filled the silence as you took a second to organize your thoughts. "When did you start working there?" You asked finally. Maybe it was easier to start at the beginning.

Miles hummed, rubbing his thumb gently along the steering wheel. "I was freshly back stateside. When I got discharged… I didn't…" He trailed off, taking in a shaky breath. "I didn't want to go home. And, I couldn't, really, there was nothin' there. So, I worked service jobs. Nobody was nice to me. Nobody was ever nice to me. And one night, I meet this man." His thumb tapped anxiously against the steering wheel. You caught his lip trembling as he took in a breath. "Said there was a hotel that needed staff. And I was desperate. So I applied. Was, uh… was the only thing I had goin' for me. And the more I did things, the deeper I dug the hole, and I just… I couldn't leave. Because I had nothin'."

"You really don't have anyone out there anymore?" You couldn't keep the shock from your voice. The words of Flynn echoed in your head. Recordings and tapes and secret passageways. How long had he done that? How long had he been forced to? Thinking how it was his only option, the only way he could live.

Miles shifted, cagey, in the driver's seat. "… yeah." He mumbled weakly.

"What that man said a while ago," you started slowly. "about you recording people and sending it. Is that all true?"

"Yes." Miles' voice trembled, and for a moment, you almost apologized. But he took in a shaky breath, sniffing, and continued. "I… I didn't have anything, and I needed money so I could buy things to keep me feeling good, I just- I needed to, even though I didn't want to, but I didn't have anything—"

"Hey. Hey. Shh." You leaned forward before you could stop yourself, touching at his shoulder. Miles flinched slightly at the touch, but he didn't move away as your hand curled over his shoulder.

"Pull over." You instructed softly.

Miles pulled over. You refilled the gas wordlessly. Left the backseat of the car and stood in the middle of the night, ringed by woods and the most lonely road you'd ever seen. Strangely enough, though, it didn't feel lonely. Miles had cracked the window open, you realized. Soft notes of music drifted through the air from the crack. The car was alive and warm beneath your palm as you fought with the gas can. When you'd refilled the gas, you slid into the passenger seat, turning slightly to look at Miles. There was a tear tracing down his face, his head bowed as he looked down at his hands in his lap.

You leaned over, thumb gently smoothing away the tear. You let your touch linger, finding it moving to his chin as you turned his face your way. He let you, surprisingly enough. Miles Miller, you thought, almost surprised by how fiercely you liked even the notion of his name. You'd both shared things as you journeyed. You knew his name. You knew he was from Indiana. You knew he had nothing. You knew he liked music and cardigans. And you'd wondered, but never pushed, about the way he gazed at the different medicines you'd bought for him like they were a cliff he was toeing the line of.

So I could buy things to keep me feeling good.

"Do you think I'm terrible?"

It surprised you to hear him speak first. He hadn't moved from your touch—instead, his face lingered in your palm, pressing slightly into it. His one watery eye gazed at you, and you could picture his face without the bandages a mere few weeks ago, a teary and sobbing boy in the middle of a hotel. "No." You answered softly, swallowing down the lump in your throat. "I think you're quite wonderful, actually."

"I've done so much." Miles whispered, voice thickening. "You don't even know. The hotel, it was… it was barely anything. I've done so much bad."

"I know." You nodded, gaze searching over his face. You brushed your thumb over his bottom lip, watching it tremble beneath your touch, and wondering if you were toeing your own cliff. "You might think you're terrible. Or a sinner." You murmured. You'd seen him praying plenty since you'd started traveling together. You knew he was religious. He had bought a rosary a few weeks ago after leaving his old one in the hotel. "But do you want to know what I see? I see you lighting up when certain songs come on the radio."

"I've killed so many people." Miles choked out, shoulders shaking. Yet his eyes didn't leave yours. "I've watched men get blown up. I never flinched when I looked down the sights and took a shot."

"I see you in the early mornings, breathing in every sunrise." You countered gently. "I see you when you talk to people in restaurants and diners or read the paper in the morning with some coffee."

"I-I've watched women get beaten and I've done nothin' about it. I've cleaned up so many terrible things and never said a word." Miles continued, though his voice was a little weaker.

"And you helped that lady in that town a few days ago water her flowers," You said gently. "You help me unpack and repack the car every time we're going to a hotel, and you always ask me how I am the first thing in the morning."

"I'm terrible." Miles said quietly. "I killed five people in that hotel lobby."

"And you saved five." You said firmly.

He blinked, frowning slightly. "There were only four people."

You shook your head. "No." Your free hand reached over, settling on his chest. "You saved yourself too, Miles. And you have been trying every single day since then to be better. And you are good."

He stared at you for a moment like he couldn't quite believe everything he was hearing. For a moment, you thought he'd finally explode and slip and yell. You hadn't heard him yell before, and you couldn't help but wonder if he ever really had. Then one shaky hand covered your own on his chest, fingers curling around your hand as he squeezed softly. "Do you really believe that?" Miles asked, searching your gaze.

You held eye contact and nodded, letting your thumb brush over his chin. "With every piece of my soul." Miles exhaled slowly, like something trapped inside of him was being let out. His gaze fell away, and he finally retracted from your touch. You let him.

"I'm tired." He said finally, voice hoarse.

You just nodded and opened the passenger seat. "Get in the back. I'll drive."

It was raining outside, and Miles wasn't back.

You'd been trying to restrain your anxiety for the better part of a hour—and, of course, you had entirely failed. The hotel room had become ten times smaller. You'd paced the room more times than you could count. You'd anxiously reorganized your supplies twice. You had nothing left to do but worry. Three days since you'd talked with Miles. The two of you were still in Oregon, though you had no idea where. You'd been tired the last few days. Awkward and overthinking everything you'd said. Miles had felt different. Stiff and quiet and still, like he was afraid to move. The two of you had barely spoken. You felt like you'd messed everything up by pushing too deep, trying to gouge open old wounds and act like you knew anything about a man you'd traveled with for only a month. You'd told yourself repeatedly not to panic, but the facts were laid clear and plain. Miles had left two hours ago to take a walk and clear his head. It had started raining. And he wasn't back. You felt like you were losing your mind.

The wind rattled at the window, and you flinched from where you sat on one of the beds. You put your head in your hands, trying both to fight back your panic and block out the sounds of the steady downpour outside. In any other situation, you might've found it soothing, but this only increased your spiral. Had Miles left? Was he safe? Was he hurt? Had somebody seen his bandaged head and decided to mug him? Or had he just grown tired of you? Had he grown tired of your questions? Had he thought you were mocking him or a liar? You didn't want to hurt him. He was sweet. You'd been so sincere when you said all you did the other day. He was good. So, so good, and you wished he would see that, but maybe it was too damn late—

A hand rapped at the door.

You sat straight up, breath catching in your throat. Jumping off the bed, you didn't even check through the peephole to see who it was before you were unlocking the hotel door and throwing it open. Miles Miller stood in the hallway, soaked to the bone, your borrowed coat tugged close to his form as his nose dripped with raindrops. His gaze tracked from the floor to your face, and he started to open his mouth.

You didn't even think before you flung your arms around him. "Oh, thank God."

Miles froze, standing there for a second. Then, an arm snaked around your back, resting above your waist. You felt him exhale as he leaned his head down, nuzzling slightly against the top of your head, and relief flooded through you so surely at the motion that it made you light-headed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled against your head. "I was trying to find a way back quicker."

"Shh." You squeezed him, firmly. "I'm just glad you're alright."

Miles released a noise that sounded like a laugh—which was absolutely impossible, because Miles Miller didn't laugh, right?—when you suddenly felt something shift under the coat which was unmistakably not one of his arms. You paused. "Miles."

"Please don't be mad." He murmured, still holding you against him like he was trying to drink the warmth from your body. You slowly pulled back from the hug and lowered your gaze to the middle of his coat. With an expression so guilty you nearly thought he was smuggling drugs, Miles pulled the coat aside to reveal…

… a kitten. A shivering, soaked-to-the-bone, grey-furred kitten who blinked up at you and mewled like it was saying hello. "Oh." You said lamely.

"Please don't be mad." Miles repeated pathetically, blinking at you.

You bit down on your lip, but it didn't stop the smile from forming on your face. "Come in, you lovely man, and close that door behind you."

Miles blinked again, and then smiled a little, stepping inside. "Who is this?" You asked, gesturing to the cat as you ducked inside the bathroom. You rummaged around and grabbed a towel before returning. Miles slowly set the cat down on his bed, where the kitten curled up in a ball and blinked up at the two of you with a baffled expression.

"I… found them." He shed the coat, hanging it up near the door as he slipped off his shoes. "It had already started to rain when I started back, but I heard this little sound underneath the steps of the church—"

"You went to a church?" You cut him off, raising your head from where you were gently patting off the kitten with a towel. Miles paused, fidgeting with his hands in that way you'd grown irresponsibly fond of.

"There's… a church a ways away. I saw it when we pulled into town. I thought-" Miles paused, readjusting. "I wanted to go."

Your head pinged the date sluggishly, as if clicking a piece into place. How long had he wanted to go to a church for? How had you not asked yet? How had you been so stupid? "… shit, Miles, I'm sorry. I didn't realize." You softened your voice as you rubbed at the kitten, who had unsteadily started to rumble in your hands. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I… don't know." Miles admitted. He couldn't seem to decide whether to look at you or the kitten. "I just… I wanted to go. Needed to. I didn't want you to worry about me. I needed to… get some things off my chest."

"They had confession?" You asked, raising your head to him.

He nodded, slowly. He definitely wasn't looking at you this time. You scanned over him. Dripping, soaked-through form and a sort of mixture in body language. Heaviness and confusion. "… you didn't go." You realized slowly.

Miles flinched, like you realizing was another sin upon itself. "I-I couldn't." He said finally, all shaky and soft. "I just- I couldn't. The time wasn't right. I just sat there and prayed and it didn't work, I couldn't will myself to go in like everyone else." His gaze dropped to the kitten. "So I left. And I heard them beneath the church and I just… couldn't leave that. So I grabbed them and came back."

"Oh, Miles." You said softly. Your heart very often felt like it was ripping in half lately, but this was especially one of those cases. Sweet, tortured boy. You flashed back to the conversation a few days ago. How could someone be so scared for themselves that they even avoided something they thought could save them?

"I'm sorry." Miles mumbled.

"Don't apologize, please. You don't have anything to apologize for." You said firmly, blinking a few times so he didn't see you start to tear up. "I just want you safe. Will you go shower for me? I'll look after our new friend. Just… breathe for a moment in there. Take your time."

Miles locked eyes with you for a moment, as if checking you were sure, but he nodded eventually, disappearing behind weathered hotel doors. You only released a full breath when you heard the water turn on. The kitten in your arms was young, but not a baby. Nine weeks old, maybe. Still small and shaky, but with open eyes and a strong little body. The fur was matted, and they were underfed, but otherwise, miraculously healthy. No ticks or fleas. No injuries. No hurt limbs. Just a cold little kitten. You flipped them over. They were—she was—a resilient little thing. "No wonder the two of you found each other," you murmured to the kitten as she nuzzled into one of the pillows on Miles' bed, blinking at you quietly. "Kindred spirits, huh?"

You sat on Miles' bed, hands folded in your lap, for some unknown amount of time. Your thoughts wandered as you stared out the window, watching the rain hit the glass. The storm had intensified slightly, distant thunder now rumbling, but inside it was safe and warm. Warm lights and soft sheets. The kitten had wandered to your lap at some point and was curled up. You still felt guilty. Overwhelmingly so. Not even the soft fur of a little being could help you. Were you an asshole? Were you ignorant? You should have thought of Miles. Over a month of traveling together, of seeing him praying and staring at nothing at all sometimes. You should've been better. You'd been cowardly these last few weeks, you'd come to realize. You'd been too scared to toe at more than you absolutely needed to. Never pushing, never digging, never asking what he needed. You were experienced, you weren't an idiot to what people might need when they were going through things. You should've been more observant, more ready to try and help him. It was foolish to think that just words could soothe anything, especially from you. What the hell were you thinking-

A soft murmur of your name caught at your ears. You blinked once, then again, hard, and raised your head from where you'd been staring blankly at the floor. You were immediately met with the sight of Miles standing in a towel—and only a towel—with mussed hair and eased shoulders and the prettiest quirk to his lip and- holy shit, Miles was mostly naked.

You nearly snapped your neck with how fast you turned your head away. "Oh, Miles—"

"Sorry! Sorry." He shifted back, half hiding behind the bathroom door. "Sorry, I just… I didn't grab clothes and I was checking on the cat—"

"Right, right, no, it's fine." You were rambling over him as quick as you could. "It's… it's all okay. You grab your clothes."

Miles nodded slowly and re-entered the room. He leaned over on the other side of the bed, rifling through his recently purchased duffel bag. All you could see was his back, bare and still a little damp, and that was… entirely more than you deserved. Your neck was hurting from how hard it was turned around without disturbing the kitten on your lap, but you found you couldn't tear your gaze away from him. Miles' back was all pale and smooth, a few moles, muscles subtly flexing under his skin. You hadn't expected him to have any muscles, especially after everything he'd been through recently, but he did. Subtle yet certain. You took in a slow breath, fingers sinking deeper into the furry ball in your lap. Your fingers itched to reach out—trace lines between the moles, feel him breathing beneath your palm. You wanted to touch him. You wanted him—Miles leaned back up, and you tore your eyes away so fast it nearly gave you whiplash.

"How are they?" He asked softly. It took you a moment to realize he was asking about the kitten.

"Oh. She's- she's good. And she's a she." You looked down at the kitten, who was blinking up at Miles as he approached to glance down at her. "She's a bit malnourished, but no broken bones, fleas, ticks. It's honestly remarkable that she isn't more hurt."

Miles hummed softly, extending a finger. The kitten stretched out her neck, sniffing at him, then bumping her cheek against his finger. "Thank you, Lord," you heard Miles murmur. That tenseness in your chest eased slightly.

A few minutes later, Miles re-emerged with fresh clothes on. You had him sit on his bed, taking the time to reassess his facial situation. Over a month of constant care, with medication, creams, bandages, and constant cleaning, and his face was looking much better. More an issue now of muscle and skin tissue binding itself back together now. You'd honestly never seen wounds recover so well before. "They're looking really good." You murmured, leaning over Miles to study his face. You held your breath as you gently touched at his face, watching for his reaction. "You can start going without bandages, too. Looks like everything's closed up for the most part. Your skin tissue is mostly what's recovering."

"And that's good?" Miles asked. His gaze was focused on you, and for a moment, you lost your train of thought. Soft blue eyes and mussed hair gazed up at you. He looked so soft tonight—clothed comfortably, a dozing kitten in his lap. You were surprised by the sudden vision in your head of seeing him like this for the rest of your life. Your name being spoken pulled you from your thoughts, and you blinked. Miles' hand was touching at your wrist, his head slightly tilted. "Are you okay?" He asked slowly.

You swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Sorry, I'm fine, I'm just…" Preoccupied. Worried. Tired. Losing my mind. Questioning how I really feel about you. "… I was just focused. Yes, it's good. You'll scar, likely, but… you're healing really well, Miles."

"A miracle." His lips pulled into a small smile, the kind of expression you'd grown used to. His eyes ran over your face. "You're… you're a miracle. How are you so experienced with medicine? You seem… very knowledgeable in the areas of first aid."

You hesitated slightly, fingers lingering where his jaw met his neck. You pulled back, taking in a slow breath as you reached to grab some medicinal cream. The scent of medicine hit your nose as you opened the jar, smearing a small amount on your thumb. "… so you know how you were in Vietnam?" You questioned quietly. Miles nodded as your gaze returned to him, those intent eyes searching your expression. "Well… I was too." You murmured, leaning forward. Your thumb swiped cream over his wounded side, and you pretended not to see how Miles' eyes widened. You could practically see the thoughts forming beneath his gaze as he stared at you.

"You're- you were a nurse?" He stammered out.

"Mhm." You hummed, tongue poking out slightly as you concentrated to see where you had and hadn't applied the cream. "Served in three different stations. Twelve month tour."

"… wow." Miles' lips parted slightly, and he took in a shaky breath. "That… musta been hard."

"You were a soldier." You shot him a vaguely amused look, raising an eyebrow. "You know as well as I do."

"Some would argue it's worse to see someone die when it's your job to save 'em." He responded quietly.

"Who argues that?"

"… some people."

"Hmm." You smiled a little as you stepped back, screwing the lid back on the jar of cream and studying the face before you. "I dunno. I try… try not to think about it." As opposed to Miles, who had clearly thought about what he'd done so much it was trying to destroy him.

Miles' jaw wavered as he watched you grab more bandages. "How can you do it?" He whispered hoarsely. "Live with everything you saw? Everything that happened around or because of you?"

You hesitated, picking at the edge of a bandage. "I don't know, I guess I just..." You said. You made a downward pushing motion with one hand. "Not that it's healthy, but they never really taught us about mental health in wartime matters."

Miles smiled a little, which took you by surprise. His shoulders eased slightly as he looked up at you, a certain light in his eyes you hadn't seen before. "I guess… that makes two of us?" He said quietly. Almost hopeful, really. And how could you deny somebody their hope when you hadn't seen it in them before?

"Yeah." You took in a slow breath and leaned forward, starting to wrap his head carefully. "That's reassuring, I guess." You nodded down at the cat in his lap. "Three of us, I suppose."

"We're keeping her?" The hope in his voice bolted through you again. You nodded a little, looking at Miles.

"Would you like to?"

He stared at you. Maybe surprised that it mattered to you, what he wanted. You just held his gaze firmly as you finished wrapping his head. When you started to pull back, his hand caught at your wrist again. A thumb gently smoothed along the skin of your hand, those blue eyes locked on your own. Miles leaned in slightly, like he wanted to pierce your bubble and live in your space. "Thank you." He said softly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." Your heart jumped in your chest. You prayed he couldn't feel your pulse under his fingers. His statement was so wholehearted. So honest. Forcing down the lump in your throat, you nodded and leaned closer to him, smiling a little in a way that felt anything but the casual expression you were going for. "You're welcome, Miles Miller. I think you're pretty wonderful too."

One and a half months ago. The El Royale.

It had been raining for some time now. You had only started to be bothered by it because there was a leak in your roof. The El Royale was a run-down hotel by now, an old kind of luxury that had been worn and sanded down. Failing reputation had left it as a bastion manned by one incredibly endearing worker, and you doubted anybody else checked in a lot. It seemed like way too much for one person to handle, so you didn't hold it against Miles for not being an expert in roof integrity. Still, it was beginning to worry you how much your roof was leaking. What had started out as a drip so light and infrequent you thought your mind was playing tricks on you had escalated into a near constant drip of water directly onto one of the beds in your room. You'd laid down all the spare towels from your earlier bath, but as you watched with your hands on your hips, you realized that this may be something that needed more. Like a bucket. Or ten buckets.

You peered out one of your windows into the storm. Night had fallen, blanketing the El Royale in a wash of neon lights (from the hotel's sign) that were only as bright as they were because the rainfall made every surface shine. You could see your car from here, getting a firm beatdown in the rain. No other signs of life. You wondered if anybody else had been unlucky enough to get a leaky roof too. You sighed, straightening your shoulders and turning around to grab your key. Even though you were already feeling absolutely terrible at the thought of trying to find Miles late in the night, you would feel even worse if you left in the morning to a ruined roof and bed. You took in a breath and opened your door to face the rain.

The downfall wasn't as bad as you expected. You found a way to edge under a roof most of the way, listening to thunder and watching lightning occasionally flash in the sky above. It felt good, honestly—you couldn't remember the last time you'd felt rain like this. Everywhere deserved a good storm from time to time. You could excuse getting a little damp considering your hotel room was going through the same thing. You wiped off your face and pushed the door open to the lobby, unable to stop the yawn pulled from your throat, when your eyes caught on the scene in front of you. There was a girl swinging from the chandelier in the middle of the room. The hippie woman from earlier was turning towards you. And Miles, sweet hotel worker Miles, was tied to a chair, the left side of his face bloody. You froze where you stood.

"What the fuck?" You exclaimed.

"Aw, shit—" The woman was reaching for something leaned against a chair opposite Miles. Pure instinct drove you, and you darted forward, ducking down behind some pillar in the room with your hands over your head.

"WAIT!" You shrieked.

"Get the fuck up right now!" The woman shouted.

"DON'T SHOOT ME, ARE YOU INSANE?!" You shouted back.

"I ain't never been more sure of somethin' in my life." The woman hissed out, her voice starkly cold. "I've got a gun aimed towards where you're hiding right now. Get. Up. Raise your hands. And move slowly."

There was still a girl swinging on the chandelier. It was creaking in the silence, thunder rumbling distantly. You blew out a slow breath and stood slowly, raising your hands above your head as you took small, careful steps out from behind the pillar. Indeed, there was a gun aimed right at your chest—shotgun, it seemed, though you supposed any gun would be bad and the make of it didn't matter. "There you go." The woman nodded, keeping a sharp-eyed gaze firmly on you. "Nice and slow. Come towards me."

You kept walking slowly, ever-constantly aware of the silence oppressively suspending the room. The only person who didn't seem to feel this tension was the girl swinging on the chandelier, who, although she was watching the interaction, seemed satisfied to continue having her own fun. As you stepped closer, Miles came into view, and your eyes found each other. He'd been crying, his shoulders shaking slightly as he choked back sobs. He bit at his lip, watery gaze looking at you with this mix of hopelessness and fear and pain.

"Miles," you called. "are you okay?"

"What kinda dumb question is that?" The woman scoffed.

You swung your head back to her. "The fuck happened to him? You shot him?"

"He was collateral."

Your blood went cold and your pace faltered. "You shot someone else?"

The woman stared at you for a moment. Her gaze was distant for a moment, almost remorseful, like she was looking down a long line of terrible, horrible things. "I did." She said finally.

"Who?"

"That's none of your damn business." She nodded her head to the chair opposite of Miles. "Sit down."

Your gaze went back to Miles, and you hesitated. "He's hurt," you addressed the woman. "Please, can I just check him—"

"He's alive." You didn't move as she stepped closer, but you did flinch when you felt metal press into your back. Her voice was lower, closer to your ear now when she spoke again. "And I have a very low thread of patience tonight, so I'd suggest doin' what I tell you."

You couldn't tear your gaze from Miles, who was just staring at the two of you. Color had drained further from his face when the gun had been pressed to your back. For his sake, at least, you decided to listen. You hoped your gaze apologized more than any words could as you slowly sank into the chair opposite of him. "You come alone?" The woman asked, then called over to the other girl. "Get down here. I need your help."

The girl didn't object, though she did huff as she stopped swinging. She dropped off the chandelier, boots thudding on the ground as she lightly skipped over. You met her eyes as she stood in front of you, tensing slightly. There was something else about these two. This girl—something sharp and hollow lingered in her eyes as she took a piece of rope from her sister's hands and wrapped it around you. The whole time, you kept your eyes locked on what part of Miles you could. He was teary, shaking, looking at you apologetically.

"It's going to be okay." were the first words out of your mouth. You'd never fancied yourself a liar, not before, but you couldn't stand the tortured way he was looking at you.

"Maybe." The girl chirped, sounding very cheerful for what this situation was. She scampered back over to her area, clambering up her setup of haphazard furniture to grab onto the chandelier again. Miles flinched at the noise, shoulders curving into himself, and you blinked as you watched her. What in the world was she—

"Why did you kill someone?" You found yourself asking, craning your head to lock eyes with the woman standing just behind you. "And why was he collateral?"

She looked down at you, jaw working, and you saw a flicker of something in her eyes. Remorse? Caution? "Do you know what's going on at this hotel?" She said finally.

Your gaze narrowed, nerves tensing your body. "What do you mean?"

"So that's a no." She took in a slow breath, shifting the gun in her hand and setting it aside. The woman's gaze flicked to Miles, and she raised an eyebrow—part pity, part sardonic. "You wanna say, or should I?" Miles swallowed thickly. He looked between the woman, and you, and suddenly hiccuped on another sob, shaking his head a little. Your chest tightened. "Hm. Alright." The woman rounded on you. "This is some kind of pervert hotel. They've got this hallway behind the mirrors in rooms." She jutted her chin towards him. "He told me he's seen things here. Bad things."

Your gaze moved back to Miles. He stared right back at you, shaking his head a little as tears spilled over his bloody cheeks. "I'm sorry." He whispered. You shook your head, opening your mouth, but a sudden crash interrupted the chaos. The three of you whipped your heads just in time to watch the chandelier crash from the ceiling, the girl giving a little yelp as she came down to the ground with it. Surprisingly, she stumbled up from it a moment after, wiping her hair from her face.

"Jesus, you alright?" The woman asked. The girl gave her a small nod, and the woman huffed, sagging slightly. You were guessing she had a lot going on in her life, but you weren't sure if you felt any sympathy considering the everything else that was happening right now.

"You gonna kill us?" You asked after a moment of tense silence, raising your gaze to the woman as you set your jaw.

She gazed back at you, her own jaw clenching. "Maybe I should." It was an attempt at being cold, but you could sort of tell she was just scared. "He might deserve it." She gave a flippant gesture of her gun to Miles, and you shifted in your chair, glaring harder.

"Don't fucking say that." You snapped. "You're gonna blame an employee instead of an employer? A victim?"

"He coulda done something-"

"And you 'coulda done something' about your situation instead of shooting two men, no?!" You exclaimed back, staring up at her. "Leave Miles out of this. Hell, leave me outta it. Nobody wants to pay for your damn mistakes. I don't care what kinda day you're having, but it shouldn't keep ending in death because you've got it rough." Everyone in the room was staring at you like your head was on fire. You kind of felt like it was. You took in a breath and sagged slightly back into your chair, but you didn't let your gaze leave the woman. Her eyes glistened for a moment, just a moment, and you wondered if something you said had maybe weaseled through whatever else was going on in her head. Instead of doing anything miraculous, though, she shifted away, walking to the front desk. You heard the sound of paper shifting, watched Miles' eyes follow her shakily. You craned your head to watch her take the ledger paper from earlier. Neat names signed in a row in different types of scripts, like targets on people's backs. She blew out a slow breath and gripped the paper tighter. "Where are the others?"

Miles named the kitten Sally. Sally was a very quiet kitten unless she was sitting on Miles' chest or face, in which case she purred so loudly she could mimic a car. She loved napping in the backseat and staring out the window, and she seemed firmly devoted to trying to lick away the wounds on Miles' face whenever you were trying to apply cream to them. In short, she was incredible, and both of you loved her.

You were still in Oregon. You liked Oregon, you'd decided. It was silent and foggy and forested and yet you never felt lonely, not lately. Because Miles was always with you. Always the two of you, sleeping in the car or in little motels and hotels. Yet still, there wasn't a full decision what next or when to stop. You couldn't decide if the two of you were still running or not. You also couldn't decide what you were doing. Regarding feelings, regarding personal things. It seemed like nothing one day and then the next it was the heaviest, thickest weight in your chest that followed you through every human interaction. Miles Miller. You liked Miles Miller.

It followed you through everything. Through the turmoil. Through him rarely falling asleep in the passenger seat instead of the back, head lolling, soft breaths leaving him. It followed you when he leaned into your touch on his face like he needed it, followed you when he looked at those with those soulful blue eyes. It followed you when he laughed, haunted you like a ghost in your dreams, made you want something that sat so close to you most days. It was eating you from the inside out. He was eating you from the inside out. He had no idea. And you couldn't find it in yourself to tell him.

"Seems like an alright place."You were shaken from your thoughts as Miles spoke. He was leaned slightly forward in the passenger's seat, eyes scanning over the town as you drove through. "It's… pretty."

"Pretty's one very simple way to put it." Small town. Ringed by woods and air and light. Small, but large enough. Something about it settled in your chest just right even looking at it. Maybe it was the flower decorations along Main Street, or the shop doors being propped open to let in the air. Either way, it was the kind of place that made you feel nice just by existing in it. "You seein' any sign of an inn with those peepers of yours?" You asked, keeping your gaze on the road. Miles had recently taken to having his bandages off from time to time. The air on the wounds would do him a little good. You were still monitoring, still giving medicine, still seeing if you needed to ever stitch him back together, but all signs were pointing towards something brighter. Recovery. Even despite the scarring, which Miles never talked about, he'd been surprisingly optimistic about his face.

He asked you what you thought of it every few days. Your answers were always the same. You look good. You wondered if he read into it as much as you did.

"There." His finger extended, pointing to the right, where a sign displayed about vacancies and open rooms and the nice, cheap price. Miracles did exist.

"Nice, Miles, thank you." You pulled into the parking lot and exited the car, leaning down to speak with him. "You wanna come in?"

"Sally's still napping," Miles murmured, glancing at the backseat. "So… sure, yes."

"We won't be long." You assured him as he stepped out. "Let's go see the situation." The small room and reception desk was unmanned when the two of you stepped in. A bell pleasantly jingled above you, which unpleasantly reminded you of the El Royale, but you pushed that thought away as you came to the front desk, glancing down at the bell there and then over your shoulder at Miles, who was studying the travel guides on the wall. "… hello?" You called after a moment, raising your voice softly so it would permeate all the way back to the half-open door behind the desk.

Movement from behind the desk caught at your ears. The voice of an older woman called out, voice frustrated. "Be right there!"

True to her word, moments later you were greeted with the bespectacled face of a woman in her late fifties, hair stuffed with two pencils and a pen, wearing the coziest (and most disorganized) outfit you'd ever seen. Her eyes moved from you to Miles, and she blinked a few times, the scowl on her face easing. You shot her a small smile. "Hi, good afternoon. We're looking for a room for the night?"

"Ah." The lady hummed, nodding. "Sorry for the hostility, I've been havin' these teens from town comin' by to book rooms and they always ding and ditch on me."

"Oh." You frowned. "Sounds frustrating."

"They always trash the rooms, too. Got no damn idea where they live either." The lady huffed, shrugging. "It is what it is. I got more to worry about than them."

"I used to work in a hotel," Miles offered quietly behind you. "I understand the experience of room servicing."

The woman softened slightly, her gaze moving to him. "Well, thank you, honey. Guess we've both been through our own experiences, huh?" She sighed, adjusting her glasses on her face. "Y'all said you needed a room?"

"Yeah." You nodded. "Just one night."

"Four dollars," the woman said, fishing for a key in a drawer. "Unless you'll be needing room services of any kind, in which case, it's six."

"Uh… no, we should be alright, thank you." You took out the money from your wallet. Money had been a little lighter lately. Consistent travel meant you were always spending, spending, spending, and it was beginning to worry you a bit, though you'd never say such a thing to Miles.

"Are all of these things really in this town?"

You glanced over your shoulder, finding Miles with a pamphlet opened as he read through. His eyes drew up, moving from you to the woman, and you couldn't help but soften at the curiosity in his gaze.

"Yup, that's all here." The woman affirmed. "Small enough town, but we've got lots goin' for us." She studied the two of you curiously. "Where y'all from?"

"… long story," you mumbled. "I came from Nevada."

She nodded to Miles. "And you?"

Miles lowered the pamphlet sheepishly, shrugging slightly. "… California and Nevada, I guess."

"You guess." The woman clicked her tongue, but it wasn't mean, more amused than anything. She gave you a look you couldn't quite read and passed the key over the counter to you. "Well. Room 1C. I'm Constance if y'all need anything. No askin' for shit after six pm."

"Thank you, ma'am." You said as you took the key. She just adjusted her glasses and took out a smoke as you left. Miles and you grabbed your bags from the car. Sally stirred as you did so, stretching and yawning in the backseat, and Miles offered her the crook of his shoulder. She jumped up, nestling and clinging to him with a satisfied noise, and you smiled at the sight.

"I still don't get how you inadvertently trained her to do that." You said as you both lugged your things to the room, watching Sally nudge against the scarred skin on the left side of his face.

Miles just gave you a small, sheepish smile. "She just likes being close to my face, I think."

Me too. You thought before you could stop yourself. You released your best attempt at a small chuckle and fidgeted with the key in your hand so you didn't have to keep watching him and feel that odd little jump in your chest any longer. "Well, that's good except for when she tries to smother you when you nap." You said as you inserted the key into the lock. "She doesn't exactly seem to grasp the idea of oxygen yet—"

You pushed the door open and paused at the sight in front of you. There was only one bed. "Ah, damn." You muttered.

"What?" Miles peeked over your shoulder. You couldn't stop him, considering he was taller than you, so you just stood there, half-frozen, as you felt his gaze lock onto the singular bed. Miles' pose shifted behind you, a small exhale leaving his lips and ghosting over you.

"Oh." He said quietly. "Guess… guess she thought we… were a couple?"

"Haha! Yeah. Probably." You awkwardly shuffled into the room, items in your arms, and Miles followed you. He immediately started rambling.

"If you're uncomfortable, I'm sure we could go back in there and… and ask for another room," he said. "I mean, it's not our faults she thought that about us, you know? We can just explain…"

He trailed off as Sally hopped off his shoulder, making a small oomph of surprise and watching with those wide blue eyes as the gray kitten crossed the room and scrambled up the large bed. She wordlessly plopped down in the center of it, curling up, and blinking at the two of you languidly as if saying she'd staked her claim.

Despite the tight little ball in your chest, you couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "Seems like our little companion has decided our fate for us." You turned to Miles, giving him a small smile. His eyes flicked down to your smile—to your lips? No, you couldn't think like that—as you spoke. "It's a big bed, I think we can manage. As long as you're alright with it."

Miles nodded slowly, eyes slowly dragging back up to yours. The tips of his ears went pink as he swallowed. "… are you sure?" He questioned softly.

"Positive." You affirmed with a smile.

All was well after that. The two of you organized your items and took stock of your supplies. You'd grab some snacks on the way out of town, but for now, the two of you headed out for a quick dinner.

Miles was practically plastered to the window of the car as you took a slow drive through town, taking in everything around you. You couldn't help but shoot him an amused glance.

"You really seem to like it here."

"I'm just… looking." He murmured softly, head swiveling to look at a restaurant both of you passed by which was absolutely crammed with locals. "I haven't seen a town like… this before."

"This?" You echoed.

Miles shrugged, head turning to you for a moment. "I grew up somewhere small. Farm town. Just… fields and barns and a little main street. The church and our home were the only places that mattered. This place feels… less distant. Like everything's sewn together and it fits."

You nodded a little, glancing at him as you pulled into a parking space. "I get it. Feeling good somewhere. I'm glad you like it."

He just smiled at you. You wondered how miraculous it was, having such an incredible person at your side despite everything that had happened.

The diner you ate at was busy, stuffed with locals. You'd apparently come in right during the dinner rush, though neither of you minded. The two of you sat at the counter, where Miles was swept into conversation by a few people to his right who insisted his opinion on some long-standing argument they'd gotten into. You propped your head in your hand after placing your order with the pretty lady your age and just watched him, feeling that tightness in your chest loosen. Miles looked… looser lately. He still kept his hair neat, but it had gotten a little longer, which was forcing him to improvise his hairstyles more. Color had returned fully to his face. His scars were healing nicely. He was dressed comfortably and he actually talked now, though there was still the nerves and the way his eyes darted away before he could ever look too long.

You cared about him so much it scared you. What a difference a couple months could make of you.

You were just starting to fish out the cash to pay for your dinners when one of the cooks came out of the back, wiping sweat off his face with a rag. He was about the same age as the two of you, and you hesitated when he pulled the rag down from his face and you spotted a scar against the left of his face. Blast scar, it looked like. You had experience from those during the war. None of them pretty. Most of them lethal. The fact that this guy was walking around with two good eyes was one of the most miraculous things you'd seen.

The man locked eyes with you, then Miles, who drew up short at the sight of him, probably thinking the same thing as you.

"Huh." A smile stretched across the man's lips, tugging his scar a different way. "New to town, huh? I'd remember a face like yours." He nodded at Miles, then tapped at his own scar. "You from overseas too?"

Miles tensed slightly, shoulders drawing together. He took in a breath, and you watched as his pupils dilated slightly, gaze unfocusing. He stepped back, shakily, nearly tripping over his own feet. Instinctively, you put a hand to his back to steady him, hoping he didn't hurt himself in front of everyone.

"We both are, actually." You answered softly, drawing the attention away from Miles. "You recently discharged?"

"Eh, somewhat." The guy shrugged. He passed a look of mutual understanding between the two of you, gaze assessing.

"It's a nice town." He said after a moment of silence. "Makes you feel whole again."

"Oh, you're mistaken." You shook your head, trying to raise your voice over the noise of the diner. "We're not staying—"

"Hey, you paid me a little extra!" The peppy waitress popped back into the conversation, sliding you some money back. "I mean, I appreciate the tipping and all, but y'all keep all the money you need. Hard times and all."

"… thank you." You slowly took the money back, gaze flicking between the waitress and the cook. "Thanks for the food. Y'all have a nice night." You stepped away from the counter, but Miles didn't move. He stood, blinking emptily at the counter, chest rising and falling shakily.

You leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. "Miles?" You questioned softly.

He didn't respond.

You extended your arm, gently looping it through Miles' own. "Hey," you said softly. "you with me?"

He blinked a few times, startling like he'd violently come back to Earth, mindlessly leaning against you slightly like you were the only thing that was real. Which was… worrying. Very worrying.

"… um," he mumbled. "I—"

"Okay. You're okay." You waved at the waitress and the cook, who had been swept up in a conversation together but still spared you waves and smiles, and lead him out of the diner and into the car. "Are you gonna throw up?"

"No." He pressed pinched fingers to his nose, breathing shakily. "'m sorry."

"Miles, hey, no, don't- don't be. Stop that." Your hand was on his knee, reaching over the console to squeeze and tether. "Can you look at me?"

He did. Slowly. His eyes had the beginnings of tears in them, which made your heart ache for him. You reached up slowly, carefully rubbing under one eye, pressing ever so gently against his eyebags.

"Can you tell me what happened in there?" You asked gently.

Miles blew out a shaky breath. Though his gaze flicked away from you, he didn't move from your touch. Instead, his cheek nudged closer into the palm of your hand, skin of his cheek smushing slightly. You felt your chest give a little stutter, but you tried not to change your expression as you listened to him.

"It's strange," Miles started. "but even though I was a soldier, I jus'… is everyone just gonna think I got scarred from the war?"

You studied him, gaze softening. "You don't want people to keep bringing it up."

Miles nodded, and then sniffled, shoulders shaking. You frowned as a tear slipped from his eyes, bringing your hand up from his knee to cup the other side of his face and brush the tear away. His lip quivered, but he just pressed into your hands harder, shoulders starting to shake more.

"I just- it was so much easier to hide be-before, so much easier—" He choked on his breath, another wave of tears washing over his face. Before you could stop yourself, you pulled him closer, letting him rest his head on your shoulder as you held him. Miles responded instantly, hands curling into your shirt as he held you close, his body shaking as he cried.

"I could jus' go to work and work and film things and I had heroin—" Miles rambled into your shoulder, voice slightly muffled but still so, so legible with his voice close to your ear. "-but I don't have that now, I jus' sit and I think in the car about everything that happened and I can't, I can't do it no more, please."

"I know, baby, I know." You didn't pay any mind to the words slipping from your lips, just holding him close because he needed it. Needed you. You ran your hand up and down his back, keeping your voice low and soothing in the way you knew he liked. "I know it's hard. You've been so brave for so long. You don't have to hold it all in anymore."

"I can't do it." He repeated into your shoulder. "I can't. It's too much."

"It's not too much." You assured him softly. "You're still here, aren't you? Still existing with me, caring for Sally, driving all over the west with me. You're doing so good."

You turned your head slightly, making sure he could hear you. You needed him to hear you. You needed him to know.

"If you can't keep it in any longer," you murmured. "then start to tell me. Tell me everything you want to."

He went silent and still against you, trembling shoulders held back as he hiccuped on a breath. The car was so silent you could hear the world outside, the group of locals who were passing by all cheerful and loud.

"I can't- I can't burden you like that." Miles whispered into your shoulder, sounding horrified. "I seen things. I can't tell you everything, I can't- I won't do that to you."

"I've seen things too." You said firmly. You squeezed your eyes shut. It wasn't hard to recall everything you spent so much time burying. "Seen men's legs torn to shreds and bodies twisted at broken angles. I've had men start screaming themselves hoarse, tryin' to claw into my skin just so I'd stop treating them. I've seen dead kids and dead women and I've puked over the smell of dead bodies before."

Miles pulled back slowly, gazing at you with red and watery eyes. "You've—" He blew out a shaky breath. "I'm so sorry—"

"Stop." You cupped his face again, meeting his eyes firmly. "I just want you to know I'm here, okay? I'll listen. And I'll care. No matter what. I can promise you that."

Miles looked shaky. Like the world had been pulled out from under his feet again. You hadn't seen him this shaky in a bit and it worried you more than you could vocalize. But still, you stroked your thumbs over his face, praying to anything that might be listening that he would believe you this once.

"You don't have to answer me now." You said finally, when the silence had dragged long past comfortable and he had hardly moved an inch. Miles managed a nod at that, at least, and pulled away from your touch. The distance, too, worried you. You couldn't help but call yourself selfish for that.

Miles was silent for the rest of the night. The drive back to the hotel was doubly so—your radio kept fading in and out, products of a distant storm on the horizon, and there was some weird sound persisting in the car that wasn't exactly promising.

Still, there was little else to do but go on. Miles shuffled into the hotel room, and you pried open the hood of your car, frowning down at the arrangement of the machine beneath you like you understood anything about vehicles. After your thirty-second period of staring yielded no results, you decided there was nothing you could do. Rubbing your hand over your face, you shrugged and closed the hood of your car. Any good problem went away with time. You just looked up at the clouding skies and returned to the hotel room.

The bed was large enough for the two of you to fit comfortably. You arranged an extra blanket halfway down the bed, drawing a line for the two of you to follow. Miles sat in the chair in the corner of the room, Sally in his lap, a distant look in his eyes as he barely paid attention to anything. Which definitely, totally did not worry you.

Stuck in the shower, you let the warm water run over you, your forehead pressed against the cool tile. You felt like you were losing it lately, which wasn't saying much because you felt like that very often. But it felt different this time, like an ache, or a thorn in a metaphorical palm that you couldn't pull loose. You couldn't help but feel guilty about it too. It wasn't like life was easy right now, but it wasn't… bad. You actually couldn't remember the last time you'd liked your life as much as you did right now. You were safe, even if you didn't have a house or a bed to sleep every night. You spent your days with someone you cared about, who you were pretty sure cared about you as well.

And yet you had no home, no true safety, no stable job. You were running out of money, you had two other lives in your hands, and you were afraid to bring any of it up for fear of what it could spark.

The water was turning cold. You switched it off and got out, letting your thoughts spiral down the drain with the flow.

Getting into bed was an awkward ordeal. The two of you split the covers, with you giving Miles the thicker one despite the fact it was getting colder out and you'd probably regret it later. Sally chose her allegiance, settling by Miles' head and blinking at you as if saying Get your shit together. Which, yeah, thanks, cat.

"You're sure this is fine?" Miles mumbled in the dark. You could see the outline of his body if you turned your head slightly, though you were trying not to, because you were trying not to think about how close he was.

"I'm sure." You responded softly, feeling far too vulnerable even in the dark. "Sleep is what's important."

Of course, saying this meant you couldn't sleep afterward. Lying on your side, back to Miles, you stared firmly at the wallpaper across from you, thoughts running like a raging river. It was only after you'd gone down a line of thought following Miles leaving you that you told yourself you were being silly. There were rough patches. Such things were to be expected right now. A very small and a very great amount of time had passed all at once, and you needed to just… breathe. Just breathe. Both of you were safe and in one of the nicest towns you'd been to thus far.

So you breathed. You breathed and breathed and breathed until your mind unspooled into a dream where you were back in Vietnam and a doe-eyed soldier gazed at you from afar. You distracted him from drills and he always looked away too late, but you always smiled and waved. The other nurses teased you about your distant crush on Miles Miller, the sniper boy the soldiers called their savior. They argued killing machine and you argued kindness, seeing the remorse hidden behind his eyes when a mission went well and how his hands would often shake when he wasn't holding a rifle. You dreamt of speaking to him, how the two of you would share shy smiles and quiet glances and try to find each other in a room, even if the other definitely wouldn't be there.

And you dreamt of an attack, where the world was all fire and smoke and ashes in the night. Distant explosions, screams of the people you'd grown to know. Stumbling through the ruins of a camp, you screamed until your throat was raw, begging for help, for support. For someone, anyone to save you. You were blind and dirty, stumbling through the camp until you spotted a silhouette on a distant hill, illuminated by the explosion of a plane behind him.

Miles. Miles, your soldier boy, who stood on the hill, rifle raised unflinchingly. Shots rang out among the chaos as you stumbled closer, hoarsely screaming his name even as your voice squeaked out. Bodies fell nearby, the enemy indistinguishable from you, but all you could focus on was Miles on the hill. Miles, Miles, Miles, your Miles, your heart sang as you stumbled towards him. Yet you never seemed to get closer, no matter the bodies you stepped over or the tents you passed. There was just death, death, death, crawling up your throat and seeping into your nose.

And there was Miles up on the hill, shooting down countless people, never faltering, never freezing, until he reached to reload and a crack sounded through the air.

You watched his head jerk back. You'd seen so much death. Recognized a hit when you saw one. Yet it still didn't feel real as you watched his body rock back, limp, and fall to the ground.

All the air rushed back into your lungs. The world buzzed around you, sound slamming into you, and you screamed-

"Miles! MILES! MILES!—"

—and then you were surging up, gasping for air and clawing at the covers around you, breathlessly hiccuping on your sobs. You couldn't breathe, you were confused and scared and your last memories were of fire and smoke and death, death, death, the death of the only person left that you cared about—

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey."

Someone's hands cupped at your face. They were shaking. This was the first real detail you took in about the waking world.

Your name was murmured. Softly, insistently, shakily, but it was spoken nonetheless, dripping with worry. Your heart pounded in your chest, but the ringing in your ears was subsiding.

"It's okay," the person was saying. "I'm right here, don't worry, you're… you're okay. You're safe."

You blinked a few times. Every blink brought you back to the present, though you paid by it pressing out another wave of tears to slip down your face. Slowly, your gaze focused, and you blinked at the scene around you.

The room you were sleeping in. The bed, blankets disturbed and a pillow on the ground. You were sitting with your legs tangled, feeling the remnants of panic in your chest.

Miles was kneeling on the bed, hands cupping your face as his gaze shifted over you. His eyes were wide, slightly panicked, his hands shaking like he was unsure if he was even allowed to be doing what he was doing.

You took in a gulp of air, your chest burning still from the sobs that had been leaving you. "I'm so- I'm so sorry, did I wake you up?"

Miles blinked, like he hadn't expected that to be your first question. He shook his head softly. "N-no. No, you didn't. I was awake already."

"I'm so sorry." You repeated again, moving your hand to messily wipe tear tracks off your face as you sniffled. "I-I didn't—"

"Were you dreaming?" He interrupted. His voice was so soft and gentle and sweet. He was just so sweet. Your Miles Miller.

Your eyes scanned over his face. You got a flash of him on the hill, head jerking backwards as a bullet pierced his skull. You just nodded weakly, throat thickening.

"You were calling my name." Miles said quietly. "Jus'… shaking and sobbing and calling out for me."

You became very conscious of his shaking hands, his thumbs running along your cheeks.

"I… had a dream you were dead." You forced out eventually, scanning over the side of his face that was peppered with scars. "That you died in Vietnam, fighting. And I couldn't… do anything about it."

Miles' lips parted in a soft 'O' shape. "Oh." He whispered. "I-I'm sorry."

You laughed a little at that, though it was all watery and shaky. "Why on Earth are you apologizing?"

"You had a bad dream because of me." He was pouting slightly, that familiar look of guilt swimming in his eyes, and you shook your head firmly, raising your hands to rest over his own.

"I had a bad dream because of myself. Because I… care about you." Deeper words stuck in the back of your throat. Denial, denial, denial, you couldn't go down that path right now, couldn't say you felt that way.

Miles looked down slightly, taking in a sniffly breath. "I'm still sorry." He mumbled. "For… making you afraid I wasn't here anymore." A look of determination flitted over his features. "I am here. I am. Nothing in the world could make me leave you right now."

Not even a bullet?

That would probably ruin the moment if you said that.

Instead, some mixture of exhaustion and desperation and affection clouded your senses, and you nudged closer into Miles' touch, letting your eyes flutter shut as his words sank into you. I'm here. And he wasn't leaving.

Miles didn't move for a moment, though you heard him take in another small, slow breath.

"C'mere," he said finally. His voice was soft in the silence, like he was afraid to break it. When you pried your eyes open, he was pulling back from you, and you watched as he haphazardly picked up the small blanket barrier that had been separating the two of you and tossed it aside.

He laid back, patting your bed space. "Come here." He said again, voice so soft. Even in the dark, you could see him, his body outlined in every gentle nature it held.

Sweet boy. You were so exhausted and overwhelmed and relieved that you couldn't find it in you to ask what he was doing. You laid down.

Miles' arms encircled you slowly, and you released a breath as you turned to face him. Your own arms reaching out, you couldn't stop the sniffle that left you. You gripped his clothes, letting the two of you settle into a combined shape. Your head tucked under his chin. His breath fanned softly over your head as he held you and you held him.

"Is this… okay?" He whispered finally, into the silence.

"Yes." You answered, eyes slipping shut. Your mind stilled quicker than usual with the press of another body next to you.

"Okay." His voice had grown a little hoarser. You felt his breath pass over the top of your head again. "I'm here."

He's here.

The thought soothed you.

Two months ago. Lobby of the El Royale.

One could always be under the assumption that it couldn't get worse. And then it always did.

So it turned out there had been people searching for the two women. You didn't try to make much sense of it. There were people with guns and rope, and some creepy asshole with way too much chest showing, and there was so much going wrong all at once.

You should've stayed in your car. Or maybe kept driving, kept running. Instead, you sat, a hint dazed, as people moved around you.

Flynn and the woman, Darlene, had been retrieved from wherever they were. Their clothes were damp, a sign they'd been out in the rain that was still pouring constantly outside. Miles and you were ushered from one bound spot to another—Miles wide-eyed and shaking. You'd been trying to calm him down before this had happened, murmuring quiet words of encouragement and asking how his face felt, but now all of your work was unspooled and he was shaking as he took everything in. He seemed far more interested in pleading to the priest, Father Flynn, whose face was a mix of not right now and guilt and oh God oh fuck we might all die right now. Or maybe that was more like what you were thinking.

"Bless me Father for I have sinned," Miles rattled off next to you, teary eyes locked on Flynn. "Please, Father—"

"Hey, kid." The leader of this whole situation, the asshole with the open chest who'd been cradling the face of the girl in a way that made your skin crawl, annoyedly called out. "If you don't shut up, I'm gonna tie your mouth shut."

This did not stop Miles. "Father, please, forgive me for the sins of my life. Please, Father, bless- mmph—"

You jerked in your bonds on instinct as a gag of fabric was wrapped around Miles' head. You glared holes into the person who'd done it, but you were utterly helpless.

The man sauntered over, humming cheerfully, a cigarette hung from his lips as he tossed money and a tape onto the table, eyes locked onto Darlene and Flynn. He plucked up the ledger and gestured lazily. "So I'm guessing you're Father Flynn… which makes the dead guy Laramie Seymour Sullivan."

He eyed between you and Darlene, who was seated to your left. You glared back at him and imagined him turning into dust before your very eyes. He smirked a little, like your gaze amused him, and he murmured your name, tapping where it was on the ledger.

"Yeah, that's you. Ain't nothin' sweet about that expression. Then you, miss, must be Darlene Sweet." His gaze swung to Darlene, who stared back at him unreadably. The man chuckled as he looked at the ledger. "Well, I suppose you could be 'Fuck You', but, uh, something tells me that's my Emily here." He gestured to the woman with a cheerful smile, which she did not return. Instead, she—Emily—looked hollowed out, like hope had left her system. The man just smiled, looking over all of you.

"Any other people left in the hotel?" He questioned. Miles shakily shook his head when the man's gaze found him. You wanted to claw out of your bonds and stand in front of him and maybe punch the guy in the face, but you couldn't do that and it made you fume.

"Wade, Annabel," the man addressed the members of his group. "stand behind these five and if they try to get out of their seats, you just…" He made a little bang motion. "… shoot 'em in the back of the head. 'N Flicker, Roman, c'mere. Go to room seven, get the dead guy, and put all of his stuff and the body in the trunk of the car. Then go room to room, see if you can find anybody else. If you can, bring 'em here."

One of the people sent out jerked their head towards all of you. "What about them?" He called lazily.

"Well, first I got some questions that need answering." The man said with a hum, gaze returning to the five of you. "But… leave some room in the trunk."

The statement sobered the five of you even further. You glanced to both sides to see everyone's faces lose a bit of color. You couldn't say you were much better off. There was someone standing directly behind you and you knew they had a gun and you were terrified, icy cold and shaky. You clenched your hands into fists, trying to breathe evenly. Stay calm. You have to stay calm.

The man was greeting Emily cheerfully off to the side. You caught the slip of his name—Billy Lee—as the two talked back and forth, something about taking and leaving and not being ready. Your eyes slowly slipped between them and the girl sitting in the nearby couch, a story untangling slowly in your head.

The two ladies. Sisters. The man, something outside the familial picture, but connected and dangerous nonetheless. And now you were all stuck in the mix.

"Did you tell them what she did?" Billy Lee was asking Emily.

"What'd I do?" Asked the girl, blinking. Gazes flicked to her as slow remembrance dawned on her face, eyes going distant for a moment. She took in a breath and nodded. She was eating shitty pie, seated on a couch near all of you. "Oh, right. Sorry 'bout all that."

"It's all right, Boots. We'll deal with that when we get back to California." He swung his body towards the rest of you, where you sat over the state border line. "We got us a Nevada problem now."

His gaze wandered over the hotel. "So, uh, Miles… what is this, some sort of pervert hotel?"

How many times did you have to hear that line? You glanced over at Miles, who was hanging his head, distantly listening to Father Flynn defending the man to your right. You instinctively leaned, trying to catch Miles' gaze with a concerned frown, but you didn't get even a glance from him. He was millions of miles away and you were, unfortunately, still here with ropes digging into your body.

"And what," Billy Lee was saying to Flynn, who apparently had about the same amount of information you did about the hotel. "He just offered this up to you, did he?"

Flynn looked… a hint guilty and resigned. Which you didn't like. "I think he was trying to confess." He rasped, which Miles nodded quickly in response to. "I think… it's been weighing on him. I think he's trying to confess right now… because he knows how this is gonna go, and he fears for his soul."

Miles was nodding shakily, and Billy Lee was laughing a little, like he was in on a joke you didn't understand. You glared holes into him the entire way as he walked over and ducked down to look at Miles.

"Hey, buddy. Uh…" He rested his hand on Miles' shoulder casually, and you winced slightly. "Listen, if you're so worried about your soul, maybe you shouldn't have been doing all this bad shit in the first place."

Miles was still so hurt, all bloodied and pained, and it tugged at your chest. Still, he nodded shakily, sniffles leaving him, and Billy Lee nodded as he stood and clapped Miles' shoulder.

You watched him even as the world passed around you. The storm was thundering overhead, there were little things of fire in the hotel catching the light of crystals, and everything was terrible down to it's core. Billy Lee was arguing with Darlene and Flynn about tapes and money and singing and priests. You felt like everything was ending, and maybe it was. You couldn't decide how much you cared about that.

You were only really tugged out of your thoughts by the sound of music playing, something that started with howling and rolled into rock. You blinked up at the ceiling, then over to the others, who looked just as unhappy about the sudden music as you.

"Who is this?" Flynn muttered to Darlene.

"Um… Deep Purple, I think." She said.

"Newer song." You murmured. "'Hush'. 1968."

"… it's, um… not for me." Flynn grumbled as he leaned back in his seat.

Unlike the rest of you, Billy Lee seemed to be having a very nice time. He was dancing and swaying, his hips moving too much for what the beat was giving him as he continued to eat the pie the girl had been working on. He inserted himself back in-between Darlene and Flynn. "Now, I want you two to pay real close attention to what happens next, alright? And keep it riight up there in the front of your minds when I'm askin' questions lookin' for truthful answers, okay?"

He didn't really seem to be listening. He nudged between you and Darlene, shooting you a grin as he plopped the pie in front of your spot along the table. You blinked up at him and raised a slow eyebrow, silently asking what his problem was, but he was already moving on from you as he dusted off his hands. "All right. Emily. Pick a color." He slapped his hands on the table, one after another, over the colors of the roulette table. "Red or black?"

Emily did not seem happy to play his game. "No." She slowly turned her gaze away, glancing at her sister.

"No?" Billy Lee echoed as he strolled over to her. "Well, that's just not hardly nice. I'm offering you a chance here, right?" He rester his hands on her shoulders, squeezing lightly. "On account of the fact that we're practically family, all right? And that's downright charitable of me, considering…"

He turned to the younger girl. "Boots, you hearing what your sister's doing?"

"Em," the girl said—Rosie, Rose, Boots, she was so young— "if Billy Lee is offering you a chance, I think you should take it."

The silence stretched for a very, very long moment. Sisters locked eyes. You glanced around furtively and found absolutely nowhere to go and nothing to fight back with except a slice of half-eaten pie.

"Did you think you could just take what's mine, and I wouldn't come a'huntin?" Billy Lee was murmuring to Emily, who jerked away from his touch like he was burning her, eyes never leaving her sister.

"She ain't yours." She whispered.

"Rosie, are you mine?" Billy Lee called, barely even looking behind him.

"Of course." Rosie murmured.

Billy Lee glanced down at Emily. Smirked, sharp and victorious. "Of course." He echoed, giving a pointed look at the older sister.

Emily just looked sad. Her voice was quiet as she spoke. "There was no violence 'till you."

"Yeah, maybe. Maybe not." Billy Lee leaned closer, nestling his head uncomfortably against her. You froze slightly, tearing your gaze from the discomfort of the interaction, but you still heard them speaking, heard Billy Lee whispering all smug and strange against Emily's head. "But it's there now, isn't it?"

You all watched in petrified, heavy silence as he wandered to one of his recruits. You didn't dare crane your head, but you saw where this was going clearly enough as Billy Lee wandered back into view with a gun tucked into the back of his pants. One hand spun the roulette wheel in front of him as he took out the gun, slamming it on the table. "Pick a color, Em. I ain't gonna ask again."

Everybody around the table stiffened. Miles took in shaky breaths, a fresh wave of tears running down his face. Darlene and Flynn were stiff, wide-eyed. You flexed slightly at your bonds, which was futile, because you had nothing to do even if you got free.

"Pick a color." Billy Lee whispered. "Pick a color."

"… red." Emily whispered.

Billy Lee's demeanor shifted in an instant. Back to something cheerful, showmanship on full display as he straightened. "Well, I guess that makes you black, altar boy." He spun the roulette wheel.

"What?" Miles' head jerked up, his voice muffled as his gaze swung to the group of you. "No, nono no—"

"Ah, come here," Billy Lee sighed as he reached for his gag. "If you got some prayers, you can say 'em now."

The gag was barely off Miles' mouth before he was talking, eyes locked on Flynn, his voice wobbly and desperate. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned, I have done so much worse than you know—"

"Kid—" Flynn tried to start, pressing his lips together.

"Father Flynn, I have sinned and I repent!" Miles shouted. His voice was cracking, barley audible over the overstimulating spin of the roulette and music in the back. "Forgive me, Father! I-I-I-I have sinned and I- Father Flynn, please!"

"Do you want to tell him, or do you want me to do it?" Billy Lee said, smiling down at Flynn, and you hated him hated him hated him and you were fucking frozen as you stared at the scene before you-

"I have sinned and I repent!" Miles shouted hoarsely.

"Miles—" Flynn started again.

"Please!" You and Darlene exclaimed at the same time. Darlene was pleading for Flynn and you weren't sure what you were pleading to if anything but you were pretty sure it was Billy Lee—

"Forgive me, Father—"

"He's not a fucking priest, kid!" Billy Lee exclaimed sharply at Miles.

The wheel was slowing, the ball was hitting against something, and you watched as Miles stopped screaming, staring at Flynn with a trembling lip. His eyes flicked between Billy Lee and Flynn, and whatever he found there must have hurt, because he leaned back in his chair, too shell-shocked to even pay attention to the roulette wheel as the ball clack clack-ed its way into a spot.

You turned your gaze to the wheel and watched for the ball, finally finding it on a black spot. It was on black, that was his color, but did that mean he was safe or was he the one who—

"Well, looks like the Lord hasn't forsaken you yet." Billy Lee said with a hum.

He raised his gun and aimed it towards Emily. You had just enough time to register it before Flynn shouted, and the snap of a gunshot rang through the air.

The girl in the chair was knocked to the ground, hair astray as she faced her sister.

The song clicked off in the background.

The car was broken.

You got up early that morning. It had taken you a moment to gather your collected thoughts, because at first, you'd just woken up warm. Your chest had felt full, and you had felt so safe. And for a moment, you didn't remember anything from last night, until you'd really come to your senses and realized you were still cuddling with Miles Miller.

It had taken five minutes to convince yourself to move and another six to actually untangle yourself. Miles had barely stirred through the ordeal—his face angelic, breath evenly rising and falling, he'd had an arm tossed over your waist and his head still perfectly positioned over yours. He'd looked perfect. You tried to stop the influx of thoughts as you'd quietly cracked open some food to feed Sally (who was staring at the two of you from the room's chair as if to say get on with it, cowards) and left to check on your situation. Your attempts to shoo your thoughts away had been entirely unsuccessful until you got in the car and it firmly did not start.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me." You stood, peering into the mess of the hood again, trying to see what looked wrong. Nothing did, though. You gave a quick peek under the car. Nothing was dripping or hanging or smoking. The car just wasn't starting and you didn't know why.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me." You groaned, grinding the heels of your palm into your eyes as you stood in the parking lot and attempted to not have your latest mental breakdown. Two in less than twelve hours would not do wonders for your reputation.

You took a deep breath, silently screamed, and walked back to your room.

Opening the door to the hotel room, you were greeted with Miles pulling his shirt on and Sally trying to eat one of his socks.

You blinked, watching a slip of his lower back disappear under a shirt as he turned to you. You raised your gaze in time to meet his, and he blinked at you.

An awkward silence lingered for a moment. Miles spoke first, his voice quiet.

"… what's wrong?"

"The car is broken." You said, shoving your hands into your pockets.

Miles' shoulders eased, and a look of… relief flashed over his face. "Oh, good."

Alarm filled his expression the second he said it, and he raised his hands. "I mean- not good that the car is broken—"

You giggled, despite yourself, the sound so unexpected that it surprised the both of you. "I- yeah, that part isn't good, you're right."

"What do we do?" Miles whispered, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

You sighed and shrugged. "Ask for help."

Constance was already smoking despite how early in the morning it was. You'd never understood people who did early morning smokes, though you would never say such a thing. Smoking was as natural as breathing in the world. Not for you, though. Being a nurse in the past had its advantages.

"G'morning," She greeted roughly as the two of you wandered in, blowing a puff of smoke into her room in the back instead of in your faces.

"Hi." You drummed your fingers on the counter. Miles was, once again, looking at the pamphlets on the wall. "Our car's broken. Do you guys have a mechanic in town?"

Constance sucked in a slow breath, lowering the cigarette from her lips. A look of sympathy crossed her face.

"Well… some bad news about that. Yes, we've got a guy. Ray's out of town, though. He takes a bi-annual trip across the country to visit family."

You stared at her. "… when will Ray be back?"

"You missed him by a few days." Constance looked very sympathetic. "He won't be back for a few months."

"Christ." You said exasperatedly. Miles mumbled something under his breath behind you, probably something about the Lord's name being used in vain, but you were a bit too despondent to respond to it. You rested your head in your hands, taking in a slow breath.

"Nobody else repairs cars in your town?" You mumbled.

"Most things in town are walking distance. Folks dig the exercise."

"Well, I don't dig what's happening right now." You said.

Constance's gaze moved from you to Miles. "You folks don't got anyone to get you?"

"No." You mumbled. "It's just us. And our cat."

Miles raised his head at the word us. Something in your chest warmed at that, and you took in a steadying breath as you looked back at Constance.

"I know this is probably way belong what you normally have to do for people, but I don't suppose anybody's looking for employees? Or renting a space?"

You didn't have the money for a new car. Lottery funds had slowly trickled into something normal over the last few months, whether you liked it or not. And now, being stranded in this sleepy little town, you were at a dead end that would bleed you dry if you didn't do something about it.

Constance hummed. She leaned back, studying the two of you.

"You two seem decent folks." She said softly. "I manage more than this hotel—I actually run realty for a few properties in town. We don't get many comin' through, so even if I do upkeep on homes, we don't get many buyers. I got a place you could stay in. Cheap rent as long as you keep it clean."

Your heart lifted from your ass back into your chest where it belonged. You gaped, blinking, words failing for once in your life.

Miles spoke first, stepping forward. "You really mean that?" His voice sounded how you felt. "You'd really let us do that? We… we hardly know you."

"I've lived a long time, honey." Constance put out her cigarette and started rifling around through her desk. "I try to trust when I get a good feeling about people."

She jerked her head towards the door. "Get yer things. I'll drive ya there and we'll talk jobs." She raised her gaze to the two of you. "Your cat like Yummies?"

"Um." Miles blinked. "She's never had them, but she'll eat just about anything you give to her."

"Good. Go."

You and Miles exchanged a glance, hope sparking between the two of you. You didn't need further encouragement. You went.

Sometimes there was nothing you could do in life but thank whatever unseen force was helping you out.

Maybe Miles was right. Maybe there was a God.

Or maybe people were just very, very good sometimes.

Constance explained the situation to the two of you as she drove. The diner you'd been to last night needed an employee, and so did the bookstore down the block. You glanced back at Miles, who'd taken to the backseat of Constance's smoke-smelling car with Sally in his lap, and nodded. "We'll take 'em."

Miles went for the bookstore job. You couldn't decide if he didn't want the social interaction or if he was afraid of working with the man from last night.

The house Constance drove you to was three minutes away from Main Street, a modest but comfortably-sized split level house. It was blue and it was beautiful and you had never been more relieved in your life.

"You gotta let me give my spiel." Constance struggled with the keys to the house, and you and Miles watched awkwardly as she struggled longer than any normal person should. When she finally managed to get the door open, you were greeted with the sweetest house you'd seen.

You supposed anything would look good to someone who was practically starving for a home. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been in a proper house—there had just been Vegas and hotels and businesses while on the road.

"Mild furnishings. Y'all are welcome to decorate and rearrange and toss as you please," Constance explained as you toured the house. "Three bedroom, two bath. Kitchen, dining room, living room, blah blah blah. Bit of a backyard. It used to have a garden, but… you know how gardens are when nobody's tendin' to them."

You peered into each room, eyes scanning over the furnishings inside. It was simple and sweet and insanely non-personal.

"Who… lived here before?" Miles echoed the question that had been on the tip of your tongue. He watched Sally curl up in a chair in the living room, and his lips twitched slightly.

"Old couple named Millicent and Bruce." Constance's voice took on a slightly wistful tone. "I grew up with 'em, actually. They were assholes, and they were my friends."

"These things often go together." You said with a nod.

"You get it." The woman ran a hand over the couch. "They're in a nursing home right now in Portland. Both of them got sick some time ago and their kids lived over there, so… naturally, that's where they went when they needed help."

You and Miles stood there for a moment. Miles' voice was soft. "You must miss them."

"Quite a bit." Constance agreed with a nod. "I get letters from them sometimes. It makes it a little easier."

She was silent for a moment, her thumb rubbing back and forth over the couch as her gaze drifted. You understood that. Nostalgia. The melancholy set to the shoulders of a woman you'd previously thought fairly unshakable made her seem very different now.

"Thank you." You said finally, into the silence. "You're a good friend for caring for their home like this."

Constance took in a breath and nodded, turning to you. She extended her hands, took yours, and dropped the keys to the house into it.

"Your home." She said firmly, then yanked out a folder of papers from seemingly nowhere. "Let's go over the paperwork."

Miles went out to grab your very minimal bags. Sally seemed satisfied to stay where she was, curled up in the chair that you made a silent note to absolutely keep.

"So…" Constance checked that Miles was gone, then raised her eyebrow at you. "How long have the two of you been together?"

"Oh." You paused, a flush creeping over your face as you paused in your paper-reading. "We're, uh, we're not—"

"Well, damn, why not?" Constance and Sally were both looking at you judgmentally now, which, great. Another addition to judging your cowardice. "He looks at you like you're perfect."

"Well, that's very far from the truth." You clicked at the pen you'd been provided, leaning down to sign the papers. "We just… found each other after a really rough time. We've been traveling together for a while now."

Constance was rolling her eyes as you looked back up. "Kids these days," she mumbled.

"We're adults."

"You're foolish, is what you are." She took the papers back, gave them a cursory glance, and sighed as she put them back in her folder. "I'll be happy to see when you two finally admit it to each other."

Sally mewed in response, something that sounded a lot like agreement. That damn cat. You loved her so much.

"Thank you for the house and the jobs." You said to Constance instead of taking her shoulders, shaking them, and exclaiming I am super in love with him and have no idea what to do, please help me!

Constance patted your shoulder as she moved for the exit. "Don't thank me yet. You and loverboy are stuck together for sure now."

You blinked. "How is that a bad thing?"

"I wouldn't say bad." She shot a grin at you, filled with the kind of mischief you didn't like. "Just… harder. You'll see."

It was surprising how quickly the two of you settled into a rhythm, considering so far your life had consisted of constant car rides and surviving off whatever random food you could find.

You left the house at 6:45 every morning. It was a ten-minute walk to the diner, where you'd pull on an apron, greet your coworkers, and take care of a few minor things before the diner opened at 7:00. Then you'd work until 3:00, running orders, cleaning tables, making conversation with the people of the town, until your shift was over. Another ten-minute walk back home, where you'd greet Sally and an empty home. You'd work on anything you could for the next two hours—sometimes it involved errands back to town, but it usually involved the house you lived in. The garden out back was a jungle of twisted, angry plants, and you were working to clean it up even though winter was closer than any growing season. You liked the work it gave your hands.

Miles came home at 5:00 every night after starting his own shift at 9:00 that morning. He came home smelling of paper and the faintest smell of coffee, his shoulders always slumping in relaxation as he took in a breath of the house and ran his fingers along Sally's back.

The two of you didn't have any set schedule to your nights. Sometimes you were alone. Sometimes you were quiet, but in each other's space. Many nights lately, you'd devote to a room of the house, deciding what should stay and what should go. You sold some things and kept others. The townsfolk were nice about it—usually you could trade one thing for something you liked better, as long as the cost was around the same.

It shook you, the normalcy in the town, the way people were so selflessly gentle. You weren't used to it, and neither was Miles. Your lives were full of rich people, customer service towards the uncaring and the rude and the broken, chipping away at the two of you until you felt broken too.

This town was so different. You didn't feel as broken anymore.

You would wake up in the mornings in one of the bedrooms, sunlight dappling over your face from a gap in the curtains, sleepy in the mornings. Some mornings, Miles would wake just to bid you farewell, his expression slow and sleepy and pulling at your chest.

"I wish you could sleep in." He muttered one day, watching you nurse a cup of coffee. His hair was mussed, a robe draped unevenly over his form that he'd bought the week before from a shop near the bookstore.

"I sleep in on weekends, M." You said softly, lips pulling into a small smile as you watched him waver on his feet. "You, on the other hand, should go back to bed, you look ready to topple over."

"I wish you could stay." Miles said, his voice groggy. He rubbed at one eye, shuffling forward, until suddenly he was pressing into your side, dropping his head to your shoulder. You froze slightly, but he didn't seem to notice as his hand curled into the back of your shirt.

"It's… weird waking up alone now." He whispered into your shoulder. "I keep thinking I'll be wakin' up in the car with you driving, or in a hotel where I can see your face."

You hesitated for a moment before you set the mug down, reaching up to press a hand to the back of his head, fingers curling slightly in his hair. His hair was growing, lately. More curls, a little less tamed to what you'd first seen him in. Miles still liked the order of his hair, still pressed it into neat shapes a lot of days, but it was getting harder the longer it got. And you liked it. You liked him, anyways.

"I'm here," you assured softly. "You know you can always come see me, I'm just down the block."

"I wish things were different sometimes." Miles mumbled into your neck.

You paused, fingers halting their strokes. "What do you mean?" You asked quietly.

Silence for a moment. Miles' breath fanned against your shoulder, warm and soft.

"Miles?" You pressed slowly.

He pulled back after a moment, rubbing at his eyes again. "… have a good shift. I'm tired." He mumbled, avoiding your gaze as he weaved back through the kitchen. You heard him ascending the stairs a moment later.

You just stood there in the kitchen, the memory of his warmth against your shoulder the only remainder of him.

Things changed. And they didn't.

Miles came into the diner on his breaks, took up a stool at the counter, sipped coffee and told you about his day so far. You always listened, always spoke back. The two of you discussed books, at home and at work and on walks you took on the weekends. Fall was digging its heels into the Oregon town. People were talking about Halloween and Thanksgiving and tradition in ways that tugged at your chest and reminded you that this town and its people loved being part of something.

Miles started talking to you. Sometimes the two of you would stay up late, and you would talk. He'd tell you stories—Kill #83, where the man choked on his own blood and died slowly under Miles' feet. Kill #27, who prayed to the same god that Miles did and made him sob his eyes out.

In return, you told him your own stories. The horrors you'd seen, the injuries you'd mended. You murmured about the man who'd cried the entire time you tried to save him, pleading for his mother and his father and his wife. You choked up as you talked about the man who had seemed in such good spirits, talking about how at home his wife had just birthed a baby girl. He'd died of his wounds. There was a girl out there whose father would never come home.

The two of you were stitched together at this point. Joined at the hip. On weekends that you took to town, the people there would tease the two of you sometimes. Your work shifts were filled with people, coworkers and customers alike, asking about Miles. The boyfriend. They knew he wasn't, yet they didn't stop asking, and sometimes you stopped trying to correct them.

Was that wrong? Or were you allowed to want that something deep in your chest, that feeling fueled by your late nights and the way Miles leaned into your touch.

Maybe you were selfish, seeing something that wasn't there. Or maybe you were right. Either way, you were too cowardly to take the next step.

Halloween was weeks away when the news came. Constance came rolling up to your home—and it some point it had become yours in the last few months, even though you were still working on furnishing it—with a cigarette in her hands and some strange expression on your face.

"Ray's back in town." She explained as she sat at your kitchen table. "He can swing by the inn and take a look at the car in a couple'a days."

Miles froze from where he'd been making coffee for Constance. He wasn't much of a coffee person himself—caffeine sometimes tugged him back to the days where he needed to drown his senses in something, so he'd taken to tea instead.

You observed him for a moment, then turned your gaze back to Constance, hands folded. "Well, that's… wonderful."

"I'll say." Constance huffed. "I'll finally get your damn car out of that parking lot. Your car's been takin' up some damn nice parking spaces."

"For what customers, exactly?" You replied, raising an eyebrow.

Constance scowled at you, though it was lighthearted. "You're lucky I like you two." She smiled up at Miles as he put a steaming cup of coffee in front of her. "Thank you, sweetheart."

Miles nodded, but he didn't sit down. Fidgeting with his hands, he stood at the table, looking between the two of you.

"So… he can fix the car." He said quietly. His gaze flicked to you. "Then what?"

You looked up at him and found that words failed you. Then what indeed? Pack up, keep driving, go forever? Keep running from the things that chased you?

You had settled here, no matter how quickly or strangely it had happened. Clothes filled your drawers now and you both had your routines, your people you liked in this town.

And that was the important thing, right? That you liked it here? You did. You had a cat and a bed and a job in the prettiest, nicest little town, where no war could touch or scar you, and that hotel and its sins were far, far away.

Yet something hadn't fully clicked yet.

Constance seemed to sense the turmoil. She cleared her throat to interrupt the awkward silence. "Sounds like a conversation the two of you need to have. There ain't no rush, though. The car'll get fixed up. You've still got the house. Just take it easy."

That last part seemed pointedly directed at you. You resisted a frown and nodded. "… yeah. Thanks, Constance."

She smiled, leaned back, and sipped at her coffee like she had all day.

Miles just looked ready to throw up.

Later, you found him sitting on the front porch of the house. The house—your house?—had a nice view ahead of it. Sprawling trees and the sunset casting golden shadows. The dry leaves rustled, some scattering across the street in front of you.

Sally was curled in Miles' lap and shot you an accusing look like you'd done something wrong. You stuck your tongue out at her and crossed your arms, leaning on the wall behind him.

"Do you wanna talk?" You asked quietly.

"You want to leave."

The coldness of his voice startled you slightly. You'd seen him like this once, only once, and that was at the El Royale. Locked jaw, tense shoulders, eyes dark. He didn't look at you. His fingers sank into Sally's fur, and she nudged closer to him quietly.

"… I…" You blew out a slow breath. "I guess, yeah."

Miles shook his head. "Why? Why don't you wanna stay here? Is this not… am I not good enough for you to stay?"

"What?" You blinked down at him, already shaking your head as you stepped in front of him. "Miles. Hey." Your voice softened and you started to reach from him. "Don't say that about yourself—"

"Stop." His voice sharpened, and his gaze raised to you. You froze, hand halfway to his shoulder, trapped under his eyes. He was shaking, like raising his voice scared him too, but he kept speaking.

"Don't be like this to me right now. Don't try to soften the blow. You want to leave this. It's… it's so good here. I feel good here. Why is this not enough for you? Do… do you not like it here?"

You stared at him, then pulled your hand back, tucking it against your chest. "I do like it here." You said quietly.

"Then… what's the problem?" Miles said, his voice quiet but no less tense as he searched your expression.

How could you tell him? Could you really reach under your chest and pry out that sticky, complicated part of you that you felt so guilty about holding onto?

"… I don't wanna hurt you, Miles." You said slowly, exhaling as you shook your head.

He just stared. You knew him well enough to recognize the flicker of disappointment in the back of his gaze.

He stood, standing over you for a brief moment as he tucked Sally to his chest like she was shielding his heart. "You already are."

Then he ducked back inside, leaving you outside in the setting sun and the autumn breeze.

Four months ago. Lobby of the El Royale.

"I can't do it anymore."

"Miles," you whispered softly. You leaned forward the best you could in your chair, swallowing the thickness from your throat. "Hey, it's- you're okay. Just breathe."

"I can't," he mumbled, gaze glassily focused somewhere around the ground. "I can't—"

"Hey, kid." Billy Lee raised an eyebrow, voice tinged with annoyance. "If you don't shut the fuck up, I'm gonna make you play the game again."

Your gaze flicked between them, your hands twisting in your bonds helplessly, but Miles had sobered, to your surprise. You wanted to fling yourself across the table and wring the man's neck for the situation he'd put all of you in, but you found yourself locked in place as Billy Lee's gaze fell on you.

"And you. You shut the hell up too."

You glared right back at him, but he didn't seem shaken. Maybe he knew you couldn't stop thinking about the new body on the floor. You paid little mind to the conversation to the left of you. Billy Lee was interrogating Darlene and Flynn again, and though the words passed into your mind, you didn't consciously register them.

The storm was loud outside, something rattling and huge. You couldn't help but long to be out there instead of inside. It was beginning to smell faintly of smoke, a distant scent carried by the fires in the California side of the lobby.

"Why you dressed up like a priest, then?" Billy Lee was asking, gesturing to Flynn's outfit.

Miles' head turned, his jaw clenching. His eyes were hollow of most emotion, but you could see the hurt inside them, the betrayal. You had little idea of his further connection to Flynn, but the fact that the older man had lied to him was clear.

Flynn, to his credit, looked a tiny bit guilty about this. "Didn't want too many questions." He murmured. "People tend to look the other way when you're wearin' a collar." His gaze flicked to Miles, whose jaw clenched as he lowered his eyes to the floor again. A tremor went through him as Billy Lee continued speaking to the other two, and you tried to lean closer to him, reassuring him the best you could.

There was nothing interesting about you. You were silent, and still, and had no story that nobody could discern from you. Just one unlucky motherfucker sitting in a chair alongside the most broken people imaginable. No wonder Billy Lee wasn't a bit interested in you. You were too collected. Too much of a damn rock.

You'd seen more than enough of your fair share of violence and death. The body on the floor was just another long list you'd been keeping in the back of your head forever. Since the war. Since your work. Since you tried to save people, foolishly, even when it didn't work.

You couldn't even save yourself now. All that surviving in Vietnam, and where had it gotten you? You took in a slow breath, shaky. You supposed you had to savor the air in your lungs while you were alive to feel them.

Tensions were rising at the other end of the table. Flynn couldn't remember his real name and Darlene was being gentle about it and Billy Lee was not.

"All right, all right, well- let's see if we can't jog his memory, huh, Darlene? Pick a color—"

He reached for the roulette wheel, and suddenly thunder boomed above all of you. Everybody in the room flinched as something sparked, crackled, and all light went out in the room in an instant.

Everybody stayed silent for a moment, faces illuminated by the firelight. Billy Lee was looking at the ceiling like it was about to crash down on him. Miles' breathing had intensified again. You squirmed a little in your bonds as coldness crept down your back despite the stifling temperature of the room.

"Now it's quiet again." Billy Lee murmured.

"I don't like it." The young girl said from across the room, her voice unsure.

"No, I don't like it either." Billy Lee's gaze swung to Darlene. "Hey, ain't you supposed to be a singer, huh? Why-why don't you sing something for us, Darlene."

"No thank you." Darlene said simply. Your lips twitched upward, and Darlene caught the motion, her gaze softening marginally as your eyes met.

"Hell, I'll tell you what- if you sing somethin' for us and you're as good as you say you are, I won't make you play the game."

"That seems like a trick." You blurted before you could stop yourself.

"Oh, you do talk." Billy Lee raised an eyebrow at you. "What, you volunteerin' to take her place?"

You just looked at him. Then at Darlene. "Don't do it."

"I agree." Flynn said roughly. "He's gonna do what he's gonna do, but he don't deserve to hear you sing."

Darlene shared a smile with him, her shoulders easing slightly, her gaze flicking to you with a similar gaze of appreciation.

"Suit your fucking selves!" Billy Lee exclaimed, huffing out a breath as he slammed a hand on the roulette wheel. You flinched, mentally preparing yourself for whoever was going to be picked for the round—you were sure it would be you—when Darlene spoke up.

"Wait."

You all stared at her for a moment. Darlene's eyes were filled with tears, but she blinked and took in a deep breath and then she was singing.

You hadn't expected singing to sound so good inside of the carcass of a hotel.

The sound of it, the way her notes drifted through the air. Something tugged slow and deep in your stomach, and your jaw wobbled as you clenched your teeth back and pushed down the sudden wave of emotions flooding you. She was good. She was brilliant, the voice of an angel tethered to Earth. She was—

Billy Lee's hand slammed down firmly on the roulette table again. Darlene's singing cut off abruptly, and you all watched as he sent the wheel spinning.

He shrugged, nonchalant and evil, at Darlene. "I've heard better."

The table was spinning, spinning, spinning, and someone else was going to die, and it was probably you or Miles first and then the other next and—

Suddenly, Father-not-Father Flynn was launching himself at Billy Lee, shouts exchanged, blows cracking over faces and bodies as the two went tumbling over the floor of the El Royale.

You shrieked, watching with wide eyes as the two grappled. Chaos had erupted in the flash of a moment—the two had knocked over a brazier of fire, logs were spreading over the ground and setting fire to the fancy carpet. One of the people who'd been minding you—Annabel, if memory served you correctly—had stepped up by Darlene, raising to take a shot, but Darlene was quicker than you'd expected, using her feet to shove the table over.

The action sent you, Darlene, and Miles tumbling. You winced, your head knocking against the back of the chair you'd been sitting in as you groaned and struggled against your bonds. Miles had backpedaled, back pressing against a structure as he clutched his bound hands in his lap. There was still violence that you couldn't see. A gunshot. The girl yelling about Billy Lee. The sounds of impact and pain.

Jesus Christ, you needed to do something. Flynn was an old man who was outnumbered and outmatched once Billy Lee and his followers got a handle on something, you had to do something.

Your gaze strayed to Miles and you paused. Between the two of you—the gun that had killed Emily.

Miles found your gaze, then found where your gaze was going. He froze, tightening up like someone had put straw in his clothes. He shook his head, eyes going a bit distant. "No, I can't do it." He whispered. "I can't do it no more. I can't. I can't do it."

"Miles." You and Darlene said at the same time, urgently.

"I can't kill no more people."

"Miles!" You exclaimed. His gaze snapped up to you, flicking between you and Darlene behind you (who likely looked as sorry a sight as you did). "Help us," you pleaded, nodding towards the gun.

He shook his head once, jaw working shakily. "I can't kill no more people."

You stared at him for a moment. The world dropped away, everything turning distant as you stared at him.

"What do you mean?" You asked, wetting your lips as you took in a small breath. "How many people have you killed?"

Miles turned his gaze forward, looking down at his bound hands, as he took in a shaky breath.

"One hundred twenty-three." He whispered.

You stared at him for a moment. You could feel Darlene staring too, though a million pieces were clicking into place in your head that hadn't before.

He'd been in Vietnam. Of course he'd been in Vietnam. He was your age, young but not too young to have seen shit. You should've guessed it. The haunt in his eyes. The familiarity of death. The flinching at loud noises.

It wasn't the right place or the right time to tell him you knew what that was like, that you'd seen the shit people like him had gone through firsthand. Instead, you just nodded your head, keeping your voice low.

"Alright." You said gently. "Alright."

"I can't do it." He shook his head, sniffling. "I can't kill no more people."

"Miles," This was Darlene now, tired but soft. "It's all right. You don't have to kill any more people."

He wasn't tearing up anymore. He just looked at the two of you, jaw clenching like a million thoughts were running through his head. The fear wasn't there anymore, though. You watched it slide away, curl into a ball in the back of his eyes.

He shifted, reaching out with both hands as they carefully curled around the gun on the floor. You stared, watching with wide eyes as he carefully shifted his position. His eyes locked with yours.

"You sure?" You asked, quietly.

He nodded, adjusted his hold on the gun, and stood, raising the gun in front of him.

You heard it, the vaguely nervous swagger of an uneasy Billy Lee. "Easy there, altar boy—"

Miles pulled the trigger.

You didn't see Miles for five days.

The El Royale was still stitched into his bones, after all. He knew how to slip through cracks and openings, skirt around the edges of people's vision. Miles had learned how to be unseen, existing quietly on his own.

It made sense in the hotel. But here, it just made you feel like you were living with a ghost. Even Sally would settle reluctantly in his normal spot at night, unable to find him, staring at you accusingly like she could feel how it was all your fault.

You missed him. You missed his soft voice and the tea he made in the mornings. There was a hole everywhere you went now, spaces he didn't fill.

It tugged at you like a loose thread in an article of clothing. You had ruined things. Again. The one good thing you'd had and you were ruining it because you were in love with him. Love, you supposed, ruined everything.

Work dragged at you and your coworkers both noticed your attitude and the vacated seat in the diner. People still didn't sit in the spot, and you realized for the first time how the town had really carved out a place for the two of you.

"Where's your man?" Your coworker Sadie, the girl from your first morning in town, nudged at your shoulder. "He hasn't been showin' up, you two in a little spat or somethin'?"

"Something like that." You said, then, more glumly— "He's not my man."

"You two live together and own a cat."

"We've been through this, Sadie."

"So what's the scoop, then?" She leaned on the counter next to you, wrinkling her nose. "You two have a bad date night or something?"

You exhaled, setting down the dish you were washing a little too hard. "I'm leaving."

Sadie stared at you, blinking. "What?"

"I'm leaving. They're finally fixing the car we came in on and I'm going." You said.

She was still staring at you like you'd grown a head, and maybe you had, because you still weren't sure if you were fully decided on going but you couldn't take it anymore—

"Why the hell would you do that? You're leaving him?" Sadie exclaimed. "You've been layin' out a whole life here for the past few months and you're just saying 'Alright, off I go!'"

"This was never meant to be permanent!" You exclaimed.

"Oh, don't give me that!" She jabbed a finger in your chest. "You've been furnishing a home and building a life with somebody you care about in a town that loves both of you. Whether it was meant to last or not, you live here. You and that sweet boy that everybody loves to hell and back."

You forced down the lump in your throat, glancing down at the counter. Maybe she was right. Maybe she was right and you belonged here and you could belong to him.

No, no, no, you needed to get that out of your head, you couldn't stay here and Miles didn't want to be with you. You refused to hurt him in a whole new way by making it seem like you'd never valued him beyond what he might offer to you as a romantic partner.

Sadie sighed, reading the look on your face. "Don't go." She said, putting a hand on your arm. "You'd regret it. And we'd all miss you." She pointedly squeezed your arm. "He would miss you."

You turned your gaze back to the dishes. "I'll think about it." You murmured.

And you did think about it. You thought about it for the last two days of the five-day period. You thought about it even as you packed up a lot of your things, even as Sally laid on top of your luggage like saying she wanted to be packed along.

"You're gonna stay here, sweet girl." You murmured, gently lifting her from the luggage. Sally mewed, soft little face pressing into your hand as she blinked up at you. "Please don't hate me." You said as an afterthought.

Sally just nuzzled into your arms. The wave of emotion that hit you nearly dizzied you, but instead, you took her into your arms and buried your face into her fur, trying very hard not to cry.

That next morning, you lugged your things to the front door. A duffel bag and a suitcase, your life packed back up on wheels. You hadn't been able to take anything. There were still clothes in your dresser. You were sure Miles would figure it out whenever he went into the room—someone would take them from town, and he could likely get decent money from them.

Sally was following you the whole way, meowing at your feet. She had never done this before, which confused you a little. You bent down once your hands were free, scooping her up and scratching under her chin. "What's gotten into you this morning, hm?"

"You're really leaving?"

You raised your gaze and froze. Miles stood several paces away from you, hands fidgeting at his sides in a way you'd grown used to. He looked like a wreck—eyes bloodshot, face gaunt, like he'd seen a ghost and was becoming one all in one.

"Where have you been?" You questioned, stepping towards him. "God, Miles, I was so worried—"

"You're leaving." He was shaking. You paused, fingers halting their scratching against Sally's neck.

"… Miles," you tried plaintively, but there was the sound of a car horn honking outside. Constance. Bringing you to the hotel so you could retrieve the car.

When you turned your head back to Miles, he'd straightened. You recognized the look from when you'd first met him, the 'customer service' look that was a professional attempt at not entirely losing his shit.

"I'll help you with your bags." He said quietly, keeping his gaze aimed down.

His distance hurt more than him raising his voice at you last week. You stared at him, blinking a few times as you tried to keep your voice steady. "… thank you."

The two of you walked out like it was a funeral procession. Constance was sitting with a cigarette dangling from her fingertips, the window rolled down as she squinted at the two of you.

"Mornin', Miles." She greeted.

Miles nodded at her quietly, loading your suitcase into the back of her trunk. It was a gray, dreary day today, like the sky itself was weighed down by your actions. Dark clouds were forming somewhere to the south, blotting out all remnants of light in the distance. After you shook your thoughts away and loaded your duffel bag into the back, the two of you stood there by Constance's car for a moment.

"Well," you said finally, slowly. "Guess this is it."

"Guess so." Miles was staring at you with a look in his eye you couldn't decipher. His jaw trembled after he'd been looking for a minute, and he ducked his head down.

A million unsaid things were left on your tongue, so of course, you didn't say a single one of them. "I'll be sure to call you when I can. Definitely when I'm settlin' somewhere."

"Alright." His voice cracked. "Be- be safe?"

You nodded. "I will."

"Please don't—" Miles started, then stopped, biting down hard on his lip. He was shaking harder now, but he took in slow breaths.

"We'll miss you." He whispered. Sally was curled on the front step, watching like she already knew what was happening and wanted no part in it.

"This ain't goodbye." You weren't sure why you were promising that when you were the one running in the first place. "We'll see each other again."

Miles shook his head, sniffled once, and then threw his arms around you.

The fierceness of the hug surprised you, but it didn't take long for you to return it. Nose pressing into the side of his neck, you inhaled all of him as the two of you clung to each other. Four months of life together had escalated everything more than you ever thought possible. A random clerk turned into a man that you cared for. A man that you—

Miles pulled back. "Go." He mumbled, swiping at his eyes in a motion nearly quick enough for you to miss. "Just- just go."

And like the coward you were, you obeyed him.

To her credit, Constance didn't say much on the drive there. The radio hummed soothing notes of jazz as you mindlessly pressed your forehead to her window and dazedly watched the town go pass. No signs of life today. There was a storm approaching.

Constance sucked in softly through her teeth as the two of you pulled into the motel parking lot. "Gonna be nice to have that spot open."

"You've said that, Constance." Your eyes fell on the car pulled up near to yours and the man bent halfway into your open hood. "That Ray?"

"Mhm." Constance got out of her car. "Let's get this over with."

That didn't seem like the greatest attitude, but you forced yourself up despite the stone replacing where your heart was.

"You nearly done with that thing?" Constance squawked at Ray, who straightened. He had exactly the face you'd expected—wide and friendly and experienced.

"Very nearly, yeah." He nodded to you. "You must be the owner. Honestly, it's a damn wonder yer beauty took you this far. Constance said you were travelin' a-near constantly the last few months."

"… yeah. We were." You said quietly.

"Well, lucky for you, ol' Ray's worked his magic." He wiped the sweat from his brow, then leaned to you. "Word to the wise? I wouldn't attempt any more cross-country trips with this one. Old girl's done you well, but she'd be better suited towards a small town like this one."

"Ah, don't bother, Ray," Constance scoffed and waved a hand. "I've tried everything with this one, but people make up their damn minds however they want these days."

You tried to smile, but it came out watery. Even the car didn't want to go.

Constance saw your expression, but made no further attempt to convince you. "Just get your damn bags." she said. Thunder boomed in the distance, and the three of you jumped.

"You'll wanna be outta here quick." Ray hummed, squinting down south. The storm clouds were nearly upon the town. They looked darker up close, angry. "That's gonna be one hell of a nasty storm."

You paused from where you were fishing your bags out of Constance's trunk. "How bad is bad?"

"Lotta thunder and lightning. Possibly hail." Ray shrugged. "Radio guys weren't sure, that's how damn bad it was."

He got into his truck, starting it up and giving the two of you a wave. "Safe travels. I'm headin' to the shop before this shit hits us."

You turned to Constance. "Is that why nobody was out? Because the storm's gonna be so bad?"

"Yeah, exactly, nobody wants to get swept up in that shit. Now hurry up! I gotta get going!" Constance exclaimed.

You shoved your suitcase and duffel bag into your trunk. You realized you'd subconsciously made room for bags that weren't coming with you, and you paused, eyes lingering on the empty space.

Something welled up deep inside you as thunder boomed again, loud and close and big.

"What about Miles?" You heard yourself asking. "He hates storms. Is he gonna be okay?"

"Goddammit." Constance swore as she got in her car. "Honey, you gotta decide if you love him or not, because you're breaking him in two. He's better off without you at this point"

"That's an old house." Your heart was racing now, mind running a hundred miles a minute. "Does it even have somewhere safe for him to be? What if it falls?"

"It won't fall."

"But what if it does?" You shouted, something breaking inside of you. "I don't want him to die!"

BOOM. The thunder clapped, as if saying bravo, you've finally got it, and the sky opened up on you.