Hey, you look good today.

The office you already got used to after years of working here still smelled like burnt coffee, old paper, and the particular, weirdly attractive and familiar poverty that Nelson & Murdock had never quite managed to outgrow. The table listed a bit to the left, and the blinds hung crooked and barely saved from New York’s sun. The air conditioner was actively making sounds like it was dying in slow motion. 

Frank Castle sat in the client chair in front of you just like he usually did—legs spread wide, boots planted firmly to the ground, and leather jacket still zipped halfway even though the room was disgustingly warm. That permanent half-scowl sat on his face, the one that said he was already fed up with this sick world and was only here because the alternative involved more paperwork than even he could stand.

You were at the table, files open in front of you, legal pad filling with notes in your tight, efficient handwriting. Matt stood behind your chair, close the way he always was when the conversation turned serious—one hand resting lightly on the backrest near your shoulder, the other holding a folder he didn’t actually need because he knew Frank’s backstory more than anybody else. Foggy had dropped some additional files that could help the case, made one nervous joke about “our favorite free-walking criminal," and then quickly vanished after Frank’s heavy glare under the excuse of a new witness.

You flipped a page, eyes scanning the text with precision.

“The DA’s inventory list doesn’t match the bodycam timestamps. There’s a six-minute gap right when the second team entered the warehouse. Either their equipment glitched or someone got creative with the edit.”

Frank’s voice was low and rough when he finally spoke again. “Or they were busy planting half the shit they’re trying to stick me with.”

Matt’s tone stayed even, the careful lawyer voice he used when the client was the kind of man who answered most problems with a gun and not law, and Frank Castle was exactly that kind of man. “We’re not arguing they planted everything. We’re arguing the warrant was overbroad and the confidential informant is conveniently dead. That gap helps us create reasonable doubt.”

You glanced up to see Frank’s reaction, but his eyes were on you, not Matt—dark, assessing, looking like he had something on his mind he didn’t want to share.

“You write that down already, counselor?” He asked after your eyes stayed on him for a few long seconds, trying to throw you off with another sarcastic comment you weirdly missed after him going no-contact for the few past months. “Or still deciding if I’m worth the ink?”

Your brow arched, and you answered in that faux-sweet tone. “Already did before you even finished the sentence. Come up with something different next time.”

A short, humorless huff of air left him. Almost a laugh. Almost.

You looked away finally and went over the DA’s statements one more time. You and Matt spent about twenty more times trying to find the loopholes, getting the information out of Frank, who seemed to be way too unbothered for someone who got in this type of trouble again, and trying to puzzle the pieces together. 

You ran your hand over your face again, feeling more uncomfortable and on edge with the way Frank was staring at you with dark and hooded eyes, to the point that you thought that something was wrong with you. But you ignored him. 

Matt's phone rang suddenly, and he excused himself into another room, his hand glazing your shoulder into a silent supportive gesture—the one you knew too well and that told you to be safe while he was away. You gave him a tight smile, the one you were sure he could feel even as he was already at the door to the smaller office. When he came back less than two minutes later, the set of his shoulders had changed completely.

“I have to go.” He said, already reaching for the cane even though the three of you knew it was mostly for show at this point. “Now. Something’s come up.”

You looked at him. “I’ve got the rest of this. Go.”

He hesitated, head just barely tilting to Frank, who sat as still as he could, with that same unreadable expression on his face, and it made your lips just barely curl into a smile.

“You sure?” He sensed the tension in the room he couldn’t read properly, but there was no way of asking it discreetly. 

“I’m sure. Don’t worry.” 

Matt nodded briefly, hands fumbling with a tie he would probably drop somewhere on the way. He moved towards you hurriedly, kissing the top of your head before he stumbled back towards the door. You mumbled a soft “be safe," but he was already out. 

The silence that fell on the office felt different. It was almost eerily quiet and weirdly charged, or maybe it was just your own anxious way of reading the situation because Frank Castle was now sitting with arms crossed over his chest. His eyes were no longer fixed on you but on the old and poorly looking painting Foggy put on the wall “to add some entourage,” jaw set tight. 

You drew your eyes away from him. You sat back down against the chair, pulled the next folder closer, and started annotating the witness statements again. 

You didn’t look up when you asked the next question.

“The informant. Did you ever have direct contact with him, or was it all through third parties?”

Silence.

You waited a beat, then glanced up.

Frank was watching you. Not the papers. Not the door. Not the damn painting anymore. You. Those hard, dark eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that felt like being pinned under a scope. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter than before. Rougher. 

“So you and Red, huh?”

"Matt and I what?” You asked bluntly, tapping the tip of your pen against the paper. 

“Ah, cmon.” Frank’s hand waved in your direction when he pushed further back into his seat and threw one foot over another. “He stands beside you like he’s afraid I'm gonna jump over the damn table. His hand around your chair, the kiss on the head like a good ol’ couple. Don’t bullshit me.”

You stared at him blankly, not really understanding the reason behind the sudden interest nor liking where the conversation was going. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Frank.” The chair cracked under you when you leaned back, the papers now almost forgotten in front of you because your whole attention captured a man who was currently looking at you like you told him some kind of a joke. “Matt is my friend. My best friend. We care about each other if that’s what you mean.”

He snorted a laugh, a bit bitter if you read it correctly. “Yeah, friends. Right, right.” His tongue poked through his cheek when he looked for a second away from you, the leg dropping back down on the floor and jumping almost anxiously. Something you knew Frank never was seen doing—being anxious or showing emotions. Caring. 

“What, Frank, you don’t believe in friendship between man and woman?”

Frank’s eyes stayed locked on yours for a long second after the question left your mouth. The half-scowl didn’t soften. If anything, it deepened around the edges, like the idea itself irritated him on principle.

“Friendship between a man and a woman.” He repeated, voice low and dry. “Nah, not happening. You wanna tell me y'all are this lovey-dovey just for the sake of a damn friendship? Gonna deny there was a kiss or two, something more?”

You exhaled sharply. You leaned slightly forward, briefly resting your forehead against the palm of your hand. The conversation was totally tiring you out. “You know what? Yeah, we kissed.” Frank laughed, nodding briefly, like it was something he already knew but still didn’t want to hear from you. “A few months ago, when we were half drunk. Regretted it the next minute and agreed to never bring it back because it felt awfully wrong.”

Frank’s mouth pulled sideways. The look he gave you was pure skepticism mixed with something darker and more personal. “Yeah, yeah. Felt wrong and all that shit.” The movement of his leg didn’t stop, as if it were the only way to get his restless energy out while he was sitting in that small room with you. “You kissed the Big Foggy too? He gotta be your friend, no?”

“You’re reaching." You rolled your eyes. “It doesn’t mean I kiss all of my guy friends.”

“What, you got a lot of ‘em?”

“Frank!” You huffed a laugh, standing up from your chair and going to the cabinet with files. You looked through the folders. All the colorful ones. All carefully sorted out. Pretended to read the handwritten notes on the sides that either you or Foggy had clipped there. All while you were painfully aware that you weren’t actually looking for anything—there was nothing in these files that could currently help Frank’s case. You just needed to step away for a second from him, his pressure, and that look in his eyes that made your stomach drop every time. And something told you that he knew that too. 

He followed shortly after. His presence was felt physically when he came closer towards you, heavy boots eerily almost silent against the cheap linoleum. 

“It’s like—” You started again, before your mind could fully catch up and think for a fucking second, which, apparently, was not your strong suit when Frank Castle was around. “We’re what? You and me. We are kind of friends, right? That’s what friends do—save each other’s asses. And you always show up after disappearing for weeks. And we’ve never—” You laughed, looking down at the random file you took—a lawsuit an old lady won against her landlord. What a fucking joke.

Frank leaned against the cabinet just a few centimeters away from you, hands deep in the pockets of his tactical pants. He looked down at you, at the papers, at your hands with the kind of mockery you couldn’t understand. 

“You’re not my friend, counselor. Never were and never will be.”

Your hands stilled. Your breath caught for a few seconds when a weird, really hurting pit formed in your stomach. 

“Oh.” You furrowed your brows. “Right.”

Your throat felt tight because he was still there, still looking like he was seeing right through you. And for the first time, Frank did manage to leave you speechless—you really didn’t have a smartass comeback to that one. 

His head dipped lower just a bit to look in your face, but you refused to give him the pleasure of it.

“Oh, give me those goddamn papers, you ain’t reading shit.” He yanked the folder out of your grip, carelessly shoving it back on the shelf. Crooked, wrong spot completely. The papers and sticky notes were wrinkled, sticking out ugly and not the way you liked to keep them. Yeah, you would have to fix it a bit later, you thought, keeping yourself busy with something to not think about stuff that did not belong in your head. 

But Frank was still close. He didn’t step back. He didn’t focus his dark eyes on anything else like you wished to. Hell, now, with the way those words that so easily left his mouth, you only wished for him to go away, to wait for Matt or Foggy to continue his case so you wouldn’t have to feel this shitty. 

Frank shifted his weight softly, pushing away from the shelves and straightening his posture. He looked down at you, assessing, now that you didn’t know what to do with your hands or where to look. His dark clothes and expression on his face made everything feel even more intimidating. 

He took one step closer towards you. You looked up, furrowing again. Another step. You took one back more on instinct for being face-to-face with someone than from actually not liking the closed proximity. 

“Frank—“

“Are you scared?” His voice was low, eyes fixed on yours when he took small steps towards you. “Of me.”

“Wh—I’m not.” Your pulse started picking up, eyes looking over his face, over the few healing cuts across his cheeks and on the brindle on his nose. Up close you thought that Frank smelled like a mixture you didn’t think you ever could like—worn-out leather, gunpowder, and something like shaving cream, or maybe it was his shampoo. You swallowed when the realization hit 

“I kill people. I hunt them down and hurt them. Why aren’t you scared?” Frank backed you against your own table, the one that creaked when the back of your thighs pressed against it, the one where not even ten minutes ago you sat and interrogated the man who was currently making your heart want to jump out of your chest.

“Because they deserve it. B-because you won’t hurt me.”

The side of his lip curled slightly, barely for you to notice. “You so sure about it?”

Frank was now almost pressed against you. Your hand came up to rest against his chest more out of instinct when he leaned forward. He stood there, all solid muscles, almost caging you in with the way his legs were spread on each side of yours. He looked down at you, at your parted lips and your eyes that seemed a bit glazed with fog now. He debated his next movement, thinking that maybe he should just fucking leave, just let you be and not interfere in your normal life. He didn’t deserve this, you, after all. But sometimes, after the long nights and the months of thinking about you, your warmth, your kindness, and your smile, he felt like he was being cut open without you. 

His hand came up slowly and almost hesitantly, like he was still deciding whether he wanted to step over the invisible line. You didn’t move away when his large and calloused hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushed over your cheek in such a gentle way you didn’t even think he could manage after all. Your eyes fluttered softly, then looked down at Frank’s lips that were too close now, too tempting.  

You felt trapped, in a way, but you didn’t feel the need to get out. 

“Yes. Yes, I trust you.” Your voice sounded small, softer than you even intended to, but you could care less about it when he was right there.

Frank's forehead rested heavy against yours. His lips were inches away, and you could feel his warm breathing against your skin. He stepped closer to your body, hand on your face sliding just a bit further back until his fingers curled in your hair at your neck. He tilted your face up, a bit higher and in the way he liked it. 

You trembled at the feeling. Your eyes were running around his face, searching for answers, way too lost in what was going on, but seeing only the hungry and somehow longing looks in his eyes. 

“This goes against any rule in my book. Against any fucking boundary I set for myself after—after all that shit, y’know?” Frank’s voice was raspy, thick with emotions he hated to share but at the same time couldn’t hold back because somehow it felt more and more wrong being away. Letting other people touch you, being with you when he could've…tried. For you. 

“I know, Frank. I understand.” 

“You always do, smart girl.” He hummed with a slight smile. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breath warm and uneven against your mouth, the hand in your hair holding you steady like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go even a fraction.

For a long second neither of you moved.

But then you jerked your head a bit forward, and your lips touched for the first time. Frank groaned like it was physically painful to have you like that, to feel the softness of your mouth against his. When he deepened the kiss, when his tongue swiped softly over your lower lip, your body weight sank just a little bit—your body obedient and compliant in his hands as only soft sounds died against his mouth. Frank’s other hand lifted you effortlessly onto the table, a few papers crumbling under your ass, but you didn’t care. Not when your legs parted softly for him, not when he stepped into the given space, making it feel like he was consuming you fully.

Then the jealousy slipped out of him, low and bitter, the way truth always did when Frank Castle stopped filtering it, and he pulled back slightly, breaking the kiss only enough for him to speak.

“Red gets to touch you like that.” He muttered, his thumb stroking once along the edge of your jaw. “Kiss the top of your head. Hug you. And I sit across that goddamn table each time pretending I don’t notice. Pretending it doesn’t—” He cut himself off, jaw flexing hard and his thumb stilling against your skin. “Doesn’t carve me up every single time.”

“Frank—“ It sounded more like a half-moan.

“I disappear every fucking time.” He interrupted you, voice almost bitter when he started rumbling again. “I hide to do my shit and hope that it’s gonna help me forget about you. Because I can’t ruin another good thing that I have.” Your breath hitched at his words. “But I see you every time I close my eyes, every time I’m bleeding like a fucking stray dog on the street and want to end it. I come back here and you’re still you, and I don’t know if it’s a gift or a damn curse.” Frank’s free hand found your waist, fingers spreading wide over the curve of it, possessive and careful at the same time. “And Red’s all friendly, and good, and—shit. And I wanna put my fist through a fucking wall because for me it’s you. Always fucking you.” 

You laughed despite the sudden pain in your throat at Frank’s words. Your hand was still pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, fingers fumbling with the metallic zipper, pulling it down a little bit when you shook your head slightly. Your nose brushed his, and he groaned. 

“He’s not your competitor. I promise. I think he knows I have my eyes on you.” 

“Yeah?” He shifted forward, the hard outline of him now evident through the front of his jeans, pressing softly against your inner thigh. 

“Mhm.”

 “That’s good, ‘cuz I ain’t sharing.”

Frank kissed you this time, his lips capturing yours almost greedily, as part of him now knew that it was something you both wanted and craved. He groaned into your mouth, slight stubble itching your skin, hand on your neck tilting your head backwards, and another one pressing harder into your waist, then barely slipping lower to rest over your ass. 

You felt on fire, and that feeling was spreading fully through your body. You felt him hard and ready pressed against you, and you finally made a move to lock your legs around his hips. It seemed to change the situation in the room, because suddenly all the noise of the busy Hell’s Kitchen was nonexistent, any worry or problem that Frank Castle got himself into was pushed aside just for now. 

You pulled the zipper of his leather jacket all the way down, your hands instantly finding home over the hard contours of his chest, sliding slightly under the shirt to trace warm skin that had a history of suffering through pain. Frank’s hands moved lower too. He still kissed you like his life was dependent on it, but the need to touch you more, to finally have you was more than he could bear. 

His lips left yours, trailing down against your jaw to your neck, nibbling at the skin and breathing your scent in—the one that always seemed to cling to him every single time he was around you. His hands found the little buttons on your flowy blouse, opening one by one with delicacy because he didn’t want to ruin something so pretty. It flopped to the sides when he stopped at the place it was tucked into your skirt, revealing the swell of your breasts in a lacy bra and the flushed skin he couldn’t wait to taste. 

“Been thinking about you for so long.” 

Your breath hitched, lushes fluttering against your cheeks when a breathy moan slipped past your lips. You slid your nails slowly down the planes of his stomach, feeling every single rigid muscle moving under your fingertips. You reached Frank’s belt, tugging him closer. The buckle clanged softly when you pulled at it, being way too distracted with Frank’s mouth sucking soft marks against your collarbones. 

“You can have me.” You breathed, hiking your legs higher up his thighs. He nodded, pulling himself up to rest his forehead against yours again, both your mouths open slightly with uneven breathing. Frank’s hands slid lower, glazing the sides of your thighs, pulling your pencil skirt higher until it was bunched awkwardly around your hips. 

You were almost bare for him. The pulse in between your thighs was impossible to resist, and you couldn’t stop but roll your hips forward towards his hand. His fingers found you wet, your slickness seeping through the lace material at the front, making him groan low at the feeling. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, honey.” You hummed in response, rolling forward again. The table creaked resistantly under you, but neither of you cared when his fingers pushed the lace to the side, slid the fingers over your wetness, and then pressed against your pulsing bud. “Won’t let you go. You’re mine.”

"Please—I need it. I need you so badly.” You whispered. Your hand tried to push his pants and underwear down, but he didn’t let you. Frank’s hand pushed yours away, and you obediently threw them over his shoulders. You heard the fumble of the clothes and felt the shift when he stepped a bit closer. Then the feeling of the warm and thick head of his cock running through your fold made you shudder. 

He pushed inside slowly and carefully, but the feeling still made you gasp. He was thicker than you expected, stretching your poor self more than you thought you could take. You whined helplessly, hand shooting down to press at his lower abdomen because it felt suddenly too much. 

“Frank! I— Oh God!” 

“Sh-h. Easy, baby. Easy. Let me take care of you.” He shushed you, feeding his cock inside with slow and small rocking movements. Inch by thick inch, he disappeared inside of you, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, before he captured your lips again and made your mind go fully blank. “Feel so good, sweetheart. So fucking—shit, I've been wanting this for so fucking long. Shouldn’t have, but I did.” He rocked softly, making the table creak again and again in tune with his hips. 

Something rolled down on the floor. The papers were crumpling under the weight and movement of your body, but that was a problem for later. Frank was fucking you softly, holding your face in one hand and almost possessively rubbing your thigh with another. It felt almost too slow, too intimate, and too intense for a man like him. Everything felt almost surreal, almost too good to be true, because your pulse was beating loudly in your ears, your eyes couldn’t seem to focus on his concentrated and handsome face, and your legs trembled from how good his cock felt inside of you. 

You clumped around him harder, bringing out low and almost restrained groans from his mouth. He worked you up slowly, pushing deep inside until his hips were flushed against yours and then driving back to leave you whimpering and clenching desperately for more. It seemed too fast the way your orgasm was approaching you. But the years of tension, the years of hidden feelings, worry, and pure want, were probably the reason for that. 

The coil in your tummy felt too tight, the warmth spread through your body the second Frank’s thumb pressed against your clit. You moaned his name softly, shattering like glass. Your velvety pussy pulsed around him and sucked his cock back inside like she was greedy. And he couldn’t resist it himself. He came with a deep and guttural, almost painful moan, a few strokes later, stilling while the warmth was spilling inside of you. 

For a few long moments you both were just breathing. You were pressed against each other, tangled together like you couldn’t find the power in yourself to pull away. His hands were gentle when he rubbed your aching thighs, his movements were slow when he pulled out and made you whimper at the loss. Frank put your underwear back and tugged himself in with that weird, satisfied look in his dark eyes. 

He then stepped forward again, leaning closer to you and glazing your lips with his.

“Still think we’re friends, sweetheart?”

“Shut up, Frank.” You couldn’t help but laugh, still catching your breath, still feeling like you were floating somewhere.

“Yeah, that’s the snappy mouth I missed so much.” Frank kissed you again. Slowly, deeply, letting himself have one thing that mattered to him now. 

Then the sound came. Both of your ears caught the soft sound of tapping. Cane. It came from outside the office, and then the door opened, and Matt was standing there, holding it closer to his chest. He stood near the entrance, silent for a few seconds, assessing the situation. Then his lips spread in a small, almost knowing smirk. 

The office probably smelled like sex, you realized in horror, and you were still half naked, still with Frank looming over you against the poor table. The heat crawled up your neck when you tried to move, and a solid man made out of muscle didn’t let you.

“I guess that explains the heartbeats.” He snickered. “It was either that or you two trying to kill each other.” 

You wanted to vanish. 

“Oh god.” You mumbled, briefly covering your face from shame.

Matt stood there. Not judging, not mad, but you still felt that Frank got tense beside you. Matt’s head tilted slightly to the side, and you knew already that he was looking now at you. “You okay?”

Frank huffed a laugh, like it was a bit ridiculous to imply that anything that happened here was against your will. But your hand found his instantly, and he made himself bite his tongue with a snarky comment. “Yeah, Matt. I’m totally fine.”

Matt nodded to your word but didn’t move. He was facing the both of you like he was waiting for something else. And then Frank spoke.

“How much shit can you actually see, Red?” You looked back at him, a bit surprised. The scowl found its way back on his face, his eyes dark and focused on your best friend like he was now his enemy. The hand that wasn’t in yours found your waist and turned to your back so Matt would only be able to see your back. Frank’s eyes briefly looked down, and you followed his gaze—your blouse was still open, your skin flushed and marked slightly with his teeth. 

“Enough to know that your pants are still undone.” Matt mumbled with a smile, finally turning around and going to the smaller office. “We still have to work on your case, Castle. So I will be waiting for you both here… when you are done.”

You laughed, embarrassed like never before, resting your head against Frank’s shoulder. He mumbled something under his breath, but his hands came up around your middle, slow and soft when they sprawled on your back. 

“You have to go?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered apologetically, his warm hand brushing the hair out of your eyes. “I have to go.” 

With a quiet sigh, you turned into his hand, kissed his palm, his wrist. Protectively pressing love into old scars. “Be safe.” 

“For you? Always,” Frank swore. Gruff, resolved. 

You hummed, smiled small and sleepy as he stroked your cheek with rough knuckles. “Go back to sleep, hm?” 

With that, he slipped away, and so did the rest of the world as you fell easily back into slumber.

˙⋆✮⋆˚࿔:

At first, in your foggy half-asleep haze, you think you’re dreaming of him. Like you so often do when his side of the bed has been cold for days. When you’ve slipped between the covers each night, donning the lacy tank top you picked out together just for certain nights, a pillow wedged beneath your hips. 

A signal, a desire silently communicated, to take without explicit permission.

Even upon waking to sunlight and snowfall, untouched by rough hands, without bruises left by deft fingers, it felt good anyway. 

It felt like trust. It felt like giving yourself to him completely–even when you hadn’t given him anything at all. 

So, after many mornings like that–left without the aching reminders of capable hands, solid muscle, a fullness that made you feel whole–you thought you were dreaming. 

But those sounds aren’t echos of hushed goodbyes under cover of early morning shadows. Those touches, they aren’t apologetic, tender. They aren’t trying to commit your every detail to memory for safe keeping.

Instead, they’re tangible, desperate, unrestrained. The touch of a man starved. 

“Fuck,” a low voice grunts, rough with the vowel all stretched out. 

A familiar feeling follows: fullness.

It’s like someone has dumped ice water on your head, shone a very bright light in your eyes. Adrenaline spike causing the dark room to come into blaring focus, a survival response initiated as you gasp and shoot up in bed. Almost like a Very pistol shot off in the dense wilderness, illuminating everything in a bright red glow. 

Your heart pounds, blood pumping, awake enough now to really feel the stretch. The space between your legs filled. Your chest flares with anxiety, but–

Deft hands–and unintentionally, insistent hips which keep you pinned to the mattress–are quick to rub reassuring patterns into your back, between your exposed shoulder blades.

“Sh, sh, sh, hey,” he whispers. “Hey–s’just me.” 

That well-known timbre–like a shot of diazepam injected straight into your bloodstream–instantly loosens your shoulders as you sigh and drop your head back onto the pillow.

“Frank,” you whine, pussy aching and so fucking wet as you blindly reach back in search of his hand. 

When he interlocks your fingers your relief is palpable–all the worry and fear you’ve held for him this week, gathered like a tight knot in your chest, loosens with a single touch.

“Just me,” he repeats as his hips begin to roll, eliciting a low moan from your throat. “There ya go…”

You hone in on that feeling: his hands roaming over your smooth skin, his cock stuffed snugly inside of you. The resulting hot pleasure that drips into your gut, rolling through your body in waves, like the wall of heat erupting from an oven ajar. 

Sticky warmth coats your thighs, soiling the pillow that tilts your hips toward him for the easiest access. Allowing him to fuck you from behind, his hand falling away from yours to grip your thigh where its hiked up over rumpled sheets. 

All the predictable noise of the city–honking taxi’s, indecipherable shouting, late-night laughter–drowned out by his homecoming. The outside world nullified by the sensations that hold you captive, like a prisoner with Stockholm Syndrome.

“Missed you,” you sigh, the words pushed out of you by the hypnotic rhythm of his hips. 

“So much,” Frank confesses through a groan, his hands shifting to clutch your waist harshly. Hope sparks like a fire–a hope to find a garden of bruises blooming there tomorrow, in vibrant hues of green and yellow, perhaps some blue and purple. 

High on the surprise, the sleepiness, the slick sounds of his dick sliding home, delirious laughter bubbles up your chest, morphing into a moan. 

Frank chuckles darkly. “Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you affirm wantonly. 

Though the question isn’t fully formed, you both know what he means: Feel good? Your answer is a confirmation of a shared feeling. 

The rush of the initial shock is half the fun. Waking to feel him inside of you is invigorating, exhilarating as the first time you fucked–the both of you bloody and high on adrenaline after Frank effortlessly and brutally picked off the team of mercenaries hired to kill you. 

A feeling to relish as this specific indulgence of yours is rare. The initial thrill is a high for the pair of you, but you’ve heard the way he groans, and felt the way he pounds into you when you settle once you know it’s him whose fucking your unconscious form. 

That you trust him enough to use your body like this–that’s his favourite part. 

Sighing as his balls slap against your flushed skin on a particularly rough thrust, Frank’s dull nails bite into the unmarred flesh of your hips. The sigh melts into a yawn, and Frank must notice because he leans down, his plush lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

The sensation coupled with the anticipation for his almost certain snide remark at your apparent sleepiness induces the shivers. Frank’s hand glides over your shoulder, like he’s trying to warm you up.

“Y’wanna go back to sleep f’me, sweetheart?” 

His voice is as deep and dark as the night, rumbling sensually through his chest like the engine of a sports car. It’s not just the quality of his voice, but the content of his question, that warms your cheeks. A hushed and surprising inquiry that sends your heart aflutter. 

Go back to sleep for him. So he can revel in the warmth and pliability of your body. How it yields to him even in sleep–especially in sleep. When your body is here in your shared bed, beneath him, being used by him, and your mind is elsewhere–a thousand miles away in dreamland. “Or y’want me to give ‘er what she needs first?” 

After over a week, your man is finally fucking home, and he’s finally fucking you. His weight pressing you into the bed, trapping you beneath almost 200 pounds of muscle. His cock, his fingers, his mouth–all eager to please, to touch, to thrust until you’re dizzy with it. 

He’s offering to make you cum. You’d be fucked in the head to choose sleep over a week-overdue mind-numbing orgasm. 

But you have to admit, sleep tugs at you after a week’s worth of sleepless nights spent worrying, your eyelids drooping as he presses a kiss to your nape. The gentle rocking of the bed lulls you into a sleepy stupor. 

Moreover, you realize that what you really want is for him to take what he needs right now. To feel all the trust you so eagerly place in his hands, and all the safety and predictability of that trust, in the way your unconscious body accepts him without objection. 

To give that to him might be more gratifying right now than letting him make you cum. A pleasure found not in your sexual peak, but in the feeling of trust, of usefulness, of being needed. 

Let him choose whether he pulls out and paints your back in cum or fills your cunt with it so you wake up with his spend lavishly dripping from you. A decision as inconsequential to him in your unconscious state as it would be were he fucking a doll. 

“Mmh, m’tired,” you mumble, half asleep already. Full. Soaked. Content.

You feel the quirk of his lips against your warm skin. 

“Alright, go back to sleep.” He places a tender kiss atop your head, stroking your hair lovingly like he isn’t about to ruin you while you sleep. “I’ll keep you nice and full, baby.” 

You hum and settle into the pillow as he stills, fully sheathed inside of you. His tip kissing the deepest part of you as you drift off. 

“Keep him warm ‘til ya fall asleep.”

It’s the last thing your brain registers–though it sounds far away, like you’re underwater–as sleep pulls you under once more. 

˙⋆✮⋆˚࿔:

Sometime later, as you roll over in bed, you’re vaguely aware of the squeak of the pipes as the tap is turned on in the bathroom. Some quiet shuffling, a soft grunt or two penetrate your sleepy haze before you drift off again. Memories so bleary and muffled they could be part of a dream. 

Now, a gentle pressure between your legs–a sensation too intense to be phantom. Empty of Frank’s thick cock, now, you realize, traded for his tongue.

Gasping at the intrusion, you look down your body to find Frank buried between your thighs.

“Fuck,” you gasp as you bury your hands in his hair, drawing your knees up to give him better access. Dark eyes hungry as he licks you out incessantly, his tongue curling inside of you. 

He growls, his arms winding around your thighs, forcing his tongue deeper inside when he tugs you closer. A resulting high-pitch squeak echoing off the empty corners of the room as his tongue presses between your gummy walls. 

Regrettably, the wet muscle curls up and slides out, leaving you empty for the very first time in all your waking minutes tonight. 

“Please–don’t stop,” you lament, desperate now after graciously giving up your first orgasm. 

Ignoring your pathetic plea, Frank crawls up the bed toward you, and you pout petulantly up at him, his face hovering above yours now. 

Placing a hand on your neck, his fingers rest just beneath your jaw as he squeezes, a euphorically dizzy feeling descending upon you. Lightheadedness softening the hard lines of his face.

The heavy handed act of possession has you smiling up at him, your bottom lip drawn between your teeth, probably giving him the most blatant fuck-me eyes. You’re sure he can feel the erratic thrum of your heart against your jugular. 

Just like that, he kisses you for the first time in over a week, wasting no time in sliding his tongue into your mouth. Though it isn’t the only intrusion as his warm seed flows from his tongue to yours. 

Moaning in surprise, eyes rolling, you accept it like a gift. Letting the smooth, mild substance fill your mouth as his fingers loosen around your neck. 

Frank kisses you once more, almost chaste, his index trailing over your lips when he pulls away. Near-black eyes meet yours in the dim room. 

“Swallow for me.” 

His voice is scratchy and his words set you alight, your entire body warming instantly, like stepping into a room set ablaze. 

It has you feeling floaty and safe as the edges of your little world soften and narrow down to him. Just him–him and his ruggedly handsome features. 

Nimble fingers play at the strong lines of his stubbled jaw, consumed by rich coffee-coloured eyes, admiring his prominent nose–slightly misshapen from repeated fractures. 

Frank’s hand snakes between your bodies, his other cupping your face as his thumb rubs your temple, like he knows you’ve retreated inside your head. 

“Swallow,” he prompts again, gently as he starts circling your clit. And you know he’s sensed the change in you. He always catches it right away, when you slip away into that warm, muddled space that only he can put you in. With his commanding voice and skilled hands. 

Finally, you comply, missing the taste of him immediately. 

Without so much as another thought, like it’s second nature (in a way, bearing yourself to him is), you obediently present him with your clean tongue. 

A smirk tugs at his lips and he nods, pleased, drawing in a steadying breath. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises before licking over your tongue and kissing your mouth passionately. 

The action is so dirty, somehow more so than him feeding you his own cum, that you whimper into the kiss. Arms winding around his neck possessively. 

When he pulls away, a gossamer line of spit connects you until it snaps when he redirects his mouth to your neck. Head tilting back to give him more room, you thread your fingers through his dark locks, sighing. 

His own digits are sticky on your skin as he tugs your tank top down to expose your tits. Skilled tongue swirling around your nipple before pulling back to blow cool air over the wet nub. A coldness that stings like a bee, and has your back arching with a choked gasp–half shock, half pleasure. 

Chuckling at your reaction before moving on to the other, repeating the process and scraping his teeth over it to elicit a sharp inhale. 

“That was mean,” you whine, relishing in the lavish kisses he trails down your belly. 

“Shut up, you like mean,” he husks. 

“I–fuck.” 

Whatever retort was on your tongue is lost at the practiced way his tongue flicks over your clit, making your hips jump.

Frank’s hands press into your hips, muscling you down into the mattress. Heat simmers low in your belly at his sheer strength–you couldn’t get free even if you wanted to.

“Don’t have much to say about it now, huh?” he chuckles against your skin, kissing and nipping at the apex of your thigh. He’ll leave marks on the sensitive flesh that you’ll savour the dull sting of every time you press your legs together tomorrow. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

You giggle a little deliriously, heart pounding against your ribs as you exhale a halfhearted, “Fuck you.” 

Frank’s lips pause where they were pressing gentle kisses over your mound, and you know you’re in for it now. Skin sizzles like the asphalt on a hot summer’s day. 

“Yeah?” he asks. “Fuck me?” His tone is so rough–like high-grit sandpaper–it makes your pussy clench. 

“Mhm.” The sound is pitched-up and small. A little pathetic if you’re honest, even as you courageously meet his eyes. They’re sparkling with mirth, grateful to have a reason. 

He tilts his head at you, flashing his teeth in a smirk. “Y’wanna look me in the eye and say it?”

You swallow, chest heaving as your nerves build. You could tuck your tail between your legs and retreat, submit with the shake of your head. But where’s the fun in that? 

Two simple, but effective, words seal your fate: “Fuck. you.”

With the twitch of his upper lip and the work of his jaw, all he mutters is a resolute, okay, before sitting up on his knees and spreading your legs apart.

Just as you’d looked him in the eye and bravely–stupidly–cussed him out, Frank holds your gaze as he delivers a sharp slap to your cunt, eliciting a weak cry from your lips as you keel over. 

Like tossing a stone in a lake, the pleasure/pain ripples through your body in seemingly endless waves. 

He rubs your thighs, breathing hard, calloused fingers digging into malleable flesh. “You sorry yet?” 

You sigh a little too dreamily for someone who’s just been smacked by her older boyfriend, but this is a familiar and well-discussed routine. One that leaves your pussy warm and throbbing so hard it feels like it has its own heartbeat. 

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head, catching the way his eyes flare in the low orange light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. 

“No? You need another?” 

Wordlessly, you draw your legs up again, spreading yourself out before him in offering. 

“Yes, please.” It’s so breathy it might as well be a sigh. 

“Fuck,” he grunts in disbelief. You’ve given him so much tonight and now you’re literally begging for more. 

Pressing your thighs to the mattress with eager hands, Frank instructs, “Deep breath now.” 

Just as you begin to draw in lungfulls of oxygen, Frank delivers another harsh smack to your pussy. All the air is punched out of you on contact as just the tip of his finger manages to graze your clit. Legs twitching violently as all sound gets caught in your throat.

“M’sorry, m’sorry,” you babble, the lingering sting over your sensitive bundle of nerves enough to have you acquiescing. Though you’re sure, even as your pussy surely swells, Frank would’ve been happy to dole out further punishment. “M’sorry.”

You’re breathing hard, like you’ve just run from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

As if to soothe, Frank leans down and spits directly onto your already soaked center, watching as it drips down to your hole. An addition to the already sloppy mess he’s made of you. 

“Good girl.” Frank runs his hands soothingly up and down the length of your thighs with a kiss to your knee. Achingly soft yet raspy when he murmurs, “Want me kiss ‘er better, sweetheart?” 

“Fuck, yes, please,” you whine, and Frank presses his palms into the backs of your thighs, spreading you out before him. “Frankie…”

When he doesn’t immediately dive in, you watch curiously as he scoots your ass closer to the center of the bed. 

Heat creeps up your neck when he stares, thumbing up your center, spreading around his spit and your arousal. You’d squirm at his focused attention if you weren’t so high up in the clouds. 

Instead, a whimper slips past your lips, earning you a mean pinch to the sensitive inner flesh of your thigh, a gruff ‘Nough of that tacked on. Pain melds into pleasure. He could kiss you between the thighs or sink his teeth into you, and it would all be the same to you. 

At last, Frank tilts his head, and just like he’d promised, kisses your cunt. Stubble grazes your skin as his lips press tenderly to your center. He groans, guttural, as he slowly makes out with your pussy. 

Tongue laving over stinging skin, head tilted to simulate the angle at which he’d kiss your mouth. Taking his time, he teases around your weeping hole before dipping inside like he’s pressing his tongue into your mouth. 

Now that he’s had a taste–his first in far too long–he becomes crazed, insatiable. Can’t help but yank you toward him as he switches the angle so that he can better devour you. Licking broadly all the way up your pussy, swirling his tongue around your clit. 

It’s all you can do to gasp and bite into the flesh of your hand, submitting fully to his desire. 

His toned arms encircle your thighs. One of his hands rests on your belly, the other squeezes at the plush flesh of your thigh. He becomes an animal between your legs; growling at your taste, shaking his head like a dog. Desperate, eager for your pleasure to peak as overwhelmed tears blur your vision. 

It’s only now that you become aware of the sweet ache. Now that you’re fully awake, the pleasure his tongue provides lighting you up–a potent stimulant. The ache from being stretched on his thick cock for the first time in days. An ache that fills the blank space where your memory should be. 

A sensation that tells you all you need to know about how good he fucked you. How deep he got when he came inside of you. 

The words spill from your mouth just as easy as he spilled inside you. “How–” you moan when the tip of his nose bumps your clit. “–How was it?” 

The ache has piqued your curiosity, your tone filled with wonderment and interest. 

This isn’t a question you usually ask him until after. After he’s cleaned you up, spoken to you so gently, caressed you so kindly. 

By asking it now, it’s become part of the game. This teasing, thrilling game of cat and mouse you like to play. The one where you poke the bear just to see what the bear might do. Where he can’t resist entertaining the poking because of this thing inside him that is gratified by doling out punishment. 

Frank’s response is anything but hasty. Maybe he’s lost in the wet heat on his tongue. Or maybe it’s all part of the game. 

You huff petulantly. Far too impatient for someone who’s being licked out so generously. 

When his eyes drifts up to yours, dripping in honey, he grunts into your sex, a crease forming between his brows. The vibrations settle over just the right spot, causing your eyes to roll. 

“F-frank,” you prompt beneath a moan. “Please…I want–need to know.” 

Dull nails scratch at the skin beneath your navel, your hips twitching in response. 

When he pops off your clit, his lips swollen and glistening, he rests his head against your thigh. 

“Well,” he’s out of breath, little puffs of air cooling your sticky skin. “I filled this little hole up, so what d’you think, hm?” 

“But–” His thick fingers slide inside of you, and when you finish your sentence, it’s anything but productive. “–Oh, fuck.”

His name on your tongue is pitchy and barely sounds like you at all as you toss your head back. Heat creeps up your neck, finally fully awake and full of him. 

“What was that, hm?” His voice is gruff, even deeper still with lust, and mocking as his free hand rubs up and down your thigh. Now who’s poking the bear? 

Huffing in defiance, you work up the will to meet his eyes again. 

“C’mon,” you pant, wanting to know now. Wanting his words to push you over the precipice. Wanting to hear the things he did to you, how it felt, while you were sleeping–for him. 

“Pretty please?” you try with pleading eyes. 

He chuckles darkly, fingers curling inside you, reaching that delicious spot that has you kicking out and gasping his name like a prayer. 

His withholding nature was a real problem early in your relationship. You felt like you had to pull things out of him, and it was frustrating in the worst way. It made you red in the face. Now, when he’s withholding in bed, that frustration creeps in again, this time making you burn–trading anger for lust.

A fever induced by his cheeky stubbornness–a conflicting, and arousing, combination. 

“How ‘bout…” he begins contemplatively, like he doesn’t already have a plan for you. 

Frank’s always got a plan. Plans you’re usually not privy to until he’s got you on your knees with his boot wedged between your thighs, or pressed against a cool brick wall in a dark alley with his hand up your skirt. “How ‘bout you cum on my tongue like a good ‘lil girl, and maybe I’ll tell you, yeah?”

 “Mhm,” you whine. 

“Yeah?” his voice pitches up at the end. 

“I said: yes,” you intone brattily. 

Laughter rumbles low in his chest as he grumbles to himself, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth, oughtta bend you over my knee.”

“Why–why don’t you?” 

Detrimentally, you’re getting bold now. So close to getting what you want and willing to sabotage it just to pull a reaction out of him. 

As always, he sees right through you. Managing to keep you on your toes, he admits, “Cause this pussy was good to me while you slept.” 

Because this was your reward–his tongue between your thighs. A reward for being so good for him, so quiet, so still, so…asleep while he had his way with you. 

Mouth parting around a quiet gasp at his words, his fingers stretching and filling you, pleasure builds and builds, brick by brick. A building erected just to be demolished. 

You can sense his cocky smirk even as your eyes slam shut, pussy squeezing his thrusting digits, right on the edge as he rambles praise: That’s right, there you go…Good…good…There it is…Feel my fingers, that’s it.

Reattaching his mouth to your cunt, Frank expertly rolls his tongue over your clit as his fingers curl inside of you. Even with everything that came after, it’s his little maybe that has you hot all over. 

Of course you’d find pleasure in hearing him describe what he did to you. But there’s also some sick satisfaction you derive from not knowing. A dizzying heat settles in your gut at the thought of letting him keep that from you, all for himself. 

It’s his uncharacteristic pleading, near-whiny, cum for me, sweetheart that does you in. Like the epic conclusion to an extravagant orchestral arrangement, your pleasure peaks. Just as a dam bursts under immense pressure, or an explosion erupts upon gas meeting flame, so too do you come undone. 

It rips through you like a hurricane, ravaging your body in waves of pleasure. Aftershocks like lingering musical notes echoing off the ornate walls of an ancient theatre. 

Vaguely, as you suck in greedy breaths, you feel the press of Frank’s sticky mouth to your thigh. Calloused fingers tracing the skin there softly, lovingly, adoringly. 

His voice pulls you out of your post-coital stupor when he whispers, “Y’didn’t squirm.” 

The meaning of his words take a moment to register with you. 

You lift your head from the pillow, glance down at him. His dark hair falls into his eyes, his chin soaked with you.

Soft lips press below your navel, trail up your belly, and teeth graze your nipple before he meets your eyes again, adding softly, “Y’couldn’t get all…mouthy with me when I fucked ya nice an’ slow.” 

Your breath hitches as your eyes lock with deep, earnest ones. A kiss planted lovingly at the base of your neck, the corner of your mouth, wet spots left across your skin. Like blood spatter evidence at a crime scene, they’re patterns revealing the exact method of love and pleasure used against you. 

“You were…you were fucking perfect, sweetheart,” Frank finishes, sounding nearly pained by it before he kisses you, square on the mouth. Your resulting sigh is appreciative and contented.

“Thank you,” you whisper after pulling away, his fingers playing at your hair, stroking over your flushed cheeks. 

“You were perfect too,” you profess, thumbing at his wet chin.

Frank kisses the pad of your thumb before pressing his forehead to yours. You’re treated to a soft smile, barely contained elation in the squint of his eyes as he kisses the tip of your nose. 

Quiet laughter bubbles from you at his affections. 

It’s a gentle moment, a moment you treat tenderly, carefully, like picking up shattered glass. Frank deserves that–you both do. After all the pain and anxiety of the last week. It’s written on his face, and probably all over his body, in fresh cuts and black-and-blue-stained skin. 

A moment soaked in the muted glow of the city lights just outside your bedroom window, lightened by hushed whispers, soothing hands, and a peaceful, dreamless sleep wrapped in his protective arms. 

Thank you so much for reading! Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated xx

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You had known Lena since freshman orientation, when she dropped an entire stack of registration forms in front of the dean and then laughed so hard at herself that three people helped her pick them up. She had been impossible not to like after that. Warm without being simple. Pretty in a way she never knew what to do with. Quick to fall into things; classes, friendships, crushes, and then twice as quick to panic once they started looking back at her.

By noon, she had come into your room three times.

The first time, she held out toast.

You stared at it from under your blanket. “Absolutely not.”

She shrugged. “It’s dry.”

“That’s really not a selling point.”

“Steve said toast helps.” You scowled at her words and pulled the blanket over your head. 

Lena laughed at you freely. “So he called.”

Your voice grumbled under your warm covers. “Unfortunately.”

“And?”

“And he recommended hydration.”

“That’s all?”

You stayed still beneath the blanket, breathing in warm cotton and the faint smell of your shampoo from your pillowcase.

Lena sat on the edge of your bed then. The mattress dipped, and you hated that she was gentle about it.

“He got you home,” she brought up, clearly more at ease than she'd been about the topic last night.

“I got myself home. He walked nearby.”

“Sure.”

You detested her agreement. “Do not use that tone.”

“What tone?”

That was when you let your head peek out from under the covers, your eyes squinting slightly to readjust in the bright light. “The one where you act like I’m a wet cat you found in an alley.”

She poked your shoulder through the blanket with a pout. “You are a wet cat I found in an alley.”

You kicked at her weakly, and Lena caught your ankle and squeezed once before letting go. Her next words came all too casual. “Robin said he was worried.”

Your whole body went still.

There it was. His worry, passed around like evidence. His concern, made public. His goodness, sitting heavy in your room next to your hangover and your shame. The thought already grated on your day even more.

You pulled the blanket down just enough to glare. “Robin should worry about her own romantic crisis.”

“She is. We’re getting coffee tomorrow.”

You blinked flatly for a moment, and Lena tried to look nonchalant. She failed immediately.

“Coffee,” you repeated hesitantly.

“Just coffee.”

“Coffee with Robin?” The clarification was more for effect than knowledge. 

Lena seemed far too interested in your linens now. “Yup.”

“At The Hideout?”

“No, Melvald’s.”

“Melvald’s has terrible coffee.”

A shrug. “She suggested it.”

Your voice turned gentler as you looked at your friends, taking in their obvious energy. “Then she’s either nervous or cheap.”

“Both, probably.”

You let the blanket fall back. Despite yourself, your mouth softened. Lena saw it and smiled too, small and completely terrified.

You were good at this part. Other people’s feelings were easier when they didn’t involve you. You could hold Lena’s panic in both hands, turn it over, and make sense of it. You could tell her what earrings to wear and what not to overthink. You could remind her that Robin’s sarcasm was a pressure valve, not disinterest. You could be useful.

Useful was safe.

So you sat up, ignored the headache spearing behind your eyes, and told Lena not to wear the green sweater because she kept pulling at the sleeves when she was nervous.

She stared at you with a frown on her cherry-tinted lips.  “You noticed that?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re scary.”

“I’m helpful.”

“You’re both.”

You accepted that.

For the rest of the weekend, you occupied yourself with Lena.

You helped her choose shirts. You listened to her rehearse three different ways to say hi, all of which sounded exactly like hi. You sat at the kitchen table with your chin in your hand while she spiraled over whether coffee counted as a date if neither person used the word date.

“It counts if both of you spend too long thinking about lip gloss beforehand,” you couldn't help the words from slipping out as you looked at her panic pointedly.

Lena froze with the tube halfway to her mouth. “I hate you.”

Your response came back sang. “No, you don’t.”

“I do right now.”

“You’ll thank me when you’re married to the radio station gremlin.”

Lena’s face went pink but didn't deny it. “Don’t call her that.”

You made a noise and let your mouth tilt sideways. “Oh, we’re defensive now.”

She threw a dish towel at you and pretended like she didn't continue to fuss over her appearance. 

It was easy to laugh with her. Easy to feel normal for a few minutes at a time.

Then the phone would ring, or footsteps would pass outside your apartment, or Lena would say Steve’s name in a sentence about Robin, and your stomach would clench before you could stop it.

You didn't call him.

You didn't thank him properly.

And you did not mention the stairs, the water, the jacket, the porch, or the god-awful small confession you had left between you like a dropped glass nobody wanted to clean up.

On Monday morning, you saw him outside the library and crossed the street before he could lift his hand.

That was when avoidance stopped feeling like a choice and started becoming a schedule.

Steve had promised himself he would not chase you.

It lasted almost nine full hours.

By Monday afternoon, he had already walked past your usual table in the dining hall twice, slowed outside the bookstore when he saw a sweater that might have been yours, and stopped himself from calling your apartment so many times Robin threatened to unplug his phone and beat him with the cord.

“You said you’d leave her alone,” Robin reminded him, and the reminder had him groaning. 

Steve sat backward in the desk chair in his room, arms folded over the top rail, chin resting there like a sulking child. “I am.”

“You asked me if Lena mentioned her four times.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I asked you.”

Robin stared at him from the floor, where she was surrounded by cassette tapes and half-written notes for her radio shift. “You understand how information travels between people, right?”

“I didn’t call her.”

“Gold star.”

Steve groaned and dropped his forehead against the chair. His fingers twitched against his forearms restlessly. “She crossed the street.”

Robin’s expression shifted; he knew because he didn't look at her, but he felt it anyway. There it was,  the sympathy. The carefulness. He hated carefulness when it was aimed at him. It made him want to stand up straighter and pretend he was fine.

“She was probably overwhelmed,” Robin’s voice came low and left no room for panic. Steve made some anyway.

He frowned at the memory. “She didn’t look overwhelmed. She looked like she saw a gas leak.”

“That might be her being overwhelmed.”

Steve lifted his head, and begrudgingly he finally exhaled. “Do you think she regrets it?”

Robin’s mouth pressed together, and it only made his hands scrub over his face harder.  Steve looked away before she answered.

That was the thing nobody told you about trying not to be the old version of yourself. It didn't make you new overnight; instead it only made you aware, constantly, of all the ways you could still get it wrong.

In high school, Steve would have taken your distance personally and covered the bruise with attention from someone easier. He knew that about himself. He could see the path clearly enough to really hate it. Some girl would smile at him at a party, and he would lean into it because being wanted was simpler than being understood. He had done it before. He had been good at it.

Now, he did not want easy.

He wanted to know whether you had eaten breakfast. He wanted to know if your headaches had gone away. He wanted to know if you remembered saying you hated toast and if that meant crackers had been the right answer or the wrong one.

He wanted to know if you had meant any of it sober.

That was the worst part.

Because if he asked, he might corner you.

And if he didn’t, he might lose you by being decent too late.

Robin flicked a cassette case at his knee. Her sigh came out exasperated.  “Stop making that face.”

“Which face is this one now?”

“The face where you decide to ruin your own life for sport.”

“I don’t have that face.”

“You have several.” Steve could only sigh.

Robin softened, though only slightly. Her kindness always wore elbows. “Look, she’s not Lena.”

His brows scrunched together at the random comparison. “I know that.”

“No, I mean—Lena panics outward. She talks. She asks questions. She calls me and then hangs up and then calls back pretending it was an accident.”

Steve’s brows lifted, and a small smile stretched over his lips at his best friend's detailed account. “She does?”

Robin went red on principle and sharpened her voice. “Not the point.”

His tone turned teasing before it could have been helped. “I don't know, it feels point-adjacent.”

“Steve.”

“Sorry.”

Robin picked at the frayed hem of her jacket. “Your girl seems to panic inwardly.”

The correction came almost embarrassingly solemnly. “She’s not my girl.”

Robin gave him a look so flat he deserved it. He looked down quickly.

“She’ll bolt if she thinks you’re trying to get something from her,” Robin shrugged, then continued. “Even an answer.”

Steve rubbed at his jaw. Every word seemed to do little to ease his tension. “So I do nothing?”

“Maybe you do normal.”

His voice was exasperated now as he looked at her. “I don’t know what normal is here.”

“I don't think anyone could be normal in this situation.” Her words certainly aren't helpful, but they were true. 

That was how he ended up trying.

Not grandly. There are no speeches, no waiting outside your classes with flowers like some idiot in a John Hughes movie. Just normal. A nod if he saw you. Space if you looked away. No chasing across the quad. No calling your apartment again. No asking Lena for updates, even when Robin came back from coffee looking dazed enough to walk into a doorframe.

He tried. He really did.

But trying not to look for you did not stop him from seeing you everywhere.

You became very good at almost missing Steve.

Not actually missing him, since that would have required less precision. You got good at the lesser injury: seeing him from a distance, noticing him before he noticed you, and making yourself disappear.

Campus helped at first. There were alternate routes to almost everything if you were willing to be inconvenient. You cut behind the old science building even though the sidewalk flooded after rain. You started getting coffee fifteen minutes earlier. You took the side stairs in the library. You sat in the back of your American Lit lecture, even though you hated the draft from the window and the girl in front of you chewed gum with her mouth open.

The girl’s name was Tessa Morgan.

You knew her because she knew everyone. Or wanted to. Tessa had feathered blonde hair, glossy pink nails, and a laugh she released in careful little bursts after looking around to make sure there was an audience for it. She wore perfume strong enough to survive lecture halls and cigarette smoke. She was not cruel, exactly. That would have made your feelings cleaner. She was friendly in the way girls became when they had learned friendliness was a kind of currency.

On Wednesday, she sat sideways in her chair before class, talking to two girls behind her.

“I’m serious,” she spoke animatedly, lowering her voice just enough to make sure it carried. “He picked me up from work. In the Beemer.”

Your pen stopped moving with a disturbing quickness. It did little to freeze the moment. One of the girls gasped beside her. “Steve?”

Tessa smiled down at her notebook, pretending to be modest. Or maybe, she truly was. You had a feeling that you couldn't be an unbiased narrator in the moment. “Who else has that car?”

Your stomach dropped with such sharpness that you thought, for one stupid second, you might actually be sick. 

The room continued around you. Coats rustling. Fluorescent lights buzzing against your eyes. Someone tapping a pencil against a desk in sets of three. Outside, bare branches scraped against the window whenever the wind pushed them hard enough.

“He’s so sweet when he wants to be,” Tessa continued on like you weren't actively prepared to feel repulsed by the words on impact.

You stared at the blank margin of your notes.

Sweet.

The word sat in your throat like spoiled milk.

You had no right to feel anything. You repeated that uselessly while Tessa described how Steve had waited outside the hardware store after her shift because her car wouldn’t start. You repeated it when she said he drove her back to the dorms. You repeated it when one girl asked if they kissed and Tessa laughed instead of answering.

The grip became useless with how tight you held it.

You were the one who had crossed the street.

You were the one who had told him not to make it something.

And you were the one who had made every exit obvious enough for even Steve Harrington to finally take one.

Still, your body reacted like betrayal had happened without your permission. You pressed your pen too hard into the page until the tip tore through the paper.

When class started, you took notes without understanding a word.

Afterward, Tessa caught up beside you in the hallway. You were sure life just enjoyed making ironic jokes. 

“You’re in Professor Allen’s section too, right?” she asked brightly and you stayed still for a moments lull. 

You looked at her, and up close, she had a tiny smudge of mascara beneath one eye. It was utterly human. Annoyingly human.

“Yeah,” you nodded your head because what else could you do? 

“I always see you writing everything down. You’re so good! I get distracted.”

“I noticed.”

She blinked, then laughed, unsure whether to take offense. You weren't sure what you'd wanted either. “Anyway, do you have last week’s notes? I missed part of the lecture.”

Because Steve Harrington drove you home, you thought.

Out loud, you settled for, “I can bring them Friday.”

“Oh my God, thank you.” She touched your arm lightly. The action had your face scrunching slightly in its unearned familiarity.  “You’re a lifesaver.”

You looked at her hand until she removed it. She smiled again, a little less confidently, then headed down the hall.

You stood there with your books held against your chest and hated yourself more than you hated her.

The feeling came with more familiarity than her touch. 

That night, Lena came home from studying with Robin and found you cleaning the kitchen.

Not casually. And certainly not normally. There really couldn't be anything normal considered for the situation. The counters had been wiped twice, the stove burners were soaking, and you were on your knees scrubbing a stain near the baseboards that had probably been there since 1974.

Lena paused in the doorway, with one hand gripping her keys. Her expression came confused as she came nearer. “Should I be scared?”

Your voice came flat. “Nope.”

“You’re cleaning grout.”

“It’s dirty.”

“We rent.” True, you only kept scrubbing.

She put her bag down carefully in the kitchen island near the fruit bowl. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She wasn't convinced, and you felt stupid to expect her to have been. “Okay…”

You heard her move around the kitchen, opening the fridge, closing it, and taking out the orange juice. She did not try to push immediately. That was the annoying part of loving someone who knew you well. They had learned where not to press first.

After a minute, she cleared her throat in a way that already set you on edge, “Robin asked about you.”

Your hand stilled and the feeling that flashed through you must have crossed your face because her voice came quickly once more. 

“Not in a scary way,” Lena added. “Just asked if you were okay.”

“Tell her to ask Steve.” The words came out before you could stop them. They were stupid and childish,  and you hated that on principle. Lena went quiet and you resumed scrubbing, harder than necessary.

“Oh,” she said.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said oh.”

“It was a small ‘oh’!”

“It had meaning.”

“Most sounds do.” You dropped the sponge into the bucket and sat back on your heels. The kitchen smelled like bleach and old linoleum. Your knees ached from the floor.

Lena leaned against the counter, glass of orange juice in hand, watching you with careful eyes.

You hated careful eyes.

“I heard he’s seeing Tessa Morgan,” you decided to say, your voice was lower now and unnaturally small. 

Lena’s brow furrowed and she sipped at her glass. “Who told you that?”

“Tessa Morgan, basically.”

Her face scrunched up at the words. “What does basically mean?”

“It means she talked about him picking her up from work in class.”

Lena’s face shifted through confusion, realization, and then something like annoyance. “That doesn’t mean they’re seeing each other.”

You scoffed because her words seemed fruitless. “Girls don’t talk about Steve Harrington driving them home unless they want people to think there’s something to talk about.”

“Maybe she wants people to think that.”

“That’s not better.”

“It’s not worse.”

You gave her a look and she only sighed and set down her glass. “You could ask him.”

You laughed once, then paused when you realized she in fact, wasn't kidding. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

You sputtered at her implication. “Because I’m not insane.”

“No, you’re just scrubbing invisible dirt because a girl with frosted lipstick mentioned his car. Totally fine. ”

You stood too fast and got lightheaded. Faint corners of black twisted at your edges before clearing back up.  “I am fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“No, you're not. You’re doing the annoying thing where you decide wanting something is humiliating and then punish yourself for it.” The room went still even more because Lena looked like she regretted saying it, but not enough to take it back.

You swallowed.

“Congratulations,” you rolled your eyes at her.  “Robin taught you therapy words.”

“That wasn’t Robin.”

“No?”

“No,” Lena shook her head softly. “That was me living with you.”

You looked away first because that was too accurate of a response. 

The kitchen light buzzed overhead. Outside, rain tapped against the window above the sink. Somewhere in the apartment below, a television played too loudly, canned laughter rising through the floorboards.

Lena came closer, but not too close.

“I’m not saying you have to do anything,” her tone told you the opposite, but you let out go.  “I’m not even saying Steve deserves anything. I just don’t think pretending you don’t care is making you care less.”

Your throat tightened and you could only reach for the bucket once more in the still. 

Lena let you.

Steve didn't pick Tessa Morgan up because he wanted a date.

He picked her up because she worked closing shifts with a guy from his fraternity, and her car had coughed twice in the parking lot before dying with the dramatic finality of a machine that had given up on life. Steve had been there buying duct tape and light bulbs because the house was falling apart in several preventable ways and no one else seemed particularly worried. Tessa had looked near tears, and the parking lot had been dark, and he had a car.

So, he drove her home.

That was all.

He knew it would become less than nothing in his mind and more than something in someone else’s mouth. He really should have known better. Hawkins had trained him better than that. Campus gossip was only town gossip with better shoes.

By Thursday, two girls had asked him whether he and Tessa were “a thing.”

By Thursday night, Robin found him in the kitchen of the fraternity house stabbing a fork into cold leftover pasta with unnecessary force.

“You heard?” she asked with a tone that told him hell was coming quickly after. 

Steve looked up. “Heard what?”

“That Tessa Morgan is apparently bearing your children.”

He dropped the fork and coughed up a storm. “Jesus, Robin!”

“Ah, so you did hear.”

Steve's brows shot up and repeated his actions. “I gave her a ride home.”

“Obviously.”

His face scrunched up at the word. “Obviously?”

Robin opened the fridge, sniffed a carton of milk, made a face, and put it back. He winced alongside her because he knew the grocery list also seemed to be the last thing on everyone's mind unless it was for a party. “You’re being a wounded golden retriever again. That usually means you performed basic decency and got accused of seduction.”

Steve leaned back against the counter. His words came true but sighed.  “People think what they want.”

Robin looked at him pointedly and he looked away on impact. 

The kitchen was a complete disaster. Beer cans on the counter. A sticky note on the fridge reading BUY PAPER TOWELS OR DIE. Someone had left a jacket over a chair, and the sleeves dragged on the floor. The house smelled of reheated sauce, cigarette smoke, and the old wood beneath everything.

“She probably heard,” Robin noted casually and Steve could only rub his hands over his face in true defeat. 

There was no need to ask who.

“I didn’t do anything,” he let his palm rest over his eyes for a moment before he spoke. 

Robin’s words came with an understanding nod. “I know.”

“No, I mean—” Steve stopped, frustrated. “I didn’t call her. I didn’t corner her. I tried to leave space. She crossed the street, Rob.”

Robin’s expression softened in that brutal way again.

“Yeah, I know,” the way she said it had him scrub a hand over his hair again. 

“What am I supposed to do? Follow her around telling her every rumor isn’t true? That’s exactly the thing she probably doesn’t want.”

“Probably not.”

Steve leaned back now, hands crossed against his chest, and glared at the kitchen island. “So I do nothing.”

“You are very bad at doing nothing.”

“I’m learning.” poorly, he was aware of that at least. 

“You’re pacing while eating pasta.”

Steve looked down and threw his head up in resignation. He was pacing.

He quickly stopped as if that proved his stability. 

Robin leaned against the counter beside him. “For what it’s worth, Lena says she’s been weird.”

Steve turned with wide eyes, immediately leaning over at the new information. “Lena said that?”

Robin winced and it was a sight Steve knew all too well. “I wasn’t supposed to say.”

“Robin.”

She gave a conflicted noise, averting her eyeline from his before giving in.  “Not details. Just—cleaning, I guess. Quiet. Meaner than usual, but in a sad way.”

Steve’s chest tightened unexpectedly. The words landed all wrong on his heart immediately. 

He hated that. Not the mean part. The sad part.

“What did Lena say about Tessa?” he asked, quicker now since he'd gotten some part of the ruined information.

Robin gave him a look and Steve held up both hands in apology. “Sorry.”

“You’re doing it.”

His voice came low and defeated. “I know.”

“You can’t get Lena to translate her for you.”

“I know.”

“And I can’t translate Lena translating her for me.”

“I know Robin”

Robin studied him for a long second. Then she finally  said, “There’s a mixer Saturday.”

Steve groaned and shook his head just as quick as he heard. “No.”

“I didn’t invite you to a mixer.”

He scoffed and gave her a look, his hand coming up in a gesture. “It’s my house. I’m already implicated.”

“Lena wants to go.”

He narrowed his eyes, “you mean you want Lena to go.”

“Two things can be true.”

“And she’ll bring—”

“Maybe.”

Steve’s heart did something embarrassing.

Robin pointed at him and made a loud noise of defeat. “Do not make that face.”

“I didn’t!”

He did. “You did. Put it away.”

He looked down at the cold pasta when Robin sighed. “If she comes, don’t corner her.”

Steve’s next words came out lower, but no less truthful. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Don’t make a speech.”

“Wasn’t planning one.”

“Don’t overcorrect and act like she’s invisible.”

Steve paused because he knew exactly what she meant, and immediately hated it. 

Robin nodded slowly, her hair swinging back against her ears.  “There it is.”

The fork was in his hand again, poking at the plate helplessly. He hadn't taken another bite, his appetite had hit an all time low. “I really hate this.”

“Yeah,” Robin sighed with one hand pushing back at her bangs. “It sucks liking people who don’t come with instructions.”

Saturday arrived with cold rain and Lena standing in your doorway holding two shirts against her chest.

“Which one says casual but available?”

You looked up from your textbook with a furrow in your brows and curiosity in your tone. “Available for what?”

“Conversation. Romance. Emotional ruin.”

You scoffed but answered nonetheless. “The blue one.”

She looked down at it in her hold. “Really?”

“The black one says you’re trying to look like you didn’t try, which means you tried too hard. The blue one says you own a mirror but didn’t negotiate with it.”

Lena stared at you and it made you regret the overexplanation. “That was both helpful and upsetting.”

You could only shrug. “You’re welcome?”

She lingered, but your attention had already gone away. You looked back at your book without reading. And when her voice hit your ears once more, your eyes shut instinctively. 

“There’s a mixer tonight,” Lena cleared her throat in a way that told you she was trying to be subtle and ended up being anything but. 

“I know.”

“Robin asked if I was going.”

“I would hope so.”

“You could come.”

“Hell no.”

“You said that fast.”

You made a face. “I meant it fast.”

Lena fully stepped into the room then. Your bedroom was dim despite the desk lamp, the window streaked with rain. The air smelled faintly of coffee gone cold and the cinnamon gum you had been chewing to keep from biting your nails.

“You haven’t gone out all week,” she immediately dropped her hesitancy and frustration took over. 

You pointed at her in correction. “I went to class.”

“That doesn’t count.”

One of your eyebrows ticked up in a way you knew irritated her. “It counted for attendance.”

She sat at the end of your bed, and finally she sighed. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

The words had you incredulous. “That’s not true.”

“It can be.”

“No,” you scoffed, sharper than you meant and regretted it immediately. “It can’t. Because even not talking to him becomes a thing. Looking away becomes a thing. Standing near him becomes a thing. Everyone makes everything a thing.”

Lena was quiet, which only drove the silence to be more exposing.  You pressed your fingers against the page until the paper bent.

After a moment, she tried again, “Tessa might be there.”

Your laugh came out flat, and you rolled your eyes at the page you'd been attempting to read for the past 5 minutes. “Oh great pitch.”

“I’m not saying that to hurt you.”

Your exhale came out entirely exasperated alongside your words. “Then why even say it?”

Lena only shrugged at your flat look. “Because if you stay here picturing it, it might be worse than seeing whatever it actually is.”

You looked at her and she kept your gaze. 

You hated when she was right in a way that offered no comfort.

“I don’t want to care,” your tongue poked out to lick at the corner of your mouth. 

Lena’s face softened and you regretted speaking. She reached out and touched your ankle through the blanket. “I know.”

The tenderness made you want to snap at her, but you were tired of being cruel to the people close enough to let you. So, you only looked back at your textbook and just repeated, “Blue shirt.”

Lena stood after a moment.

At the door, she paused in a way that made you want to burrow deeper into your bed. “I’ll wait twenty minutes before leaving.”

The words came out quickly. “I’m not coming.”

“Okay.”

She left the door open.

You lasted about seventeen minutes.

The mixer was less chaotic than the party and somehow even more uncomfortable.

The fraternity house had been cleaned just enough to reveal how badly it needed cleaning. Someone had mopped the entryway, but the lemon chemical smell fought with old beer in the corners. Lamps wore scarves over their shades for softer light. Music played from the living room stereo at a volume that allowed conversation but still made people lean in closer than necessary. There were bowls of chips on the tables, a stack of plastic cups, a deck of cards abandoned mid-game.

You regretted coming before Lena finished knocking.

Thankfully, Robin had been the one who opened the door.

For one second, she looked only at Lena. It was so obvious you smiled and then forced it back in because it felt intrusive to the moment. 

Then Robin’s blue eyes finally flicked to you and widened. The surprise was evident.  “Oh. Hey. Hi. You came.”

You lifted one hand in a weak wave, then immediately retracted it with a displeased scrunch of your face. “Observant.”

Robin nodded too many times. It only made you regret everything all the more. “Cool—Good. Not cool like surprising. I mean cool like fine. Normal. Very normal.”

Lena bit her lip at the formation of the girl's words and you looked between them. Your lips pressed against each other and you felt the weird tension just as quickly as it was dished out. “Well, this is painful.”

Robin pointed inside quickly, as if your verbalization of the situation broke her out of the stupor she was in. “Do you want—there’s punch. It might be nonalcoholic. I mean, I think there are two bowls. One is definitely suspicious.”

“Lead with that last part next time,” you exhaled with a numb nod.

You followed them inside because turning around now would have been theatrical, and you really did not have the energy to make your exit interesting.

At first, it was fine.

Not pleasant. Fine.

You really needed the clarification. 

You stayed near the bookshelf in the living room, the one full of outdated encyclopedias, a broken camera, and somebody’s abandoned economics textbook. Lena and Robin stood a few feet away, talking in the halting rhythm of people trying not to scare each other off. You made yourself useful by pretending not to listen.

Steve was not in the room.

That helped.

And then, he was.

He came in from the kitchen carrying a trash bag in one hand and a roll of paper towels in the other, talking over his shoulder to someone behind him. His hair was damp from the rain, darker at the edges. He wore a navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, denim jeans, and white socks visible above old sneakers. He looked too domestic for a fraternity house, which was unfair and completely unnecessary.

He saw you.

Everything in his face paused.

Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to catch, but you caught it, because your body had become traitorous about him. 

He didn't come over.

He only nodded once.

Your chest hurt with an instinctive response that repulsed you. 

You looked away first.

“That was mature,” Lena murmured and your glare pressed at her from your side. 

“I’ll leave.”

“I said mature!”

Another hurried whisper. “I heard the  judgment.”

“You hear what you want.”

Robin glanced between you and Steve, then seemed to decide she valued her ignorance and turned back to Lena.

For half an hour, Steve kept his distance.

You hated how much you noticed.

He moved through the house with the careful restraint of someone trying not to spook a stray animal. He laughed with his friends, but he did not get loud. He passed near the bookshelf once to throw something away and didn't look directly at you until you looked first. Then he looked away, too, and that somehow made you feel worse.

You had wanted space and he was giving you space.

It also, strangely, felt like abandonment.

That made you angry enough to drink from the wrong bowl.

The punch was terrible. Sweet, red, and strong enough to make your throat tighten. You took only one cup, then another half because Tessa Morgan arrived and the night became sharply worse to your sanity. 

She came in with two girls from your class, shaking rain from her hair, cheeks pink from the cold. She was wearing a cream sweater and fitted jeans tucked into boots. She looked effortless in the way that probably required effort and then restraint about showing it.

Steve saw her and smiled.

Not the smile you had been storing against your will. Not the small, careful one from the porch. A normal smile. Friendly. Familiar enough to make your stomach sink in that familiar pit. 

Tessa crossed the room and touched his arm.

“Hey, stranger,” she grinned up with vibrancy. 

You heard it because you were close enough and because your attention had become humiliatingly selective.

Steve answered something you couldn’t hear over the music. But you could hear how Tessa laughed. She lifted one hand to push damp hair from her face, and Steve gestured toward the kitchen, probably offering a drink, because of course he did. Of course he was attentive. Of course his basic decency looked romantic when aimed at someone prettier, easier, and less likely to turn affection into a weapon and point it at herself.

You looked down into your cup.

Red punch trembled near the rim.

Lena appeared beside you with a look that had you wanting to run off just so you didn't have to face it. “Don’t.”

You took a drink because it was your only escape from the endless chatter in your mind. 

She sighed and murmured with her face puffed up. “That was extremely don’t-adjacent.”

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that before doing something unwise.”

You mirror her sigh, the sickly sweet mixture hit your tongue all wrong. “You’re busy. Go flirt.”

“I can multitask, I'm a big girl.”

You looked at Robin, who was standing awkwardly near the couch, pretending to read the back of a record sleeve while very clearly watching Lena. “She’s waiting.”

Lena hesitated and it made you feel conflicted with the guilt you felt. 

“Go,” you pushed again, but softer this time.

Her eyes searched your face.

You gave her the version of yourself she needed; steady enough, dry enough, and still capable of being useful.

So she went, and you were glad for her. 

The night stretched.

You still didn't talk to Steve.

Steve still didn't talk to you.

Tessa did.

That felt almost funny, in a cruel little ironic way.

She found you near the bookshelf after class notes became her excuse. “Oh! I meant to thank you,” she beamed up at you, touching your elbow before seeming to remember you didn’t enjoy that. Her hand dropped quickly. “For the notes. Professor Allen is impossible.”

You nodded slowly, because your movements slowed but not your head. “He’s fine if you ignore every third sentence.”

She laughed, the noise was pretty. That was another annoyance.  “I should try that.”

You nodded again, because what else could you do?

She glanced across the room toward Steve, then back at you. Her smile shifted into something conspiratorial. “You know Steve, right?”

Every muscle in your body went unpleasantly alert for its previous lull. 

“Everyone knows Steve,” you let your eyes find a spot to focus on ahead of her. 

“True.” She looked down, smiling into her cup. “He’s been really sweet lately.”

You stared at her and your brows scrunched together at the repetition of her words. She did not seem to notice the danger.

“My car is such a piece of junk, and he’s driven me twice now. He said he knows a guy who can look at it. Isn’t that cute?”

Cute.

You could feel your pulse in your wrist, your throat, the thin skin under your jaw.

“That’s Steve,” that was the only thing that your tongue let you respond with. 

You had meant it to sound neutral.

It surely did not.

Tessa looked up, and for the first time, her face sharpened with awareness. Not malice, that would have actually been welcomed, but with curiosity.

“Are you two friends?” she asked, and even the question was light. 

“Nope.” The answer came too fast.

Across the room, Steve looked over.

Of course he did. He seemed to have a skill for catching you at your worst. Or was it pushing you to act your worst? You couldn't decide. 

Tessa followed your gaze.

A little understanding moved over her face. The sight of it made heat rise behind your ears.

“Oh,” she made a small confused noise. 

You hated that sound now. Oh. Everyone’s favorite little blade.

“No,” you said to her, probably sharper than it warranted. 

“I didn’t—”

“I’m getting air.”

You set your cup down on the bookshelf without checking whether there was space for it and walked out before the conversation could become something you would have to survive.

The rain had stopped thankfully, but the porch was wet and cold enough to bite through the soles of your shoes. You stood near the railing, gripping the damp wood until your fingers went numb. The street beyond the house shone under the lamps, puddles holding broken bits of yellow light. Cars lined the curb. Somewhere down the block, people shouted and laughed on another porch, their voices carrying strangely in the wet air.

You breathed in the cold and tried to make your body behave.

It was not jealousy.

It was not.

It was disgust, you told yourself. Disgust at yourself for caring. Disgust at the ease with which Steve could become important to someone else. Disgust at knowing you'd pushed him away and still somehow expected him to remain exactly where you left him, waiting in the shape of your indecision.

You gripped the railing harder.

The door opened behind you.

You didn't turn because the irony was cruel when Steve stepped onto the porch and let the door close softly.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You could feel him standing a few feet away. Not too close. Not far enough.

“You okay?” he asked and you didn't realize how some part of you seemed to have missed his voice. The thought came unwelcomed and left rudely. 

You laughed under your breath, nothing was really funny. “You need new material.”

He only exhaled. “Yeah.”

The porch light continued to buzz above you. A drop of water fell from the gutter and hit the step below with a steady, irritating rhythm.

You stared at the street spreading into the horizon. “Tessa seems nice.”

Steve was quiet.

Too quiet.

Your stomach twisted.

“She is,” he said carefully.

You nodded.

The motion felt mechanical.

Steve stepped closer, then stopped himself. “It’s not—”

“Don’t.” The word cut through the cold.

He stopped mid sentence. You closed your eyes briefly. “Don’t explain.”

“I think maybe I should.”

“No,” you repeated firmer. “You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

Because you would believe him.

Because you wanted to believe him.

Because if he said there was nothing going on with Tessa, you would have to confront the fact that the sick feeling in your stomach had not been proof of anything except your own fear.

You opened your eyes.

“Because I didn’t ask.” Steve’s face tightened as soon as you spoke. 

The hurt was quick, but you saw it. You hated yourself for seeing it, and even worse, for causing it. 

“Right,” he seemed like he wanted to stay more, but stopped himself. 

You turned then, leaning back against the railing. The wood was cold and damp against your palms. “You don’t owe me explanations.”

“I know that.”

“Good.”

Steve opened his mouth then closed it, his restless hands found comfort in rubbing at the shorter pieces of his hair resting on his neck. “But you’re mad.”

The word instantly had you reeling at how it simplified you into something so childish. “I’m not mad.”

“You’re something.”

“Don’t analyze me, Harrington.”

He looked away at the name. Not because he hated it. Because he liked it, and you both knew enough now for that to be painful.

Inside, someone laughed too loudly. The sound pushed through the door and vanished into the wet night. Steve looked tired when he faced you again. “I’m trying to do what you asked.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“You asked me not to make it something.”

Your throat tightened and you gave a few hard blinks at the railing. “I asked you not to act like it already was.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

The patience in his voice made you want to be worse.

“So what is this?” you asked because it seemed the most mature reckless thing available to you. 

His brows drew together. “What?”

“This.” You gestured toward the house, toward Tessa, toward the space between you that neither of you seemed able to name without damaging it. “You leaving me alone until you think I’m upset, then coming outside to do the concerned thing.”

Steve’s jaw shifted, you could see a million thoughts probably running at full speed in his dark eyes. 

“I came outside because you left upset,” he decided to say after a moment. 

You made a displeased face again at the same result the word left in you. “I left annoyed at most.”

“You left because Tessa asked if we were friends.”

Your face went hot.

Damn him.

Damn him for noticing.

Still, you could only scoff and turn your head to glare at whatever was in your direction. “That’s not why.”

“No?”

“No.”

He got quieter when you wanted him louder. “What was it then?”

You had nothing.

Steve only waited.

The silence stretched until it became unbearable. You pushed off the railing. “I’m going home.”

His words came immediately and he pushed out of place to mirror you. “Let me walk you.”

The refusal came immediately. “No.”

“It’s late.”

“I’ve walked places after dark before you personally discovered concern.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.”

“I don’t think you do.”

You turned on him, finally facing him for more than a total of a few seconds. “Then say what you mean.”

Steve looked at you, and for one second, you thought he might. His face changed with the effort of holding something back. His hands flexed at his sides. The porch light caught the scrape near his knuckle again, half-healed now.

Then,  the door opened.

Tessa stepped out, holding his jacket. You hated how quick you registered it in her hold. 

“There you are,” she reached out to him, but then stopped when she saw you.

The moment froze in a way that would have been funny if it belonged to anyone else.

Tessa looked between you and Steve. Steve looked like he wanted the porch to collapse beneath him. You looked at the jacket in her hands.

His jacket.

The same one he had put around your shoulders.

Your stomach dropped so deep it went numb.

Tessa’s smile faltered flat. “You forgot this inside.”

Steve stared at the jacket as if he had never seen it before. “Right. Thanks.”

She held it out and he took it slowly.

You looked away before his fingers touched hers.

It was nothing. A jacket. A normal exchange. An object moving from one hand to another.

Your body did not care.

“Well,” you spoke up finally, voice flat enough to frighten yourself. “Goodnight.”

Steve stepped forward almost urgently now, “Wait—”

You were already down the porch steps and he followed to the top step. “Please.”

The please nearly stopped you.

Nearly.

But Tessa was still on the porch, silent now, and the whole house was behind her, and you could already imagine the story forming in someone else’s mouth. You and Steve outside. You upset. Tessa with his jacket. Something embarrassing and public and impossible to correct without admitting there was something to correct.

So, you kept walking.

Steve didn't follow.

That hurt too.

By Monday, you had turned the whole thing into something hard enough to hold.

Tessa had his jacket. Steve liked Tessa. Steve had been kind because Steve was kind to everyone, which meant none of it mattered. The stairs had been alcohol. The porch had been exhaustion. The phone call had been guilt. You had misread basic decency because it had been pointed at you during a weak moment, and now you were paying for it with the full-body humiliation of having wanted more.

Fine.

That was more survivable.

You had survived worse than wanting someone who belonged easily to other people.

You went to class. You copied notes. You returned Tessa’s borrowed pages and accepted her distracted thank-you without looking at her mouth, her sweater, her hands, anything that might make her real enough to be unfair to hate.

Lena watched you carefully all week.

Robin came over twice.

That, was new.

The first time, she stood in your kitchen holding a grocery bag and talking too fast.

“I brought soup because Lena said you both forget food exists when midterms happen, which is deranged, honestly, because food is one of maybe five good things about being alive, and before you ask, yes, I paid for it, no, Steve did not send it, and no, this is not a weird emotional bribe.”

You looked at Lena immediately at the condensed version of words and  Lena looked at the ceiling which caused Robin to stop to an abrupt halt. “That was too much.”

“A little,” you gave a little nod but didn't hold any real judgement. Not for her anyways. 

“Great.”

But she still stayed.

She and Lena made soup badly, somehow burning the bottom while leaving the middle lukewarm. You sat at the table with your textbook open, pretending not to enjoy the sound of them moving around each other. Robin talked when nervous. Lena grew quieter, smiling into tasks. They bumped elbows twice. Apologized both times. Neither moved away quickly enough.

You were happy for them.

You truly were.

It just sat beside everything else.

Watching them become brave in tiny increments made your own cowardice louder. Lena had spent years swallowing pieces of herself in public, and now she was reaching for something anyway. Robin lived with fear tucked under every joke, and she still showed up at your kitchen with soup and shaking hands.

You, meanwhile, had crossed streets and fled porches because Steve Harrington might have the power to disappoint you.

It made you crueler to yourself than you were to anyone else.

By Thursday night, you had stopped sleeping properly.

Your room took on the stale quality of a place occupied by someone refusing to leave and refusing to rest. Coffee cups gathered on the crate beside your bed. Your notes spread across the floor in neat, useless piles. The radio played low most nights, static swelling between songs from stations too far away. You kept waiting for your mind to tire itself out. 

It never did.

On Friday, Professor Allen assigned partners for the final paper.

You got Tessa Morgan because fate was cruel, but professors were crueler.

She turned around in her seat with a bright smile that faded slightly when she saw your face.

“Hi,” she tried brightly. 

“Hi.”

“This’ll be fun.”

“Sure.”

She laughed weakly, seeming uncomfortable with your lack of give. You couldn't blame her, you weren't the biggest fan either. “Or productive.”

“That’s more likely.”

You met at the library after class, at a table near the windows where rain trailed crooked paths down the glass. Tessa arrived five minutes late, smelling faintly of hairspray and cold air, carrying a folder pressed to her chest.

“Sorry,” she apologized when she came into view, breathless. “My ride took forever.”

You looked down at your notebook.

Her ride.

She sat across from you and began unpacking colored pens, index cards, a pack of gum, three library books, and a small tin of mints.

You watched the items appear one by one, ordinary and harmless. Then she said, “I feel like you don’t like me.”

You looked up after your face did a weird expression at the abrupt turn of conversation and Tessa’s face had gone pink, but she held your gaze.

You were so surprised that you said nothing.

She twisted one of her rings around her finger. “It’s okay if you don’t. I know I can be a lot.”

The honesty disarmed you in a way you resented.

“I don’t dislike you,” you gave a strained little clear of your throat, your words might’ve been awkward,  but they remained true. .

Her mouth tilted up like she hadn't been expecting to find this humorous. “That sounded very rehearsed.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

Silence settled between you, interrupted by a cough from the next table and the scratch of someone’s pencil across paper.

Tessa looked down at her notes. “Is it because of Steve?”

Your pulse jumped humiliatingly on the mention of his name. “No.”

She gave you a look that was almost kind. You hated that too.

“I’m not dating him,” she said then, causing your pen to freeze over a loop.

Tessa looked embarrassed now, but determined. “I don’t know what people are saying. I mean, I kind of do, because people are obvious and bored. But he gave me rides because my car is awful. That’s it.”

You stared at the table instead of her. The wood grain blurred slightly.

“I didn’t ask,” you only found yourself able to say. 

“I know.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Because you look sick every time someone says his name.” That landed so sharply you almost stood up.

Tessa winced because she wasn't blind. “Sorry. That was too direct.”

“No,” you spoke up, but your voice sounded far away. “It’s fine.”

“It wasn’t.”

You pressed your palm flat to the page in front of you.

There it was. The explanation you had refused from Steve, delivered anyway by the girl you had made into evidence. The relief should have been clean. Instead, it arrived tangled with shame. You had been unfair to her. Unfair to him. Unfair to yourself in the most familiar way possible, hurting first and calling it protection.

Tessa opened her notebook slowly. “For what it’s worth, he talks about you.”

You looked up before you could stop yourself and quickly disliked how her mouth softened. “Not in a gross way. Just… he asks if you were in class when he sees me. Or if Professor Allen is still assigning too much reading. Stuff like that.”

You swallowed and went back to the grain on the table. 

“Anyway,” she cleared her throat quickly, looking down at the table as well. “Thesis statements?”

You nodded because speech had become unsafe.

For the next hour, you worked.

Tessa turned out to be smart when she stopped performing being charming. She had good instincts about the novel and terrible comma habits. You corrected one, and she rolled her eyes but wrote it down. By the time you left the library, the rain had stopped and the pavement outside shone under a pale evening sky.

You stood at the entrance with your books in your arms.

Tessa hesitated beside you.

“I really don’t like him that way,” she became quieter, but no less determined. 

You looked at her with furrowed brows and she gave a small, awkward smile. “He’s nice. But he spends half his time looking around rooms for someone who isn’t me.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to do with kindness from the person you had been quietly resenting for a week.

So, you only nodded.

“Thanks,” you exhaled.  It sounded insufficient because it was. Tessa accepted it anyway.

Steve found out from Tessa, which was not how he wanted to find out anything.

He was outside the Hardware store again, this time actually helping her jump-start her car, when she leaned against the driver’s side door and spoke v up, “Your girl is really intense.”

Steve hit his head lightly on the open hood from how he jumped at the words. 

“Ow.” He straightened, rubbing the back of his head. Steve quickly cleared his throat. “She’s not my girl.”

Tessa gave him a look. He was really getting tired of that look from everyone.

“She’s not,” he insisted, though the insistence really just pricked at his skin more than relieved him. 

“Okay.”

“She isn’t.”

“I heard you.”

He focused on the jumper cables because machines were easier than people, even when he barely knew what he was doing. Finally, after a begrudging moment,  he spoke up again. “What does intense mean?”

“It means she hates me less now, I think.”

Steve looked over,.surprised by the words. “What?”

Tessa shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “I told her we weren’t dating.”

He stared blankly and Tessa’s eyes widened. “Was I not supposed to?”

“No, I just—” Steve stopped, turning away from the car. His own eyes widened quickly after. “She thought we were?”

Tessa’s expression shifted into something regretful.

The parking lot was cold and gray, the store sign buzzed above the entrance. Cars passed on the road beyond, tires hissing over wet asphalt. Steve could smell gasoline, rain, and the metallic dust from the engine. His hands were dirty.

He thought of you on the porch, eyes fixed on his jacket in Tessa’s hands, and he felt stupid enough to deserve the headache forming behind his eyes.

“She wouldn’t let me explain,” he looked down at the engine once more because that was an easier target. 

“Did you try again?”

He looked at her, a bit caught off guard, and Tessa lifted both hands up at once. “Sorry. None of my business.”

“No,” Steve shook his head a bit. “It’s okay.”

But it was not okay.

Nothing about this was okay in the way it could have been if either of you knew how to ask for what you needed without making it sound like an accusation.

Tessa’s car finally started with a miserable cough.

She cheered and even Steve managed a smile and unhooked the cables.

On the drive back to campus, he thought about going to your apartment. He thought about calling. He thought about leaving a note. Every option felt either too much or not enough. Robin would tell him not to Steve it. Lena would probably tell him to be honest. You would probably look at him like honesty was a trap.

He parked outside the fraternity house and sat in the car after turning off the engine.

The quiet suddenly felt huge.

His hands rested on the steering wheel. He stared at the dim reflection of himself in the windshield, his hair flattened from the rain, face tired, and shirt collar slightly crooked.

He wanted to be the kind of person who knew how to stay.

He was afraid you only knew how to leave first.

The next time you and Steve ended up in the same room, neither of you chose it.

Lena chose it, technically, by getting sick.

Not badly. Just enough fever and congestion to turn her dramatic and useless on the couch. Robin came over with more soup and a stack of tapes and Steve drove her because it was raining again and because Robin didn't have a car and because the universe enjoyed putting you through small, specifically ironic trials.

You opened the door expecting Robin. Steve stood behind her, holding a paper bag from Melvald’s.

For one second, all four of you froze in the narrow doorway.

Lena croaked from the couch, “If that’s soup, everyone lives.”

Robin recovered first. “It’s soup, cough drops, and the magazine  you asked for with Rob Lowe on the cover, which I’m choosing not to take personally.”

Lena lifted one weak hand, her face turning sheepish with its flush. “For medical reasons.”

Steve looked at you, but you couldn't find it in you to meet his eyelids as strongly. Instead, you stepped back from the door.

Nobody said anything about the fact that you let him in.

The apartment felt too small immediately.

Robin went to Lena. Lena, despite looking half-dead under a blanket, brightened so visibly it softened the room. Robin sat on the floor beside the couch and began unpacking the bag with the focused care of someone who needed tasks to manage terror.

That left Steve standing near the kitchen entrance with wet hair and uncertainty.

You busied yourself with mugs instead of the sight. 

“Tea?” you asked the room.

Lena nodded her head weakly. “Yes.”

Robin spoke up, “If it’s not a hassle.”

Steve said nothing.

You filled the kettle and set it on the stove. The metal clanged too loudly. Your fingers felt clumsy.

Steve came to stand near the kitchen table, but not close enough to crowd you.

“I can go,” he delivered it quietly.

You kept your back to him, busying yourself with the water kettle.  “You just got here.”

“I know.”

The kettle sat cold on the burner. You turned the knob, watched the blue flame catch beneath it.

“Do you want to?” you asked. The question came out sharper than intended.

Steve was quiet for a second.

“No,” he decided on saying. 

Your throat tightened.

You reached for four mugs instead of three.

The small action sat between you.

Steve noticed, of course. 

For a while, the evening became almost normal.

Robin played a tape too low to bother Lena’s headache. Lena made terrible jokes through congestion. Steve fixed the wobbly kitchen chair without being asked, tightening a screw with a butter knife because none of you knew where the actual tools were. You pretended not to watch him crouched beside the chair, sleeves pushed up, and with his brow furrowed in concentration over something so ordinary it made your chest ache.

He caught you looking once. You looked away immediately and hated yourself for acting incriminating 

He didn't smile.

That was worse than the actual evidence.

Later, Robin took Lena’s temperature and announced she was not dying, only disgusting. Lena called her cruel. Robin said cruelty was part of her healing practice. Their hands touched over the thermometer, and Lena did not pull away.

You saw Steve see it.

His face softened, proud and quiet.

For the first time all night, you remembered why this had started.

Not because he wanted to hurt you.

Not because he wanted Lena.

But because he loved Robin enough to panic badly.

You went into the kitchen to rinse mugs that did not need rinsing.

A minute later, Steve followed.

The living room noise covered the first few seconds of silence. Water ran warm over your hands. The sink smelled faintly of dish soap and metal. Rain ticked against the window.

“I’m not dating Tessa,” he told you once again, softer than the first time. 

You shut off the water.

Your hands stayed in the sink. Steve stood behind and to the side of you, far enough away that you could leave if you wanted.

“I know,” you bit at the inside of your cheek and have a hesitant, but sturdy nod. 

He let out a quiet breath and his own head nodded.  “Okay.”

“Tessa told me.”

“Yeah. She told me she told you.” You dried your hands on a towel, buying time you didn't know how to use.

“I didn’t ask her,” you felt the clarification was useless, but your stupid pride needed it. 

“I know.”

“I didn’t ask you either.”

“I know that too.” You turned around then. 

Steve’s face was open in a way that made you want to look anywhere else. He seemed tired, but not angry. That almost made it stranger. Anger would have given you something familiar to push against.

“I wasn’t mad,” you reached for one last time. 

His mouth twitched sadly at the corners. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

A frown made its way into your face before you could've steered it away. “You don’t believe me.”

“I think you were hurt.” The words were too direct for your liking. 

You looked toward the living room. Robin was laughing softly at something Lena said, their heads close together over the magazine.

Steve followed your gaze, then looked back at you. “I’m not trying to trap you into admitting anything.”

“Then stop saying things that require answers.”

He nodded once. 

That should have ended it.

But you were tired. Tired from not sleeping, tired from avoiding routes, and tired from turning every feeling into proof you were stupid for having it.

So, you decided to be uncharacteristically vulnerable, “I thought you moved on.”

Steve stared at you with such intensity it had you wanting to leave your own home. 

The words hung there, ugly and bare.

You folded your arms, immediately defensive against your own honesty. “Not that you had anything to move on from.”

Steve's jaw shifted slightly, and you knew he was restraining himself.

“Right,” he nodded again, smaller this time. 

You hated that answer.

You had built him a hallway and then punished him for walking through it. You knew that. Knowing didn't make you less afraid, though. 

Steve rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. He looked at the back of his hand because if not, he'd look at you and say things that would only scare you further. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

The sentence wasn't necessarily cruel.

It still hit like it was.

You looked down at the floor.

“I don’t either,” your brows furrowed in their displeased, familiar confusion. 

The living room went quiet for half a second, then Robin sneezed loudly enough to make Lena laugh herself into a cough.

Neither of you moved.

Steve’s voice lowered, and it seemed to have cost him effort. “I can leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

There it was again.

The offer.

The knife.

You closed your eyes for a momentary escape. 

Part of you wanted to say yes because yes was clean. Yes meant no more waiting for him in rooms. No more Tessa-shaped panic. No more watching his hands flex while he tried not to reach for you. No more feeling seen and wanting to punish him for it.

Another part of you wanted to say no so badly it felt humiliating.

Instead, you opened your eyes and chose the worst possible middle.

“I don’t want to do this in my kitchen.”

Steve nodded slowly. His face had gone careful again.

“Okay,” he settled for carefully. 

You hated the carefulness.

You hated yourself more for needing it.

In the living room, Lena called weakly, “Is the tea dead?”

You stepped away first. Steve stayed in the kitchen for a moment before following.

The rest of the night passed in pieces.

Tea. Soup. Robin pretending not to panic when Lena fell asleep against her shoulder. Steve washing dishes because his hands needed something to do. You handing him a towel without looking at him. His quiet thank-you. Your quieter acknowledgement.

When Robin finally woke Lena enough to say goodbye, the rain had eased into mist. Steve stood by the door, jacket on, keys in hand. Robin hovered beside him, still watching Lena with a face she probably thought was subtle.

You opened the door.

Cold air entered the apartment and Steve paused on the threshold.

For one second, it was just the two of you again, with everyone else distracted behind him.

“I’m not going to disappear,” Steve spoke up quietly into the quiet night air. 

Your hand tightened on the door. He looked at you, then away, like he was making himself give you room even in the sentence.

“But I’ll stop standing in front of the exit,” he added and you did not answer.

You couldn’t.

Steve nodded again once, accepting the silence even though it clearly hurt him, and then stepped out onto the porch.

Robin followed after giving Lena one last awkward wave.

You shut the door and made no movement to move away from the frame. 

Lena, still half-asleep on the couch, opened one eye. “You’re both idiots.”

You leaned your forehead against the door. The wood panel felt cold against your skin. 

“I know,” your words were barely above a whisper. 

Outside, Steve walked Robin to the car.

Neither of them spoke until they reached it. Robin got into the passenger seat, then waited while Steve stood in the mist with his hand on the roof of the BMW, looking back at your apartment.

“You okay?” she asked, throwing him a careful look from his side. 

He laughed once, all weak and breathless. “That obvious?”

Robin smiled faintly. “Yeah.”

Steve slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door. The car smelled faintly of old leather, rain, and the paper bag from Melvald’s. He put the keys in the ignition but didn't turn them just yet.

“She thought I moved on,” his fingers tapped against the unmoving wheel in front of him.

Robin’s face softened when he continued. 

“And I think part of her wanted that,” he continued, and Steve's head went tipped back. “So she could be right.”

Robin looked out the windshield at the wet street, the porch light glowing behind them.

“Maybe,” she only decided to say and Steve rested his head back against the seat a bit harder this time. 

The wipers sat still against the glass. Mist gathered in tiny beads until the streetlights blurred.

Then, quieter, “I told her I wouldn’t disappear.”

Robin nodded appreciatively. “That’s good.”

“I also told her I’d stop standing in front of the exit.”

Robin turned to him, and her softened blue eyes made him want to groan. “That’s better.”

He closed his eyes for a second.

“It feels like leaving,” Steve murmured and his face turned displeased at the unwelcome thought. 

“It’s not.”

“How do you know?”

Robin was quiet long enough that he opened his eyes. She was twisting one of her rings, thoughtful and nervous and, for once, not reaching for a joke first.

“Because leaving is about you being done,” she then decided to settle for.  “This is about giving her a choice.”

Steve swallowed and sighed when Robin patted his shoulder, he started the car quickly after that.

Across the street, your apartment window glowed warm through the mist.

He let himself look once, then he drove away.

Inside, you stood in your room with the lights off, watching his taillights disappear through the rain-blurred glass.

Lena had gone back to sleep on the couch. The apartment was quiet except for the radiator and Robin’s forgotten tape still playing low, some soft, crackling song from the other room. Your reflection hovered faintly in the window, tired and indistinct.

Steve’s words stayed with you.

I’m not going to disappear.

But I’ll stop standing in front of the exit.

You hated how much that sounded like care.

You hated that it also sounded like he was learning how to love someone better than you were learning how to let him.

On your desk, your American Lit notes sat open to a page where your pen had torn through the margin days ago. Beside them was a mug of cold tea Steve had washed and placed upside down on a towel before leaving.

You stared at it until your vision blurred. Then you turned away, crawled into bed fully clothed, and pulled the blanket over your head.

In the dark, you told yourself this was what you wanted.

Space.

Quiet.

No pressure.

No Steve Harrington standing too close with careful hands and a patient voice.

For the first time all week, nobody called. Nobody knocked. Nobody chased you across a porch or caught you at the sink or asked whether you were okay in that maddening, sincere way.

You had finally gotten what you kept asking for.

It felt awful.

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The road is quiet in that late-afternoon way Hawkins always seems to settle into, golden light stretching across the pavement, your window cracked just enough for the wind to tug at your hair and carry in the faint smell of something burning from someone’s backyard. 

You’re halfway through a cigarette you probably shouldn’t be smoking when you see them up ahead, two figures walking a little too close together to be accidental.

You don’t even have to squint to recognize Eleven in that oversized flannel she stole from your closet three weeks ago and never gave back.

You slow the car just slightly, not enough to be obvious, just enough to take it in. She’s looking up at Mike like he hung the goddamn moon, and he’s talking with his hands like he always does when he’s nervous, their shoulders brushing every few steps like it’s something they’re still getting used to but don’t want to stop.

It’s… harmless, objectively. Soft, even. The kind of thing most people would smile at.

You don’t.

You flick the ash out the window, press your foot back on the gas, and drive right past them without so much as a glance in their direction, because whatever this is, it’s not your problem. Not yet.

By the time you get home, Hopper’s truck isn’t in the driveway, which means you’ve got a small window of peace before the nightly interrogation disguised as dinner.

You take it without hesitation, tossing your keys on the counter and kicking your shoes off like the house belongs to you, because in every way that matters, it does.

El walks in about twenty minutes later.

You hear the door before you see her, the soft creak, the careful steps like she’s trying not to be noticed, which is almost funny considering the fact that she is, quite literally, impossible to ignore.

You’re leaning against the counter, flipping through some old magazine you found under a stack of mail, when she finally steps into the kitchen, pausing when she realizes you’re there.

Like a deer caught in headlights that doesn’t quite understand what a car is yet, but knows it should probably be afraid of it.

You don’t look up.

“You walk home?” you ask, voice casual in a way that’s almost too deliberate.

“Yes.”

You hum, turning a page. “Must’ve been a long walk.”

She doesn’t answer that, and for a second, you think she’s going to drop it, retreat, let it go the way you just did out on the road. But then she shifts, something in her posture tightening, like she’s bracing herself.

“I was with Mike.”

You glance up finally, one slow look that says everything you’re not bothering to put into words, and she lifts her chin just slightly under it, defiant in that quiet way of hers that almost makes you respect it.

“Congrats,” you say flatly, tossing the magazine back onto the counter. “Want a medal or are you just sharing?”

Her brows pull together. “You saw.”

“Yeah,” you shrug, reaching for the fridge like this conversation couldn’t matter less. “Hard to miss the whole hand-holding, walking-like-you’re-in-a-romance-movie thing.”

“It is not a movie,” she says, sharper now, stepping closer. “It is real.”

You close the fridge a little harder than necessary, turning to face her fully now, leaning back against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. 

“Then maybe you should be smarter about it.”

Her eyes narrow. “You think you are smarter?”

“I know I am.”

You can see it in the way her jaw sets, the way her hands curl at her sides like she’s resisting the urge to do something she’ll regret.

“You don’t understand,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t even try.”

You let out a small laugh, not kind, not cruel, just dismissive. “Oh, I understand plenty. I just don’t care.”

That’s the wrong thing to say.

You know it the second her expression shifts, something hurt flashing across her face before it hardens into something else. Something a little more calculated, a little more familiar to you than you’d like.

“You are alone,” she says quietly. “You push everyone away.”

You go still.

“And now you want me to be alone too.”

There’s a moment where you could back off, could soften it, could remind her that you won't say anything to Hopper.

“If you end up alone,” you say, voice even, “it won’t be because of me.”

The front door opens before she can respond.

Hopper fills the doorway like he always does, presence first, everything else second, shrugging off his jacket and glancing between the two of you like he already knows he walked into something he doesn’t have the patience for.

“Why do I feel like I missed a fight?” he mutters, heading toward the kitchen.

You push off the counter, grabbing your keys again. “Because you did.”

“Hey—”

“I’m going out,” you cut him off, already moving past him. “Don’t wait up.”

“Dinner’s in twenty—”

“Then eat it without me.”

You’re halfway out the door when El’s voice cuts through the air, quiet but deliberate.

“I was with Mike.”

Slowly, you turn back.

Hopper frowns. “You were what?”

El doesn’t look at you. She keeps her eyes on him.

“We were walking together. We are… dating.”

Hopper’s expression darkens. “No, you’re not.”

El’s chin lifts. “Yes. We are.”

You watch it unfold like a car crash you could’ve prevented but chose not to. Something almost detached settles over you as Hopper starts pacing, running a hand over his face.

He's already gearing up for a lecture that’s going to last longer than either of you has the patience for.

“I told you, no dating,” he says, voice rising. “You’re too young, you’re not—this is not happening.”

El’s gaze flickers, just briefly, toward you.

And then, like she’s made a decision. “Just because she does not date doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, because I don’t want to.”

Hopper looks between the two of you, something clicking into place in that stubborn, overprotective brain of his, and you can actually see the moment the worst possible idea forms.

“…Fine,” he says.

“If she wants to date,” he continues, pointing at El, “then the rule changes.”

“Dad—”

“No dating,” he says firmly, eyes locking onto yours now, “until you do.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he stares right back.

And then you laugh, full and sharp, like this is the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.

“That’s not a rule, that’s a death sentence for El.”

“And why would that be?” 

You roll your eyes. “Please. I would never date the neanderthals in this school if they were the last living organisms on earth.”

Hopper crosses his arms, satisfied. “Then I guess nobody’s dating.”

El’s lips press together, trying and failing to hide the smallest hint of disappointment.

You point at her. “This is on you.”

The next morning feels heavier for her in a way she can’t quite name.

Hawkins High hums the same as it always does, lockers slamming, voices overlapping, sneakers squeaking against the tile.

Eleven moves through it like something slightly out of place, like the rhythm doesn’t quite match her steps. 

People notice her before she notices them, and then they look away just as quickly, conversations dipping, shoulders angling.

A group of girls by the lockers goes quiet when she passes. One of them mutters something under her breath, not loud enough to repeat, just loud enough to land.

El doesn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightens, her hands curling into the sleeves of her sweater as she keeps walking, eyes forward, because she’s learned that looking back only makes it worse.

She doesn’t understand all of it, but she understands enough.

She finds Mike and Dustin near their usual table, both of them mid-conversation, Dustin animated as always, Mike nodding along like he’s only half paying attention until he spots her.

His whole face changes. “Hey,” he says quickly, standing up like he always does, like it’s instinct now. “Hi.”

El slows when she reaches them, glancing briefly at Dustin before looking back at Mike.

“Hi.”

Dustin leans forward immediately, eyes flicking between them. “Okay, so, I feel like something happened because you look like you just came back from, like, emotional warfare—”

“El, did you get in trouble—” Mike starts, already bracing.

“It is worse,” El cuts in.

Mike’s brows pull together. “Worse than what?”

“Hopper made a new rule.”

Dustin groans immediately. “Oh, that’s never good. Last time there was a new rule I wasn’t allowed in your house for, like, a month—”

“He says I cannot date,” she continues, voice steady but tight, “until she does.”

Mike blinks. “Until… who does?”

El doesn’t have to say it. Their heads both turn slightly, almost in sync, scanning the cafeteria like they expect to spot you immediately.

Dustin’s mouth falls open. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not kidding.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair, already stressed. “That doesn’t make any sense. That’s not even fair.”

“It is not fair,” El agrees, sharper now. “It is stupid.”

Dustin nods emphatically. “Super stupid. Like, impressively stupid. Like, I didn’t even know you could make a rule that stupid—”

Mike cuts him off. “Okay, okay—wait.” He looks back at El. “Why would he do that?”

El’s expression shifts, something more complicated flickering there. “Because she does not date.”

“…At all?” Dustin asks.

El shakes her head. “She said she would ‘never date the neanderthals in this school.’”

Dustin lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s… harsh. I mean, not entirely inaccurate for some of the male population here, but still. Harsh.”

Mike doesn’t laugh; he’s busy thinking.

“I want to be with you,” she says quietly. “Not in secret. Not like… like something bad.”

Mike looks at her, and whatever frustration he had a second ago shifts into something more determined. “Yeah. I know. I want that too.”

Dustin straightens, eyes lighting up just a little, that familiar spark of an idea forming, whether anyone asked for it or not. “Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait.”

Mike groans. “Dustin—”

“No, hear me out,” he insists, pointing between them. “If the rule is that she has to date someone, then all we have to do… is make that happen.”

Mike stares at him. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“I’m not saying it’s easy,” Dustin says quickly. “I’m saying it’s… possible.”

El tilts her head slightly. “How?”

Dustin leans in, lowering his voice like he’s about to propose something highly illegal, which, in his mind, is probably half the appeal.

“We find someone who’s willing to go out with her.”

Mike blinks. “And why would anyone do that?”

Dustin pauses, considers. Then slowly, a grin spreads across his face, the kind that usually means trouble. “…Incentive.”

Mike’s eyes widen. “Oh no. No, absolutely not—”

“It could work!” Dustin presses. “Think about it, man. We just need one guy, right? One guy who’s not completely terrified of her—”

“That’s already a short list,” Mike mutters.

“—and who doesn’t care about her whole… thing,” Dustin continues, gesturing vaguely. “Someone who’d do it for the right price.”

El watches them, confusion knitting her brows. “You want to pay someone to date my sister?”

Mike winces. “When you say it like that—”

“That is what you are saying.”

Dustin shrugs. “I mean… yeah. But it’s not, like, real dating. It’s just…strategic.”

El looks between them, uncertainty flickering, but underneath it is something stronger. 

“If it works,” she says slowly, “the rule will change.”

Mike hesitates, then nods. “If it works… yeah.”

Dustin claps his hands together once, already scanning the cafeteria like he’s picking from a lineup.

“Okay. So. Who do we know that’s got a high tolerance for danger, questionable decision-making skills, and absolutely nothing to lose?”

There’s a pause. And then, almost simultaneously, both boys have the exact same thought.

Across the room, at a table that feels more like its own territory than part of the cafeteria, sits Eddie, boots up on the bench, laughing too loud at something one of the Hellfire guys just said, completely unaware that somewhere behind him, a very bad idea has just found its target.

They don’t move right away.

For a second, both of them just stand there, watching from a distance like they’re about to approach a wild animal that might be friendly but could just as easily bite.

Dustin shifts his weight from foot to foot while Mike very clearly considers abandoning the plan entirely.

“This is a terrible idea,” Mike mutters under his breath.

Dustin doesn’t disagree. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. But it’s also the only idea.”

Mike glances back at Eleven, still standing by the table, watching them with that quiet, unwavering expectation that makes it very hard to say no to her.

He sighs. “…Fine.”

The Hellfire table is loud in a way the rest of the cafeteria isn’t.

“Wheeler. Henderson,” Eddie drawls, leaning back slightly, a grin already forming like he can smell trouble from a mile away. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure? You here to finally admit my campaign last night was amazing, or—”

“We need a favor,” Dustin blurts, cutting him off.

That gets his attention.

Eddie’s brows lift, interest piqued, grin sharpening into something more curious as he slowly lowers his boots from the chair.

“A favor,” he repeats. “From me.”

Mike crosses his arms, trying to look more confident than he feels. “Yeah.”

Eddie glances between them, taking in the tension, the way neither of them looks entirely sure about what they’re about to say, and it only makes him more entertained.

“This should be good,” he says, gesturing lazily. “Go on. Enlighten me.”

Dustin steps forward like he’s presenting a business proposal. “Okay, so. Hypothetically—”

“Oh, we’re starting with hypotheticals,” Eddie hums.

“—if someone,” Dustin continues, ignoring him, “needed you to, I don’t know, go out with someone—”

Eddie snorts. “Henderson, you’re gonna have to narrow it down. My dance card is shockingly empty.”

Mike cuts in, faster this time. “We’ll pay you.”

Eddie goes still for half a second, definitely caught off guard, like he wasn’t expecting them to skip straight to that part.

“…You’ll what?” he says, slower now.

Dustin nods, serious. “Pay you.”

Eddie lets out a short laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he leans forward onto the table, eyes flicking between them like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke he hasn’t been let in on yet.

“You’re offering me money,” he says carefully, “to go on a date.”

“Yes,” Mike says.

“With who?” Eddie asks, already half amused again.

Mike hesitates.

Dustin doesn’t.

“Hopper’s daughter.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, something thoughtful creeping into his expression now.

“…That Hopper’s daughter,” he repeats.

Mike nods. Eddie’s gaze drifts, almost unconsciously, across the cafeteria. It doesn’t take long to find you.

You’re not hard to spot, not because you’re loud or attention-seeking, but because people give you space without meaning to, a quiet radius that forms around you wherever you sit. 

You’re leaning back in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, completely uninterested in anything happening around you.

Like the entire room is background noise you’ve already tuned out. He’s never talked to you, not once. But he knows you. Everyone does.

The attitude. The sharp tongue. The way you look at people like you’ve already decided exactly what they are and found it lacking.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at them.

“…You want me,” he says slowly, “to go out with her.”

“Yes,” Dustin says again, like repetition might make it sound less insane.

Eddie exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly as he leans back, running his tongue over his teeth in thought.

“You guys have a death wish or something? I mean, I’ve seen the way she looks at people. I’m pretty sure I’d burst into flames on contact.”

“You won’t,” Mike says quickly. “Probably.”

Eddie shoots him a look. “Reassuring.”

Dustin leans in. “Look, it doesn’t have to be real. You just have to take her out a couple times, make it believable, and that’s it.”

“Why?” he asks.

Mike hesitates. El answers from behind them.

“Because I want to be with him.”

All three of them turn.

El stands a few steps closer now, her gaze steady as it moves from Mike to Eddie, something earnest and unfiltered sitting right at its center.

“Hopper says I cannot date until she does,” she continues. “So she must.”

Eddie’s expression shifts, just slightly, and he glances back at you again. You haven’t noticed him. Or maybe you have, and you just don’t care.

Either way, it does something strange in his chest, something he doesn’t quite have a name for. He looks back at Dustin and Mike.

“…And you’re paying me,” he says.

Dustin nods eagerly. “Yes.”

Eddie taps his fingers against the table, thinking.

“You do realize,” he says after a moment, “this is gonna blow up in your faces, right? Like, spectacularly. Possibly with casualties.”

“Probably,” Mike admits.

Eddie huffs out a quiet laugh. Then, almost absently, his eyes flick back to you one more time, alone at your table.

He tilts his head, something like a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“…Alright,” he says.

Mike blinks. “Wait—seriously?”

Eddie shrugs, pushing himself up from the chair, grabbing his jacket like he’s already halfway committed before he’s even finished deciding.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good cause.”

Dustin grins. “And the money.”

Eddie points at him. “And the money.”

Then he glances back at you, eyes narrowing just slightly, like he’s studying something he doesn’t quite understand yet but very much intends to.

“…Plus,” he adds, almost to himself, “I’ve never met a dragon I didn’t want to try and charm.”

Mike groans. “Please don’t call her that to her face.”

Eddie’s grin widens. “No promises.”

The bell cuts through the cafeteria, sharp and final, and the room shifts all at once, chairs scraping, conversations breaking, bodies funneling toward the exits in a familiar, restless wave.

You don’t rush, you never do.

You take your time gathering your things, sliding your bag over your shoulder, letting the crowd thin just enough that you don’t have to fight your way through it.

You don’t notice him at first, not until he’s already there.

Falling into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like this isn’t the first time he’s ever willingly placed himself in your orbit.

“Hey,” Eddie says easily, turning slightly so he’s walking half backward just to catch your eye, a crooked grin already in place. “Hopper, right?”

You don’t stop, you don’t even look at him.

“Do I know you?” you ask flatly, eyes fixed ahead.

He presses a hand dramatically to his chest, as if you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s cold. I’m hurt.”

“Tragic.”

He snorts, clearly entertained, and then, without missing a beat, sticks his hand out between you like he’s introducing himself at a business meeting. 

“Eddie. Munson. Local celebrity, part-time academic menace, full-time delight. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

You glance down at his hand. Then back up at him. And just… stare.

He holds it there a second longer than most people would, grin twitching slightly at the edges as he realizes exactly what’s happening, and then he exhales a quiet laugh, dropping it back to his side.

“Alright, tough crowd,” he mutters, half to himself.

You keep walking.

“So,” he continues, undeterred, falling back into step beside you like he’s decided this is a long game. “I was thinking, dangerous, I know, but maybe you and I could—”

“No.”

He blinks. “I didn’t even finish the sentence.”

“I didn’t need you to.”

That earns a laugh, low and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting you to shut him down that fast but he’s not exactly mad about it either.

“Okay, fair,” he concedes, nodding like you’ve made a solid point. “But hypothetically, if I had finished the sentence—”

“You shouldn’t.”

You cut around a group of people blocking the hallway, not slowing, not adjusting your pace to make room for him.

He sidesteps neatly back into place beside you, hands slipping into his jacket pockets, glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he’s studying a puzzle he hasn’t quite figured out yet.

“You always this friendly,” he asks, “or am I just special?”

You let out a quiet, humorless breath. “You’re not special.”

“Ouch,” he says, though there’s no real sting to it, just amusement. “Gonna have to try harder, I see.”

You stop at your locker, spinning the dial without acknowledging him, and he leans casually against the one next to yours like he’s got nowhere else to be.

“I mean, come on,” he goes on, softer now, less performative, more coaxing. “You haven’t even heard my pitch.”

“I don’t care about your pitch.”

“Not even a little curious?”

You glance at him then, finally, just a flick of your eyes.

“…No.”

He grins, like that’s the answer he wanted.

“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong,” he says, pushing off the locker, stepping just a little closer. “Because if you were really not curious, you would’ve told me to shut up and left already.”

You slam your locker shut. “I’m telling you to shut up now.”

He laughs, full and unbothered. “There she is.”

You sling your bag back over your shoulder, turning to walk away again, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like this is just how things are now.

“Just one shot,” he says, holding up a finger. “One sentence. If you hate it, I’ll disappear, never bother you again, you can go back to your regularly scheduled brooding—”

“You’re already bothering me.”

“—but if you don’t hate it,” he continues smoothly, ignoring that, “you hear me out.”

You stop again, slowly.

“…You have one sentence,” you say.

His grin comes back, slower this time, a little more careful.

“Go out with me.”

Silence. You stare at him, and he holds it, waiting.

And then you let out a short laugh, like he’s just confirmed exactly what you thought about him the second he opened his mouth.

“Absolutely not.” And just like that, you turn and walk away, not even giving him the chance to respond this time.

Behind you, Eddie just watches you go, something thoughtful settling in behind the amusement. Then he huffs out a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he falls back a step.

“…Alright,” he mutters to himself, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth again. “Challenge accepted.”

By the time the plan reaches its next phase, it already feels like something that’s gotten out of hand. Not that that stops them.

The cabin is quiet when they get there. Late afternoon light spills through the windows, warm and low, dust floating lazily in the air like the place is holding its breath, and Eleven pushes the door open without hesitation.

The boys follow more cautiously.

Mike lingers just inside the doorway, already tense, eyes darting around like Hopper might materialize out of thin air, while Dustin closes the door behind them with a soft click, lowering his voice instinctively.

“This feels illegal,” Eddie whispers.

“It is not illegal,” El says, already moving toward the hallway. “It is necessary.”

Mike runs a hand through his hair. “We’re going through her stuff.”

El pauses, glancing back at him. “We are learning.”

“That’s worse.”

They find your room easily.

The door’s half-open, like you never bothered to shut it fully, and there’s something about that alone that makes all four of them hesitate for a second.

Dustin pushes it open anyway.

“Okay,” he says under his breath, stepping inside. “Recon mission.”

The room is exactly what Eddie expected. And not at all.

It’s not messy, not really, but it’s not polished either, not curated in that way some people’s rooms are.

Yours feels lived in, real. Clothes draped over the back of a chair, books stacked unevenly on your nightstand, a jacket tossed carelessly across the end of your bed like you’ll come back for it later.

There are posters on the wall, and not the ones people expect. Not pop stars or clean-cut bands, but darker, louder things, edges curling slightly at the corners, ink-heavy designs that feel more like statements than decoration.

Eddie steps further in, slower than the others, gaze dragging across the details, taking it in piece by piece like he’s reading something written in a language he almost understands.

“…Huh,” he says quietly.

Dustin’s already at your shelf, flipping through a stack of vinyls with growing enthusiasm. “Oh, this is gold. This is gold—she’s got good taste, I’ll give her that.”

Mike’s still hovering, arms crossed. “Can we not touch everything?”

“We’re not touching everything,” Dustin argues. “We’re strategically observing.”

“You’re holding it.”

“That’s part of observing.”

El moves toward your desk, fingers brushing lightly over the surface, pausing on a notebook left half-open, but she doesn’t flip through it. Not that.

Even she seems to recognize there’s a line somewhere.

Eddie, meanwhile, drifts closer to your wall. He studies the posters more carefully now, head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit as something clicks into place.

“…She’s not just mean,” he says, almost absently.

Mike glances over. “What?”

Eddie gestures vaguely at the wall. “This stuff—this isn’t random. She’s got a whole thing going on. It’s like…” He trails off, searching for the word, then shrugs. “Curated chaos.”

Dustin snorts. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now,” Eddie shoots back, though his attention’s already shifted again, scanning the room like he’s trying to piece together a person out of fragments.

There’s something quieter in him now. Less show, more interest.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t need to, but it’s there in the way he lingers, the way he notices things the others don’t, the way his gaze softens just slightly when it lands on something small, something personal.

On your nightstand. A folded piece of paper sticks out from under a book, worn at the edges like it’s been handled more than once, and Dustin, of course, zeroes in on it immediately.

“Ooh, what’s this—”

“Don’t,” Mike says quickly.

Too late. Dustin pulls it free, unfolding it with zero hesitation, eyes scanning over it before lighting up.

“No way.”

“What?” Mike asks, stepping closer despite himself.

Dustin turns it so they can see. Tickets. Two of them. Worn slightly at the corners, like they’ve been sitting there for a while, waiting.

“To a show,” Dustin says, unnecessarily.

Eddie steps in closer, eyes dropping to the print, and something in his expression shifts again, sharper this time, recognition sparking.

“…You’re kidding me,” he murmurs.

El tilts her head. “What is it?”

Eddie reaches out, not taking the tickets, just brushing his fingers lightly against the edge like he needs to confirm they’re real. “This is—”

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “—The Misfits,” he finishes.

Dustin blinks. “Is that… good?”

Eddie looks at him like he just asked if oxygen is optional.

“Is that good? Henderson, that’s not just good, that’s—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head, still half smiling. “That’s not exactly mainstream around here, alright? That’s… specific.”

Mike frowns slightly. “So she likes them?”

Eddie exhales, glancing around the room again, like everything suddenly makes a little more sense. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, she does.”

Dustin’s grin creeps back in, slow and deliberate. “Okay. So. We use that.”

Mike hesitates. “Use it how?”

Dustin gestures with the tickets. “Conversation piece.”

Eddie doesn’t answer right away. He’s still looking at the tickets, at your room. At the pieces of you scattered around it like clues he didn’t expect to care about.

“…That’s not a terrible idea,” he admits finally, quieter than before.

Mike stares at him. “You’re actually considering this.”

Eddie glances at him, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “I told you. I like a challenge.”

But it’s not just that anymore.

“…Guess I’ve got my opening line.”

The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle when it opens, the kind that’s been rung a thousand times and stopped caring somewhere around the five hundredth. You don’t look up right away.

The record store is slow this time of day, the low hum of music drifting through the speakers, something scratchy and familiar playing from behind the counter as you flip through a stack of new arrivals, reorganizing them more out of habit than necessity.

“Afternoon,” you say flatly, still not looking.

“Yeah, I’m hoping it gets better from here.”

You freeze for half a second. Then slowly, you lift your head.

Eddie stands just inside the doorway, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who very much does not belong here.

Your eyes narrow instantly. “…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grins like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for. “Miss me?”

“No.”

“Cold,” he hums, stepping further inside, gaze drifting lazily over the shelves like he’s browsing. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You weren’t.”

“Okay, no,” he concedes easily. “I wasn’t.”

You go back to what you were doing, dismissing him with the same efficiency you would anyone else you don’t care to deal with.

“Then leave.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he wanders closer to the counter, fingers brushing along the edge of a display, scanning the titles like he’s genuinely interested. Even though the slight tilt of his mouth says he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“So,” he starts casually, like you’re in the middle of a normal conversation. “You got any Misfits vinyls in stock, or am I gonna have to take my business elsewhere?”

That stops you.

“…You like the Misfits?” you ask, tone edged with suspicion more than curiosity.

He catches it immediately, doesn’t flinch. Just shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal.

“Yeah. Shocking, I know. Dude in a leather jacket listens to loud, obnoxious music. Real plot twist.”

You step closer, bracing your hands on the counter, gaze locking onto his like you’re trying to catch him in something.

“Name three songs.”

He blinks once. Then huffs a quiet laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Wow. Okay. Gatekeeping. Love that for you.”

“Name them,” you repeat, unmoved.

He studies you for a second, something amused flickering in his eyes, like he’s enjoying this far more than he should.

“…‘Last Caress,’ ‘Hybrid Moments,’ ‘Where Eagles Dare,’” he says easily, ticking them off on his fingers. “Want me to keep going or—?”

You hold his gaze a second longer. Then lean back slightly, crossing your arms.

“…Lucky guesses.”

“Ouch,” he says, though he’s smiling again, a little softer this time, like he’s pleased he got under your skin even a fraction. “You wound me.”

You turn, gesturing vaguely toward the back. “Third crate. Don’t touch anything you’re not buying.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He finds the crate easily, crouching down to flip through it, but he doesn’t speak right away this time.

But, after a moment: “Minor Threat, huh?”

You don’t turn around. “What about them?”

He glances up at you from where he’s crouched, one brow lifting. “Didn’t peg you for the straight-edge type.”

“I’m not.”

He hums, flipping to the next record. “Bad Brains.”

You go still. “…You’re just naming bands now?”

“Descendents,” he adds, like he didn’t hear you.

“How do you know that?” you ask, voice quieter now.

Eddie doesn’t answer right away.

He stands, dusting his hands off on his jeans, expression shifting just slightly, and meets your gaze.

“I pay attention,” he says simply.

You search his face, like you’re trying to find the angle, the trick, the punchline that hasn’t landed yet.

“…That’s creepy,” you decide finally.

He exhales a soft laugh, nodding like he’ll take that. “Yeah. Little bit.”

You shake your head, turning away again, but it’s not the same dismissal as before. There’s something else under it now, something you don’t quite like.

“You’re not getting a discount.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“So,” he tries again, a little lighter now, easing back into that easy charm like he never left it. “You work here often, or is this a special occasion thing?”

You don’t miss a beat. “I’m here every day.”

“Good,” he says.

That makes you look at him again. “…Why?”

He shrugs, picking a record from the crate, holding it up like that’s his whole answer.

“Makes it easier to come back.”

You stare at him longer this time. Trying to decide if he’s serious. Trying to decide if you care.

“…Buy something or leave,” you say finally, turning back toward the counter, but your voice isn’t quite as sharp as it was when he walked in.

Behind you, Eddie just smiles to himself, something thoughtful tucked behind it as he glances down at the vinyl in his hands.

Hook set, whether you realize it or not. The next day, the idea finds him again before he can talk himself out of it.

You’re at your locker when he spots you.

Same as yesterday. Same hallway, same noise, same carefully maintained distance people keep from you like it’s second nature.

You’re leaning slightly into the metal, spinning the dial with that absent, disinterested look like none of this matters, like none of them matter.

He watches you for a second, then pushes off the wall and heads over.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie Munson calls lightly as he approaches, like this is already a routine between you. Like you didn’t shut him down less than twenty-four hours ago.

You don’t even look up. “Wrong person.”

He grins. “Debatable.”

You slam your locker shut, finally turning to face him, unimpressed as ever. “What do you want, Munson?”

“No hello?” he hums. “No, ‘how’ve you been, Eddie, light of my life, bane of my existence’?”

“I don’t have time for this.”

“Good,” he says easily. “This’ll be quick.”

That makes you pause, just slightly.

“There’s a party tonight,” he continues, casual, like it’s nothing, like he’s not watching your reaction a little too closely. “At Nancy Wheeler’s place. Parents are out of town, whole suburban rebellion thing, you know the drill.”

You blink once. “…And?”

“And,” he says, stepping a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough to keep your attention, “you should come.”

Then you laugh.

“I’d rather die.”

He winces theatrically. “Jesus. You always go straight to homicide, or is that just me?”

You shoulder your bag, already turning away. “Find someone else to bother.”

“I did,” he calls after you. “Didn’t take.”

That slows you down. You glance back, eyes narrowing. “…What.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the entire point. “Figured I’d aim higher.”

You stare at him, and he holds it. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence with a joke.

“…I don’t think so,” you say finally.

He tilts his head, considering you, something softer slipping into his expression for half a second before the grin comes back.

“Alright,” he says.

You turn away again, done with it.

“Pick you up at eight.”

You stop.

“…I didn’t say yes.”

“You also didn’t say no,” he shoots back immediately.

You turn, ready to argue, but he’s already walking backward down the hall, hands up in surrender, grin wide and unbothered.

“Eight o’clock, sweetheart!” he calls. “Wear something scary!”

You watch him go. Annoyed... and something else you refuse to name.

That night, the cabin is quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that means something’s about to go wrong.

Eleven moves carefully, slow steps down the hallway, shoes in her hand, eyes flicking toward the living room like she expects Hopper to appear at any second.

She makes it halfway to the door.

“Where are you going?”

She freezes. Hopper stands in the doorway, arms crossed, already unimpressed.

“…Out,” she says.

“Out,” he repeats flatly. “At night. Without telling me.”

She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “There is a party.”

“Oh, there is a party,” he echoes. “And you’re just gonna—what—sneak out and go to it?”

She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.

Hopper shakes his head, already gearing up.

“No. Absolutely not. We talked about this—no dating, no parties, no—”

“She is going.”

Both of them turn.

You’re leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, already in something that looks like you might leave the house even if you haven’t admitted it yet.

Hopper frowns. “She is not—”

“I am,” El insists, stepping closer. “Because she is coming with me.”

You scoff immediately. “No, I’m not.”

El turns to you. And then, she does it: big eyes, slight tilt of her head.

That quiet, stubborn softness that somehow hits harder than any argument she could make. You stare at her.

“…No,” you repeat.

She doesn’t look away. “Please.”

You exhale sharply, dragging a hand over your face like this is physically painful for you.

“You don’t even know those people.”

“I know Mike.”

Hopper groans. “We are not doing this again—”

You glance at him, back at her, then at the door.

“…Fine,” you snap finally. “But if anything goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

El’s face lights up just slightly. Victory.

Hopper points between the two of you. “No. No, no, no—hold on, I didn’t agree to this—”

Too late. There’s a knock at the door, and all three of you freeze.

You close your eyes briefly.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Hopper squints toward the door. “Who is that?”

Another knock. Louder this time. You push off the wall with a sigh, already heading for it.

“A mistake,” you mutter under your breath.

When you open it, there he is.

Eddie, leaning casually against the frame like he’s been there for a while, like this is perfectly normal, like showing up early to something you never agreed to is just part of his charm.

He looks you up and down once, quick. Then grins.

“…Eight o’clock felt a little late,” he says. “Figured I’d get a head start.”

You stare at him. Behind you, Hopper steps closer.

“…What the hell is this?” he asks.

Eddie straightens, instantly switching gears, hand coming up in an almost too-friendly wave. “Evening, Chief.”

You drag a hand down your face. “This,” you say flatly, “is exactly why I don’t go out.”

The drive is louder than it needs to be.

Not because of conversation, there isn’t much of that, but because Eddie keeps the music just a little too high, fingers tapping against the wheel, glancing at you every so often like he’s checking to see if you’re still there.

You sit with your elbow hooked out the window, gaze fixed on the blur of trees and streetlights, cigarette smoke trailing behind you, acting like he’s not there at all.

He doesn’t push it, not yet.

The house is already packed by the time you pull up.

Cars line the street, music spilling out through the walls, bass heavy enough to feel in your chest before you even make it to the front door.

El is out of the van the second it stops, practically sprinting toward the house like she’s been waiting for this all week.

“Hey—don’t—” you start, but she’s already gone.

Eddie watches her disappear inside, then looks at you, one brow lifting slightly, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“…After you.”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him without a word, pushing the door open like you own the place, like you’re not even slightly out of your element.

The noise hits you all at once. Laughter, shouting, music too loud for the speakers it’s coming from, bodies moving through the space in a chaotic, overlapping rhythm. You head straight for the kitchen.

It’s instinct at this point, find the drinks, find something to do with your hands, something to anchor you in a room you already know you don’t want to be in. Eddie follows.

Not hovering exactly, but close enough that you’re aware of him, that steady presence at your side as you weave through people, ignoring the looks, the whispers, the way heads turn just a little too slowly as you pass.

It doesn’t take long. “Look who finally decided to show up.”

You don’t even have to turn to know the tone, but you do anyway.

A couple of guys leaning against the counter, red cups in hand, smirks already in place like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

“The shrew herself,” one of them adds, louder this time, making sure people nearby can hear.

“Bite me,” you say flatly, already reaching past them for a drink like they’re nothing.

“God,” Eddie murmurs, just low enough for you to hear, “you’re terrifying.”

You crack open the drink, not looking at him. “Then why are you still here?”

He shrugs, grabbing one for himself. “I’ve got a thing for danger.”

You take a sip, letting the noise of the party settle around you, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

For Eddie, that’s new.

Instead, he just stands there, shoulder brushing yours when someone squeezes past, like he’s not entirely sure what to do with the space between you.

You glance up at him.

“Why did you want me to come, anyway?” you say, nodding toward the crowd. "What's in it for you?"

He looks down at you, like he didn’t expect the question. “What, I can’t invite someone to a party without ulterior motives?”

“You?” you say, arching a brow. “No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, bringing the cup to his lips.

He takes a sip, pauses, then grimaces immediately. “…Yeah. Okay. That’s foul.”

You almost smile, and he catches it.

“Was that—” he leans in a little, eyes bright, voice dropping like he’s in on a secret, “—was that a smile?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late,” he says easily. “Already planning my future around it.”

You shake your head, but there’s something softer in your expression now. He watches you for a second longer than necessary, then shrugs, a little less guarded this time.

“And for the record,” he adds, quieter, “I didn’t come for the party.”

You glance at him. “No?”

“Nah.” A small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “I came for the part where you show up and pretend you don’t hate me for a couple hours.”

That does it. You smile fully, just a little. And he looks like he just won something.

Across the room, the party swells, louder, messier, people spilling into hallways, voices rising, music shifting tracks. 

But Eddie sticks by your side.

The kitchen settles around you in waves, people rotating in and out, laughter rising and falling, and somehow, without you noticing exactly when it happened, you stop counting the seconds until you can leave. Eddie’s still there.

Leaning back against the counter now, one foot hooked behind the other, drink forgotten in his hand as he talks, like this is easy, like you’re easy, like the whole thing isn’t supposed to be an uphill battle.

“…and then Henderson swears the dice are cursed,” he’s saying, gesturing with his hands, animated in a way that should be annoying but isn’t, not really.

“Like, full conspiracy, thinks the entire campaign is rigged against him personally, which—honestly—not entirely wrong, but still.”

You glance at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. “You rig your own games?”

“Absolutely,” he says without hesitation. “I’m a tyrant. A menace. It’s in the job description.”

“That’s pathetic.”

He grins. “That’s leadership.”

You huff out a quiet breath, something that’s dangerously close to a laugh, and he catches it immediately, eyes lighting up like he’s just hit a milestone.

“There it is again,” he says, pointing at you. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Oh, I’m gonna push it,” he says easily. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”

You shake your head, taking another sip of your drink, but you don’t shut him down. He seems to clock that too, something softer settling into his expression for a second before he covers it with another smirk.

“So what,” he goes on, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own, testing the boundary. “You just sit around all day, scaring small children and rejecting perfectly charming invitations, or—”

“Children scare easily.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to see why.”

You glance at him again, like you’re trying to figure out what his angle is and coming up short.

“…You talk a lot,” you say.

“I’ve been told it’s one of my many endearing qualities.”

“It’s not.”

“Agree to disagree.”

There’s a pause. Then, before you can stop it, you laugh.

It slips out of you like you didn’t mean for it to, like it caught you off guard just as much as it does him.

Eddie goes quiet, like he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Wow,” he says after a second, softer now, something genuine threading through the usual humor. “Okay. That— that was worth the price of admission.”

You roll your eyes immediately, the moment passing just as quickly as it came. “Don’t get sentimental on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But he’s still smiling. Not the loud, performative grin from earlier.

“Hey—” You both turn.

Nancy stands a few steps away, red cup in hand, looking pleasantly surprised, like she almost didn’t believe it when she heard you were here.

“Hi,” she says, a little breathless from weaving through the crowd. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”

You shrug, already bracing for whatever comment’s coming next. “I didn’t plan on it.”

Nancy’s eyes flick briefly to Eddie, then back to you, something knowing in her expression that you immediately don’t trust.

“Well,” she says, smiling slightly, “I’m glad you did. It’s… nice to see you out of your shell.”

You stare at her. “I don’t have a shell.”

Eddie snorts into his drink.

Nancy laughs softly, unfazed. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

She just shakes her head, still smiling, like she’s decided not to push it, and takes a step back. “Just—have fun, okay?”

He glances at you, one brow lifting. “Out of your shell, huh.”

“Say one more word, and I’m leaving.”

He holds his hands up immediately. “Hey, hey—zip it. Noted.”

Then, quieter, “For what it’s worth,” he adds, nudging your shoulder again, gentler this time, “I think you’re doing great.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t pull away, either. And that’s enough for him.

The Hideout isn’t trying to impress anyone.

Dim lights, sticky floors, a stage that’s seen better decades, the low hum of a crowd that feels more like background noise than the main event.

It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect Eddie to bring someone.

It’s not the kind of place you expected to like. And yet…

You’re sitting across from him in a cracked vinyl booth, one leg tucked under you, drink sweating in your hand as he tells stories.

Dumb ones, mostly, about Hellfire campaigns and arguments over rules and how Henderson once tried to “unionize the party,” whatever that means.

You don’t fully understand half of it, but you listen anyway.

“…and then he goes, ‘you can’t just kill my character because I questioned your authority,’” Eddie finishes, shaking his head, clearly still entertained by it. “And I’m like, ‘watch me.’”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” he says, like it’s a compliment.

You take a sip of your drink, studying him over the rim of the glass, something quieter settling in your chest, something unfamiliar and a little unsettling. Because he’s not what you expected, not entirely.

He’s loud, yeah. Annoying. Persistent in a way that should get under your skin more than it does. But he’s also gentle, in strange, fleeting ways.

Like the way he slid into the booth first, so you wouldn’t have to squeeze past anyone. The way he asked what you wanted before ordering, like it mattered. The way he listens when you do speak, even if you only give him scraps.

It’s disarming. You don’t like that.

“…What,” he says suddenly, catching your gaze, one corner of his mouth lifting. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

You roll your eyes, looking away. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I,” he hums, leaning forward just slightly, like he’s trying to catch your eye again. “Because I’m pretty sure that was a nice look.”

“Don’t push it.”

He grins, softer this time. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he reaches across the table, not touching you, just tapping his fingers lightly against the surface like he’s resisting the urge to close the distance.

“I’m glad you came,” he says.

Simple, no joke attached. You don’t answer right away.

“…Me too,” you admit, quieter.

His expression shifts, just a fraction, something warm flickering there before he looks away, like he needs a second to recover from it.

“Careful,” he says lightly. “You keep saying stuff like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

You scoff. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.” But there’s no bite to it, not really.

You don’t realize how far you’ve let your guard down until you stand up to go to the bathroom and he doesn’t follow. You don’t expect him to, but you notice it anyway.

The hallway’s quieter, the music muffled, the buzz of the bar fading just enough that you can hear your own thoughts again, and for a second, you let yourself breathe.

This was a mistake; it has to be. You don’t do this. You don’t sit in booths and laugh at stupid stories and let people get close enough to matter.

And yet...You push the bathroom door open, splash water on your hands, stare at your reflection for a second longer than necessary, then head back out.

You hear it before you see them.

“…I’m just saying, man, you better get your cut.”

You slow, just slightly. Voices from around the corner, familiar in that distant way you recognize but don’t care enough to place.

“Yeah, seriously,” another one adds. “How much is Henderson even paying you for going out with Hopper’s daughter again?”

Your stomach drops, cold and sharp. You step around the corner, and there he is.

Eddie, leaning back against the wall, a couple of Hellfire guys clustered around him, laughing like it’s nothing, like it’s a joke that doesn’t have a target. Like it’s not you.

He doesn’t laugh, not really. But he doesn’t shut it down fast enough.

“…It’s not—” he starts. Too late.

They notice you, and the laughter dies. Eddie’s head snaps up. And the second his eyes meet yours, he knows.

“Hey—” he says, pushing off the wall immediately, something urgent in his tone now. “It’s not like that—”

You let out a short, hollow laugh. “Wow.”

He stops a few feet in front of you, hands half-raised like he’s approaching something fragile, something that might shatter if he moves too fast. “I can explain—”

“That’s rich,” you cut him off, voice low and sharp, eyes burning into him. “'Nothing in it for you', huh?”

“I was going to tell you,” he insists, stepping closer. “I just—”

“When,” you snap. “After you got paid? Or were you waiting on a bonus for sleeping with me?”

“It’s not about the money anymore,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “It hasn’t been for a while.”

You laugh again, harsher this time. “Oh, please.”

“I mean it,” he says, more forcefully now, frustration bleeding through. “Yeah, it started that way, I’m not gonna lie to you, but that’s not what this is now—”

“You expect me to believe that,” you cut in, stepping back, putting space between you like you need it to breathe. “You expect me to believe you suddenly just—what—like me?”

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation, no joke. It almost makes it worse.

You shake your head, backing up another step, something tight and ugly twisting in your chest that you refuse to name.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you mutter.

“I didn’t mean for you to find out like this—”

“You didn’t mean for me to find out at all,” you correct.

You swallow hard, forcing your expression back into something colder, something safer, something that doesn’t let any of that hurt show through.

“Don’t follow me,” you say flatly.

Then you turn and walk out. Leaving him standing there, the noise of the bar rushing back in around him, the taste of something good turning bitter in his mouth before he even has time to process how badly he just screwed it up.

The next morning feels different.

Not in the way anyone else would notice, not in the noise or the routine or the way Hawkins High hums along like nothing ever really changes, but in the space around you.

You move through the hallway like you always do, head high, eyes forward, expression locked into something unreadable, but there’s an edge to it now, something sharper, like you’ve sealed something off and thrown away the key.

People still move out of your way; they always do. But this time, you don’t even register them.

Eddie is leaning against a row of lockers, mid-conversation with one of the Hellfire guys, but the second you round the corner, his attention shifts completely, like everything else drops out of focus.

He pushes off the wall without thinking. “Hey—”

You don’t slow.

“Hey,” he tries again, falling into step beside you, voice lower this time, less show, more real. “Can we just—”

“No.” Not even a glance.

He exhales, quick, frustrated, but keeps pace anyway.

“Just listen for a second, okay? I know you’re pissed, I get that, but I—”

“I’m not pissed,” you cut in, voice flat. You keep walking. “I just don’t care,” you finish.

He hovers there for a second, like he’s been physically pushed back, then jogs a step to catch up again, not ready to let it go.

“That’s not true,” he says, quieter now, almost like he’s trying not to spook you. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be—”

“Don’t,” you snap, finally turning to face him, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Don’t tell me how I feel.”

He lifts his hands slightly, backing off just a fraction. “I’m not—”

“You lied,” you say simply.

“I didn’t lie about everything,” he pushes, something desperate creeping in now. “I meant what I said—”

“Which part?” you cut in. “The part where you asked me out, or the part where you cashed the check.”

A couple of people nearby slow down, sensing tension, but neither of you notices or cares.

Eddie swallows, jaw tightening. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that.”

You step back, putting space between you again, shutting it down before he can try to spin it into something softer.

“Find someone else to entertain you,” you say, voice cold. “I’m done.”

And this time, you walk away without stopping. Without looking back. Without giving him anything to hold onto.

He just stands there for a second, staring after you, something tight and frustrated and stuck settling in his chest.

“…Shit,” he mutters under his breath.

Eddie drops into the seat across from them harder than necessary.

Dustin startles. “Jesus—”

“She won’t talk to me,” Eddie says flatly.

Mike winces immediately. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Eddie drags a hand down his face. “No, like—won’t. Won’t even look at me. I tried this morning and she just—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s like I don’t exist.”

El looks up at that. “You hurt her.”

Eddie exhales, nodding once. “Yeah. I got that part.”

Mike leans forward, lowering his voice. “You shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”

“I didn’t let anything—” Eddie starts, then stops, because he knows how it sounds, because he knows they’re not wrong. “…Okay, yeah. I did. I know.”

Dustin folds his arms. “So what’s the plan now?”

Eddie lets out a humorless laugh. “That’s what I’m asking you.”

They all look at each other. No immediate answer. Which is… not encouraging.

“You apologize,” Mike says finally.

“I did.”

“No, like—actually apologize,” Dustin adds. “Not the whole ‘I’m sorry but also here’s why I’m still kind of right’ thing you do.”

“I didn’t do that,” Eddie argues.

“You definitely did that,” Mike says.

Eddie groans, dropping his head briefly into his hands. “Okay, fine, whatever, I’ll apologize better. Then what?”

El watches him for a second, quiet, thoughtful. “You tell the truth,” she says.

He looks up at her. “I did.”

She shakes her head slightly. “Not just about the money. About… everything.”

Eddie leans back in his seat, staring at the table like it might give him an answer he doesn’t already know.

“…She doesn’t believe me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even if I say it, she’s just gonna think it’s another lie.”

“Then don’t make it sound like one,” Dustin says.

Eddie snorts. “Helpful.”

“I’m serious,” Dustin insists. “You can’t just charm your way out of this one, man. That’s like—your whole thing. She’s not gonna buy it.”

Mike nods. “You need to… prove it.”

Eddie glances between them. “How.”

El speaks again. “Do something for her,” she says simply.

He frowns. “Like what.”

She shrugs, small, but certain. “Something she would know is real.”

Your room feels smaller than it usually does. Not physically, nothing’s changed.

Same half-made bed, same stack of books by the nightstand, same records leaning against the wall like you meant to put them away and never did.

But it’s quieter in a way that presses in on you, like the air’s heavier, like everything’s waiting for you to do something you’re not going to do.

You’re stretched out on your bed, a book open in your hands, eyes moving over the same paragraph for the third time without actually reading a word of it.

It’s stupid, all of it. You knew better. You always know better.

A knock breaks the silence. You don’t look up.

“Go away.”

A pause. Then, softer, “Please.”

You close your eyes briefly, irritation flickering up fast and familiar.

“I said go away, El.”

The handle rattles, and you hear her try it once. Twice. Then: a quiet click.

Your head snaps up just as the door pushes open. Anger hits first.

You sit up fast, book forgotten as you swing your legs over the side of the bed, already moving.

“I told you not to do that anymore,” you snap, voice rising as you step toward the door. “What part of that is confusing to you, you little—”

You stop. Because it’s not just Eleven standing there. She’s off to the side, watching.

And in the doorway, Eddie. The anger doesn’t disappear. If anything, it sharpens.

“What the hell is this,” you say, colder now, folding your arms like that’s enough to hold yourself together. “You recruiting now?”

El looks between the two of you.

“He wants to talk,” she says.

“I don’t.”

Eddie doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to push into the room, doesn’t lean, doesn’t grin. He just stands there, hands empty, like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to do.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I figured.”

You scoff, looking away. “Then what are you doing here.”

“I gave it back,” he says.

You glance at him. “…What.”

“The money,” he clarifies, swallowing once. “I gave it back to Henderson. All of it. Told him I’m out.”

You stare at him, searching. For the angle, the lie, the performance.

“…Why.”

He lets out a breath, dragging a hand briefly through his hair before dropping it again, like he doesn’t want to hide behind the motion.

“Because it’s not what I want,” he says.

You don’t react.

“Wasn’t at first,” he adds, honest in a way that almost makes you more irritated than if he’d tried to sugarcoat it. “I’m not gonna pretend it was. But somewhere in there, it stopped being about that.”

You shake your head slightly, a bitter laugh slipping out. “And I’m supposed to just believe that.”

“No,” he says immediately.

“I don’t expect you to believe anything I say,” he continues, voice steady, even if there’s something tight underneath it. “I just… needed to say it.”

El shifts slightly by the door, unsure, watching both of you like she’s waiting for something to break.

You look at Eddie again. No grin, no attitude, no bullshit.

“…You should’ve told me,” you say, quieter now, but no less sharp.

“I know.”

“Before.”

“I know.”

“You let me sit there,” you continue, stepping a little closer, not soft, in your anger now, “and actually think you—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening.

He doesn’t fill the space.

“That part wasn’t fake,” he says instead, softer.

You laugh, but it’s weaker this time. “That’s convenient.”

“I liked you,” he says. “I like you. That didn’t start with the money and it didn’t end when I gave it back.”

You shake your head again, but there’s less certainty in it now, less bite.

“You’re such an idiot,” you mutter.

“Yeah,” he says, a little breath of a laugh slipping through. “Been hearing that a lot lately.”

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he adds.

Your eyes flick back up to his.

“I’m not asking you to go out with me again,” he continues. “Or even talk to me after this.”

“I just didn’t want you thinking it was all fake,” he finishes. “Because it wasn’t.”

You don’t move, and you don’t respond.

Just stand there, caught somewhere between the version of him you decided on and the one standing in front of you now.

Behind him, El watches, quiet, hopeful in a way she’s trying not to show.

You exhale slowly, dragging a hand over your face.

“…You’re still an asshole,” you say finally.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“And you showed up to my house uninvited.”

He glances at El. “…Yeah.”

“And she broke into my room.”

“She did.”

You look at him for another second. Then, “…But you gave the money back.”

It’s not a question. He shakes his head.

“Didn’t feel right keeping it.”

“…That was stupid,” you decide.

A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, softer now, something shifting under the surface whether you like it or not. “You could’ve at least kept it.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Thought about it.”

“…You still owe me a real date,” you say.

His head tilts, like he’s not entirely sure he heard you right. “…I do?”

You roll your eyes immediately, looking away like you already regret it. “Don’t make it weird.”

A slow, careful smile spreads across his face. Not big. Not cocky. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You cross your arms again, trying to regain some control over the situation. “And if you screw it up again, I’m not giving you another chance.”

“Fair.”

“And you’re not picking me up early this time.”

He nods, serious. “Eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock,” you confirm.

Behind him, El’s face brightens just slightly, relief slipping through before she quickly tries to hide it. You catch it anyway.

“Get out,” you tell her flatly. She doesn’t argue this time. Just turns and disappears down the hallway.

You look back at Eddie. He lingers in the doorway for a second longer, like he’s making sure this is real, like you didn’t just shut the door on him again.

“…I’ll see you at eight,” he says. You don’t answer, but you don’t tell him to leave, either. And when he finally does, the room doesn’t feel quite as small.

You stare at your closet like it personally offended you. Nothing looks right. Everything looks like you, which is the problem.

You tug a shirt off a hanger, hold it up, hesitate, toss it onto your bed with a quiet huff.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror across the room, arms crossed, expression already halfway to annoyed, like you’re judging yourself for even trying.

It’s just a date. A real date.

You roll your eyes at the thought, dragging a hand through your hair before turning back to the mess you’ve made.

After a second, you pull something else out. Simpler. Still you, just… softer around the edges. Something that doesn’t scream don’t talk to me quite as loudly.

You hesitate, then change anyway. When you step back in front of the mirror, you don’t smile. But you don’t hate it either.

“…Shut up,” you mutter to your reflection, grabbing your jacket.

The knock comes right at eight.

You freeze for half a second in the hallway, like your body needs to catch up with the fact that this is actually happening. Then you force yourself forward, pushing past it before you can overthink your way out of the entire night.

Hopper gets to the door first.

“Stay,” he says over his shoulder, already reaching for the handle like you’re a dog he doesn’t trust to bolt.

You scowl but don’t argue, lingering just behind him as he opens the door.

Eddie's standing on the porch like he’s been there for a while, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, posture just a little straighter than usual, like he’s aware of exactly whose house he’s standing in.

“Evening, Chief,” he says, lifting a hand in a small wave.

Hopper eyes him up and down.

“I know you,” he says.

Eddie nods once. “Yeah. Munson.”

“I knew your dad,” Hopper adds, like that explains everything.

Eddie winces slightly. “That can’t be good.”

Hopper’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Depends on the day.”

Then Hopper steps out onto the porch, pulling the door halfway closed behind him so you’re left just inside, listening whether you want to or not.

You lean slightly, just enough to catch it.

“You’re taking her out,” Hopper says, voice lower now.

“Yes, sir.”

Hopper studies him for another second, something shifting in his expression. Like he knows the reputation, but he’s also seen enough of the kid underneath it to not write him off completely.

“I don’t care what people say about you,” Hopper continues, steady. “I care how you treat her.”

Eddie nods immediately. “Fair.”

“If she asks, you bring her home. No questions.”

“Of course.”

“And if she looks even a little unhappy—”

“I won’t let that happen,” Eddie cuts in.

That pauses Hopper, just for a second. He looks at him again, sharper this time, like he’s trying to decide if that confidence is arrogance or something else.

“…Alright,” he says finally.

He steps back, pushing the door open again. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Eddie gives a small nod. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re already there when he steps back inside.

Leaning against the wall like you haven’t been eavesdropping, like you didn’t hear a single word of that. Eddie looks at you and stops, just for a second.

His eyes flick over you, quick but not careless, taking in the change, the effort, the fact that you showed up to this night differently than before.

Something soft crosses his face.

“…Wow,” he says quietly.

You immediately cross your arms. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You were about to.”

He huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “You look nice.”

You roll your eyes, pushing past him toward the door. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The drive is different this time.

“…So,” you say after a while, glancing at him. “Where are we going.”

He glances over, a hint of a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll see.”

“I hate surprises.”

“I figured.”

“Then why—”

“Because this one’s good,” he cuts in, softer this time.

You study him for a second, then look back out the window.

“…It better be.”

The venue isn’t in Hawkins. Small, a little rundown, lights buzzing faintly above the entrance, a line already forming outside, people packed close, voices loud, energy crackling in the air.

You step out of the van and stop, recognition hitting instantly.

“…No way.”

Eddie leans against the door, watching your reaction, something almost nervous flickering behind the usual confidence.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”

You look at the sign again. At the crowd. At him.

“…Descendents?”

He nods once. “Figured I’d start strong.”

“You got tickets.”

“Had to pull some strings,” he admits. “Almost sold my soul, but, you know. Worth it.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head slightly as something warm settles in your chest before you can stop it.

“…You’re unbelievable,” you say.

“Yeah,” he grins. “Been told.”

“…Thank you,” you add, quieter.

That hits him in a different way; you can see it. The way he stills for just a second before nodding, like he doesn’t trust himself to make a joke out of it this time.

“Yeah,” he says. “Course.”

He pushes off the van, stepping closer, not crowding you, just enough to fall into step beside you as the two of you move toward the line together.

The crowd spills out of the venue in loose waves, people shouting over each other, laughing, reliving moments that already feel bigger than they probably were.

You step out with them, breath catching slightly as the quiet starts to settle back in.

“…Okay,” you admit, pushing your hair back from your face, still a little flushed from the heat inside. “That was—”

You stop, like you don’t want to give it to him.

Eddie watches you, already grinning, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he knows exactly where this is going.

“Go on,” he says. “Finish the sentence.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t ruin it.”

“I’m not ruining anything, I’m encouraging honesty.”

You scoff, starting down the sidewalk, and he falls into step beside you immediately, like he always does now, like there’s no question about it.

“…It was good,” you say finally, quieter this time, like it costs you something.

His grin widens. “Good?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I’m just saying, I expected at least a ‘life-changing experience’ or a tearful confession—”

“I said don’t push it.”

He laughs, softer this time, not trying to get a rise out of you, just simply enjoying it.

“Alright, alright,” he concedes, nudging your shoulder lightly as you walk. “But for the record, I think I deserve more credit here.”

“For what,” you ask, glancing at him.

“For broadening your horizons,” he says easily.

You blink at him. “You took me to a band I already like.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “But I picked the right band.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite to it.

“…They were better live,” you admit after a second.

That catches him.

“Yeah?” he asks, a little surprised.

You nod slightly. “Yeah.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, I’ll give you that one.”

You glance at him again, brow lifting. “You didn’t think they were good?”

“I thought they were fine,” he says carefully. “Like, solid. Respectable.”

You scoff. “Respectable.”

“Hey, I’ve got a reputation to maintain,” he shoots back. “Can’t just go around admitting I enjoyed something that much.”

You bump your shoulder into his, a little harder this time. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t respond. But you don’t move away, either.

There’s a moment as you walk, the noise of the crowd fading behind you, replaced by the quiet stretch of road, the hum of distant cars, the lingering echo of music in your chest.

And then, his arm comes up. Slow. Careful.

Not like he expects it, not like he’s claiming anything, just resting across your shoulders, light enough that you could shrug it off if you wanted to.

You feel it immediately; the warmth, the weight. You tense, just for a second. He feels it too and starts to pull back.

“Sorry, I didn’t—”

But you don’t move away. You don’t shrug him off. Instead, you pull his hand around the rest of the way.

You lean into him just slightly, your shoulder fitting more comfortably under his arm like it makes sense there.

Like it’s allowed. He goes quiet.

“…You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, softer now.

“So are you.”

“Yeah, well,” he glances down at you briefly, something warm in his expression, “I don’t want to mess this up.”

You huff out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve already done that once.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Trying not to make it a pattern.”

“…You’re doing alright so far,” you say. It’s quiet, almost lost to the night. But he hears it.

“I’ll take that,” he says.

You glance up at him for a second, catching the way he’s looking ahead, not at you, like he’s giving you space even now.

The van comes into view at the end of the lot, headlights dim, the night settling in around it like a quiet pause between moments.

Neither of you rushes toward it. Neither of you breaks the space between you.

And as you walk, side by side, his arm still draped over your shoulders, your weight just barely leaning into him; it doesn't feel fake. It doesn't feel forced. Just easy in a way you're a little scared to name.

The ride home feels softer than the one there.

The windows are cracked just enough to let the night air in, cool against your skin, the kind that keeps you awake in a way that’s not exhausting.

The music is lower this time, something steady humming through the speakers while the road stretches out in long, quiet lines ahead of you.

You’ve got your elbow hooked out the window again.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly against his thigh, like he’s still half in the rhythm of the show.

“…So,” he says after a while, glancing over at you. “Be honest.”

You don’t look at him. “I am always honest.”

He snorts. “That’s terrifying, but not what I meant.”

You finally turn your head, brow lifting. “What did you mean.”

“Scale of one to ten,” he says. “How good was it.”

You consider it for a second, dragging it out just to annoy him.

“…Seven.”

He scoffs immediately. “Seven?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“That was at least an eight,” he argues. “Minimum.”

“Seven,” you repeat.

He shakes his head, like he’s deeply disappointed. “Unbelievable. I pour my heart and soul into planning the perfect night—”

“You bought tickets,” you cut in.

“—and this is the thanks I get,” he finishes anyway.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth again, one you don’t bother hiding this time.

“…Okay,” you say after a second. “Eight.”

He glances at you, quick. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me take it back.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, settling back into his seat a little, “I might be good at this.”

“At what.”

“Dating you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’ve had one successful outing. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“One and a half,” he corrects. “You didn’t hate the first one until the whole… you know.” He gestures vaguely.

You exhale through your nose. “Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Right. Sorry.” He nods once. “Moment preserved.”

“…You’re not as bad as I thought you were,” you admit.

It slips out before you can stop it. The car goes quiet. He looks at you, like he’s trying to decide if you’re messing with him.

“…Wow,” he says softly. “High praise.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” he murmurs.

You turn back toward the window, but your shoulder brushes his arm for a second when the car shifts, and neither of you pulls away right away.

By the time you pull up to the cabin, the night’s settled in fully.

He cuts the engine, the sudden silence almost too loud after everything else, and for a second, neither of you moves.

“…Home sweet home,” he says lightly.

“Don’t say that.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“It’s weird.”

He huffs a small laugh. “Noted.”

You reach for the door. He’s already out of the van by the time you step onto the gravel, circling around without thinking, falling into step beside you like it’s automatic now.

The walk to the door is short, too short. You notice that, annoyingly.

Neither of you says much, the quiet stretching out again, not uncomfortable, just full of something neither of you is naming.

You stop at the door, turn. He’s already looking at you.

For once, he doesn’t have a line ready. Just that same careful, steady look he’s had all night, like he’s trying not to mess this up.

“…I had a good time,” he says.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

“…Eight,” you add.

His mouth twitches. “I’ll take it.”

You should go inside, you know that. You always know when to end things. Clean. Simple. No room for anything to get complicated.

But instead, you step forward. He barely has time to register it before your hand catches lightly on his jacket, pulling him just enough, and you kiss him.

It’s quick, but not hesitant. Not soft enough to be mistaken for anything else.

You pull back just as fast, like you’ve already decided that’s all he’s getting, like if you linger, you might rethink it.

He stares at you. Completely caught off guard.

“…Wow,” he breathes.

You roll your eyes immediately, stepping back toward the door.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not—” he starts, then stops, because he is a little stunned, because that definitely wasn’t what he expected.

You reach for the handle, pause, then glance back at him over your shoulder.

“…Goodnight, Munson.”

A slow, slightly dazed smile spreads across his face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You disappear inside before he can say anything else.

And for a second, he just stands there on the porch, staring at the door like it might open again. Like, he didn’t just imagine that.

Then he lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand through his hair as he turns back toward the van.

“…Eight,” he mutters to himself, still smiling.

AGHAHGDHHS okay here it is. i hope you all enjoyed :3

taglist is open!

beasbugs:

@bitterestwillow@kozume-ko, @obsessed-eddie, @doomdabss, @julxsxx, @leelei1980@hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses@meadows-ofasphodel @whitakerstorm @dreamerjj @sariahs-stuff @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @sisteramycatherine @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullstevepeachpuffs25 @abirdinthehouse @m-art000 @enne02

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“That’s it, baby!”

The headboard smacks against the wall again, in rhythm with his deep, punishing thrusts as he continues pounding you- face down, ass up into the mattress.

“Fuuuuck yeah…you love it when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

“Eddie p-please!” You whimper, fisting the bed sheets beneath you as his hips slap against your ass- forcing his hard cock to brush against your cervix with every thrust.

“Please, what? Use your words, sweetheart.” He tsks, a devilish grin spreading across his face as he looks down where both of your bodies meet- watching himself slide in and out of your drenched cunt.

“H-harder.” You sob, tears wetting the sheets as your body shook with pleasure. “Please fuck me harder!”

“Oh, you want it harder?” Eddie asks, his grip on your hips tightening hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “You sure you can handle that?”

You gasp, nodding your head helplessly as the tears keep flowing- choking on desperate sobs and moans.

“I c-can t-take it!” You cry out “Please!”

“Alright.” Eddie smirks, looking down at his slutty little plaything as you writhed and cried out beneath him. “Whatever you want, gorgeous.”

Before you have time to react, Eddie leans his body forward- putting all his body weight on you until you’re on your stomach, lying prone on the mattress as he pounds into you at a brutal, punishing pace.

“Oh my fucking god!” You cry out, another onset of hot, thick tears take over you as you sob out in pleasure.

“That feel good?” Eddie growls, snapping his hips against you as he drives his hard cock into you as deep as you could take it. “Is that what you’re fucking crying about, sweetheart? Yeah? Fucking…answer…me.”

“Yes!” You squeal “Yes, Eddie! Oh fuck yes! Thank you!”

One of his hands snake up to your neck, wrapping around it as he pulls your head back towards him- lightly squeezing your throat.

“What was that, angel?” Eddie patronizes, his voice hot against your ear “I didn’t quite hear you.”

“Thank you, Eddie. Fuck- thank you!”

“Oh baby, you’re welcome.” Eddie coos “Anything for my little cocksleeve. My cock hungry whore with such good fucking manners. Right, baby? You keep using those manners for me and I’ll keep giving you this fucking dick just how you fucking like it.”

“Thank you!” You gasp, your voice hoarse and desperate as he thrusts into you hard enough to jolt you forward. “Oh god! Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Fuck, baby. Such good manners.” Eddie praises “You know what you get with manners like those? Hm?”

“Oh fuck, please!”

“That’s it. Atta girl!” Eddie chuckles darkly “With manners like those, you can have anything you fucking want.”