🧘‍♀️

Everybody drifted outside at their own pace, carrying bowls and platters from the kitchen, still wrapped up in conversations from the day's walk. You, unsurprisingly, arrived last, brushing an imaginary crease from your dress as you stepped out into the warm evening.

"Finally," a voice laughed from the table.

You looked up to find Joe standing beside one of the empty chairs, one arm resting lazily over the back of it.

"We were fully prepared to send out a search party."

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

"Relax. I was getting changed."

"For a party of six," one of your friends called, walking past with a basket of bread balanced against their hip.

"Just for one, actually."

"Sure," Joe replied, narrowing his eyes at you dramatically before pulling the chair out. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

You shook your head as you sat down, laughing under your breath.

It wasn't just Joe making you smile.

Beyond him, lavender fields stretched endlessly towards the horizon, glowing beneath the last of the day's sunshine. The villa already felt like home, despite only being there a few days. Somehow, all it had taken was good weather, good company and the promise that nobody had anywhere else to be.

As everyone began loading food onto their plates, two of Joe's friends picked up an argument that had apparently started hours earlier.

"...and then he genuinely thought he'd survive jumping off the balcony."

"It wasn't a balcony."

"It absolutely was."

"It was barely a metre off the ground."

"You almost died."

Joe leaned a little closer, clearly amused by how invested you were becoming in the debate.

"It was definitely a balcony," he murmured. "He broke three bones."

You laughed so suddenly that you nearly choked on your drink.

"Joe, man," his friend groaned. "Not you as well."

Joe only shrugged, a lazy grin settling across his face. He knew better than to throw himself directly into these arguments. He much preferred stirring the pot from a safe distance.

As the evening drifted on, conversations rolled around the table in waves. One story blurred effortlessly into another until nobody really remembered where any of them had started. A fork lay abandoned beneath someone's chair, catching the last of the sunlight, while a puddle of sparkling water slowly dried where a glass had been knocked over in the bustle of dinner.

Nobody seemed to care.

Maybe tomorrow someone would blame it on the wine. Or the champagne. Or the ridiculous amount of cocktail sausages everyone had demolished before dinner. Or maybe it was simply what happened when you trusted people enough that the little imperfections became part of the evening instead of something that needed fixing.

Joe reached for the bread bowl, his arm bumping yours just enough to send the cloudy liquid in your wine glass sloshing over the rim.

You looked at him, startled out of your thoughts.

"Sorry."

His grin told you he wasn't sorry in the slightest.

"You are insufferable, Joe Keery."

"And yet here you are."

"There was simply no other seat."

"A likely story."

You lifted your glass to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face, but Joe caught it anyway.

His expression softened slightly.

"So..." he said, resting his chin against his knuckles, giving you his full attention despite everything happening around him. "What's been your favourite part so far?"

The question caught you off guard.

"Hm?"

He gestured vaguely around the garden.

"Today. The pool. The market. Watching our friends desperately try to relive their youth."

A cherry tomato hit him squarely on the shoulder.

You laughed before taking another sip of wine, pretending to think about it.

"The market."

"The market?"

"There was a cat."

Joe stared at you.

"A cat."

"It was cute."

"You're in the south of France and your favourite part is a cat?"

"It had a little bell."

He paused for a second before throwing his head back in laughter.

"You're incredible."

"My priorities are simply in order."

"They really are."

You couldn't stop smiling.

The evening light caught in his curls, turning them almost amber, and every time he looked at you, it felt as though the rest of the table disappeared for a second.

Around you, conversations continued uninterrupted. Someone was trying to convince the group to drive down to the coast tomorrow, while someone else insisted that doing absolutely nothing was the entire point of being on holiday. Every now and then another story would spark fresh laughter, but somehow Joe always found a way of pulling you into quieter conversations between it all.

Even after two years together, he still spoke to you with the same curiosity he'd had at the beginning.

He asked what music you'd been listening to lately.

Whether you'd finally watched that film he'd been recommending for months.

Why you still insisted cereal counted as dinner.

None of it mattered.

It was just conversation for the sake of conversation.

The kind that made an hour disappear without either of you noticing.

"Oh my God."

The voice pulled both of your attention back towards the rest of the table.

"You two do realise there are other people on this holiday, right?"

Heat rushed to your cheeks until they rivalled the sunburn still lingering across the bridge of your nose.

Joe, on the other hand, didn't seem remotely embarrassed.

Instead, he casually hooked a foot around the leg of your chair and pulled it a little closer to his.

The table erupted into laughter.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, all innocence.

"You've spoken exclusively to each other for the last hour," someone replied. "Trying to have a conversation with either of you has been like talking to a brick wall."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

You buried your face against Joe's shoulder, laughing too hard to defend yourselves.

Joe glanced down at you before looking back at everyone else.

"...Has it really been an hour?"

The groans around the table only grew louder.

Then he looked back at you, the teasing fading from his expression.

"Didn't feel like it."

Something about the way he said it stole every coherent thought from your head.

The laughter around the table became background noise.

You couldn't decide whether the warmth spreading through your face came from the wine, the evening air, or the way he was looking at you.

Probably all three.

Joe reached for his glass with one hand while the other settled naturally around your shoulders.

By now the warmth of the day had begun to fade, replaced by the gentle coolness that settled over the countryside once the sun disappeared behind the hills. Goosebumps prickled your arms before you even noticed them.

Joe did.

Without a word, he shrugged off the lightweight sweater he'd been wearing all evening and held it out to you.

"You'll get cold," you protested.

"I'll be fine."

You hesitated before slipping it over your shoulders anyway.

It still held the warmth he'd left behind, carrying the familiar mix of sunscreen, aftershave and something that was just... Joe.

For the rest of dinner, it didn't matter how many conversations broke out around the table or how loud the laughter became. Every now and then your eyes found him again, and every time they did, he was already looking at you.

That small, quiet smile never really left his face. And somehow, beneath the fairy lights and the fading French sky, it felt like one of those evenings you'd still be talking about years from now.

It’s Monday morning now at Hawkins High and you couldn’t feel any more exposed as you made your way through the crowd of people to get to your locker. Every laugh you heard in the loud hallway felt like it could be at your expense. You kept your head down for the most part, books clutched tightly to your chest as you tried to make yourself seem small and invisible. Because now you’re just you again, the girl who blends in and the girl who would never have Steve Harrington.

It was easy to fade into the background at school, easy to ignore everything and everyone else, but then you heard him, and once you heard him, it wasn’t so easy to ignore him.

You looked up, and halfway down the hall there he was, surrounded by his best friends leaning against his locker like he ran the entire school. Which he did, if you were being honest. Steve wasn’t looking at you though, he wasn’t even glancing in your direction. He was completely focused on his friends, on the way they were clinging to his every word.

Steve had three core friends in his group that ran the school. Tommy, Carol, and Ani. Tommy and Carol had been hooking up for years, never labeling it but everyone knew they belonged to each other. Ani and Steve were seen together sometimes, flirting or getting handsy, but it seemed pretty detached for the most part. Steve seemed pretty detached at least, he always did. You weren’t sure how Ani felt about it. Steve would bring a different girl home every weekend and by Monday, his arm was back around Ani’s shoulders.

They were loud, loud enough for everyone to know exactly what they were doing and talking about at all times. You could hear the end of their conversation as you hurried past.

“Nah, man. Quarry was weak. My parents are out of town this weekend, We’ll do it right.” Steve said lazily, his back leg kicked up on his locker and arm draped over Ani. His eyes, all brown and soft, slid over you for just a second, lingering for a moment before he looked away like he didn’t see anything at all. It would’ve felt normal but you could see the way his jaw tightened.

Tommy laughed. “Hell yeah, I’ll bring a keg.”

“Keep it chill, Dad will kill me if anything gets broken” He didn’t look at you again before you turned the corner, but his posture shifted. He stood straighter, laughed louder, and tightened his hand on Ani’s shoulder. He was ignoring you as you expected him to, but he knew you were there.

The school day dragged, slow as usual. The feeling of being exposed dampened as the day went on once you realized nobody was talking about you. Nobody was even looking.

You saw Steve again in History. Sitting in the back row, doodling in his notebook and not paying attention. You could see his reflection in the window, and every so often his eyes would flick up and settle on the back of your head before he looked back down and continued doodling. When lunch arrived it felt like a relief, you spotted your friends instantly at the usual table near the back by the bathrooms.

Ale, Becca, Monica, and María were already sat and eating their lunch when you slid into an empty seat. You couldn’t help but glance towards the popular table as you sat down. You never could. For years your friends had known that you’ve had a crush on Steve, but none of them knew that he had you underneath him two days ago. You didn’t plan on telling any of them either, you were embarrassed. It was embarrassing to be just another notch on King Steve’s belt, not because it wasn’t cool, but because he would abandon you like the rest of them.

Ale scoffed as she noticed where you were glancing “Look at them. You’d think they own the place.”

“Steve’s been staring more than usual. You finally catch his eye?” Becca teased.

You tried to play it off with a laugh, but it felt forced. “Doubt it.”

Lunch was normal, you tried to act as normal as possible around your friends. But it was always hard for you to act like you weren’t hyper aware of Steve.

On your way to class, one of your friends from the debate team, Leo, stopped you briefly in the hallway.

“Hey! You get a chance to look over the notes this weekend?” He was smiling, as always. Leo was friendly, the kind of guy who was trusted and liked by many.

“Hey. No, not yet. It’s on my to-do list! Promise!” A smile was on your face, the conversation was normal, and it made everything else feel normal too.

Leo’s hand reached out, squeezing your shoulder with a familiarity that made Steve clench his jaw from where he was standing alone down the hall. He was pretending to look for something in his locker, but his eyes kept drifting back to where Leo had just touched you.

“Alright, alright! Don’t stress about it. We could do it after school on Thursday? Grab a table at the library?”

You nodded with a smile “Yeah, that works great actually” The bell rang, so you both waved bye and continued down the hall, going your separate ways.

Your path was taking you directly past Steve as the hallway cleared. The second you began to pass him, you felt his hand shoot out from his locker and wrap around your wrist. Before you could even register what was happening, Steve was pulling you into the boys bathroom.

“C’mon. In here.” He whispered as you looked up at him.

The second you were both in the bathroom, Steve released your arm, blocking the door by leaning against it. He was looking down at you with that infuriating cocky smirk.

“Nice chat with debate club?” He crossed his arms.

“What? What are you even talking about? That’s none of your business, Steve.” You folded your arms across your chest, clutching your textbook, a little defensive and wary.

Steve laughed, taking a step towards you and putting his hands in the pockets of his khaki pants casually. “Yeah? I think you know what I’m talking about, and I think it became my business as of Friday night.”

His hand left his pocket and reached out to trace the lining of your textbook still folded in your arms. He looked entirely focused on you, possessive in a way you’ve only seen directed at others for a few weeks at a time.

“You shouldn’t be talking to him like that, princess.” Steve said quietly.

The name sent heat rushing to your cheeks that you knew would be obvious. “Talk to him like what? Why do you care? It’s not like you’re talking to me.”

He looked away, taking his hand back to run his fingers through his hair. “I don’t care.” He stepped forward again, the toes of his expensive nikes now touching the toes of your flats.

“You think I didn’t notice you all day? You’re fucking distracting.” The final bell rang, but neither of you moved. Steve didn’t seem to care, which didn’t shock you. He skipped often anyway.

“Im not doing anything. You’re the one who’s acting like nothing even happened between us.” It came out quieter than you had wanted, and it was laced with a hurt that was getting harder to hide as he stood in front of you.

He let out a long sigh at the tone of your voice and turned away, pacing the tile floor. “Jesus. What do you want me to do, huh? Walk up to you in front of everyone? You know how that would go.”

You leaned against the sink “I.. I don’t know, Steve. But I at least-“

He stopped pacing to walk back over to you, crowding you against the sink as he brought a hand up to rest it on the counter beside your hip to cage you in. His voice softened, barely, but you could hear it soften.

“I remember every second. Happy?” All you could do was look up at him, and let out a shaky breath. Your eyes were locked on his, and his were on yours. The overhead lighting made his big brown eyes look like they sparkled. His hair was falling into his forehead, face so close to yours that his nose was almost touching.

His hand moved to cradle your jaw, thumb gently tracing the line and going up to stroke your cheekbone. You felt completely frozen, back under the spell of him.

He’d left you at the party, not called for days, and pulled you into an empty room and now he wanted to give you the attention you’d been starved for. Steve had a way at this, making you forget everything he’s ever done by a simple touch.

He was handsome, yes.

But it was something about his charm.

The way he smiled, or the way he used his eyes to express himself. It made you melt under his fingers, which is why you didn’t move a muscle when his lips moved and found themselves hungrily pressed to yours.

You gasped against his mouth, obediently parting your lips when his tongue began to seek entry. The kiss was desperate, like he had been craving it just as much as you had. The kiss wasn’t soft or gentle, it was deep, insistent, and possessive. He kissed like he was trying to prove something to himself, or maybe you. His other hand wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him the warmth of his body.

You were putty against him. Your hands lifting to rest on his chest, curling your fingers into his polo shirt as soft noises escaped your mouth and transmitted directly into his. He felt so real, so warm, so yours again.

He broke the kiss just barely to murmur against your swollen lips.

“See? I remember.” You could hear the smirk forming on his face.

He kissed you again before you could respond. His fingers moving to tangle in the hair at your neck to tilt your head back so his tongue could dive deeper into your mouth. For just a second, the kiss slowed down, becoming more about feeling than the possession of it all.

His lips traveled from your lips to the corner of your moth, kissing down to your jawline and your neck. It made your heart hammer in your chest, each kiss of his lips on your warm skin feeling like a brand that was settling into place. He was smiling against your skin, and you were smiling as you held onto his shoulders, keeping him close as you inhaled the scent of his cologne.

Steve’s hand began to gently stroke the skin of your neck as he whispered directly under your ear in between kisses “You can’t look at other guys like that. Not after what we did together.” His nose was deliberately brushing against your skin back and forth.

“I wasn’t looking at him like… like I look at you, Steve. I wasn’t.” The confession was breathless. You didn’t owe any explanation to Steve, especially not after the way he treated you. But something about the look in his big brown eyes made you want to reassure him over and over again that it was only him. That it had only been him for years, that you couldn’t imagine anyone else holding your attention captive the way that he is able to.

He smiled a little, a real smile, and kissed you again. His lips taking in your top lip, and the pull of his lip on yours sent sparks through your body. Steve kept angling his head, and each angle made his nose press against your face. Bumping against your cheek and brushing your closed eyelids. The gesture felt more real than anything you’d seen from him before. It was clumsy, and intimate.

This kiss was nothing like the kiss of “King Steve” from the car. You thought Steve was a good kisser when you first kissed him, when he was trying to get another girl off the checklist.

But now he was kissing like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth and the way your tongue moved against his. It was addicting, and you couldn’t stop pulling him in for more. Your hands were all over his chest and hair, traveling up and down his arms and squeezing the muscle that was straining against his polo that was way too tight.

The bell rung after awhile, and the both of you seemed to realize just how long you’d been making out against the sink in the boys bathroom during the middle of the school day.

Steve pulled back almost instantly, running a hand through his hair to fix it.

“Don’t wanna be late for your next class, yeah?”

You were still dazed, lips swollen and parted as you stared at the sudden switch in Steve.

“I….what?”

“Class. You should go.” He walked over to the mirror and fixed his collar. “I’ll wait a minute, don’t need people seeing us walk out together.”

He was putting the mask back on slowly, piece by piece it was coming back together, but you saw what was underneath and you wanted to see that side of Steve again so badly.

“Will I see you later?” You asked hopefully, and he looked over at you through the mirror. His eyes tracing the line of your jaw and lips again.

“Maybe. I’ve got practice.” He shrugged. “Don’t wait by the phone or anything.”

It was meant to sound casual, but it felt like a stone being dropped in your stomach.

“Seriously. You should go.” He gestured towards the door with his head.

“Right. Okay, I’ll see you later?” You lingered for a few more seconds, wondering if he’d say something else or look at you again but he was already back to fixing his appearance in the mirror. Cleaning off any trace of you.

Your skin felt hot as you left the bathroom, eyes wide and fixed on some point down the hall while you walked to class. Friday at the quarry didn’t feel real, but this was even more unbelievable.

It wasn’t rare for Steve to have random girls on his arm, or even have makeout sessions in the bathroom.

You’d heard about the notes he leaves in the lockers of the cheerleaders like Kenzie. But it was rare for Steve to kiss with feeling.

You felt like you were dissociating for the rest of the school day, constantly out of body as you moved on autopilot. Mentally, you were still in that bathroom with your hands on Steve Harrington as his lips pressed to your skin.

Every-time a door opened, your heart would leap in your chest in hopes that it would be him, but Steve was nowhere to be seen for the rest of the school day.

You walked home alone, the same peaceful path you always take through the lawns and quiet houses, but today every thought you had just circled right back to Steve’s lips on yours in the bathroom. Every feeling you felt was so confusing.

There was giddiness, confusion, and a deep underlining of wanting. He told you he remembered every second, but he also told you to not wait by the phone.

Every second of the rest of the night felt like a special kind of torture. The phone on your nightstand seemed to mock you as you tried to do your homework or get ready for bed. Basketball practice was over hours ago. Would he call? He said not to wait, he told you not to wait. But what if he changed his mind? What if he decides to call?

You refused to change out of your sweater because his cologne continued to linger there. You refused to leave your room just in case the phone rang. Every action you made seemed to revolve around if Steve would, or if he wouldn’t.

Your mind raced through every word Steve said to you, replayed the interaction to see if you missed any signs, but everytime you ended with the same conclusion. He had kissed you, again. And he hadn’t called, again. But the memory of him was so sharp, too sharp.

You couldn’t get him out of your head, and it became frustrating in more ways than one. So your fingers moved, lightly tracing down your sweater until they were slipping under the waistband of your pants.

It was wrong. Your fingers weren’t as calloused as his, too soft, not rough enough. But you closed your eyes and tilted your head back. You thought of the way he looked at you with such hunger and possession in his eyes, and then the sudden vulnerability when he admitted that he remembered it all.

Your breath hitched as your thumb began to trace circles on your clit, mimicking the slow circles his thumb was tracing on your hip just hours ago. But lower, much lower.

It was weak, it was nothing compared to feeling wanted and filled by him, but it was enough for your stomach to flutter.

Your fingers moved downwards, tracing your entrance before you were plunging one finger inside, seeking the warmth that he always seemed to create inside of you. Your movements became urgent as you fantasized about him on top of you. His hair brushing against your forehead, his nose pressed against yours, his arms holding you tightly against his chest.

Your teeth were sinking into your lower lip, attempting to hold back the desperate sounds leaving your lips. The image of him was burning on your eyelids as you chased a release that felt so out of reach.

The second you orgasmed, the high dissolved into an emptiness. The confusion and longing were more present than ever now as you waited by a phone that wont ring. You felt foolish and desperate as your mind and body drifted to sleep.

Tuesday morning felt different when it arrived. You didn’t feel as hollow as the day before, the secret of the interaction in the bathroom was alive in your veins. You felt nervous, and curious. Would he do something similar again? Would today include another makeout session with Steve? You weren’t sure, but you were desperate to find out.

When you finally saw him at school, you felt your heart drop and stomach flip. He was standing with his usual friends, doing the same thing he always does, with his arm still around Ani.

You shouldn’t have been shocked, you shouldn’t have expected anything to be different between you and Steve. Everything would’ve seemed completely normal, but then Steve’s eyes slid over the hallway and landed on you. It was only a second, but you saw the way his body tensed up. You couldn’t help but notice the way his laugh sounded strained now as you walked past him to head towards your class. It was a game only the two of you were playing, and you had no idea what the rules were.

The day unfolded in stolen glances across classrooms and hallways, and each time Steve looked at you, the hope in your chest flared a little brighter.

At lunch, Ale seemed to notice first. Every few minutes Steve’s eyes would land on the back of your head before he would look back down before anyone could think anything of it.

She nudged your shoulder with her own “Maybe you should just talk to him? He’s been staring.”

You shook your head “You’re kidding, right? He’s not staring.” You knew you couldn’t talk with him. You didn’t know the rules of the game, but you knew not talking to him in public was certainly on the list.

Ale sighed softly “If you say so.”

“Steve stares at everyone, Ale. He just can’t help it. It’s in his genetics to be a man-whore.” María piped in briefly with a laugh to dismiss the idea.

The comment made you feel relieved that they weren’t pressing the topic further, but it came with a pang of insecurity. Did Steve actually stare at everyone? To the point where even your own friends wouldn’t think he was looking at you? Your brain was exhausted from the amount of confusing emotions you’d been having.

After school you were gathering your things from your locker when you saw him out of the small mirror on your locker door, he was coming down the hallway with Tommy. He wasn’t looking at you, but as he passed his shoulder briefly brushed yours.

It’s a touch you’ve seen a thousand times before, a touch you’ve even felt before, but this time his hand left his jacket pocket and he let his fingers graze your arm. A secret touch in a crowded hallway, and then he was gone.

The touch was small, barely anything, most people wouldn’t think twice about it again. But it was enough for you, enough to keep you on his hook as you walked home with the same hope that maybe tonight he would call.

He was obviously ignoring you, but he was watching you. Marking his territory on you in the quietest way he could. In some part of you, the secret was the thrill.

He didn’t call, but the hope inside of you didn’t fade. He looked. He touched. He kissed you. And that had to mean something.

A week went by of similar touches and silent tension. The moments were so small and fleeting that they were invisible to everybody else, but to you it was everything. Each day that went by was a delicate dance that was completely choreographed by Steve’s unpredictable attention.

On Wednesday, you were heading to the library, arms full of books as you turned a corner and collided with him. For a few seconds you were both completely frozen before his eyes dropped to your lips and you heard a barely audible groan leave his mouth before he sidestepped you and continued down the hallway faster than he was walking before.

Thursday before homeroom you were getting a drink from the water fountain. You could feel him and smell him behind you before you could see him, the signature trace of his cologne taking over every sense. Steve’s arm reached around you to press down on the button, his arm brushing against your side. He didn’t say anything, just held the button down as you continued to drink.

You straighted up and looked up at him through your lashes, water droplets clinging to your lips. Steve’s eyes were locked on your mouth, his head tilted down towards you. The proximity of him was dizzying, your eyes could trace the faint stubble that lined on his jaw.

“You’ve got a little…” Steve’s voice was low, almost a whisper.

He raised his hand to bring his thumb up, brushing the water droplet off your bottom lip. The contact after days without feeling the warmth of him made your breath catch. His thumb lingered, pressing slightly harder into your lip as his eyes flicked from your eyes to your lips over and over again.

Neither of you said anything else as he pulled away and walked quickly down the hall, leaving you frozen at the fountain.

On Friday after school you were heading to your locker, but he was already there, leaning against a locker a few doors down from yours. He was staring down the hallway, as if he was waiting on someone else. You heard him speak without turning his head as soon as you started passing by.

“Don’t make any plans Saturday night.”

It was a command, but it felt like a key unlocking a door that you’d been standing outside and knocking on for days, and you were running inside.

Saturday came around slowly. You weren’t sure what you were doing with Steve, or when, so you got ready bright and early just in case, putting extra care and detail into every choice. Then you waited, and waited.

Evening fell as you stayed up in your room, waiting for the sound of his bmw, but it never came.

Today was also the day that Steve had bragged about throwing a party on just earlier that week in the hallway. The party he didn’t invite you to. You tried not to think about who could possibly be there with him.

The hours stretched. Passing ten and even eleven, then midnight. The hope and excitement that was alive in your chest now felt like a physical weight of disappointment that made your shoulders slump. You felt foolish sitting by your window in the dark.

It felt humiliating, so you got ready for bed and tried to push it away entirely.

Sleep wasn’t coming easy though, you tossed and turned in your bed for what felt like hours until you heard the knocking. The noise was small, but you heard it.

You turned your head to face your window and saw Steve perched on the windowsill, knocking lightly.

“You awake? Open up.” Steve said in a loud whisper, continuing to tap on the glass.

You got out of bed and moved to open the window. You could see him clearer now, and smell the lingering trace of alcohol on his breath. His eyes were heavy lidded, and his body looked sluggish.

“Come on. Let me in.” He glanced over his shoulder out at the dark street, a paranoid look.

“It’s too late, Steve.” You said quietly, it was hard to hide the hurt and disappointment.

“Too late? I’ve been thinking about you all night. Five minutes. Please? I just wanted to see you” A lazy grin was on Steve’s face almost immediately, full of a charm he knew exactly how to use. His eyes widened and sparkled in the moonlight.

He was lying, and you both knew it. But the way he spoke to you with that charm made you hesitate on telling him to leave. He was looking at you like you were the only girl in the world, like he didn’t just spend the entire night at a party without you.

“My parents are asleep, Steve. It’s really late.” You whispered nervously, glancing back into your room.

“We’ll be real quiet. Im stealthy, like a ninja.” His grin widened, and you gave in immediately. The pull of him was too strong when he was looking up at you with such soft sleepy eyes.

“Five minutes. That’s it.” And you opened the window.

His hands gripped on the window as he hoisted himself into your room. He took a step closer to you immediately once he was inside.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you. That party was fucking boring.” His hand reached out to stroke your cheekbone once, letting his fingers linger there.

“Five.. only five minutes, right?” You asked nervously, but your body was already melting under his touch.

“Mhm. That’s right.” Steve dipped his head, his lips hovering right above yours as he breathed you in. The smell of beer was undeniable this close up.

His mouth closed over yours almost immediately, his hand sliding into your hair and gripping at it to angle your head back. His other hand came up to rest on your hip as he began walking you backwards towards your bed.

“Told you… couldn’t.. stop.. thinking about you” He muttered against your lips in between kisses. The confidence in the way he kissed combined with his hands on you was making you dizzy, head spinning as your body went pliant and allowing him to walk you back towards your bed.

The second the back of your knees hit the mattress, Steve pulled back to look down at you.

“Lie down” It was an instruction, a command. His hands went to your shoulders to slightly apply pressure, guiding your body down onto the mattress.

Steve followed you down, bracing his body on his elbows as he caged you in beneath him. Your fingers began to thread through the hair that curled slightly on the nape of his neck, dragging your nails lightly on his skin.

He kissed you again, but this time it was slower. Your lips moving together in a conversation that only the two of you understood. He sat up quickly, pulling his polo over his head, then immediately met your lips again with his own.

Your hands immediately went back to his chest, remembering what it felt like to run your hands in the chest hair that rested there. Steve sucked in your top lip, causing you to tighten your hands on his chest.

A small whimper left his mouth as you pulled at the hair lightly, he kissed deeper and furrowed his brows together, attempting to silence the needy noises he was making.

“Fuck. You’re so…. fuck.” He sat up again to pull the straps of your nightgown down your shoulders and pushing the gown further to bunch up at your waist.

His head lowered instantly, the warmth of his lips meeting the warm skin of your breast, his tongue working over your nipple until it was hardening in his mouth. His other hand was everywhere, kneading at your other tit, and sliding down your stomach to push the nightgown down entirely until you were in nothing but your panties. He gripped at the flesh of your thighs to spread your legs further for him to grind against your core before he kicked off his shoes, his hand leaving your body to quickly work at the button on his jeans.

Your hands were running through his hair, going down his back and pulling at the skin.

The second he got his jeans and boxers down he shifted his body and lifted his head.

“Tell me. Tell me you want me.” Steve whispered into the quiet room as his head moved to find your mouth, biting gently at your bottom lip. It wasn’t as harsh as his usual demands, something about the look in his eyes was vulnerable in a way you’d never expected from someone who got everything he wanted so easily. He wasn’t asking you to tell him you wanted him to stroke his ego, he was asking you to tell him so he could be assured that did you want him.

“I do want you. I want you, Steve.” You said it as earnest as possible, continuing to run your fingers in his hair.

“Mmm. Good girl.”

His fingers slid down your body, starting at the column of your throat then moving down in between your breasts until he was tracing your bellybutton and hip bone. It was teasing, and it sent chills down your spine.

His fingers dipped lower, past the lace of your panties as he pulled them down, then parted your folds with two thick fingers, getting coated in the wet heat that had been gathering from the touch of him.

His other hand wrapped around his cock, stroking gently to smear the pre-cum all over his length. He began pushing into your pussy slowly, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open around his cock.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw dropping as you moaned from the feeling of being filled by him again.

Steve continued moving until every inch of him was buried deep inside of you, then his hands came up to press down on your lower stomach, steadying himself there as he began thrusting in and out.

The rythym was slow, and deep. Nothing like the first time. This time you could feel every inch of his cock dragging against your walls before only the tip was inside of you, then him diving back in again.

You arched your back up, turning your face into the pillow next to you to muffle every moan and whine leaving your lips.

Each whimper seemed to fuel Steve, his hands left your stomach so he could shift back down, kissing you desperately and panting against your mouth while his movements became more urgent, the sound of skin slapping together becoming louder.

Your mouth found the side of his neck, tongue tracing over the scattering of small dark moles that dot over his neck. You could feel Steve shudder above you, a sharp breath catching in his throat as your lips moved lower to kiss the moles above his collarbone.

“Mine. You’re… fucking mine..” He panted out

“Steve…. Ohh.. Steeeve…” Pleasure was taking over your body entirely, legs trembling underneath him as he pounded into you.

“Yeah? You like how my cock feels inside of you?” Steve groaned, his hands going back to grip at your thighs while he hiked one of your legs over his shoulder to drive even deeper inside of your stretched pussy.

Steve’s eyes were locked on where your bodies joined, where his cock was sinking inside you over and over again.

“Look at you. Taking me so deep. God, you’re beautiful.” His fingers moved to your clit, rubbing rough and tight circles as he watched you tremble underneath him.

“Want you to squeeze me while im buried deep in this sweet pussy. Yeah? Can you do that for me, princess?”

You nodded eagerly, panting into the air as your hands gripped at his arms and your body twitched uncontrollably. Your pussy was clenching down on him, pulling him even deeper as pleasure radiated out of you.

Steve bit down on his lower lip to stifle a moan and began thrusting frantically, fucking into you so deep that your entire body was jolting back and forth on the mattress.

“Taking my fucking cock so good, baby. Such a good girl, huh? Drives me crazy when you’re such a slut for me.”

“Only you. Only you, Steve.” You whined out as he shuddered above you, his cum filling your insides as your walls milked him dry.

He stayed inside of you for a long minute, his head tilting back as he caught his breath before he let out a soft sigh and pulled out of you, collapsing down onto the mattress beside you.

His arm was thrown over his eyes, chest still rising and falling rapidly. You turned on your side, letting your eyes roam over the sheen of sweat on his chest and the relaxed way he looked when he was all pliant. You wanted to frame it. Steve Harrington in your bed, laying next to you.

“You’ll.. you’ll stay?” The question was vulnerable as you looked up at him.

Steve let out a long slow breath, his arm not leaving his face. “It’s late.”

It wasn’t an answer, it was a deflection.

“Please?” You reached over to trail your fingers across his chest lightly and he finally lowered his arm from his face.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.” He said it like he was doing you a favor as he rolled onto his side, pulling the sheets up and grabbing his boxers and your nightgown from the side of the bed to slip them back on.

Once you were both decently dressed, he slung his arm over your waist, resting his hand low on your back to pull you closer into his chest.

“Just.. go to sleep.” He muttered into your hair, voice slurring slightly as his lips pressed gently to your hairline.

You nuzzled in closer, smiling to yourself as your body drifted off to sleep being held by Steve Harrington.

You woke hours later, turning over and opening your eyes to find the bed beside you empty and cold. You laid there for awhile, staring at the spot he had occupied. Lifting your hand to run over the cool pillowcase that he rested his head on just hours ago.

You wanted more, you wanted everything. But wanting more from Steve Harrington felt like asking the sun not to set. It was a part of his nature. The leaving was as much a part of him as the charming smile and the possessive hands. The worst part was you know you'll be waiting by the window again next Saturday, desperate to feel that way again. Even if it’s just for a few hours, even if he always leaves.

-

masterlist | taglist | rec acc | series masterlist

‪♡ likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated. thank uu ‪♡

‪taglist: @fersitay @okcoolsthings @djoaholic @luvxmoony @swirledyouintoallmypoems @gutsnhugs @alwysnanglnvragod @redvelvetcupcke1 @kurtsw7rld96 @mimi-ro @nowprettybbyimrunning @moonstoneandmoonlight @keeryonfilm @bathandbylerworks @harrystyleseagletattoo @harringtondarling @xoxocelestial @spideyzzn @licetchl @ghostlyriddles @heldbycas @mikefaistwife @jene11 @purplequeen64-stuff @rustyguitars @xbethanyx @alltoomay @rafecqmeronslove @mirellef2001 @cristy-l-blog @beelzebzb @shstandsforsteveharrington @lilyhours @gallysonegoodlung @pookiebear69004 @ilikereadinghardcoresmut @fantasyreader130 @witchymel04 @taytayreese @cuddlyeren @swaggyvlad @tapedbunnies @strangegirl26sff @whispersoflost @cristy-l-blog @ophirei @inthesoftstillnessofthemoment @adorauraa @gaylittleboi69 @pumpkinleavess @reagans14 @tiredpurpleee @trackgun

Steve Harrington was the chapter president of Sigma Lambda Beta. You were both seniors at UIC and somehow you’d had the misfortune of living in the house immediately behind them. When they moved in they were nice. Well, not actually nice. But they did come door to door to greet all the houses on the neighbouring streets.

The two who appeared at your door came dressed in polo tops and khakis shorts. They’d obviously been attempting to exude some sort of preppy facade to soften the blow that there was 30 animals moving in next door. They’d lived behind you for months and you had yet to see any of them wear anything as conservative as that since.

Another fact that was clear to you was that they had sent their flesh flock of pledges out to do the grunt work. They were teenagers. They called you ‘miss’, which made you feel old. It was so absurd that your two flatmates had also milled out from the kitchen to see who had come to the door to introduce themselves so politely at 8am on a Sunday.

You didn’t buy their church boy bit in the first place but you couldn’t have possibly imagined that a mere two months later you’d find yourself plotting- graphically- the demise of each and every one of those boys.

Your room faces over their backyard. You don’t know why they call it a house party if they never stay in the damn house. You were patient with the constant noise; bided your time for the first few weeks just in case the fresh move was impacting their active social status.

You had even adopted a new night time routine. You would speed run your maintenance activities- flossing, brushing, moisturising- earlier and earlier each night, hoping to fall asleep before the first visitors began arriving. And every night the same thing happened. You lay watching the clock, vibrating with anger so ferocious that there’s no way you would wind down before the music started. And then you would sit seething well into the early hours of the morning.

Interspersed with rage texting your roommates who conveniently never get kept awake. They were fortunate enough to have rooms facing the street ahead, meaning the noise remained unobtrusive and therefore completely inconsequential to them.

Then there came the ‘Karen’ approach. Fighting fire with fire you could say.

At around 2am you would see the end of your tether, that’s when you really started to lose it. You’d tried flinging buckets of water out over into the lawn, which only seemed to encourage the delirium of the attendees.

Having always failed the night before to deter the racket by shouting and drenching, you started tactically attacking when they were seemingly weak.

You would blast loud operatic music using a speaker balanced precariously on your window at 6am when you knew they’d be sore, embarrassed and god-willing asleep. There was never a sign of a life. Not an aggressive yell, not a singular indication they were even aware you were doing it.

Once your rage had finally reached critical mass- around a two weeks ago- your sleep deprivation had finally caught up with you. Rationality was long past. You would spam call the chapter presidents number which had been kindly passed along to you from one the nicer ladies in the administration office at the college. It had taken you a whopping five visits and a box of heinously overpriced chocolates to find a receptionist willing to help.

The first couple times you’d called you had received back a string of infuriatingly dismissive texts back.

“Who is this?”

“Stop calling, my phone is on the aux, thx”

“If this is Samantha pls block my #”

It only further stoked the fire burning inside you. You started calling and not even giving him a chance to answer. You’d let it ring twice and then you’d hang up. Call again. Repeat. By the 20th time, there was an answer first ring.

There was a crackle like the other end was going through a wind tunnel then the slam of a car door. The music was louder from your end of the phone than theirs.

“The fuck is your problem, man? Who calls people like that?”

Finally, you’d leapt up and immediately began berating him with curses and threats of bodily harm if he didn’t shut down the party and let you sleep.

All you got back was an equally hostile cackle and the click of a dial tone. The game had been set and matched. Every night the same thing happened. You call, shout expletives about noise and respecting your neighbours and he- introduced as Steve- would laugh, call you a busy body and hang up.

You knew he knew it was you as well. Sometimes after the call he’d lean out the top floor of the house, lithe body stretched at the low hip and wave at you, phone still pressed to his ear.

Sometimes if your window was open he’d even yell across.

“SORRY NEIGHBOUR. BAD SERVICE. CALL LATER?”

You would glare up, maybe flip the bird but impotently concede because what were you going to do? Charge out the window at him, falling to your death imminently?

It didn't help that he was gorgeous either.

He had a face that was hard to argue with. He was all pouty lip, sunkissed skin and fluffy hair. You could feel the waves of insecurity roll in when he would look you up at down unimpressed and uninterested with your concerns over a sleep pattern that he was so carelessly ruining. You’d see him around campus sometimes. He wasn’t passive aggressive with other people the way he was with you. Dare you say that he was charming in actuality. He was engaged with professors, active in the community, and all that aside you wanted to squeeze his perfect little head until it popped.

Tonight was resounding to be no different than the last hundred, and you were counting down the clock until 4 or 5 when they’d start pushing off for the night, too drunk to carry on. That was the only way you’d sleep. For three hours. All before you would have to awake and traipse to the L for your first class.

You’d already spent a wasted 10 minutes screaming violent threats down at them, only to be completely unnoticed by the people below and even for you it was early to make the first call to Steve but the window of tolerance you had was shrinking by the hour. If you didn’t get a full night of sleep soon you were worried that you would snap and really lose it on them. You couldn’t afford an assault and battery charge to strike you off the education board before you even have a chance to join it. You’re calling before you can even critically think about it.

“Neighbour,” Steve cheers upon answering your call. It’s quiet where he is for once. You can hear him clearly. There’s a faint crunch of a car hitting a speed bump and the suspension of an engine on the other line. “You’ve just caught me as I’m heading back from the beer run. Night is young, don’t you think?”

You mash your teeth into your fist. The ignorance you could take. But his arrogance and his goading were what was really taking the last bit of restraint you had left.

“To what do I owe the honour of your call on this fine evening.”

To Steve it had become a game now. That’s why you think he’s still answering the call instead of blocking the number. He was getting a kick of winding you up. And it was working.

“Do you ever shut up? Or do you just like the sound of your own voice that much.” You’re seething, all your words are clipped from being enunciated from between your clenched teeth. “For the 100th and hopefully last time, could you and your pet Neanderthals turn the music down. Some of us would actually like to make it to their 9am lectures.”

You can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “Neighbour, you wound me. I absolutely plan on making it to my 9am lecture. I’d just rather die than be old and boring before my time like you. I plan on sucking the marrow out of my youth for as long as I can.”

“I don’t care about your marrow, or your stupid fucking life ethos. I just need to sleep before I snap. Are you listening to me? I’m going to come over there and fucking round house your ass if I don’t get at least 6 hours tonight,” you’re screaming now, it’s so loud that it causes a squeaky interference on the line, “so can you just keep the fucking noise down. Just this once. Before I really fucking lose it.”

There’s silence for a minute, then chuckling, then belly laughing. You can hear the shake of the phone as each one barks out. Then there’s a slam of a car door. The music on his end becomes vibrant again.

Then there he is, clicking open the wooden gate to his backyard. The phone is trapped between his ear and shoulder, large paper bag latched to his chest. He uses his foot to shut the back gate and before he can even ask for a hand, there’s a scrawny boy running across the grass to relieve him of the bag he had been managing just fine himself. You’re vibrating and flinch forward to hang yourself out of your window so he can see you; phone still glued to your ear. He smirks up at you and waves.

“If you want this party shut down, you’ll have to come do it yourself.” He clicks the end button in your direct line of sight and turns back to the mass of bodies ahead of him.

“WE PARTY TILL DAWN, LAMBDA.” The chorus of yells back travel across the yard like current and whatever aftershock rolls in snaps your last bit of self-control.

You’re in autopilot, pulling a large hooded sweater over your head. You’re still wearing your fluffed headband from the skincare you’d started before losing focus to yell at the party goers. There was a star pimple patch under your left nostril still, and you remain unfazed by both of these things as you stomp across the damp lawn in bunny slippers.

You know you look like an escaped mental patient. You’re too enraged to see sense about putting on clothes to go over. In fact, the rage is so blinding that you barely even notice the icy chill on your legs while charging through the back gate of a house you did not have permission to be in. Some turn their heads to look at you, most barely even notice the cloud of pink fluff marching its way into the house.

You don’t even attempt to find him on your own. You want to get out of here before you touch something that you’ll need a tetanus shot for later. No, you storm right up to one of the scrawny boys who’d came to your door when they moved in.

“Steve. Where is he?”

The boy you grab is short, and wiry. He can’t be more than 18. Not with his bounds of ginger hair, unburdened from the pull of aging and his braces still pinning his jaw tight. He looks like he might piss himself at the way you’ve trapped him into the doorframe.

“Uh?” He squeaks. “I- I don’t know? Probably in the basement?”

You don’t even bother replying, just following the same floor plan as your own house thats the same as theirs but much more compact. Lucky for you it’s quieter on the staircase to the basement. There’s obviously some deep insulation blocking at least a fraction of the frenzied bass thump that was already giving you a migraine.

From what you can tell the basement is some sort of clubhouse for the upper-classmen. There’s only ten of them down there. There’s a board tacked to the wall with photos of gawky boys with the word “PLEDGES” scribbled at the top of it. They were all sitting facing Steve who was standing in front of it, a pool cue being used as a pointer. You had interrupted some kind of official meeting of the Sigma Lambda losers by the looks of it. Your blood is at critical boiling point because all the flack Steve had been giving you about this precious party and he’s wasn’t even joining it.

Steve catches sight of you barrelling down the stairs first.

“Oh my god.” He’s sniggering like a school boy, obviously amused by your dishevellment but you were so beyond caring. “Neighbour, you’ve finally come join us.” He cradles his heart with both hands. “I’m touched, I really am.”

You all but growl. “Turn. It. Off.”

All the other brothers have spun around to see you red as a tomato standing just metres from the basement stairs, staring Steve down like you were begging him to do something to provoke you. They’re amused. All whispering and sharing funny looks.

“I haven’t slept in weeks. Your music is shit. And oh yeah, the 80’s called, they’ve sent you a cease and desist for that hair.” You’re pointing at him, babbling like a crazy person. You were stooping to a place you’ve never reached before. This type of anger you reserve only for reality tv and Sunday drivers.

As if on instinct his hand shoots up to run through his hair, a rare look of uncertainty flashes on his face but it’s gone almost as soon as it arrives. The men in front are all laughing and shoving at one another now but you don’t think it’s because they think what you said was funny. No, this felt pointedly directed at you.

“That’s mean. And also rich? Coming from the person wearing…what even are you wearing?” He’s squinting at you. “Stickers on your face?”

“They’re pimple patches and you know it.” You scream.

There’s an eruption and then as if by force of nature you and Steve are moving to the middle of the room pointing, shouting above the other. There’s no coherency, even you can’t keep up with each insult hurled and aggressive gesturing. The pressure has finally reached critical mass for both of you. When you stop to take a breath you calm enough to realise you’re achieving nothing other than exhausting yourself even further.

Steve’s sweating a little bit now, and you can smell the beer and bong musk from the proximity you're in to him. This was a losing battle, you fear.

You sigh and rub the back of your forehead, completely defeated. “Just…keep it down or I’ll call the cops. I looked it up and if you get three calls, you get evicted. I don’t wanna be this person but metaphorically my back is against the wall, and now so is yours.”

You spin on your heel ready to make your mic drop exit when one of the boys groans. “Dude, Duffy is a narc.”

You stop dead in your tracks.

“Duffy?”

Your neck moves before your body and you clap eyes on the boy sitting with his chin jutted out in pride, obviously pleased with himself for the joke he’d make at your expense. It was abundantly clear he wasn’t expecting you to engage with him. It’s the way that you find most men expect you to meekly roll over at any sight of challenge. But that just wasn’t in your nature. You dad used to say you’d argue with a lamp post if it gave you a dirty enough look, you just try not to. You’d like to conserve precious minutes of your lifetime not arguing with mouth breathers like backwards cap sat in front of you.

“And exactly what do you mean by that?” You narrow in on him. No one says a word, not even Steve who’s watching with wide eyes, obviously hoping to rewalk some of this now that you had threatened legal action.

Another boy pipes up now. “How are your friends?”

The room erupts.

You turn to look at Steve who was visibly repressing a laugh. You raise an eyebrow.

“Duff? D.U.F. Designated ugly friend. He’s saying your roommates are hot.”

Your tolerance for the unkind words of men was high but even you feel completely side-swept by this. No one had ever been so baselessly cruel as the young men in this room.

In fact, no one had ever called you ugly a day in your life. You knew people said things like that behind closed doors but you’d never lived anywhere that social etiquette would warrant a comment like that. You think it’s so nasty that it borders on antisocial. What he’d said was a bowling ball to your ribs. Crushing. Before you even know what you’re doing you’re stealing the full cup of foamy beer from Steve’s grasp and throwing it at his face.

You don’t stick around to see the impact, you’re off at what feels like the speed of sound.

“What the fuck?” Steve’s yelling. “Come back. Just let me-“ it all cut off with the hard slam you give the basement door.

—

You’d never considered yourself a particularly insecure person. Vanity wasn’t the top of your priority list. The energy that would've been required would eat into the parts of your life you think are worth putting effort into.

In high school you had a boyfriend all four years, a timid boy you’d known since you were 10. It wasn’t an intense ‘written in the stars’ romance. We shared a very tepid companionship, and engaged in all the normal teenage traditions. You attended prom together, lost your virginity in a stifling small single bed and promised to do long distance when you left the state. He cried, you held him. And then eventually you lost contact during the separation of college.

But nonetheless, he always seemed to like the way you looked, without all the frill, so you never concerned yourself with it.

You had never considered yourself some sort of swamp creature. You dressed up for social gatherings. Not that any of the boys in that basement would know. It was senior year, the last year not to suck. There was hardly time to breathe, it wasn’t your fault it was easier to not concern yourself with makeup or a nice outfit for class. Now after feeling the burn of all those mean eyes in that basement it’s all you could think about.

The word DUFFY had all but lost all meaning you’d said it that many times in the mirror.

The worst part about it is that you can’t even ask Nancy, Heather or Robin what they thought because by proxy they had given me that title. You didn’t like the negativity this word was starting to bring out in you. Everything now has a double-meaning. You think about all the times guys ask you about Nancy or Heather instead of you. Robin was an out and proud lesbian woman and even guys asked about her more than you.

You couldn’t stop thinking about Steve as well. Even when you knew he hadn’t been the one who brought it up. You weren’t the type of person who’s first thought in the morning was a man, and even worse you weren’t the type of person that concerned themselves with the amount they’re suitably fuck-able to others. And now it was something you were deeply internalising.

Even after the party had come to an abrupt and early end last night, sleep didn’t find you. You lay in bed replaying the events repeatedly. Sometimes you reimagine it. You don’t just dump the beer over Steve’s smug face. No instead you Carrie-style eviscerate all the boys in that basement with just your mind. Leaving Steve for last so he can stew in it.

You watched the sun come up, waited for your alarm and then perched in front of the mirror trying to decide if you should do a full face of makeup to cover your supreme duff-liness.

You decided not to. Not wanting to give the boys next door the satisfaction of knowing they’d got to you. Instead you decided that if you were already vile to all members of the opposite sex then you’d give up almost entirely. Instead of jeans and a jumper you wore pajamas. Your hair remains tied back in the bun you’d worn for bed. You didn’t even moisturise your face. Why bother?

Self care was never something you did for the benefit of others, but why would you deserve to feel good? Now that you know everyone just sits about talking about how gross you are anyway.

The problem with this little science experiment you were conducting was that no one batted an eye. Not on the L, nor class. No one so much as glanced at you all day on campus. You knew you looked crazy. You weren’t even in nice comfortable clothes. There’s a rip in the thigh of the plaid pants and bleach stains on the neck of the hoodie from when you’d let Robin wear it for an at home dye job.

You truly were invisible.

In the library on campus you were drowning in textbooks and pens, trying to submerge yourself into starting your thesis a month early as a distraction from the feeling like everyone was looking at you, but also that no one was at all. Your headphones were uncomfortably loud, beyond the point of enjoyment but you could still hear the chorus of laughter from last night every time you took them off.

Your second glaring problem was that Jonathon Byers was in the library too. You didn’t have much flare for the dramatics but you might be in love with him. You’d been coveting him since last year. He had been in your creative writing class, and he asked you for a pen one time. That was it. Obsessed.

This year, it was a poetry class. You had made a glacial headway between last year and now, in that he smiles and nods your way when you pass each other. It was the highlight of your week sometimes. You enjoyed the distraction of having a crush. You weren’t going to act on it. That’s why it was on someone you barely knew. There was no way it could become real and therefore messy.

You were trying to keep a low profile anyway, in the preposterous chance he notices your clear break from reality. It had been working mostly too until a figure blocked your eyeline of him.

You knew who it was before looking up. You’d seen Steve wearing the same beaten up nirvana top from your window a couple times. Plus his Greek letter necklace. You pointedly don’t look up or make any great effort to greet him. For all you care he could choke actually.

You see him walk round the table and drag a chair so close to you that he’d be as well climbing in your lap. He pulls one of the muffs of your headphones, to which you aggressively slap his hand.

“What?” You hiss.

He’s wincing, he’d obviously hoped you hadn’t held on too tightly to last night.

“Woah, loud music.” He whispers and you yank the headphone down entirely, pausing the song. Your face is pulled down in permanent growl. “You’re not still mad about last night?” He’s being coy with you.

“You and your friends called me ugly. What do you think?” You know you’re speaking too loudly. A girl from the table next to shush’s you aggressively to which you wave off, no longer interested in pretending you care about social courtesy with Steve pestering you.

Instead of sticking around to get into a whisper fight you rapidly smash all your papers into your backpack, beelining for the library doors.

Steve’s hot on your heels erratically. He was obviously worried you were actually going to call the cops about their parties. Which was ironic because it was the least of your concerns now, thanks to him.

His hand wraps around your upper arm as he pulls you into the corner outside the library.

“Cmon you know that was bullshit. DUF’s not literal, it’s a catch-all. Those guys are assholes sometimes but they wouldn’t actually say something like that to someone.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. You were looking at him with abject horror. “Do you even know how you sound right now? It doesn’t matter if you didn’t mean it, you said it.”

“No, what they said is that they think your friends are hotter than you.” He corrects. “A DUF doesn’t have to be some heinous looking beast.”

“You’re a pig. Please never speak to me again.”

You’re already trying to push past him when he secures you back into place big hands holding both your shoulders now.

“Okay I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just hear me out, okay?” He’s knelt down a little bit to look me in the eyes now, seemingly trying to appeal to me that he’s not evil. “Yes, they called you that one time. But it’s just an adjective, it’s slang. I promise you it’s not because there’s anything wrong with your physical appearance.”

You break eye contact now, feeling suddenly very uncomfortable under his watchful eye.

“Okay, what is it then? If it’s just because I live with Nancy and Heather that’s still not coo. Pitting women against each other.” You were still fired up. You weren’t ready to drop it so easily because now no matter what he says, you’ve gained a whole bundle of insecurity overnight and he was in a roundabout way responsible for it.

Steve’s sighing, digging his knuckles into his eyes. “Why are you making this so hard for me, I’m just trying to reassure you.”

“No, clearly I need to hear it. Clearly, you and your little friends seem to think I’m so grotesque, so I’d better know why.” You were being loud, people walking past were double-taking as they crossed you. There was no shame in it for you. Steve was the one with a high profile to worry about.

“Fine. You have this Oscar the Grouch persona thing going on. They think you’re a witch or something.” He sighs. “And while we’re at it, you’re wearing ripped pyjama’s right now, so you’re not really helping the narrative.”

“Oscar the Grouch?” You’re deadpan now.

“They’re fickle? What do you want me to say? They like that your roommates are sweet and easy to talk to.” Steve was obviously desperate now. All of this falls on him, you suppose. All the complaints, the chapter closing. “Not me though. I’m all for equal opportunities.”

He’s grinning at you, obviously trying to lighten the mood by charming you.

“Steve, do me a favour will you? And fuck off.”

“See, there it is. You give us a hard-time. Don’t sweat it too much. They’re idiots.”

“They’re your friends.” You point out.

“They’re my brothers.” He corrects. “And it’s my job to make sure they don’t end up homeless, so can I negotiate with you?”

“Ah, there it is.”

“Yeah you read right through me. I’m a piece of shit. What can I do to stop you reporting us?”

You pretend to ponder on it for a minute. “Hm. No parties. Ever again?”

You know you’re driving a hard bargain and you can see by the wry look he sends you back that he’s not up for your mind games.

“Here’s what I can do. No parties past 2 Monday through Thursday.”

You’re laughing now, right in his face. “Yeah, right. No parties past 11 Monday through Friday.”

He’s protesting before you’ve even got the words out. “You want me to cancel parties on Fridays. Our biggest day of the week. Do you understand how many people I’m responsible for in that house? How much money they pay to live there each year with the express purpose of partying? You’re insane.”

You’re almost nose to nose now, arms closed neither wanting to concede first. You almost don’t notice the tap on your shoulder. You turn round to find Jonathon wearing a small smile, holding a notebook you’d evidently left on the table. All the air is sucked out of you. Not only did you look like roadkill but he was watching you behave like a child over the semantics of a day. You immediately unfold your arms.

“You- uh- left this back there?” He tilts his head back to the door. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

You feel like you’re buffering in real time. You keep opening and closing your mouth. Steve, watching you fall apart steps in.

“Nah, don’t sweat it man. We’re neighbours,” he clarifies, “we’re settling a scheduling dispute. You know how it is.”

He’s so relaxed speaking to him, familiar almost.

“Aw Steve, I didn’t even realise that was you.” Jonathon smiles toothily at him, and now once more you want to kick Steve in the shin, for getting a real smile from him. “Anyway, your notebook m’lady. Cool pants by the way.” He hands you the notebook and is turned on his heel before you can even say anything back.

You’re still finding the words when you delayedly call back a weak, “thank you!”

Steve is grinning like the cat that got the cream when you turn back. Your entire face is a deep hue of red.

“What?”

He’s shaking his head, and chuckling softly. “Byers? You’re into Byers?”

You want the earth to open up and swallow you whole.

You scoff, unbelievably even to you. “No. Obviously not.”

Steve raises an eyebrow back and folds his arms.

“Fine, whatever. I have an eensy-weensy crush on him.” You admit, throwing your hands into surrender. “Besides, how does a guy like Jonathon know a douche canon like you?”

“Byers? Oh we go waaaay back. He comes to the parties you’re trying so hard to get shut down all the time actually.”

You don’t believe him for a second. Jonathon was gentle. Albeit from the little you know about him. But the Jonathon in your head is gentle.

“Bullshit. Jonathon reads plath and does nature photography. There’s no way he’s slumming it in that dump.”

“Believe it. Don’t believe it.” Steve’s suddenly above it all. “It’s a shame because without all the stress of not having my Friday night, I would’ve had time to help you talk to him. Do you always get so weird and guppy with the whole mouth thing?”

He’s mimicking the empty opening and closing you’d done only moments ago, much to your despair. You’re suddenly feeling very overwhelmed and exposed for the second time under the watchful stare of Steve in 24 hours. It would seem that he always seemed to see you at your most tragic.

“God, you’re an ass. Have your stupid Friday, just keep my weeknights restful, Harrington.” You spit, shoulder barging past him.

He’s chuckling again as he watches you go. “If you change your mind, you know where I am Duffy.”

You flip him off without looking back.

–

Even after your encounter with Steve trying to talk you down about everyone in the world seemingly believing you to be some sort of troll, a week later it was still bugging you. It was like all the joy had been sucked out of you and all that was left was this cloying insecurity that had never been there before. You had avoided all human contact with Heather and Nancy, opting to spend long nights in the library and texting your house groupchat that you were having a busy workload week.

Robin had also been pestering you when she would stop round to visit the other girls, almost resorting to emotional blackmail that she needed to speak to you about her current relationship woes.

It was just hard to be around them with how you’re now comparing yourself against them. There was no way you cut it that it didn’t feel like you fell short.

The charade would’ve gone on longer had you not been ambushed in your room that evening. It was late and you were enjoying the peaceful silence before tonight. It was a Saturday again, but you’d finally slept properly and you were feeling replenished in that regard.

Steve, however uncharacteristically it was for him, held up his end of the deal. All partying had ceased on the weeknights agreed upon. You had considered texting him a thank you when you remembered that you hated him. You hated him for being the catalyst for your newfound disdain of your life that you had loved before.

Robin had come into hour six of your bed rot marathon. You wanted to be mad about it but the truth was that you had missed your friends.

“As I live and breathe!” She wails. “Nancy, Heather. She's alive.”

There’s a shout back that is completely indistinguishable to either of you.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m alive. I’ve just been…” Busy wasn’t the right adjective. You didn’t have any work that was glaringly necessary. You were making work for yourself as a distraction. “Poorly?”

Robin looks at you like you’ve lost your mind.

“You’re weird. Why are you being weird?”

Another reason you’d been masterfully avoiding your roommates and your regular lodger was this. You didn’t think it would be long until one of them clocked your strange energy shift.

Robins moved to lie on the bed, she’s a tactile person and already has curled herself around you like a baby monkey. Usually you’d indulge her affection but the way you were feeling about yourself wasn’t making you feel much like you deserved the love. You’re gently strong arming your way out from under her to lean back against your wall.

“I’ve had this gross cold thing going on.” You lie. “You probably don’t wanna get too close.”

She pouts and pushes her hand into your forehead. “You don’t feel warm or anything. We could get you some tea and then we can help Nance decide what she’s wearing tonight.”

You’re already counting all the ways this will make you feel bad about yourself in your head. Nancy doesn’t need any help looking nice. She just did. It was a fact. It was as assured as the change of the seasons. But then there was also the tug in your heart that you miss your friends. And then you’re back where you began with the self-loathing because you’re avoiding them for something that a frat boy you don’t even like said.

“And tonight is?”

“Our Nancy has a gentleman caller.”

“My stars!” You pretend to clutch your pearls.

It’s nice to make a joke again. You haven’t spoken to anyone except Steve that day in the library in over a week.

“So, you come? We pick?” Robins all but bouncing now. “We get all geeked up on sugar and wait up for her to come home. It’ll be like a slumber party.”

You want to hate it but it’s so inviting.

Nancy’s room is a bomb site. It’s alarming because she’s like a drill sergeant when it comes to cleanliness. You’ve never seen her this worked up over a first date.

“Everything I put on makes me look like a big kid,” she whines.

You bite back a sneer at how absurd it is that she could view herself as anything less than perfect.

“What do you think,” she turns to face you. Robin and Heather are hooting for her.

She looks amazing. You bite out a smile. “It’s great, Nance.”

She smiles gratefully and turns back to the mirror to curl her hair.

“So, tell us about your suitor.” Robin asks, leant forward holding Nancy’s stuffed bear to her middle like a child.

You lean forward too because this is the first time Nancy has as much as sniffed in the direction of a boy in forever. He must be special for her to break focus during senior year.

“He’s in my photo journalism class.” She’s gushing. It’s endearing to see her get this excited about something that wasn’t related to school, the hard worker she is. “He’s majoring in photography.”

“Name? Address? Location of meeting?” Heather is listing off the details she wants, presumably to note them down in case he’s a skin wearing psycho.

Nancy looks back mid-curl to roll her eyes. “His name is Jonathon and he’s not a creep if that’s what you’re asking. We’re going to a public place.”

Suddenly you’re very aware of your heartbeat, particularly the fact that it’s much faster and you can hear the blood whooshing your ears. You’re lurching forward before you can even think about it. It disturbs where Heather is resting on the floor back against the bed.

She grunts in displeasure. “Jeez, are you on fire? What’s with the haste?”

You’re faintly aware of your own voice responding to tell them that you’d been feeling sick all day and that you actually think it’d be best if you took yourself off for a lie down. You don’t even bother waiting on a response. Nothing they said would make it feel better anyway.

–

You have to listen to Nancy leave from your bedroom. Which is super fun for you. You’re happy for her in the way that she’s your best friend and there’s no reason she couldn't be happy with someone you barely even knew. You know rationally that if this had happened exclusive to the duff of it all, you’d have been fine. It was a stupid crush. But it hadn’t happened alone. It happened immediately following the worst self-esteem crash you’d ever had.

You don’t know entirely how, but it’s Steve’s fault. You’ve resolved this in the 4 hours you've been walking the perimeter of your bedroom. Before Steve fucking Harrington had trampled into your life everything had been fine. But now here you were a black hole of insecurity and unable to confide in the ones you love because he’d moved next door to you and ruined your peaceful existence.

You’re already so angry that when the music from across the way begins, even though it’s within agreed upon days and hours, you see red. It’s blinding, hot, burning rage. You’re out with a start, straight through your front door. You barely recall getting into the frat house when you grab the first person you recognise. It’s backwards cap from last week. Delightful.

“Alright, Duffy!” He’s yelling over the thrash of bass. He’s fighting trying to block the way you encroach on his personal space.

“Steve?” Is all you shout, finger pointed at him to convey how much you don’t want to be tested.

“Jeez, he’s in his room.” He says, avoiding eye contact. “You need to lighten up, you know?”

You’re walking away already, “you need to find a better hat, I can still see your receding hair line.” You yell from over your shoulder.

You’re being petty now, stooping to their depths, but dammit you’re allowed to give back as good as you get. These are nasty, cruel little men who step on women to make themselves feel better.

The stairs ascend to the first floor. You’re aware roughly of where Steve’s room is based on its position opposite your window. It’s not on the second floor you know that for sure. You stood trying not to block the path for their guests while counting the doors to where he could be.

You land on the one you’re almost certain it is and barrel through without bothering to knock. He’s ruined your life already, you figure you guys were past the knocking stage.

It’s unclear what you’re expecting to find but Steve hunched over textbooks, reading glasses perched on his nose and massive headphone was not it. The room is… different than you imagined. Not that you’d committed much headspace to what the inside of Steve’s room would be like.

Still, it’s not this. It’s covered in band posters. There’s guitars balanced on walls and there’s draped fairy lights on his headboard. You’ve physically got to shake the surprise away to remember why you came here in the first place. You’re charging forward and snatching the headphones off his head. He’s visibly shocked, he leaps out of his skin and onto his feet.

“What the fuck?” He’s shouting. “You can’t just come in here like this?”

“Um, no actually I can Steve. ‘Enter all yee looking to party.’ It’s spray painted on your wall downstairs,” you can hear how ridiculous you sound.

“And you’re here to party?” He snorts. “Tell me why I find that hard to believe, Duffy.”

“Stop calling me that.” You growl.

“Or have you decided to take me up on my gracious offer of helping you with this pathetic, school girl crush you have on Byers, Duffy?”

You’re forehead to forehead now, breathing raggedly. You’re staring him right in his dark eyes. There’s no way you’d back down first. You push forward a step further again. “I said, don’t call me that. You can’t just drop your hurricane of bullshit on my lap and then act like you’re so much better than me.”

You don’t know how it’s possible but he edges in closer now too, to the point where you can feel his breath fanning your face. You guys haven’t broken eye contact yet, an unspoken tension begging to snap.

“Or maybe, it’s not my fault. Maybe, just maybe, you’ve attached yourself to one stupid comment made by a group of guys you don’t even like because you already had a problem with yourself.” He’s not shouting anymore, it’s soft spoken with a razor sharp edge. “Have you considered that? Duf–“

You can’t let him finish the sentence. If you heard that nickname one more time you were sure you really were going to go mad. You’re so angry, you just want him to shut up. What you do makes as little sense to you as anything else you’ve done over this past month. Maybe Steve brings out the worst in you but there’s no space to think about it because you’re thudding him into the wall with a crash.

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even seem shocked. You don’t let him get another snide remark in at all because you’re pressing your lips onto his with a bruising force. You expect him to push you away. You’re not even sure you care if he rejects you. You were just Duffy to him after all.

He doesn’t reject you though. No, he pushes back into the kiss with the same anger you’d poured into him. There’s no gentle close mouthed pecks. It’s immediately deep tongue, teeth clanking. He’s licking into your mouth. It feels wrong how not wrong it is. He’s pushing you off the wall, hands dug into the flesh of your hips and turning you round so that your back is trapped against the door now. You’re vaguely aware of some sort of crashing noises, but it’s so distant that it’s almost underwater.

You moan into his mouth only to get a harsh squeeze back.

You’re everywhere on each other. His shirts off, bare chest against the scratch of your nails, and you’re sort of blindly stumbling over to his bed. The back of your thighs hit the mattress and you’re falling, pulling your top overhead before you completely lie back.

His mouth has moved to your bare chest and neck. There’s no track-able pattern to his movements, it’s just fevered exploring with his mouth. His other hand is gripping onto the swell of your boob now. You push his head up and catch sight of his blown out pupils. His lips are swollen already and any notion you might’ve had that you wouldn’t be having sex is thrown out the window now entirely.

Any semblance of control evaporates, apparently for him too because he’s throwing his books off the bed violently trying to free space for your bodies while you strip your yoga pants off. He helps pull them off your ankles, they’re thrown half-hazardly over his shoulder with the rest of the destruction that was laid in your wake.

The burn in your lower belly was like fire now, you couldn’t think about anything other than him. You hadn’t had a minute of quiet in your head for a week because of him and now here he was, the antidote.

He’s naked now, and you try to avoid looking too intently. If you were going to be intimate with him like this, you’d at least like to have plausible deniability of not picturing him naked every time you bump into him walking to the shop or getting the mail.

He completely flush against you, arms bracketing your head, lips lightly brushing yours. You're looking deeply into his eyes. You’re looking for doubt. Making sure he wasn’t about to humiliate you once more. Come to his senses about bedding a duff.

But instead he pecks your lips once. “You cool with this?”

He’s entirely breathless and you can feel the swell of him between your legs, running along your heat. It’s feather light and you’re so sensitive that you’re whimpering. The nod you give back is violent, a plea. You’re silently begging.

He sighs in relief, it’s like he needs you the same as you need him and without a second thought, he’s pushing almost entirely in.

You muffle a cry into his shoulder, and you hear him gasp. “Fuck, fuck!” He’s saying into the front of your throat.

You try to buck up to pull him further into you but he stretched down with one hand to hold your hip still.

“J-just wait. Need a minute.”

You halt. He takes one breath in. Two. You think you might die if he doesn’t move now. The train of thought is already rolling back in and just when you think you might combust, he thrusts forward and it’s all white noise.

–

You redress in silence. Steve remains stagnant on the bed, lower half covered by his bedding. He’s watching you, the eyes feel biting on your back.

“So, is that why you came here then?”

You hear the smirk before you see it. You shoot him a dirty look before wading your way through the debris left from your path of destruction. In the moment it hadn’t connected that you guys had knocked down multiple items that had been perching on his dresser and the books once splayed out on the bed where in disarray beneath your feet.

There’s an eerie sense of calm that’s taken over you. Almost like the passing of a storm. There was some sort of release of the tension you’d been carrying. “You could help look for my top, if you have time to snark.”

“And why would I do that when I’m enjoying watching you do it?”

“You’re a pig.”

He’s still wearing the smirk. “You weren’t saying that a minute ago.”

“Yeah well, a minute ago you weren’t talking. How I wish if you’d do the same now.”

He shuffled forward now, elbows resting lazily on his knees. “You wanna go again already? So soon?”

You fake gag, and finally spy your top hanging off the lamp on his desk. “Not likely. I’m clearly experiencing some sort of sleep deprivation induced psychosis.”

You’re being hyperbolic. It’s second nature for you to snark at him now. It’s kind of the only language you guys speak. As strange as it was you don’t regret doing it. Not at all. In fact you were feeling some peace for the first time in so long that you’d actually forgotten what it’s like to not be relaxed.

You feel so not bad about what happened that you were almost certain that if he asked you to stay the night you would. You weren’t holding your breath on that though.

He scoffs. “Yeah I’m sure. You know if you wanted to sleep with me you didn’t need to come over and pretend to argue. We’re both adults.”

Your will to argue is still low but you feel a claw of frustration at the arrogance of the boy sitting before you. “I didn’t come over here for that. Shock as it may be not everyone is desperate to sleep with you. I came over because my roommate, the one you and your friends think is so much more desirable than me, is on a date with Jonathon.” You’re sitting on the edge of bed, slipping your shoes back on. “And try as I might not to care, even though I barely fucking know him, all I can think about is your little friends in that basement telling me I’m not good enough.”

You look back at him, his expression is soft now. Empathic in fact. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen any vulnerability from Steve. He’s usually so smug. You suppose that you’re also giving him a rare glimpse behind the curtain.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” You can feel he means it. You’re not on guard, waiting for when he’ll drop the nice guy act. He just feels bad. “You’ve got to know that what I said to you at the library was the truth. They’re just assholes. I’m an asshole. You intimidate them so they deflect. I shouldn’t have gone along with it.”

You nod, and pick at a fray on your sock. “I know it’s not true, Steve. It’s just hard to not be a…gentle person? Especially when my friends are so- the way they are.”

“You’re not wrong the way you are. I actually kind of like it.” He shrugs.

You chuckle. “You like girls who call you every night to shout at you?”

He’s laughing too, he’s much closer now, grabbing your hand from your lap to envelope in his. “I mean, no. Not as a rule anyway. But you’re funny, and you’re tough. And I like that you were never intimidated by me. I also like that you wear a pink bunny hair band at night. And the first time I saw you in that window, even though you were shouting at me, I thought you were the most beautiful girl I’d ever laid eyes on.”

Your mouth is hung ajar now, processing what Steve was saying to you. Steve has managed to do something no one has ever done before. He has rendered you utterly speechless.

“That's why I kept answering the phone. It’s why I kept trying to get at you. It’s stupid but I couldn’t think of another way to talk to you.”

You cast back to those nights. The playfulness in his eyes from the other window. Or the conversations that would drag over the phone, because he would spar with you right back. It had been right in front of you and you’d been too blind to see it. Maybe there’s something to Steve saying that you have a deeper problem with yourself than first realised because the reason you’d been so blind to it was because you’d never expect a guy like Steve to see you.

You’re bashful in the way you smile back. He doesn’t look worried about how you’re going to respond. There wasn’t much left private after what you’d just done.

“So, what you’re saying is that you like me?”

He’s directly in front of you now, hands holding your cheeks, easy smile on his lips. “I’m saying I really like you.”

The kiss you share is gentle this time. Your noses are gently brushing as you move in a steady rhythm against each other. When you pull back he rests his forehead on yours. It feels like a first kiss. Even after already having slept together.

“I suppose you’re okay?” You whisper back.

“Shut up, loser.” He’s laughing and pulling you back into the bed with him. “If you’re nice I’ll take you out for breakfast, if you promise to wear the bunny band.”

“Only if you wear the glasses. They’re kinda sexy.”

He doesn’t respond, already connecting your lips again.

You had a problem alright.

It lived the street over.

“Oh, come on,” your friend, Kayla, said. “It’s going to be fun.”

You weren’t so sure. It’s not that you didn’t like going to college parties, because you definitely did, it’s just that this one was being thrown at a specific frat house. At his frat house.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I just don’t know.”

Your other friend, Jenna, spoke up then. “There’s gonna be so many people there, you probably won’t even see him.” She attempted to reassure you. You didn’t really believe it, but you wanted to make your friends happy.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll go.”

Kayla and Jenna both began screaming then, both of them wrapping their arms around you which made you laugh.

“It’s going to be amazing,” Kayla said, absolutely beaming. “This is supposed to be, like, the party of the year.”

You, Kayla, and Jenna all crowded into your dorm room to get ready for the party that night. Your entire closet was on your bed by the time you were dressed, since your friends wanted to see every option possible before you decided on an outfit. You ended up in a cute new top you’d bought recently and a short skirt. You felt hot, at least.

Your friends looked equally hot. You all crowded into the mirror together as you pulled your cell phone out and took a photo, all three of you smiling. You posted it on your story before the three of you left.

Living on campus, the frat house wasn’t far away. You all decided to drive in Kayla’s car anyways because none of you wanted to walk blocks in your outfits.

The three of you sang along to music loudly as Kayla drove, the excitement for the party already high. You were the only one who couldn’t relax and just be happy, your mind racing about whether you’d see him there. You felt like you would - how could you not? He was president of the whole fraternity. You regretted letting your friends talk you into this, but at the same time, you didn’t want to let him ruin yet another night.

The party was already going strong when you pulled up to the house. The lawn was dotted with drunk college students, empty red cups all over. The three of you linked arms as you walked up to the front door, always a unit.

You had to separate as soon as you walked into the house, however, the crowd pushing in at you on all sides. You tried your best to form a hand holding train to the kitchen, which worked well enough.

You laughed as the three of you stumbled into the kitchen, and you grabbed three red solo cups, handing one to each of your friends. You made your drink strong, you knew you’d need it tonight.

You were pleasantly surprised at how well the night started. You didn’t see him, you didn’t run too close to any of his asshole friends. You started your night getting tipsy and dancing with Kayla and Jenna, but of course they each ended up being pulled off by some guy, and you were left alone. You’d had multiple guys approach you, but you weren’t interested. You had just wanted to hang out with your girls tonight.

You found yourself heading back into the kitchen for another drink refill. You would have to come up with a new plan for the night since your friends had been distracted.

You poured another strong drink in your cup, taking a big sip immediately. You were already feeling pretty loose and comfortable, after this drink you felt like you’d be having a really good time.

Tommy found you in the kitchen, which wasn’t ideal, but he had Carol with him so you weren’t too upset. The couple practically cornered you, and you ended up in a conversation with them as you finished your drink. By the time you were done you really were having an amazing time, laughing so hard your stomach hurt at some story Tommy was telling.

“I wanna go dance now,” Carol said, rubbing her hand over Tommy’s chest. He looked down at her hand before meeting her eyes again, giving her a smirk.

“You got it, baby,” he said, grabbing her hand. “See you around,” he said to you with a nod.

“You should come dance, too!” Carol called as her boyfriend dragged her off.

You didn’t think that sounded like a terrible idea. You tossed your cup in the trash can as you walked - you were plenty tipsy for now and you’d just get another one if you wanted another drink.

Back on the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music, dancing alone. Carol smiled at you from across the floor, and you giggled back at her. You were feeling incredible.

The feeling of large hands on your hips and someone’s body pressing up behind you took you by surprise, but it wasn’t unwelcome. You danced on this mystery guy, grinding your ass back against his hips. You thought maybe you’d found your entertainment for the evening, until you heard that voice in your ear.

“Hey, pretty lady,” Steve hummed in your ear as he danced against you, pushing the bulge in his jeans up against your ass. His fingertips teased up your bare thighs, slightly pushing up your already tiny skirt.

You had done so well avoiding him all night, and now here he was, as close to you as he could get, his hands trailing under your skirt. And you weren’t pushing him away. Your skin tingles everywhere he touches. It always went the same way with him.

“Steve…” you breathed out, continuing to dance slowly to the music. Steve’s grip tightened on your body.

“I feel like you’ve been avoiding me…” he said, his voice low and right in your ear. He caressed your thighs as he danced against you, pulling you tightly against his own hips.

“No,” you lied, a blush rising to your cheeks that you were glad he couldn’t see. “I just didn’t see you.”

“Well here I am,” he said, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. Yeah, here he was.

“I’ve missed you,” he continued to purr in your ear. “You haven’t been texting me back.”

You fought back the urge to sigh. “You know why, Steve.”

Steve laughed lowly against your neck, his hands moving up to grip your hips and guide you back against him. “You’re so cute when you’re jealous.”

Steve liked to play games. You swore to yourself and your friends that you were over him, and you weren’t going back to him again. He was no good for you, he only ever wanted to fuck and then act like he doesn’t even know you at school. Yet every time you came face to face with him, you fell back into him every time.

You didn’t respond to Steve. You kept dancing on him instead, grinding your ass back against him until you could feel just how hard he was through his jeans.

He wasn’t shy about moving his hands wherever he wanted to go, starting from your hips up and over your stomach and breasts, then back down to feel your bare thighs again, hands reaching beneath your skirt until fingertips traced lightly over your panties.

You gasped at the feeling. You were suddenly aware of how exposed you were.

“Not here…” you mumbled back to him, hoping he could hear you over the blaring music.

You felt him grin against your neck. “Wanna go up to my room, then?”

You should have said no. You were going to say no. At least that’s what you tell yourself. In reality, you didn’t hesitate before you were nodding your head, which only made Steve grin wider.

He grabbed your hand, intertwining your fingers, before pulling you through the party and up the stairs. You caught Jenna’s attention for a moment as Steve dragged you off, and she gave you a wide eyed look that said, Really?, to which you could only shrug. She shook her head at you as you followed Steve upstairs.

You had been in his room many times before, so this was nothing new. He locked the door behind you, turning to you with that cocky smile on his face.

“Did you wear this tiny little thing for me?” he asked as he walked right up on you, his fingers toying with the hem of your mini skirt.

“No,” you responded with a scoff. “What, I can’t want to look cute without it being for you?”

“Who else do you wanna impress?” he asked, chuckling darkly. He slid his hands beneath your skirt, cupping your ass in his large hands and squeezing.

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” you huffed, but then Steve was leaning down and before you knew it his lips were on yours. You hesitated for only a second before you kissed him back, your arms wrapping around his neck. He felt you up as he kissed you, his hands continuing to feel your ass and play with the hem of your panties.

He pushed your panties down your legs, and you stepped out of them and kicked them away when you felt them hit the ground. He groaned, his hands having full access to wherever he wanted now.

He felt around your smooth legs, one hand sliding around your front until he was slipping a finger between your folds, feeling how slick you were already.

“So wet for me,” he groaned against your lips. “You always act like you don’t want me anymore, but your pussy always begs for me.”

He circled around your clit with a single fingertip and you leaned your head back, letting out a sigh of pleasure. Steve took the opportunity to attack your neck, biting and sucking at your skin before soothing it with his kisses. You figured he’d be leaving marks again. You knew you’d regret letting him do it tomorrow, but for now it just felt so good.

Steve moved his hands back up to your hips, then slid them up your sides, feeling the skin beneath your shirt until he was pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. He undid your bra with expert fingers, then he cupped your breasts with his hands, thumbs rubbing over your hardening nipples.

You tangled your hands in his perfectly styled hair, messing it all up. He didn’t complain as he moved back up to kiss you again, his tongue tracing along your lips until you let him in. You moaned at the feeling of his tongue pressed against yours as he kissed you deeply, making him smile into the kiss.

He pulled away from you with a smack to your ass. “Get on your hands and knees for me, baby.”

You moved to push your skirt down your legs, but he stopped you.

“No. I think I like the skirt,” he said, a smirk on his lips.

You smiled to yourself as you climbed onto his bed on your hands and knees, lowering your upper half to lay on his soft sheets, the side of your face pressed into the mattress.

Steve groaned in approval, flipping your skirt up and rubbing a hand over your ass as he took in the view. He gave it another harsh slap, causing you to jerk forward and moan out at the feeling.

You heard him quickly undressing himself. His shirt hitting the floor, his belt unbuckling and zipper coming undone as he pushed his jeans and boxers down.

You felt his hands on your hips as he positioned himself behind you, his hard cock grazing against your thigh as he adjusted himself.

You closed your eyes in anticipation, subconsciously moving your hips back against him, wanting to feel him inside you immediately.

He smacked your ass again, and you let out a mix between a yell and a moan.

“Always so eager for me…” he mumbled, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and giving himself a couple quick strokes. He rubbed his tip between your glistening folds, coating his dick in your wetness.

You gasped when you felt him against your entrance, but you barely had time to think about it before he was thrusting in without warning, filling you completely in a second.

You screamed his name, your fists balling into the sheets, looking for some kind of leverage over the intense pleasure and slight pain from the stretch of him. Steve had a big dick, and he knew it.

You could hear the smirk in his voice even as he praised you, setting a brutal pace as he thrusted into your pussy. “Taking me so well, baby. She’s so fucking tight, every time for me.”

You moaned as he fucked you mercilessly, your eyes rolling back in your head and you thought you might also be drooling. Your brain was already hazy from the pleasure, when Steve reached forward, grabbing onto your shoulder so he could pull you back on his cock harder and faster.

You didn’t know if you could take much more of this. You felt your orgasm building fast, just from the perfect way he was fucking you. You felt like you had lost your mind and the only thing that was left was Steve and the way he was making you feel.

Steve grunted as he thrusted into you harshly while also pulling your body against his hips with every movement. His head dropped forward, hair hanging in his face, as he groaned loudly.

“Fuck, baby…” he panted out. “You have the perfect fucking cunt. I’ve never fucked a pussy this good, I swear to god.”

You whined at the compliment, arching your back as he took everything he wanted from your body. And you were happy to let him do it.

Steve reached one hand around your body to rub quick circles against your clit. You were already close just from his dick, so when you felt his touch you cried out, eyes closing hard and desperate moans spilling from your lips as you came hard around his cock. You tensed around him, making him groan loudly as he only pounded into you faster, chasing his own release.

“Yeah…that’s it, good girl,” he grunted out as he leaned his whole body over you. He rutted into you nearly desperately at this point, his grip on your hip tightening until you were sure it would leave a bruise.

“Fuck…gonna cum,” he groaned, and you felt his thrusts becoming more frantic and sloppy. “Can I cum inside?”

“Yes,” you answered him immediately. “Please. I’m good. I want you to.” You were practically begging him, it was your favorite way for him to finish and you felt like you needed it desperately.

Steve moaned, moving his hand up to grab your hair as he buried his face in your neck, thrusting into your pussy from behind at that brutal pace until he pushed in one last time, moaning your name before he groaned as he filled you deeply. You felt the warmth of him deep inside you and you whined, pushing your hips back against him as if wanting more even though you were both now utterly spent.

Steve tried to catch his breath as he laid over you. Realizing you were probably uncomfortable with all his weight on you, he carefully pulled out, rolling onto his side next to you.

Your body felt used in the best way. You ached, both from and for him. You were always insatiable when it came to Steve, that was one of your many problems.

Steve stood, pulling his boxers and jeans back on. You still hadn’t even moved from your position on your stomach, feeling like your body was made of jelly.

“You should get cleaned up and get back out there,” he said, pulling his shirt on over his head. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to fix it.

You looked over at him. You always wished he’d stay, even just for a little while. Cuddle a little, maybe. But this was King Steve and he didn’t do things like that.

You lifted your aching body from the bed, feeling a little embarrassed as you had to nakedly hunt for your clothes on the floor. You found your top, but couldn’t find your panties anywhere until Steve tossed them to you with a smirk.

“I would have kept them, but with that little thing,” he eyed your skirt hungrily, like he wanted to get beneath it again, “I think you need ‘em more than I do.”

You blushed, sliding your panties back on. “You’re a pig.”

Steve laughed, leaning over to look at himself in the mirror attached to his dresser. He fixed his hair a little more, and then he was heading to the door.

“Take your time in here,” he said, unlocking and opening the door. He slipped through, careful not to expose your still topless form to anyone in the hallway. He looked back at you before he fully left. “I’ll text you,” he said, giving you a wink, and then he was gone.

You sighed as you pulled the rest of your clothes back on. You felt the same way you always did after you ended up sleeping with Steve again - guilty, angry at yourself. But also longing for more from him, which was probably the part of yourself you hated the most.

You slipped out of his bedroom, straightening your clothes and hair. You managed to get back to the party undetected.

You swore that you weren’t going to let Steve ruin your night, and you didn’t plan to let that change even though you’d fucked him again.

You went back into the kitchen, making yourself another drink. Steve was across the room, leaning against the wall and talking to a group of people hanging on his every word. This included at least three girls, one of which was literally hanging on his arm.

You rolled your eyes and walked into the living room, drinking from your cup as you walked. You wanted to get drunk now, forget all about Steve. Again.

Jenna caught your eye as you entered the room, and she left the guy she’d been with the whole night to run over and grab your arm.

“What the fuck was that?” she hissed at you, not wanting the whole party to hear. “Did you fuck him again?”

The look on your face was answer enough. Jenna sighed and looked at you like she was disappointed, which made you feel terrible.

“Come on, girl. I love you. You need to respect yourself more than that.”

You knew she was right, but you didn’t want to think about it anymore. You tugged on her hand. “I don’t want to talk about him. Come on, come dance with me.”

She looked at you strangely as she let you lead her to the dance floor. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked, concerned.

“I’m great,” you assured her, a smile plastered to your lips. “I just want to have fun tonight, okay?”

She looked at you for a few seconds longer, but then she gave in, sighing and squeezing your hand. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s dance.”

You smiled gratefully at her, and the two of you started dancing along to the music. The current song ended, and the one that came on next happened to be your friend group’s favorite. You both laughed and began singing along, Kayla running from wherever she had been all night to join in dancing with you.

You didn’t need Steve or any guy to have a good time. Even though you let him in again, let yourself be let down by him again, you could push that out of your mind. Right?

He watched you from across the room as you danced with your friends. You could feel his eyes burning into you, but you only allowed yourself to look up once, only for a moment. He turned his attention back to the girl he was talking to the second your eyes met, but you saw him.

You were tired of stressing over Steve. Fuck Steve.

Whatever. You were going to have fun. The night was still young.

as always, comments and reblogs are so appreciated!

°:. *₊ ° . ☆ °:. *₊ ° .• *₊ ° . *☆. °:

chapter one — i’m feeling you, baby

chapter two — i can’t keep my focus

chapter three — TBA

chapter four — TBA

chapter five — TBA

Not Hawkins—Hawkins is full of grown-ups who bend down too close, their eyelashes like moving spiders as they pinch his cheeks and say, Oh, Catherine, he looks just like Daniel already, doesn’t he?

No. Steve wants to go home to his room. Where all his dinosaurs live. Where his blue night-light makes everything soft and underwater-colored. Where no one tells him Smile, Stephen, or Be polite, Stephen, or For heaven’s sake, Stephen, stop fidgeting.

His new sandals hurt. Bad. The buckle is sharp and keeps poking the soft part of his ankle every time he moves. His shirt itches him everywhere—his neck, his sides, his armpits—and no amount of wriggling seems to help.

He tugs at the collar, trying to make it stop.

His mom’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Stephen, sweetheart, keep still.”

He tries. He really, really does.

But all around him, the grown-ups are being very loud. They stand in little circles, laughing these big, sharp HA-HA-HA laughs that poke straight into his ears. Every time his dad says something, it’s like someone presses a button and they all explode at once.

Someone tells his mom how tall Steve’s getting. Someone else winks at his dad and keeps saying the word “Princeton,” which Steve thinks might be a kind of car, but it makes his dad laugh loudly and look at Steve with a funny smile.

Another woman bends down and tells him he’s going to “break so many hearts one day.”

Steve frowns.

Why would he do that?

He likes hearts.

Hearts are for loving, not hurting.

He looks past the grown-ups—past the chairs and tables and the flowers that smell too strong—toward the tiny slice of ocean peeking between the dunes. Blue and shiny and very, very far away.

He wants it.

Wants to touch the sand with his bare feet. Wants water he’s allowed to splash in.  

Wants a summer that belongs to him instead of everyone else.

His mom squeezes his shoulder again. “Posture, Stephen. Stand up straight.”

He thinks maybe that’s his name now: Posture Stephen.

“I am standing straight,” he mutters.

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

He wants to run.

Run until the HA-HA-HA sounds disappear. Run until nobody’s watching him. Run until he hits the water.

So when his mom gets called over by someone waving a fancy glass, and his dad tells another joke that makes everyone explode-laugh again—

Steve sneaks away.

He’s fast and light, like a ninja.

He slips between chairs, tiptoes down the wooden steps, and as soon as the dunes come into view, he runs.

The sand squishes under his feet, and Steve sighs so big his whole chest feels lighter. He breathes in deep, holding as much salty air as his lungs can fit.

The beach is huge. Bigger than his school playground. Bigger than Hawkins, even. Tall grasses wave on the dunes like they’re saying hello, and beyond them is nothing but water—blue and green and silver, stretching all the way to forever.  

The ocean roars, but it’s a good sound. A soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that fills his ears without hurting them.

On his way toward the water, he finds a stick.

A really good stick. Long and a little pointy on one end.

It could be a cool pirate sword. He’s gonna use it to make the biggest hole in the world.

He plops down, criss-cross-applesauce, and starts digging. Sand sticks to his shorts, but that’s okay. He can say he tripped later.

He stabs the stick into the ground and drags it out.

The sand slides back in.

He digs again.

Slides back in again.

He huffs and tosses the stick away.

“This is dumb,” he mutters. “You’re dumb.” He means the hole. And the stick. And the sandals. And maybe the whole world.

He’s just about to flop onto his back and stare at the sky, because that usually gets someone to notice him—

When a shadow falls over his hole.

“What’re you doing?”   

Steve looks up.

It’s a girl. About his age.

You stand there, barefoot, hair wild like you ran through ten windstorms. Sand is smudged on your cheek like face paint. He stares at your toes curling happily in the sand and feels a sharp pinch of jealousy.

You drop a bright plastic bucket beside him. It’s full of shells and rocks and something that moves.

A crab lifts its tiny claws and clicks at him.

Steve jerks back. You don’t.

Instead, you plant your hands on your hips and squint down at him like you’ve known him forever.

“You’re not diggin’ right.” you announce.

He blinks. “…I’m not?”

“Nope.” You point at the hole with your whole arm. “Sand’s too dry. It just falls in. You gotta use wet sand.”

“Oh.” He feels silly for not knowing that. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” You plop down beside him. Your knees are dirty, covered in scratches and tiny dots from the sand, but you don’t seem to care. “Wanna see how?”

Nobody ever asks him that.

Nobody ever asks him if he wants to see something.

He nods fast. “Yeah.”

You grin and grab his hand, yanking him up so quickly he stumbles.

“I-I’m Steve,” he blurts as he gets dragged toward the ocean, because he knows he’s supposed to introduce himself to new people.

You tell him your name proudly. Then you tilt your head, thinking.

“Can I call you Stevie?”

“Stevie?”

“Yeah! My mom’s favorite singer’s named Stevie.”

Steve thinks about it.

Nobody’s ever given him a nickname before.

It feels special. Like a secret.

“Okay,” he nods, smiling.

You beam and tug him toward the water. “C’mon, Stevie!”

Stevie.

He likes it.

Loves it.

It feels like the sun just turned on inside his chest.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 6 years old when summers suddenly mean everything.

The Hamptons stop being itchy shirts and sharp laughs that hurt his ears.

They become you.

Summer means you. It means your laugh, your bucket full of strange treasures, your hair decorated with seashells “because it looks cool.” It means your brave, bossy voice telling him what to do, but always in a fun way.  

Every month of the school year, Steve waits.

And every night before bed, he lines his stuffed dinosaurs up by his pillow and tells them stories about the beach. About the girl with the crab bucket and the sand-matted hair the wind couldn’t catch. About how you call him Stevie because it’s the name of your mom’s favorite singer. About how you don’t care when he wiggles, or gets dirty, or says some words wrong.

When his mom asks if he’s excited for the Hamptons, he just shrugs. “I guess.”

But inside, his chest feels all tight and fizzy, like a soda can he’s not supposed to open yet: Coca-Cola, his favorite.

The whole flight to New York, Steve squints at the numbers on his watch, trying to decide if the big hand is halfway or not. He’s still not very good at telling the time, but he knows enough to know the flight feels like forever.

He ends up staring out the little oval window instead, at clouds that look like giant dinosaur eggs. He wonders if you’d think so, too. He’ll ask you when he sees you.

If he sees you.

What if you aren’t there this year? What if you forgot him?

The thought makes his stomach feel all wiggly and twisty. He doesn’t like it.

He hopes you’re there. He hopes you didn’t forget him.

The moment the car turns onto the long, winding road toward the summer house, Steve scoots forward as far as the belt lets him, pressing his face to the window. When he sees the ocean shining in the distance like a giant blue secret, his chest gets so tight he can hardly breathe.

He can’t wait. He can’t.

He barely waits for the car to stop.

“Stephen! Shoes! Your shoes are going to—oh, for heaven’s sake…”

He doesn’t listen. He takes the steps two at a time, sandals smacking hard against the wood.

He’s taller now. A whole two inches and a half, thank you very much.

He’s faster, too. Knows he is. He’s been practicing during recess, racing Tommy H. behind the swings.

He leaps off the last step and skids into the sand—

“STEVIE!”

He spins around so fast the world blurs.

You’re barreling toward him at top speed. Sand spraying behind you, hair flying everywhere. Your bucket bangs against your knee as you run, rattling and clanking and sounding even fuller than last year.

Steve’s face splits into the biggest grin he’s ever had.

You crash into him, arms wrapping tight around his middle, and the force of it nearly knocks him onto his back.

“HI! Stevie, Stevie—you gotta see this shell I found! Wait, hang on—”

You pull back just far enough to dig frantically through your bucket, dumping half of it into the sand. Rocks tumble out. Then a string of green, slimy seaweed. You grab something big and lumpy and shove it up toward his face.

“See?”  

Steve blinks.

The shell is huge, bigger than his whole hand. Pale pink and creamy white, spiraled tight at one end and opening wide at the other. The outside is dotted with rounded little spikes that feel rough when he traces his fingers over them, but the inside is smooth and shiny.

“That’s really cool,” he says, because everything you do is cool. “It kind of looks like…” He squints hard, turns it sideways. “…a horn?”

Your eyes light up. “Yeah! Like a unicorn.”

He smiles. “Or a dinosaur.” 

“That’s better,” you nod seriously. “Okay now listen!”

Before he can ask what you mean, you press the wide end right against his ear. It’s cold and sandy against his cheek.

“…What’s it do?”

“Just listen.”

He holds very still, not sure what he’s supposed to be listening for.

And then—

Whoosh. Whoosh-whoosh.

His eyes go huge.

“Whoa,” he breathes.

“Cool, right?”

“It’s loud.”

“That’s the ocean.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s stuck in there.”

You drop the shell into his hands and curl his fingers around it. “Keep it.”

He frowns. “But… you found it.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug like it’s obvious. “I’ll find another one. The beach has, like, a million.”

He looks down at the shell again, then back at you. His chest feels funny, all warm and full. It feels good. Really good.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, squinting out toward the water. “Wanna see something even cooler?”

Of course he does.

⚓︎

You drag him everywhere.

To tide pools where little fish zip and hide under wet rocks and the seaweed shimmers in the water. Look, look, a crab!

To a secret hideout between the dunes where the grass grows taller than your heads. This way, Stevie!

To the treasure spot, because every beach has one if you know how to look. You draw an X in the sand with a stick and make a crooked map with squiggly lines and arrows. Quick, Stevie, dig! We have to find the gold before the sea monsters come!

You show him your jar full of hopping sand bugs. One brushes his thumb and he squeaks.

You laugh. He stands up straighter and pretends he wasn’t scared.

You even show him your Very Important rock collection. which is a big deal because you don’t show anyone your rocks—not even your cousins, who are “mean poop-heads who don’t appreciate cool stuff.”

Later, you’re sitting in the sand, sorting shells by color—white pile, pink pile, stripey pile—when you tell him you’re flying back to California when the summer’s over.

“Cal-ee-for-nee-yah,” you say proudly.

Steve blinks. “Why?”

“That’s where my house is.” You shrug. “I stay here with my aunt in the summer.”

“Oh.” He digs his toe into the sand. “So… you’re goin’ away?”

“Just for school.” You glance at him. “I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.”

He looks at you fast, careful, like maybe it’s a trick. “Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“When?”

“Next summer.”

He thinks about that. A whole year sounds really long, but summers always come back. They have to.

“You promise?”

“Promise,” you nod, sticking out your pinky.

He hooks his around yours immediately, serious as anything. Pinky promises are the strongest kind. Everybody knows that.

“Okay,” he says, finally breathing again. Then his forehead scrunches.

“Where’s… um…” He sticks his tongue out, trying to remember how you said it. “Cal… Cal-uh-for-nee… Cal-uh-for-na?” He shakes his head, mad that he can’t say it right.

You smile. “Yeah! It’s super, super far. You gotta take two planes.”

“Oh.” He nods slowly. Two planes sounds like forever.

You tell him it’s hotter there. That the trees are huge and tall, with giant leaves like green fireworks stuck in the sky.

You tell him the beaches there are bigger. Way bigger.

Steve looks out at the miles of Hamptons shoreline and frowns. “How?”

“They just are,” you insist, tossing a shell onto the striped pile. “And people surf there.”

“What’s that?”

You squint up at the sky. “It’s like… flying. But on water. They stand on boards and go really, really fast.”

Steve blinks, tries to imagine it.  

Flying… but on water.

He knows you can’t fly. Birds can. Planes can. People can’t.

And you definitely can’t stand on water. He tried once in the bathtub. You just sink.

His mouth twists.

“That’s not real,” he says, sure of it.

You scrunch your nose, lip jutting out. “It is too!”  

You shove him—not hard, just enough that he flops backward into the sand with a surprised oof.

For half a second, his stomach drops. Maybe he did something wrong.

He stares up at you, eyes wide, waiting for your face to go tight like grown-ups’ faces when he messes up.

But you’re laughing.

Bright and easy, like nothing’s wrong at all.

Sand sprays as you jump up and spin away, yelling over your shoulder, “Race you to that big rock!”

And you’re gone before he can say wait up.

The tight feeling in his chest disappears.

He scrambles up, laughing too, chasing after you with everything he’s got. Legs burning, sandals slipping, but he doesn’t care.  

It’s perfect.

It’s the best day of his whole life.

Until you fall.

It happens so fast.

One second you’re running ahead of him, laughing, hair flying everywhere.

The next, you stumble over a hard patch in the sand and go down hard.

“Ow!”

Steve skids to a stop so fast he almost falls too. His heart leaps into his throat.

He drops beside you right away. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Oh no, oh no—” His eyes dart all over you, scared and frantic. There’s a smear of red mixed with the sand on your knee. His breath catches.

“Your... your knee,” he whispers.

You sniffle, lip wobbling. “H-hurts.”

It’s the worst word he’s ever heard.

“It’s okay,” he says fast, even though his hands are shaking. He reaches for your arm, then stops, afraid he’ll make it worse if he touches you wrong. “It’s okay. I can fix it. I know how.”

You look up at him, eyes shiny. “…You do?”

He nods hard. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t really know. But his mom fixed his knee once after he fell off his bike. He remembers the cold wipe. The sting. The band-aid after.

“I’m gonna get the band-aid box,” he blurts, pointing up at the house. “I’ll be super fast. I promise.”

“O-okay.”

Before he runs, he leans in and gives you a quick, careful hug around your shoulders, making sure not to touch your knee. It always makes him feel better when you hug him.

“I’ll be fast,” he promises again. “Really fast.”

And then he sprints.

He sprints like he’s never sprinted in his life.

Across the beach, up the steps, through the house, ignoring the sharp call of “Stephen! Shoes!” as he dives into the bathroom.

He drops to his knees and yanks open the cabinet under the sink. He grabs the entire first aid kit, almost the size of his head, and runs back with it rattling in his arms.

You’re still there when he gets back, sitting exactly where he left you.

“I got it!” he pants.

He flips the kit open, hands clumsy, trying to remember how his mom did it. He finds a wipe, tears it open, and gently presses it to your knee—

You hiss and pull back.   

“Sorry!” His eyes go wide. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll do it softer.”

He leans down and blows carefully on your knee.

“Better?”

“…Yeah,” you sniff. “A little.”

He nods, relieved. He wipes as fast and gentle as he can, tongue poking out while he concentrates. Then he grabs a band-aid, peeling it open with his teeth because his fingers won’t work right. He sticks it on crooked, pressing the edges down with both thumbs.

“There,” he breathes, nodding to himself. “All done.”

When he looks up, your eyes are huge and your mouth is open like you just saw a unicorn.

“Hey, are you oka—oof!”

All the air is knocked out of him when you lunge forward, both arms wrapping tight around his neck.

A warm, squishy, full-body hug.

“You’re the nicest boy ever,” you mumble into his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

His ears go hot. His whole chest feels too full, like it might pop.

No one’s ever said that to him before.

“Oh... okay,” he whispers, because he can’t think of any other words.

He hugs you back, being careful and gentle.

And inside him, something huge and glowing starts to form.

Something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he knows he will carry it with him forever.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 10 years old when he realizes he’ll never forget you.

It’s the end-of-the-summer fireworks festival.

He sprints down the familiar sandy path, sneakers thudding, two glass bottles of Coca-Cola clinking together in his hand. A crinkly bag of potato chips is tucked tight under his arm—salt and vinegar, your favorite, even though they make your mouth pucker and your nose wrinkle.

His heart thumps in that way it always does during the very last week of summer, when everything fun is happening all at once—and also ending.

He knows you’re there, waiting for him.

You always are.

Your spot is exactly where it’s been for five summers now: a small dip between two grassy dunes, hidden from the rest of the beach. The sand curves around it like arms, blocking the wind and the noise from the crowd.

You’re sitting on your blanket, legs crossed, tongue poking out as you carefully tie pieces of sea grass together into a bracelet.

When you see him, your whole face lights up.

“Stevie! You got it!”

“’Course I did,” he grins, holding up the chips. “My mom wouldn’t stop talking to Mrs. Aldridge about… I dunno. Hair stuff? It took forever.”

“That’s ’cause grown-ups love being boring,” you say, scooting over. “Sit, sit! The first one’s gonna happen any second.”

He flops down beside you, and you shuffle closer until your shoulder presses against his.

Closer than last year, he thinks.

Your hand brushes his knee when you reach for the snacks. Steve pretends he doesn’t notice, but he notices like crazy.

The first firework explodes with a loud crack, red sparks bursting across the sky.

You gasp, sharp and happy, and grab his hand without thinking.

Your fingers slide between his.

Steve looks down, startled.

Your palm is warm, a little sweaty. His own hand is rough in spots, scraped from climbing the rope at recess back home and picking at scabs he shouldn’t. Your thumb rests right against it.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

“Whoa,” you whisper as the sparks fade. “Did you see that? It looked like a flower.”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

But he’s not looking at the sky at all.

The fireworks flash over your face, turning your eyes all sorts of bright, pretty colors: blue, then gold, then pink. Your nose scrunches when one pops extra bright. Every time a big one crackles, you squeeze his hand tighter.

So he squeezes back.

Carefully at first. Then a little braver.

Green fireworks shoot out like tree branches, spiraling high into the dark, but he only really notices because they shine in your eyes.

You’re brighter.

You’re always brighter.

When the sky goes dark for a second and everything is quiet, you turn to him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you whisper.

“Ye-ah?” His voice cracks halfway through. That’s been happening a lot lately. He clears his throat fast and hopes you didn’t hear it.

You smile at him.

“You’re my best friend.”

His stomach flips, like that time he went on the biggest roller coaster at Indiana Beach and thought he might fly right out of his seat.

He sits up a little straighter, squeezing your hand.

“You’re mine too,” he blurts. “Like—like the most. Outta everyone. In the whole world.”

Your face breaks into the biggest smile yet, and before he can think about it, you lean in and wrap your arms around his neck.

A hug.

It feels familiar. But also different.

Bigger. Like it means more than it used to, even if he doesn’t know why.

He hugs you back right away, pressing his nose into your hair. You smell like sunscreen and grape popsicles and the ocean.

“You’re the best, Stevie,” you whisper into his shoulder. “The best ever.”

That fluttery feeling in his stomach comes back, stronger this time. He swallows, nods even though you can’t see it.

“You too,” he says quietly, squeezing you just a little tighter.

Then, just as you pull back, you press a quick kiss to his cheek.

Barely there.

But it feels like something exploding inside his chest.

His face goes burning hot. He’s really glad it’s dark, because he’s pretty sure his cheeks are as red as the fireworks.

Up above, the finale roars to life: fountains of silver streaking upward, bursting into brilliant gold that lights up the entire beach.

You turn back to watch like nothing happened, scooting closer until your head tips and rests against his shoulder.

Steve freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

When he finally has to, he does it slowly, careful not to move an inch. Your fingers curl into his shirt. Your breath is warm against his neck when you let out a small, sleepy sigh.

The fireworks crash and boom overhead, sparkling like giant flowers.

Steve stares at the sky, heart pounding, feeling something change inside him.

Something big.

It’s the first time he understands something he’s never felt before.

Steve Harrington is ten years old when he falls in love with his best friend in the whole world.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 12 years old when everything gets... weird.

He’s a lot taller now, second tallest out of the boys his class. He’s faster, stronger. His shoulders are broader, his arms a little longer than he expects when he stretches them out. His hair brushes the tops of his ears, and he kind of likes it that way, even though his mom keeps telling him it’s time for a trim.

And his voice... his voice keeps doing that awful, traitorous squeak. Especially when he’s around you.

But none of that really matters.

Because you’re here.

You’re back.

And you’re different, too.

Not in a big, obvious way. You still run like you’ve got rocket boosters strapped to your ankles. You still crouch by tide pools and whisper to crabs like they’re old friends. You still call him Stevie in the exact same way.

But now...

Now you lean on him sometimes when you sit together. You don’t move away when your knees touch. Now your eyes flick to his mouth when he’s talking, and Steve doesn’t really know what that means, but he knows it means something.

The wind is steady and warm today, bending the dune grass in lazy waves. The two of you sit cross-legged in your secret spot, the same hidden hollow you’ve shared since you were five. Piles of shells and weird rocks you swear might be fossils are scattered between you.

You hand him a perfectly round one with swirls. “This one looks like Neptune,” you declare.  

Steve nods, even though the only thing he knows about Neptune is that it's blue.

He’s not looking at the rock, anyway.

You’re telling him a story about a crab you swear was as big as a dog. You stretch your arms out to demonstrate the size, ridiculously wide.

“Stevie, I swear,” you insist. “Its claws were this big. Could’ve snipped your big toe off.”

Steve nods along, trying to focus on the part where he should laugh.  

But he can’t stop staring.

At the color of your eyes in the sunlight. At the way the breeze lifts strands of your hair and drops them back against your cheek. At the curve of your mouth when you get excited.

He feels weird all the time now. Fluttery and unsteady, like the moment at the top of a roller coaster right before it drops. It happens every time he looks at you, or thinks about you, which is basically always.

He’s thinking about how pretty the sun looks reflecting off your skin, how it catches the little beads of water on your cheek and makes them glint like tiny stars, when suddenly—

You go quiet.

Really quiet.

Steve’s stomach tightens instantly.

You’re never quiet unless you’re asleep or thinking about pulling a prank on him. He stiffens, glancing around for whatever bug or crab you might’ve hidden.

There’s nothing.

You’re just… looking at him.

“Hey, Stevie?” you say softly.

His throat makes a weird clicking noise. “Yeah?”

You scoot closer. Your knee presses against his leg and doesn’t move away.

Your voice drops to a whisper. “I’m gonna do something. Don’t freak out.”

He’s already freaking out. He doesn’t think he’s ever freaked out this much in his entire life.

“O-okay,” he manages.

You nod once, take a tiny breath, lean forward—

And you kiss him.

Right on the mouth.

His first kiss.

Your lips are soft and warm. They press against his for just a second, shorter than a blink, gone before he can react.

You pull back, eyes still closed. Steve is frozen, eyes wide open, mouth puckered.

Your nose crinkles when you open your eyes and see him.

“Stevie,” you giggle. “Close your mouth!”

He snaps it shut so fast his teeth click together.

You completely lose it, laughing as you fall sideways into the sand.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “You looked like a fish!”

He groans, mortified, covering his face with both hands as he flops down next to you. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m sorry!” you say, laughing harder. “I’m not—it’s just—”

He peeks through his fingers, smiling despite himself. He loves the sound of your laugh, even when it’s at his expense.

When your giggles finally soften, you scoot closer on your back until you’re nose to nose, lined up from shoulder to ankle.

Steve turns his head to look at you.

Up close, he can see the little grains of sand stuck to your forehead, the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. His face burns.

“Is…” His voice cracks again, and he swallows. “Is it okay if we… do that again?

Your smile is huge and immediate. “Yeah. I wanna.”

This time, he leans in first.

And this time, he’s ready.

He closes his eyes. Keeps his lips together. Moves slow and careful. His nose bumps your cheek, squishing awkwardly from the angle, and you break into giggles again, turning the kiss wobbly and messy.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling the exact same way.

“Oh my god, your face is so red.”

“It’s—it’s because it’s hot out,” he stammers.

“Nope. It’s you.”

You reach up and ruffle his hair, messing it up completely.  

“Hey!” he sputters, batting at your hand.

You climb halfway on top of him, not really tackling, just laughing, squirming, wrestling in that loose, joyful way where nobody’s trying to win, and he'd let you anyway.

You’re both out of breath by the time you flop back onto the sand, laughing so hard it hurts.

Steve throws an arm over his face, smiling wide, everything dizzy and bright.

The wind brushes over him. The sun hums overhead.

After a while, you stretch your pinky toward him.

He feels it tap against his hand and hooks it without even looking.

“Promise we’ll hang out every summer,” you say.

“That’s easy,” he answers immediately. “Promise.”

Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, suddenly serious.

“Actually, next time, I’m gonna bring something.”

Your eyes go bright. “Like what?”

“It’s a secret.”

You shove him lightly. “What? Tell me!”

“Nope.” He flops back onto the sand, grinning. “You gotta wait.”

You groan dramatically at the sky, pinky still tangled in his. 

“I hate you.”

He closes his eyes, smiles at the sun.

“No you don’t.”

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 13 years old when his world stops for the first time.

It happens on a warm June morning, with sunlight slanting through tall windows and the smell of pancakes drifting through the house.

He starts the day happy.

He hums as he packs, can’t help it. He doesn’t even care that his room’s a disaster: swimsuits tossed over the chair, T-shirts half-folded, socks everywhere.

On his desk sits a small shoe box.

He pauses in front of it.

Inside are the things you’ve given him over the years. Precious, timeless treasures.

The spiral shell shaped like a dinosaur horn. The seaweed bracelet, brittle now, faded pale from time. The smooth blue stone you said looked like Neptune.  

He picks up each thing carefully, touches it, turns it over in his hand.  Then he puts them back exactly how they were and closes the lid.

The box goes into the bottom drawer, where it’s safe.

Then he picks up his gift.

It’s clumsy. Strung together with twine, wrapped messily in torn comic-book pages because he couldn’t find real wrapping paper. The corners are taped crooked, the edges uneven. He’s worked on it for years, adding to it bit by bit every summer, telling himself next year every time.

But this year feels different.

This year, he thinks he can give them to you.

He’s even written his address on the top one—carefully, in his neatest handwriting—so maybe you could write to him in California. You’re smart. You’d know how.

He smooths the edges with nervous fingers.

He’s practiced what he’ll say all week.

Hey, these are for you. Too boring.

You can have these, or whatever. Too nothing.

You mean everything to me. Too much. Way too much.

He settles on a smile instead.

You always say he has a nice one, that he smiles with his whole face, that his eyes squish up “like a happy chipmunk.”

No one else ever says things like that to him. Not the way you do.

He’s halfway through folding a beach towel when his mom’s voice floats up the stairs.

“Stephen? Breakfast.”

“Coming!” he calls, already jogging down barefoot, taking the steps two at a time, giddy.

His mom is in the kitchen, stirring her coffee neatly. His dad sits at the table with the newspaper spread wide.

“Hey, Mom,” Steve says, breathless. “Have you seen my hat? The one with the red stripe? I can’t find it.”  

She doesn’t look up.

“Stephen,” she says evenly, “we aren’t going to the Hamptons this summer.”

The world stops.

“...Huh?”

She sets her spoon down. “We’ve decided to do Europe instead.”

For one second, he thinks it’s a joke. He lets out a short, confused laugh and looks at his dad.

His throat goes tight when nobody smiles.

“What?” Steve croaks.

“You’re thirteen now, Stephen,” his dad says, turning the page. “It’s time you saw culture. Real culture.”

“But...” Steve shakes his head, hair falling into his eyes. “But we always go to the Hamptons.”

“This will be good for you,” his mom says, smiling lightly. “Europe will be lovely.”

Lovely.

Like the sound of your laugh.

Like the colors of fireworks in your eyes.

Like the warmth of your hug when you called him the nicest boy ever.

“N-no, but—” His voice cracks. “But I have a friend.”

“You’ll make new ones.”

“You don’t understand,” he says, words tripping over each other, panic rising fast. “I have to—I promised—I told her I’d—”

His dad sighs, newspaper crinkling. “Stop whining.”

Steve flinches.

“I’m not whining,” he whispers.

His mom steps closer and smooths his hair back like he’s still little. “You’ll love Europe, darling. Now eat your breakfast. You can finish packing after.”  

Something hot and awful swells in his chest.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to throw the coffee pot at the wall and watch it shatter.

Instead, he tries again.

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking completely now. “Please, Mom. We have to go. She’ll be waiting. I told her I’d come back. Just this year. Please.”

He promises to be good. That he won’t run off to the beach without permission. That he won’t complain during parties. He swears he’ll do more chores, stop arguing, get better grades. He’ll be perfect. He’ll be anything.

Anything.

“Stephen,” his father snaps, voice like a slammed door. “Drop it.”

Something inside Steve drops with it.

Falls.

Cracks.

Shatters.

⚓︎

He runs upstairs, slams his door and locks it. Drags his dresser in front of it with shaking arms. Slides down onto the carpet, breaths coming in sharp, broken pieces.

He doesn’t come out the rest of the day.

That night, he sleeps with your shell clutched in his hand, pressed tight against his ear. The ocean hums inside it. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend he’s there—pretend you’re tugging his hand, pulling him toward the water.

Stevie, look!

He cries until his pillow is soaked.

⚓︎

The Hamptons house stays closed all summer; curtains drawn, doors locked, a whole season going on without him.

On the way to the airport, Steve presses his cheek to the car window and watches the world blur past.

He doesn’t know how to send a letter. He doesn’t know where in California you live.  

He can’t call. Can’t write. Can’t find you.

There is no treasure map back.  

Just sandcastles washed away by tides and a pinky promise he couldn’t keep.

He pictures you standing in the dunes, bucket in hand, looking over your shoulder.

Waiting.

Maybe you’re mad.

Maybe you’re worried.

Maybe you’re thinking he forgot you.

That thought hurts so badly he has to bite down on his knuckle to keep quiet.

⚓︎

In hotel rooms across Europe, Steve lies awake at night, staring at unfamiliar ceilings.

He tries not to cry.

Some nights, he fails.

But he does it silently, face shoved into a pillow, because boys his age aren’t supposed to do that anymore.

In Florence, he stares at the Arno River and thinks of the ocean. Wonders if you’re there right now, toes buried in the sand, waiting for him to complain that the water’s cold just so you can grab his wrist and drag him in, laughing.

In Paris, he watches fireworks bloom over the Eiffel Tower and feels sick.

Red, gold, and blue explodes across the sky, but all he can see is your eyes. Your hand laced through his, your head heavy and warm on his shoulder.

You’re my best friend.

He cries himself to sleep on expensive hotel sheets, muffling his sobs into Egyptian cotton until it’s dark with salt.

In dreams, he is flying.

The wide blue waters of California stretching endlessly below him, carrying him closer to you.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 15 years old when he learns how to disappear.

The hallways are packed tight with shouting and shrill laughter. Boys slam into each other on purpose. Everyone pretends they’re bigger, tougher, cooler than they were three months ago.

So Steve pretends, too.

He discovers the power of hairspray, learns how to make his hair work for him.

By October, everybody has an opinion about him. Mostly girls.

“Oh my god, Steve Harrington is so cute.” “Right? He looks taller than last year.” “Did you see his hair? Total dream.”

He smiles. He flirts. He jokes. He learns to be charming the way his father is at dinner parties—making people laugh, making them lean in close.

It works.

High school is a costume. And Steve Harrington wears it well.

⚓︎

One afternoon in P.E., Tommy Hagan decides Steve is “my best bud, actually.”

It happens after the 100-meter sprint. Steve wins without really trying, legs strong and fast from years of racing barefoot across sand dunes.

Tommy slaps him on the back hard enough to knock the air out of him.

“Harrington! Jesus, dude, you move.”

Steve grins, even though his shoulder stings.

Harrington. Not Stevie.

Tommy hooks an arm around his neck like they’ve been friends for years. Carol Perkins tells him she likes his hair.  

And for the first time since losing you, Steve feels something close to relief.

He’s not alone.

⚓︎

Sophomore year, someone calls him King Steve for the first time.

He laughs, because it sounds stupid.

But the name sticks, like gum on a shoe.

He’s captain of the swim team now. Sixteen years old and he’s already broken the state record for the 200-yard freestyle. His body does what he tells it to, and he likes that. Likes the rush of being good at something, the roar of the crowd every time he touches the wall first.

His parents are almost never home anymore. No more summer trips to Europe, or anywhere. They leave him with a credit card and a spotless house.

Steve makes it his personal mission to ruin that.

He throws the loudest, wildest parties he can, every chance he gets. Music shaking the walls. People jumping on furniture, spilling drinks, diving into the pool with all their clothes on.

Everyone loves the parties.

Everyone loves King Steve.

⚓︎

Steve has a drawer that no one opens.

Not his parents. Not the housekeeper. Not even him, most days.

The wood sticks when it’s pulled, swollen from years of humidity and neglect.

Inside it is a shoe box.

Shells. Rocks. A bracelet that doesn’t fit anymore.

Remains of summers he pretends not to remember.

Most nights, he leaves it alone.

But sometimes—when the house feels too big, when everyone’s gone home and the silence presses in—he opens the drawer.

Lifts the lid.

He doesn’t touch anything.

Just looks.

He wonders if you remember him.

If you still call him Stevie in your head.

If you ever think of those summers: the dunes, the fireworks, the scrape on your knee.

Then he closes the box. Slides it back into the dark.

In the morning, he is Harrington once again.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 18 years old when the letter finally arrives.

It sits on his desk for three days, unopened.

The envelope is thick, cream-colored and heavy. He knows what it says. He’s known since the phone call, since his coach clapped him on the shoulder and grinned, since the guidance counselor told him he should be so proud of himself.

He isn’t sure if he is.

On the fourth day, he carries it downstairs.

His father takes the packet without ceremony, skims the first page, and scoffs.

“California,” he says flatly.

Steve nods, throat tight. “They’ve got a really strong swim program.”

His father exhales through his nose and sets the packet down like it might stain the table.

“A public university. On the other side of the country.”

“It’s—” Steve clears his throat. “They offered me a scholarship.”

The look he gets says more than words ever could.

“Stephen,” his father says, tone perfectly level, “state schools are for kids who don’t have better options. California is lazy, full of idlers. It’s not the kind of place where you get serious about your future.”

Steve feels a familiar pressure building up in his chest, hand around his ribs, that same old relentless squeeze.

“Real academics are here, on the East Coast," his father continues. “Institutions with standards. History. You don’t see men running this country who went to beach schools.”

“Dad,” Steve says quietly. “I worked for this. I earned it.”

His father doesn’t even look up. “You were recruited. Because you can swim.”

Steve’s fingers curl around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening beneath the table.

“I’m not paying for you to run off to California,” his father says, voice precise, final. “Just so you can throw parties and chase girls and waste your life on nonsense.”

The room shrinks.

For a moment, Steve is thirteen again.

Bare feet on cold tile, begging for one last summer.

Promising he’ll behave. Promising he’ll try harder. Promising he’ll be whatever they want him to be.

He really thought this time would be different. Thought being older meant they’d finally listen.

Something quiet settles inside him.

“Fine,” he says, pushing his chair back. “I’ll pay for it myself.”

His father lets out a short laugh. “With what money?”

Steve picks up the envelope. Feels its weight.

Possibility, distance, risk.

Hope.

“I’ll figure it out.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

He goes upstairs and starts packing that night.

⚓︎

Numbers race furiously through his mind as he clears his room.

The scholarship covers some of the tuition, but not housing. Not books. Not fees.

He’ll start lifeguarding again in the summers. Take early morning shifts during the year, work weekends. Take out loans under his own name.

It won’t be easy.

But it will be his.

⚓︎

He loads his entire world into the BMW.

It doesn’t take long.

For someone who’s grown up with so much, there isn’t much that’s actually his.

Clothes. Swim trophies. His alarm clock. A framed photo from a family vacation he’s too young to remember: his parents smiling, arms around each other. He hesitates, then slides it into a box face-down.

The last thing he opens is the drawer.

It sticks, like it always does.

Inside is the shoe box.

And beneath it, the gift he never got to give you. Built slowly, carefully, over summers that feel like they happened to someone else now.

He tucks them both into his duffel bag, wedged between folded clothes so they won’t shift.

His father doesn’t come outside.

His mother stands at the edge of the driveway, watching him pack the car in silence. When he’s finished, she steps forward and smooths his collar the way she used to when he was little.

Then she presses a folded envelope into his hand.

It’s heavy.

He doesn’t open it. Just nods, gives her the best smile he can manage.

Closes the trunk.

Gets behind the wheel.

Looks west.

⚓︎

Steve Harrington is 20 years old when his world stops for a second time.

He likes California.

The weather, the people, the food. He likes the way the air always smells like the ocean here, the way winter barely exists. He never liked the cold anyway.

College is different in ways he didn’t know to expect. He’s found classes that actually interest him, professors who ask questions and wait for real answers.

He has friends now who say they’ll see him tomorrow and mean it. Who sit on the floor with him at two in the morning talking about nothing and everything: music, stupid theories, what they want to do after graduation, whether anyone really knows who they are yet.

He still gets tired sometimes.

Tired of himself. Tired of that old, hollow echo that never fully went away. But that weight isn’t constant anymore. It shifts. Recedes. It loosens its grip when he’s laughing with his roommates, tossing a beach ball across the sand, swimming lap after lap until his muscles burn and his mind goes quiet.    

The house is packed tonight.

Last party of the school year. Spilled soda, cheap perfume, summer sweat and warm beer. Music thunders through the walls. Bodies press together, shouting and laughing over the noise.

An older teammate claps him on the back. “Harrington! Hell of a party, man.”

Steve smiles, nods, laughs along.

Can’t shake off that feeling, still. That faint sense of displacement that hums under everything.  

He drifts through the crowd, eyes unfocused, letting motion and color wash over him. Someone nearly spills a drink on his shoes. Someone dances too close. It all registers. None of it sticks.

Then, he hears it.

A laugh.

Clear. Bright. A recognition that tightens his chest before his brain can catch up.

Steve turns slowly, frowning, not sure why his body is moving toward the sound.

Near the doorway, head tipped back in laughter, hair catching the light—

There’s a girl.

Not quite a stranger. Not quite someone he knows.

Familiar in the way a dream is: sharp in feeling, slippery in detail. Memories flicker past him, too fast to grab—the curve of a smile, the tilt of a head—dissolving like sand through his fingers.

He stares without meaning to.

You turn.

Your eyes find his.

Your drink freezes halfway to your lips. Confusion flickers across your face, soft and fleeting.

Then recognition.

Disbelief.

“...Stevie?”

Something in his chest detonates.

The hollow feeling he’s been carrying shatters into a thousand fragments of warmth and longing he didn’t know he’d been saving.

You step closer, eyes wide, face lit with a smile he hasn’t seen in years but never truly forgot.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, half-laughing. “It’s you.”

Steve can’t speak.

His throat closes. The world narrows.

He’s thirteen again, standing barefoot on cold tile, begging for a summer that never came.

He’s ten, sunburned and breathless, watching fireworks bloom in your eyes.

He’s six, running barefoot toward the sound of your laughter, sand sticking to his ankles.

He’s five, staring up at a girl with a bucketful of stolen seashells, telling him he’s digging wrong.

He’s a lonely kid on the beach, carving crooked shapes into the sand, waiting for someone to come find him.

And you did.

You always did.

The cup slips from his hand. Beer splashes across the floor, unnoticed.

He whispers your name.

A decade of wanting, released in one sound.

⚓︎

“...Hi.”

“...Hi.”

“How—”

“What—”

He laughs, scrubs a hand through his hair, suddenly nervous in a way he hasn’t felt in years. His palms are damp, heart stumbling over itself.

“Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I just—I can’t believe you’re actually—”

You surge forward and wrap your arms around his neck, tight enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“Oh my god,” you whisper against his ear, voice breaking. “I missed you.”

For a second, Steve just stands there.

Stricken. Breathless. His brain lagging behind what his heart already knows.

Then his arms come up—slowly, instinctively, carefully folding around you. He lowers his head, presses his nose into your shoulder, breathing you in like proof.

He doesn’t say I missed you too.

It wouldn’t be enough. Wouldn’t come close. Wouldn’t touch the years, the distance, everything he’s lost and carried and never learned how to put down. How your memory has lived inside him like a second spine, holding him upright when nothing else did.

Instead, he tightens his grip and whispers:

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t say it’s okay.

But you let out a soft breath and pull him closer, arms firm around his shoulders.

And that, more than words, feels like forgiveness.

⚓︎

The place is called Scoops Ahoy. 

Steve hasn’t been inside it in years, but the second he steps through the door, it all comes rushing back.

The headache-bright fluorescents. The aggressively nautical theme: ropes and anchors, boat-shaped displays that never quite made sense. The faint, permanent stickiness of the floor, no matter how often it gets mopped.

He worked here his freshman year, back when he was desperate for cash and all the good jobs were taken by upperclassmen with better timing. It had been fine. Mind-numbing, but fine. The ice cream was decent if you ignored the décor and the way the lighting made everyone look a little sickly.  

At this hour, it’s dead.

Completely empty except for the girl working the register—short, sandy-brown hair, half-slouched over the counter as she flips through a comic, clearly counting down the seconds until closing.

But Steve can't bring himself to focus on any of it.

Because you’re here.

You’re actually here, leaning over the glass case, eyes flicking back and forth between flavors like this is the most important decision you’ve made all day. You bite your lip and his eyes follow the movement, unbidden.

He can’t stop staring.

The whole thing feels surreal, like a fever dream his brain stitched together out of old memories and wishful thinking.  

Like he might blink and you’ll disappear.

But the details are all the same.

The way you tilt your head when you’re thinking. The faint crease between your eyebrows when you’re overanalyzing something that really shouldn’t matter this much. The way your mouth presses into that familiar line when you can’t decide.

And when you glance back at him, eyes warm and expectant, that exact same light glows there. 

You smile. “What’re you getting?”

Steve blinks, realizing he’s been staring for way too long. He clears his throat and forces himself to look down at the ice cream like he hasn’t seen this exact lineup a hundred times before.

“Uh,” he says, squinting thoughtfully. “The salted caramel’s usually pretty good.”

“Ooh.” You nod, completely serious. “Yeah, that does sound good.”

He smiles before he can stop himself.

His eyes flick up to the menu on the wall, scanning for something he half-hopes they got rid of. But no—there it is, in all its over-the-top glory.

The Triple Decker Extravaganza.

“Why don’t we just get the sundae?” he offers. “That way you can pick whatever you want.”

You turn to him, eyes lighting up. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Go nuts.”

Your face brightens instantly, and something in his chest goes warm as he watches you lean forward again, picking out flavors, debating them out loud.

Steve just stands there, smiling like an idiot.

When he pulls out his wallet without thinking, you don’t stop him.

“Thanks,” you say softly, glancing at him.

“Don’t mention it.”

He shoots the girl behind the register an apologetic look as he pays, knows this order’s a nightmare. Hot fudge, caramel, whipped cream, cherries. Those stupid little sail-shaped cone pieces that always break in half. He slips an extra ten into the tip jar, and her expression improves instantly.

The sundae arrives in a ridiculous plastic boat, wobbling under the weight of it all.

You laugh, delighted, as Steve carefully carries it over to the counter by the window. You hop up onto a stool, legs swinging as you settle in.

Outside, the street is calm, washed in neon and soft sodium light. The glass reflects both of you faintly, past and present overlapping in double exposure.

Steve sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brush.

You start asking questions the same way you always did, listening like every answer matters.  

“What’s your major?”

“Business,” he shrugs, digging his spoon into the ice cream. “But… I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about switching. I like my psych classes way more than econ.”

“Really? What kind of psych?”

“Developmental stuff, mostly. Kids, families. That kind of thing.”

You nod, thoughtful, spoon hovering midair. “You’d be really great with kids.”

He lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah? I mean... I don’t know.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insist, turning on your stool to face him. “You’ve always been patient. You’re a great listener. You care.”  

He blinks, goes quiet. Looks at you for a beat too long before remembering to glance away.

“Thanks… uh, what about you?”

You tell him about your classes, your roommates. The professor who assigns too much reading. The weird smell in your dorm hallway no one can identify. How the ocean never really gets old, even when you see it every day.

“So,” you ask eventually, tilting your head. “How’d you end up picking a school all the way out here?”

Steve stirs the melted ice cream with his spoon, not meeting your eyes.

“I don’t know. I mean, the scholarship helped, but I guess I just wanted somewhere warmer. Closer to the water.”

He doesn’t say how much of it was quiet, impossible hope.

Doesn’t say how a tiny part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d find you here.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice lower, “I should’ve asked for your phone number back then. Or your address. Or... something.” He huffs out a breath. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“Hey,” you slide your hand over his, squeezing once. “We’re here now. Right?”

He nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

You smile and return to the ice cream. He does too.

A new song crackles over the speakers, and you start humming along absentmindedly. It takes him a second to realize what it is.

Edge of Seventeen.

Stevie Nicks.

He meets your eyes.

Feels something click, then.

He’s never really believed in fate.

But if there were ever a reason to try, a reason to hope in a world that so often disappoints, he thinks that reason would be you.

⚓︎

When the ice cream’s gone and the girl behind the counter starts wiping things down a little too pointedly, you hop off the stool.  

June nights in Santa Barbara are warm, carrying faint traces of salt from the ocean. You stop beneath the neon glow of the marquee outside, the lights painting your silhouette in soft blues and pinks.

Steve’s heart stutters.

What happens now?

He's dreading the ending; there are years stretched between you now, whole versions of you he’s never met. So much left to ask, to know. To say.

He rubs the back of his neck.

“It’s late,” he says. “I should probably let you go. Maybe I could get your dorm’s phone number? Or we could grab lunch someti—”

You’re smiling when you kiss him.

Up on your toes, fingers clutching the front of his shirt as you pull him down. Your lips taste sweet: strawberry and chocolate, cherry and vanilla. Every flavor, because you couldn’t decide. Because he wanted to share.

The neon hums above you. The world narrows again.

This kiss lasts longer than the last one he shared with you. Long enough for him to cup your cheek, to brush his thumb along your jaw, to realize, distantly, how much better he is at this now.

He knows how to angle his head just right, slant his lips to deepen the press, to pull you closer by the small of your back and have you flush against him.

When you pull back, he chases your lips all the way until you've dropped back onto your heels.

You blink your eyes open, tongue darting over your lip like you’re tasting him, too.

He has to force himself to step back, fight the urge to lean in again.

You both speak at once.

“So—"

“Would you—”

He laughs. “Sorry. You first.”

You laugh too, shaking your head. “I was just gonna ask if you wanted to come back to mine. My roommates are gone for the weekend.”

He stares at you, stunned. Hopes the neon glow is bright enough to wash out the red rushing to his cheeks.

“Yeah,” he manages. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

You smile and reach for his hand, threading your fingers through his.

You don’t let go.

He definitely does not let go.

⚓︎

You’re kissing him the moment the door clicks shut.

There’s no pause, no awkward second-guessing—just the soft thud of the door and then you’re there, hands fisted in his shirt, lips warm and insistent against his. It’s messy and eager, teeth knocking, breath tangling, soft laughter trapped between two mouths as he murmurs, We should—we should probably slow down, even as he’s nudging his sneakers off with his heel.

Your apartment is small in the best way, quiet and lived-in. Soft amber lamplight, a throw blanket folded over the couch, lingering scents of citrus and cinnamon. Steve takes it in only in flashes, details flickering at the edges of his vision before your fingers slide back into his hair and the rest of the world drops away.

Clothes come off in a scattered trail to your bedroom.

Your jeans get kicked aside in the hallway. His shirt gets stuck halfway over his head and he has to pull back, laughing breathlessly while you help tug it free, your hands warm against his sides. He keeps his lips pressed to yours as he guides you backward, hands around your waist, bumping his shoulder in the doorframe and grinning like an idiot.

It’s not until you’re straddling him that he really stops.

Until he’s sitting on your bed, your sheets rumpled under his hands, your pillow pressed against his back.

You’re in his lap in nothing but your underwear, knees snug around his hips, solid and warm and real.

Steve looks down.

Feels it hit him all at once.

He hasn’t done this in a while. Hasn’t had a real girlfriend in college, too busy chasing grades, covering rent, picking up shifts whenever he could. A few dates here and there—awkward dinners, polite kisses—nothing that ever stayed.

Nothing that felt like this.

Your hand comes up, soft and sure, brushing along his cheek.

“Hey,” you murmur. “You okay?”

He swallows.

Steve doesn’t know if there is a word for what he’s feeling. Okay feels laughably small for what’s sitting in his chest right now, this swelling mix of affection and disbelief and something like gratitude.

“Yeah,” he starts, instinctively reaching for easy words. Fine. Good. All good.

Then he stops, shakes his head. Why hold back? Why say anything less than the truth?   

“God, I just—” He exhales, voice thick, heart full, "I can’t believe I found you.”

Your expression softens, eyes shining as you lean down to kiss him again.

And that, more than words, feels like being found right back.

⚓︎

What happens next is a slow unlearning of loneliness.

A careful dismantling of habits built around absence, years of swallowed affection and muted instincts.

Steve Harrington has learned to hush the restless stirrings of his heart, to press down the parts that ache too loudly, that reach too far, that insist on wanting. He’s gotten good at filling his days with noise, instead. Convinced himself that wanting too much is the same as wanting wrong. That loneliness is a failing, something you earn by expecting more than you’re allowed to have.

He's blamed himself for it for as long as he can remember.

But being with you is like a light dropped straight into the darkest hollow of him, the deepest pit in the sand, a sudden clarity that leaves nowhere to hide. He realizes, with quiet devastation, just how far down the emptiness goes. How much he’s learned to live without.

And now, here, with you, he has to unlearn it.

It happens slowly. In inches. In pauses.

A quiet rediscovery of loving you in this new, intimate way.   

He wants to know everything.

He wants to know what makes your breath hitch. What makes your fingers curl into the sheets. What makes you go quiet in that way that tells him he’s doing something right.

He kisses you constantly. Your mouth, your jaw, the soft place beneath your ear, the hollow at your throat—familiar paths he remembers tracing once upon a time, and new ones he maps with reverent patience.

He slides down over your stomach, kissing his way lower, gaze fixed on the heavy flutter of your lashes, the swell of your ribs when you let out a pleasured sigh. He takes your hand and fists it into his hair, hoping you’ll guide him—let him learn you, let him get this right.

And when he buries his face between your thighs for the first time—nose pressing into your mound, breathing you in, tasting you—it feels like coming home.

He’s missed this, being on his knees, giving. It used to be his favorite thing, always loved the way it quieted his mind, narrowed the world down to a single purpose. It made him feel useful, wanted.

But with you, this ritual turns into something else entirely.

He tracks your reactions with obsessive devotion: the furrow of your brow, the slow roll of your hips. The way your mouth falls open when he does something just right, when you want him to stay still, right there, exactly where you need him.

When he kisses his way back up your body, when he lines himself up with shaking hands and presses inside you, it’s face to face.

There’s no other way he could do it. Mouth to mouth. Forehead to forehead. Kissing, kissing, never not kissing; he needs the contact, the anchor, the constant reassurance that this is real.

That you’re here.

He wants to swallow the sounds you’re making, the way you gasp his name, and lock it inside himself. Let it sink deep, press it into bone and marrow. Carry it into that hollow place in his chest and let it bloom, fill him up until there’s no room left for doubt.

He knows he’s not going to last very long. You’re so soft, so wet, so impossibly beautiful, he can already feel the tension gathering low in his gut.

He only fights it long enough to get the words out.

Words that have been there for years. Pressed down, swallowed, buried under caution and embarrassment and the certainty that he always feels too much, too fast. Nobody ever wanted that kind of intensity for very long.

But he’s tired of pretending.  

And with you, he doesn’t have to.

He holds your hand against the bed, brings his forehead to yours.

The words cling to his throat, years of longing coiled tight—but this time, he doesn’t force them down.

With his lips brushing yours, he finally lets them go.

“I love you.”

The fear is instinctive. Familiar. A split-second flinch where he waits for the recoil, the moment someone decides it’s too much after all.

But it melts clean away when you answer him without hesitation, arms tightening around his neck as you kiss him back.

“I love you, too.”

And the hollow place in his chest turns into the sun once more.

⚓︎

The rest of the night is spent talking.

Kissing, touching, holding, kissing some more, just because he can.

He starts with the easy things. The dumb things. Stories about bad roommates, the worst job he ever worked, the time he locked himself out of his car in the rain and had to wait two hours for a tow.

Eventually, the jokes thin out. The pauses stretch.

He shifts, breathes in, and starts talking about the things he doesn’t like to think about. The quiet fears he keeps folded away. The weight of expectations, some inherited, some entirely his own. How surreal it feels to wake up as someone his younger self could never have pictured. To realize that the future he imagined so clearly once—simple, linear, inevitable—never actually existed.

He admits, quietly, that sometimes he worries there’s something wrong with him.

That everyone else seems to know how to be casual about life in a way he never has. Like they can want things lightly, hold them loosely, walk away without it costing them anything.

He’s never been built that way.

He feels things fast and deep. And for a long time, he resented it. Resented how much it hurt, how impossible it felt to turn it off.

You don’t interrupt. You just listen, fingers laced through his, thumb brushing slow circles over his knuckles. Every so often, you squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back.

Once the hardest parts are out, his thoughts drift forward.

He talks about wanting a job that matters to people. That helps. Something that lets him look at himself at the end of the day and feel like he showed up right, even if he hasn’t figured out what that’s supposed to look like yet. He wants to believe there’s a place for him in this world where caring isn’t a weakness.

When the conversation lulls into silence, you tilt your head back to look up at him.

“Did you ever learn how to surf?” you ask.

“Hm?”

“Surf. I remember you always wanted to see what that was like. When we were kids.”

He lets out a small smile. “No. I mean, I thought about it, but... just never had the time. Or the balance.”  

You hum and settle comfortably against his chest. “Tomorrow.”

He blinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you repeat. “There’s a part of the beach I want to show you. You have to squeeze between some rocks to get there, but it opens up into this hidden alcove. Could be like our new secret spot.”

Steve smiles into your hair, already imaging it. Doing what he’s always done: throwing himself into the picture, letting it fill him up.

Tomorrow, you’ll take him to the beach.

Down between the rocks, your favorite spot.

You’ll show him where to step and where not to. You’ll rent two surfboards from that tiny shack down the road. You’ll laugh when he wipes out the second he hits the water, sputtering and embarrassed.

You’ll teach him how to stand. How to trust the water.

How to fly, just a little.

Tomorrow, he’ll show you the shoebox.

The one tucked into the bottom drawer of his dresser. The one that followed him through moving days and borrowed apartments. Filled with pieces of you he never let himself leave behind.

Tomorrow, he’ll give you what he couldn’t at the age of thirteen.

A stack of letters, one for every year since the summer he met you. ’72 all the way through ’79.

He always wrote them the night before he left for the Hamptons, lying awake with his heart pounding, thinking about the long stretch of coast waiting for him—and the best friend he’d get to share it with.  

He never found the courage to bring them with him when he was younger. But he kept writing anyway. Promising himself that, one day, he’d be brave enough to give them all to you.

He imagines sitting beside you while you read each one out loud. Smiling, shaking your head.  

Maybe you’ll tease him, call him cheesy, a hopeless romantic.

He doesn’t think you will, though. He thinks you’ll be gentle. He thinks you’ll love him more for it.

And once that thought takes hold, the future comes rushing in—faster, fuller, harder to stop.

He starts imagining days that stretch far beyond tomorrow, days where he wakes before you and watches the sunlight move across your face. Burnt toast and cheap coffee. Walking you home after class, fingers laced, listening to you talk about your day.

A shared place down by the water. Small, probably. Close enough to the beach that the sand never really leaves. Grocery lists on the fridge. Music playing while you cook together, bumping hips, stealing kisses.

He catches himself, shakes the thoughts loose with a soft, embarrassed breath.

Eight years is a long time to be apart. He knows there’s still so much about you he doesn’t know. True to form, he’s moving too fast, chasing desire before reason can catch up.

But eight years is also nothing.

Nothing measured against a lifetime. Nothing but a detour that still carried him back toward the main path. It only ever led to one place.

You stir softly in half-sleep, nestled beneath his arm, and Steve presses a little closer.

Sleep pulls at him too, heavy and kind.

He surrenders to it, lets it take him, because for now, it’s enough.

For now, he has tomorrow.

⚓︎

In dreams, he is thirteen again.

He is twelve, he is ten, he is six, and he is five.

He is walking down a wide, endless expanse of blue, waves whispering at his feet, the sky stretching forever overhead.

And beside him, hand in hand, is his best friend in the whole world.

June 24th, 1979

Hi!

I know I’m going to see you tomorow but I wanted to write this anyway. Sometimes when I try to say stuff out loud it doesn’t come out right. I know what I meen in my head but it gets all messed up or I forget what I was going to say. Writing it down makes it better.

I wrote you a letter every summer. One for every year. So you won’t forget me and all the fun things we did and the stuff we talked about. I keep all of them in a box, kind of like how you keep all your rocks and shells. Some of the older ones are really bad and there’s a lot of drawings and speling mistakes but maybe you’ll still like them.

I think about you a lot when we’re not together. Like when something funny happens or when I see something you like. Last week I saw a picture of a crab in my science book and I thought about what name you would give it.

I really really like you. You’re funny and nice and you understand me better than anyone else. You listen to me even when I talk too much or can’t say some words right. You make me feel special. I don’t have to pretend to be different or cooler or anything when I’m with you.

Sometimes I wish I lived in Californiya so we could see each other every day. I think about that a lot. Like we could just hang out whenever we wanted. Go to the beach and do surfing and stuff. Maybe one day I could come visit you or you could come visit me.

I’m really excited to see you tomorow. I hope you like this and I hope you don't think it’s dumb. I just want you to know how much you mean to me.

P.S. This is my adress so you can write me back if you want. 1590 willow creek lane, loch nora, hawkins, indiana 46001

P.P.S. I listened to that band you told me about. I really like the song You Make Loving Fun. It makes me think about you. Maybe we can listen to it together when I see you tomorrow?

Your best friend, Stevie

Steve was not invisible.

He was thirty-one, everybody knew because the athletic department printed it in the media guide like it was a selling point and he still looked like the guy who used to own every hallway in Hawkins High. Same thick brown hair that fell into his eyes when he got frustrated, same crooked grin that made freshmen girls in the stands forget how to cheer. He’d played D1 ball for two years before a knee injury ended it, then coached high-school for a bit, and now here he was: youngest head coach in the conference, already turning a perennial bottom-feeder into a tournament threat. The players worshipped him. The boosters wanted to be him. You tried, for a long time, not to notice the way his polo stretched across his shoulders when he demonstrated a defensive slide or how his voice dropped half an octave when he got serious in the huddle.

It started with the knee.

Not yours. His.

Late February, last season. The team had just lost in overtime to Evansville and Steve was limping around the training room after everyone else had cleared out, jaw tight, trying to hide the fact that the old injury was screaming at him. You were restocking the fridge, pretending not to watch him in the reflection of the glass door.

“Need ice, Coach?” you asked without turning around.

He huffed a laugh that sounded more like a groan. “I need a new fucking knee, kid.”

You finally looked at him. He was leaning against the table, arms crossed, hair damp from the shower. The fluorescent lights did unfair things to the cut of his jaw.

“I can tape it,” you said. “Better than whatever half-ass job you did on yourself.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You offering to put your hands on me, sweetheart?”

The word slipped out of him like it was nothing just locker-room banter. But his eyes stayed on your face a second too long, and something electric crackled between you. You felt it in your stomach like a missed step on the bleachers.

You swallowed. “Only if you sit down and stop pretending you’re not in pain.”

He did sit. Let you roll his sweats up to mid-thigh, let you wrap the tape with clinical precision while your pulse hammered in your ears. His skin was warm, the muscle underneath hard as oak. When your fingers brushed the inside of his thigh he inhaled sharp through his nose, but he didn’t move.

“You’re good at this,” he said quietly.

“Practice,” you answered.

He watched your hands the whole time.

After that night he started staying late. Said he needed to review film, but he always ended up in the training room while you finished inventory. He’d lean in the doorway, arms braced overhead, and talk about the team, about the next recruit, about how the athletic director was breathing down his neck. Sometimes he’d ask about your classes. You were pre-physical therapy, carrying eighteen credits, and he listened like it mattered. Like you mattered.

By mid-season this year the tension was a living thing.

He started calling you into his office for “strategy sessions.” You’d sit across from his desk while he drew plays on the whiteboard, but his eyes kept drifting to the way your lips moved when you suggested a different defensive rotation. He’d drag a hand through his hair and mutter, “Jesus Christ, you’re smart,” like it pissed him off.

One night in November the power went out during a thunderstorm. The whole athletic complex went dark except for the emergency lights. You were alone in the training room, counting bandages by flashlight. Steve appeared in the doorway like he’d been summoned, rain still dripping from his jacket.

“Power’s out campus-wide,” he said. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“I’m fine.”

He stepped inside anyway. The door clicked shut behind him. The small room felt even smaller.

“You’re always here,” he said, voice low. “Last one out. First one in. You ever sleep?”

You shrugged, trying to ignore how the emergency light painted shadows under his cheekbones. “Someone has to make sure the tape doesn’t run out before you bench the whole team for stupid reasons.”

He laughed, soft. Took one step closer. Then another. Until he was close enough that you could smell rain and the faint cedar of his cologne.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he said, “and I’m gonna do something we both regret.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Like what?”

Steve’s hand lifted. His thumb brushed your lower lip, slow, deliberate. His eyes were dark, pupils blown. “Like bend you over this table and finally find out if you taste as good as you smell.”

You didn’t breathe.

He dropped his hand like it burned him. Stepped back until he hit the door.

“Lock up when you leave,” he said hoarsely. “And for fuck’s sake, go home before midnight.”

He was gone before you could answer.

That was the first almost.

There were more.

December. After a blowout win. The team went out to celebrate, Steve stayed behind to watch film. You brought him coffee at 10:47 p.m. He was slouched in his office chair, tie loosened, top two buttons of his shirt undone. When you set the cup down he caught your wrist.

“Stay,” he said.

You stayed.

He pulled you into his lap like it was the easiest thing in the world. You straddled him, heart hammering, and he buried his face in your neck, breathing you in.

“Been thinking about this for months,” he muttered against your skin. “Every fucking practice. You in those little shorts, bending over the cooler. You have any idea what you do to me?”

His hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of your polo, thumbs pressing into the crease where leg met hip. You whimpered. He groaned like the sound hurt him.

Then his phone buzzed, assistant coach asking where the hell the game film was. Steve’s entire body went rigid. He lifted you off him like you weighed nothing, set you on the desk, and stood up so fast the chair rolled backward.

“Go,” he rasped. “Before I lock that door and ruin both our careers.”

You left on shaky legs, thighs slick, panties ruined.

January brought the real corruption.

You’d never been with anyone who made you feel small in the best way. Guys your age fumbled and asked permission for everything. Steve didn’t ask. He took. But he did it so carefully, so deliberately, that you felt cherished and owned at the same time.

It started with text messages.

Late nights. After curfew.

Steve: You still in the training room?

You: Finishing shoulder tape for Walker.

Steve: Leave the door unlocked.

He’d show up in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair messy from practice, and he’d lock the door behind him. Then he’d back you against the counter and kiss you like he was starving. Deep, filthy kisses that left your lips swollen and your brain fuzzy. He never let it go further than that, hands under your shirt palming your breasts through your bra, thumb circling your nipple until you moaned into his mouth. He’d grind against you, hard and thick through his sweats, letting you feel exactly what you did to him, but he always stopped.

“Not here,” he’d growl against your ear. “Not like this. You deserve better than a fucking training table.”

You started touching yourself at night thinking about his voice saying those words.

He knew. He could tell by the way you looked at him during practice, eyes glassy, thighs pressed together. Once, during a defensive drill, he blew the whistle and called you over to “check the ankle tape on number twelve.” While you were crouched in front of the player, Steve stood behind you, voice low enough only you could hear.

“Keep squirming like that and I’m gonna drag you into the equipment closet and make you come on my fingers before the next possession.”

You almost dropped the tape.

He was corrupting you slowly, methodically. Teaching you what it meant to want so badly it hurt. Teaching you to wait. To obey.

By March the tension was unbearable.

The team was 22-6. March Madness was two weeks away. Steve was in every headline, every podcast. And every night he was texting you things like:

Steve: My office. Now.

Steve: Wear the black leggings.

Steve: Don’t you dare touch yourself before you get here.

You obeyed every time.

That night, the night everything finally snapped, you showed up at 11:15 p.m. The arena was empty except for the security lights. His office door was cracked. You slipped inside.

Steve was sitting behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, forearms corded with muscle. The second the door clicked shut he stood up, crossed the room in three strides, and locked it.

Then he looked at you.

“Lock was open,” he said, voice rough. “Anyone could’ve walked in. You that desperate for me, baby?”

You nodded, throat dry.

He stepped close. Tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. Then his hand slid into your hair and tightened, tilting your head back so you had to look up at him.

“Words,” he said. “Use them.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I’m desperate.”

His eyes darkened. “On your knees.”

You dropped instantly. The carpet was rough against your leggings. Steve’s hand stayed in your hair, guiding but not forcing. He unzipped his slacks with the other hand and pulled himself out, thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. You’d felt him through clothes a hundred times, but seeing it bare made your mouth water.

“Been dreaming about this mouth for months,” he murmured. “Open.”

You did. He fed you his cock slowly, inch by inch, until your nose brushed the dark hair at his base. You gagged once; he pulled back just enough to let you breathe, then pushed in again, deeper.

“Fuck, that’s it. Good girl. Just like that.”

You gagged instantly, eyes watering, but he held you there hand fisted tight in your hair, hips rocking just enough to keep you full.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, low and filthy. “Taking every inch like you were made for it. That’s my good girl. Relax your throat. Yeah, just like that. Let Coach fuck it.”

He started to move. Not gentle. Deep, measured thrusts that made your nose brush the dark, trimmed hair at his base on every downstroke. Saliva spilled from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and onto the front of your shirt. The wet, obscene sounds of your throat working around him filled the office mixed with his low curses and the creak of the floorboards under his shoes.

“You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?” he rasped, thumb wiping a tear from your cheek only to smear it across your stretched lips. “Touching that needy little cunt every night thinking about choking on me. Bet you come with your fingers in your mouth pretending it’s my cock. Such a filthy secret, baby. My perfect little trainer on her knees for the man who signs her paychecks.”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his hips stutter. He pulled out suddenly, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the glistening head of his cock. You gasped for air, but he slapped the wet length against your cheek once, twice then shoved back in, fucking your face harder now, balls tapping your chin.

“Gonna come down this throat one day,” he promised, voice wrecked. “But not tonight. Tonight I’m burying every drop in that tight little pussy you’ve been teasing me with for months.”

He yanked you off him with a wet pop. Before you could catch your breath he hauled you up, spun you around, and bent you over the desk. Papers and a clipboard clattered to the floor. Your palms slapped the wood as he shoved your leggings and panties down in one rough yank, leaving them tangled around your ankles. Cool air hit your soaked cunt and you whimpered.

Steve’s hand cracked across your ass sharp, stinging, perfect. “Arch your back. Show me what’s mine.”

You did, spreading your legs as much as the fabric allowed. Two thick fingers dragged through your folds, spreading your slick from clit to entrance.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed. “Dripping down your thighs already. All this for Coach?” He pushed both fingers inside you without warning, curling them hard against that spot that made your vision white out. “So fucking tight. Been clenching around nothing for weeks waiting for this, haven’t you?”

“I have,” you gasped. “Please, Steve—”

He slapped your ass, sharp and perfect. “Coach. When my dick’s about to be inside you, you call me Coach.”

The word left your mouth on a broken moan. “Coach, please.”

He pumped his fingers fast, thumb circling your swollen clit in tight, merciless strokes. The wet squelch of your pussy filled the room. Your hips bucked back against his hand, chasing the orgasm that was already barreling toward you.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” he growled, smacking your ass again. “You come when I say. When my cock is splitting you open.”

You sobbed, trying to hold it back, but he added a third finger and crooked them just right. Your walls fluttered hard.

“Now,” he ordered, voice dark. “Come on my fingers like the desperate little whore you are for me.”

The orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled. You cried out, muffling it against your forearm as your cunt clenched and gushed around his fingers. He didn’t stop, kept fucking you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive.

Only then did he pull his hand free. You heard the wet sound of him sucking his fingers clean.

“Sweetest fucking pussy I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered. Then the blunt, fat head of his cock was nudging your entrance, sliding through your slick. “Breathe, baby.”

He pushed in slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you open. You were still pulsing from your first orgasm, and the burn was exquisite. He bottomed out with a groan, hips flush against your ass, balls pressed tight to your clit.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “So goddamn tight. Like you were made to take Coach’s cock. Feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You nodded frantically, tears of overwhelming pleasure leaking from the corners of your eyes. He was so big stretching you to the limit, pressing against places you didn’t know existed. When he pulled back and slammed in again, the desk scraped forward an inch.

He set a brutal pace. Hard, deep strokes that made your tits bounce against the wood and your hips bruise against the edge of the desk. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed off the cinderblock walls, wet, filthy, loud. Every thrust punched the air out of your lungs.

“Take it,” he growled, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Take every fucking inch. This pussy is mine now. Gonna ruin you for anyone else. No college boy’s ever gonna fill you up like this.”

He reached around and rubbed your clit again fast rough circles that had you spiraling toward another peak.

“Come again,” he demanded. “Milk my cock while I’m still balls deep. Let me feel how much you need me.”

You shattered. The second orgasm ripped through you harder than the first, walls clamping down around his pistoning cock like a vice. You screamed his name Coach muffled against the desk, body shaking as pleasure bordered on pain.

Steve fucked you through it, hips snapping harder, chasing his own release. But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out suddenly, spun you around, and lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing. Papers flew everywhere. He shoved your thighs wide, hooked your knees over his elbows, and drove back inside in one brutal thrust. The new angle had you seeing stars, deeper, somehow, the head of his cock dragging right over your g-spot with every snap of his hips.

“Look at me,” he ordered, voice hoarse.

You forced your eyes open. His face was inches from yours, hair wild, sweat beading on his forehead, jaw clenched. Those big brown eyes were blown black, but there was still that soft, possessive tenderness underneath the dominance.

“That’s it, baby,” he panted, rolling his hips in devastating circles. “Eyes on Coach while I fuck this cunt full. You feel how deep I am? Gonna come so hard inside you you’ll be leaking me for days.”

He kissed you then messy, desperate, all tongue and teeth while he pounded into you. One hand shoved your shirt up, yanking your bra down so he could pinch and roll your nipple. The sting went straight to your clit.

“Again,” he growled against your mouth. “One more. Come on my cock while I fill you up.”

You were helpless to stop it. The third orgasm tore through you like lightning, long, shattering waves that made your vision tunnel and your toes curl. Your cunt fluttered and clenched around him, drawing him impossibly deeper.

Steve’s rhythm stuttered. “Fuck—baby—gonna come. Gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my load. Take it—take every drop—”

He slammed in to the hilt and stayed there, hips jerking as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through his chest. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum flooding you pulse after pulse, so much it leaked out around his cock and dripped down your ass onto the desk. He kept grinding through it, milking every last drop, until you were both trembling.

For a long moment the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the arena’s emergency lights.

Steve stayed buried deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours. His hands gentled stroking your sides, your hair, your flushed cheeks. The dominance melted into something softer, almost reverent.

“You okay?” he whispered, voice wrecked but tender. He kissed the corner of your eye where a tear had slipped free. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, boneless and glowing. “No. God, no. It was… perfect.”

He smiled, that crooked, boyish Steve Harrington smile that still made your stomach flip even after he’d just fucked you raw on his desk. He pulled out slowly, both of you hissing at the oversensitive drag. A thick trickle of his cum followed, and he watched it with dark, satisfied eyes.

“Mine,” he said quietly, almost to himself. He grabbed a clean towel from the cabinet behind his desk (the one you kept stocked for the team) and cleaned you up with careful, gentle strokes. Then he fixed your bra, tugged your shirt down, and pulled your leggings back up your legs like he was dressing something precious.

He dropped back into his chair and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you tight. You curled against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart slowing down.

“We’re careful,” he murmured into your hair, echoing the words he’d said after the first time. “No one can know. Not yet. But this—” He squeezed your hip, thumb brushing the fresh bruise he’d left there. “This is real. You’re mine now, baby. All mine.”

You nodded against his neck, pressing a soft kiss to the sweat-damp skin there. “Yours, Coach.”

For fourteen months, she carries this devastating secret while Lando unknowingly breaks her heart over and over again. He flirts with other women in front of her, maintains ties with his ex-girlfriend, and treats Y/N with a casual cruelty that cuts deeper than he could ever imagine.

What Y/N doesn’t know is that Lando feels something too—something that unnerves and confuses him. So he buries it beneath sharp words and cold shoulders, lashes out, and pushes away the one person he can’t seem to get out of his head.

He feels the pull. He just doesn’t understand what it means.

Until one moment, by pure accident, he sees the mark on her body.

The universe stops.

Suddenly, the girl he’s spent over a year pushing away is no longer just another name in his orbit—she’s his. His soulmate. The one fate carved into him before he was ever born.

As realization crashes down on him, Lando finally understands why she always looked at him like he was both everything she wanted and everything she feared.

And Y/N—fragile, angry, and terrified—must face the one thing she’s spent months trying to avoid: the truth that he knows.

But the cruelest truth of all? She still doesn’t believe he could ever want her back.

Because while no one in history has ever rejected their soulmate, Y/N has spent her entire life being rejected by everyone else. And she’s convinced that not even cosmic destiny can make her worthy of love.

Pairing ━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

Overview:

soulmate AU

enemies to lovers trope

loads of angst

loads of sexual tension and frustration

fuckboy Lando

complicated relationship with emotionally abusive parents (Y/N)

hyper-independent and emotionally guarded Y/N

jealous Lando

“I don’t need anyone” Y/N vs “I’d give her everything” Lando

protective Lando once he finds out the truth

unrequited love (but not really)

Y/N hiding her trauma behind success and control

slow burn

Y/N putting up walls Lando desperately tries to break through

yearning and longing

smut (at some point)

mutual pining

idiots fighting fate (mostly Y/N)

Lando falling first and harder

touch-starved but terrified Y/N

moments of softness that wreck them both

“I’m not good enough for you” trope

Each chapter contains its own content warnings.

Chapter 1: Fight

| 10.9k | Summary: A brutal fight erupts between Y/N and Lando at a friends' gathering, where he unknowingly destroys his soulmate in a way no one thought possible. His attack confirms every fear she’s carried alone for years, shattering the last piece of hope she had. That night, overwhelmed by heartbreak and years of buried trauma, Y/N suffers a panic attack more severe than anything she’s ever experienced.

Chapter 2: Breaking

| 4.8k | Summary: After the fight with Y/N, Lando is left reeling in guilt and self-loathing, realizing too late that his cruelty came from fear of how deeply he cared for her. Meanwhile, Y/N suffers a severe panic attack and is hospitalized, feeling irreparably broken and unloved. 

Chapter 3: Spain

| 11.9k | Summary: Pietra persuades a reluctant Y/N to join a vacation in Spain, where a booking mix‑up forces her to share a room and a king‑size bed with Lando. All week, she must keep her hidden soulmate mark concealed from him while wrestling with her nerves and his unexpected closeness.

Chapter 4: Tension

| 16.8k | Summary: Y/N panics when she breaks her foundation, and Lando unexpectedly spends an entire day helping her search Spanish shops to find a replacement. Despite growing attraction and moments of connection, both misinterpret each other's signals—Y/N thinks Lando finds her repulsive while he's actually desperately attracted to her but hiding it.

Chapter 5: Realization

| 11.6k | Summary: Y/N secretly masturbates while listening to Lando jerking off in the shower. Later, he says something that completely devastates her.

Chapter 6: Truth

| 14.8k | Summary: Lando and Y/N see each other for the first time since the Spain trip—and the truth is finally revealed in a single, accidental moment.

Chapter 7: Conversation

| 25.3k | Summary: Y/N and Lando have a serious and heartbreaking conversation.

Chapter 8: Change

| 13.8k | Summary: Lando begins pursuing Y/N with thoughtful gestures and messages, making significant changes to his life to prove his sincerity. Despite being moved by his efforts, Y/N struggles to trust his intentions after being hurt before and chooses to protect herself rather than risk further disappointment.

Chapter 9: Dreamy

| 17.3k | Summary: Lando gets jealous during a dinner with friends. Later that night, a dream occurs.

Chapter 10: Exposed

| 10.4k | Summary: Paparazzi photos of Lando and Y/N leaving dinner together leak online, and Lando witnesses a phone call between Y/N and her mother.

Chapter 11: Cracks

| 21.5k | Summary: After her mother's call, Y/N breaks down in Lando's arms, but panic overwhelms her, and she pushes him away, unable to trust that his feelings are genuine. Later, she meets Pietra for coffee but still can't reveal the soulmate secret. Meanwhile, Lando drives to his parents and confesses everything.

Chapter 12: Shattered

| 20.5k | Summary: A confrontation between Lando and Y/N reaches a devastating breaking point that forces both to face painful truths. In the aftermath, Y/N begins to lower her walls for the first time, though she still can't promise him anything.

Chapter 13

Coming soon ...

You shuffle against his hips. He hisses, and he laughs. “Honey, enough. Two minutes, let me make sure Dariyay’s gonna be alright with Robin.” 

“It– it is hot–”

“I know, I can feel it. Feel you,” he says quietly.

“Please, just– upstairs with me, now, and– Robin and Dariyay go.”

“I gotta tell Robin first, she’s gonna be pissed that I’m not giving her a ride–”

“Dariyay can drive her.”

Steve tilts his head to the side. “Shit, yeah. She can take her. You’re a smart girl, you know?”

Your hips rock more insistently at the praise, even if he’s teasing. “Now, fast, kiss me and kiss more.” 

Steve holds you tight by the hips to ease you back. “We’ll get caught,” he says with a big laugh. “This heat, I actually have some questions–”

“What question?” you ask, allowing the space he desires while the heat in your stomach melts like lava, slow and blistering. 

“Well, you’re fucking boiling in your skin, babe, so I guess I’m wondering if it’s hurting?”

You press your hand to your tummy. “Small hurt. Lots want, lots sensitive?”

“Huh.” He’s so pink you’d think he was the one cooking in his skin.

You take his hand on your hip and begin dragging it over your tummy, but you don’t get far, interrupted by a quiet creak of the door.

“Sister?” Dariyay asks.

You both flinch. Dariyay is standing in the kitchen doorway with her empty plate, and she’s frowning, but it’s friendly for her. If she were mad, she’d be scowling. 

“Oh,” she says, hesitating when she notices your position atop him, “sorry.” Then, in Mer, “I thought I heard my name. Are you okay?” 

“I think it’s the heat,” you say. “It feels awful.”

She bites her lip. “Oh, okay. Do you– will you be okay, with him? You don’t have to choose a courting partner now if you’re not sure.”

Steve has a great talent for turning hot and heavy into gentle, steady. He shifts you downward and holds you close like you’re sick, not horny. It’s funny as it is assuring. 

“I love him. He’s not the awful part,” you say. 

Dariyay shoves her plates onto the nearest countertop. “Then it’ll be fun. Just be careful, okay?” 

“He wouldn’t hurt me,” you say. 

She offers a real smile. “That’s so gross. I will go, then, and play at being a human at the ray-dee-oh. Maybe I can get Eddie to come and be my entertainment.” 

“He can be your courting partner.”

“I think he is destined to be my best friend,” she says, which is not a rejection. She says it like it could be a joke, or equally like Eddie might end up her husband. You’re wondering how okay with that Eddie’d be as the rattle of a bike being shoved against the front of the house echoes from the foyer. 

“That’s Robin,” Steve says. 

You let your embarrassment overtake the heat for a little while, forehead to Steve’s chest, listening to Dariyay scamper down the hall. She and Robin have a stilted conversation that ends with both girls laughing, and Robin shouting, “Happy for you, dingus!” down the hall.

“What say?” you ask his chest. 

Steve tips your head back by the nape.

Your eyes go owlish. You’re unbelievably warm—Steve feels cold in contrast when he slips his arms under your thighs to lift you, but it’s not want or need you feel as he carries you upstairs, it’s adoring. He carries you without complaint, doesn’t huff about how heavy you are, nor the mess you leave in the kitchen. He may love to bitch but Steve’s never complained about looking after you, and doesn’t sound anything but eager as he elbows open the bedroom door, laying you out on the bottom of the bed. He’s laughing to himself. You’re inclined to feel it. 

“Kiss?” you ask. “Please. Please? Please.”

Steve takes too long to lean down, but when he does the kiss is slow, his tongue working into your mouth while his hand curls behind your neck, leaning his weight into you carefully. 

“Kiss,” you insist. 

“This is kissing.”

You don’t know the human word for what you want, but there’s a thrumming in your chest and you know where you need his hands, his entire body. You wriggle up the bed with his shirt screwed in your gasp, forcing him to climb and follow. The kiss you take then is searching, your nose pushing against his nose until he returns the kiss. 

He’s too gentle. 

“Kiss,” you murmur into his mouth. 

“Baby.”

“Please, kiss me.” 

Steve frames your face in his paw of a hand, his eyes dark, his lashes kissing in their corners as he squints. “You remember what ow means?” he asks, which is patronising. You pinch him. He laughs. “Yeah, ow. I hurt you, you tell me no. Is that okay? Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” you say under your breath, so hot now that it’s uncomfortable. The only place even mildly cool is the apex of your thighs, your panties moving slick against the crease of your cunt as you search for traction. “Please. Kiss me.”

You take his hand where it’s resting at your hip and pull it to your tummy, wanting to force him lower and scared to at the same time. 

Steve looks between your bodies. His thumb draws a circle into your navel, flicking your shirt over your belly button to expose the heaving plane of skin there. It’s not low enough.

“Touch you?” he says, so quietly it’s almost a whisper. 

“Please.”

“Yeah?” He rests his hand over the bump of your cunt. “Here?”

You squirm. 

Steve laughs nicely, shaking his head, and fits another kiss against your mouth, his hand drifting up to tease the hot skin of your stomach, a frustrating diversion. 

You’re mildly annoyed and overly excited, your eyes squeezing closed as Steve kisses you so fiercely you can’t breathe. It takes long seconds, maybe a whole minute of kissing before you’re wondering how much air a human boy can go without, another minute to get him panting over your mouth. You make a noise into his kissing, a pleading, beggy sigh, your hips rolling up to find him hard above you. 

There’ve been many mornings where you’ve woken to find him already hard behind you without so much as a kiss, but more recently you’ve started teasing it out of him, just to hear the hitch in his breath when you touch him, all pained longing. 

You feel cruel, now. This is the pained longing. 

You scrabble for his hand and guide it down again. “Please,” you whisper, practically choked with wanting, “need you, I need touch.”

“Sorry,” he whispers back, resting the tip of his nose on your cheek, like he’s collecting himself, “‘m I making it worse? Is it still hurting?” 

“No, feels like… like it can hurt later, not now.”

“Like it could hurt, if you don’t– if we don’t fix it?” he asks. 

“Mm,” you hum. 

“Well, we can’t have that,” he says, the hint of his smile on your cheek as he pulls up. 

His eyes are blown, cheeks full of red and the beginnings of dampness in the hair by his ears. It’s getting warmer in here, but you don’t want to ask him to open the window or turn on the fan. You can't picture the absence of him. 

“You know what this is?” he asks.

“Mm?”

“This, baby,” he says, his hand turning, fingers laying over the softness of your cunt. “You know what this is, yeah?”

You know what you have, if that’s what he’s worried about, but you’re thinking he’s asking about sex, instead. “Dariyay tell me,” you say, “told me. The heat, and the– the fit?” 

“Yeah. How we go together? She explained it to you?”

“Yes. Know it.” You knew of sex before, but Dariyay had given you specifics, because she’d seen the way you looked at Steve. Coupling is not much more complicated than you’d imagined.

“And that’s what you want?” he asks, tilting your head to the side with the flat of his palm, before dragging his pinky finger along your cheek. 

“Yeah, that’s what I want,” you say, softly and quietly, happy to be touched however he wants to do it. 

“Yeah? We can go slow.” That pinky finger drags down your neck, where he lays his hand at the base of your throat so gently it’s a wonder you can feel his touch at all. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Do you hurt me?” you ask him. 

“No, never.” 

You want him to realise that this is you knowing everything you want, despite the heat, the tug inside you begging to be taken. You wanted all of him before your insides began to melt. “You don’t hurt me,” you say. 

He turns his head to the side, gathering your cheek again in his big hand to hold you. “You remember what love is?” he asks. 

“Inside of love. Me and you.”

“Yeah, me and you. So this is something I need your help with.”

You settle back into soft sheets. He’s so pretty. You aren’t sure what to do now beyond let him have you. “Not know how to help.”

“Just talk to me, baby. That’s all I need. Can you do that?” 

“Yeah, I can talk you.” 

He smiles at you strangely. Strange for Steve, so somber and measured. “I love your voice. Love your voice.” He kisses your cheek, your jaw, and your throat. “Here, your voice. It makes everything you say… It’s beautiful.” 

You like this game. Exactly how it went when he kissed you that first time, the trail of kisses and praises down your wrist to your shoulder. He kisses you now, at the base of your throat and your chest despite the clothes, over your heart, his hair already a brown mess from your eagerness. You stroke it out of his eyes. 

“Talk to me,” he says gently. 

“Love your voice.”

“Yeah?”

“Warm, and… smooth.” You rub his back, demonstrating in the same way he had when he introduced the word. “In mornings, voice is– is not smooth. Like most.” 

Steve’s hands are shaking. 

You catch them, one on your tummy, one by your heart, and you hold them tightly. Can practically feel both your pulses beating in the press of your palms. “You are okay?” you ask him. 

Steve breathes out suddenly. “No. I mean, yes. I mean–” He laughs. “I just want you and I’m scared I’m gonna– I’m scared you won’t know what you need, that I’m gonna hurt you, and I want you. Fuck, I want you.” 

You laugh. “I am not scared,” you say. 

“No?” he asks. 

“No. So you– you kiss me, now? Please. And me and you, not scared. Not scary.” You squeeze his hands. “Sorry I not know how say.” 

“You’re sorry? Don’t be sorry, are you kidding? You’re amazing. You’re so much– you’re more than I–” Steve giggles and tips down to rest his head on your chest. He squeezes your hands back, “I’m sorry I’m such a loser, I used to be so fucking cool and I knew how to do this, but you are really important to me, and I’m fucking so nervous.”

“Nervous word?”

“Like little scared.” 

“Me?” you ask, lifting your chin, shoving at him until he’ll look at you. “Scared me?”

“Scared of me,” he says. 

You laugh. “You are not scary, I say that. Listen me. You tell me talk, I talk, you do not listen.”

“Alright!” he says, laughing again, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss. “I’m listening now. Nobody’s scared.”

“Little scared,” you say softly. 

“Yeah?” 

“Little.”

“Do you want me to talk you through it?” 

Your lips part of their own accord. “Talk through?” 

“Do you want me to tell you how we do it, before it happens? I don’t mind, baby.”

“Tell me,” you say. 

Steve rubs your stomach slowly. “Sex is easy. It should be easy.” His hand sinks lower. “It’s mostly touch, yeah? And your–” He swallows around nothing, squares his expression, and lets his voice drop and droop into honey. “I can make you feel good with my hands, or my mouth, or I can fuck you. It doesn’t have to be fast, or rough, we’ll start slow. It’s just me and you in here.”

That’s the togetherness. You nod surely. “I know.”

“You do?” He licks his lips. “I figure first I’d warm you up, you can figure out what feels good and I can learn how to do it to you.” Steve laughs like it bubbles up. “Shit, I’m so fucking hard, I think you’re killing me.”

“Hard?”

Steve takes your hand and presses it to his stomach. 

You laugh, but it’s all air, all breath as you feel down the solidness of his front. You’re not brave enough to touch him.

He shakes himself in front of you like he’s trying to dry off. “Alright, I’m gonna make a mess in my pants if I don’t take them off, so– so– I’m gonna take my shirt off.”

He begins pulling off his shirt and the damn breaks—you get your elbow in your shirt to yank it off, lift your hips and kick out of your skirt, searching behind yourself for the catch on your stupid bra until Steve’s taking you by the wrists. “I can do it.”

“Off?”

“Right now, let me get it.”

He lifts you up toward him, his forearms either side of you as his fingers slip under the line of your bra. It brings his face into reach again, any hesitation forgotten while you kiss his jaw, your lips parting, bottom teeth scratching upward as you bite him gently. 

“Fucking thing,” he mumbles, letting the catch of your bra fall open. 

“Fucking thing?”

“You. You’re such a fucking thing, you’re a nuisance, you…” Steve takes a very deep breath as he sits up and looks down at your naked chest, your bra having fallen into your lap. “You’re everything.”

Steve ducks down to kiss your chest, and you startle so hard you burst out laughing. The laughter doesn’t last, wobbling into weariness as he places half-moon kisses over your sternum, his hand just above it forcing you into the sheets. It wanders after that. 

You flinch from his touch, right over your heart, then lower, and lower. 

Steve doesn’t worry, but he does rest his face on your tummy and look up at you to ask, “Okay?” 

“Sensitive.”

“Yeah, really sensitive. Feel good?” 

“Do again?” 

Steve runs his fingertips over your nipple, brushes his thumb into it roughly, smiling as you shudder. He kisses under your breast again then downward, hands swiftly following. He kisses your belly and your hip, kisses the band on your panties and rubs his nose into the fabric. You seize up, worried he’ll feel the wetness there and laugh, wanting him to be faster, wanting him to strip it away from you. 

“Touch?” you ask. 

He kisses your stomach with the same tenacity he’d have kissed your mouth, hand skirting around all fluttery and warm. You want him to go lower, but he doesn’t. He kisses and kisses and scratches at you with his teeth. He even eases the panties down to kiss along the line, anywhere but where you need him. You’re aching. Your heart is starting to go again, that neediness you felt at the kitchen table returned triple fold right there at the apex of your thighs. 

“Gonna take these off, yeah? Give your cunt some attention,” he says quietly. 

Cunt. That’s the word Dariyay had said, seceretive-like under her breath. Steve says it without shame, like it’s nothing to be ashamed of, so you don’t think as you ask, “Please, kiss?” 

“Kiss you here?” he asks, hand on your thigh now, fingers slipping into the leg of your panties and hand coming up, forcing the fabric down. 

You can’t help giving another giddy laugh. “Kiss me all place.” 

Steve brings your underwear down to your knees and goes silent above you. 

You press your legs together automatically, unsure, but Steve braces his hand on the softness of your inner thigh and eases the mere millimetres apart. Your heart lurches, but you aren’t as shy as you’d imagined. Maybe it’s Steve’s clear, rabid adoration, maybe it’s because he’s seen it before in simpler moments, maybe it’s the rampant tugging in your tummy and your cunt. It feels like you’ve needed this for hours. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs, hitting at your thigh with the back of his hand, like a pat, worse when you shift your leg to the side to oblige him and feel the slickness that’s wetting you spreading over your thighs, “aw, Jesus, fuck. Fuck.”

“Fuck ow?” you murmur back. Or fuck now? 

“Fuck like beautiful,” he says, his thumb ghosting up the softness of your cunt. You jump, tickled, and his eyes flash to your face. When he sees your bitten lip, he brings his thumb flat to your cunt and feels at you all over again. “You’re so wet.” 

“Wet, I know,” you worry. 

“No, it’s good. It’s pretty.” 

“Kiss?” 

“Can I?” 

“Ask and ask and ask.”

Steve rolls your panties the rest of the way down your legs with some manoeuvring, kisses the inside of your knee, and suddenly pulls one leg over his shoulder, his face seeking into your cunt unabashedly. 

“Ah!” you say, startled by the hot, wide press of his tongue, not sure what you were expecting as you’d begged to be kissed, but surely not this. “Steve.” 

A nose pressed hard into the petal folds of you, his tongue against wetness, plushness, kisses up to the apex and then– 

“Fuck!” you say, your heel digging into his naked shoulder. “Oh, no!” 

“Oh no?” he asks, pulling away fast, wetness shining on his chin and cheek. “Hurt you?” 

“No stop,” you say, taking his face into your hand and yanking. Don’t stop, you mean, but the words aren’t clear right now. 

“Felt good?”

“Yes!”

“Don’t say oh no, you scared me.”

“What– hah–” You shiver, a burst of pleasure as he kitten licks your cunt, right against the sweet spot at the very top. “What say, honey boy?”

“You can say Steve?” He laughs, and you sigh, wondering if the pulse of wetness from you is visible to him where he’s ducked eye-level to your cunt. “Say anything. Say you like it.”

“I like it.”

“You like it?” he asks, brushing over your clit with his thumb. 

You dissolve into some squirmy version of yes and discover it can feel even better than it does. Steve lays down, the entire lower half of his face to your cunt and kissing, working up to your clit to suckle until you squeal. Then he pulls away and licks at the wetness he’s spread around with his face, around your thighs and everywhere except where you need him. It’s ten times more sense than whenever you’ve touched yourself. (Not often, and never as expertly as Steve touches now, never constant, occasionally curious after he’s kissed you and disappeared to the bathroom.) 

There is an exceptional Mer word for this sort of pleasure, and it slips from you in a whiny moan. He laughs into your cunt, kisses you again, the tip of his thumb at your opening now and feeling through wetness like he’s playing. It’s– it’s hotter than you’d thought. Fuck, your knee kicks in toward your chest as the pleasure gets burning and– and cresting, like it’ll hurt. You seize up and Steve pushes your leg into your tummy, murmurs, “Relax,” as the very tip of his thumb presses into you and his lips close around your clit and he sucks. He’s barely pushed into you when you’re crying out, startled, reaching for his hair to hold as the climax he’d been working you toward tenses your tummy and has your cunt pulsing over and over, weirdly tight. 

It goes on for ages, has you half-crying beneath him, “Steve, oh no, oh–”

“Baby–”

“–Steve, Steve.” You cover your eyes, then immediately peek at him through your fingers, panting for air as the pleasure eases but doesn’t wane, not too fast. 

He pulls away from you, his lips and chin and nose a shocking red, his thumb pulling out of your cunt with aching care. “Sorry,” he says, his eyebrows yanked together in fear, “did it hurt? I was just trying to–”

“In again,” you say, scratching at his scalp. You’re so in love with this stupid human you could shake him. “Is perfect. You are perfect.” 

His lips flatten into a smug smile. “You’re perfect. Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen. I knew… I mean, I know what you look like, but this is different.” He kisses your thigh, your tummy, then sits up and over you to bend down and kiss you on the mouth gently. “How was that? Are you feeling better? Less hot?” 

“No.”

He kisses you again. “That was fast, so I guess it is about, you know, being ready for, you know...”

“I know?”

“Mating?” he asks reluctantly. 

“Oh. Yes. Ready now, can you kiss me?” 

“Can I kiss you? Or do you need another word? I’m starting to think you don’t mean kiss.”

You think about it for a second, chest still heaving under his hand. “Kiss me, angel,” you say. 

Steve leans in and kisses you, tasting of you, smiling. 

—

Steve is gonna cum in his pants like a fucking loser if he doesn’t get a hand on himself. 

He unbuttons his jeans as he kisses you and shoves his hand into his boxers, squeezing around the base of his cock in a desperate bid to stop the worst thing that could ever happen from happening.

There is no word in the English language to describe how it felt to have your cunt pulsing down on his thumb. It’s not as though he could’ve entered you too deep like that, felt like a safe bet, and it sank into your heat without a problem. It felt like heaven. Steve’s pretty sure he’ll cum the second his cock even touches your cunt, but that’s a problem for Steve in five minutes or so. 

That is, if you still want him to fuck you. He’s kinda shit scared he’s gonna hurt you. He hasn’t had sex with someone inexperienced in years and never with somebody so… oceanic. 

You wrap your arms around his back and sigh, your face slinking down into his neck, kiss broken. Steve’s wondering if the foreplay was enough for you, if this painful heat is over, but you giggle and mumble into his chest, his ears piqued like a bloodhound at the sound. 

“Together,” you say. “What word say before? Fuck like not ow… fuck me.” You’re voice is quiet and raw enough to force a bead of precum over his fingers. 

“Jesus Christ,” he says. 

“Please, Stevie?”

Oh my god. Steve whites out. You whine something in Mer and Steve grabs you under the arms to get your head on a pillow, you poor girl laid out in the middle of the bed this entire time. He not so expertly kicks off his jeans, and his boxers slip down his hips, his cock hard and aching as it bends up toward his stomach. Steve doesn’t wanna, like, shove it into your hand, but it might be nice for you to see it. He widens the gap between your bodies just enough to show you. 

“This is how I’m gonna fuck you, honey,” he says, “I’m gonna work you open with my hand, and then I’m gonna ease into you, okay? ‘Cos you’ve never done it before, it’ll be so slow, yeah? So careful. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Take it now.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t, listen to me.”

You pout, but Steve laughs, kissing your sweaty forehead with a smack. 

“Fuck me now and now, and slow, ready now,” you promise. 

Steve grins at you with all the adoring he possesses, cannot express to you how much he wishes he could spread you open now and have you, but Steve’s not about to hurt you for the sake of five minutes. Maybe ten. Maybe fifteen. He entices you in for a pulling kiss, the distracting kind, head turning this way and that as he licks into your mouth and runs his hand over your hip, to your cunt, to all the slickness there. 

The first finger pushes in easy. He does it slow, waits for pain. You huff a little but kiss him the same, so Steve gives a careful pump and drives in with a second finger. 

That’s when you shudder. 

“How’s that?” he asks, pausing. 

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Steve slows the rock of his hand. “Hurting?”

“Good, just–”

“Just different, huh?” He twists his hand a little to press his thumb to your clit. “You tell me if it hurts you, honey girl,” —you melt like sugar at the name, as saccharine as it is— “I don’t wanna hurt you. You gotta talk to me, you know?”

“Not– not much talk, much, hah–” 

That little hah sound has gotta be his favourite noise you’ve ever made. Like a shiver through a smile, not half as sweet as your urgent moaning with a thigh clamped around his head, it reminds him of your stupid laugh whenever you’re pleased. Totally self-indulgent. 

He doesn’t try another finger for a while, isn’t sure how long, just kisses you and works into you until his wrist is aching from the upward thrust. Right toward the front, where he knows you’ll– 

“Oh.” You turn into Steve, weight on your hip and torso moving into his touch to take it quicker. “Ah, Steve, touch please, touch there.”

He circles his thumb against your clit.

You flinch. Cry out a little at the pleasure and press your face into his shoulder as Steve eases that third finger into your cunt. He’s in ecstasy, his cock throbbing erratically against his stomach, head weeping and red as you whimper into his skin, his name on your tongue, your cunt dripping slick between the cleft of your ass.

“Wanna cum again?” he asks. “Say? Can you take it again?” 

His thumb is dedicated now to your clit, rubbing in tight, wet circles as your thighs twitch, and twitch. You cum before Steve can hear your answer. It’s honestly faster than he meant. This heat in you is like a dial set to eleven. 

This time, you’re annoyed. Laughing and angry, you shove at his chest and Steve wishes he had a camera to get your smile for keeps. “Said was ready! Tummy jump, now, you did.”

Steve kisses your nose. “Will you shut up? You liked it, didn’t you? You’re such a complainer.”

“Not complain! Ecstatic! Want Steve ecstatic, together, fix my ow.”

“You said it doesn’t hurt.”

“Need you, Steve. Please.”

How many times can a girl say please before Steve cums in his hand? Apparently, he’s got one more please left before he shoots. He has to squeeze himself especially hard to make that happen. Doesn’t have a chance in fucking hell to last, but (and he feels like a bitch even thinking it), it’s not like you’ll know he’s cumming fast. You haven’t exactly held out, here. 

“Can you stay still?” he asks. 

“No.” 

“Okay, awesome,” he says, pinching your chin in his hand, forcing your eyes to his. “You don’t let me hurt you.”

“I love you,” you say. 

Steve feels his eyes get hot and his nose burn right at the back. “Yeah?” 

“Most,” you confide, wrapping yourself around him. 

Steve gets his arm behind your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. It’s unbelievable, he thinks, that the crook of his elbow fits your head perfectly. That the girl he’s been searching for was waiting at the bottom of the ocean. With his free hand, he reaches down to squeeze his aching cock again, and you must know enough to lift your leg over his hip and close the gap. 

“Ready?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah, ready.”

Steve strokes your cheek. “I love you,” he says, “a lot.”

Your smile is especially bemused. “I know, tell me much and lots, tell me all time, do lots tell, always inside of love with me.” 

“It’s true all the time,” he says with a pout. 

“Steve!” 

“I know, I know, I’m just making sure I tell you back.”

You nuzzle your nose into the side of his. “Tell again,” you say quietly. 

“I love you,” he says, taking a wonky kiss from the corner of your lips. 

Steve lines up and presses in. 

You’re wet enough and relaxed enough that he could sink to the hilt, but he knows he can’t, and he won’t. He lets your chests touch but keeps your hips apart and rocks into you slowly, lets the pleasure in his stomach lick up his spine and take over every bit of sense he has left. He’s surprised it took this long to tell you he loved you plainly. It comes to the surface and lingers now, love you love you love you as you choke on a moan and hide under his jaw. Steve can’t let you stay there too long, drawing you up with murmured pleading, come back, let me see you, miss your face too much when you’re hiding, like an angel, real pretty sweetheart, tries to gauge your feelings as you take it. As he gives it, really. He feels like you’re not taking anything so much as you’re just there with him, his girl. It’s sex, messy and simple, but it’s your first time, and this is more new to you than it would be to most. All Steve wants is to make it gentle. You take it sweetly, breathing out right in his ear, your voice colouring each breath with an addictive pull. It makes it hard to last. Makes going slow the only way he’s gonna get through this. 

“Okay?” he asks, when you’ve been quiet far too long, and he’s slowed to a pause inside you. 

“Love,” you say, aiming for a big kiss. 

Steve matches the kiss for every thrust and feels his thigh muscles go tight as violin strings as he sinks straight past any resistance to the hilt. He should not have done that, did not mean to, you’d rocked your hips down and he’s already pulling out, murmuring, “Sorry, angel, I’m sorry–” as you whisper a fervent, “Again, please.” 

He checks your face. 

“Again,” you say, eyebrows drawing together in pleasure. 

So Steve sinks in and he fucks you slow, like a drag, a rut into heat and wet and plushness that makes him groan. Hits into resistance and feels how much you like it.

“Sound good,” you whisper. 

“Can’t help it.”

“Beautiful.” You draw a hand over his abdomen. “What word?”

“Handsome?” he teases. 

You reach down to his quads and pull at him, prompting another heavy thrust. Another. Steve takes a couple of kisses while he’s still breathing, but then he’s so close to heaven he has to stop. 

“Okay?” 

“Gonna cum,” he squeezes out. 

“Cum,” you say, like you know what it means, and it doesn’t matter. Steve was too chicken shit to explain it, but he did ask you first, didn’t he? You pick up everything quickly. 

“Can’t yet. Can’t. Didn’t fuck you like you wanted.”

“This what I wanted,” you say, abandoning his hip to take his face into your hand. You’re clammy and cool, now, not burning like you were. Your thumb rubs into his cheek slowly, like he’s made of glass. Like one of those Venus flower sponges from the ocean, thin and delicate as drops of ice. “Me and you. This is all what I wanted, okay? You fixed me.”

You smile at him with stars in your eyes as your hips shift and Steve has to pull out, cumming in his hand a second later, panting like his life depends on it as strings of cum line his fingers. 

You stare in surprise. “Oh. Not happen to me.” 

“It’s a boy thing,” he rasps out, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. 

You reach between your legs to touch yourself, laughing as you do, like you’re drunk or high or something, giggly-soft as Steve tries to catch his breath. 

You give up on whatever light exploring you’d desired and offer your arms for a real cuddle, hips flat together and sticky. “Hold me?” you ask. 

Steve wipes his hand in the sheets with a sigh and gathers you into his arms. “Yeah.”

—

Did you know when a boy who loves you fucks you, it kind of feels like you’re the most beautiful girl who ever existed? 

Steve fucked you and held you and kissed your cheeks and cuddled you to him and he never stopped asking how it felt, and if you were okay, and his hand had drifted down to your chest to touch you, to make you feel good, and all of it felt like a honeypot coil in your tummy getting tighter. ‘Mating’ or getting ‘fucked’ by someone who’s in love with you is better than all your best firsts. It’s like finding a new way to swim, like feeling the sun on your skin through the depths with a hand in your hair, raking it back. It’s like being kissed all over, all the time. 

If merpeople developed the ability to change just to do this with one another, you totally get it. 

Steve hugs you for a good ten minutes while you doze, tired, sated after a big meal, and then he gets up on his knees and puts his nose to your forehead without kissing you. “I’m gonna get you some water, and check that I set the alarm on the door. Do you want something to eat?”

“Do not go.”

“I’ll be fast.”

“Stay. Hold me more.”

So Steve lays down and holds you until you fall asleep. 

You wake up again an indeterminable amount of time later to many different things. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand opposite you, a bowl of rice with cut slices of bright, fresh fish beside it. Steve is rolling deodorant onto his armpits in a pair of boxers sitting by your legs. You need to pee, a pain like a knife between your legs. 

“Hurt,” you say softly. 

Steve turns to you, his mouth puckered in worry. “Yeah, what hurts?”

“Pee.”

“Oh. That’s normal. Want me to carry you?”

“No,” you say with a laugh. “Not broken.” 

“I can see that.”

You realise that he’s wiped you clean as you stand, which is oh so nice, and not at all a surprise from your kind boy, earning him a kiss behind his ear as you rush to the en-suite bathroom. You close the door but don’t lock it and do your business quick. 

You’re delighted to find the extremely sensitive feeling and all your slickness is over. You wash your hands and face before opening the door some to peer at Steve through the gap. “Stevie?” you ask softly. 

“What’s up, beautiful?”

You aren’t sure. 

He scratches a hand through damp hair. “Come here,” he prompts when you fail to return, “come on, you can sit in my lap and eat something. You didn’t eat anything at breakfast.”

“You not eat anything. I had pancake.”

“You had a bite of pancake, that’s not enough.”

You head back to him and sit in his lap as he’s asked you, not worried about falling considering the speed with which he pulls you close. “Best bite of pancake ever. Ever. You feed me, best pancake.”

“Theyre not as good as the pancakes you made,” he says. 

You shake your head, tracing along his beauty marks with a pearlescent fingernail. Thinking very hard about each word before it comes out, taking time to sew the sentence tightly, you say, “When you feed me pancakes from plate, your plate, it is important. Understand? Word, I think, like love. Mermaid feed you, mean…” 

“Like a kiss?” he asks. “You kiss sometimes to share food, right?”

“Sort of like kiss, like, swear you care for me.” 

“Hey, speaking of kisses, I got to thinking while you were sleeping. How come your spit doesn’t magically glue my mouth closed whenever we kiss? Isn’t it like, super strong?” 

“What?” you ask. 

“Your spit! You fixed your tummy with it, and my foot, but when we kiss we don’t get stuck together.”

“Only fix when hurt, duh.” You roll your eyes. “Whatever. Silly boy, not want talk to you.”

“Rude.”

You can’t fake a huff. You’re currently too heavily imbued with happy hormones to do anything besides sit here and wish he’d tell you he loved you again. 

He taps at your nose with the tip of his until you lift your lips, kissing you briefly, then slotting his head over your shoulder, his hand spread and waving against your back. “So this sharing from the same plate thing, that’s important to you?” 

You smile. Glad he can’t see it. He’d know you’re totally gone for him if he could. “Important for mermaid, inside of love, yeah? Many important.”

“Is that what made you… you know, excited?”

“Heat not s’posed happen but is wait happen, also? Make me, when share.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not be sorry. Not ever, please.”

“I’m not sorry about this,” he says, patting your shoulder, “just sorry I made you uncomfortable doing something I should’ve done before. We never shared before?”

“Has to be with want. Not like, uh, share foals and flounder.”

“You’re confusing me.”

“Has to be… go of love?” 

“I have to do it because I love you?”

“Yes. Have to do because you love me, care me, give me.”

“Well, I’ve cared about you for a really long time, and I’ve been feeding you since we met, baby.”

You shake your head, picking gently at a mole behind his shoulder blade. Not to hurt him, only to feel it. “Plate. Feed me your plate.”

Steve leans into you with a loving sigh, smelling your neck. “I think I understand. It’s symbolic, like a tradition.” 

“Tradition?” 

“A tradition is something you do that has rules. You do it because it’s important, and because people have done it before you? Or, like, humans get married. You remember that from Watership Down? They say promises and exchange rings because it’s important to them. I understand it now.” His voice warms your skin. “You could’ve told me. I would’ve shared with you off of the same fork months ago.” 

“Months!” You’re scandalised. You and Steve have not known each other for more than four months, you’d say. 

Four months, and he is already so special to you. Just four months. 

You figure you’ll explain the intention of the courting process some other time and encourage his head back instead, meeting his brown eyes, their almond shape gone soft from his long eyelashes. There are too many places on his face you’ve failed to kiss. You know you’ve never kissed above his eyebrows before, leaning up to rectify the issue quickly. “All Steve need kiss,” you say decidedly. 

He offers his hand. 

You kiss every finger, knuckle to tip, then his palm. 

He holds your face in it when you’re done, giving your chin a little wobble. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. 

“Okay.”

“And you slept okay? Not tired?”

“Slept nice. Want you sleep and me next time.”

“Sleep with you, next time.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “Can tell something?”

“You can tell me anything. Not kidding.” 

You hold your hands together against his tummy. “Feel… sad, now and before and before, when I can not… give word, right word. Feel like me and Steve, very important, and can not give words important.” 

Steve draws along your face with a single fingertip. “Not give words important,” he repeats. 

“All wrong word. I am sorry.”

“You don’t ever have to be sorry. Not for anything, and not for how you tell me what you need.” 

“You have…” Steve deserves to hear how loved he is in perfect sentences, but you’re just not there. You understand almost every single word he offers up now, but it is so hard to recollect what joiner word to say and what order to say them in when you aren’t hearing them. “I learn more word, swear.”

“Are you kidding?” he says, shifting your legs over his lap to hold the small of your back. “I don’t know a single word in Mer that isn’t your name and you’re apologising to me? Do you hear that? You learned how to speak a new language so you could talk to me. You stay with me, you want to be here, and you think you need to be sorry about how you talk?” He tilts his head to better meet your gaze, ducking a touch, forcing your full attention. “You told me you loved me, earlier. You think that’s not good enough? That’s fucking everything. I don’t need you to say the right words, I only want you to tell me how you feel. As long as I know what you need, and you can complain, we’re fine. We don’t need anything else.”

Really? you want to say. Irony is you can’t think of the word. “You are okay?”

“Yes, beautiful, I promise you. I promise. Yes and yes and yes, you’re perfect.”

“Perfect most beautiful.”

“Most,” he says, raising his eyebrows at you. 

It gets tiring, always learning. Some days Dariyay or Dustin try to teach you knew words and you cannot be bothered to ingest them, but it was worth it, in the end, to let Steve teach you. There are times like now where you’re trying hard to make sense and forgetting words you knew, and messing up the simple stuff in an attempt to use the more complicated. 

You wonder why it bothers you. Steve knows every part of you, now. This is it. He has everything, and he wants you just the same. 

“Need you,” you mumble, pressing your lips to his muscled shoulder. He is made up of such amazing shapes.

“Have me,” he says, rubbing a path down your spine, up again, slow as honey. “I promise, you’re everything I need like this.”

You glance at him sideways. He’s nosing down your arm, his eyes fluttered closed as though he’s forgotten where he is. 

“You want share rice me?” you ask.

He smiles into your arm. “Yes. It’s important, right? From now on, me and you, we eat from the same plate. Good?”

He could lay you out right now and have you, that’s how good it is. 

You wonder if he’d like that. 

—

It’s a few hours later when Steve gets you into the bath. 

All fucking remained gentle, yet you look like you’ve been through the ringer by the time you’re done. Steve wanted to see if he could get you to cum six times, and he achieved his arbitrary goal all too quickly. 

You, while pleased, have the air of a woman who needs electrolytes. Steve gives you a glass of apple juice and you sip it in the tub, submerged to the waist in bubbles and blinking beautifully slow blinks.

Whatever it was that was making you want to be fucked so badly has certainly dissipated. You’d gone sore and achy in the middle of a second tryst so Steve had pulled out, kissing at the hurt he caused until you cried, real, big-drop tears that fourth time, and then the fifth. Steve sniffled his way through that fifth one with you, murmuring love into your skin, enchanted by the sight of you with your hands running over yourself. 

The sixth was mostly accidental. Lazy, lazy kisses turned to a hickey which you’ve apparently never had, turned to you hot against his leg, your hips rolling. He didn’t have to touch you much to draw out a last climax, but the sound you made was borderline pained, so he didn’t try again. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, kneeling beside the bath with his hand braces at your hairline, stroking. 

“Yes.”

“Can you use a couple more words?”

“Feel full.”

Steve laughs, stroking down your cheek with the back of his hand. “Sated?” 

“What mean?”

“Means you feel satisfied, like, everything is fixed. Like full, but without the feeling of, like…” Steve pets your cheek, then lets his hand fall further down. “Pressure.” 

“Pressure?” 

Steve squeezes your shoulder. “Like this?”

“Squeeze me.”

“Yeah, I’m applying pressure.”

“Oh.”

You take another mouthful of apple juice, but your question is loaded up before you’re done, and he can hear you swallowing as you ask, “Are you okay, angel? Did I hurt you?”

“Did you hurt me? Never, why would you think that?”

“You ask me lots times. Think if sex maybe hurt,” you say. 

“It doesn’t usually hurt. Only sometimes, and most of the time by accident.”

“Oh.”

“Want me to wash your hair now?” he asks. 

“Yes, please. Thank you. Best boyfriend.”

You’re not kidding, is the worst part. You close your eyes and offer your glass to him blindly with a content smile on your face, waiting for him to pour water over you and wet your hair. 

He’s pretty sure you’re the first girlfriend he’s ever had to think this highly of him. He wants to earn it.

Steve taps your chin and kisses the slight bruise of a hickey, gentle, lest he hurt you twice. “You are really perfect,” he says. 

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He washes your hair carefully but quickly, wanting to get you out of the bath fast. He showered after your first fuck but needs to wash off again now, so he wraps you in a towel once you’re done and tells you to climb into bed, that he’ll sort everything out for you when he’s done. 

He showers and dries off, returning to the bedroom with a towel around his waist and a smile. You’re cross-legged on the bed with one of your encyclopedias in the dip of your legs, the towel falling down your chest some, your written list of phonetics poking out behind the cover, but you aren’t studying. You’re tracing pictures with your finger, eyebrows lightly pinched. 

“Wet hair,” you say. 

“Yeah,” he says.

“Fix.”

“‘Bout to.”

“About,” you correct. 

Steve chuckles to himself. “Yeah.” 

“About means… same, means close, means like new word.”

“Kind of. It’s a hard word to explain.” 

“About to go to bed,” you say. “Have in Mer, kind of.”

“You do?”

“Not so different.”

Steve dries your hair and does his best to fix it. Dariyay fixed it for you this morning and he wouldn’t have gotten it wet, only the sex seemed to have knocked it out of place and frizzed it to high heaven. He gives it his best shot and you trace shapes into his stomach where it stays near your hand. Steve won’t ask to fuck again, but your touch and the fresh memory of what it felt like to do that to you has his cock stirring. He wills it down. Wonders if he’s a sex pest now, or if you’re just that beautiful. 

It’s funny. You’ve been pretty this whole time, but Steve can’t believe how much worse it’s gotten over time. He didn’t think you could get any prettier. 

“Ecstatic,” you murmur. 

He tips your head back. “You are in love with me.”

“Yes?”

“No, like. You’re a loser. You’re gone for me.”

“What is loser, gone, shush. Say mean thing, think I not know, I know.” You scowl at him. “You are loser.”

He wrinkle his nose. “Am not.”

“Yes. Much loser.”

“Wanna get dressed? I have the softest pajamas ever with your name written all over them.”

“Name all over?”

“It’s a saying. Like… if I say I’m jumping for joy, I’m not really jumping, but I could be.”

“Joy happy?”

“Yeah.”

“We jump for joy, mermaid. Swim up to surface, jump, swim down. Fun.”

“It sounds awesome.”

“My name written all over, not real, but mine, mine a lot, so. Saying.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“More saying human? Mer not have much saying. Mer more–” You pause. “Yes and yes.”

Steve takes the time to sort it through. “You guys say what you mean. Humans are funny. We have lots of sayings. We have one that goes, ‘he drinks like a fish’, which means he likes a lot of beer.”

“Fish not drink beer?” you say, laughing. 

“No, they don’t. It’s stupid, it’s because people think fish drink a ton of water. Hey, should we go swimming later?” he asks, digging through the top dresser drawer until he finds the sweet blue pajamas he has hiding away. They’re for your hard days, of which you don’t have many, but the softness never fails to draw your awe. He thinks they’ll be nice for the occasion, extra comfort after a big first experience. “It’s been a while.”

“Not swim. Dariyay tell, after heat, water and me make tail.”

Steve snorts at the joke, even as he falters. “You’ll get your tail back, huh?”

“Have… what call? Foal.”

“Baby. You’d have a baby.”

“Right. Oh, forgot. Two means.”

His stomach jolts uncomfortably at the idea of you changing back. “Yeah, it’s one of those words… Shit, you’ll really get your tail again? I don’t want you to leave, yet. Dariyay said you have to go home soon, didn’t she? But there’s so much you haven’t done, I wanted to take you on a real date, and on a rollercoaster, and to the movies, take you rollerblading. There’s so much stuff. I don’t want you trapped in my pool again, but maybe I can go with you?” He can’t think of a way to stay with you. “Don’t go yet. Please.” 

You give him your own rare brand of puppy dog eyes. “Not want go, Steve. Tell you. You and me tomorrow and tomorrow, and love you, and– not want. Miss tail, but miss you more,” you say, shrugging. “Get dressed now? I am cold.”

Steve gives you your pajamas and diverts the conversation from changing. He has the feeling that he is being very, very selfish, but he cannot bring himself to let you go. 

The second he sits down, you get on your knees and shuffle around, pausing, shy for potentially the first time in your whole life. “Can I hold you?” you ask.

Steve lays down and you follow, interlocking on your sides like commas. You wrap your arms around him very specifically; the bottommost one looped around his matching arm, and the upper over his neck, your hand on his cheek, holding him like you’d asked. 

“Best thing,” you say, turning your hand to stroke his cheek. It is such a light touch that, for a second, he wants to squirm away. He relaxes the longer you do it, coaxed into total stillness, his eyes growing heavier and heavier. “My boy.” 

Your fingers tumble down to the thin line of a scar that spans across his neck. 

“Hurting?” you murmur. 

He closes his eyes. Lets himself melt into your chest. “Nah. Not for a long time.” 

⋆𓇼⋆.ೃ࿔:⋆

# - masterlist ⋆˚࿔

one shots

don’t pretend - steve harrington x reader

series - in progress

temporary fix - steve harrington x reader

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁