hey, it's libby

The heat of the explosion fanned across his face, throwing him back into the mall with enough force to stretch a burning pain across his body. He gasps for air, vision blurring in the smoke, lungs barely taking a breath.

Something sharp hits his stomach, but he barely notices, eyes watching a shadow move closer to him, heart leaping into his throat.

“Harrington, you okay? Harrington!”

He knew that voice, but his mind still swarmed, fading in and out as he struggled to stay awake.

Another shadow. This one, much bigger. The voice in front of him turns to it, something incomprehensible falling from their lips as they take one last look down at Steve’s almost lifeless body.

“Tell…”

The rest of the sentence goes unheard, something like a roar piercing through the room. He can barely see now, his ears all he had left to make sense of what was happening around him.

Gunshots, screams. Horrific sounds of something slicing into meat.

Then a hard thud of a body hitting the ground in front of him, a strange pain in his heart until he succumbed to unconsciousness completely.

“Steve.”

“Steve, wake up.”

“Steve!”

Steve jolts awake, head whipping up as he breaks away from his dreams, body slick with sweat.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay.”

He blinks through the dark room, feeling the soft touch of hands caress his face as he pants for air, searching for the person beside him.

“I’m right here, Steve. It’s okay.”

His glassy eyes finally settle on you, your beautifully concerned face illuminated under the rare sighting of a moon from the curtainless window behind him. He instantly reaches out for you, and you hold him close, your heartbeat all he needs to hear to steady his own.

“What happened?” You whisper into his hair, and the words stay stuck in his throat. “Another nightmare?”

“Something like that.” He mumbles, taking a deep breath and pulling away, something like guilt twisting his insides. “Shit, sorry. What time is it?”

“Um…” You hazily gaze at the small clock on your bedside table, “Four-ish.”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” Steve sighs, running a hand down his face.

“It’s okay-”

“No, it’s not.”

The dark circles you wore beneath your eyes had, for the most part, appeared because of him. Steve couldn’t sleep anymore without the night at the mall creeping back into his consciousness. At first, it had been easier to deal with; just a recollection of the event exactly how he remembered it. But it’s become so much more than that. He’s started dreaming things he didn’t remember about that night, shadows that felt familiar yet alien at the same time. Like his memory was trying to show him things he had repressed.

And each time it tried, he woke up in a cold sweat and embraced in a helpless show of affection that only made him feel guiltier. You had enough to deal with. He didn’t need you worrying about him, either.

“Maybe… maybe I should start sleeping in my own room.” He says quietly, and he can feel your hands still at his side. “Just until… until I stop having these nightmares. It’s not fair that you’re not getting any sleep over this.”

“Steve. Look at me.”

He manages to drag his eyes over to you, your hand sliding up his arm to rest around the nape of his neck, ensuring he doesn’t look away.

“What’s going on?” You ask so innocently it physically hurts. “You can tell me.”

I’m the reason Billy is dead. I lost Robin. I lied to everyone for months because I couldn’t let you go. The guilt is tearing me apart on the inside to the point where I can’t even stand to look in the mirror. I’m selfish, I’m unworthy, I-

“Nothing.” He replies, patting your arm and sliding out of the sheets, away from your touch. As soon as your fingertips left his skin, the voices stopped, and he cleared his throat. “I’m gonna shower, before everyone else wakes up. Get some sleep, okay?”

The hurt on your face didn’t go unnoticed, but you didn’t beg him to stay. Instead, you nod faintly, laying back down. His throat tightens as he grabs his clothes, taking one last look at your figure in the dark before he closes the door behind him.

“You’re up early.”

Your head turns to see Eddie’s tired expression, his hands already finding a coffee mug on the counter and searching for the cure to his early morning fatigue.

“Couldn’t sleep.” You respond, handing over the coffee jug to his delight.

“Hm.” He sounds knowingly, pouring a cup.

You lean back against the kitchen island, narrowing your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?” He smirks, taking a sip, a lightness in his eyes that shouldn’t be making your stomach crawl.

“The ‘hm’.” You repeat, and Eddie shrugs.

“Just… hm. That’s all.”

“It was a weird ‘hm’.”

“You’re the one making it weird.” He raises his free hand as a surrender, grinning now as you bite back a smile.

When you meet his eyes in the comfortable silence, your smile starts to drop, hands tightening around your mug.

Eddie Munson was once your closest friend. When you first moved to Hawkins, your father had been living in the trailer park and somehow managed to squeeze your entire life into the only room he had, his nights mostly spent on the couch since he was never home much. It was lonely at the beginning. Until you met Eddie.

He was an outcast kid armed with a humorous wit in one hand and a blunt in the other. Robin had actually been the one to introduce you both, even if unknowingly. She called in sick to school, leaving you without a science partner. Lucky for you, the resident school burnout decided to grace the class with his presence that day, choosing the seat beside you, and you had been friends ever since.

Until you were caught smoking weed in the woods. Everything came tumbling down after that.

There was once a time where sharing a space like this would have come so easy to you. Now, it felt like you were tugging at a thread that had already come loose.

Eddie senses the shift in the air, his shoulders tightening. He bites his lip, studying the ground, searching for the words to say. Not that he got to say them.

“I, uh-”

“Morning.”

Jonathan Byers slips into the room with a practiced quietness, studying the coffee pot with a hesitant stare.

“Are we running low, yet?” He asks no one in particular, eyeing the last empty cup on the counter.

“We have enough to give an elephant the zoomies.” You respond with a snort, gesturing to the cupboard above his head. “It’s like, the only thing Hop ever brings back from the scavenges.”

“I think you mean looting expeditions.” Jonathan murmurs, lowering his voice to mimic the older man. “Why are you guys up so early anyway?”

He eyes Eddie’s tired body slumped against the wall, eyes barely staying open.

“The stupid moon kept me up.” Eddie grumbles and Jonathan frowns, sharing a look with you. You merely shrug. “Hey, it was bright, okay?”

“What about you?” Jonathan asks, setting his coffee down as he took a seat on the other side of the island. Before you can answer, he rests his chin on his hand and lowers his voice. “And please, I don’t want the gruesome details.”

You almost splutter up your coffee, glaring at the way both boys are snickering into their own cups. “You are both children.”

“As long as you don’t bring anymore in here. We’re a full house already.” Jonathan laughs, and you immediately throw a dishcloth at him.

While you and Steve were trying to keep your relationship a secret, there was only so much you could hide from your friends. You all lived under the same roof, ate dinner together, shared walls… Simply put, it was hard to keep a secret in this house.

“What’s the plan for today, anyway?” Jonathan changes the subject, the mood now solemn. “Did Hopper say anything after last night?”

“You mean when an evil mind lord locked us up like we’re in a snow globe?” Eddie mutters, eyes flickering to the window. Nothing could be seen from it, however. The planks of wood made sure of that.

The reminder of what lays behind it was like a punch to the gut. You kept slipping away from reality, becoming comfortable in the domestic nature of being surrounded by your friends and family. It made you feel sick, if anything, that you kept unknowingly pretending everything was fine.

“No, he didn’t.” You say quietly, “I overheard him talking to Joyce, though.”

“Anything we should know?” Jonathan queries, and Eddie straightens up now. You fully have their attention.

“They were talking about the kids.” You say quietly, reminded of the hushed voices behind the office door before you went to bed last night, the tremor in the mother’s voice. “I think they’re trying to figure out how to keep them safe.”

“How come Chief didn’t send them away in the first place? You know, when the military wanted to evacuate any survivors?”

Eddie posed a great question, one you’ve been asking yourself for the longest time. Your dad wouldn’t willingly keep young kids around during something like this unless it was absolutely necessary.

“I don’t know. But he wouldn’t be hiding them here if he didn’t have a good reason. He probably knows something we don’t.”

“Sounds about right.” Jonathan sighs, tapping his mug. He notices Eddie’s frown. “We usually don’t find anything out until we figure it out for ourselves. Welcome to the group.”

Eddie slowly nods, casting a glance at you, the look lingering longer than it should have. If Jonathan noticed the rising tension, he didn’t get the chance to voice his observation.

“Will?”

You’re the first to notice the young boy, setting your coffee mug down when you see him standing in the doorway, pajamas still on and a piece of paper in his right hand.

“Why are you up, buddy? Couldn’t sleep, either?” Jonathan asks with a tender voice he only used with his younger brother. He sees the glassy look on the boy’s face and immediately moves toward him, kneeling down.

“I saw something.” Will’s small voice explained.

“Like a nightmare?” Jonathan suggests, but his eyes are already finding yours, panicked.

“She needs help.”

“Who?”

Will hands his brother the paper, eyes trained to the floor. He looked more than spooked. Haunted, maybe. By whatever was on that paper.

“Y/n.” Jonathan whispers, and you quickly join his side, frowning when he hands you the paper.

You carefully take it from him, immediately recognising the strokes of crayon on the image presented to you.

The drawing was far too precise to be a coincidence. A small figure in the middle of the paper was unmistakenly Robin. She stood in what looked eerily similar to her real life room, the same Madonna and Bowie posters coating the walls if only recognisable by shape and colour.

In the corner of this room, however, was a shadow, darker and much more pigmented than the rest of the drawing, like Will had scribbled it over and over again.

“What is this?” You ask shakily, a distant look in the young boy’s eye that had your skin crawling.

Will doesn’t look at you, his arms trembling with fear. “She’s trapped. She can’t leave. It won’t let her.”

“Hey, it’s alright, it was just a nightmare, okay?” His older brother soothes.

Jonathan looks up at you as he pulls Will into a hug, searching your face as if you had the answers. You were still staring at the drawing, looking at the walls of your best friend’s bedroom with a fixed frown.

If it was just a nightmare, how did Will know what Robin’s room looked like?

Steve had been staring at the ceiling far longer than he’d care to admit, laying atop his bedsheets feeling cold and alone. He should have stayed with you. God knows he couldn’t sleep unless you were there beside him.

That look on your face when he left… ugh. As if he didn’t feel guilty enough already, he managed to outdo himself with every single mistake.

And you hadn’t said anything. You didn’t stop him from leaving, or argue with his self-deprecating thoughts like you usually would on nights his dreams tried to drown him. Maybe you were starting to see what Steve believed this entire time.

He was unfixable.

That’s not fair to you, he thinks, rolling over and closing his eyes. You just found out your best friend was somewhere out there and you had no idea how to reach her. You’ve already been through so much.

You didn’t deserve someone so selfish.

Because that’s who you are, Steve. You’re a selfish, miserable liar-

Loud voices echo from the hallway, relieving him from his own torture. He looks at the time. 7am.

“What do you mean it’s not important?!”

He flies out of bed at the sound of your voice, immediately pulling a sweatshirt over his bare torso and pulling open his door.

Across the hall, he can see the small gap in the office door, shapes moving behind them. You, mostly, your hands wild as Steve catches the desperate glare in your eye. Shit. Whatever it was, it was bad.

“I didn’t say that!” 

Hopper looks at you with wide eyes, jaw set. You weren’t entirely sure how you got from softly knocking his office door to an argument in a matter of seconds. A genetic trait, you think. It would be impressive if it weren’t so damaging.

“What are you really expecting is gonna happen?” Hopper continues, shaking his head like you were a child again. “That she’s just gonna be back home, patiently waiting in her room?! Do you understand how ridiculous that sounds?!”

You huff out a heated breath. He wasn’t listening. “Will saw-”

“Will had a nightmare and drew something about it! You can’t just risk lives over a doodle, Y/n! We need actual concrete evidence because if we’re dead, we ain’t helping her! Why can’t you just think before you-”

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?!” 

Something snaps in your voice, a break that sounds like a repressed cry. 

Unbeknownst to you, Steve abandons his doorway and instinctively moves closer to you, needing to be near you. 

“I know she’s there, dad, I can feel it.”

“I just got you back.” Hopper breaks now, and Steve pauses outside the door. “I can’t lose you over a feeling. Why can’t you just understand I’m trying to protect you?”

“Like you protected Robin?”

Hopper’s face falls, any rage dissipating into the air like he’d had a sharp slap to the face. You felt a bite of regret once the words left your mouth, but it wasn’t as if they weren’t truthful.

Robin had disappeared and been replaced by a shapeshifter. A monster. And no one had noticed. They couldn’t even be sure when the switch happened, and that’s what hurt you the most. It could have been a few days. It could have been months.

You wipe your eyes, swallowing the sobs scratching at your throat. You barely look at your father, already turning to the exit. “I didn’t come here for your permission, I just thought that maybe you’d want to know. Clearly I’m the only person that gives a shit about my best friend.”

The door swings open, and you halt at the sight of Steve. He gulps, looking between you and Hopper, caught.

“I…”

You don’t wait around for an excuse. You brush past him, not in hate but rather haste, needing to leave the room as quickly as possible. He watches you disappear down the staircase, his body aching to follow.

“She thinks she had a lead on Robin.” Hopper explains, voice hoarse from anger and exhaustion.

“You don’t think we should check it out?” Steve frowns, and Hopper sighs.

“That’s the thing. She wasn’t suggesting we do anything.” His eyes look up with a pleading nature he had only seen during that fight in the bunker several months back. The look only his daughter could create. “She wants to go alone.”

Steve’s jaw clenches.

“I know you two are… friends.” Hopper says, and Steve barely controls the hitch in his throat. “Can you-”

“I’ll talk to her.” He promises. Hopper pinches the bridge of his nose, eyeing the boy still stood in the doorway like he had something else to say.

Steve just nods, heading down the staircase, immediately spotting the gap in the front door. You’re sat outside now, knees brought up to your chest as you stared out past the wired fences on the porch.

He takes a breath, hand already on the door, when he sees you’re not alone.

“He’s right about one thing. You can’t go alone.” Jonathan says with a soothing voice that makes Steve’s fists curl. Of course, it had to be Jonathan.

“I’m just sick of people getting hurt because of me.” You admit, voice sadder than Steve has heard it before. “It’s like… I always make the wrong decisions. Or I think I’m helping, but I’m just making everything worse. And I don’t know how to stop feeling that way.”

Steve’s heart wrenches. You never told him that.

“No one thinks that.” Jonathan assures, “Hey, I’m serious. We’ve all done some pretty stupid things but I don’t think you’re even a contender for that list.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Did something happen?” Jonathan lowers his voice, sneaking a glance behind him. Steve is thankfully hidden behind the door, holding his breath. “Did something happen with Steve?”

Steve’s shoulders stiffen. Fuck, he really shouldn’t be listening to this. Unfortunately, his curiosity got the better of him.

“Jon, seriously?” You say, faking a laugh. It wasn’t nearly as bright as your real laugh. “I told you, nothing is happening between us. We’re just friends.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t fall out.”

“It…” You start, and then hesitate, sighing. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

Footsteps can be heard approaching from the parlour, and Steve steps away from the door with a silent groan. He really didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping, and he certainly didn’t want to wrestle any longer with the image of you seeking Jonathan for comfort rather than him.

Did something happen with Steve?

You had an answer. Even if you didn’t say it, you had an answer. And all he could think about was what happened this morning. He was failing at everything, it seemed.

He wasn’t going to let you down this time. He was going to bring Robin back, whatever it takes.

“Shit.” He curses as he almost runs into someone, clearly far too distracted by his own thoughts to be paying attention to his surroundings.

“Sorry.” Nancy halts, raising her hands. “I wasn’t-”

She looks up at him, taken aback.

“Whoa, you look like hell.” She frowns, and Steve runs a hand through his hair, glancing over his shoulder. You were both still outside, thankfully. 

Steve goes to dismiss anything and brush past when an idea suddenly strikes his mind.

“Uh, Steve?” Nancy waves a hand in his face, confused as to why he was still standing there.

“I need your help.”

El looked scarily similar to Sara like this. Her smaller body hidden beneath the sheets, head resting gently against the pillow, her short curls framing her face. Except Sara never got up again, and El shifted in her bed with a bright smile when she saw you enter the room.

“Hi.” You smile, moving to close the door when you remember El’s preference, leaving it open by 3 inches instead. “I didn’t know if you were hungry, so I grabbed you a cookie. It’s no Eggo, but it’s pretty tasty.”

You leave the tissue-wrapped treat on her bedside table, perching beside her on the bed.

“Thank you.” She says, eyes drifting to the sheets at her legs.

“You okay?” You ask gently, noting how her face falls every so slightly.

Ever since the Voice got to her at the mall, she’s barely been able to walk without feeling fatigued. And her powers hadn’t returned to her, yet. She was clearly struggling, and it pained you to see it more than words could say.

“I wish I could help.” She finally says, looking up at you with her sweet doe eyes.

“You are.” You assure, grabbing her hand. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know Robin was out there still. Because of you, we might be able to save her.”

El hums, relaxing her shoulders. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to settle her mind for a while.

“Max was asking about you.” You change the subject, eyeing how El’s face twists with indecision. “You guys are friends, right?”

She huffs, “Friends don’t lie.”

You frown, shifting closer to her. “What do you mean?”

“Mike told me friends don’t lie.” She reiterates, frowning. “And Max lied.”

“About what?”

Her mouth parts, but she doesn’t speak, swallowing whatever response was on her tongue. You narrow your eyes, playfully prodding at her arm.

“Hey. Tell me the gossip, El.” When she doesn’t respond, you let out an exaggerated sigh and swing your legs onto the bed, shuffling her over so you could lay down next to her. She looks at you with wide eyes, amused. “Fine. But I’m not leaving this bed until you do. I’ll sleep here if I have to, and you should know, I’ve been told I kick.”

You demonstrate with little force, making her break out of her stubborn silence with a giggle.

“Okay, okay!” She laughs when you continue, grabbing your leg with her hands. “I will tell you!”

“Alright, I’ll stop.” You grin, settling back into the bed. “What did Max lie about?”

El sighs, resting her head on your shoulder. “She said… she wasn’t sad.”

That makes you frown, already confused.

“She lied about being sad?”

El nods against you. “I saw her crying. I asked if she was okay, and she said she was fine. But she isn’t. Billy died, and she’s sad. She won’t talk to me about it.”

You place a kiss to the top of El’s head, pulling away just enough to look at her properly. She looked genuinely hurt at the memory, and you had to remind yourself El wasn’t like the other kids. She had even less of a grasp on emotions and friendships than any of you did.

“Sometimes we lie about how we feel because…I guess, because of so many reasons.”

“Like?” She asks innocently, and you purse your lips.

“Well, when we’re sad, we don’t always want people to know.” You try to explain as simply as you could, hoping it could make sense for her. “It’s complicated, but I don’t think Max wants to lie, she just… she wants to pretend.”

“Pretend?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “She wants to pretend she’s okay so it doesn’t hurt so much anymore. So, I guess she did lie. But I think she just needs a friend right now.”

El nods along to your words, frowning at the bedroom door, probably imagining Max and the potential of your proposal.

“Sometimes friends lie because the truth hurts them.” She decides, briefly smiling to herself like everything suddenly made sense.

Your breath hitches slightly at her discovery, blinking at how simple it all seemed to a girl who was still learning what it meant to be human.

“Yeah.” You sigh, “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“Do daughters lie?” She suddenly asks and you clear your throat.

“Sometimes.” You shrug, trying not to think too hard about it. “But it’s mostly because we don’t want our parents to worry about us.”

“Like your fight with Hopper?”

You mentally curse. Of course she heard that. “Yeah, kinda. But I didn’t lie to him.”

“Do… sisters lie?”

She was sitting fully upright now, looking up at you with furrowed brows and an expression that told you she’d been thinking about this question for a long time.

“No.” You smile, holding her hand. “They tell each other everything. Even if it’s bad.”

Staring down at your hand, she starts to bite her bottom lip, a habit she was surely picking up from you now you spent so much time together. Eventually, she sighs.

“I have to tell you something.”

“About Max?” You frown, still smiling. The look on her face wipes away the smile immediately when she raises her head.

“About Steve.”

“And Hopper doesn’t want us investigating?”

“He doesn’t want her investigating.” Steve says, continuously looking over his shoulder to check the door was, in fact, closed. “I mean, can you blame him? He lost her for months, he’s clearly just scared something’s gonna happen again.”

Nancy’s arms were folded, her lips pursed together. A look she wore when she was concentrating on the facts, analysing and weighing up the cost of important decisions. Steve told her what he heard about Robin, hoping for some much needed help behind the closed door of his bedroom.

“Will saw something. Like a vision?” She asks again, and Steve just nods. “And Y/n thinks she’s at her house?”

“Apparently his drawing was super specific.”

Nancy looks back up at him, eyes flickering between his. “So, what are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking Robin needs help.” He says, leaning against his dresser. He remembers the desperation in your eyes. You needed her back more than anything. “And I want to bring her back. I just can’t do it by myself.”

“Is Hopper even gonna let us do this?” She asks knowingly, and Steve shrugs.

“If we have a concrete plan and a good team, yeah. I don’t see why he’d say no.”

“There’s a lot more to think about now, Steve.” Nancy bites her lip, shaking her head. “We don’t have an escape route if something goes wrong. We don’t even know what’s trapped in Hawkins with us, or if more gates are being opened- We…”

She takes a deep breath, eyes wide with sadness. “We don’t even know if she’s alive. For all we know, this is just a trap. That thing already got inside El’s head, and now Will? Like it isn’t a coincidence they both had visions of Robin barely a day apart?”

Nancy was always good at rationalising certain questions. It proved how smart she was to be able to study a problem from every angle possible. Far different from how Steve approached things. Especially now, as he attempted to consider her justification while pretending like his own guilt wasn’t outweighing his voice of reason.

“I keep trying to remember the last time I saw her. The real Robin.” He stares at his shoes now, ignoring the sharp pain of his gut twisting with his confession. “I remember talking to her before we went out to Weathertop, before… before everything changed again. And then I shut myself in my room and didn’t talk to anyone for days. When I finally had the guts to face you all, she was colder to me. I just assumed it was because of what I’ve done, but now I’m not so sure. Which sucks. It fucking sucks, because maybe she needed someone and I was too busy pretending like I was the only one missing Y/n when she was everything Robin had, like she wasn’t even Hopper’s daughter, and I did that-”

He takes a deep breath, stopping himself from saying anything further. I lied to you all, and if I didn’t Robin would still be here and no one would have gotten hurt-

“Steve.”

When he looks back at Nancy, her head is tilted, eyes light with sorrow and comfort.

“None of us knew.” She says softly, her voice much steadier than her trembling bottom lip. “I mean, I spent a whole day with her after we got that radio transmission, and I didn’t notice anything different. Which, yeah, you’re right, it does suck. But I didn’t know her well enough to realise she wasn’t the same. Neither did you. So, please, for your sake… stop blaming yourself.”

Steve is taken aback, blinking at her. “I’m not-”

“You are. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have asked me to help you.” She shrugs when Steve has nothing else to say. Her body shifts, eyes flickering to the ground. “Uh, unless… unless you’re doing this for Y/n. Which might have a completely different reason?”

He purses his lips, struggling to find anyway to avoid what she is insinuating.

“We, uh…”

Three taps rattle against his bedroom door before it’s propped open. Steve and Nancy both turn to the intrusion, faces falling when the name on their lips stands in front of them with a surprised frown.

“Oh, I, um…” You retract your hand from the doorknob, already backing away, “Sorry, I can come back later-”

“No.” Steve says quickly. Far too quickly, in fact, making your eyebrow raise. “Uh, no, we were just- It’s okay, really.”

Nancy can sense the tension before either of you can say anything further, offering a polite smile to you both. “I should make sure my brother’s up before Dustin and Lucas inhale all the cereal.”

She nods at you as she passes, avoiding your eyes with an ease that makes you frown all over again.

“You okay?” Steve asks before you can question their previous conversation, his brown eyes taking in all of you with a concern that always manages to make your heart flutter.

“Yeah.” You breathe out, slipping into the room and gently leaning against the door to close it. “I just… I actually wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Me?” He scrunches his face, drifting closer to you naturally. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“Earlier.” You say, noting the way his jaw clenches immediately. “You just seemed pretty out of it, I guess. Not to sound like that kind of girl, but you’ve never just… left like that before. If there’s something I did-”

“Woah, wait, no.”

His arms are around you within seconds, tugging you closer until your face is almost buried into his chest. You sigh into the embrace, the relief lifting the weight you had been carrying.

Steve can feel it, too. He almost winces when he realises how much one simple, stupid decision made you feel like this.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong, I promise. I thought at least one of us should be getting some sleep, you know?”

You hum against him, pulling away just enough to look up at him with those beautiful eyes that made him weak in the knees. “For the record, I didn’t fall back asleep when you left. And it wasn’t because of your nightmare.”

His hand slips up your side and brushes a hair from your face, thumb stroking your cheek.

“I sleep better with you next to me, Harrington. Bad dreams and all.”

Waves of feeling wash him back to shore. Any doubt he had about himself faded behind the bright light of your smile. There was too much to say, so he settled for the comfortable option.

“Wow, didn't realise you liked me that much.”

You laugh, making him grin wider. “You’re such a doofus.”

“Uh, a doofus you have a crush on.”

“Oh my god, you’re so vain.”

“Kinda expected when the prettiest girl has a crush on you.”

“Wow.”

“I mean, really, you’re like, obsessed with me, so it must be for a good reason-”

“Just shut up and kiss me.”

You didn’t have to tell him twice. 

The moment your lips touched his, the world bled into a haze like it was a second-thought, his hand gently caressing your cheek as you sigh into his mouth. At first it was soft, just a small burst of light until it burned bright enough to heat up, the air shifting before either of you could notice it. His hand slips from your cheek to your neck, his other snaked around your hip, trying to desperately pull you closer. You cling to his sweatshirt, lost in his taste and touch, mind melting until only his name could be thought.

It wasn’t until you gasped for air that Steve realised he had been leading you to the bed, halting his movement and separating your lips. He rested his forehead against yours, catching his breath.

“Holy shit.” He breathes out, and you smile with your lips still tingling with his lingering kiss.

“I should probably leave before we, uh…” You couldn’t hide your grin as you slowly step back, his hand staying on your hip until you were too far to reach.

“Yeah, yeah, for sure.” He coughs, cheeks burning. You bite your lip as you look back at him, ready to leave. The glint in your eye was almost enough to make him fall to his knees.

“See you later, Harrington.” You say knowingly, and he could have fainted as you slip out of the room into the hallway.

His hands rake through his hair, poorly attempting to compose himself like the ghost of your lips wasn’t still whispering those sweet gasps into his ear.

Jesus, you were surely going to be the death of him.

Steve feels something hit his top lip, swiping at the strange sensation as his giddy smile slowly faded. He stares down at his fingers. Was that…

He rushes to the mirror in his room, wiping more away. His nose was bleeding, not an unusual occurrence, and he sighs. Way to ruin a perfect moment, he thinks, wiping his hands with a tissue.

A giant crash and a debilitating scream echo out from the house, making him viciously flinch in shock.

His hand had already found the bat resting against his nightstand, rushing out of his room and almost colliding with you as he did.

“Shit, are you okay?!” He asks, scanning you over.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I think it came from downstairs.” You shake your head, looking behind you to where Hopper was leaving his office, shotgun in hand.

“What the hell was that?” He asks, and the answer comes barrelling up the stairs.

Dustin pants, eyes wide with horror as he stumbles up the last step. You manage to catch him before he falls, and he clings to your arms, making Steve’s stomach twist.

“It- there’s-”

“Dustin, breathe.” Steve begs, watching the tears start to spill from the young boy’s eyes.

“It’s in the house.” Dustin gasps, and you look back at Steve with a fearful gaze. “Lucas and Max-”

Steve doesn’t wait to hear the rest. He practically flies down the staircase, vaguely hearing Hopper tell Dustin to hide with El, your footsteps shadowing Steve’s already.

It was eerily silent in the foyer, a disturbing notion for a house usually beaming with noise. Steve watches you grab a metal poker from the cold fireplace to his right just as Hopper taps his shoulder, a finger to his lips.

He signals for you both to check the kitchen while he checks the parlour, moving quietly, his gun raised.

Steve ensures you’re safely behind him as he inches closer to the kitchen door, the unfortunate memory of what he had found months ago when the apocalypse first started infiltrating his mind. Talk about deja-vu.

He swings the door open, and the first thing he sees is Max. She’s crying, her back pressed against the kitchen island, clutching her gut as blood spilled out onto the floor.

Your breath hitches behind him, your arm brushing against his as you rush past and kneel beside her, frantically shrugging off your jacket to press against her wound.

Steve wanted to help, but his eyes were fixated on the broken window behind you both, the wooden boards mere splinters on the ground. He grips his bat, moving further into the kitchen, turning the corner to the back door. He stills completely, heart wrenching.

Lucas is on the floor, arms splayed either side of him as a demogorgon finishes off his prey with a final strike to his chest, blood splattering the walls.

Steve roars with rage, striking the monster as hard as he possibly can. It rolls away from Lucas’ body, snarling at Steve as it rises back onto its feet. Its claws were dripping with blood, raising one of its arms to attack him instead.

The bat in his hand drives directly into the creature’s mouth, slamming it back into the ground. Steve plants his foot on its chest as he drives the bat into his head over and over again, the thing screeching with each hit until it starts to become nothing but mush beneath his relentless attack.

When it finally stops struggling, Steve drops his bat with a cry and sprints over to Lucas, knees soaking into the blood pooling around him.

“L-lucas? Hey, it’s me, can you-”

It was too late. Steve was staring down at a child’s dead body, eyes open and glassy.

“No.” Steve whispers, backing away. “No, no, no, no!”

He turns around, hands on his head, barely breathing in any oxygen as he starts to gasp for air. His shaking legs drift back to the kitchen counters, tears streaming down his face. This couldn’t be happening, this wasn’t-

You were gone.

Max’s eyes were shut, head resting against the wood, the metal poker abandoned at her feet. Her lips were already pale, and he’s practically scratching at his own throat to release the broken cry trapped in it.

A sharp breeze hits his face, and he stumbles over to the kitchen door. It was propped open by a fallen side table, giving him full view of the hallway. When had that fallen?

You’re stood there, facing the front doors, your back to him completely.

“Y/n?” He manages to breathe out, goosebumps trailing his skin as the lights start to flicker.

“No.” You say, voice rough, your head twitching. He stops moving. “She left a long time ago.”

You turn around to show him the truth. Your usual expression was replaced with a bone-chilling smile. Your hands flexed long grey fingers.

Shapeshifter.

“No…” He shakes his head, backing away. He slips on the floor, glancing down momentarily to find a pool of blood below his sneakers.

Hopper’s throat was slit, gun twisted and mangled. His body hadn’t even been there a moment ago. Or had it? Steve didn’t know anymore, becoming consumed in the death around him.

“I haven’t been Y/n for a long time.” You say, face dropping, completely void of emotion. “And you never even noticed.”

Steve starts to cry, retreating, watching you step closer.

“You did this, Steve.”

He shakes his head, praying for his mouth to scream something, anything. 

“YOU DID THIS!”

Something grabs him from behind, and he finally yells out, squeezing his eyes shut and fighting through the fits of tears to escape. 

“Steve!”

“Steve!”

He gasps when he feels himself fall back, eyes flashing open and looking at the dull walls of his bedroom. He frowns. Wait-

Arms are wrapped around him, a muffled voice calling out to him. He immediately twists out of their hold, scrambling away. His back hits his dresser and accidentally knocks his bat over. He pants in the dim light, shaking his head. No, he left his bat by the demogorgon. He wasn’t meant to be here. He wasn’t here. How was he here?

“Steve.”

He finally looks at the other person, shoulders dropping.

“Nancy?”

Her face was twisted with fear, sat on the ground like she had fallen over. Or… caught someone.

“You’re okay, you- you were in some… some trance, or something.” She hurriedly explains, and it’s the first time in a long time Steve has seen her struggle to find words. “I- I tried waking you up, and then you fell-”

Steve blinks at her, confused. He was just downstairs, and everyone-

“Are Lucas and Max okay?” He asks, and Nancy frowns then, shaking her head.

“Yeah- yeah, they’re fine. Eating breakfast- Steve, what the hell is going on?”

Steve rests his head back against the foot of his bed, feeling far too numb despite it all, head swarming with questions.

“I… I have no idea.”

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Tamera hummed. “Are you gonna let me do your hair for the wedding? I can consult Fara Fauset.” 

With a playful glare, Steve replied, “No one touches my hair but me, okay? And I stand by that hairspray. I’m even having Murray smuggle some more of it in for me, thank you very much.” 

A loud gasp sounded from Robin as she stopped spinning and quickly tried to stand to her feet. All that spinning made her dizzy, and she had to grip the back of the chair for support. “Am I your best man?!” 

“Will you slow down?” Steve said. “We have to defeat an evil monster and somehow convince the U.S. government that my kind-of-fiancé isn’t a national security threat first. Then we can start thinking about a wedding, okay?” 

In a huff, Robin collapsed back into her seat. “That’s not a no.” 

Of course Robin would have some important role in Steve’s wedding; she was his best friend, after all. But that all was far in the future. There was a lot they needed to do first. 

In all honesty, Steve didn’t know if they’d even reach that point. A life of pure normalcy, free of otherworldly or government threats, was far-fetched at the moment. All Steve wanted was Sunshine to know that he’d fight for that future regardless of how impossible it seemed. If something terrible happened, at least nothing would be left unsaid. Sunshine knew for certain that Steve wanted to spend the rest of his life at her side, no matter how long or short it turned out to be. 

“Knock knock,” Eddie said as he poked his head into the radio’s recording studio. 

Tamera pulled a face as she looked him over. “What’s that stain on your shirt?” 

He glanced at his shoulder, where the stain sat on his hand-me-down shirt, and sighed. “I’m pretty sure it’s baby puke.” 

“It really brings out your eyes,” remarked Robin with a smirk. 

The metalhead rolled his eyes. “You should start doing stand-up on your show, Robs. You’re a natural knee-slapper.” He leaned against the desk beside Steve and ran a hand through his freshly cut hair, courtesy of Tamera. It was still long, a little past his shoulders, which was as short as he dared let Tamera cut it. 

“Since there’s not much for me to do, being locked in the basement and all, I’ve become second in command when it comes to the super-powered baby,” Eddie said, rather dramatically. He wasn’t locked in the basement; he was a suspected murderer who supposedly died over a year ago. He couldn’t show his face without raising all the alarm in an already paranoid Hawkins. “I think Anne purposefully spits up on me and never Danielle.” 

“I would rather barf on you than Danielle,” Tamera said. Both Steve and Robin nodded in agreement, earning an unamused look from Eddie. Despite being the radio station’s ‘basement dweller,’ as Mike so fondly called it, Eddie did look more like himself than he had in a while. It seemed like helping out with Anne gave him more of a purpose than any trivial task Robin gave Eddie to help out with their radio show, or what little Eddie could do from the basement during their Crawls. He felt useful, Steve presumed. It put a bit more pep in his step. 

“I would prefer if no one barfed on anyone.” Steve perked up at the sound of Sunshine’s voice from just outside the recording studio. She stepped inside with a small smile, joining the cramped but comfortable space. 

Steve slung an arm around her shoulder as she neared and gently pulled her into his side before he pressed a quick kiss to the side of her head. 

She leaned into his side, her smile growing a little. “But I do think the bottle and spit-up helped put her out like a light,” she said, shooting Eddie a thankful look. 

With a shrug, Eddie said, “I’m coming for your babysitting title, Harrington.” 

Steve faked an offended gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.” 

The group laughed, feeling a lightness envelope them. They had to relish in those moments, wherever they could find them. Those moments reminded Steve that they too were sort of still kids, just older teens who should be worrying about young adult issues, like college or careers, not how to stop a monster. Not that the universe, any of them, seemed to care what they should be doing. 

“I really hope someone at work has some news that I can bring back to you guys,” said Tamera. “Like, maybe an angry mob has formed overnight, and they plan to burn down the military’s set-up or something.” There was just the slightest humor in her voice, like she didn’t want to be too serious at the moment, but the words still carried a weight. 

Their newspaper stunt hadn’t given them the right momentum they needed or hoped for. And any that it had stirred up had fizzled out quickly when the military decided to clean up its act in the eyes of the residents. They were on their best behavior; it was such bullshit. It seemed like most people had fallen back to being on the military’s side, continuing to live in lockdown with little complaints here and there. And anyone who was still opposed was busy just trying to get through each week. No one would travel for work, and the allowance from the government didn’t help much. No one seemed pushy or angry anymore; they were just tired or maybe defeated. Steve wasn’t sure which one. 

“As much as I’d love to come up with another plan to rally pissed-off townsfolk, I think we have bigger things to worry about,” said Steve. “Like Vecna possessing Will…again.” The kid, of all people, didn’t deserve to be screwed with again. 

Beside him, Sunshine’s brows furrowed in deep thought. “He likes games, that much we know for sure. If he decided to show his face after all this time, then he’s probably healed enough to continue what he started. And he probably hopes to finish it this time.” 

“This whole thing, it kind of started with Will, right?” said Tamera. “Well, it started with Henry Creel but, I mean, Will was a major, like, catalyst. For whatever reason, Vecna and his boss- the Mind Flayer- have this weird connection to Will. And you guys have tried to break that connection before, right?” 

Sunshine nodded. “The Mind Flayer hates the heat. They had to practically burn the monster out of him. But something stayed, keeping him connected to them.” 

Resuming spinning in her chair, Robin jumped into the conversation. “I hate to say it, but even after we kill Vecna, I don’t know if that’ll end all of our monster-related problems.” 

“The Mind Flayer’s still a part of this,” Sunshine said with a sigh. “We killed what was left in our world at Starcourt, but as long as a piece of it still lives inside of Will and Vecna, it won’t stop. It knows now that it doesn’t need some big, fleshy body. It just needs someone or something to control.” 

“But,” Tamera rushed out. “Without Vecna acting and it’s…what did Dustin call it?” She looked at Steve. 

Of course, he remembered one of the many odd names and ranks bestowed to the monsters by Dustin and the rest of the Party. “Its five star general.” 

Tamera snapped her fingers at Steve before she continued. “Right! Without it’s five star general, I doubt whatever little piece of the Mind Flayer lives within Will would be very powerful. You take Vecna off the board, you lose the mind games. That doesn’t leave the Mind Flayer with much to work with,” she said. “And the kid’s withstood the monster's possession before, when it was way more powerful. He definitely could kick whatever small part is left over.” 

There was a beat of silence that passed between the group as they took in Tamera’s words. 

Eddie was the first one to speak. “That all sounds great, in theory. But that brings us back to square one. We have to kill Vecna.” Steve resisted the urge to groan. Eddie was right; they couldn’t get anywhere without killing Vecna. 

“You’re right. We still have to find and kill Vecna. But after, we have to break the connection with the Mind Flayer, with the Upside Down, completely. I think we have to do more than just close the Gate,” said Sunshine, her golden gaze flickering with an idea. “We know the Gate can and probably will be reopened if we just have El close it again. As long as that’s possible, this’ll never be over. We’ll never be free of that place as long as it exists.” 

Robin frowned. “So what do we do?” 

Sunshine’s gaze flickered around the group, her eyes narrowing with a familiar determination that Steve recognized like an old friend. 

“We have to destroy the Upside Down,” she said. 

[...]

“I don’t like this,” muttered Dustin for what had to be the hundredth time as he paced back and forth across the boys' bathroom. Lucas watched as he leaned against the blue-tiled sink, arms crossed and stomach already growling for lunch. 

“Dude,” he said with a small sigh. “You gotta relax. Maybe they just got a lead on something and skipped. If something was seriously wrong, someone would have radioed us by now with a Code Red.” 

Dustin halted his pacing and spun around to look at Lucas with wide eyes. “Unless they’re dead or captured and can’t radio us!” 

To most people, Dustin’s worries would’ve seemed ridiculous, but Lucas knew better than anyone just how real they were. 

“Something terrible could be happening right now, and we’re trying to learn fucking geometry!” 

Lucas placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Listen to me,” he said. “At lunch, we’ll call the radio station. Someone’s there, and they’ll know what’s going on, okay? But I’m sure that Mike and Will are just playing hooky and they forgot that the smart thing to do would’ve been to let us know so we don’t freak out. You know how they get something when they’re together.” 

Sometimes, Will and Mike were in their own little world. Lucas assumed that was what happened and nothing Code Red worthy…he hoped. 

His words seemed to have chilled Dustin out a little. “Okay,” he breathed out. “You’re probably right. But they’re gonna get an ear-full from me-” 

Dustin cut himself off as the restroom door opened and someone entered. Lucas nodded his head toward the door, and the two boys slipped out into the hall. 

The four boys all coordinated their study hall periods to be during the same hour to make it easier for them to discuss any upcoming Crawls. Sometimes they’d sneak out to the picnic tables just behind the football field, where Eddie used to do his drug deals. Or they’d find an empty table in the back corner of the library, where no one paid them any mind. 

As they started down the hall, Dustin palmed his eyes like he was trying to rub the stress from his brain through his eyeballs. “I have a history text next hour,” he groaned. 

Lucas glanced at his watch; they still had about half of their study hall left. “So then go study,” he told Dustin. “I’ll try to radio Mike and Will again. We’ll meet at the phones at lunch.” 

Dustin hesitated, weighing his options silently, but his expression gave him away. There was still a large part of Dustin that really cared about school. Lucas cared too, a little, much less than he once had. As long as he kept his grades in okay standing and didn’t draw alarm from his teachers or parents, he was fine. Dustin, on the other hand, couldn’t help but want to be at the top of their class. He tried to play it off, like he didn’t think about school much at all, but Lucas saw through him. 

With a breath, he finally gave in with a nod. Dustin drew his books closer to his chest and started toward the library to actually use it for studying. 

That left Lucas turning in the opposite direction, toward his locker, to grab his walkie. He and Dustin had radioed Mike and Will when they didn’t show up at the start of the school day, and then again when the two missed first period.

Dustin was quick to jump to the worst-case scenario, but Lucas wasn’t there yet. Or, maybe Lucas just refused to even entertain the idea of another one of his friends being hurt. 

The hallway was vacant as everyone was tucked away inside their classrooms. Lucas felt like he could breathe in the quiet. He opened his locker and grabbed the strap of his backpack, but was startled when the sound of a door slamming echoed through the air. He turned toward the noise and strained his ears to listen. There was another stretch of silence before a weird rattling sound came from the same direction. It sounded like someone trying to open a locked door with a bit of force, causing the whole thing to shake and groan in protest. Like when Erica would try to open the bathroom door when Lucas took too long in the shower. 

That wasn’t too odd. Hawkins High was an older building; it had been around since the forties. Lucas only knew that because the front hallway was lined with senior class photos from each decade. 

He shouldered his backpack and closed his locker before he started toward the noise. The rattling became louder as he neared the boys' locker room. 

“Hello?” he called out, stopping in front of the door. Maybe some freshman got pranked and locked inside the smelly locker room. It wouldn’t be the first prank Lucas had witnessed being played that year. Being locked in the locker room did seem a bit better than a swirly or getting dunked in the trash can. It was like the bullies read a ‘how to bully in the most cliché ways possible’ handbook before the school year started. 

There was no verbal response, but the door shook slightly. 

Lucas looked up and down the hall to see if he could catch a teacher or a janitor and have them open the door, but no one was around. 

With a sigh, he grasped the doorknob and hesitated. It was just the locker room. Even if some bullies were harassing some kid inside, Lucas had handled much scarier things. Plus, he knew what it was like to be that kid being harassed; maybe he could save someone else the pain, even just a bit. 

He gave the door a hard yank, expecting resistance, but the door flew open with ease. He stumbled back in surprise. With one hand still holding the door, he stuck his head inside. The usual awful fluorescents overhead weren’t turned on, which was a little weird. Normally, the lights remained on all day, as there was a gym class nearly every hour and practices after the last bell. They were usually switched off in the evening, after the last practice got out. 

Lucas groped along the wall until he found the light switch, but when he flipped it, no lights came on. He flicked the switch a couple of times with no success. 

“Anyone in here?” he called out, lingering just a couple of steps inside the locker room. Something that sounded like mumbling came from deeper inside. Lucas cleared his throat before he asked, “Uh, you good, man?” He was hoping someone would respond that everything was fine and Lucas could go on about his day; he was never that lucky, though. 

The mumbling voice didn’t respond, but it did sound like their mumbles became cries. Lucas couldn’t just leave. He rolled his shoulders back and headed right inside, through the darkness. He used his muscle memory of the locker room and followed the sounds of sniffles. Scattered gym bags littered the floor, making the journey a bit more hazardous. 

However, he managed to find his way to the back of the locker room, where a wall separated the lockers from the showers. The room was illumined dimly by a singular light, and steam from one of the showers rose to meet the light at the ceiling. 

Lucas sucked in a breath and readied himself before he peered around the wall and into the room. 

Out of all of the things he braced himself to see, in the middle of the tiled floor near one of the drains, Billy Hargrove was not one of them. 

Lucas’s stomach lurched violently as he stared at Billy’s cross-legged figure on the ground. He was dressed in the ripped and dirtied white tank top Lucas remembered him in on the Fourth of July. His hair hung in wet curls and his skin was pricked with sweat. Billy’s eyes were nothing but black dots in the sea of bloodshot. 

Slowly, Lucas took a step back as bile rose in his throat. 

“Sinclair,” Billy’s deep voice almost sang. “I told Max to stay away from you.” 

Lucas felt his heart start to race, but his mind was just one step ahead of it. 

Billy was dead. He was long dead and gone, and whoever was in front of him wasn’t real. Lucas could have answered Billy, spoken back. He could have screamed at the ghost to fuck off. Lucas wanted to hit him now that he was taller and stronger than he was back in ‘84 when Billy threatened him. But it wasn’t real, and none of that would do anything but add fuel to whatever fucked-up fire was burning before his eyes. 

Just as Billy started to rise to his feet, Lucas ripped the backpack from his shoulder and yanked the zipper open. In one quick motion, he grabbed his Walkman that he kept in a separate pocket for easy access, already pre-loaded with his favorite song for that very situation. 

Billy started walking toward him, coming too close for comfort. Lucas grabbed his backpack as he spun around and started running. 

He stumbled over gym bags and narrowly avoided colliding with the rows of gym lockers as he clipped his Walkman to his front pocket. He managed to bang his shoulder against the wall, misjudging his turn in the dark, but he recovered quickly and quickened his pace as he slipped his headphones over his ears. The door came into view, pouring light from the hall. 

Before his finger pressed down on the play button, he heard Billy’s ghost spit, “Look where she is now. All because she didn’t stay away from you!” 

The words hit Lucas like a gut punch; he stumbled and nearly face-planted, but he caught himself on the door frame before he hurried through it. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he refused to stop or to turn around. 

As soon as he was in the hall, he shut the locker room door with a swift kick and continued his sprint. The world blurred around him and his eyes stung, but he remained focused on the exit. As much as he wanted to double over and empty his rolling stomach, he talked himself out of it, in fear of stopping for even a second and allowing Billy’s ghost to catch up to him. 

Music played loudly in his ears, drowning out everything around him as he shoved his way through the school’s front doors. The fresh air greeted him with open arms. There was still no stopping, though. Lucas wouldn’t stop until he was somewhere safe, with the people who made him feel safe. He listened to the song on a loop as he sprinted the long distance to the radio station. 

Don’t lose your grip on the

dreams of the past

You must fight just to keep

them alive. 

It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the

thrill of the fight…

[...] 

“Leia, come on! We need to go, now!” 

She struggled to slip on her tennis shoe, keeping herself balanced with one hand on her bedframe. 

Jonathan had radioed minutes earlier, calling a Code Red meeting, but he didn’t give any more information, which was alarming. 

The sisters, along with Luke, Hopper, and Joyce, had just returned from some early morning training. It had drained Leia more than usual, as she had tried to expand the reach of her abilities pretty far. After chugging a Gatorade and changing out of her clothes into something cozier, she had laid down in her bed for a little rest. But about five minutes in, her radio crackled and Hopper was barking at everyone to move out, fast. 

Leia didn’t mean to lag behind. 

Once both shoes were on her feet, she hastily grabbed a sweatshirt from the pile of laundry on the floor and readied to leave her room, but a loud thud on her window stopped her in her tracks. 

A little bird fluttered at her window, knocking against the glass on the other side. It didn’t seem to understand that the window was, well, a window, not something it could fly through. 

Leia knew they needed to leave, find out what Jonathan’s Code Red meant. Something bad had probably happened. Something terrible, but Leia couldn’t get herself to tear her eyes away from the poor little bird. She shuffled toward the window, brows drawn together in confusion. 

Why wasn’t the bird flying away? It just kept running into the glass, each hit growing more frantic as it flailed its wings around. 

Then, the glass started to splinter underneath the bird. Leia was still learning the odds and ends of certain things, but she was fairly certain little birds like the one in front of her didn’t possess enough strength nor were heavy enough to break a window. The crack started small, a mere hairline that Leia would have missed if she hadn’t been paying such close attention. But as the bird continued its rampage against the glass, the fracture grew and grew. 

That wasn’t what troubled Leia, though. What troubled her was when the glass started to grow red. 

She stumbled forward until she touched the glass and started banging her fists against it. “Stop!” she cried, praying the little bird got spooked and flew away. It didn’t, though. It just kept ramming its small body against the glass over and over again. The white feathers that adorned it began to turn red in horrible splotches, just like the glass. 

A sob bubbled past Leia’s lips. Why wouldn’t it stop? Its beak was shattered, and its face started to splinter alongside the glass. Leia kept hitting the window with her palms, not paying attention to how fractured the glass already was. 

As the red-painted, mutilated bird smacked against the window once more, and Leia’s hand collided with the glass, the entire thing shattered. Leia screamed and threw herself backwards. 

Silence followed, the unnerving kind. She had squeezed her eyes closed in fear of glass getting into them. When she peeled them back open, her whole body trembling, she expected to see the broken window staring back at her. 

However, there wasn’t so much as a scratch on it. The window was perfectly fine, aside from her smudged handprint in the middle of the glass. There were no broken pieces, no blood, no bird. 

She couldn’t help the confused and scared cry that left her mouth as she pushed herself further away from the window. Her bedroom door creaked open, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the window. 

“Leia?” El’s voice called out before she rounded Leia’s shaking figure on the floor and kneeled in front of her. “What happened?” 

Leia hiccupped and shook her head quickly. “I-It was right there…” She lifted her hand and pointed a finger at the window. “There w-was a bird and the…then the window b-broke. I swear it…” 

The look on El’s face changed, hardened. “You saw something that wasn’t really there?” 

All Leia could do was nod in response, worried that if she tried to explain herself, she’d only sound crazier or break into a fit of heavy sobs. 

El stood up, and for a moment, Leia thought her sister was just going to leave her. Maybe El did think she was crazy. Leia felt crazy as she stared at the window. 

But El returned a few seconds later with Leia’s Walkman and headphones in her hands. She gazed at Leia with determination lit like fire in her wide brown eyes as she sat in front of her. “You’ll be okay,” she said before gently placing the headphones over Leia’s ears. El started the tape already inside, preloaded in case of emergencies like the very one happening at that moment. 

As the music hummed through Leia’s brain, El enveloped her in a hug, holding her fiercely like a promise. Leia closed her eyes and sank into her sister’s arms, listening to her favorite song. 

I want to be the one to walk in

the sun

Oh girls, they wanna have fun. 

Oh girls just wanna have

That’s all they really want

Is some fun

[...]

Dustin was confused and a little upset. He peddled quickly on his bike, knowing any moment his mom would get left a voicemail on their machine that Dustin had decided to cut class for the remainder of the day. But between the frantic Code Red from Jonathan and then Lucas up and disappearing, Dustin knew he couldn’t wait around until the school day ended. Something was happening, and he’d be damned if it happened without him. 

What if Vecna had gotten ahold of Will again? Or chased El inside the Void? What if Sunshine had been taken again? What if they found Vecna and were gearing up to kill the son-of-a-bitch once and for all? 

There were too many possibilities of what the Code Red could mean, and Dustin didn’t plan to hear it second hand after he finished his lectures in biology and painting in art class. 

Why hadn’t Lucas waited for him? That was what really bugged Dustin. They had planned to meet by the payphones at lunch, but when Dustin arrived, Lucas wasn’t there. He waited for a while before he marched back inside to track his friend down, disgruntled. Lucas wasn’t at his locker, in his previous period’s classroom, in none of the restrooms or the locker room. He was nowhere. 

It made Dustin’s stomach knot up, especially after his Walkie started going off in his backpack. 

First Will and Mike don’t show up to school, then Lucas vanishes. None of it sat right with Dustin. He hoped his friends were just being assholes, and he could yell at them when they all reunited at the radio station. Yet, there was a little voice in the back of his head that warned him something else was happening. And if he learned anything from the past near decade of his life, that ‘something’ was seldom good. 

So, he biked as quickly as his legs would allow him down the road, ignoring the stitch already growing in his side. The quickest way to the radio station from school was to take McCool street. The road cut through the woods, with towering trees that curved over the road like a canopy, cutting the sunlight slightly and giving the road an eerie feel. 

You’d think with all of the things Dustin had seen, the woods wouldn’t be as scary to him anymore. It was quite the opposite, though. The woods freaked him out more and more each year. There was always something lurking in them, and those things were no longer monsters spawned from Dustin’s overactive imagination. No, they were real monsters, real evil. 

As he biked, he tried to focus only on the road ahead, ignoring the woods to both his sides. 

The sound of an engine came from up ahead. It brought Dustin a brief relief that at least he wouldn’t be alone on the road for a few moments. 

Around the bend, a van emerged. What relief bloomed inside of Dustin quickly wilted as the van jerked sideways, skidding down both lanes before it abruptly stopped several feet ahead of him. He could have squeezed around the van, but the sudden fishtail into a stop caught Dustin off guard. He pulled on his brakes and dropped his feet from the pedals onto the ground. 

Maybe they just lost control. Or maybe they popped a tire, and their van went wonky because of that. There wasn’t much Dustin could do about that; he didn’t know how to change a tire or really anything about cars at all. But he felt like it would be shitty if he hurried off without making sure whoever was inside was okay. 

He dropped his kickstand with his foot and started slowly toward the van. “Hello?” He hoped someone rolled down the window or got out before he had to venture much closer to the van. They sometimes gave him the creeps, as he hadn’t forgotten about being chased down by the ‘Department of Energy’ vans while Brenner was after El. 

There was no answer or any indication that whoever was inside planned to get out and assess what was wrong with their van. It made Dustin feel a little weird. He hesitated, wondering if he should abandon ship and continue on his hurried journey to the radio station. But before he could decide anything, the driver’s side door flung open with a harshness that caused Dustin to flinch. Still, though, no one stepped out. 

“Uh, hello?” He started to creep forward again, scooting to the side so he could see inside the door without getting too close. 

There was no one in the driver nor passenger seat. The whole front section of the van was empty. 

“Oh,” Dustin muttered. “I don’t like this.” He started to back away, ready to bee-line for his bike when the side door of the van rolled open. Out filed men in crisp suits, their faces blank and figures too tall. 

Dustin stumbled over his feet as his eyes widened in even more confusion. So many questions swirled around his head; a cure of his curious nature. But he had been in one too many life-or-death situations to linger around and ask questions. 

He darted toward his bike. 

“Stop!” one of the suits barked, but Dustin ignored him and reached his bike. He flipped up the kickstand and swung one leg over the seat. He only spared one glance at the suits before he took off, and they had their hands reaching toward the insides of their coat pockets. 

Dustin started to realize how dire situations turned when none of his friends with superpowers were around. Sure, he was smart, but he wasn’t bulletproof. With a string of curse words, he started peddling. He knew if he took off down the road the way he had come, he’d be an easy target. Instead, he off-roaded it. 

The steep embankment on the side of the road helped him gain speed as he took off into the woods, and the dying grass helped carry him for a little bit. The voices of the suits weren’t too far behind, having to chase after him on foot. There were too many obstacles in the woods for him to get very far on his bike, so Dustin had to ditch it. 

He all but threw himself off of it and started running. Out of all his friends, he was the slowest runner and the clumsiest. What he lacked in physical endurance he made up for tenfold with his intellect, but he wasn’t sure how far that was going to get him at that moment. 

He weaved around trees, not running in a straight path in hopes that it threw the suits off. Unfortunately, as he veered right, he was too focused on what looked like a break in the thick of trees to see a stump hidden by overgrown, brown weeds. He hit the stump hard and flew right over it before hitting the ground hard. Pain shot through his ankle as he landed on it the wrong way in an attempt to stop himself from face-planting. 

His backpack was still on, and he itched to dig out his radio and call for help, but he had no idea where in the woods he was exactly. They’d never reach him in time. 

Why were the suits after him? Did the government finally decide that their group knew too much? Did they plan to eliminate all of them for good, steal their superpowered friends, and write it all off like some mysterious tragedy that they’d never take responsibility for? 

No, Dustin wouldn’t let that happen. His mother would be crushed in ways he didn’t want to even think about. They all had too much life to live still. And if they were wiped off the board, Vecna would win. The military and the government had no fucking clue what they were really dealing with. Vecna would end the world before they even realized it. 

With a pained cry, Dustin stood up and kept hobbling through the woods. He thought he had shaken the men enough that it would take them a while to find him, but he forgot that they were trained for that sort of thing and he was just a teenage boy, now with a busted ankle. 

They popped out from behind the trees in a blink of an eye, guns raised as they circled Dustin. He looked around for some means of escape. He needed Steve there, ready to at least attempt to kick their asses. Or Sunshine to pull him behind her while she illuminated her hands. He needed a plan from Mike or a half-baked one thought up by Lucas. He needed Nancy and her impeccable aim or Max with some sarcastic comment that eased some of the worry in the air. He needed somebody, anybody. But Dustin was all alone. 

He was all alone. 

One of the men started speaking, but Russian poured from his lips. Dustin turned his body to face him and noticed he wasn’t dressed like the other men in their black suits. He was dressed in the same uniforms the Russians underneath Starcourt had worn. 

Were the Americans teaming up with Russians to take them down? No. That didn’t make any sense. 

Dustin shook the idea from his head and glanced at the men beside the Russian. He too wasn’t in a suit, but rather in a Hawkins High letterman's jacket. 

“Jason?” he breathed out, his head dizzy as he peered at the zombie-like version of Jason before him. The blond looked awful in stained clothes and sunken-in features. But the worst part was the large gash through his entire midsection, only somewhat covered up by the jacket, where he’d been ripped apart as the Gates broke open when Max’s heart stopped. 

“Look at what you did!” Jason yelled, his words slightly slurred and rough around the edges. His movements were choppy as he stepped forward, like he didn’t have full control of his lower half. “You and Hellfire! You killed me!” 

Dustin shook his head, heart hammering inside his chest. “N-No! No, we didn’t. It wasn’t Hellfire! It was…” 

Then it clicked. 

“Vecna,” he whispered to himself, taking a look around at the terrifying cast of characters that circled him. They weren’t real. They had been, at one point, but not anymore. 

Dustin threw his backpack on the ground and dug around for his Walkman as the circle started to close in. Jason’s shouts grew louder, mixing with the bitter Russian and barks of the men from the Lab. It all became a chaotic storm, threatening to drown Dustin right where he stood. 

After a few seconds, he found it and made quick work of securing the headphones over his ears before he grasped the device tightly. He gave one last look around the circle before he slammed his finger down on the play button. As the music started to play, he ran straight through a small gap in the circle. 

Don’t you know, I’m still standing,

better than I ever did?

Looking like a true survivor, 

feeling like a little kid

I’m still standing after all

Maybe it’s a side effect of your insecurity, or of being raised in a small, conservative-leaning town stuck in its purity culture ways, but the thought of intimacy terrifies you. Letting your guard down and being that vulnerable with another human being feels like the sword of Damocles swinging above your head, ready to chop you in two.

In the summer of 1985, a few weeks after high school graduation, you’re at the Holloway house for a spa night (i.e., painting your nails and drinking wine you pilfered from Mrs. Holloway’s wine fridge). Heather asks you if you really want to be a virgin before college. 

“Virginity is a construct,” you reply, quoting something you read in a zine you bought from a bookstore in Indianapolis. 

“Right, sure,” Heather says flippantly. She shakes one hand, trying to air-dry her Passionate Plum manicure. “But don’t you want to have at least some experience? Because you don’t want your first sexual encounter to be with some drunk frat bro who can’t find the clit.”

“Ohmigod Heather,” you say, embarrassment and anxiety washing over you at her crass words.

“What?! I’m just saying! We should hook you up with someone before we leave in the fall.”

“Leave” was a strong word. You and Heather were going to Cartersville University for college, barely 30 minutes away.

“Ooh, you know what I heard,” Heather says, leaning in conspiratorially. You can smell the Pinot Grigio on her breath. “Steve Harrington is, like, desperate for a date. He asks out every girl our age who comes into Scoops. You should go after him.”

“I don’t really want to ‘go after’ a guy who asks out everyone,” you say, fidgeting with your fingers and already wanting to chip off the baby blue nail polish you haphazardly applied.

Heather shrugs. “Suit yourself. You might regret that, though, because everyone says he’s like…you know.”

She makes some sort of motion with her hands. You’re not sure if you don’t understand it because of your lack of sexual experience or because she’s not adequately expressing whatever she’s trying to. You blink, and Heather huffs. “He’s hung, Y/N. All the girls at school say so.” 

You aren’t sure if this conversation makes you want to laugh or cry, so you change the subject by picking up the half-empty bottle and gesturing to Heather’s plastic cup. “Want more wine?” 

💋💋💋

Less than a week later, Heather calls you in a panic.

“Please,” she begs. “Something’s wrong with my mom! She passed out after dinner. My dad took her to the hospital but I’m really, really scared…I don’t want to be alone!” 

Your parents are out of town caring for a sick relative, so you have no curfew to adhere to and book it to her house on your bike. But after you ring the doorbell and she lets you inside, you instantly get the feeling something is wrong.

“Why is it so cold?” you ask, a shiver involuntarily running through you. Goosebumps raise on your arms and legs, and you don’t understand how Heather is comfortable in a tank top and shorts when it can’t be more than 60 degrees inside her house.

Heather doesn’t respond. Instead, she almost robotically sits on the couch and puts her head in her hands. You take a seat next to her and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” you soothe. “Your mom is going to be all right.”

“No, she isn’t!” Heather says, voice muffled in her hands. 

“She will! You just have to be positive. The doctors will figure out what’s wrong with her.”

Still with her face covered, Heather says, “Do you think they’ll figure out what’s wrong with you?”

You frown, brows pulling together. “W-what?”

In one swift motion, she pulls a rag out from a couch cushion and covers your mouth with it. You try and fight back, but you feel the pull of sleep calling you.

Her expression is devoid of emotion. “Sorry, Y/N,” she says, as your consciousness wanes. “But He told me He needs more.”

💋💋💋

For the next few days, you become Billy Hargrove’s second-in-command. The creature possessing you seems to like that you’re mousy and insecure. You’re easier to break. Easier to control.

When you’re under the Mind Flayer’s influence, you feel like you’re watching yourself through a pane of glass. Your mind screams at your body to Stop it! Stop! as you knock Mike Wheeler unconscious in the back hallways of the mall. But it’s no use. As long as the Mind Flayer has its hooks in you, you’re forced to be a bystander to your own life.

It changes when you get to the mall’s main atrium: Billy has Eleven in his clutches, and you’re standing nearby in case he needs backup. The fireworks are burning your skin from the inside out, and your ears are ringing, so you don’t hear what El says to Billy. But something in his expression shifts. You watch the darkened veins on his face and arms fade. 

He looks up at you, and sees your skin still covered in those veins.

“What are you waiting for?” you hear yourself ask. “Give her to Him!”

Don’t! you scream inside your mind. God, please, don’t do it Billy.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, remorse flashing on his face when he realizes what he’s done under the influence of a monster—not just to you, but to El, to Heather, to everyone else making up the Mind Flayer’s physical form. “I’m so, so sorry Y/N.”

You blink, surprised, even more so when he turns toward the creature that’s been controlling you two for days. He grapples with one of its tentacles, and then the creature impales him with another. You scream in pain and fall onto your back a few feet away, the pesky hive mind keeping you connected. His pain is very much yours.

“You have to fight it!” someone shouts, from somewhere in this godforsaken mall. Easier said than done.

You close your eyes and try to force the Mind Flayer out of your head. He’d been feeding on your darkest memories to keep you in control, so maybe you could take back over by focusing on happier ones: Meeting Heather in 3rd grade and making a best friend for the first time in your life. Riding bikes through town. Swimming at the pool every summer. Dancing wildly at the Snow Ball. Weekend trips to Indianapolis with your family. Cheering Heather on as she won prom queen, just a few weeks ago.

You focus on the good, and the bad sloughs itself out of you in a big rush. Just in the nick of time, too. You sit up, feeling woozy, and watch as the Mind Flayer falls to the ground, very much dead. 

A few feet away, you watch Billy’s stepsister, Max Mayfield, cry for him. Eleven comforts her. You stagger to your feet, unsure of what to do or where to go. 

You fail to blink back tears, and they roll down your face when the gravity of what’s happened sinks over you.

“H-Heather,” you sob. “No! No!” 

You fall to your knees in front of the corpse of the Mind Flayer, sobbing into your hands.

“It isn’t your fault.”

You whip your head to the side, where Will Byers stands. He’s looking at you with empathy, and is treating you more kindly than you expected this crew to after everything that happened.

“What he did to you,” Will says, nodding toward the monster. “And what he made you do, it is not your fault. Trust me, I understand that more than anyone else here.”

You aren’t sure what he means by that, but you simply offer a hoarse, “Thank you.” 

Steve Harrington, whose face is bloodied and bruised in a way that makes you feel sick, walks up to you next.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s a trace of urgency laced in his words. “We should get out of here before these fires spread. Can you stand?”

You nod shakily, though you stumble a bit, feeling weary. Steve reaches to balance you and you flinch away from him. “Sorry!” he says, and backs up, tucking his hands in his pockets as if to assure you he wouldn’t try and touch you again.

As you walk toward the exit, you feel numb. You profusely apologize to Eleven, Max, and the others, but like Will, they don’t hold it against you. (Well, Mike Wheeler grumbles something about having a concussion, but when he sees how upset you are, he walks it back.)

“It was the hive mind,” he says. “Not you.” 

Right. Not you. It was an external force invading your mind and body. A hostile takeover. The sword of Damocles inches ever-closer to your skull in your mind.

That night, Robin Buckley’s parents drive you and Steve home as well. Steve offers to stay with you, but you want to be alone. You want to crawl into your bed, in the body you don’t trust anymore, and cry yourself to sleep. So that’s exactly what you do.

💋💋💋

You defer your enrollment to Cartersville U, wanting to take a gap year to deal with the grief and pain. Your parents understand, showering you with gifts and attention to make up for the fact that they weren’t there the night of the “mall fire” that killed your best friend and so many others.

You make new friends in Steve and Robin, getting a job at the Family Video with them. However, one gap year turns to two, and then three, when an earthquake hits and the military sets up a barricade. No one in or out, except for extenuating circumstances.

Steve reads you in on the truth: it wasn’t a simple earthquake. It was another monster from the Mind Flayer’s domain opening portals to another dimension, called Gates. The uneasy feeling you’d had all week starts to make sense when you realize the hive mind was active again.

“We’re going to kill him,” Steve tells you quietly as you two sit in Max’s hospital room to keep her company. When you heard about her coma, your heart just broke.

“I want to help,” you say.

“No way,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You’ve been tortured enough by this fucker.”

“Everyone has!” you say. “Let me help, Steve.”

He does, even if he doesn’t seem happy about it. You help the group plan Crawls into the Upside Down, where the “resurrected” Chief Hopper searches for Henry Creel/Vecna/One. The way you understand it, Vecna and the Mind Flayer are partners in crime. So while you were connected to the hive mind in 1985, you were technically connected to Vecna too. The thought makes you sick.

And in fall 1987, after 30-some Crawls, you and Will are dragged back into the hive mind’s orbit. It’s painful, seeing from the vision of a monster—at least it’s not your body carrying out the acts this time.

In the downtime before your plan at the Turnbow’s house, Steve finds you crying in the storage closet at the WSQK station.

“What’s wrong?!” he says, sitting on the floor beside you, but leaving some space. After two years of friendship, he knows better than to reach for you—you don’t love physical touch.

You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You screw your eyes shut, deciding to just be honest. “I hate being so close to the hive mind,” you say quietly. “I hate being back there, like I’m out of control of my body again. It’s…violating.” 

You don’t say more, but you could. You could talk about how you still haven’t had sex, kissed anyone, or really dated at all, because your fear of sex and intimacy and vulnerability was ratcheted up after you were flayed. You have this compulsive need to be in control of your body at all times, and sex seems like a surefire way to lose that control. You don’t want to lose yourself to someone else. Ever again.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Steve says. If he can tell you’re not telling the full truth, he doesn’t bring it up. “Listen, we’re going to kill Vecna once and for all. And then he, and the Mind Flayer, and the whole hive mind will be gone.”

You appreciate his positivity, even if you don’t feel so optimistic. “Thank you,” you say. You hesitate, before asking, “Could I get a hug?” 

Steve had secretly hoped you would ask. When you occasionally ask for a hug is the only time you let him close to you.

“Of course,” he says, opening his arms for you. You hug him tightly, but only for a few seconds, before you’re pulling away. Steve stands and offers you a hand. You murmur, “Thanks,” and take it, but let go as soon as you’re on your feet. Steve doesn’t take offense—he’s not that insecure. But he does find his arms and hands feeling a bit warm where he was just holding you…

Steve squashes that instantly. Whatever he’s feeling is a bad idea. Besides, you all have a world to save.

💋💋💋

You do save the world, shockingly. Somehow, your team of quasi-heroes pulls it off, and then you’re all expected to go about life as normal.

Eleven is finally able to get some semblance of a normal life, after the military is exposed for their clandestine experiments. She even gets a hefty payout from the government, which Hopper commands cannot be used on a lifetime supply of Eggos, to her chagrin.

Max re-enrolls in school, hoping to catch up, with Lucas, Mike, Will, and Dustin offering to be her personal tutors. 

Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all go far from Hawkins for college in fall 1988. You still end up only 30 minutes away, at Cartersville University. You’re a bit surprised when Steve tells you he’s enrolled as well.

“I think I want to be a teacher,” he says, while the two of you are attending a new student mixer during orientation week (and glomming onto each other so you don’t need to talk to any strangers).

“That’s amazing, Steve!” you say. “You’re great with kids. You’re going to do really, really well.”

He smiles, a bit bashful. “Thanks, Y/N. What do you think you want to study?”

You don’t get the chance to respond before a pretty girl is sidling up to him. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You bite back the urge to make a sarcastic remark about how you’re all new, so of course she hasn’t seen Steve before. As Steve begins to flirt back, you quietly excuse yourself for more punch. Oh, brother.

💋💋💋

Your roommate is the most insatiable human being to exist.

You think she and her boyfriend have sex four times a week, maybe five. Good lord.

Coming home from a long day of one lab, two lectures, and an exam, you scowl at the sight of a bright pink sock with yellow daisies stitched on it resting on the doorknob of your dorm. 

You know your roommate’s boyfriend lives off-campus, so it’s easier for their post-class romps to be in the dorm. But your stomach squeezes and twists, and the fact that she can so easily engage in intimacy while you’re still terrified of your own naked reflection sometimes angers you. You meet Steve in the dining hall for dinner and lament about it, stabbing at your salad with a fork.

“It’s just so goddamn inconsiderate that she’s fucking in our shared room all the time,” you say hotly, spearing a cherry tomato and biting into it. 

“That really sucks,” Steve says, genuinely upset on your behalf. His empathy is one of his best qualities. “I mean, she should at least give you a heads-up or something.” 

“Or something,” you grumble. “I hope she gets a UTI.”

Steve nearly chokes on his grilled cheese sandwich.

You feel a bit ashamed. “Sorry. Was that, like, totally evil of me to wish on another person?”

“Not evil,” Steve says. “A little twisted, maybe.” 

You cover your face with your hands, embarrassed. Steve just laughs.

“I kind of like this side of you,” he muses. 

“Shut up.” You flick a craisin at him. It lands in his perfect hair. It’s your turn to laugh, and his turn to blush as he brushes it away.

“But seriously,” you add, shaking your head. “I just don’t get how they even have the energy to do it so often.”

Now that you’ve successfully vented your frustration, you’re ready to change the subject. You’re about to ask Steve how his club baseball team is going when he says, “I mean, the few weeks I dated that girl I met at the orientation mixer, that was about how often we’d hook up.” 

Suddenly, you’re very invested in your salad once more. 

Steve frowns at the sudden chill in your demeanor. 

“Sorry,” he says, wondering if he overshared. “You probably didn’t need to know that.”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice tight.

Steve furrows his brow. “Really? Because I’ve never seen someone inspect ranch dressing that closely.”

“I said it’s fine,” you say, anger creeping in again. You seal up the to-go container holding your half-finished dinner and add, “I’m going to the library. Hopefully Sierra’s boyfriend is long gone by the time I’m done studying.” 

You storm off, leaving a bewildered Steve behind.

💋💋💋

You think you might be sexually frustrated. 

You don’t know what that feels like, exactly. You’re pretty certain in your 20-some years of life, you’ve never felt it before.

But you’re still scared of sex, so the feeling is confounding. Why does your traitorous body want the thing your brain has convinced you is terribly dangerous?

You don’t like masturbating because you can never get yourself off, but your roommate is staying with her boyfriend for the weekend and you have a dorm to yourself, and you might as well try to do something to stave off the burning under your skin. If you don’t, you’ll probably go into some sort of hysteria. Is this when women in the 1800s would’ve been sent to the seaside?

You eye the poster hanging on Sierra’s side of the dorm room, of some hunky male musician you’re certain is popular though you can’t name a single one of his songs, and hope it’ll spark something in you. You fumble around with your hand shoved down the front of your jeans, but your clumsy strokes combined with the swoonworthy stare of Hunky Musician does not make you come.

Could this be something behavioral science can solve? You head to the library, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your eyes as if it could disguise you, wondering if there’s some kind of psychology textbook titled “Handbook For Adult Women Who Are Scared Of Sex But Really Want To Get Off.”

You don’t find that in a shadowy corner of the nonfiction section with the books on sex and relationships, but you do find a rather interesting-looking tome titled “Tending To Her Garden of Pleasure: The Complete Guide To A Woman’s Orgasm.” Close enough.

“Hey, Y/N!” 

You have a small cardiac event when Steve calls your name, dropping the book on the carpeted floor. You burn with embarrassment, shame, and regret, mortified that the book fell cover-side up.

You can’t even bring yourself to say anything, or even put the book back on the shelf. You blink back tears and speedwalk past Steve, ignoring him calling after you.

You sit on a bench by the vending machines outside the library, hugging your backpack to your chest. You should just head back to your dorm, but the thought of being alone in that room again makes you want to peel your own skin off. 

Minutes tick by, and you notice Steve out of the corner of your eye, heading your way. You aren’t sure what to expect as he gingerly takes a seat on the bench next to you, but it’s definitely not a soft, “I think you forgot something.”

He holds the book out to you, cover-side down this time. Your eyes widen. “You checked it out?”

“In case you still wanted it,” Steve said. And he’s not teasing you. He’s being 100% genuine. Though he can’t resist and adds, “But if you don’t, maybe I should study up.”

You snort and shake your head. “I’m sure the librarian got a kick out of that.”

“She’s stone cold,” Steve said. “Didn’t even react. I’m probably not the only desperate schmuck who’s taken this thing home.” He screws his face up with disgust. “Eugh, they like, disinfect the books each time they’re returned, right?”

But you don’t play along. The words “desperate schmuck” rattle around in your head. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shuddery breath.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, suddenly serious again, misinterpreting what’s making you upset and tucking the book in his backpack. “I promise I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know,” you say. You sniffle. “I just…Steve, I think I’m broken.” 

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?” 

You consider just walking away, but he sounds so concerned, and it might be nice to open up about this to someone you know and trust.

“I can’t have sex,” you say, voice cracking on the last word, “because the thought of it scares me so badly. And all my hang-ups make it hard to get myself off, too.” You huff out a hollow laugh. “Which makes me sound so babyish, because we’re in college now, and it seems like everyone else is screwing someone or jerking off all the time.”

You slouch in your seat. “And I’ve never even been kissed,” you murmur, so quiet you aren’t sure if Steve can even hear you anymore. “The longer I go without it, the more scary intimacy gets in my head, and I—hell, we’ve fought monsters, I know what real terror feels like, so why do I feel that way about something other people can do every single day?! It’s like I said. I’m broken!”

“No,” Steve says, voice gentle but firm. “You aren’t.”

“Says the guy who’s probably bedded every girl our age in Hawkins!” you fire back, before immediately feeling guilty for snapping at him.

“‘Bedded’?” Steve says. “What is this, a Shakespeare play?”

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Steve waves it off. “It’s fine. You’re upset. And I guess I do have something of a track record…but I’m serious. You aren’t broken, Y/N.” He shrugs. “Sure, dating and sex can be fun. But it does mean you might get your heart stomped on in the end. Trust me, I know all about that.”

He gets a far-off look in his eye, and you know he’s thinking about Nancy. The one that got away.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking your time,” Steve adds. 

“When does it stop being scary?” you ask quietly. “Putting yourself out there, and…and giving up control to someone else?” 

“‘Control’?” Steve asks, confusion flashing on his features. “Sex doesn’t have to be about control. I mean, it can, if you’re into heavier stuff, but—did someone tell you that?” 

“No,” you say. “But I have firsthand experience with feeling like your body doesn’t belong to you.”

It takes a minute for the dots to connect. When they do, Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh. This is because of…”

“Yeah. Well, I was always a bit freaked out by sex, but it just kind of got worse after…all that.”

“Geez,” Steve huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Henry Creel really did a number on us. The fucker.” 

You look down at your feet, unsure of what else to say.

“Listen,” Steve says. “You don’t have to have sex with anyone if you don’t want to. Ever, no matter what someone says.”

You want to articulate that there is a part of you, deep down, that does want sex. You just feel like you can’t have it, because it feels like the most dangerous thing in the world. But that’s more than you’re willing to share at present, so you thank Steve for the support.

“Um, I don’t think I’m ready for the book,” you add, standing from the bench. “So you can return it.”

“Are you kidding?” Steve says, with a smirk. “I’m reading this thing cover to cover. I’m going to become a master of female pleasure by the end of the week.”

You burn again, but not from embarrassment this time. From something else that you aren’t ready to identify. 

But whatever it is, it sure helps you get off for the very first time mere hours later.

💋💋💋

The following spring, you and Steve complete your first year of college. You decide to move into an off-campus apartment together. Before the summer semester begins (because after starting school later than normal because of the quarantine, you both feel like you’re playing catch-up), you return to Hawkins to celebrate the Class of 1989.

Sitting in the bleachers with Steve and Robin, you cheer extra loud when Will, Dustin, Max, Lucas, and Mike walk the stage—though no one cheers louder for Mike than Eleven. Dustin’s valedictorian speech has the whole crowd going nuts.

On the WSQK rooftop after the festivities, you share a drink with your friends. You all agree to meet up every few months at Robin’s uncle’s house to socialize, and also because Jonathan is going to need some major help on his student film.

You laugh, talk, and drink, and it’s nice, for a while. However, after Robin starts teasing Steve for getting dumped by a classmate in Spanish during their Spanish class oral exam, she turns to you.

“Please tell us your love life is going better than Steve’s,” Robin says. “We need a story about Cartersville that won’t depress us.”

An icy panic spreads itself through your body. You force a laugh and shake your head. “No love life to speak of,” you say lightly. “I’m just studying a lot.”

“Oh, come on!” Robin says. “There has to be someone you’re at least crushing on.”

You shake your head and take a long sip of your beer. It’s mostly warm by now, due to the heat. “No one.”

That’s mostly true. Sure, you’ve noticed over the last few months that you find Steve…attractive. Very much so. But he’s your friend. And he knows you’re not ready for a relationship that involves sex, and he has sex all the time. Well, you don’t think he’s hooked up with anyone since you two moved in together. But still. You two would never work.

Nancy scans the twist of your mouth and rescues you. “So, Steve, what exactly did your professor say when you got broken up with during the test?”

Steve groans and shakes his head. “Not you two, Wheeler. I swear, you all relish in my misfortune.” 

But he’s a good sport, and he recounts every detail of the situation that he hadn’t already shared. You force a few more laughs, but deep down, you find yourself feeling anxious. Everyone on this rooftop has fallen in love before. They’ve all had sex before. They probably can tell that you haven’t. Do they think you’re a prude? Or that something’s wrong with you? Something is wrong with you. Fear essentially runs your life. But you don’t want your friends to know that. 

A few hours later, when Steve drives you two back to Cartersville in his truck, he says, “Hey, you’re pretty quiet. All good?”

“Mm-hm,” you say with a weak smile. “My stomach just, uh, hurts a little. So I’m ready to get home.”

“Sorry about that,” Steve says. He glances at you at a red light. “And sorry about Robin. She shouldn’t have been so nosy.”

“It’s fine,” you say. It’s not. Steve can tell it’s not. But the light turns green, and you angle your face away from his to watch the trees whiz by, so he doesn’t press.

💋💋💋

Steve is an adequate roommate.

He does his half of the chores in a (mostly) timely manner. He doesn’t leave dishes in the sink or hair in the drain. But he does bring a lot of girls home.

However, he’s respectful about it. Every time he has a date, he gives you a heads-up that they might be coming home with him at the end of the night. Sometimes, he’ll even borrow the phone in whatever restaurant they were just dining at to tell you an exact ETA.

You think that he thinks this is what you want, after your roommate experience from last year; a warning in advance that Sex Is Going To Be Happening, since he knows it makes you uncomfortable. While you appreciate what you assume is meant to be a nice sentiment, all it does is make you frustrated, sexually and otherwise. It’s not fun to get constant reminders that Other People Are Fucking And You Are Not (And It’s Kind Of Your Fault But Also Sort Of The Mind Flayer’s So Who’s To Say?).

You realize that something has to change when you come downstairs one early morning in August and catch Steve feeding his date from the night before, Renee, a strawberry. People actually do that shit? You were certain that couples-feeding-each-other-fruit was made up for Hollywood.

“Oh, hey,” Steve says in greeting when you shuffle into the kitchen. You are wearing a pair of Hawkins High gym shorts and a T-shirt with ALF on it. Renee is wearing one of Steve’s button-up shirts and presumably nothing else.

“Good morning!!!” you say, accidentally too chipper. You flash a smile at Renee. She looks at you like she wishes you were dead. Cool.

“Any fun plans for the day?” you offer weakly, after you throw a waffle in the toaster.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Renee wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek. His face flushes as Renee says, “We’ll probably just go back to bed.”

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. She seems to be trying to mark her territory on Steve, as if she can tell that you’ve been harboring the tiniest, centimeter-sized crush on him for the past few months (that you know better than to act on).

Steve extricates himself from Renee and stands from his seat at the counter. “What are you going to do today, Y/N?”

You appreciate that he’s trying to cut back on the PDA while you’re in there. But Renee has no qualms about it. She stands and hugs Steve from behind while you stammer through some explanation of the portfolio you’re putting together for your summer poetry workshop. While you’re halfway through raving about how “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver really inspired your work, Renee starts kissing Steve’s neck.

“That’s really cool,” Steve says, though you know he stopped listening as soon as Renee got her hands on him. 

“Thanks,” you say. You put your waffle on a plate and say, “I’ll just, uh, eat in my room.”

You scurry out before either of them can say anything else. As soon as you get to your room and close the door, all the tension in your body dissipates. 

Shit, for the very first time in your life, you think you need a date of your own.

💋💋💋

Steve is worried that you’re upset with him.

Ever since Renee tried to pounce on in him the kitchen, you’ve been avoiding him. You spend the last few days of the summer semester locked away in a library study room, leaving before he wakes up and coming home after he’s gone to bed.

After the third day of avoidance, while he assumes you’re out at the library again, he tries to explain to Renee why they shouldn’t engage in PDA in front of you (without blabbing all about your fear and trauma). Renee doesn’t get it.

“What, is she like, in love with you or something?” Renee huffs, as the two of them sit on the couch.

“No!” Steve says, though his heart kicks up a bit at the thought. You’re wonderful, in every way, and if Steve thought you had feelings for him, he would pursue you—at whatever speed you’re comfortable with, whatever that looks like. But you’ve never made any indication that you see him as more than a friend, even when he privately took a vow of celibacy for the first month in the new apartment to prove to you that he’s not just some horndog. “Not at all. She’s just…”

“Lonely?” Renee offers. “Desperate because she doesn’t have what we do?”

She surges forward, keen to end this conversation and start making out, but Steve leans away from her with a frown. “Don’t talk about her like that.” 

Renee rolls her eyes. Steve’s blood boils.

“Whatever,” Renee says. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t really see why you two are friends. Like, you’re you, and she’s less of a person and more of a skittish cartoon mouse.”

Steve is baffled. Has Renee always been casually cruel like this? Truth be told, most of the time they’ve spent together has been in his bedroom, or the backseat of his car, or her bedroom, and none of those times involved a lot of talking.

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he stands from the couch and says, “I think you should probably leave.”

Renee scoffs. “Seriously?” 

Steve walks to the door and opens it. Renee snatches up her purse and storms out. Steve slams it shut, before leaning his forehead on the cool wood.

Later, he wanders into the kitchen and makes a pitiful excuse for a dinner (mac & cheese with pieces of hot dog inside—not very nutritious, but delicious), and he wonders if this is a cosmic sign that he should ask you out. He’s assuming that you don’t feel the same, but he could be dead wrong.

He mulls it over in his mind as he eats. He could profess his feelings and promise that you would set the pace, if you’re interested in him too. This all sounds great, and Steve is actually feeling pretty confident, and he brews himself a cup of coffee (or three) to stay awake tonight.

He’s wired on caffeine when he hears your key click in the lock at 12:08 a.m.

“Oh!” you say, when you enter the apartment and see him sitting on the couch in the low lamplight. “Hi, Steve.” You clear your throat and close the door behind you. “I’m sorry I’ve been so M.I.A. I finally turned in my poetry portfolio after a pretty stressful few days.”

“That’s great!” Steve says. He offers to carry your backpack for you. You thank him and hand it off, heading into the kitchen for a midnight snack before bed.

Steve hangs your bag on its hook and hovers in the kitchen doorway, wondering if the speech he has prepared is a good idea or not. He’s about to just bite the bullet when you turn to him with a shy smile and say, “I have good news.”

“About your poetry portfolio?” 

You shake your head, your grin widening. “Nope. I’ve got a date. For the first time! Ever!!!”

Steve’s eyes widen. He tries to arrange his shocked expression into something that resembles joy, while his heart is withering away inside his chest. “Whoa! That’s g-great! With who?” 

“His name is Gary,” you say as you reheat some leftover pizza.

“Gary,” Steve repeats.

“My friend Judy set it up,” you continue, blissfully unaware of the crisis Steve is currently going through. “She was in my summer poetry workshop. She’s a writing major, and Gary was her math tutor last semester. She said he’s super cool.”

“Super cool,” Steve echoes again. He can’t seem to form any coherent thoughts, except, IDIOT!!! WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG?!?!?! WHY DID YOU WASTE TIME WITH RENEE?!?!?!?!

You seem to pick up on the tension radiating off Steve. Your bright expression falters. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Steve assures you. Because the last thing he wants to do is ruin something that could be good for you, just because he holds a candle for you and continually talked himself out of acting on it. “I’m really happy for you. This is big!” 

You nod and smile again, but it looks a little weaker this time. “Thank you, Steve.”

He excuses himself to bed. As soon as he gets in his room, he picks up the phone on his nightstand and calls Robin.

“Hello?” she murmurs sleepily.

“Robin, I fucked up,” Steve whispers into the receiver.

A pause, and then: “Did you somehow bring the Upside Down back?”

Steve frowns. “Uh, no?”

“Get a girl pregnant?”

“No!” Steve huffs, aghast. “I always have safe sex, Rob, and I’m frankly offended that you’d assume otherwise.”

“Okay, King Condom,” Robin snorts. “Then what the hell are you calling me so late for? What could be so bad?” 

Steve’s quiet for a moment. And then, barely audible, he says, “I have feelings for someone that I probably shouldn’t, but think I missed my chance to act on them.”

“Oh, I see,” Robin muses. “This is about Y/N.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m not an idiot, Steve,” Robin says. “I saw the way you looked at her when we were at WSQK together. I could always tell there was something there, simmering below the surface. Simmering? Boiling? What’s the difference, anyway?”

“Can we get back on track, please?” Steve asks, rubbing his forehead. “What do I do? Is it selfish if I beg her not to date this other guy?” 

“I don’t know about selfish,” Robin says. “But if you ask her out now, it is kind of going to look like you only want to date her because she’s unavailable. And that’s shitty.”

Steve agrees that it might not be a good look. So he swallows down his feelings for you, hoping they’ll fade like a bruise before long.

💋💋💋

Your first date with Gary is at a nice buffet in Cartersville. He pays for you, and he’s nice, if a little self-absorbed. 

When he drops you off at your apartment complex after, he doesn’t walk you up to the door. That’s how you always pictured your first date would end: your prince charming walks you to your door and kisses you sweetly. 

Instead, Gary haphazardly parks in the fire lane and leans across the center console, practically mashing his teeth against yours for a first kiss that leaves something to be desired. You aren’t sure what you’re supposed to feel afterward, but it’s not the butterflies you envisioned. It’s just…fine.

As summer slowly turns to autumn and another semester begins, you agree to a second date, then a third. Each ends with a similar attack of a kiss. After the fourth, Gary tries to invite himself up.

“My roommate is home,” you say in lieu of giving him a “yes” or “no.”

“So?” Gary asks. He flashes you an impish grin. “I can be quiet. Don’t know if you’ll be able to, once I get my hands on you…”

You suppress a shiver. You don’t feel any more ready for sex than you did before you started this thing with Gary. But maybe it’s something you just have to do once, and then it’ll feel fine and normal. You fidget with the hem of your skirt and say, “Do you want to come over tomorrow evening? My roommate has a teaching lab that doesn’t end until 9:00.” 

Gary agrees. This time, when he kisses you goodbye, he shoves his tongue in your mouth unexpectedly. Eugh. 

As you ascend the steps toward your and Steve’s apartment, you try to focus on the positives, to avoid drowning in dread: a man is interested in you! He’s taken you on many nice dates, to restaurants and movies! He likes kissing you, and tomorrow, he is going to have sex with you!

Your knees nearly buckle once you walk into the apartment, when the reality of what you’ve just promised hits you. Apprehension clings to you like cheap fabric, and you wonder if you should change your mind. Call Gary and end whatever this is before you have to give him the part of yourself you’re terrified to share. 

As you kick your shoes off by the door, you feel mentally transported to summer 1985. To that feeling of the Mind Flayer invading every one of your senses. The part of your brain that’s so afraid of so many things assumes sex will feel like that too: an invasion. You start to breathe a little harder.

“You okay?” 

You curse and flinch at the sight of your roommate popping in the kitchen doorway, hand on your chest. “Jesus, Steve! I’m putting a goddamn bell on you.”

He gives you an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I heard you come in, but you didn’t say anything.” He scans your face, brow furrowed. “You look pretty freaked. Did Gary cross a line? Do I need to run him over with my truck?” 

“You have your lab tomorrow, right?” you ask, ignoring his question. “The three-hour night class?” 

Steve nods slowly. “Uh, yeah…why?”

“Gary’s going to come over so we can have sex while you’re in class,” you blurt out. You probably should be mortified by your brutal honesty, but you suddenly don’t feel well and can’t stop yourself.

Steve’s jaw drops. Then, he closes his mouth and nods. “Okay.” A pause, and then, “And you’re sure you want to?”

Fuck. He can read you like a book. “Yes,” you say. You breeze past him, heading into your bedroom.

You think he’ll leave it at that, but he follows you in as you toss your purse on your desk. “Forgive me if I’m not convinced,” Steve says dryly. He leans against your doorframe and crosses his arms. He adds, softer, “Y/N, don’t force yourself to do something you’re not ready for.”

“But that’s just the thing!” you say, barking out a hollow laugh. “At this rate, I feel like I’ll never be ready!” You jab a finger at your temple. “I have to just do it to prove to my fucked-up mind that it’s fine.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I see where you’re coming from, but c’mon. This is different than, like, getting over a fear of heights by rock climbing, or something. This is sex. And it should be special.” 

That grates your nerves. You scoff and yank open a dresser drawer, pulling out your pajamas and throwing them on your bed. “Oh, and is it special with every girl you bring home?”

“Yes!” Steve says, though there’s an edge to his voice now. “Just because I date around doesn’t mean the sex is meaningless!”

“And that’s what I’m trying to do too!” you fire back. “Date around, and make a meaningful connection. So I don’t get why you’re being so weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird!” Steve protests.

“Yes!” you shout, unable to tamp down the fear and dread turning into anger. “You are! You’re acting this is some kind of afterschool special!”

“Because I know you, Y/N!” Steve says, voice breaking a bit on your name. “The look on your face is the same look you had when we were riding into the Upside Down in the back of a refrigerated truck to kill Vecna. You’re scared. It’s not worth pushing yourself into having sex when you’re this freaked out.”

You look away. He’s got you dead to rights. He continues, “Don’t have sex with Gary just to check it off a checklist. There’s nothing wrong with taking your time. With being patient until…until the right person comes along.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s convinced you. Then, you narrow your eyes and say, “Is that what you tell the girls you date?”

“Huh?”

“That you’ll be patient,” you continue, stepping a bit closer. You see Steve swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What would you do if, say, the woman you were going out with told you she wasn’t ready to have sex. Would you wait until she was, or dump her for someone who wants to jump your bones?”

“I’d wait,” Steve says, jaw tense. “Of course I would.”

“Really? Even if she wasn’t ready to sleep with you after three dates? Or three months—hell, three years of dating?” you continue. Tears build up on your lashline. “Would you be able to wait that long?”

You aren’t sure if this is a hypothetical question anymore. 

“I would wait,” Steve repeats, voice low. “However long until she’s ready.”

You want to believe him. Every fiber of your being wants to believe him. Because he’s looking at you in a way that makes you feel like you mean something to him. Like you really are worth waiting for. 

But your insecurity overtakes you and convinces you he’s just being nice, and a protective friend. You aren’t like the women he dates. You aren’t vivacious, and conventionally beautiful, and confident in your body.

“Liar,” you say, not much louder than a whisper. 

Steve frown deepens. “No, I—”

“Will you definitely be gone tomorrow night?” you ask.

Steve sighs and closes his eyes. He nods once, a curt motion.

“Okay. Good. Goodnight, Steve.”

You go to close your door. Steve steps back just as it slams in his face. He’s left standing in the hall alone, with mounting regret, marveling at how he never has the capacity to say what he really wants to.

💋💋💋

Steve’s teaching lab is from 6-9 on Wednesday nights. It usually involves learning classroom management strategies. Steve knows he won’t be paying a lick of attention to any of that today.

Before he leaves for campus, he hesitates, but knocks on your bedroom door. “Hey,” he says, with a soft call of your name. “Uh, can we talk?”

A few seconds later, the door swings open. Steve’s heart stutters at the sight of you. You’re wearing a pale blue dress and matching eyeshadow. You look stunning, even more than you usually do, if that’s possible.

“Whoa,” he breathes out. He clears his throat. “You look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you say coolly. You cross your arms. “You heading out?” 

“Yep.”

“And you won’t be back—”

“Until 10:30,” Steve promises. “I’m going to hit the library after class.” He pauses, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. “Hey, have fun tonight, okay?”

Maybe that was a weird thing to say. But sex is supposed to be fun. Steve hopes you remember that—your expression looks as though you’re preparing for your last rites.

“Thanks,” you say, forcing a smile. Steve awkwardly hovers in the hallway, so you add, “Did you…need something else?”

“Just remember to be safe,” Steve says, his protective side showing. His voice drops in volume, even though there’s no one else around to hear it, and continues, “You have condoms, right?”

Your eyes wide, deer-in-the-headlights style. “Don’t guys usually have those?” 

“I mean, sometimes,” Steve says. “But not always. Hold it right there.” 

He ducks back into his room and returns with a box of condoms. You try not to pass away from embarrassment when he hands it to you.

“Just in case,” he says. “Do not let Gary convince you they won’t fit. You can pull one of those things over your arm up to your elbow.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

“I’m serious,” Steve says. He places his hand on your shoulder with a feather-light touch. For once, the unplanned physical contact doesn’t make you flinch or cause your stomach to roil. “And if at any point you’ve changed your mind, say so. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You nod. “Right. I won’t. Thank you. Seriously.” 

Steve squeezes your shoulder gently before dropping his arm. “Go get ’em, tiger.” With those words of wisdom, he leaves.

💋💋💋

Gary is prompt. You two had agreed he’d come over at 7. At 6:59, he’s knocking on the front door.

At 7:02, you’re pouring him a glass of wine.

At 7:05, he’s kissing you on your couch. It feels weird to you, still, and you aren’t sure if that’s because of your lack of experience or because Gary is a bad kisser. You don’t dwell on that fact, trying to shut down the part of your brain that is freaking out about all this physical touch. 

And, oh boy, Gary is touching you all over. Your shoulders, your back, your chest, your hips. But he’s moving his hands so fast, it almost feels like a pat down. Is he doing this right? Is it rude if you ask him to slow down, to savor you a bit more? What’s the protocol here?!

“We should go to your room,” Gary murmurs against your lips.

You nod, before you can talk yourself out of this. “Y-yeah. Yes. Let’s go.”

And so you find yourself in your bed with him, and the pat down continues over your dress. Gary is whispering something in your ear. You think it’s supposed to be sexy, but you’re too busy trying to keep your brain focused on the task at hand to even comprehend the words.

“Nice rack,” he murmurs in a tone that he seems to assume is seductive, fondling your breasts over the bodice of your dress. 

What am I, a rack of ribs? you think.

“What did you say?” Gary says, continuing his ministrations as he nips your earlobe.

Shit, did you say that out loud? You screw your eyes shut. “Uh, just that I want you to keep going,” you say quickly.

He accepts that without issue, and begins kissing your neck. He slows his hands over your chest, and you believe he’s finally going to take his time with you, and then—

Rrrrrrrip!!!! The sound of tearing fabric has your eyes popping open. You gasp and, with anger coursing through you, shove Gary’s chest with all your might. He tumbles off you, landing with an “Ooph!” on the mattress next to you.

Heartbeat pounding in your ears, you scramble off the bed and look at the mirror hanging on the back of your closet door. 

“You tore my dress!” you say, horrified at the big gash down its bodice, now exposing the white lace bra you spent too much money on for this shitshow.

Gary is two parts confused, one part annoyed. “So?” he says. “There were too many buttons.”

You whirl around to where he sits against your headboard and glare. “This was my favorite dress.”

“Just buy another!” Gary says. He stands from the bed and saunters over to you, giving you a sly look. “Maybe we can go to the mall and I can pick out something for—”

“I can’t buy another one just like this,” you interrupt hotly. Your brain is firing on all cylinders. You aren’t sure if you even understand why you’re so upset, but you don’t stop yourself from saying, “This was from the JC Penney Summer 1985 collection. They don’t make it anymore!” 

Gary stares at you and blinks once, twice. “Okay? Uh, sorry, I guess. I mean, I don’t see what the big deal is, but—can we get back to having sex now?”

You shake your head. “No. I want you to leave.” You wave your hand between the two of you. “Whatever this was? It’s over now.”

Gary’s disposition sours. His lip curls. “Are you serious?”

“As a funeral,” you snap. “Now, please, get the fuck out of my house.”

Gary gives you a long, hard look. He huffs in disbelief with an eye roll. “Frigid bitch.”

He storms out of your room, grabbing his shoes without even putting them back on, and slams the door to your apartment.

As soon as he’s gone, you sink to the edge of your bed and put your hands on your knees. You try to control your breathing, to relax, to think whatever happy thoughts you need to so you can put this shitty night behind you.

But when you glance up again and see your ruined dress in the reflection of the mirror, you begin to cry. The sword of Damocles falls, slicing your skull in two.

💋💋💋

Steve parks his truck outside the apartment complex at 10:40.

He gave you an extra 10 minutes. Not that he feels like Gary the math major has enough stamina for 3 hours and 40 minutes of lovemaking, but still. Better safe than sorry.

Steve figures he’ll nurse his broken heart with a beer and then head to bed. Maybe he’ll run into you in the kitchen and casually ask how the night went. (Despite his unrequited feelings for you, he hopes it went well.) But when he enters the apartment, it’s eerily quiet, in a way that sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

Why is it so dark in here? The only light is coming from the crack under your bedroom door. Shit, is Gary still here?

Steve leaves his shoes and backpack by the door and tiptoes down the hall toward his room. He hears a whimper from your room and freezes. One whimper turns into another, which turns into what sounds like a sob.

Panic rises in Steve and he barges the rest of the way down the hall, banging on your door. If Gary is still there and the reason you’re crying right now, Steve is going to jail for first-degree murder. At least his uncle is a pretty good lawyer.

Steve calls your name. “Hey! What’s wrong?”

He hears you sniffle through the door. “Go away!” you shout, though your voice is hoarse, as if you’ve been crying for a while.

“Not until I know you’re okay,” Steve says. “Can I come in?” 

“No!” 

Steve feels helpless on the wrong side of the door. He felt this way countless times in the fight against forces of evil, most notably when he was hanging by one hand off a radio tower in the Upside Down.

“Please,” Steve begs. “I just want to make sure you’re all right. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you are.”

For a few aching seconds, you don’t respond. But then: “F-fine. Come in.”

Steve pushes the door open. You’re seated on your bed, wearing your favorite ALF shirt and flannel pajama pants. Your face is a teary-eyed mess as you sew something blue. Wait a minute. 

“Is that your dress?” Steve asks, sitting on the bed next to you (but leaving you a wide berth of space, as usual). You nod shakily. This doesn’t lessen his panic. “What happened?” Steve says.

“Nothing,” you mutter. You refuse to look at him as you work, though your hands are trembling so badly, your stitches are all crooked. 

Steve covers your hands with one of his. You still, finally looking up at him. “Tell me what happened,” he says quietly.

You suck in a rattling breath and try to get yourself together to recount the events of the night. “He ripped my dress before we even got past second base,” you say. “He didn’t even care that it made me upset! I kicked him out and he called me a—a—a frigid bitch!” 

You cry harder, throwing the ruined dress on the floor, needle and thread still attached. 

Steve’s seeing red. Maybe he’ll do the first-degree murder anyway. “That’s so fucked. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You sniffle again. “Heather and I picked that dress together. For high school graduation. I—I only wear it for special occasions because I want it to last as long as possible and…fuck!” You cover your face with your hands.

Steve isn’t sure what to do or say in this moment to make you feel better. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?” he asks quietly, because it’s all he can think to offer. Without responding, your throw your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. 

“We’ll get the dress fixed,” Steve promises, rubbing your back gently while you cry. “Mrs. Henderson has a really swanky sewing machine, and she can mend anything. I’ll call her tomorrow to ask her about it, and can drive down to Hawkins over the weekend to drop it off.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Steve says firmly.

This is the longest you’ve touched him—hell, the longest you’ve touched anyone—since…maybe ever. It feels nice. Surprisingly.

Eventually, you feel like you’ve used up all your tears and pull away. “Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say. “Even when I freak out over small things.”

“This isn’t small,” Steve says. “Gary’s a disrespectful prick. Seriously, don’t even give him another thought.”

You nod, and then sigh. “He’s probably already called Judy and told her how neurotic I am.”

“If Judy’s not a shitty person, she’ll be on your side,” Steve says firmly. 

You fidget with your fingers, quiet for a few moments. Then, you whisper, “I really wanted tonight to go well.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be ready to try this again,” you admit. “Like, dating, and sex, and all that stuff.”

An opportunistic asshole would use this moment to confess their feelings, but Steve’s not that guy. “That’s completely fine,” he says. “When the time’s right, you’ll know.”

You aren’t sure if that’s true, but you like his optimism.

💋💋💋

You mope around for the next few weeks. All you do is go to class, study, and sleep. One morning in mid-October, Steve decides to get you out of this funk by inviting you to a Halloween party one of his teammates on the club baseball team is throwing.

“It’ll be the perfect thing for you,” Steve says, when you initially don’t look to enthused about the idea, frowning over your bowl of Cheerios. “We can drink, dance, and forget about shitty people like Larry.”

“Gary,” you correct.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Steve asks innocently. He takes a bite of toast and shoots you a closed-mouth smile, his cheeks puffy and round like a chipmunk. It makes you laugh and roll your eyes. He’s good at that—at disarming you when you feel stress start building. How is he so good at that? 

You stir your now-soggy cereal absentmindedly. “Wouldn’t you rather bring a date to the party?” you say. “I noticed you haven’t really been going out.” You clear your throat. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t date or bring people over just because I don’t.”

You’re secretly happy that he’s not dating a lot anymore. Your centimeter-sized crush on Steve has grown exponentially, ever since he had Mrs. Henderson fix your dress and hunted for the same dress at all the thrift stores from here to Indianapolis, somehow procuring one in green. You just don’t know if that’s the kind of thing a friend does for a friend, or a friend does for someone they’re also harboring a crush on.

Steve’s poker face is too good. You aren’t able to glean anything from his casual expression and even tone as he says, “I know. It’s just not a priority right now.” He sips orange juice and adds, “So. Party?” 

You agree to go, and, to Steve’s immense satisfaction, agree to do a “Return of the Jedi”-themed duo costume. You have the idea to both go as Han Solo, before and after being freed from carbonite. You wear matching outfits with water guns painted to look like blasters, except everything you’re wearing is slate gray. You add some silver glitter to your makeup and hair as well, though you don’t paint your face fully silver to avoid looking like the Tin Man.

“Hey, Han Solo and the Tin Man!” one of Steve’s baseball buddies says as soon as you two enter the party. Well, it was worth a try.

Surprisingly, the party is fun. You and Steve do drink and dance, and the tipsier you get, the more you find your mind wandering to places it shouldn’t. Like how good Steve looks in his Han Solo costume, how good he probably looks out of it, and did he ever read that library book on female pleasure? You drink some more to try and drown out your dirty, disgusting, shameful thoughts.

But are they really all that shameful? You’re human, after all, and Steve’s a good-looking guy. If you weren’t so afraid of intimacy with another person, or of ruining your friendship, you might’ve tried to seduce him years ago. Maybe even back before the Mind Flayer, when Heather told you to ask him out at Scoops Ahoy.

“You okay?” Steve asks, leaning close so he can be heard over the music. You nod and take another sip, trying not to think about your dead best friend saying, “He’s hung, Y/N.” 

“I just need to run to the bathroom,” you say. “Be right back.”

You navigate through the throng of dancing, sweaty college students and—after too many tries—finally find a bathroom upstairs that isn’t occupied by an amorous couple. When you make your way back downstairs, you no longer see Steve on the dance floor. Your brow furrows as you scan the crowd for him, finally catching a glimpse of his infamous hair ducking into the kitchen. 

You make your way there, but once you walk inside, you stop short. Steve is across the way chatting with a girl. She’s wearing a white minidress with feathery wings, and a headband with a halo attached via white pipe cleaner. She reminds you of Nancy Wheeler, with her delicate features and bright eyes. Your heart sinks. Of course Steve wants to talk to her. Not his roommate, who’s probably leaking silver glitter everywhere she goes.

You awkwardly shuffle through the crowd of partygoers and, once you’re a bit closer, overhear the angel practically purr, “You know, Han Solo was my sexual awakening.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Was he now?” 

“We should get out of here,” Angel says, reaching up to brush a stray curl off of Steve’s forehead. Steve smiles politely and, to your utter surprise, says, “Sorry, I’m not interested.” 

Huh? Angel is exactly his type: pretty, available, and unabashedly horny. And Steve’s turning down the chance to take her home? 

To her credit, Angel accepts the declined invitation with grace. “Suit yourself,” she says. “I think I saw an Indiana Jones around here anyway.”

As she leaves, you approach Steve. His face splits into a grin when he sees you. “Hey! I was just looking for you. I requested the DJ play that Duran Duran song you like. Hopefully it’s coming up soon.” 

You consider moving on from what you overheard, but you can’t stop yourself from ignoring his statement and asking, “Why did you shoot down the angel girl?” 

Steve’s smile falters. “You heard that?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say. You force a chuckle. “I mean, what gives? She was perfect for you.”

“No,” Steve says. “She wasn’t.”

You’re confused. He almost sounds dejected. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing!” Steve says, exasperation leaching into his tone. He nods toward the living room. “C’mon, let’s go dance.”

You shake your head. You’re probably jumping to conclusions, but you have to know if there’s any validity to your hunch. “No. I want you to tell me why you aren’t dating anymore. And if it’s my fault.”

Steve’s expression is pained. “Don’t make me answer that,” he murmurs. He turns on his heel and charges out to the back porch for some air. You follow, guilt gnawing at you as the cool air of the October night hits you. That was practically a “Yes.”

“Steve, don’t stop dating on my account,” you say, assuming that’s what this all is: him trying not to make you feel left out of the Dating and Relationships part of life that you just don’t feel equipped for. “Go hook up with Ms. Angel if you want to.”

“I don’t want to hook up with her!” Steve says. He’s agitated, rubbing his nose in a way he only does when he’s upset.

“But why—”

“Because I like someone else!” Steve explodes. “But if I tell her, it might ruin our friendship, or…” He swallows hard. “Or our living situation.”

His words wash over you, and realization dawns. Part of you is thrilled. The other part of you is terrified, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. “Oh.”

“The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable,” Steve says quickly, sensing your unease. “I know that dating and stuff isn’t, like, easy for you. And if you don’t feel the same way, I won’t be offended. If you want me to move out, I will, and—”

“Steve?”

“...Yeah?”

You can’t believe you’re about to say this, but: “May I kiss you?” 

Steve freezes. After a few seconds, he sounds wrecked and says, “Y-yeah. Yes.”

You inch closer to him, cupping his face in your hands gently. His skin his warm, despite the mid-autumn chill. He hesitates before softly placing his hands on your waist. “Is this okay?” he asks. You nod, before softly pressing your lips to his.

Kissing Steve is nothing like you thought it would be. It’s 1,000% better. Whatever the fuck Gary was doing was obviously, categorically incorrect. Because Gary didn’t kiss you soft and slow, like he was revering the taste of you. He didn’t move his hands from your waist to your back, pulling you in ever-so-much closer. He didn’t make you feel like you were floating.

You’re so overwhelmed with an emotion you can’t quite describe that you pull away. Steve’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong?” he asks, worry radiating off him in waves.

You surprise him by kissing his cheek. He looks a little dazed, touching his cheek in the very same spot. “Nothing’s wrong,” you promise. “I just—I’m sorry, I’m messing this up.”

You start to back away, but before you get very far, Steve intertwines one of his hands with yours. “No, no,” he says. He runs his thumb over your knuckles, and you’re surprised at how nice it feels. “You’re not messing anything up. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

You take a few deep breaths and try to collect yourself. “I—I like you too,” you say, after a beat. “I have, for a while. But I just figured you didn’t feel the same. Because you knew about all my…hang-ups.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner,” Steve says. You can see that he means it by the expression on his face—regret, with a splash of longing and earnestness. “I hate that you wasted time with Harry.”

“Gary.”

“That’s what I said. Jerry.” 

You wonder if he needs to get his hearing checked, but then notice his sly grin. You shake your head and playfully swat his shoulder. “You’re goofy.”

“You just said you like me,” Steve taunts, looking awfully proud of himself. “So you like goofy.”

“Yeah. I really, really do.” 

Steve hesitates, before bringing a hand up to brush a stray lock of hair out of your face. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks. 

You want to say yes, but there’s a part of your brain that still panics at the thought. A lot has happened in the past seven minutes, and you feel a tad in over your head.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Steve promises. “We don’t have to rush. Patience is my middle name. Steve ‘Patience’ Harrington.” 

It’s not. It’s Daniel. But instead of reminding him of that fact, you ask, “Can I have a hug instead?” 

“Of course you can,” Steve says, his voice low and fond as he opens his arms for you. The two of you hold each other outside while the party rages on indoors, and it just feels right. 

💋💋💋

Dating Steve is strange at first. You struggle to adjust to the change from friends to more, feeling a little caught off guard with the displays of affection that you aren’t used to.

But Steve never pressures you into anything. He asks every time he wants to hug or kiss you. He even asks if it’s all right to hold your hand. You’re sure that to some other girls, such constant check-ins would be annoying. But for you, it’s a saving grace. You’re able to ease into physical intimacy in a way that feels comfortable to you. It no longer feels like the terrifying beast that you’d been so afraid of for years. Instead, it’s warm and comforting, because you’re with Steve, and he always makes you feel safe. 

However, the metaphorical sword of Damocles has been re-hung, because there’s still something hanging over your head: sex. You and Steve have kissed quite a lot, but that’s about it. He’s true to his word from the Halloween party and makes it clear there’s no rush to do anything more, but sometimes you two will be kissing, and he’ll suddenly pull away and ask if you want to watch a really serious documentary about how paint is mixed, or a sad movie. And then he’ll sit on the opposite side of the sofa from you with a pillow on his lap.

You almost feel bad, like you’re torturing the guy. One day when you try to apologize for still not being ready for that next step, Steve waves away your concerns.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. “Really. Let me just, uh, go take a cold shower real quick.”

One day in December, after finals week but before the holidays, you two are watching that paint documentary for the fifth time, and you decide that enough’s enough. You trust Steve. (Hell, you might even love him, even if it’s probably too soon to make such a declaration.) If you’re going to have sex with anyone, you want it to be with him.

You broach the subject, rather bluntly, as the credits roll. “Do you want to have sex with me?” 

Steve almost trips and falls on his way to eject the VHS from your VCR. “Huh? What? Sorry, I thought you just said—”

“I asked if you wanted to have sex with me,” you repeat. “Now. Well, not now now. Maybe give me a few minutes to put on a nicer bra or something.” 

Steve frowns. “You’re talking…weirdly.”

“I am not!”

“You are. Using your professional voice. Like this is a business transaction. I don’t want us talking about sex to feel like hashing out a contract.” He pops the VHS back in its case and returns to the sofa, sitting closer to you this time. He covers one of your hands with his, his touch grounding you. “I promise you, I’m okay waiting.” 

“But you shouldn’t have to wait,” you say. And, to your utter embarrassment, you feel tears welling up in your eyes. “If I was normal, we could’ve done it by now.”

“Screw normal,” Steve says. “We’ve fought monsters, Y/N. We’re the furthest from normal on the planet.” He wipes a stray tear off your cheek. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s really all right.” 

Sweetheart. The pet name has you feeling warm all over. But you agree that maybe now’s not the time. Your hands are shaking, and your throat is tight, and as much as you love him, you feel sort of nauseous about being in bed with Steve.

“Whenever you’re really ready,” Steve says, “you’ll know. Trust me.”

You do. More than anyone else on the planet. 

💋💋💋

There’s a blizzard in mid-January. A total white-out that has classes canceled too soon after the semester began. You and Steve are holed up in your apartment, and he’s kissing you on the couch, and when he stops and asks, “Hey, can we watch that documentary again?” in a pained sort of voice, a realization crashes over you like a tsunami wave: 

You’re horny. 

Like, horrendously horny. Very much so. Sure, you’ve felt this way from kissing Steve before, but it feels more visceral now. Like, it won’t be enough this time to go into your room under the guise of studying and touch yourself thinking about your boyfriend.

You shake your head. “No. Steve, I’m ready. Like, actually this time.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” you say, before kissing him again.

The two of you clumsily stand, barely coming up for air as you kiss and stumble down the hall. You end up in Steve’s room, and in his bed, in record time.

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” Steve murmurs as he hovers above you, pressing kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh as he moves lower, kissing your sternum and your stomach over your sweater. “Can I take this off?” he asks.

You nod, and he pulls your top off gently. You’re not in a particularly nice bra today—it’s an odd shade of orange that you bought on clearance—but Steve drinks in the sight with hungry eyes.

“You next,” you say, tugging at the hem of his Cartersville U sweatshirt. As soon as it’s off, you feel your heart race. You run a hand over his chest hair and try not to swoon.

“Like what you see?” Steve teases. 

You nod, before pulling him in for another kiss.

Your jeans get tossed next, and then Steve’s. But as his fingers graze the waistband of your panties, you feel it: panic, crawling its way through your mind and body.

Not now, you think, kissing Steve a little harder to try and push the feeling away. Please, no, not now.

Steve’s hand moves a centimeter lower, and you subtly flinch. You don’t even have to ask Steve to stop. He notices, pulls his hand away, and moves so he’s laying on his side next to you.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, before you can apologize. “We can stop.”

You cover your face with your hands, mortified. “I thought I could do it,” you say, voice muffled through your hands. “But there’s something in my messed-up head that just stops me. I trust you. I want this with you so much. But I just hate feeling like I’m out of control.”

Steve’s mind flashes back to that day from last spring semester, when he found you in the library looking at a book on sex. Outside, on the bench, you’d described sex as “giving up control to someone else.” An idea forms in his head.

“If you want to be in control, take it,” Steve says.

You peek out from your hands. “Huh?” 

Steve leans against the headboard and folds his hands on his stomach, above the waistband of his black boxers. “Have your way with me, Y/N,” he says, in a half-teasing voice.

The words send desire coursing through you, from your head to your toes. “Are you serious?” you ask.

Steve nods. “I trust you too,” he says. “And I want this to be comfortable for you. If you want to stop, we can stop. But if you want to keep going…” He trails off, but the message is loud and clear.

You think about it for a moment. Then, you make your way over to him, straddling his lap. You rest your hands on his shoulders, and he places his on your waist. You roll your hips experimentally, punching out a groan from him and a gasp from you. 

“Is that okay?” you ask, breathless.

“More than okay,” Steve says, voice a bit rough. So you repeat the motion again, again, and again. Steve bucks up his hips to meet yours, and you gasp again. 

The two of you move in tandem, bodies pulsing with need, sighs and moans falling from your lips. You kiss Steve again, with a renewed sense of fervor. You feel too good to be afraid.

💋💋💋

Afterward, while you and Steve are curled up in his bed, you feel your eyes start to water. You quickly wipe the tears away, but Steve notices. His blissful expression is replaced with a furrowed brow and a frown. “What‘s wrong? Are you all right?”

He relaxes when your face splits into a smile. “More than all right. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”

You wrap your arms around him for a tight hug. He returns the embrace, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hair.

There’s so much you want to say. You want to tell Steve how you never thought you could have this kind of intimacy with anyone. You want to thank him for being so kind and attentive, and for letting you take the lead. You want to kiss him some more, for hours. 

You want to explain that something has shifted inside you, and your body feels like your own again for the first time in a long time. 

But instead of saying all that, you hold your boyfriend close, feeling the heaviness you've carried for years loosen its grip with every passing second.

💋💋💋

Maybe it’s a side effect of your insecurity, or of being raised in a small, conservative-leaning town stuck in its purity culture ways, but the thought of intimacy terrifies you. Letting your guard down and being that vulnerable with another human being feels like the sword of Damocles swinging above your head, ready to chop you in two.

In the summer of 1985, a few weeks after high school graduation, you’re at the Holloway house for a spa night (i.e., painting your nails and drinking wine you pilfered from Mrs. Holloway’s wine fridge). Heather asks you if you really want to be a virgin before college. 

“Virginity is a construct,” you reply, quoting something you read in a zine you bought from a bookstore in Indianapolis. 

“Right, sure,” Heather says flippantly. She shakes one hand, trying to air-dry her Passionate Plum manicure. “But don’t you want to have at least some experience? Because you don’t want your first sexual encounter to be with some drunk frat bro who can’t find the clit.”

“Ohmigod Heather,” you say, embarrassment and anxiety washing over you at her crass words.

“What?! I’m just saying! We should hook you up with someone before we leave in the fall.”

“Leave” was a strong word. You and Heather were going to Cartersville University for college, barely 30 minutes away.

“Ooh, you know what I heard,” Heather says, leaning in conspiratorially. You can smell the Pinot Grigio on her breath. “Steve Harrington is, like, desperate for a date. He asks out every girl our age who comes into Scoops. You should go after him.”

“I don’t really want to ‘go after’ a guy who asks out everyone,” you say, fidgeting with your fingers and already wanting to chip off the baby blue nail polish you haphazardly applied.

Heather shrugs. “Suit yourself. You might regret that, though, because everyone says he’s like…you know.”

She makes some sort of motion with her hands. You’re not sure if you don’t understand it because of your lack of sexual experience or because she’s not adequately expressing whatever she’s trying to. You blink, and Heather huffs. “He’s hung, Y/N. All the girls at school say so.” 

You aren’t sure if this conversation makes you want to laugh or cry, so you change the subject by picking up the half-empty bottle and gesturing to Heather’s plastic cup. “Want more wine?” 

💋💋💋

Less than a week later, Heather calls you in a panic.

“Please,” she begs. “Something’s wrong with my mom! She passed out after dinner. My dad took her to the hospital but I’m really, really scared…I don’t want to be alone!” 

Your parents are out of town caring for a sick relative, so you have no curfew to adhere to and book it to her house on your bike. But after you ring the doorbell and she lets you inside, you instantly get the feeling something is wrong.

“Why is it so cold?” you ask, a shiver involuntarily running through you. Goosebumps raise on your arms and legs, and you don’t understand how Heather is comfortable in a tank top and shorts when it can’t be more than 60 degrees inside her house.

Heather doesn’t respond. Instead, she almost robotically sits on the couch and puts her head in her hands. You take a seat next to her and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” you soothe. “Your mom is going to be all right.”

“No, she isn’t!” Heather says, voice muffled in her hands. 

“She will! You just have to be positive. The doctors will figure out what’s wrong with her.”

Still with her face covered, Heather says, “Do you think they’ll figure out what’s wrong with you?”

You frown, brows pulling together. “W-what?”

In one swift motion, she pulls a rag out from a couch cushion and covers your mouth with it. You try and fight back, but you feel the pull of sleep calling you.

Her expression is devoid of emotion. “Sorry, Y/N,” she says, as your consciousness wanes. “But He told me He needs more.”

💋💋💋

For the next few days, you become Billy Hargrove’s second-in-command. The creature possessing you seems to like that you’re mousy and insecure. You’re easier to break. Easier to control.

When you’re under the Mind Flayer’s influence, you feel like you’re watching yourself through a pane of glass. Your mind screams at your body to Stop it! Stop! as you knock Mike Wheeler unconscious in the back hallways of the mall. But it’s no use. As long as the Mind Flayer has its hooks in you, you’re forced to be a bystander to your own life.

It changes when you get to the mall’s main atrium: Billy has Eleven in his clutches, and you’re standing nearby in case he needs backup. The fireworks are burning your skin from the inside out, and your ears are ringing, so you don’t hear what El says to Billy. But something in his expression shifts. You watch the darkened veins on his face and arms fade. 

He looks up at you, and sees your skin still covered in those veins.

“What are you waiting for?” you hear yourself ask. “Give her to Him!”

Don’t! you scream inside your mind. God, please, don’t do it Billy.

“I’m sorry,” Billy says, remorse flashing on his face when he realizes what he’s done under the influence of a monster—not just to you, but to El, to Heather, to everyone else making up the Mind Flayer’s physical form. “I’m so, so sorry Y/N.”

You blink, surprised, even more so when he turns toward the creature that’s been controlling you two for days. He grapples with one of its tentacles, and then the creature impales him with another. You scream in pain and fall onto your back a few feet away, the pesky hive mind keeping you connected. His pain is very much yours.

“You have to fight it!” someone shouts, from somewhere in this godforsaken mall. Easier said than done.

You close your eyes and try to force the Mind Flayer out of your head. He’d been feeding on your darkest memories to keep you in control, so maybe you could take back over by focusing on happier ones: Meeting Heather in 3rd grade and making a best friend for the first time in your life. Riding bikes through town. Swimming at the pool every summer. Dancing wildly at the Snow Ball. Weekend trips to Indianapolis with your family. Cheering Heather on as she won prom queen, just a few weeks ago.

You focus on the good, and the bad sloughs itself out of you in a big rush. Just in the nick of time, too. You sit up, feeling woozy, and watch as the Mind Flayer falls to the ground, very much dead. 

A few feet away, you watch Billy’s stepsister, Max Mayfield, cry for him. Eleven comforts her. You stagger to your feet, unsure of what to do or where to go. 

You fail to blink back tears, and they roll down your face when the gravity of what’s happened sinks over you.

“H-Heather,” you sob. “No! No!” 

You fall to your knees in front of the corpse of the Mind Flayer, sobbing into your hands.

“It isn’t your fault.”

You whip your head to the side, where Will Byers stands. He’s looking at you with empathy, and is treating you more kindly than you expected this crew to after everything that happened.

“What he did to you,” Will says, nodding toward the monster. “And what he made you do, it is not your fault. Trust me, I understand that more than anyone else here.”

You aren’t sure what he means by that, but you simply offer a hoarse, “Thank you.” 

Steve Harrington, whose face is bloodied and bruised in a way that makes you feel sick, walks up to you next.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s a trace of urgency laced in his words. “We should get out of here before these fires spread. Can you stand?”

You nod shakily, though you stumble a bit, feeling weary. Steve reaches to balance you and you flinch away from him. “Sorry!” he says, and backs up, tucking his hands in his pockets as if to assure you he wouldn’t try and touch you again.

As you walk toward the exit, you feel numb. You profusely apologize to Eleven, Max, and the others, but like Will, they don’t hold it against you. (Well, Mike Wheeler grumbles something about having a concussion, but when he sees how upset you are, he walks it back.)

“It was the hive mind,” he says. “Not you.” 

Right. Not you. It was an external force invading your mind and body. A hostile takeover. The sword of Damocles inches ever-closer to your skull in your mind.

That night, Robin Buckley’s parents drive you and Steve home as well. Steve offers to stay with you, but you want to be alone. You want to crawl into your bed, in the body you don’t trust anymore, and cry yourself to sleep. So that’s exactly what you do.

💋💋💋

You defer your enrollment to Cartersville U, wanting to take a gap year to deal with the grief and pain. Your parents understand, showering you with gifts and attention to make up for the fact that they weren’t there the night of the “mall fire” that killed your best friend and so many others.

You make new friends in Steve and Robin, getting a job at the Family Video with them. However, one gap year turns to two, and then three, when an earthquake hits and the military sets up a barricade. No one in or out, except for extenuating circumstances.

Steve reads you in on the truth: it wasn’t a simple earthquake. It was another monster from the Mind Flayer’s domain opening portals to another dimension, called Gates. The uneasy feeling you’d had all week starts to make sense when you realize the hive mind was active again.

“We’re going to kill him,” Steve tells you quietly as you two sit in Max’s hospital room to keep her company. When you heard about her coma, your heart just broke.

“I want to help,” you say.

“No way,” Steve says, shaking his head. “You’ve been tortured enough by this fucker.”

“Everyone has!” you say. “Let me help, Steve.”

He does, even if he doesn’t seem happy about it. You help the group plan Crawls into the Upside Down, where the “resurrected” Chief Hopper searches for Henry Creel/Vecna/One. The way you understand it, Vecna and the Mind Flayer are partners in crime. So while you were connected to the hive mind in 1985, you were technically connected to Vecna too. The thought makes you sick.

And in fall 1987, after 30-some Crawls, you and Will are dragged back into the hive mind’s orbit. It’s painful, seeing from the vision of a monster—at least it’s not your body carrying out the acts this time.

In the downtime before your plan at the Turnbow’s house, Steve finds you crying in the storage closet at the WSQK station.

“What’s wrong?!” he says, sitting on the floor beside you, but leaving some space. After two years of friendship, he knows better than to reach for you—you don’t love physical touch.

You shake your head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

You screw your eyes shut, deciding to just be honest. “I hate being so close to the hive mind,” you say quietly. “I hate being back there, like I’m out of control of my body again. It’s…violating.” 

You don’t say more, but you could. You could talk about how you still haven’t had sex, kissed anyone, or really dated at all, because your fear of sex and intimacy and vulnerability was ratcheted up after you were flayed. You have this compulsive need to be in control of your body at all times, and sex seems like a surefire way to lose that control. You don’t want to lose yourself to someone else. Ever again.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Steve says. If he can tell you’re not telling the full truth, he doesn’t bring it up. “Listen, we’re going to kill Vecna once and for all. And then he, and the Mind Flayer, and the whole hive mind will be gone.”

You appreciate his positivity, even if you don’t feel so optimistic. “Thank you,” you say. You hesitate, before asking, “Could I get a hug?” 

Steve had secretly hoped you would ask. When you occasionally ask for a hug is the only time you let him close to you.

“Of course,” he says, opening his arms for you. You hug him tightly, but only for a few seconds, before you’re pulling away. Steve stands and offers you a hand. You murmur, “Thanks,” and take it, but let go as soon as you’re on your feet. Steve doesn’t take offense—he’s not that insecure. But he does find his arms and hands feeling a bit warm where he was just holding you…

Steve squashes that instantly. Whatever he’s feeling is a bad idea. Besides, you all have a world to save.

💋💋💋

You do save the world, shockingly. Somehow, your team of quasi-heroes pulls it off, and then you’re all expected to go about life as normal.

Eleven is finally able to get some semblance of a normal life, after the military is exposed for their clandestine experiments. She even gets a hefty payout from the government, which Hopper commands cannot be used on a lifetime supply of Eggos, to her chagrin.

Max re-enrolls in school, hoping to catch up, with Lucas, Mike, Will, and Dustin offering to be her personal tutors. 

Jonathan, Nancy, and Robin all go far from Hawkins for college in fall 1988. You still end up only 30 minutes away, at Cartersville University. You’re a bit surprised when Steve tells you he’s enrolled as well.

“I think I want to be a teacher,” he says, while the two of you are attending a new student mixer during orientation week (and glomming onto each other so you don’t need to talk to any strangers).

“That’s amazing, Steve!” you say. “You’re great with kids. You’re going to do really, really well.”

He smiles, a bit bashful. “Thanks, Y/N. What do you think you want to study?”

You don’t get the chance to respond before a pretty girl is sidling up to him. “Hey, I haven’t seen you around here before.”

You bite back the urge to make a sarcastic remark about how you’re all new, so of course she hasn’t seen Steve before. As Steve begins to flirt back, you quietly excuse yourself for more punch. Oh, brother.

💋💋💋

Your roommate is the most insatiable human being to exist.

You think she and her boyfriend have sex four times a week, maybe five. Good lord.

Coming home from a long day of one lab, two lectures, and an exam, you scowl at the sight of a bright pink sock with yellow daisies stitched on it resting on the doorknob of your dorm. 

You know your roommate’s boyfriend lives off-campus, so it’s easier for their post-class romps to be in the dorm. But your stomach squeezes and twists, and the fact that she can so easily engage in intimacy while you’re still terrified of your own naked reflection sometimes angers you. You meet Steve in the dining hall for dinner and lament about it, stabbing at your salad with a fork.

“It’s just so goddamn inconsiderate that she’s fucking in our shared room all the time,” you say hotly, spearing a cherry tomato and biting into it. 

“That really sucks,” Steve says, genuinely upset on your behalf. His empathy is one of his best qualities. “I mean, she should at least give you a heads-up or something.” 

“Or something,” you grumble. “I hope she gets a UTI.”

Steve nearly chokes on his grilled cheese sandwich.

You feel a bit ashamed. “Sorry. Was that, like, totally evil of me to wish on another person?”

“Not evil,” Steve says. “A little twisted, maybe.” 

You cover your face with your hands, embarrassed. Steve just laughs.

“I kind of like this side of you,” he muses. 

“Shut up.” You flick a craisin at him. It lands in his perfect hair. It’s your turn to laugh, and his turn to blush as he brushes it away.

“But seriously,” you add, shaking your head. “I just don’t get how they even have the energy to do it so often.”

Now that you’ve successfully vented your frustration, you’re ready to change the subject. You’re about to ask Steve how his club baseball team is going when he says, “I mean, the few weeks I dated that girl I met at the orientation mixer, that was about how often we’d hook up.” 

Suddenly, you’re very invested in your salad once more. 

Steve frowns at the sudden chill in your demeanor. 

“Sorry,” he says, wondering if he overshared. “You probably didn’t need to know that.”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice tight.

Steve furrows his brow. “Really? Because I’ve never seen someone inspect ranch dressing that closely.”

“I said it’s fine,” you say, anger creeping in again. You seal up the to-go container holding your half-finished dinner and add, “I’m going to the library. Hopefully Sierra’s boyfriend is long gone by the time I’m done studying.” 

You storm off, leaving a bewildered Steve behind.

💋💋💋

You think you might be sexually frustrated. 

You don’t know what that feels like, exactly. You’re pretty certain in your 20-some years of life, you’ve never felt it before.

But you’re still scared of sex, so the feeling is confounding. Why does your traitorous body want the thing your brain has convinced you is terribly dangerous?

You don’t like masturbating because you can never get yourself off, but your roommate is staying with her boyfriend for the weekend and you have a dorm to yourself, and you might as well try to do something to stave off the burning under your skin. If you don’t, you’ll probably go into some sort of hysteria. Is this when women in the 1800s would’ve been sent to the seaside?

You eye the poster hanging on Sierra’s side of the dorm room, of some hunky male musician you’re certain is popular though you can’t name a single one of his songs, and hope it’ll spark something in you. You fumble around with your hand shoved down the front of your jeans, but your clumsy strokes combined with the swoonworthy stare of Hunky Musician does not make you come.

Could this be something behavioral science can solve? You head to the library, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your eyes as if it could disguise you, wondering if there’s some kind of psychology textbook titled “Handbook For Adult Women Who Are Scared Of Sex But Really Want To Get Off.”

You don’t find that in a shadowy corner of the nonfiction section with the books on sex and relationships, but you do find a rather interesting-looking tome titled “Tending To Her Garden of Pleasure: The Complete Guide To A Woman’s Orgasm.” Close enough.

“Hey, Y/N!” 

You have a small cardiac event when Steve calls your name, dropping the book on the carpeted floor. You burn with embarrassment, shame, and regret, mortified that the book fell cover-side up.

You can’t even bring yourself to say anything, or even put the book back on the shelf. You blink back tears and speedwalk past Steve, ignoring him calling after you.

You sit on a bench by the vending machines outside the library, hugging your backpack to your chest. You should just head back to your dorm, but the thought of being alone in that room again makes you want to peel your own skin off. 

Minutes tick by, and you notice Steve out of the corner of your eye, heading your way. You aren’t sure what to expect as he gingerly takes a seat on the bench next to you, but it’s definitely not a soft, “I think you forgot something.”

He holds the book out to you, cover-side down this time. Your eyes widen. “You checked it out?”

“In case you still wanted it,” Steve said. And he’s not teasing you. He’s being 100% genuine. Though he can’t resist and adds, “But if you don’t, maybe I should study up.”

You snort and shake your head. “I’m sure the librarian got a kick out of that.”

“She’s stone cold,” Steve said. “Didn’t even react. I’m probably not the only desperate schmuck who’s taken this thing home.” He screws his face up with disgust. “Eugh, they like, disinfect the books each time they’re returned, right?”

But you don’t play along. The words “desperate schmuck” rattle around in your head. You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shuddery breath.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, suddenly serious again, misinterpreting what’s making you upset and tucking the book in his backpack. “I promise I’m not making fun of you.”

“I know,” you say. You sniffle. “I just…Steve, I think I’m broken.” 

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?” 

You consider just walking away, but he sounds so concerned, and it might be nice to open up about this to someone you know and trust.

“I can’t have sex,” you say, voice cracking on the last word, “because the thought of it scares me so badly. And all my hang-ups make it hard to get myself off, too.” You huff out a hollow laugh. “Which makes me sound so babyish, because we’re in college now, and it seems like everyone else is screwing someone or jerking off all the time.”

You slouch in your seat. “And I’ve never even been kissed,” you murmur, so quiet you aren’t sure if Steve can even hear you anymore. “The longer I go without it, the more scary intimacy gets in my head, and I—hell, we’ve fought monsters, I know what real terror feels like, so why do I feel that way about something other people can do every single day?! It’s like I said. I’m broken!”

“No,” Steve says, voice gentle but firm. “You aren’t.”

“Says the guy who’s probably bedded every girl our age in Hawkins!” you fire back, before immediately feeling guilty for snapping at him.

“‘Bedded’?” Steve says. “What is this, a Shakespeare play?”

“Sorry,” you mumble. 

Steve waves it off. “It’s fine. You’re upset. And I guess I do have something of a track record…but I’m serious. You aren’t broken, Y/N.” He shrugs. “Sure, dating and sex can be fun. But it does mean you might get your heart stomped on in the end. Trust me, I know all about that.”

He gets a far-off look in his eye, and you know he’s thinking about Nancy. The one that got away.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking your time,” Steve adds. 

“When does it stop being scary?” you ask quietly. “Putting yourself out there, and…and giving up control to someone else?” 

“‘Control’?” Steve asks, confusion flashing on his features. “Sex doesn’t have to be about control. I mean, it can, if you’re into heavier stuff, but—did someone tell you that?” 

“No,” you say. “But I have firsthand experience with feeling like your body doesn’t belong to you.”

It takes a minute for the dots to connect. When they do, Steve’s eyes widen. “Oh. This is because of…”

“Yeah. Well, I was always a bit freaked out by sex, but it just kind of got worse after…all that.”

“Geez,” Steve huffs, running a hand through his hair. “Henry Creel really did a number on us. The fucker.” 

You look down at your feet, unsure of what else to say.

“Listen,” Steve says. “You don’t have to have sex with anyone if you don’t want to. Ever, no matter what someone says.”

You want to articulate that there is a part of you, deep down, that does want sex. You just feel like you can’t have it, because it feels like the most dangerous thing in the world. But that’s more than you’re willing to share at present, so you thank Steve for the support.

“Um, I don’t think I’m ready for the book,” you add, standing from the bench. “So you can return it.”

“Are you kidding?” Steve says, with a smirk. “I’m reading this thing cover to cover. I’m going to become a master of female pleasure by the end of the week.”

You burn again, but not from embarrassment this time. From something else that you aren’t ready to identify. 

But whatever it is, it sure helps you get off for the very first time mere hours later.

💋💋💋

The following spring, you and Steve complete your first year of college. You decide to move into an off-campus apartment together. Before the summer semester begins (because after starting school later than normal because of the quarantine, you both feel like you’re playing catch-up), you return to Hawkins to celebrate the Class of 1989.

Sitting in the bleachers with Steve and Robin, you cheer extra loud when Will, Dustin, Max, Lucas, and Mike walk the stage—though no one cheers louder for Mike than Eleven. Dustin’s valedictorian speech has the whole crowd going nuts.

On the WSQK rooftop after the festivities, you share a drink with your friends. You all agree to meet up every few months at Robin’s uncle’s house to socialize, and also because Jonathan is going to need some major help on his student film.

You laugh, talk, and drink, and it’s nice, for a while. However, after Robin starts teasing Steve for getting dumped by a classmate in Spanish during their Spanish class oral exam, she turns to you.

“Please tell us your love life is going better than Steve’s,” Robin says. “We need a story about Cartersville that won’t depress us.”

An icy panic spreads itself through your body. You force a laugh and shake your head. “No love life to speak of,” you say lightly. “I’m just studying a lot.”

“Oh, come on!” Robin says. “There has to be someone you’re at least crushing on.”

You shake your head and take a long sip of your beer. It’s mostly warm by now, due to the heat. “No one.”

That’s mostly true. Sure, you’ve noticed over the last few months that you find Steve…attractive. Very much so. But he’s your friend. And he knows you’re not ready for a relationship that involves sex, and he has sex all the time. Well, you don’t think he’s hooked up with anyone since you two moved in together. But still. You two would never work.

Nancy scans the twist of your mouth and rescues you. “So, Steve, what exactly did your professor say when you got broken up with during the test?”

Steve groans and shakes his head. “Not you two, Wheeler. I swear, you all relish in my misfortune.” 

But he’s a good sport, and he recounts every detail of the situation that he hadn’t already shared. You force a few more laughs, but deep down, you find yourself feeling anxious. Everyone on this rooftop has fallen in love before. They’ve all had sex before. They probably can tell that you haven’t. Do they think you’re a prude? Or that something’s wrong with you? Something is wrong with you. Fear essentially runs your life. But you don’t want your friends to know that. 

A few hours later, when Steve drives you two back to Cartersville in his truck, he says, “Hey, you’re pretty quiet. All good?”

“Mm-hm,” you say with a weak smile. “My stomach just, uh, hurts a little. So I’m ready to get home.”

“Sorry about that,” Steve says. He glances at you at a red light. “And sorry about Robin. She shouldn’t have been so nosy.”

“It’s fine,” you say. It’s not. Steve can tell it’s not. But the light turns green, and you angle your face away from his to watch the trees whiz by, so he doesn’t press.

💋💋💋

Steve is an adequate roommate.

He does his half of the chores in a (mostly) timely manner. He doesn’t leave dishes in the sink or hair in the drain. But he does bring a lot of girls home.

However, he’s respectful about it. Every time he has a date, he gives you a heads-up that they might be coming home with him at the end of the night. Sometimes, he’ll even borrow the phone in whatever restaurant they were just dining at to tell you an exact ETA.

You think that he thinks this is what you want, after your roommate experience from last year; a warning in advance that Sex Is Going To Be Happening, since he knows it makes you uncomfortable. While you appreciate what you assume is meant to be a nice sentiment, all it does is make you frustrated, sexually and otherwise. It’s not fun to get constant reminders that Other People Are Fucking And You Are Not (And It’s Kind Of Your Fault But Also Sort Of The Mind Flayer’s So Who’s To Say?).

You realize that something has to change when you come downstairs one early morning in August and catch Steve feeding his date from the night before, Renee, a strawberry. People actually do that shit? You were certain that couples-feeding-each-other-fruit was made up for Hollywood.

“Oh, hey,” Steve says in greeting when you shuffle into the kitchen. You are wearing a pair of Hawkins High gym shorts and a T-shirt with ALF on it. Renee is wearing one of Steve’s button-up shirts and presumably nothing else.

“Good morning!!!” you say, accidentally too chipper. You flash a smile at Renee. She looks at you like she wishes you were dead. Cool.

“Any fun plans for the day?” you offer weakly, after you throw a waffle in the toaster.

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but before he can, Renee wraps her arms around him and kisses his cheek. His face flushes as Renee says, “We’ll probably just go back to bed.”

You aren’t sure how to respond to that. She seems to be trying to mark her territory on Steve, as if she can tell that you’ve been harboring the tiniest, centimeter-sized crush on him for the past few months (that you know better than to act on).

Steve extricates himself from Renee and stands from his seat at the counter. “What are you going to do today, Y/N?”

You appreciate that he’s trying to cut back on the PDA while you’re in there. But Renee has no qualms about it. She stands and hugs Steve from behind while you stammer through some explanation of the portfolio you’re putting together for your summer poetry workshop. While you’re halfway through raving about how “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver really inspired your work, Renee starts kissing Steve’s neck.

“That’s really cool,” Steve says, though you know he stopped listening as soon as Renee got her hands on him. 

“Thanks,” you say. You put your waffle on a plate and say, “I’ll just, uh, eat in my room.”

You scurry out before either of them can say anything else. As soon as you get to your room and close the door, all the tension in your body dissipates. 

Shit, for the very first time in your life, you think you need a date of your own.

💋💋💋

Steve is worried that you’re upset with him.

Ever since Renee tried to pounce on in him the kitchen, you’ve been avoiding him. You spend the last few days of the summer semester locked away in a library study room, leaving before he wakes up and coming home after he’s gone to bed.

After the third day of avoidance, while he assumes you’re out at the library again, he tries to explain to Renee why they shouldn’t engage in PDA in front of you (without blabbing all about your fear and trauma). Renee doesn’t get it.

“What, is she like, in love with you or something?” Renee huffs, as the two of them sit on the couch.

“No!” Steve says, though his heart kicks up a bit at the thought. You’re wonderful, in every way, and if Steve thought you had feelings for him, he would pursue you—at whatever speed you’re comfortable with, whatever that looks like. But you’ve never made any indication that you see him as more than a friend, even when he privately took a vow of celibacy for the first month in the new apartment to prove to you that he’s not just some horndog. “Not at all. She’s just…”

“Lonely?” Renee offers. “Desperate because she doesn’t have what we do?”

She surges forward, keen to end this conversation and start making out, but Steve leans away from her with a frown. “Don’t talk about her like that.” 

Renee rolls her eyes. Steve’s blood boils.

“Whatever,” Renee says. “I mean, no offense, but I don’t really see why you two are friends. Like, you’re you, and she’s less of a person and more of a skittish cartoon mouse.”

Steve is baffled. Has Renee always been casually cruel like this? Truth be told, most of the time they’ve spent together has been in his bedroom, or the backseat of his car, or her bedroom, and none of those times involved a lot of talking.

Steve doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he stands from the couch and says, “I think you should probably leave.”

Renee scoffs. “Seriously?” 

Steve walks to the door and opens it. Renee snatches up her purse and storms out. Steve slams it shut, before leaning his forehead on the cool wood.

Later, he wanders into the kitchen and makes a pitiful excuse for a dinner (mac & cheese with pieces of hot dog inside—not very nutritious, but delicious), and he wonders if this is a cosmic sign that he should ask you out. He’s assuming that you don’t feel the same, but he could be dead wrong.

He mulls it over in his mind as he eats. He could profess his feelings and promise that you would set the pace, if you’re interested in him too. This all sounds great, and Steve is actually feeling pretty confident, and he brews himself a cup of coffee (or three) to stay awake tonight.

He’s wired on caffeine when he hears your key click in the lock at 12:08 a.m.

“Oh!” you say, when you enter the apartment and see him sitting on the couch in the low lamplight. “Hi, Steve.” You clear your throat and close the door behind you. “I’m sorry I’ve been so M.I.A. I finally turned in my poetry portfolio after a pretty stressful few days.”

“That’s great!” Steve says. He offers to carry your backpack for you. You thank him and hand it off, heading into the kitchen for a midnight snack before bed.

Steve hangs your bag on its hook and hovers in the kitchen doorway, wondering if the speech he has prepared is a good idea or not. He’s about to just bite the bullet when you turn to him with a shy smile and say, “I have good news.”

“About your poetry portfolio?” 

You shake your head, your grin widening. “Nope. I’ve got a date. For the first time! Ever!!!”

Steve’s eyes widen. He tries to arrange his shocked expression into something that resembles joy, while his heart is withering away inside his chest. “Whoa! That’s g-great! With who?” 

“His name is Gary,” you say as you reheat some leftover pizza.

“Gary,” Steve repeats.

“My friend Judy set it up,” you continue, blissfully unaware of the crisis Steve is currently going through. “She was in my summer poetry workshop. She’s a writing major, and Gary was her math tutor last semester. She said he’s super cool.”

“Super cool,” Steve echoes again. He can’t seem to form any coherent thoughts, except, IDIOT!!! WHY DID YOU WAIT SO LONG?!?!?! WHY DID YOU WASTE TIME WITH RENEE?!?!?!?!

You seem to pick up on the tension radiating off Steve. Your bright expression falters. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Steve assures you. Because the last thing he wants to do is ruin something that could be good for you, just because he holds a candle for you and continually talked himself out of acting on it. “I’m really happy for you. This is big!” 

You nod and smile again, but it looks a little weaker this time. “Thank you, Steve.”

He excuses himself to bed. As soon as he gets in his room, he picks up the phone on his nightstand and calls Robin.

“Hello?” she murmurs sleepily.

“Robin, I fucked up,” Steve whispers into the receiver.

A pause, and then: “Did you somehow bring the Upside Down back?”

Steve frowns. “Uh, no?”

“Get a girl pregnant?”

“No!” Steve huffs, aghast. “I always have safe sex, Rob, and I’m frankly offended that you’d assume otherwise.”

“Okay, King Condom,” Robin snorts. “Then what the hell are you calling me so late for? What could be so bad?” 

Steve’s quiet for a moment. And then, barely audible, he says, “I have feelings for someone that I probably shouldn’t, but think I missed my chance to act on them.”

“Oh, I see,” Robin muses. “This is about Y/N.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m not an idiot, Steve,” Robin says. “I saw the way you looked at her when we were at WSQK together. I could always tell there was something there, simmering below the surface. Simmering? Boiling? What’s the difference, anyway?”

“Can we get back on track, please?” Steve asks, rubbing his forehead. “What do I do? Is it selfish if I beg her not to date this other guy?” 

“I don’t know about selfish,” Robin says. “But if you ask her out now, it is kind of going to look like you only want to date her because she’s unavailable. And that’s shitty.”

Steve agrees that it might not be a good look. So he swallows down his feelings for you, hoping they’ll fade like a bruise before long.

💋💋💋

Your first date with Gary is at a nice buffet in Cartersville. He pays for you, and he’s nice, if a little self-absorbed. 

When he drops you off at your apartment complex after, he doesn’t walk you up to the door. That’s how you always pictured your first date would end: your prince charming walks you to your door and kisses you sweetly. 

Instead, Gary haphazardly parks in the fire lane and leans across the center console, practically mashing his teeth against yours for a first kiss that leaves something to be desired. You aren’t sure what you’re supposed to feel afterward, but it’s not the butterflies you envisioned. It’s just…fine.

As summer slowly turns to autumn and another semester begins, you agree to a second date, then a third. Each ends with a similar attack of a kiss. After the fourth, Gary tries to invite himself up.

“My roommate is home,” you say in lieu of giving him a “yes” or “no.”

“So?” Gary asks. He flashes you an impish grin. “I can be quiet. Don’t know if you’ll be able to, once I get my hands on you…”

You suppress a shiver. You don’t feel any more ready for sex than you did before you started this thing with Gary. But maybe it’s something you just have to do once, and then it’ll feel fine and normal. You fidget with the hem of your skirt and say, “Do you want to come over tomorrow evening? My roommate has a teaching lab that doesn’t end until 9:00.” 

Gary agrees. This time, when he kisses you goodbye, he shoves his tongue in your mouth unexpectedly. Eugh. 

As you ascend the steps toward your and Steve’s apartment, you try to focus on the positives, to avoid drowning in dread: a man is interested in you! He’s taken you on many nice dates, to restaurants and movies! He likes kissing you, and tomorrow, he is going to have sex with you!

Your knees nearly buckle once you walk into the apartment, when the reality of what you’ve just promised hits you. Apprehension clings to you like cheap fabric, and you wonder if you should change your mind. Call Gary and end whatever this is before you have to give him the part of yourself you’re terrified to share. 

As you kick your shoes off by the door, you feel mentally transported to summer 1985. To that feeling of the Mind Flayer invading every one of your senses. The part of your brain that’s so afraid of so many things assumes sex will feel like that too: an invasion. You start to breathe a little harder.

“You okay?” 

You curse and flinch at the sight of your roommate popping in the kitchen doorway, hand on your chest. “Jesus, Steve! I’m putting a goddamn bell on you.”

He gives you an apologetic smile. “Sorry. I heard you come in, but you didn’t say anything.” He scans your face, brow furrowed. “You look pretty freaked. Did Gary cross a line? Do I need to run him over with my truck?” 

“You have your lab tomorrow, right?” you ask, ignoring his question. “The three-hour night class?” 

Steve nods slowly. “Uh, yeah…why?”

“Gary’s going to come over so we can have sex while you’re in class,” you blurt out. You probably should be mortified by your brutal honesty, but you suddenly don’t feel well and can’t stop yourself.

Steve’s jaw drops. Then, he closes his mouth and nods. “Okay.” A pause, and then, “And you’re sure you want to?”

Fuck. He can read you like a book. “Yes,” you say. You breeze past him, heading into your bedroom.

You think he’ll leave it at that, but he follows you in as you toss your purse on your desk. “Forgive me if I’m not convinced,” Steve says dryly. He leans against your doorframe and crosses his arms. He adds, softer, “Y/N, don’t force yourself to do something you’re not ready for.”

“But that’s just the thing!” you say, barking out a hollow laugh. “At this rate, I feel like I’ll never be ready!” You jab a finger at your temple. “I have to just do it to prove to my fucked-up mind that it’s fine.”

Steve runs a hand through his hair. “I see where you’re coming from, but c’mon. This is different than, like, getting over a fear of heights by rock climbing, or something. This is sex. And it should be special.” 

That grates your nerves. You scoff and yank open a dresser drawer, pulling out your pajamas and throwing them on your bed. “Oh, and is it special with every girl you bring home?”

“Yes!” Steve says, though there’s an edge to his voice now. “Just because I date around doesn’t mean the sex is meaningless!”

“And that’s what I’m trying to do too!” you fire back. “Date around, and make a meaningful connection. So I don’t get why you’re being so weird about it.”

“I’m not being weird!” Steve protests.

“Yes!” you shout, unable to tamp down the fear and dread turning into anger. “You are! You’re acting this is some kind of afterschool special!”

“Because I know you, Y/N!” Steve says, voice breaking a bit on your name. “The look on your face is the same look you had when we were riding into the Upside Down in the back of a refrigerated truck to kill Vecna. You’re scared. It’s not worth pushing yourself into having sex when you’re this freaked out.”

You look away. He’s got you dead to rights. He continues, “Don’t have sex with Gary just to check it off a checklist. There’s nothing wrong with taking your time. With being patient until…until the right person comes along.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s convinced you. Then, you narrow your eyes and say, “Is that what you tell the girls you date?”

“Huh?”

“That you’ll be patient,” you continue, stepping a bit closer. You see Steve swallow hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What would you do if, say, the woman you were going out with told you she wasn’t ready to have sex. Would you wait until she was, or dump her for someone who wants to jump your bones?”

“I’d wait,” Steve says, jaw tense. “Of course I would.”

“Really? Even if she wasn’t ready to sleep with you after three dates? Or three months—hell, three years of dating?” you continue. Tears build up on your lashline. “Would you be able to wait that long?”

You aren’t sure if this is a hypothetical question anymore. 

“I would wait,” Steve repeats, voice low. “However long until she’s ready.”

You want to believe him. Every fiber of your being wants to believe him. Because he’s looking at you in a way that makes you feel like you mean something to him. Like you really are worth waiting for. 

But your insecurity overtakes you and convinces you he’s just being nice, and a protective friend. You aren’t like the women he dates. You aren’t vivacious, and conventionally beautiful, and confident in your body.

“Liar,” you say, not much louder than a whisper. 

Steve frown deepens. “No, I—”

“Will you definitely be gone tomorrow night?” you ask.

Steve sighs and closes his eyes. He nods once, a curt motion.

“Okay. Good. Goodnight, Steve.”

You go to close your door. Steve steps back just as it slams in his face. He’s left standing in the hall alone, with mounting regret, marveling at how he never has the capacity to say what he really wants to.

💋💋💋

Steve’s teaching lab is from 6-9 on Wednesday nights. It usually involves learning classroom management strategies. Steve knows he won’t be paying a lick of attention to any of that today.

Before he leaves for campus, he hesitates, but knocks on your bedroom door. “Hey,” he says, with a soft call of your name. “Uh, can we talk?”

A few seconds later, the door swings open. Steve’s heart stutters at the sight of you. You’re wearing a pale blue dress and matching eyeshadow. You look stunning, even more than you usually do, if that’s possible.

“Whoa,” he breathes out. He clears his throat. “You look really nice.”

“Thanks,” you say coolly. You cross your arms. “You heading out?” 

“Yep.”

“And you won’t be back—”

“Until 10:30,” Steve promises. “I’m going to hit the library after class.” He pauses, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack. “Hey, have fun tonight, okay?”

Maybe that was a weird thing to say. But sex is supposed to be fun. Steve hopes you remember that—your expression looks as though you’re preparing for your last rites.

“Thanks,” you say, forcing a smile. Steve awkwardly hovers in the hallway, so you add, “Did you…need something else?”

“Just remember to be safe,” Steve says, his protective side showing. His voice drops in volume, even though there’s no one else around to hear it, and continues, “You have condoms, right?”

Your eyes wide, deer-in-the-headlights style. “Don’t guys usually have those?” 

“I mean, sometimes,” Steve says. “But not always. Hold it right there.” 

He ducks back into his room and returns with a box of condoms. You try not to pass away from embarrassment when he hands it to you.

“Just in case,” he says. “Do not let Gary convince you they won’t fit. You can pull one of those things over your arm up to your elbow.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

“I’m serious,” Steve says. He places his hand on your shoulder with a feather-light touch. For once, the unplanned physical contact doesn’t make you flinch or cause your stomach to roil. “And if at any point you’ve changed your mind, say so. Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

You nod. “Right. I won’t. Thank you. Seriously.” 

Steve squeezes your shoulder gently before dropping his arm. “Go get ’em, tiger.” With those words of wisdom, he leaves.

💋💋💋

Gary is prompt. You two had agreed he’d come over at 7. At 6:59, he’s knocking on the front door.

At 7:02, you’re pouring him a glass of wine.

At 7:05, he’s kissing you on your couch. It feels weird to you, still, and you aren’t sure if that’s because of your lack of experience or because Gary is a bad kisser. You don’t dwell on that fact, trying to shut down the part of your brain that is freaking out about all this physical touch. 

And, oh boy, Gary is touching you all over. Your shoulders, your back, your chest, your hips. But he’s moving his hands so fast, it almost feels like a pat down. Is he doing this right? Is it rude if you ask him to slow down, to savor you a bit more? What’s the protocol here?!

“We should go to your room,” Gary murmurs against your lips.

You nod, before you can talk yourself out of this. “Y-yeah. Yes. Let’s go.”

And so you find yourself in your bed with him, and the pat down continues over your dress. Gary is whispering something in your ear. You think it’s supposed to be sexy, but you’re too busy trying to keep your brain focused on the task at hand to even comprehend the words.

“Nice rack,” he murmurs in a tone that he seems to assume is seductive, fondling your breasts over the bodice of your dress. 

What am I, a rack of ribs? you think.

“What did you say?” Gary says, continuing his ministrations as he nips your earlobe.

Shit, did you say that out loud? You screw your eyes shut. “Uh, just that I want you to keep going,” you say quickly.

He accepts that without issue, and begins kissing your neck. He slows his hands over your chest, and you believe he’s finally going to take his time with you, and then—

Rrrrrrrip!!!! The sound of tearing fabric has your eyes popping open. You gasp and, with anger coursing through you, shove Gary’s chest with all your might. He tumbles off you, landing with an “Ooph!” on the mattress next to you.

Heartbeat pounding in your ears, you scramble off the bed and look at the mirror hanging on the back of your closet door. 

“You tore my dress!” you say, horrified at the big gash down its bodice, now exposing the white lace bra you spent too much money on for this shitshow.

Gary is two parts confused, one part annoyed. “So?” he says. “There were too many buttons.”

You whirl around to where he sits against your headboard and glare. “This was my favorite dress.”

“Just buy another!” Gary says. He stands from the bed and saunters over to you, giving you a sly look. “Maybe we can go to the mall and I can pick out something for—”

“I can’t buy another one just like this,” you interrupt hotly. Your brain is firing on all cylinders. You aren’t sure if you even understand why you’re so upset, but you don’t stop yourself from saying, “This was from the JC Penney Summer 1985 collection. They don’t make it anymore!” 

Gary stares at you and blinks once, twice. “Okay? Uh, sorry, I guess. I mean, I don’t see what the big deal is, but—can we get back to having sex now?”

You shake your head. “No. I want you to leave.” You wave your hand between the two of you. “Whatever this was? It’s over now.”

Gary’s disposition sours. His lip curls. “Are you serious?”

“As a funeral,” you snap. “Now, please, get the fuck out of my house.”

Gary gives you a long, hard look. He huffs in disbelief with an eye roll. “Frigid bitch.”

He storms out of your room, grabbing his shoes without even putting them back on, and slams the door to your apartment.

As soon as he’s gone, you sink to the edge of your bed and put your hands on your knees. You try to control your breathing, to relax, to think whatever happy thoughts you need to so you can put this shitty night behind you.

But when you glance up again and see your ruined dress in the reflection of the mirror, you begin to cry. The sword of Damocles falls, slicing your skull in two.

💋💋💋

Steve parks his truck outside the apartment complex at 10:40.

He gave you an extra 10 minutes. Not that he feels like Gary the math major has enough stamina for 3 hours and 40 minutes of lovemaking, but still. Better safe than sorry.

Steve figures he’ll nurse his broken heart with a beer and then head to bed. Maybe he’ll run into you in the kitchen and casually ask how the night went. (Despite his unrequited feelings for you, he hopes it went well.) But when he enters the apartment, it’s eerily quiet, in a way that sends a shiver down Steve’s spine.

Why is it so dark in here? The only light is coming from the crack under your bedroom door. Shit, is Gary still here?

Steve leaves his shoes and backpack by the door and tiptoes down the hall toward his room. He hears a whimper from your room and freezes. One whimper turns into another, which turns into what sounds like a sob.

Panic rises in Steve and he barges the rest of the way down the hall, banging on your door. If Gary is still there and the reason you’re crying right now, Steve is going to jail for first-degree murder. At least his uncle is a pretty good lawyer.

Steve calls your name. “Hey! What’s wrong?”

He hears you sniffle through the door. “Go away!” you shout, though your voice is hoarse, as if you’ve been crying for a while.

“Not until I know you’re okay,” Steve says. “Can I come in?” 

“No!” 

Steve feels helpless on the wrong side of the door. He felt this way countless times in the fight against forces of evil, most notably when he was hanging by one hand off a radio tower in the Upside Down.

“Please,” Steve begs. “I just want to make sure you’re all right. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you are.”

For a few aching seconds, you don’t respond. But then: “F-fine. Come in.”

Steve pushes the door open. You’re seated on your bed, wearing your favorite ALF shirt and flannel pajama pants. Your face is a teary-eyed mess as you sew something blue. Wait a minute. 

“Is that your dress?” Steve asks, sitting on the bed next to you (but leaving you a wide berth of space, as usual). You nod shakily. This doesn’t lessen his panic. “What happened?” Steve says.

“Nothing,” you mutter. You refuse to look at him as you work, though your hands are trembling so badly, your stitches are all crooked. 

Steve covers your hands with one of his. You still, finally looking up at him. “Tell me what happened,” he says quietly.

You suck in a rattling breath and try to get yourself together to recount the events of the night. “He ripped my dress before we even got past second base,” you say. “He didn’t even care that it made me upset! I kicked him out and he called me a—a—a frigid bitch!” 

You cry harder, throwing the ruined dress on the floor, needle and thread still attached. 

Steve’s seeing red. Maybe he’ll do the first-degree murder anyway. “That’s so fucked. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

You sniffle again. “Heather and I picked that dress together. For high school graduation. I—I only wear it for special occasions because I want it to last as long as possible and…fuck!” You cover your face with your hands.

Steve isn’t sure what to do or say in this moment to make you feel better. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?” he asks quietly, because it’s all he can think to offer. Without responding, your throw your arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. 

“We’ll get the dress fixed,” Steve promises, rubbing your back gently while you cry. “Mrs. Henderson has a really swanky sewing machine, and she can mend anything. I’ll call her tomorrow to ask her about it, and can drive down to Hawkins over the weekend to drop it off.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Steve says firmly.

This is the longest you’ve touched him—hell, the longest you’ve touched anyone—since…maybe ever. It feels nice. Surprisingly.

Eventually, you feel like you’ve used up all your tears and pull away. “Thank you for being so nice to me,” you say. “Even when I freak out over small things.”

“This isn’t small,” Steve says. “Gary’s a disrespectful prick. Seriously, don’t even give him another thought.”

You nod, and then sigh. “He’s probably already called Judy and told her how neurotic I am.”

“If Judy’s not a shitty person, she’ll be on your side,” Steve says firmly. 

You fidget with your fingers, quiet for a few moments. Then, you whisper, “I really wanted tonight to go well.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be ready to try this again,” you admit. “Like, dating, and sex, and all that stuff.”

An opportunistic asshole would use this moment to confess their feelings, but Steve’s not that guy. “That’s completely fine,” he says. “When the time’s right, you’ll know.”

You aren’t sure if that’s true, but you like his optimism.

💋💋💋

You mope around for the next few weeks. All you do is go to class, study, and sleep. One morning in mid-October, Steve decides to get you out of this funk by inviting you to a Halloween party one of his teammates on the club baseball team is throwing.

“It’ll be the perfect thing for you,” Steve says, when you initially don’t look to enthused about the idea, frowning over your bowl of Cheerios. “We can drink, dance, and forget about shitty people like Larry.”

“Gary,” you correct.

“Isn’t that what I said?” Steve asks innocently. He takes a bite of toast and shoots you a closed-mouth smile, his cheeks puffy and round like a chipmunk. It makes you laugh and roll your eyes. He’s good at that—at disarming you when you feel stress start building. How is he so good at that? 

You stir your now-soggy cereal absentmindedly. “Wouldn’t you rather bring a date to the party?” you say. “I noticed you haven’t really been going out.” You clear your throat. “I don’t want you to feel like you can’t date or bring people over just because I don’t.”

You’re secretly happy that he’s not dating a lot anymore. Your centimeter-sized crush on Steve has grown exponentially, ever since he had Mrs. Henderson fix your dress and hunted for the same dress at all the thrift stores from here to Indianapolis, somehow procuring one in green. You just don’t know if that’s the kind of thing a friend does for a friend, or a friend does for someone they’re also harboring a crush on.

Steve’s poker face is too good. You aren’t able to glean anything from his casual expression and even tone as he says, “I know. It’s just not a priority right now.” He sips orange juice and adds, “So. Party?” 

You agree to go, and, to Steve’s immense satisfaction, agree to do a “Return of the Jedi”-themed duo costume. You have the idea to both go as Han Solo, before and after being freed from carbonite. You wear matching outfits with water guns painted to look like blasters, except everything you’re wearing is slate gray. You add some silver glitter to your makeup and hair as well, though you don’t paint your face fully silver to avoid looking like the Tin Man.

“Hey, Han Solo and the Tin Man!” one of Steve’s baseball buddies says as soon as you two enter the party. Well, it was worth a try.

Surprisingly, the party is fun. You and Steve do drink and dance, and the tipsier you get, the more you find your mind wandering to places it shouldn’t. Like how good Steve looks in his Han Solo costume, how good he probably looks out of it, and did he ever read that library book on female pleasure? You drink some more to try and drown out your dirty, disgusting, shameful thoughts.

But are they really all that shameful? You’re human, after all, and Steve’s a good-looking guy. If you weren’t so afraid of intimacy with another person, or of ruining your friendship, you might’ve tried to seduce him years ago. Maybe even back before the Mind Flayer, when Heather told you to ask him out at Scoops Ahoy.

“You okay?” Steve asks, leaning close so he can be heard over the music. You nod and take another sip, trying not to think about your dead best friend saying, “He’s hung, Y/N.” 

“I just need to run to the bathroom,” you say. “Be right back.”

You navigate through the throng of dancing, sweaty college students and—after too many tries—finally find a bathroom upstairs that isn’t occupied by an amorous couple. When you make your way back downstairs, you no longer see Steve on the dance floor. Your brow furrows as you scan the crowd for him, finally catching a glimpse of his infamous hair ducking into the kitchen. 

You make your way there, but once you walk inside, you stop short. Steve is across the way chatting with a girl. She’s wearing a white minidress with feathery wings, and a headband with a halo attached via white pipe cleaner. She reminds you of Nancy Wheeler, with her delicate features and bright eyes. Your heart sinks. Of course Steve wants to talk to her. Not his roommate, who’s probably leaking silver glitter everywhere she goes.

You awkwardly shuffle through the crowd of partygoers and, once you’re a bit closer, overhear the angel practically purr, “You know, Han Solo was my sexual awakening.” 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Was he now?” 

“We should get out of here,” Angel says, reaching up to brush a stray curl off of Steve’s forehead. Steve smiles politely and, to your utter surprise, says, “Sorry, I’m not interested.” 

Huh? Angel is exactly his type: pretty, available, and unabashedly horny. And Steve’s turning down the chance to take her home? 

To her credit, Angel accepts the declined invitation with grace. “Suit yourself,” she says. “I think I saw an Indiana Jones around here anyway.”

As she leaves, you approach Steve. His face splits into a grin when he sees you. “Hey! I was just looking for you. I requested the DJ play that Duran Duran song you like. Hopefully it’s coming up soon.” 

You consider moving on from what you overheard, but you can’t stop yourself from ignoring his statement and asking, “Why did you shoot down the angel girl?” 

Steve’s smile falters. “You heard that?”

“Uh, yeah,” you say. You force a chuckle. “I mean, what gives? She was perfect for you.”

“No,” Steve says. “She wasn’t.”

You’re confused. He almost sounds dejected. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Nothing!” Steve says, exasperation leaching into his tone. He nods toward the living room. “C’mon, let’s go dance.”

You shake your head. You’re probably jumping to conclusions, but you have to know if there’s any validity to your hunch. “No. I want you to tell me why you aren’t dating anymore. And if it’s my fault.”

Steve’s expression is pained. “Don’t make me answer that,” he murmurs. He turns on his heel and charges out to the back porch for some air. You follow, guilt gnawing at you as the cool air of the October night hits you. That was practically a “Yes.”

“Steve, don’t stop dating on my account,” you say, assuming that’s what this all is: him trying not to make you feel left out of the Dating and Relationships part of life that you just don’t feel equipped for. “Go hook up with Ms. Angel if you want to.”

“I don’t want to hook up with her!” Steve says. He’s agitated, rubbing his nose in a way he only does when he’s upset.

“But why—”

“Because I like someone else!” Steve explodes. “But if I tell her, it might ruin our friendship, or…” He swallows hard. “Or our living situation.”

His words wash over you, and realization dawns. Part of you is thrilled. The other part of you is terrified, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. “Oh.”

“The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable,” Steve says quickly, sensing your unease. “I know that dating and stuff isn’t, like, easy for you. And if you don’t feel the same way, I won’t be offended. If you want me to move out, I will, and—”

“Steve?”

“...Yeah?”

You can’t believe you’re about to say this, but: “May I kiss you?” 

Steve freezes. After a few seconds, he sounds wrecked and says, “Y-yeah. Yes.”

You inch closer to him, cupping his face in your hands gently. His skin his warm, despite the mid-autumn chill. He hesitates before softly placing his hands on your waist. “Is this okay?” he asks. You nod, before softly pressing your lips to his.

Kissing Steve is nothing like you thought it would be. It’s 1,000% better. Whatever the fuck Gary was doing was obviously, categorically incorrect. Because Gary didn’t kiss you soft and slow, like he was revering the taste of you. He didn’t move his hands from your waist to your back, pulling you in ever-so-much closer. He didn’t make you feel like you were floating.

You’re so overwhelmed with an emotion you can’t quite describe that you pull away. Steve’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong?” he asks, worry radiating off him in waves.

You surprise him by kissing his cheek. He looks a little dazed, touching his cheek in the very same spot. “Nothing’s wrong,” you promise. “I just—I’m sorry, I’m messing this up.”

You start to back away, but before you get very far, Steve intertwines one of his hands with yours. “No, no,” he says. He runs his thumb over your knuckles, and you’re surprised at how nice it feels. “You’re not messing anything up. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

You take a few deep breaths and try to collect yourself. “I—I like you too,” you say, after a beat. “I have, for a while. But I just figured you didn’t feel the same. Because you knew about all my…hang-ups.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner,” Steve says. You can see that he means it by the expression on his face—regret, with a splash of longing and earnestness. “I hate that you wasted time with Harry.”

“Gary.”

“That’s what I said. Jerry.” 

You wonder if he needs to get his hearing checked, but then notice his sly grin. You shake your head and playfully swat his shoulder. “You’re goofy.”

“You just said you like me,” Steve taunts, looking awfully proud of himself. “So you like goofy.”

“Yeah. I really, really do.” 

Steve hesitates, before bringing a hand up to brush a stray lock of hair out of your face. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks. 

You want to say yes, but there’s a part of your brain that still panics at the thought. A lot has happened in the past seven minutes, and you feel a tad in over your head.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Steve promises. “We don’t have to rush. Patience is my middle name. Steve ‘Patience’ Harrington.” 

It’s not. It’s Daniel. But instead of reminding him of that fact, you ask, “Can I have a hug instead?” 

“Of course you can,” Steve says, his voice low and fond as he opens his arms for you. The two of you hold each other outside while the party rages on indoors, and it just feels right. 

💋💋💋

Dating Steve is strange at first. You struggle to adjust to the change from friends to more, feeling a little caught off guard with the displays of affection that you aren’t used to.

But Steve never pressures you into anything. He asks every time he wants to hug or kiss you. He even asks if it’s all right to hold your hand. You’re sure that to some other girls, such constant check-ins would be annoying. But for you, it’s a saving grace. You’re able to ease into physical intimacy in a way that feels comfortable to you. It no longer feels like the terrifying beast that you’d been so afraid of for years. Instead, it’s warm and comforting, because you’re with Steve, and he always makes you feel safe. 

However, the metaphorical sword of Damocles has been re-hung, because there’s still something hanging over your head: sex. You and Steve have kissed quite a lot, but that’s about it. He’s true to his word from the Halloween party and makes it clear there’s no rush to do anything more, but sometimes you two will be kissing, and he’ll suddenly pull away and ask if you want to watch a really serious documentary about how paint is mixed, or a sad movie. And then he’ll sit on the opposite side of the sofa from you with a pillow on his lap.

You almost feel bad, like you’re torturing the guy. One day when you try to apologize for still not being ready for that next step, Steve waves away your concerns.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. “Really. Let me just, uh, go take a cold shower real quick.”

One day in December, after finals week but before the holidays, you two are watching that paint documentary for the fifth time, and you decide that enough’s enough. You trust Steve. (Hell, you might even love him, even if it’s probably too soon to make such a declaration.) If you’re going to have sex with anyone, you want it to be with him.

You broach the subject, rather bluntly, as the credits roll. “Do you want to have sex with me?” 

Steve almost trips and falls on his way to eject the VHS from your VCR. “Huh? What? Sorry, I thought you just said—”

“I asked if you wanted to have sex with me,” you repeat. “Now. Well, not now now. Maybe give me a few minutes to put on a nicer bra or something.” 

Steve frowns. “You’re talking…weirdly.”

“I am not!”

“You are. Using your professional voice. Like this is a business transaction. I don’t want us talking about sex to feel like hashing out a contract.” He pops the VHS back in its case and returns to the sofa, sitting closer to you this time. He covers one of your hands with his, his touch grounding you. “I promise you, I’m okay waiting.” 

“But you shouldn’t have to wait,” you say. And, to your utter embarrassment, you feel tears welling up in your eyes. “If I was normal, we could’ve done it by now.”

“Screw normal,” Steve says. “We’ve fought monsters, Y/N. We’re the furthest from normal on the planet.” He wipes a stray tear off your cheek. “Please don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s really all right.” 

Sweetheart. The pet name has you feeling warm all over. But you agree that maybe now’s not the time. Your hands are shaking, and your throat is tight, and as much as you love him, you feel sort of nauseous about being in bed with Steve.

“Whenever you’re really ready,” Steve says, “you’ll know. Trust me.”

You do. More than anyone else on the planet. 

💋💋💋

There’s a blizzard in mid-January. A total white-out that has classes canceled too soon after the semester began. You and Steve are holed up in your apartment, and he’s kissing you on the couch, and when he stops and asks, “Hey, can we watch that documentary again?” in a pained sort of voice, a realization crashes over you like a tsunami wave: 

You’re horny. 

Like, horrendously horny. Very much so. Sure, you’ve felt this way from kissing Steve before, but it feels more visceral now. Like, it won’t be enough this time to go into your room under the guise of studying and touch yourself thinking about your boyfriend.

You shake your head. “No. Steve, I’m ready. Like, actually this time.”

Steve’s eyes widen. “Really? You’re sure?”

“Absolutely,” you say, before kissing him again.

The two of you clumsily stand, barely coming up for air as you kiss and stumble down the hall. You end up in Steve’s room, and in his bed, in record time.

“Tell me if I do anything you don’t like,” Steve murmurs as he hovers above you, pressing kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh as he moves lower, kissing your sternum and your stomach over your sweater. “Can I take this off?” he asks.

You nod, and he pulls your top off gently. You’re not in a particularly nice bra today—it’s an odd shade of orange that you bought on clearance—but Steve drinks in the sight with hungry eyes.

“You next,” you say, tugging at the hem of his Cartersville U sweatshirt. As soon as it’s off, you feel your heart race. You run a hand over his chest hair and try not to swoon.

“Like what you see?” Steve teases. 

You nod, before pulling him in for another kiss.

Your jeans get tossed next, and then Steve’s. But as his fingers graze the waistband of your panties, you feel it: panic, crawling its way through your mind and body.

Not now, you think, kissing Steve a little harder to try and push the feeling away. Please, no, not now.

Steve’s hand moves a centimeter lower, and you subtly flinch. You don’t even have to ask Steve to stop. He notices, pulls his hand away, and moves so he’s laying on his side next to you.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, before you can apologize. “We can stop.”

You cover your face with your hands, mortified. “I thought I could do it,” you say, voice muffled through your hands. “But there’s something in my messed-up head that just stops me. I trust you. I want this with you so much. But I just hate feeling like I’m out of control.”

Steve’s mind flashes back to that day from last spring semester, when he found you in the library looking at a book on sex. Outside, on the bench, you’d described sex as “giving up control to someone else.” An idea forms in his head.

“If you want to be in control, take it,” Steve says.

You peek out from your hands. “Huh?” 

Steve leans against the headboard and folds his hands on his stomach, above the waistband of his black boxers. “Have your way with me, Y/N,” he says, in a half-teasing voice.

The words send desire coursing through you, from your head to your toes. “Are you serious?” you ask.

Steve nods. “I trust you too,” he says. “And I want this to be comfortable for you. If you want to stop, we can stop. But if you want to keep going…” He trails off, but the message is loud and clear.

You think about it for a moment. Then, you make your way over to him, straddling his lap. You rest your hands on his shoulders, and he places his on your waist. You roll your hips experimentally, punching out a groan from him and a gasp from you. 

“Is that okay?” you ask, breathless.

“More than okay,” Steve says, voice a bit rough. So you repeat the motion again, again, and again. Steve bucks up his hips to meet yours, and you gasp again. 

The two of you move in tandem, bodies pulsing with need, sighs and moans falling from your lips. You kiss Steve again, with a renewed sense of fervor. You feel too good to be afraid.

💋💋💋

Afterward, while you and Steve are curled up in his bed, you feel your eyes start to water. You quickly wipe the tears away, but Steve notices. His blissful expression is replaced with a furrowed brow and a frown. “What‘s wrong? Are you all right?”

He relaxes when your face splits into a smile. “More than all right. I’m happier than I’ve been in a long, long time.”

You wrap your arms around him for a tight hug. He returns the embrace, pressing a kiss to the crown of your hair.

There’s so much you want to say. You want to tell Steve how you never thought you could have this kind of intimacy with anyone. You want to thank him for being so kind and attentive, and for letting you take the lead. You want to kiss him some more, for hours. 

You want to explain that something has shifted inside you, and your body feels like your own again for the first time in a long time. 

But instead of saying all that, you hold your boyfriend close, feeling the heaviness you've carried for years loosen its grip with every passing second.

💋💋💋