hey, it's libby

Jane starts volunteering at the local animal shelter. she's a natural with the cats who are too shy to come out of their kennels. wonders with wide eyes and open hands for the strange and exotic pets that come through the doors. the front desk ladies and the rest of the staff adore her.

there's this scruffy scottish terrier at the end of the row of dog cages with a big DO NOT APPROACH sign taped to the chain links. Jane asks about him- the dog who cowers in the corner, who growls and snaps at anyone who dares to come close.

he's a lost cause, honey. best leave him alone and save your energy for the socialized ones.

Jane has had enough of rules. of being told what to do and how to do it.

she approaches the dog's cage with the same quiet, gentle energy she's always had within. takes every lunch break she's got by the bars, sneaking the scruffy thing pieces of ham. eventually building up enough trust to feed the dog right from her hands- first through the metal, then fully sat on the other side. giggling softly as the pup licks all the oil from her fingertips.

one of the desk ladies fudges some paperwork. the terrier comes at no cost to the Byers household other than Jane's steadfast attention and time. he turns out to be a wonderful dog- playful, loving, trotting at Jane's heels everywhere she goes without the need for a leash.

she names him Jack. like the terrier he is.

Jack and Jane spend many happy hours in the woods behind her home, chasing sticks and looking for rocks by the creek and laying sun-drunk in the tall grasses, side by side.

one afternoon Jane is petting Jack behind the silk of his ears and she tells him- out loud, as she often does- "I don't think you were ever mean. I think you were just very scared, for a long time. I think maybe you were always meant to be happy like this."

Jack licks a long, wet stripe up her hand and bounds off for a stick.

for the first time in months, Jane closes her eyes and reaches into her mind. that vast expanse, the unknowable darknesses, the lurking recesses of energy and power stored up.

usually, there is a fire there, waiting to be harnessed. waiting to be enacted, exacted, by her hand and someone else's. always someone else's.

for the first time in months, there is nothing that surges to greet her. nothing tingling through her body, overtaking her skin like wildfire.

there is only the cool, gentle rush of the creek. a wondering thought about what Joyce will make for dinner. a quiet steadiness.

peace.

You’d dressed the part—tailored blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, heels sharp enough to make a statement but comfortable enough to chase vendors all day. You’d rehearsed your pitch until the words felt like muscle memory. But nothing prepared you for how sharp Nancy’s eyes were in person, how she listened with the same focused intensity she probably used in interviews that made politicians sweat.

She’d arrived exactly on time, offered a firm handshake, and ordered an oat milk latte without looking at the menu. You’d shown her mood boards, vendor lists, and a preliminary timeline that balanced her demanding career with the kind of wedding that felt like them. She’d nodded, asked smart questions about press access and privacy, and then—after only twenty minutes—she’d smiled, slow and genuine.

“I think you’re exactly what we need,” she said, reaching for the contract you’d already slid across the table. “David’s going to love your vision. He’s been so patient through all my deadlines and late nights. He keeps saying the wedding is the one thing that should feel like ours, not just another event.” Her cheeks flushed the faintest pink as she signed with a flourish. “He’s my calm in the storm. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

You smiled back, professional and warm, even as your pulse kicked with quiet triumph. Nancy Wheeler. Signed. This was the client that would make your boss’s jaw drop. You were already drafting the email in your head.

The meeting wrapped with promises of a follow-up call next week to lock in florals and a venue walk-through. Nancy stood, gathering her bag. “Thank you. Really. I feel like I can actually breathe now.”

“You’re in good hands,” you assured her, meaning every word.

Outside, the afternoon sun hit warm on your shoulders. You stepped onto the sidewalk feeling ten feet tall, already pulling your phone out to text your boss the good news. Nancy Wheeler is officially ours. The words were still forming when your right heel caught.

A metallic clink. A sharp tug. You stumbled, catching yourself on a lamppost, and looked down. The delicate stiletto had wedged itself between the bars of a sidewalk grate, the thin heel trapped like a bear in a trap. You muttered a curse and bent to work it free, twisting your ankle at an awkward angle. The shoe wouldn’t budge.

Then you heard it.

A low, gathering rumble. Metal on pavement. Getting louder. Faster. You cursed yourself for wearing such strappy heels.

You looked up and your stomach dropped.

A massive construction dumpster—bright orange, easily the size of a small car—was rolling down the gentle incline of the street, picking up speed. Its wheels rattled, the heavy lid clanging. It was heading straight for you. Just momentum and bad luck.

“No—no, come on—” You yanked harder at your foot. The heel stayed stuck. Panic flooded your veins, hot and electric. The rumble became a roar. You could see the shadow swallowing the sidewalk, the glint of sunlight on the metal corner that would hit you first.

You squeezed your eyes shut, a scream caught in your throat—

Strong arms slammed around your waist from the side and yanked.

The world blurred. Your foot tore free of the shoe with a painful twist. You hit your head on the ground as you crashed backward into just as the dumpster thundered past, missing you by inches. The wind of it whipped your hair across your face. The crash of metal on metal as it hit the curb echoed like thunder.

For one suspended second, all you could hear was your own heartbeat and the harsh breathing of the person on top of you.

“Are you okay?” The voice was low, rough with adrenaline, right against your ear. “Jesus Christ, that was close.”

You were still pressed flush against him— pinned between the ground and his muscular body. His heart hammered against your chest. You could feel every inch of him— the hard plane of his chest, the corded strength in the arms that had just saved your life, the warmth of his skin seeping through his shirt into yours.

He gently pulled you to your feet, steadying you with hands that didn’t let go. And the world tilted for an entirely different reason.

He was beautiful.

Not in the polished, magazine way—something warmer, more devastating. His hair was perfect in that careless, wind-tousled way that made your fingers itch to touch it. A scatter of freckles dusted across his nose and cheeks like someone had flicked paint at him, softening the strong line of his jaw. His skin was tan, sun-kissed and glowing, and his arms—God, his arms—were tan and lean with muscle, the sleeves of his henley shoved up to reveal the kind of forearms that made your mouth go dry. Veins traced under the skin where he still held you.

Concern etched every line of his face as he looked you over, those freckles shifting when his brow furrowed. “Hey. Talk to me. Are you hurt?”

Your hands had landed on his chest without permission—palms flat over firm muscle, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. He smelled like clean soap and hairspray and some woodsy cologne. The adrenaline still singing in your blood mixed with something hotter, something that made your stomach flip and your cheeks flush.

A shaky, breathless laugh escaped you. The words came out before you could stop them, flirtation riding the edge of pure relief and the dizzying awareness of how good he felt against you.

“My hero,” you managed, voice husky. “Do you always go around saving women from runaway dumpsters, or did I just get extremely lucky today?”

His mouth curved—slow, surprised, a little crooked. Those freckles danced with the smile. “First time for the dumpster,” he said, voice low and warm. “But I’m really glad I was here.” His thumbs brushed once, unconsciously, over your arms where he still held you. “You’re shaking.”

You were. From fear. From the crash of adrenaline. From the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world right now. You opened your mouth to say something else—maybe ask his name, maybe actually suggest that coffee you suddenly wanted very badly—but the ground chose that moment to tilt.

The throb in your head, the leftover terror, the overwhelming closeness of this beautiful stranger—it all crashed together. Your vision tunneled at the edges. The world went soft and gray.

“I think I…” The words slurred. Your knees buckled.

His arms tightened instantly, catching you before you could fall. “Whoa—hey, easy. I’ve got you.” His voice dropped, urgent and soothing at once. One hand cradled the back of your head as he guided you down, but the darkness was already pulling you under, warm and heavy.

The last thing you felt was the solid safety of his chest and the faint, worried brush of his fingers against your cheek before everything went black.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

You woke slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The first thing you registered was the soft, persistent beep of a heart monitor somewhere to your left and the faint, sweet smell of crayons and antiseptic. Your mouth was dry. Your ankle and head throbbed together with a dull, insistent ache. Everything felt slightly off-kilter, like the world had tilted a few degrees while you were out.

A children’s hospital. That much was obvious from the cheerful murals on the walls—cartoon animals in scrubs, rainbows arching over the doorframe, a big window letting in honeyed light that painted everything in soft pastels. You were in a private room, propped on crisp white pillows, a light blanket pulled up to your waist. Your bare foot was elevated on a pillow, wrapped in a soft brace. Someone had taken off your other shoe too.

Confusion prickled at the edges of your mind. The dumpster. The arms around you. That face—those freckles, that perfect hair—then nothing.

The door opened with a quiet click.

He stepped inside, and your stomach did a slow, warm flip.

He was in navy scrubs now, a white coat draped over his shoulders, a stethoscope looped around his neck. The coat somehow made the tan of his forearms even more noticeable where he’d pushed the sleeves up. His hair was still stupidly perfect, a little tousled like he’d run his hands through it. The freckles across his nose and cheeks stood out under the clinical lights, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened into a smile that hit you right in the chest.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm, the same one that had been in your ear when he pulled you out of the way. “There she is. You gave me a pretty good scare back there.”

He crossed the room in a few easy strides, picking up the chart at the end of your bed like it was second nature. “I’m Dr. Steve. Peds. I was the one who… well, who caught you before the dumpster could. Brought you in here after you passed out on me. Nothing serious,” he added quickly, seeing the flicker of worry on your face. “Mild bump on the head, twisted ankle, dehydration from the adrenaline crash. You’ll be sore tomorrow, but you’re okay. I’ve got you on some fluids and pain meds if you need them.”

You managed a weak laugh, still a little foggy. “So you’re not just a professional dumpster-rescuer. You’re an actual doctor.”

Steve’s smile widened, a dimple flashing in one cheek. He leaned a hip against the side of your bed, close enough that you could smell that clean, woodsy scent again. “Guilty. I was actually heading to grab lunch when I saw you. Lucky timing, I guess.”

The way he looked at you—steady, warm, with that undercurrent of something brighter—made the hospital room feel smaller. You were hitting it off stupidly fast. The banter came easy, like you’d known each other longer than twenty minutes of insanity.

“You make a habit of sweeping women off their feet in the middle of the street, Dr.Steve?” you teased, voice still a little raspy.

He huffed a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Only the ones whose shoes pick fights with sidewalk grates. And only when they flirt with me while they’re still catching their breath.” His gaze lingered on yours for a beat longer than necessary. “You were pretty smooth, by the way. Even while concussed.”

You felt heat creep up your neck, but you didn’t look away. The chemistry was immediate, crackling between you like static. Every time he shifted, you caught another detail—the way the stethoscope rested against his chest, the faint tan line on his wrist where a watch usually sat, the soft concern in his eyes that kept melting into something playful.

After a quick neuro check and confirming your ankle wasn’t broken, he helped you sit up. His hands were gentle but sure—one at your elbow, the other steadying your lower back as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. The contact sent a spark straight through you, the same electric awareness from when he’d held you on the sidewalk.

“You should probably take it easy tonight,” he said, but there was no real doctor-voice coldness in it. “If you’re feeling up to it, I can show you my office while we wait on the discharge paperwork. It’s quieter than the ER. Less… cartoon animals.”

You nodded, and he stayed close as you stood, letting you lean on him just a little. His arm stayed around your waist longer than strictly necessary as he guided you down the short hallway to a corner office with his name plate replaced by a child's drawing of 'Dr.Steve'.

The office was exactly what you’d expect and somehow more. Sunlight slanted through half-open blinds, catching on colorful crayon drawings taped to the walls—some signed To Dr. Steve, you’re my favorite in wobbly kid handwriting. A couple of framed photos sat on the desk— one of him with a group of laughing kids in a park, another with a woman who looked like his mom. Medical books lined one shelf, but there was also a well-worn baseball on the windowsill and a little potted succulent that looked like it was thriving under his care. The air smelled faintly like him—clean and warm—and something like the hand sanitizer they used everywhere, but softer.

You moved slowly around the space, fingertips brushing the edge of his desk, taking it all in. “This is… really nice. You can tell the kids love you.”

Steve leaned against the doorframe, watching you with that same easy smile. “They’re the best part of the job. Makes the hard days worth it.” His eyes followed you as you picked up a small framed drawing of a stick-figure doctor with a big red heart. “You’re welcome to sit if your ankle’s bothering you. Or… I can grab you something to drink. Water? Juice box? I’ve got the good ones with the straws.”

You laughed, the sound lighter now. The flirtation was easy, natural. “Juice box might be pushing it. But water would be great. And… thank you. Again. For everything.”

He pushed off the doorframe and stepped closer, handing you a bottle from a mini-fridge in the corner. His fingers brushed yours. Neither of you pulled away immediately.

“Anytime,” he said quietly. The air between you felt charged again, that same pull from the sidewalk.

Before either of you could say more, the door burst open.

“Oh my God—” Robin Buckley stood there, your assistant, looking like she’d run the whole way from the office. Her cheeks were flushed, curls wild, eyes wide with a mix of panic and pure relief. She was clutching her phone in one hand and a half-empty iced coffee in the other. “You scared the absolute shit out of me! I got the call from the hospital and I thought— I don’t even know what I thought, but it was bad. Are you okay? Is your foot okay? Do you need anything? I brought your backup flats from the office—”

She stopped mid-ramble when she noticed Steve standing there, her gaze flicking between the two of you. A slow, knowing grin started to form.

Steve straightened a little but didn’t move away from you. “She’s okay,” he said, voice warm. “Just a sprain and a mild concussion. I’m keeping an eye on her.”

Robin’s eyebrows shot up, but she recovered fast, stepping in to hug you carefully. “Thank God. Seriously. I was two seconds from calling your boss and telling her you got flattened by a trash can.” She pulled back, still fussing with your hair like a worried big sister. Then her eyes lit up with that classic Robin energy. “Okay, but hear me out—there’s that outdoor movie in the park tonight. The rom-com one? Starts at eight. You should come. Both of you.” She looked pointedly at Steve. “Doctor’s orders, right? Fresh air, low stress, good company. It’ll be fun. I’ll even bring snacks so you don’t have to move much.”

Steve glanced at you, that dimple flashing again, a spark of something hopeful in his eyes. He didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he said, soft but sure. “I’d like that. If you’re up for it.”

The three of you stood there in his sunlit office—Robin still buzzing with relieved energy, you balanced between them with your wrapped ankle, Steve close enough that you could feel the warmth of him again—and for the first time since the grate and the dumpster and the blackout, the day felt like it was tilting toward something good.

Something that felt a lot like the start of more.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Robin bailed.

The text came in right as you were finishing up at the office, your ankle still wrapped but feeling better after a day of rest and Steve’s careful instructions.

Robin: Emergency!! I have to help my sisters boyfriends godmother bake an emergency birthday cake. I’m SO sorry. But you should still go!! Steve’s already on his way. Have fun you two 😉

You stared at the winky face for a long second, then laughed under your breath. Classic Robin. She’d been suspiciously enthusiastic about the plan earlier.

When you arrived at the park, the outdoor movie was already setting up—big inflatable screen glowing against the twilight sky, string lights crisscrossing between the trees, the smell of popcorn and fresh-cut grass in the cool evening air. People were spreading blankets on the lawn, couples claiming spots close to the screen, families with kids in folding chairs.

Steve was waiting near the entrance, hands in the pockets of a light jacket, that perfect hair catching the last of the sunset. He looked up when he saw you and smiled like he’d been hoping you’d still show.

“Robin texted me too,” he said as you approached, voice warm with a hint of amusement. “Something about a cake emergency. I figured we could still make it work… if you’re okay with it just being us.”

You were more than okay with it.

He offered his arm without making a big deal of it, and you took it, letting him steady you as you walked toward the quieter side of the park where the big oak tree stood. This had been your spot for as long as you came here—a thick, padded cushion nestled in the wide, low branch, string lights already woven through the leaves like someone had strung stars just for this. It gave you a perfect, slightly elevated view of the screen while keeping you tucked away from the main crowd. Private. Cozy. Yours.

Steve helped you up first, one strong hand at your waist, the other guiding your good foot onto the wide branch. His touch was steady and warm even through your jacket. Once you were settled on the cushion, he climbed up after you with easy grace, settling beside you close enough that your shoulders brushed when you both leaned back against the trunk.

For a while you just watched the opening credits roll, the park settling into that soft, anticipatory quiet. Then the conversation started—easy, unforced, the way it had been in his office.

Eventually you told him about the puzzling club you went to every other Thursday night.

“It started because of my mom,” you said, smiling at the memory. “When I was little she used to spread these giant jigsaw puzzles out on the dining room table every weekend. We’d work on them for hours—sometimes days. No TV, no distractions, just us and a thousand tiny pieces. She always said it was the best way to learn patience and how to see the bigger picture when everything feels scattered.” You glanced over at him. “I still go. Every other week. Same group of people, same folding tables in the community center basement. It’s kind of my reset button.”

Steve listened like he actually wanted to hear it, eyes soft in the glow from the string lights above you. “That’s really nice,” he said quietly. “You don'treally seem like the puzzle master type” He shrugged, a small, fond smile tugging at his mouth. “But I kind of get it.”

You talked more—about his worst stories from the hospital, the ridiculous things kids say when they’re hopped up on juice boxes and pain killers, the way the park looked in the fall when the leaves turned. No questions about whether either of you were seeing someone. It just… didn’t come up. The night felt like its own little bubble.

The movie played on in the background—some sweet, nostalgic rom-com with sweeping music and lingering glances. At one point the two leads found themselves at a small-town dance, the kind with a slow song that made everyone else in the scene fade away. On screen, the couple swayed together, foreheads almost touching, completely wrapped up in each other.

Steve was quiet for a beat. Then he turned to you, that dimple flashing.

“You know,” he said, voice low so it wouldn’t carry, “I’ve always thought slow dancing looks better in real life than in movies.”

Before you could answer, he reached over and took your hand—gentle, asking without words. His palm was warm and a little callused in the best way. He hopped down from the wide branch, helping you up with him, mindful of your wrapped ankle.

He pulled you in slowly, one hand settling lightly at your waist, the other still holding yours. You rested your free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him through his jacket. The music from the movie drifted up to you, soft and romantic, and you started to sway.

It was sweet. Uncomplicated. Romantic in the way that made your chest feel light. His thumb brushed once over the back of your hand. Your bodies stayed close but respectful, the way two people do when they’re still figuring each other out but really, really want to keep figuring. Every time the breeze moved the leaves, the string lights shifted and highlighted the freckles scattered across his cheeks. He smelled like clean cotton and that faint woodsy note you were already starting to associate with him.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. The dance said enough—the way he looked at you, the way his hand flexed gently at your waist when you leaned in a little closer, the soft smile that never quite left his mouth.

When the song on screen faded into the next scene, he didn’t let go right away. Just held you there a second longer, eyes searching yours like he was memorizing something. Then he helped you sit back down, careful with your ankle, and settled beside you again. His hand stayed loosely linked with yours on the cushion between you for the rest of the movie.

The credits rolled. The park slowly emptied. Steve walked you to your car, his jacket draped over your shoulders because the night had gotten cooler and he’d noticed you shiver once. He opened your door for you, then paused.

“I had a really good time tonight,” he said, quiet and sincere. “Even with the cake emergency.”

You smiled up at him, heart doing that same flutter it had since the sidewalk. “Me too.”

“Text me when you get home? So I know your ankle survived the night.”

You promised you would.

As you drove away, the park lights fading in your rearview mirror, you caught yourself smiling at nothing. The memory of his hand in yours, the way he’d looked at you under those string lights, the easy rhythm of dancing with him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Robin was going to lose her mind when you told her.

You met her for coffee the next morning before the dance lesson appointment Nancy had asked you to meet her at. She was already at the little corner table when you walked in, two oat milk lattes waiting, her curls pulled up in a messy bun and that knowing grin already on her face.

You barely sat down before it all came spilling out.

“I think he might be the one, Robin,” you said, voice low but glowing. Your cheeks were warm just thinking about it. “Last night was… God, it was perfect. The tree, the lights, the way he danced with me? It wasn’t even a real date and it still felt like the best one I’ve ever had. He’s funny and kind and he actually listened when I talked about my mom and the puzzles. And the way he looks at me…” You shook your head, smiling helplessly into your cup. “I don’t know. It just felt easy. Like I could see myself doing that again. A lot.”

Robin’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with pure delight. “I knew it. I knew the second I saw you two in his office. You were both doing that thing. The heart-eyes thing.” She reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “I’m so happy for you. You deserve someone who makes you gush like this. Steve seems like good people.”

You left the café floating, already mentally replaying the feel of his hand at your waist. By the time you pulled up to the dance studio, you were still smiling to yourself.

Nancy was already inside when you arrived, looking effortlessly chic in a flowy blouse and leggings, her planner open on a nearby bench. She waved you over with a bright smile.

“I’m so glad you could make it! David’s already here warming up. I want the first dance to feel natural, you know? He's not the best when it comes to dancing." She let out a giggle, "Come meet him.”

You followed her across the polished floor toward the tall figure stretching near the mirror wall, his back to you. Nancy’s voice was warm and proud.

“David, this is the wedding planner I was telling you about. She’s been incredible already.”

The man turned.

Your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

Steve.

Steve Harrington.

His eyes met yours and widened for half a second before he caught himself. The same perfect hair. The same freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. The same warm tan skin and strong arms you’d had wrapped around you less than twenty-four hours ago. He was in a simple black t-shirt and joggers, looking unfairly good even in dance clothes.

For one suspended heartbeat the world went silent.

Then professional instinct kicked in. You forced your face into a polite, pleasant smile even as your brain screamed.

“Nice to meet you,” you said, extending your hand like you’d never felt those fingers laced with yours under fairy lights. “I’m really looking forward to helping make your day perfect.”

Steve’s grip was warm and familiar. He shook your hand once, firm but careful, his expression carefully neutral even though his eyes flicked over your face like he was checking if you were okay.

“Likewise,” he said, voice steady. “Nancy’s been raving about you.”

Nancy beamed between you, completely oblivious to the silent earthquake happening right in front of her. “Isn’t she the best? Okay, so the instructor wants us to run through the first part of the waltz. Would you mind dancing with David for a minute so I can see how the steps actually look with a partner? I’m terrible at visualizing without a visual.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

You nodded, because what else could you do? “Of course.”

The music started — soft, romantic, the same kind of melody that had played while you swayed together in the tree. Steve stepped in, one hand settling at your waist exactly where it had been last night, the other taking your hand. His palm was warm. Steady. The same hands that had pulled you out of danger and then held you like you were something precious.

You began to move.

The second you were close enough that Nancy couldn’t hear, your smile stayed fixed for her benefit but your voice dropped to a sharp, furious whisper.

“You lied to me.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. He kept the steps smooth, turning you gently so it still looked like a normal demonstration. “I didn’t lie.”

“You told me your name was Steve.”

“It is,” he said quietly, eyes flicking to Nancy for a split second before coming back to yours. “David’s my middle name. Everyone calls me David. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think what?” Your voice stayed low, but the anger was real now, simmering under the surface. Your body stayed loose and graceful for Nancy’s sake, but your grip on his shoulder was tighter than it needed to be. “You didn’t think maybe you should mention that the woman you were slow-dancing with in a tree was planning your wedding?”

His hand flexed at your waist. “I didn’t know who you were. Do you know how many people have your first name? And then last night…” He swallowed, voice dropping even lower. “Last night was real. I wasn’t thinking about any of this. I was just thinking about you.”

You hated how that made something in your chest twist. You were furious — at the situation, at the lie by omission, at the fact that the man who’d made you feel like maybe this could be something was the same man Nancy had been gushing about as her rock, her calm in the storm, her fiancé.

You kept dancing. Kept smiling like everything was fine. But inside you were quietly seething, every turn making the betrayal sharper.

Steve’s eyes stayed on yours, guilty and conflicted and still warm in that same way that had undone you last night. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as the music swelled. “I should’ve said something. I just… didn’t know how.”

The song ended. You stepped back the second it was polite to do so, your smile still in place even though your pulse was racing for all the wrong reasons now.

Nancy clapped, delighted. “That looked beautiful! You two have great chemistry on the floor.”

You and Steve both froze for half a second.

Then he cleared his throat and looked away first.

You forced a laugh that sounded almost normal. “Just doing my job.”

But when your eyes met his again across the studio, the air between you crackled with everything unsaid.

Nancy was already pulling out her phone to check something, oblivious.

Steve’s gaze lingered on you, quiet and heavy with apology and something else you didn’t want to name.

You looked away first.

You called Robin the second you got to your car after the dance lesson. Your hands were still shaking.

“I can’t do this,” you said the moment she picked up. “I’m quitting. I’m calling Nancy tonight and telling her I have a conflict of interest or a family emergency or that I joined the fucking circus. I don’t care. I cannot keep planning this wedding. Steve? Dr.Steve? Is David. They're the same fucking person.”

Robin was quiet for two full seconds. Then—

“Absolutely not.”

“Robin—”

“No. Listen to me.” Her voice was firm in that way she only used when she was done being the fun best friend and had switched into serious mode. “This is the biggest client we’ve ever landed. Your boss is already talking about putting you on the senior track if this goes well. You do not get to throw that away because the groom happens to be the guy who made you feel butterflies under a tree. Suck it up. Be a big girl. Put on your professional face, finish the job, and then you can fall apart in my apartment with ice cream and terrible reality TV. But you are not walking away from this.”

You hated that she was right.

So you stayed.

The next few days were a special kind of torture.

Venue showing number one was a historic ballroom downtown. Nancy gushed over the crystal chandeliers while you and Steve stood three feet apart pretending the air between you wasn’t thick enough to choke on. Every time you had to address him as “David” your jaw clenched. Every time his hand brushed yours while reaching for a brochure the same spark from the park shot up your arm and you hated yourself for still feeling it.

Venue showing number two was a lakeside garden estate. Worse. Open air, golden light, romantic as hell. Nancy kept asking your opinion on ceremony arches while Steve watched you with that careful, unreadable expression that made your stomach twist. You answered every question with perfect professionalism and refused to meet his eyes for longer than two seconds.

By the third showing you were running on pure spite and coffee.

It was an old converted warehouse on the edge of town—exposed brick, high ceilings, industrial-chic that somehow still felt warm with the right lighting. You were mid-sentence explaining capacity and catering options when the heavy metal door at the far end of the space slammed open.

“There you are, baby.”

You froze.

Eddie Munson strode in like he owned the place, long hair half-tied back, rings glinting on every finger, a battered leather jacket thrown over a black band tee. He made a beeline straight for you, completely ignoring Nancy and Steve, and slid an arm around your waist like it belonged there.

“Missed you this morning,” he said, loud enough for the whole warehouse to hear, then leaned in and pressed a quick, deliberate kiss to your temple. “You ran out before I could even make you coffee.”

Your brain short-circuited for half a second.

Then pure survival instinct kicked in.

You forced a tight smile and leaned into him just enough to sell it. “Eddie. I didn’t think you were coming today.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” His grin was pure chaos as he finally looked at Nancy and Steve, eyes sparkling with something sharp and amused. “Hi. Eddie Munson. Her fiancé.” He stuck out his free hand toward Steve like a challenge. “You must be the lucky guy. Congratulations, man.”

Steve’s polite smile didn’t reach his eyes. He shook Eddie’s hand with just a little too much force.

“David,” he said evenly. “Nice to meet you.”

Nancy blinked, clearly surprised but recovering fast with a warm smile. “Oh! I had no idea. Congratulations to you both as well.” She glanced between you and Eddie, then at Steve, sensing the sudden shift in temperature even if she didn’t understand it. “We were just looking at the space for the reception…”

Eddie kept his arm firmly around your waist, thumb stroking once over your hip in a way that felt both protective and deeply irritating. You were going to kill him later. Slowly. He was supposed to be back in Hawkins. What he was doing here? Of all places? You had no fucking idea.

“Looks nice,” Eddie said, glancing around with theatrical interest. “Very… exposed brick. Romantic. You into this industrial vibe, baby? I always figured you’d want something more girly. You know, like something in a castle or some cutesy shit.”

Steve’s jaw ticked.

You felt it.

“The warehouse has a lot of flexibility for lighting,” you said tightly, trying to steer everything back to business. “We can do string lights, uplighting, whatever the couple prefers—”

“Whatever she prefers, right?” Eddie cut in, looking at Steve with a lazy, pointed smile. “Since you’re the groom and all. Gotta make sure your bride’s happy. And your wedding planner too, I guess. She’s been working so hard on this. Barely has time for her own fiancé these days.”

Steve’s smile was pure ice. “She’s excellent at her job. We’re lucky to have her.”

“Oh I know.” Eddie’s fingers flexed against your side. “I’m the lucky one though.”

Nancy laughed a little awkwardly, clearly picking up on the weird undercurrent but choosing to ignore it. “Well, why don’t we keep looking around? I’d love to see the outdoor patio area…”

She started walking. You moved to follow, but Eddie kept his arm around you, forcing Steve to walk on your other side. The three of you moved through the space in a tense little triangle.

Every time Steve asked a quiet, professional question about logistics, Eddie answered for you with some overly confident comment. Every time Eddie made a joke or made some sarcastic comment— Steve’s answers got shorter and cooler. The passive aggression was so thick you could taste it.

You were pissed at both of them.

Pissed at Steve for being engaged to Nancy while looking at you like that.

Pissed at Eddie for showing up out of nowhere and claiming a relationship that didn’t exist just to… what? Stir the pot? Protect you? You hadn't spoken to him in years. You know your dad still spoke with him but he wouldn't be involved in this, right?

But most of all you were pissed at yourself for the tiny, traitorous part of you that noticed the way Steve’s eyes kept flicking to Eddie’s hand on your waist like he wanted to remove it.

By the time Nancy finally checked her phone and announced she had a call she needed to take outside, the air in the warehouse felt combustible.

Eddie waited until the door closed behind her before dropping the smile.

“Miss me?” he muttered under his breath.

You didn’t even look at him. Your voice was pure venom.

“We are going to have a very long conversation later.”

Steve stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the two of you with an expression that was equal parts jealous and carefully blank.

“Everything okay?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.

Eddie grinned again, all teeth this time. “Peachy. Just talking about our own wedding plans. You know how it is.”

Steve’s eyes met yours for one charged second.

You looked away first.

Nancy came back a minute later, oblivious and smiling, and the rest of the showing passed in a haze of forced professionalism and barely restrained tension that crackled every time Steve and Eddie were forced to stand near each other.

You had never wanted a venue tour to end more in your life.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Nancy left on a Monday morning for a week-long assignment in D.C. She hugged you both at the studio door, already half in work mode, and said, “I trust you two with everything. Just… don’t let David pick all white roses, okay? He’ll try.”

Steve had given her a soft smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and promised they’d handle it.

And just like that, it was the two of you.

The first couple of days were still stiff. You kept everything strictly professional—emails, shared calendars, clipped conversations about linens and guest lists. But something shifted somewhere between the third seating-chart revision at 10 p.m. and the night you both ended up on the floor of the planning office surrounded by sample menus, laughing until your sides hurt over a caterer who had somehow misspelled “filet mignon” as “filet minion.”

After that, the edges softened.

You started talking like normal people. About stupid things at first—worst wedding disasters you’d witnessed, the ridiculous amount of tulle currently living in your storage closet, how neither of you could stand the sound of a violin being tuned. Then quieter things. Steve admitted he was terrified of public speaking and had already rewritten his vows four times. You told him about the first wedding you’d ever planned and how the bride’s veil had caught fire during the unity candle. You told him that Eddie wasn't really your fiancé. That your father is trying to force a fucked up arranged marriage. Steve's mask broke for a fraction of a second— showing relief instead of anger when Eddie was brought up. The stories got longer. The silences got easier. By Thursday you were finishing each other’s sentences over coffee and arguing about playlist order.

It felt dangerously close to friendship.

Friday afternoon you met at the florist’s for the final flower walkthrough. The shop was small and overflowing—buckets of peonies and garden roses and trailing eucalyptus everywhere, the air thick with sweet, green scent. Steve held the door for you out of habit now. You’d stopped flinching when his hand brushed your lower back as he guided you past a display of cascading orchids.

You were deep in debate over whether the centerpieces should be low and lush or tall and dramatic when the little bell over the door chimed again.

You looked up.

And the floor dropped out from under you.

Jake stood just inside the entrance, one hand resting on the small of the pretty brunette’s back. Her hand was curved protectively over a very obvious baby bump. She was laughing at something he’d said, face soft and glowing in that way only very happy, very pregnant women managed.

Jake’s eyes landed on you and the laugh died mid-breath.

For a second nobody moved.

Then the brunette noticed the sudden tension and glanced between the three of you, the color draining from her face.

“Jake?” she said quietly. “Everything okay?”

Steve, who had been examining a stem of a white rose, looked up at the shift in the air. His gaze flicked from your frozen expression to the couple by the door and back again. Something careful and assessing settled over his face.

Jake cleared his throat. “Yeah. Uh. Hey.” His eyes stayed on you. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

You felt Steve step half a pace closer without making it obvious.

“Jake,” you managed. Your voice came out flatter than you wanted. “Hi.”

The woman offered a polite, slightly terrified smile. “We were just looking at some arrangements for the baby shower.” She rested her hand more firmly on her stomach, the diamond on her left hand catching the light.

Steve’s voice was mild when he spoke, but there was steel underneath. “I’m Steve. We’re here for wedding flowers.” He didn’t specify whose. “Nice to meet you both.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed a fraction at the protective edge in Steve’s tone. “Yeah. Likewise.”

Another beat of heavy quiet. Lauren murmured something about checking the peonies and gently steered Jake toward the back of the shop. He went, but not before glancing at you one last time with an expression that was half apology, half something uglier.

The second they were out of earshot Steve turned fully toward you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You stared at a bucket of blush garden roses like they held the secrets of the universe. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” He kept his voice low. “How do you know him?”

You let out a short, humorless breath. “That’s my ex-fiancé. Jake.” The name still tasted bitter. “We were together almost three years. Engaged for eight months. I came home early from a venue walkthrough one day and found him in our bed with her.” You tipped your chin toward where Lauren was now examining a display of baby’s breath, one hand still on her stomach. “She was his coworker. They’d been sleeping together for six months. He told me he was ‘in love for real this time’ and moved out the next week. They got married four months later. And now…” You gestured vaguely at the baby bump. “I guess they’re starting a family.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment. When you finally risked a glance at him, his jaw was tight and his eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them.

“He cheated on you,” he said, not a question.

“Yeah.”

“And left you for her.”

“Yeah.”

Steve exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s fucked up.”

A startled little laugh escaped you. “Eloquent.”

“I’m serious.” He shifted so his body partially blocked the view of Jake and Lauren across the shop. “You didn’t deserve that. Anyone who does that to someone doesn’t deserve a second of your energy.”

You swallowed. The flowers suddenly smelled too strong. “It was a long time ago.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt when you run into them.” His voice softened. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t.”

You looked at him then—really looked. At the freckles across his nose, the concerned furrow between his brows, the way he was standing just close enough that you could feel the steady warmth of him without it being overwhelming. Somewhere over the past week the sharp edges of your anger toward him had worn down into something more complicated. Something that felt a lot like friendship. And something else you were still refusing to name.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

Steve’s expression gentled. “Anytime.”

Across the shop, Jake laughed at something Lauren said. The sound made your shoulders tighten automatically.

Steve noticed.

Without a word he reached past you, plucked a single stem of white peony from the nearest bucket, and held it out.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I think your taste in flowers is better than your taste in ex-fiancés.”

You took the peony. Your fingers brushed his.

For the first time all week, the smile you gave him was real.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

You didn’t even make it all the way home before the first tear slipped free.

By the time you unlocked your apartment door the pressure behind your ribs had turned sharp and mean. Jake’s face. Lauren’s hand on that rounded stomach. The easy way they’d stood there like the last three years of your life had never happened. You dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes, and went straight for the bottle of whiskey on the top shelf of the fridge—the one you only ever opened when things got bad.

It got bad fast.

Two glasses in and the apartment felt too quiet. Three and the memories started replaying on a loop—walking in on them, the way Jake had looked at you like you were the inconvenience, the empty side of the bed for months afterward. Four glasses and you were on the floor of the living room with your phone in your hand, trying and failing to text Robin something coherent. The screen swam. Your thumbs wouldn’t cooperate.

You didn’t hear the knock the first time.

The second time it was louder, followed by Steve’s voice through the door, low and careful.

“Hey. It’s me. Robin called—said you weren’t answering and she was worried. Can you open up?”

You somehow made it to the door. The second it swung open Steve took one look at you—red eyes, whiskey glass still in your hand, mascara smudged—and the soft concern on his face deepened into something more urgent.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, gently took the glass from your fingers, and set it on the counter. One warm hand came up to steady your elbow when you swayed.

“How much did you drink?”

“Enough,” you managed, the word thick. Then the tears started again, hot and sudden. “I saw them and it just—everything came back. I thought I was over it. I really thought I was. But I’m not. I’m still just… alone. And miserable. And I keep pretending I’m fine and I’m not. I fucking hate this.”

Steve didn’t try to fix it with empty words. He guided you to the couch, sat beside you, and let you fall apart against his shoulder. One of his hands rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades while the other held a glass of water to your lips every so often, coaxing you to drink. You cried about Jake. About the way it had felt to be replaced so easily. About how planning other people’s forever made the quiet of your own apartment feel louder every single night. About how tired you were of being the strong one.

He listened to all of it. Never once looked impatient. Never once made you feel dramatic.

When the worst of the shaking stopped he helped you stand, walked you to the bathroom so you could wash your face, then steered you toward the bedroom. You were still in your work clothes. He found an oversized T-shirt in your drawer, turned around while you changed, then waited until you crawled under the covers before sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“I’m going to leave some water and Advil right here,” he said quietly, setting both on the nightstand. “Text me when you wake up, okay? Even if it’s just to tell me you’re alive.”

He stood. Took two steps toward the door.

Stopped.

For a long second he just stood there with his back to you, one hand braced on the doorframe. Then he turned around, walked back to the bed, and sank down onto the edge again. His eyes were darker than you’d ever seen them.

“I can’t leave like this,” he said, voice rough. “Not without saying it.”

Your stomach dropped.

Steve dragged a hand through his perfect hair, making it stick up in a way that should have looked ridiculous and somehow only made him look more wrecked. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you since the night in the park. Probably since the dumpster, if I’m being honest. This whole week—working with you, laughing with you—I keep falling harder. And I know the timing is shit. I know I’m engaged. I know I have no right. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this.”

The words landed like a physical blow. For one dizzy second you wanted nothing more than to reach for him. Instead you sat up against the headboard, heart slamming, and forced yourself to meet his eyes.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please don’t say that.”

“I already did.”

“Then take it back.” Your voice cracked. “I’m not going to be the other woman, Steve. I won’t do that to Nancy. She doesn’t deserve it. And neither do I. I’ve already been the girl who got left. I’m not going to be the girl who helps someone else do the leaving.”

Steve’s face twisted like the words physically hurt. He opened his mouth, closed it, then nodded once—slow and defeated.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay.”

He stood again. This time he made it all the way to the door. His hand lingered on the knob for a second longer than necessary.

“Get some sleep,” he said without turning around. “I’ll check on you in the morning.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stared at the ceiling until the whiskey and the tears finally pulled you under, the ghost of his confession still sitting heavy in the middle of your chest.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Nancy showed up at your apartment the next afternoon looking pale and exhausted, still in her travel clothes. She didn’t even wait for you to offer coffee before the words spilled out.

“I don’t know if I’m still in love with him.”

You froze with the coffee pot in your hand.

Nancy sank onto your couch, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. “I’ve been thinking about it the whole time I was gone. The wedding, the vows, the rest of our lives… and I keep waiting to feel that certainty I used to have. It’s just not there the way it used to be. And I don’t know what to do.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure she could hear it. Every selfish part of you wanted to say Then don’t. Call it off. He’s in love with me and I’m in love with him and maybe this is the universe giving us a chance.

Instead you set the coffee pot down, sat beside her, and took her hand.

“Nancy. Look at me.”

She did.

“Steve is a good man,” you said, voice steady even though something inside you was cracking open. “He’s kind. He’s steady. You can't see the way he looks at you when you walk in a room. I’ve watched him these past weeks. He is all in. And people like that—people who love that hard and that consistently—don’t come around twice. Doubt is normal. Cold feet are normal. But throwing away a man like him because you’re scared of forever? That’s the kind of regret that doesn’t go away.”

You squeezed her hand tighter, forcing every ounce of conviction you didn’t fully feel into the words.

“Go through with the wedding. Choose him. Choose the life you’ve already started building. He’s worth it. And you’re going to be so happy once you’re on the other side of this fear. I really believe that.”

Nancy’s eyes filled. She pulled you into a tight hug and whispered, “Thank you. I needed to hear that from someone who isn’t him.”

You held her and smiled and hated yourself a little more with every second that passed.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Two days later you were at your dad’s house for your cousin’s birthday cookout. The backyard was full of aunts in folding chairs, uncles arguing about sports, little kids chasing each other with water guns, the smell of charcoal and sun-warmed grass. Your dad kept bringing it up to distant relatives that you weren't married yet— the horror settling on their faces.

You were standing by the dessert table nursing a soda when Eddie appeared at the edge of the yard.

He looked uncharacteristically nervous. Hair tied back, nice black button-down instead of a band tee, rings still on every finger but somehow more put together. The second your eyes met he started walking toward you like a man on a mission.

Conversation around you gradually quieted.

Eddie stopped a few feet away, swallowed hard, and dropped to one knee right there on the grass.

Your heart stopped.

“I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he said, voice carrying across the suddenly silent backyard. “But I’m done thinking. I love you. I’ve loved you longer than I should admit out loud. And I know the timing is messy and I know you’re scared and I know you’ve been hurt before—but I want to spend the rest of my life proving I’m not going anywhere. Marry me.”

He opened a small black box. A simple gold band with a dark stone sat inside.

Every relative was staring. Your dad’s face had gone soft with something that looked a lot like relief but with something knowing hidden underneath— like he expected this.

You could feel the weight of all those eyes. The quiet hope in your father’s expression. The ghost of Jake’s betrayal still sitting heavy in your chest. The knowledge that the man you actually wanted was currently planning a wedding with someone else because you had told his fiancée to go through with it.

Cynicism settled over you like a familiar coat.

Maybe this was as good as it got. Maybe safe and real and right in front of you was better than wanting someone you could never have.

Your dad stepped closer, voice low and thick. “Honey… it’s time. Let yourself be happy. Say yes.”

Eddie’s eyes never left yours. Waiting. Hopeful. Steady in a way you hadn’t expected.

You heard yourself speak before you fully decided.

“…Okay.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then the backyard erupted in cheers and applause. Your aunts were crying. Your dad pulled you into a crushing hug. Eddie slipped the ring onto your finger with shaking hands and kissed your cheek like he couldn’t quite believe it had worked.

You smiled for the photos.

You laughed when your cousins started chanting for a toast.

And the entire time the new ring felt like a beautiful, heavy lie against your skin.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

A week later—

City Hall, 2:47 p.m.

You stood in the small waiting area outside the clerk’s office in a simple ivory dress that didn’t feel like yours. Eddie was beside you in a black shirt and slacks, looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him. Your dad kept checking his watch.

Robin was across town handling the Wheeler-Harrington wedding so you wouldn’t have to. You’d handed everything over two days ago with a tight smile and a “You’ve got this.” You hadn’t let yourself think about the ballroom or the flowers or the man who was supposed to be standing at the end of that aisle.

The clerk called your names.

Eddie squeezed your hand. “Last chance to run,” he tried to joke. It came out soft.

You managed a thin smile. “Let’s just get it over with.”

Your dad stepped forward before either of you could move.

“No.”

The single word cut through the hallway. Everyone turned.

Your father looked older than usual, eyes glossy but steady. “I can’t let you do this, sweetheart. Not like this. Not because you’re scared or because I pushed or because it feels safer than wanting something bigger. You deserve an epic love story. The kind that knocks the wind out of you. Not- Not just doing this because you’re tired of being alone.”

Eddie stared at him for a long second. Then he let out a shaky breath and actually laughed—quiet and a little broken.

“He’s right,” Eddie said, turning to you. He took both of your hands. “You don’t look at me the way you look when you talk about him. And I care about you too much to let you settle for a backup plan. Even if the backup plan is me.”

The ring suddenly felt unbearable on your finger.

You slipped it off and pressed it into his palm. Eddie closed his fingers around it, kissed your forehead once, and stepped back.

Your dad wrapped an arm around your shoulders as the three of you walked out of city hall into the afternoon sun, the marriage license unsigned on the clerk’s desk behind you.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

The Ballroom Venue, 2:47 p.m.

Steve stood in the small room just off the ceremony space, already in the tux, boutonnière pinned, heart hammering against his ribs. Guests were seated. Music was about to start. Nancy was on the other side of the door in her dress.

She slipped into the room without knocking, still holding her bouquet. For a moment they just looked at each other.

“I can’t do this,” Nancy said quietly.

Steve’s shoulders sagged with something that felt dangerously like relief.

“I know,” he answered.

Nancy let out a watery little laugh. “We’re really bad at this, huh?”

“The worst.” He stepped closer, gentle. “I care about you. So much. You’re one of my best friends. But I’m not in love with you the way a husband should be. And I don’t think you’re in love with me that way either. Not anymore.”

Nancy’s eyes filled, but she was nodding. “I’ve been trying to force it because it looked right on paper. Because everyone expected it. Because were good together. But good isn’t the same as right.”

Steve reached out and carefully took the bouquet from her hands, setting it on the side table.

“We can still walk out there and tell them together,” he said. “No blame. No big scene. Just… the truth.”

Nancy wiped under her eyes, careful of the makeup. “What about the planner? All the work she put in—”

“She’ll understand,” Steve said, and the way his voice softened on the words made Nancy look at him more closely. She didn’t ask. She just squeezed his hand once.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s go be honest.”

They walked out of the room side by side, not as a bride and groom, but as two people who had finally stopped pretending. The string quartet faltered. Guests turned. Steve found Robin near the front and gave her a small, apologetic shake of his head.

Across the city, at almost the exact same moment, two almost-weddings quietly ended.

And somewhere in the middle of both of them, the same unspoken name sat heavy in two different chests.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

Robin found Steve still in his tux, standing alone near the empty ceremony arch while the last confused guests filtered out.

She grabbed his arm, eyes wide and urgent.

“Holy shit—I can't believe you two did that. I have to tell you something important though. She went to city hall today. With Eddie. They were getting married. Like, for real this time. I didn’t know until an hour ago and I couldn’t reach her and I—”

Steve didn’t let her finish.

He was already running.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

City hall was quiet when he burst through the doors. The clerk’s office was empty. The only people left in the hallway were Eddie Munson, slumped on a bench with his head in his hands, and your father sitting beside him looking equally gutted.

Steve skidded to a stop in front of them, breathing hard.

“Where is she?”

Eddie looked up. His eyes were red. He didn’t even look surprised to see Steve.

“Gone,” he said simply. “Wedding didn’t happen. Her dad stopped it. I stopped it. She left about twenty minutes ago. We don’t know where.”

Your father studied Steve for a long second, something knowing and almost gentle in his expression.

“You’re the one,” he said. Not a question.

Steve didn’t answer. He just dragged a hand through his hair, already turning for the door, mind racing.

Then it hit him.

The park.

The tree.

He was gone before either of them could say another word.

─── ⋆⭒˚.⋆✿⋆⭒˚.⋆ ───

You were already there.

Sitting on the wide branch of the old oak, knees pulled up, ivory dress wrinkled and dusty at the hem. You’d come straight from city hall without thinking, like the tree was the only place left that made sense.

You heard footsteps a second before you saw him.

Steve stepped into the little clearing beneath the tree, still in the tux, bow tie undone and hanging loose, chest rising and falling like he’d run the whole way. When his eyes found you, the relief that broke across his face was so raw it almost hurt to look at.

Neither of you spoke at first.

He climbed up carefully, the same way he had the night of the outdoor movie, and sat beside you on the cushioned branch. Close, but not touching. The air between you felt electric and fragile all at once.

“Robin told me you were at city hall,” he said quietly. “I went there. Your dad and Eddie… they told me what happened.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I couldn’t do it. Any of it.”

“Me neither.” Steve’s voice was rough. “Nancy and I called it off right before the ceremony. We both knew. We’ve known for a while.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. The freckles. The perfect hair that was a mess for once. The way his eyes were shining.

“I’m in love with you,” you said. The words came out steady, even though your hands were trembling. “I’ve been in love with you since the hospital. Since you danced with me right here. I tried so hard not to be. I pushed you away and I told Nancy to marry you and I almost married someone else just so I wouldn’t have to want you. But I do. I love you. And there’s nothing holding me back anymore.”

Steve’s breath hitched.

He reached up and cradled your face with both hands, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he was afraid you might disappear.

“I’m in love with you too,” he said, voice breaking on the words. “So much it scares me. You’re it for me. You’re the only person I’ve ever looked at and thought, there you are. I don’t care how messy this has been. I don’t care about the timing or the almost-weddings or any of it. I just want you. However I can have you. For as long as you’ll let me.”

You leaned into his touch, eyes falling shut for a second as the weight of everything finally lifted.

When you opened them again, Steve was already leaning in.

The kiss was soft at first—careful, almost reverent—then deeper, all of the restraint and almosts and quiet longing pouring into it. His hands slid into your hair. Yours fisted in the lapels of his tux. The branch swayed gently beneath you, leaves rustling like the whole tree was exhaling with relief.

When you finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, Steve let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

“Hi,” he whispered.

You smiled against his mouth, tears still clinging to your lashes.

“Hi.”

Nothing was standing between you anymore.

Just the two of you, the old oak tree, and the rest of whatever came next.

A black wave explodes through the broken window, wings and teeth and wet, clicking shrieks. Eddie and Dustin’s voices crackle faintly over the walkie—safe. They did their part of the plan and that should be the end of it. It isn’t.

Of course it isn't.

The swarm turns on you four and locks in.

Steve shoves you behind him on instinct. You shove right back, because there’s no time for that.

“Go!” you shout, already moving. “Get to Vecna—I’ll hold them!”

Nancy hesitates half a second. Robin doesn’t. They bolt for the door while Steve curses your name and tries to drag you with him. You plant your feet, raise the shotgun, and fire into the mass of leathery bodies. The first blast buys three seconds of space. The second buys two. Then the bats are on you.

Claws rake across your shoulder, tearing through jacket and skin in one wet drag. Pain blooms white-hot. You stagger, fire again, feel teeth sink into your forearm and wrench. Blood hits the floorboards in thick drops. A wing clips your temple hard enough that the room tilts.

Steve is still there, swinging his nail-bat, yelling your name over the shrieking. You catch his eyes for one fractured second—wide, terrified, furious—and shove him toward the others with everything you have left.

“Steve, go!”

He doesn’t want to. You see it. But the plan is bigger than either of you, and the bats are already closing ranks again. They need him. In order for the plan to work and for Vecna to die he needs to be there and he knows it. He stumbles after Nancy and Robin, looking back every other step like he’s leaving pieces of himself behind.

You’re alone with the swarm.

They hit you like a living wall. Weight and teeth and the wet slap of wings. You go down hard on one knee, then both. The shotgun skitters away across the floor. Something sharp punches through your side just under your ribs and drags. Your vision tunnels. Blood is warm down your side, sticky between your fingers when you press them there without thinking.

You still try. You grab whatever is closest—splintered wood—and swing until your arms feel like they’re filled with sand. One bat latches onto your thigh and tears at the muscle like it’s trying to break it free. Another finds the back of your neck. The pain is everywhere now, overlapping, drowning out thought.

Somewhere past the noise you hear Steve’s voice again—distant, cracking, calling your name like it’s the only word he has left.

You open your mouth to answer.

Nothing comes out but a wet, broken sound.

The attic tilts harder. The bats keep coming.

Steve’s ears are still ringing from the last shotgun blast when Nancy empties another round into Vecna’s chest. He finally staggers. Steve fires up the makeshift flame thrower. Robin doesn’t wait. Molotov cocktails leave her hands in a perfect arch— the two of them setting Vecna ablaze.

He collapses.

The lights stop flickering. The air stops pulsing. For half a second the Creel attic is just an attic again—dust and blood and the wet, twitching bodies of bats scattered across the floorboards.

Steve doesn’t look at the corpse.

He’s already moving.

You’re still where he left you—half-curled against the far wall, one hand pressed uselessly to the gash under your ribs, the other limp in a dark pool that’s spreading too fast. Bats are still twitching near your legs. One of them has its teeth locked in the meat of your thigh even in death.

“Hey—hey, look at me.” Steve drops hard onto his knees, hands already on you, shaking. “Baby, open your eyes. Come on.”

Your eyelids flutter. That’s all.

He makes a sound he’s never heard come out of his own throat before—high, cracked, animal. He yanks the dead bat off your leg and throws it so hard it hits the opposite wall with a wet thunk. Then he’s gathering you up, arms under your shoulders and knees, hauling you against his chest like the weight of you is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Nancy!” he barks. His voice breaks on the second syllable. “Robin—we’re leaving. Now. Now.”

They don’t argue. Nancy is already kicking the attic door open. Robin is scrambling after her. Steve doesn’t wait for them. He’s half-running, half-stumbling down the stairs with you clutched to him, blood soaking through both your jackets and into his shirt. Every step jostles a fresh wet sound from your side and he feels it like it’s happening to him.

“Stay with me,” he keeps saying, over and over, voice raw. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. Just stay awake. Please—please, just look at me.”

You’re trying. He can feel the shallow, wet pulls of your breath against his neck. That’s all you’ve got left.

The gate is still open in the living room, that swirling red wound in the air. Steve doesn’t hesitate. He steps through with you back onto solid ground.

He hears Lucas yelling from upstairs.

He doesn’t care.

He keeps moving, arms locked so tight around you that his muscles burn. Nancy and Robin are right behind him, shouting something about Max, about where the hell Eddie and Dustin are—but Steve can only hear the too-slow thud of your heartbeat against his chest.

“Don’t you fucking do this,” he chokes out, forehead pressed to your temple as he half-falls down the front steps into the overgrown yard. Tears are already cutting clean tracks through the dirt and blood on his face. “You don’t get to leave me. You hear me? I can’t—I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

Your head lolls against his shoulder. A soft, broken sound leaves your mouth.

Steve makes a wounded noise and clutches you tighter, almost running now, lungs burning, vision blurred.

All that matters is the fading heat of your body against his and the desperate, endless litany pouring out of him between sobs.

“Please. Please, baby. Stay. Just stay with me. I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you—"

Steve doesn’t leave.

Not when the paramedics load you into the ambulance. Not when the ER doors slam shut in his face and a nurse tries to steer him toward a waiting room. He follows the gurney until someone physically blocks him, and even then he just stands there with your blood drying stiff on his clothes, staring at the double doors like he can will them open again.

They put you under almost immediately. Medically induced coma. The words land like a bomb in his chest. Your body needs time—ribs, organs, the torn muscle in your thigh, the infection risk from Upside Down filth. Three months, they say, if you’re lucky. Maybe longer.

Steve hears “lucky” and almost laughs. It comes out as a sob instead.

He takes the chair beside your bed and doesn’t get up. The first night he still has blood under his fingernails. By the third day someone brings him a change of clothes and a toothbrush. He uses the toothbrush. He doesn’t change the clothes until the nurses start looking at him like he’s going to pass out.

Time turns soft and wrong.

He talks to you constantly. Quiet at first, then not quiet at all when the nights get long and the monitors keep beeping the same steady lie that you’re still here. He tells you about Dustin’s latest antics. About Robin almost setting the video store on fire again. About how Nancy checks in every other day even though she pretends she’s just “in the neighborhood.” He tells you he loves you more times than he can count. Sometimes the words come out clear. Sometimes they’re wrecked, dragged through tears he can’t seem to stop.

He cries a lot.

In the beginning it’s loud—ugly, gasping things that leave his throat raw. Later it gets quieter. Just silent tears tracking down his face while he holds your hand and stares at the slow rise and fall of your chest under the thin hospital blanket. He presses his forehead to your knuckles for hours. He kisses the inside of your wrist like the pulse there might answer him if he’s careful enough.

The nurses stop trying to make him leave after the first week. One of them starts leaving an extra sandwich on the tray table. Another brings him a blanket that smells too clean for how he felt.

Three months.

Ninety-three days of fluorescent lights and the soft mechanical hiss of the ventilator. Ninety-three days of Steve Harrington living in a plastic chair, hair growing too long, eyes permanently red-rimmed, existing only for you.

Then one afternoon in early summer the numbers on the monitor change.

Steve is half-asleep with his head on the mattress beside your hip when your fingers twitch against his. Just once. A tiny, useless little movement.

He freezes.

Your eyelids flutter. Once. Twice. The third time they stay open a fraction, unfocused and glassy under the bright lights.

Steve makes a sound like something inside him is breaking open in the best possible way. He’s on his feet so fast the chair skids backward. Both hands cup your face, thumbs trembling against your cheekbones.

“Hey—hey, baby, it’s me. It’s Steve. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes find him slowly. Recognition filters in like light through water. Your lips part. No sound comes out at first, just a dry little breath.

Steve is already crying again—happy this time, wrecked and shining and endless. He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, careful of the tubes and the healing scars, and his voice cracks wide open.

“There you are,” he whispers. “There you fucking are. I’ve been waiting. God, I’ve been waiting so long.”

He doesn’t let go of your face. He doesn’t look away. He just stays there, crying quietly against your skin, breathing you in like oxygen he hasn’t had in three whole months.

“Welcome back,” he says, soft and breaking. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve lies on his side in the dark of his childhood bedroom, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of your chest under the covers.

You’re home.

Not the hospital. Not the sterile white room that still lives behind his eyelids every time he blinks too long. Home. His house. The big empty Harrington place that stopped feeling like anyone’s house years ago. The sheets still smell faintly of the detergent he used three times in a row the day before they discharged you, like if he washed everything enough times he could scrub the last three months out of the fabric.

Your hair is longer now. Softer against the pillow. There’s a thin, raised scar just visible above the collar of one of his old basketball tees—he still can’t look at it without his throat tightening—but you’re breathing on your own. You’re warm. You’re here.

He reaches out carefully and lets his fingers rest against the inside of your wrist, just over the pulse. Still there. Still real.

And just like that, the memory slides in like it always did during nights like this.

Junior year. Late October. The kind of cold that made your bones hurt.

You were sitting on the sidewalk in the school parking lot after practice, knees pulled up under one of Nancy’s old cardigans, looking like you were trying to disappear into the fabric. Nancy had already gone home. Steve had stayed behind to talk to Coach about something he already knew didn’t matter. When he came out, you were still there.

He almost kept walking. Almost got in the car and left you to whatever quiet storm you were sitting in. Instead he leaned against the driver’s side door and said, “You look like somebody just told you Santa isn’t real.”

You didn’t smile. You just stared at the dark stretch of road leading out to Hawkins and said, very quietly, “My parents are in Switzerland. Again. For the third time this year. They sent a postcard. It has a mountain on it.”

Steve had laughed once, short and humorless. “Mine are in Cabo. Or maybe Bali. The postcards stopped coming last year. Now it’s just the housekeeper telling me which credit card to use.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. Like you were seeing past the hair and the letterman jacket and the carefully practiced smirk for the first time.

“Nancy says you’re an asshole,” you said.

“Nancy’s usually right.”

"You two dated."

"Briefly."

“She’s my best friend.”

“I know.”

"You're not a secret serial killer are you?"

"Wouldn't be much of a secret if I told you."

You laughed. Genuinely laughed. It was the best sound he'd heard all day.

Something settled between you in that moment. Not romance. Not yet. Just the quiet, ugly recognition of two people who had been left in the same shape of empty house with the same set of impossible expectations. Be perfect. Be impressive. Be anything except needy.

You started sitting with him at lunch after that. Not every day. Just enough that Nancy raised an eyebrow the first time and then never mentioned it again. You helped him with English papers he would’ve half-assed. He drove you home when your own car was in the shop and never once tried anything. It stayed easy. Almost painfully careful.

He told himself it was because you belonged to Nancy’s world more than his. That crossing that line would be selfish. Messy. Unfair to the one friendship that had never asked him to be better than he was.

He fell for you anyway.

Slow. Inevitable. The way water finds the lowest place and just stays.

It happened in the smallest moments—watching you argue with the librarian about overdue books, the way you always saved him the last fry without asking, the night you fell asleep against his shoulder during a movie marathon at the Wheeler house and Nancy just quietly draped a blanket over both of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Nancy never made it weird.

That was the part that still undid him a little. She could have. God knows she had every right. Instead she just looked at the two of you one afternoon in senior year, when Steve finally stopped pretending he wasn’t completely gone on you, and said, “Took you long enough,” like she’d been waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

Steve blinks hard in the present dark, the memory dissolving like smoke.

You’re still asleep beside him, one hand curled loosely near his chest like even unconscious you know he’s there. He shifts closer—carefully, always carefully now—and presses his lips to the top of your head. Breathes you in.

“Should’ve known,” he murmurs to the quiet room, to the girl who somehow became the only thing in this house that ever felt like home. “Even back then. Should’ve known it was always gonna be you.”

He settles closer, careful of the healing places, and lets his eyes close. The memory stays with him like a second heartbeat—warm, steady, and finally, finally safe.

Steve doesn’t let you out of arm’s reach for weeks.

It’s not dramatic. It’s quieter than that. He just… follows. If you move to the kitchen for water, he’s already there, hip braced against the counter, fingers finding the hem of your shirt like it’s automatic. If you sit on the couch, he sits first and tugs you down until you’re half in his lap, face buried against the side of his neck. At night he sleeps wrapped around you so tightly the blankets barely move—one arm locked under your ribs, the other curved over your waist, palm flat against your stomach like he’s still counting the rise and fall.

Touch-starved doesn’t cover it.

Three months of nothing but sterile hospital air and the wrong kind of quiet had hollowed something out of him. Now that you’re here—warm, breathing, his—he can’t stop taking. He needs the weight of your leg thrown over his. The press of your fingers against the back of his neck when you’re half-asleep. The way you sometimes turn your face into his chest and just breathe him in like you’re making up for lost time too.

You let him.

More than that—you lean into it. Every time his hand finds yours under the table, every time he crowds you against the bathroom sink just to rest his forehead against yours for thirty seconds, every time he wakes up at 3 a.m. and pulls you tighter like the alternative is watching you disappear again, you answer. You curl closer. You press your mouth to the underside of his jaw and stay there until his breathing evens out.

The government locked Hawkins down tight after the gates tore open. No leaving. No outsiders. Just the same cracked streets and the same people who all knew too much and couldn’t talk about any of it. So you made do. You and Steve turned the big empty Harrington house into something that almost felt lived-in. Robin came over most days. Dustin claimed the basement for campaign nights. Nancy and Jonathan dropped by with groceries and updates on the rebuilding.

And when Halloween rolled around, Steve simply decided everyone was coming to him.

The house is warm when the first knock hits the door.

Steve answers with you tucked under his arm, his hand settled low on your hip like it’s the only place it belongs. He’s wearing an old Hawkins High basketball jersey over a long-sleeve shirt—half-assed costume like always—and the second Dustin sees the two of you he makes a gagging noise so dramatic it nearly knocks him backward off the porch.

“Oh my god,” Dustin groans, pushing past them. “Are you two glued together now? Are you being held hostage? Should I call Hopper?”

Steve doesn’t even look away from you. He just tightens his arm and snaps back, “Shut up, Henderson.”

Robin appears next, arms full of cheap plastic spiders for some reason. She takes one look at the way Steve’s thumb is stroking absent circles against your side and her face softens even as she rolls her eyes.

“Disgusting,” she declares, shouldering inside. “Absolutely vile. I love it. Move, I need the kitchen.”

Nancy and Jonathan arrive next, quieter, carrying a couple of six-packs and the kind of tired that only your group knows. Nancy’s eyes flick over the two of you—Steve’s hand still possessive on your hip, the way you lean into him without thinking—and she just smiles, small and real.

“Looks good on you,” she tells Steve under her breath as she passes. Then, louder, to you, “Both of you.”

Eddie arrives later, guitar case slung over one shoulder like he might need it for emotional support. He’s wearing a ridiculous black cape that looks stolen from a thrift store Halloween bin and a grin that splits his face the second he sees the two of you tangled together near the door.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, sweeping the cape theatrically. “If it isn’t Hawkins’ favorite codependent couple. Harrington, you look better. And you—” he points at you with a dramatic flourish, “—you look like you’ve been keeping him on a very short leash. Good. He needs it.”

Steve’s arm tightens around your waist. “Munson. You’re already talking too much.”

“It’s a gift,” Eddie says, and then he’s pulling both of you into a one-armed hug that smells like cigarettes and cheap cologne before bounding off toward the stereo.

Lucas and Max come in next. Lucas takes one look at the way Steve’s hand is splayed possessively across your hip and immediately grimaces.

“Dude,” he says. “You’re like… surgically attached. Is this permanent now?”

Steve doesn’t even blink. “Yup.”

Max snorts. “Leave them alone. They’re allowed to be gross. They earned it.”

Mike and Will show up a few minutes later with Eleven between them. El is quieter than the others, dark hair still a little uneven from the last time someone took scissors to it, but she’s wearing a soft oversized sweater with a giant pumpkin on it and looking around the decorated house with wide, careful eyes. Will hangs close to her side, already half-smiling at the string lights.

Mike, of course, opens his big mouth first.

“This is so weird,” he announces, surveying the living room. “Steve Harrington throwing a Halloween party and not even trying to make it cool. You invited us. You know that right?”

“Maybe I finally like you Wheeler,” Steve shoots back. “Even if you talk too much.”

Eleven tilts her head, studying the two of you. Her gaze lingers on the way Steve’s thumb keeps stroking slow circles against your side, the way you lean into him without thinking. Then she nods once, decisive.

“You are… stuck,” she says simply. “Like Velcro.”

Robin cackles from the kitchen. “El gets it.”

Steve’s expression softens almost immediately. He glances down at you, voice dropping just enough that only you catch the quiet edge of it. “Yeah. We are.”

The night unfolds in overlapping conversations and easy chaos.

Eddie has claimed the boom box and is currently arguing with Dustin over whether The Exorcist theme or the Halloween theme is better for background music. Dustin is standing on the coffee table for emphasis. Lucas is trying to referee. Max is eating candy corn with the detached focus of someone who has survived worse than sugar— El staring at her with wonder in her eyes.

“I’m telling you,” Eddie insists, cape flaring as he gestures, “John Carpenter understood dread. That piano? That’s pure psychological warfare. Your little demon choir is just loud.”

“It’s iconic,” Dustin fires back. “You’re just mad because you can’t do a Gregorian chant.”

Across the room Nancy is leaning against the kitchen counter with Jonathan, both of them watching the chaos with the quiet amusement of people who no longer have the energy to be surprised by anything. Robin is still failing to carve a pumpkin and has now enlisted Eleven for assistance. El is holding the butter knife with intense concentration while Robin tries to teach her how to do it.

“Okay, so the eyes need to be triangle-ish but not too triangle-ish or it’ll look like it’s judging us. Which, honestly, fair. It probably is. ”

Mike drifts over to Steve and you at one point, hands in his pockets, trying to look cool and casual.

“So… you’re good?” he asks, glancing between the two of you. “Like, actually good? After everything?”

Steve’s answer is immediate. He shifts so you’re tucked more firmly against his side, chin resting briefly against your temple. “We’re getting there.”

Mike nods, something complicated and young and relieved passing over his face. “Cool. That’s… cool.”

Later, when the music has softened and most of the candy has been raided, the group ends up sprawled across the living room in various states of sugar-crash. Lucas and Max are bickering softly over the last of the Reese’s. Eddie has abandoned the cape and is now lying on the floor with his head near Dustin’s feet, spinning a wild story about a cursed guitar that may or may not be based on real events.

Steve stays on the couch with you settled between his legs, your back to his chest, his arms locked loosely around your waist. Every so often his mouth brushes the shell of your ear or the hinge of your jaw—small, absent-minded kisses like he still can’t quite believe you’re solid and warm and here.

Robin catches his eye from her spot on the floor and mouths disgusting again, but she’s smiling.

Eddie props himself up on one elbow and points at the two of you with a piece of candy corn.

“For the record,” he says, loud enough for the whole room, “if either of you ever decides to un-Velcro, I call dibs on Harrington.”

Steve doesn’t bother answering. He just presses another quiet kiss to the side of your neck and holds you tighter.

By the time the first snow dusted Hawkins in early December, the frustration sat under your skin like a second pulse. You needed him. Needed the weight of him, the heat, the proof that you were both still here and whole. Touch-starved didn’t even begin to cover what the three months had done to either of you. And Steve—Steve was the worst of the two of you. He couldn’t go ten minutes without finding some excuse to touch you, but he still wouldn’t cross that last line.

Steve had been so careful with you since the hospital.

Too careful.

Every time his hands slid under your shirt in the dark, every time you arched into him and made that soft, needy sound against his mouth, he would freeze. Pull back just enough. Press his forehead to yours and whisper, “Not yet, baby. You’re still healing. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You loved him for it. You hated him for it a little too.

Then Christmas crept closer, and he started acting weird.

Cagey. Quiet in a way that didn’t suit him. He’d disappear into the sunroom for a long time and come back with those creases between his brows like he'd been thinking too hard. He’d start sentences and abandon them halfway. He’d look at you sometimes like the words were right there on his tongue and then they'd dissipate.

You lasted exactly four days of it before you snapped.

It was late. The house was quiet, Christmas lights glowing soft and multicolored along the banister downstairs. You were already in bed in one of his old sweatshirts, legs tangled in the sheets, when he finally came upstairs. He hovered in the doorway for a second too long, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always did when he was trying to talk himself into something.

You sat up.

“Okay,” you said, voice flat. “Spit it out.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been weird. I don't like it. So either tell me what’s going on or I’m going to start inventing worst-case scenarios and I promise you won’t like any of them.”

He let out a short, breathless laugh that didn’t sound amused at all. “Christ. You never let me get away with anything, do you?”

“Never have. Not starting now.” You tipped your head, watching him.

"I'm okay baby."

"You're a big liar Harrington."

"Harrington?"

"You heard me. Do you… do you not want me anymore?"

"Jesus Christ honey…"

He stayed in the doorway looking at you. Then he crossed the room, sat on the edge of the mattress like his legs weren’t entirely steady, and took both of your hands in his. His palms were warm. A little damp.

“I almost lost you,” he said quietly. “In that hell house. And then again for three months while you just… laid there and I couldn’t do anything but sit and wait and beg whatever was listening to give you back. I kept thinking about all the things I never said. All the time I wasted being scared of wanting too much.”

Your throat tightened. This is not where you thought his head was at. “Steve—”

“Let me finish.” He squeezed your fingers. “I’ve loved you since we were stupid kids sitting on the hood of my car complaining about our lives. I loved you when you were Nancy’s best friend and I thought I wasn’t allowed to look at you that way. I loved you when the world was ending and you still shoved me toward the others to finish what was started. And I love you now—so much it scares the hell out of me sometimes.”

He let go of one of your hands only long enough to dig into the pocket of his sweatpants. When his fingers came back, they were curled around something small.

A simple silver band. Thin. A small, sparkling diamond in the center. The kind of ring that looked like it had been chosen by someone who knew you would never want anything flashy.

Steve’s voice cracked on the next breath.

“I know we’re still figuring everything out. I know the world is still kind of a mess and Hawkins is still locked down and neither of us has parents who give a damn enough to throw a party or pretend to be happy for us. But I don’t care about any of that. I just care about you. About waking up next to you. About getting to keep you for the rest of my life if you’ll let me.”

He slid off the bed and onto one knee like it was the most natural thing in the world, still holding your hand, ring pinched carefully between his fingers.

“Marry me,” he said, eyes shining and completely unguarded. “Please. Be my wife. Let me spend every single day making sure you never have to wonder how much I love you. I’ve already wasted too much time being careful. I don’t want careful anymore. I just want you.”

The silence that followed was thick and bright and full of everything you've ever wanted.

You stared at him—at the way his hair fell into his eyes, at the faint tremor in the hand holding the ring, at the raw, open hope on his face—and felt something in your chest finally unclench.

“You’re an idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking on a wet laugh. “You’ve been walking around like a ghost for a week because you were nervous about this?”

Steve’s mouth twitched. “A little bit, yeah.”

You tugged on his hand until he rose back onto the bed, then cupped his face in both of yours and kissed him hard enough that he made a soft, startled sound against your lips.

“Yes,” you said between kisses. “Yes. Of course yes. I’ve been yours since high school, Harrington.”

Steve laughed—wet and shaky—and slid the ring onto your finger with fingers that wouldn’t quite stop trembling. Then he pulled you into his lap, buried his face in your neck, and held on like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your skin. “God, I love you so much it makes me stupid.”

You carded your fingers through his hair and closed your eyes, the silver band warm and new against your skin.

“Good,” you whispered back, kissing him softly. “Stay stupid with me forever.”

Steve’s mouth is gentle at first—careful presses of lips against yours, like he’s afraid you might bruise if he pushes too hard. His hands stay light on your waist, thumbs stroking slow arcs over the soft skin just above the waistband of your sleep shorts. You can feel the restraint in every line of him, the way he’s holding himself back even now, even with the ring still warm and new on your finger.

You don’t want careful.

You fist both hands in the front of his shirt and drag him closer, deepening the kiss until it’s open and wet and desperate. A soft sound slips out of you when his tongue slides against yours. Steve makes a low, broken noise in answer and follows you down when you tip backward onto the pillows, his body covering yours without quite putting his full weight on you.

“Baby—” he starts, voice rough.

You cut him off with another kiss, harder this time, teeth catching his lower lip. Your legs shift restlessly beneath him. “I need you,” you breathe against his mouth. “Steve, please. I’ve needed you for months. Don’t make me wait anymore.”

He goes still for half a second, searching your face. Whatever he finds there makes his eyes go dark.

He nods once.

Then his mouth is on yours again—hungrier now, less controlled—and the kisses start trailing lower. Along your jaw. Down the side of your throat. He mouths at the spot just beneath your ear until your breath stutters, then keeps going, pushing the collar of his borrowed sweatshirt aside so he can press open-mouthed kisses to your collarbone, the soft slope of your shoulder, the upper swell of your chest.

You arch into him when he finally shoves the sweatshirt up and off, leaving you bare from the waist up. His hands shake a little as they settle over your ribs, careful of the places that still carry scars, but his mouth is less careful. He kisses down the center of your sternum, then lower, dragging his lips over the soft skin of your stomach, tongue flicking out to taste you.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your skin, voice already wrecked. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How many times I almost—”

He cuts himself off, nuzzling lower, and you feel the warm drag of his breath right above the waistband of your sleep shorts. Your hips lift without thinking. Steve’s hands settle on your thighs, thumbs stroking the insides, and then he’s hooking his fingers into the fabric and pulling.

The shorts slide down your legs easily. He tosses them somewhere behind him without looking and settles fully between your thighs, shoulders spreading you open. For a long moment he just stares, breathing hard, eyes fixed on the place where you’re already soaked for him.

“Christ,” he whispers. “Look at you.”

Then he leans in.

His mouth finds you in one slow, deliberate press of lips and tongue, and the sound that leaves you is high and helpless. Steve groans like the taste of you is something he’s been starving for. He stays gentle at first—soft licks, careful suction—but when your fingers fist in his hair and your hips roll up against his mouth, the careful edges start to fray.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against you, voice thick and filthy. “Take what you need. I’ve got you. Not going anywhere.”

His tongue works deeper, flatter, then pointed and focused right where you need it most. One of his hands slides up to pin your hip when you start to writhe too hard; the other stays splayed across your lower stomach, grounding you while he eats you like he’s been thinking about nothing else since you got home.

You can already feel the heat coiling tight and low.

Steve doesn’t rush. He just stays right there between your legs, mouth working you open with devastating patience and filthy, wet sounds, every so often lifting his eyes to watch your face while he does it—like he still can’t quite believe you’re real and his and finally letting him have this again.

You come with a broken, high sound that tears out of your throat, thighs clamping hard around Steve’s head as the pleasure rips through you in long, shaking waves. He doesn’t pull away. He stays right there, mouth gentle but relentless, licking you through every aftershock until your legs are trembling and your fingers have gone loose in his hair.

Steve sits up on his knees between your spread thighs, chest heaving, mouth shiny. He wipes the back of his hand across his lips and just looks at you for a second—wrecked and soft and completely gone on you—before he reaches over his shoulder and yanks his shirt off in one motion. The rest of his clothes follow fast. Sweatpants shoved down, boxers kicked away, until he’s bare and painfully hard, the head of his cock flushed dark against his stomach.

He crawls back over you carefully, settling his weight between your thighs, and the first press of his bare skin against yours makes both of you suck in a sharp breath. His forehead drops to yours. One of his hands finds yours and laces your fingers together tight, pinning your joined hands to the pillow beside your head.

“Hi,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You tip your chin up and kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue. He kisses you back like he’s drowning in it.

When he finally reaches down and guides himself to you, he does it slow—pressing in inch by careful inch, eyes locked on yours the whole time. You feel every stretch, every thick slide of him filling you after so many months of nothing. A soft, punched-out sound leaves him when he’s finally seated all the way inside.

“Fuck—baby—” His free hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You feel… God, you feel perfect. Missed this. Missed you.”

He starts to move.

It’s not rushed. It’s deep and rolling and devastatingly tender, every stroke deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the way you take him. Your joined hands stay locked together against the pillow, his grip almost desperate. Every time he bottoms out he grinds a little, chasing the soft broken noises you make, and his mouth never stops moving against your skin—cheek, temple, the corner of your mouth.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I love you so fucking much. Thought about this too many times to count. Thought about getting to hold you again. Getting to be inside you. Getting to keep you.”

His hips roll deeper. The wet sound of him moving in and out of you fills the quiet room. You can feel the fine tremor in his thighs, the way he’s still holding back just enough not to hurt you even while he’s falling apart.

“Was so scared,” he breathes against your mouth, forehead pressed hard to yours. “Every day. Every single day I sat there and watched those machines and I kept thinking—what if you never woke up? What if I never got to tell you again how much you mean to me? What if I lost the only person who’s ever felt like home?”

You squeeze his hand tighter. He answers by driving into you a little harder, a little deeper, the rhythm turning more urgent without ever losing that aching tenderness.

“You’re here,” he keeps whispering, almost like a prayer. “You’re here and you’re mine and I’m never letting go again. Never. I love you. I love you. I love you—”

The words spill out of him in a continuous, broken stream as he makes love to you—slow and deep—holding your hand the entire time like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Your free hand slips between your bodies.

Steve’s eyes flick down the second he feels your fingers working between you, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he’s still buried deep. The sound he makes is wrecked—half groan, half broken laugh—and his hips stutter hard.

“Yeah—fuck, just like that,” he rasps, forehead dropping to yours again. “I want to feel you come on me.”

His thrusts lose the last of their careful restraint. They turn deeper, more desperate, the wet slap of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room as he chases the way your fingers move. Every time he drives in, your knuckles brush the base of him and he shudders like it hurts in the best way. His grip on your joined hands tightens until it almost aches, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go even for a second.

“Missed you,” he chokes out, voice cracking open. “Missed this. Missed being inside you. Missed the way you look at me when you’re close—fuck, baby, you’re close, aren’t you?”

You are. The pressure is coiling fast and mean, every roll of his hips and every frantic circle of your fingers pushing you higher. Steve can feel it. He starts fucking into you harder, messier, the headboard knocking softly against the wall as he loses the last of his control.

“Come with me,” he begs against your mouth. “Please—come with me. I need it. Need to feel you—”

The orgasm hits you first, sharp and overwhelming, your body clamping down around him in pulsing waves. Steve follows with a broken, almost sobbed sound, burying himself as deep as he can go and spilling inside you in long, shuddering pulses. His hips keep moving through it in small, helpless rolls, like he can’t stand the thought of separating even for a second.

Tears slip out of the corners of your eyes without permission. When you blink them away you realize Steve’s are wet too—shiny tracks cutting down his cheeks as he stares at you like you’re the only real thing left in the world.

He doesn’t pull out. He just stays inside you, still half-hard and twitching with aftershocks, and brings your joined hands up so he can press trembling kisses to your knuckles.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice ruined. “I love you so much it scares me. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it sometimes.”

You free your other hand only long enough to cup the side of his face, thumb brushing away one of the tears. He leans into the touch like it’s oxygen.

“I love you too,” you breathe. “So much. Forever.”

Steve makes a soft, broken sound and kisses you again—slow and deep and full of everything the last months carved into both of you—while the two of you stay tangled together in the dark, still joined, still shaking, still holding on like you’ll never let go again.

The Wheelers’ living room looks like Christmas threw up on it in the best possible way.

Tinsel everywhere. A tree that leans slightly to the left under the weight of too many ornaments. The smell of pine and Karen Wheeler’s famous cinnamon rolls thick in the air. Someone— probably Holly— has hung mismatched stockings along the mantel.

You’re tucked under Steve’s arm the second you step through the door. He hasn’t stopped touching you since the night he put the ring on your finger—palm at the small of your back, fingers laced with yours, the occasional brush of his mouth against your temple like he still needs the reminder that you’re real.

Everyone is already here.

Dustin is arguing with Eddie over the correct way to hang lights. Lucas and Max are on the couch fighting over the last of the eggnog. Mike and Will are trying to teach Eleven how to play some complicated card game. Robin is perched on the arm of Nancy’s chair, gesturing wildly while Jonathan takes quiet photos from the corner. Joyce and Hop were here too— Hopper standing near the kitchen with a mug of something that definitely isn’t hot chocolate, looking gruffly pleased to be included.

You’re helping Karen pass out plates of cookies when Max’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Uh. Hold up.”

The room doesn’t go silent all at once, but it gets quieter. Max is staring at your left hand where it rests against Steve’s chest.

“Is that what I think it is?”

Steve goes still beside you. You feel the way his arm tightens almost protectively.

Max leans forward. “Steve Harrington. Did you put a ring on her?”

The reaction is instantaneous.

Dustin’s voice cracks so hard it jumps an octave. “HE DID WHAT?!”

Eddie whoops so loudly Holly covers her ears. Robin nearly falls off the arm of the chair. Lucas starts laughing so hard he has to set his cup down. Mike looks personally offended that no one told him first. Eleven just tilts her head, studying the silver band with quiet interest before declaring, “It is pretty.”

Nancy is the first to actually move. She crosses the room in three strides, grabs your hand, and examines the ring with the same sharp focus she used to use on conspiracy boards.

“Oh my god,” she says, and then she’s laughing. “You actually did it. You absolute idiot. You actually asked her.”

Steve’s ears go pink, but he’s grinning, soft and helpless. “Yeah. I did."

“When?” Robin demands, already bouncing on her toes. “How? Please tell me he cried. I need the details.”

“He definitely cried,” you say, and Steve makes a wounded noise of protest that no one believes for a second.

The next twenty minutes are pure chaos and joy.

Eddie demands to be best man and immediately starts arguing with Dustin about who has seniority. Max keeps turning your hand this way and that under the Christmas lights, muttering, “Not bad, Harrington. Not bad at all.” Eleven quietly asks if she is allowed to help pick flowers. Even Hopper claps Steve on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger and rumbles something that sounds suspiciously like “About damn time.”

Eventually the noise settles into something softer—carols playing low, people scattered across the living room with cookies and cider, the kind of easy warmth that only comes after surviving the end of the world together more than once.

Steve tugs you into the quiet hallway just outside the living room, away from the worst of the noise. The Christmas lights from the tree throw soft colors across his face as he cups your jaw in both hands.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low. “That was… a lot.”

You smile and lean into his touch. “I’m perfect.”

He searches your face for another second, then softens completely. His thumbs stroke over your cheekbones.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I’m gonna marry you. And then I’m gonna spend the rest of my life making sure you're always good.

Columbia University is fine. It isn't MIT, and Peter isn’t there with his best friends, but it’s a good school and MJ and Ned don’t remember him anyway, so going to the same school as them doesn’t really matter all that much anymore. 

Peter reminds himself of these things like a mantra, that everything’s fine. He also tamps down the panic he feels anytime he sees you on campus. 

He knows he can’t avoid you forever. He also knows if you do see him, you won’t know him, so he can just politely smile and keep walking and it will be like nothing happened at all. 

But Peter keeps on hiding from you because of the heartbreak that threatens to tear his chest in two. Saying goodbye to you was one of the hardest things he’s ever done. The memory of finding you at your job at Delmar’s Deli last winter and not reintroducing himself like he promised tears him up inside, but it was the right choice. Still is the right choice. 

Anyone who gets too close to Peter ends up hurt, or worse. Peter would rather die himself than hurt you more than he has already. 

He’s content to be miserable and alone if it keeps you safe—but that all changes spring semester of freshman year, when you walk into the Psychology 101 lecture hall and take a seat next to him.

“Hey!” you say with such warmth and familiarity, Peter wonders if you do remember him now. 

He drops the pencil he’s holding. 

“Uh, hi,” he says, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. 

“I’m Y/N,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”

You hold out a hand to shake and Peter’s hope deflates. Of course. You’re just being nice. You’re always nice, even to strangers, even to people that don’t deserve it.

“Nice to meet you too,” Peter says. He shakes your hand and remembers a second too late to add, “Peter. I’m Peter Parker.”

Something indiscernible flashes across your face.

“Peter Parker,” you repeat. The name is familiar. Why is it familiar?

Before you two can chat more, the professor begins his lecture. Throughout it, Peter steals glances at you every few minutes. 

You’re a little older, but otherwise, it’s like no time has changed since the two of you were together. Since the days where you sat on his kitchen counter while he synthesized new web fluid over the stove. Since the days when you’d snap photos of him as Spidey in action for the school news team. Since the nights he’d sit with you on your fire escape, whispering about your plans for the future and stealing kisses under the stars. 

Peter wants to go back to those days and nights, but he can’t. 

So after class, when you ask if he wants to join you for lunch, he declines. 

“I’ve got to study,” he lies. “Thanks, though! I’ll see you.”

He gives you a curt nod and polite smile before he jogs out of the room. Embarrassed, you call your friends Ned and MJ to debrief. 

“I’m mortified,” you tell them after explaining what happened. “He practically sprinted away from me!”

“At least he was nice when he turned you down,” Ned points out, voice slightly garbled from a bad connection. “He could’ve been a jerk.”

“What’s his name again,” MJ asks. 

“Peter Parker.”

“Huh. Sounds familiar.”

“That’s what I thought!” you say, pressing the phone closer to your ear. “A lot of celebrities send their kids to college in New York. Maybe he’s a nepo baby.”

You hear the clicking of keyboard keys. 

“That’s weird,” Ned says. “I searched his name online and found…nothing.”

“Impossible,” MJ says. “Everyone has a digital footprint.” 

“Not Peter Parker. Except for an Instagram account he made three months ago with no posts on it, there’s no trace of him.” 

“Huh,” you mumble. “Super weird.”

“Stay away from him,” Ned warns. “He could be a serial killer.”

“Oh my god, he’s not a killer!” MJ says. “If he is, he would’ve agreed to lunch and then stabbed Y/N with a fork.”

“This conversation took a dark turn,” you say, shuddering at the image of the cute guy in your psychology lecture murdering you violently. “I’ll talk to you guys later.” 

Things continue the same for a while: you and Peter exchange kind smiles and idle small talk before the psychology lectures, but as soon as class is over, he races off faster than you can say, “Got any lunch plans?”

One day, you walk into class and he’s wearing a large pair of sunglasses. 

“Hey Peter,” you say. “I like your glasses!” 

“Oh, thanks,” he says. Truthfully, he’s wearing them to cover a bruise, courtesy of a new low-level villain terrorizing Manhattan, a trickster called The Spot. “I’m afraid they make me look like a douchebag.”

“No way! You look so cool.”

Peter blushes and mumbles out a thanks. 

After class, he packs up his bag fast, about to do his usual Irish Goodbye and leave before you can ask him anything. However, you’re too quick this time. 

“Look,” you say, “I need to be real with you, Peter: I think you’re really cute and I’d like to get to know you more. Want to get lunch with me?”

Peter’s eyes widen. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he stammers. He adjusts the sunglasses. “I’ve got some stuff going on.”

“It doesn’t have to be lunch,” you say. “And it doesn’t have to be today. We could get dinner, or brunch, any day you want. Whatever works.” 

You’re aware that you sound desperate. Shockingly, you don’t care. 

Peter considers giving in. But he remembers the look of terror on your face as you fell off the scaffolding in the big battle. If Peter 3 hadn’t been there to catch you, you would’ve been killed.

“I’m really sorry,” Peter says, voice small. “You seem like a nice person. But I’m not interested.”

You visibly deflate, shrinking in on yourself as if you wish to miniaturize yourself like Ant-Man and disappear. 

“Oh, no worries,” you say. You smile apologetically at him, voice shaking a bit. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize,” Peter begs. “It’s okay. Really.”

This time, you leave first, head down as you cut through the crowd of students leaving for lunch or new classes. 

Peter feels like a total jerk. But he’s protecting you. This is the best course of action. Right? 

***

“What’s his address? I just wanna talk.”

“MJ, stop,” you say. The two of you are FaceTiming that evening, and you’ve just given her the rundown of your failed attempt at asking Peter out. You swipe a stray tear from your eye. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Nevermind, I don’t need his address,” MJ says. Her eyes glint with malice. “When we come for your birthday, Ned and I will track him down and beat him up for making you cry.”  

“I thought you were a pacifist.”

“I am, until my best friend cries.”

“I don’t even know why I am crying,” you admit. “I mean, why do I care so much? I barely know the guy. But…”

“But what?”

You don’t know how to explain it. There’s an affinity for Peter Parker nestled somewhere deep in your ribcage, and you don’t know why. But it’s threatening to tear you in two pieces or swallow you whole if you don’t get over yourself. 

“But he’s got a nice butt,” you say, attempting to lighten the mood. “I really wanted the chance to touch it.” 

“There are better butts attached to nicer people,” MJ promises. “Guys that won’t totally shut you down without even giving you a chance.” 

You hope that’s true.

***

When your birthday rolls around, Peter wonders if it would be weird to get you a gift. 

Probably, right? Since you’re just psychology seat partners. But he knows how you didn’t have many good birthdays growing up, and in another life when the two of you were dating, he always went all out for your special day. 

He chickens out and doesn’t buy you anything, but when you walk into class with a red birthday ribbon pinned to your jacket, he takes the opportunity to say: “Whoa, happy birthday!” 

“Thanks,” you say with a shy smile. “I know, this is corny. My friends forced me to wear it.” 

“Your friends?” he says, mind flashing to Ned and MJ. He misses them terribly. 

“Yep, my best friends Ned and MJ. They’re at MIT but visiting for the weekend and throwing me a surprise party. They’re not very good at the ‘surprise’ part.” You clear your throat. “You can come, if you want. But no pressure.”  

Peter considers declining, but he really, really doesn’t want to. He allows himself to be selfish, just once. 

“I’d love to,” Peter says with a smile. 

After he makes the rounds as Spider-Man, he arrives at your apartment. There are more people at the party than he expected. He recognizes a couple fellow Columbia students, and another student from your shared psych class hands him a cup of cheap beer. His heart stops up when he sees you in the crowd.  

You’re dressed up more than usual, with the addition of a sparkly, plastic birthday crown. You’re talking and laughing with Ned across the room. You look happy. You look gorgeous. 

Peter’s feet move faster than his brain. He’s stricken with the overwhelming urge to walk over there and tell you just how good you look, to backtrack on what he said before and beg you to go on a date with him. He misses you, he can’t be without you anymore, and goddamn, you’re stunning—

Smack! Peter runs into MJ, spilling beer down the front of her shirt. He was too distracted for his spidey sense to kick in and warn him. 

“Hey, watch it!” she scowls.

“MJ!” Peter squeaks out. “I’m so sorry!”

The scowl deepens.

“How do you know my name?” she demands, fixing him with a harsh glare.

Shit.

“Uh, you’re Y/N’s friend!” Peter blurts out. “They talk about you, like, all the time.”

You’ve mentioned MJ maybe twice. 

“I’m Peter,” he continues, holding out a hand to shake. 

MJ crosses her arms, ignoring his outstretched hand. 

“You made Y/N cry,” she says in lieu of a proper greeting. 

“What?! When?!”

“When they asked you to lunch and you didn’t even give them a chance. Y/N’s the best person I know. You’re really missing out.” 

Peter feels awash in shame. He didn’t realize just how upset he had made you. That was the last thing he wanted. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean—I just—well, I’m—”

Before Peter can stumble his way through an excuse, you and Ned head over.

“MJ, what happened?” you say, noticing the beer stain.

MJ nods in Peter’s direction. “Pete the Klutz gave me a Natty Lite bath.”

“I’m so sorry, again,” Peter says, blushing furiously. 

“I’m sure it was just an accident,” you say. “No worries. Right, MJ?”

She doesn’t respond. You nudge her with your elbow and she says, “Yeah, whatever, it’s fine.”

“I can help you get that out,” you say. “We’ll be back! Ned, Peter, make yourselves at home.”

Ned, always so kind, turns to Peter with a bright smile.

“So,” he says. “Do you like Star Wars?”

“Do I?” Peter says. “Does only a Sith deal in absolutes?”  

“Oh yeah! Y/N loves it too. A few years ago we built a huge LEGO Death Star.”

Peter swallows the lump in his throat. That was the day you and Ned found out his secret, when he crawled into his room at the wrong time. 

“That’s awesome, man,” Peter says weakly. He forces a grin, so Ned doesn’t pick up on his mood shift, and asks, “How many pieces was it?” 

He talks with Ned for a bit, and when you and MJ return, he chats with you for only a moment, before you’re dragged away for cake and presents. 

Peter leaves the party early. He feels like an ass, but he does it because he was right to keep his distance: being with you like this—this phony version of himself, the one where he can’t tell you the truth or keep you close—is killing him inside. 

***

Peter’s spidey sense usually only picks up on true terror and panic. However, while walking through the campus library, his sense picks up a different kind of distress: deep, enveloping sadness.

It’s the kind that can eat you alive from the inside out. Peter knows it well, and it’s coming from the direction of a study room.

Through the tinted glass in the door of the room, he can just barely make out a silhouette backlit by a computer screen glow. The figure has their head in their hands, shoulders shaking as they sob. Peter stops breathing when he realizes it’s you. 

He can’t even stop himself before he’s twisting the doorknob and entering.

“Y/N,” he says urgently, “are you all right?”

“Peter,” you say, quickly wiping the tears away. “Sorry. You caught me at a bad time.”

You start packing up your things with shaking hands. Peter puts a hand on your shoulder to stop you. You suck in a breath, trying to calm your breathing. 

“What happened?” he says. Warped visions of you falling off the scaffolding haunt him once again, this time combined with even more gruesome visions from Mysterio’s mind-bending tricks. “Did somebody hurt you?”

“Someone would have to care about me to want to hurt me,” you mumble, hoping Peter won’t hear. Because of the super abilities you don’t remember he possesses, he does.

“People do care about you!” Peter protests. “I care about you.”

You scoff, a little meanly. 

“Yeah, okay,” you snap. You resume shoving books in your bag and close your laptop a little harsher than necessary. 

“I do, seriously—”

“Oh, really?” you say. You glare at him in a way that could turn a man to stone. “Is that why you barely talk to me in class, except for chit-chat about the weather? Or why you left my birthday party early? I don’t even know why I try with you, Peter. You’ve made it abundantly clear we’re not friends.” 

You toss your bag over your shoulder and storm out. 

“Hey, hold on,” Peter says, following you into the stacks. The two of you get shushed by someone, and he drops his voice to a whisper. “I’m sorry I left. You just had so many other friends there and I didn’t want—”

“Those people aren’t my friends!” you hiss. “MJ and Ned are my friends. The others were all invited by my roommate, because I have no social life. No love life. And to top it all off, I’m barely passing my classes.” You sniffle and rub your eyes harshly. “I’m a fucking wreck.”

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. You know, I could help you study—”

“Spare me, Peter. Don’t pretend like you all of a sudden care about me.”

Peter wants to scream until his voice is hoarse that he does care about you, so much. That he loves you and would do anything for you. That he misses your smile, your kiss, your touch. 

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice cracking. “I know I’ve been a little cold to you, and I apologize for that. I’m here for you, always.” 

You roll your eyes and huff. You start to turn away, but Peter stops you.

“Please call or text me anytime, no matter when,” he says. He tears a page out of his notebook and scribbles his cell number on it. “Life kinda sucks sometimes. You shouldn’t have to deal with it alone.”

You’re still glaring at him, but you accept the note before darting away. 

Peter watches you go, cursing himself for keeping his distance for so long when you needed the opposite. He makes a promise to himself right then and there that he’s not leaving you alone anymore. Never again. 

***

Over time, you soften to Peter once more. 

He makes more of an effort to “get to know you” in your before-class chats—even though he knows everything from before Dr. Strange’s spell. He also tells you more about himself, except for the obvious secrets.

Feeling bold, Peter asks you to go to lunch with him after class a few days after your conversation in the library. You’re suspicious by his sudden interest and look like you want to turn him down, but curiosity gets the better of you and you agree.

One lunch turns to two, which turns to five, which turns to every day, even the days you don’t have psych together.

You aren’t dating again, but Peter won’t lie and say he hasn’t thought about wrapping his arms around you and kissing you sweetly. 

He gives into the temptation after he walks you home from lunch one day.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N!” Peter says, once you’ve arrived at your apartment door.

“See you,” you say. You start to stick your key in the lock, but suddenly turn back. “Hey, wait. Can I tell you something?” 

“Sure,” Peter says. “What’s up?” 

You clear your throat, unable to look him directly in the eye. You focus on a piece of lint on his shoulder and say, “Listen, Peter, I’m fine to continue with these completely platonic lunches, but I can’t deny anymore that I’m head over heels for you and want you to be my boyfriend.” 

Peter stops breathing.

“You are?” he says, voice cracking.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t know why, but I feel so close to you. Like I’ve known you for longer than half a semester. And if you don’t feel the same, that’s totally fine. I won’t be upset and I still want to be your friend. I just had to get it off my chest. So…yeah. You don’t have to say anything or—”

Peter surges forward, hands cupping her cheeks as he kisses you. You kiss him back, apartment keys slipping out of your fingers.

Peter realizes what he’s doing and pulls away, eyes tinted with shame and regret.

“Oh god,” he says. “Y/N, I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” you say, forcing an awkward laugh. “I think that was the best kiss of my life.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Peter continues. He watches as your face morphs from confused to sad. “I like you too!” he quickly reassures. “And I do want to be your boyfriend. But my life is…it’s not easy. And being with me won’t be easy. I have…problems.”

“Pete,” you say. He melts at the nickname. “Everyone has problems. I sure as hell have plenty of my own. But I like you a lot. And if you like me too, don’t we owe it to ourselves to try?”

Peter’s mouth goes dry. He wants to shut this down. That would be the responsible thing. 

Love trumps responsibility. Peter kisses you again, and again, and again, and then you grab your keys and clumsily unlock your door, dragging him inside with you to kiss some more.

***

Peter’s a nice boyfriend, but he’s flighty. 

He’s late often, or he leaves early. You try not to let it bother you, because when Peter is around, he’s kind and loving and always gives you his undivided attention. 

But you can only wake up to an empty bed after a night of passion so many times before it starts to hurt. 

You decide you’re going to ask Peter why he never stays the full night with you. Not to be accusatory. Just in a casual, roundabout, you-still-like-me-right? type way. 

You walk across campus, heading toward the bus stop that’ll take you to Peter’s place when you get the sense you’re being watched.

Hackles raised, you turn and glance behind you. No one is there.

You shudder and face front, walking a bit faster.

It’s early morning. Dapples of light wash the world in a rosy glow. It should be serene, but you still feel eyes on you, burning your skin like pinpricks. 

You break into a jog, only two minutes from the bus stop. You think that you can make it, until—

Smack! Something unseen trips you, and you faceplant onto the sidewalk.

“What’s wrong, Spider-Man?” Somebody above you cackles. “Not expecting to see me?”

You quickly turn onto your back and gasp. A man towers above you. He’s wearing a white suit covered in black spots, like a poor man’s excuse for a dalmatian. 

“I’m not Spider-Man!” you say, crawling backward away from him. “I swear!”

“Nice try!” he snaps. “I’ve been watching you, and after our battles, you always come back to campus. You always swing to the same apartment, and I followed you there. Don’t try to deny it!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, voice shaking. “I’m just a dumbass trying to get a degree. Now, if you excuse me—”

You try to stand, but the dalmatian wannabe raises his fist. Before you can scream for help, he whacks you in the forehead. The world fades to black.

***

Peter drags himself through his apartment, sore from Kingpin’s punches the night prior and wishing he was still with you.

Each time the two of you sleep together, Peter gets a spidey sense for trouble after you're asleep. He has to disappear without warning in the middle of the night. 

Maybe the universe really hates me, Peter thinks. I finally get Y/N back, but I’ll lose them again if I keep ditching them like this. 

He starts to pour a bowl of cereal but spills it all over the counter when he gets it: a sudden sense that you’re in trouble. 

He’s not 100% sure how he can tell it’s you, but he just knows. He gets a feeling of where in the city you are and quickly suits up, before crawling onto the fire escape and swinging your way.

He’s on autopilot, only focused on one thing: keeping you safe.

He swings to the Brooklyn Bridge and, to his horror, The Spot has you tied up. Traffic is stopped on either side of the two of you.  

You’re unconscious, chin tucked to your chest, but there’s a huge bruise forming over your left eye. Under his mask, Peter scowls.

“Hey, Spot!” Peter yells, landing a few yards away. “Aren’t you late for obedience school?”

“What?!” The Spot says, shaking his head vehemently. “No, no. You aren’t Spider-Man!”

“Aren’t I?” Peter says, gesturing to his suit. “Damn, you need your eyes checked.”

“You aren’t Spider-Man because they are!” The Spot says, pointing in your direction. “And Kingpin sent me to toss them into the East River!”

The crowd that’s gathered gasps and murmurs. 

Peter’s heart sinks. After doing his Spidey thing, he must have swung to your apartment one too many times. This Dr. Strange Wannabe with terrible fashion sense followed him there and assumed you were him the next time you left. 

Peter pushes down the nauseous feeling that swirls in his stomach. He can’t get distracted by guilt, not right now. 

“There's only one Spider-Man,” Peter says coolly, "and he’s me. So, let them go, or else.”

The Spot cackles.

“Or else what?” he taunts. “You’re going to web me up? Try and catch me, first!”

The Spot opens a portal to the left of Peter’s head and punches him between the eyes. Peter staggers back as the villain pulls his arm back, closing the portal. 

A game of cat and mouse continues: Peter shoots webs at The Spot. The Spot dives through a portal to avoid the webs. He punches Peter and gets cocky, and then Peter punches The Spot while the villain’s guard is down. 

Eventually, you come to, head pounding. You adjust to the sound of people cheering, punches being thrown, and…is that water?

The Spot notices you stir and opens a new portal, right underneath you. The portal dumps you high in the sky. Gravity pulls you toward the choppy surface of the river, and you scream.

Peter moves on autopilot. He connects a web to the bridge and swings out to you, wrapping an arm around your waist when you’re three yards from the water. You burrow your head onto his shoulder and sob. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Peter says, holding you tight. “I’ve got you now.”

He swings back to the bridge and gently places you on the ground. He works to untie you as police cars and ambulances pull up. The Spot is nowhere to be found.

“I’m sorry, Spider-Man,” you say, sniffling and trying to keep tears from falling. “If you hadn’t saved me, you would’ve gotten your villain.”

“Don’t ever apologize,” he says. “I’m here for you, always.” 

The way he says it…it stirs something in you. A memory. 

Your eyebrows lift. Your jaw goes slack. You study Spider-Man’s mask, recognizing it. Not because Spider-Man is the most popular hero in the city—because you’ve seen this mask before. Touched it before. Pulled it off and kissed the boy underneath it.

Spider-Man starts to swing away so the EMTs can check you over, but you grab his covered hand to stop him. 

His hands. They’re calloused and warm, and they fit yours perfectly. In another life, you used to doodle on those hands in Mr. Harrington’s class at Midtown. Because Spider-Man is Peter Parker, and Peter Parker was a student with you at Midtown. 

A baptism of memories washes over you. You remember two lives: one where you met Peter at Midtown orientation. One where you met him in Psychology 101. You love him fiercely in both. 

“Pete,” you whisper, quietly so only he can hear you. “It’s you.” 

The white eyes on Spider-Man’s mask grow in size. Before he can respond, you throw your arms around his neck and hug him. 

“I remember,” you say. “I remember everything. Vulture, Mysterio, the other yous…oh my god, Pete.” 

You’re crying again, before you can help it. Under his mask, Peter cries too, holding you close as his mind buzzes away.

You remember him. 

You remember him. 

***

Peter Parker knows that it sucks to go through life alone.