sweet dreams, don't leave me

The moment he had seen the slightly obnoxious bright blue and butter yellow signage, Steve’s eyes were instantly drawn to the red anchor that sat between the S and the A. It was near identical to the anchor that had appeared on his wrist at ten years old. It was then Steve realised he had been dead wrong, that he wasn’t meant to meet his soulmate on cruise at sea. He was going to meet his soulmate here—at the job where he made $3 an hour and where he was forced to wear a sailor uniform.

Steve spent his summer slinging ice cream for kids with sticky fingers, begrudgingly giving Erica Sinclair free samples and checking the wrist of almost every woman who walked into the ice cream parlour. Days slipped into weeks and yet—Steve never lost hope.

And so, when he first met you—Max’s older sister who had been dragged along to buy her sister ice cream—of course his eyes had shifted down in the hopes of seeing your wrist. But you had been wearing an abundance of bracelets and he couldn't see whether or not you had the mark.

Still, he held out hope anyway because you were pretty and he felt a warm, fluttering feeling in his stomach when he was near you. A feeling his mother had once told him that he would only feel when his soulmate was near.

But you gave nothing away—no indication that you felt that feeling too or that you even noticed his own soul mark.

Steve held out hope that one day he'd see it on your wrist.

And he did—at your step brother Billy's funeral.

He saw it only for a few, brief moments as the sleeve of your blouse dipped while you wiped away your tears. But it was there and it was undeniable—the anchor that was identical to his own etched into the skin on your wrist. 

Of course he didn't tell you then. You were grieving and it wasn't the right time. Still, he let you cry on his shoulder, he became a friend—just a friend—who was there when you needed him. He helped to get you a job at Family Video when you worried about your family's finances and he became your ride home from work. But still, Steve didn't tell you and it was eating him alive—being friend zoned by his own soulmate. He was just biding his time and maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington was fucking terrified that you already knew and that there was a part of you that was disappointed that the universe had decided you belong together.

And so, Steve Harrington kept the fact that you were his soulmate to himself. For now.

Max Mayfield usually came along to Family Video with her skateboard tucked under one arm just before closing time. It had become routine for her over the past few months—skating after school and letting the hours slip by and then heading to the video store so Steve could give you both a lift back to the trailer park. It had been a routine ever since you had scolded her for skating home late at night. She had huffed at the time, called you paranoid but still—she showed up to the video store after every skate boarding session and got into Steve’s beamer with no complaint.

Whenever Max would walk into the video store, she would always head straight for the horror section. You had told her, perhaps a hundred times, that there was no way you were going to let her rent The Slumber Party Massacre or Friday the 13th but still—Max just gravitated towards it.

The sound of Cloudbusting by Kate Bush blared through her headphones. Max hummed the words under her breath as she picked up a tape for The Evil Dead, flipping it over to read the back.

“You know your sister isn’t going to let you rent that, right?”

Max only just hears Steve’s voice over her music. She rolls her eyes and doesn’t put the tape away.

“Whatever Harrington," Max replied with a small huff, pulling her headphones down to rest around her neck before casting a quick glance over at Steve who was restocking a nearby shelf. “I can still look, can’t I? Or is that illegal now?”

Steve opens his mouth to reply but honestly—trying to outwit Max Mayfield was something he simply could not do eight hours into his shift.

“Why don’t you check out the more age appropriate films?” He asks, glancing over to the front counter where you were going through the end of shift returns box while Robin talked your ear off about her most recent Vickie update.

“Like what?” Max asked, uninterested. “Annie?”

Steve very nearly laughed but managed to stop himself, pursuing his lips as he placed My Bloody Valentine back onto the shelf.

“Funny,” Steve murmurs, lips twitching slightly as he looks down at Max. “No, I was thinking something more like… The Goonies or—”

“You sound like just my sister,” Max mutters, her blue eyes bright as they flicker over to Steve with a mischievous look on her face. “No wonder you two are soulmates.”

The tapes Steve had been holding all clatter to the floor. Both you and Robin look over at the noise while Max didn’t even bother to hide her amusement.

“Are you good over there, Stevie?” Robin calls out to Steve as he scrambles to pick up all of the tapes he had just dropped, his face burning an impressive shade of red. You meanwhile were looking over at Max in surprise, having only just realised that your sister was in the store.

“Yeah! Sorry—butter fingers!” Steve calls back as he shoots Max a look that plainly says ‘shut up’.

Max sends you a quick smile in acknowledgement before turning to look back at Steve who was now blushing a shade of red that Max did not know he was even capable of turning.

“How did you—”

“—oh, come on Steve,” Max huffs, though Steve can’t help but notice how she speaks in a low voice, eyes flickering back over to you as though making sure you couldn’t hear. “I’m not an idiot, you have the same soulmarks—”

“—I never said you were an idiot,” Steve says quickly as he shoves the last tape back onto the shelf before turning to look at Max fully. “And that’s just a coincidence—” 

“—you have an anchor. She has an anchor in the exact same place. You met at Scoops—none of that is coincidence.”

Steve opens his mouth to respond and then quickly closes it again because she was right. When it came to soulmates, there was no such thing as coincidences.

“Plus you act all…pathetic when you’re around her.”

Steve's ears turned red, almost perfectly matching the shade that his cheeks had turned.

“I do not—”

“—you do,” Max tells him with a faint smile. “Really pathetic, actually.”

Steve huffs in response and once again, his eyes shift over to you—mostly so he could make sure you weren’t listening to his conversation with your sister but also because you looked ridiculously pretty. You always did but today you’d done something different with your hair and—

“Exhibit A,” Max says, clicking her fingers directly in his face to snap him out of whatever trance you had unknowingly sent him into. “Staring at her like a lovesick puppy.”

“Well she is my soulmate,” Steve says, his heart thumping in his chest because it was the first—the very first time—he had said those words out loud because he hadn’t told anyone. Not even Robin (though, admittedly that was because Robin had an inability to keep a secret due to the fact she had a tendency to ramble when nervous).

“Surprised you worked it out,” Max says under her breath.

Steve has to force himself to take a deep breath, having to remind himself that Max was going through a lot. Between witnessing Billy’s death, your stepdad leaving, the move to the trailer park and a breakup with her own soulmate, it was no wonder she was a little more brash than usual.

“Yeah well, your sister doesn’t seem particularly fussed about having me as a soulmate,” Steve says finally, looking away from Max and instead looking at the tape still clutched in her hand. “Probably realised it was me and—”

“—it’s not you,” Max interrupts him quickly in a tone so surprisingly soft that he looks back at her. “Trust me she’s just—she’s just skeptical, she doesn’t really—”

“—believe in soulmates?” Steve finishes, jaw tightening because he had always had a feeling that you didn’t by the way your mark was always covered or the way you couldn’t even pretend to be interested when a soul couple would come into the store and share their story.

Steve had never hoped before that he was wrong but as he waited for Max to respond, he prayed he was. But when she says nothing in response—he knew he was right and the feeling that began to burn in his gut could have killed him.

Max, perhaps noticing the heartache written all over his face, quickly adds, “It—it’s a long story but if you talk to her—”

“—no,” Steve says quickly, shaking his head and pulling himself together in the blink of an eye. “I’m not going to make her do something she clearly doesn’t want to do.”

Max’s expression changes, she looks slightly panicked and shakes her head. “No Steve, you don’t understand—”

“—you should put the tape away,” Steve tells her, nodding towards The Evil Dead tape that Max was still holding. “Before your sister sees.”

And with that, Steve heads towards the stock room before Max could see the way his hands were shaking.

You couldn’t help but notice the distance that Steve Harrington had carefully placed between the two of you.

He still gave you a ride home from work, still laughed along with you and Robin at work, still showed up to the trailer unannounced with a bag full of groceries for your mom. But Steve no longer lingered, he stopped calling to tell you about whatever story you had missed from your day off at the video store, he stopped giving you those one armed hugs before he went on his lunch break that had become part of your routine. You were beginning to feel his absence like it was a physical ache.

And so, you sit in the passenger seat of Steve’s beamer after a shift at Family Video and two weeks of distance wondering whether or not to ask Steve if you had done something wrong.

Perhaps your nerves were a little too obvious because barely two minutes into the car journey, Steve was looking over at you.

“You gonna stop bouncing your leg like that?” He asks. “It’s distracting.”

“Sorry,” you mutter quickly, eyes fixed determinedly on the road ahead as you place your hands on your knees to try and stop them from moving.

It’s quiet then—aside from the gentle hum of the radio, Time After Time filling the silence between you and Steve. 

“You okay?” He asks suddenly, shooting you a hesitant glance before focusing back on the road. “You’re a little quiet.”

You chew your bottom lip between your teeth as you consider your reply. You could be honest with him—you could tell him that you were worried that you had done something wrong, that you had felt the distance Steve had put between you. How that distance had started to feel like a chasm and you didn’t know what to do.

Or you could lie. 

You choose the latter.

“Long shift,” you say finally with an attempt at a smile.

It was a lie and you both knew it. 

But Steve doesn’t press you further. That somehow hurt more than the distance. 

Your leg begins to bounce before you could stop it. Steve glances at you again.

“You’re doing it again—”

“—did I do something wrong?” You burst out suddenly, the feelings in your gut swirling in a dangerous storm.

Steve’s eyes remain on the road but you see the way his face blanches ever so slightly. “Wrong?” He repeats in a voice of forced composure. “Why would you think—”

“—because y-you’re different, Steve,” you say finally, your heart racing as you turn to look at him fully. “You don’t—you’re treating me differently and I just—I’m trying to understand what on earth I did wrong.”

“You didn’t—”

“—then why won’t you look at me, Steve?”

You can feel the anger beneath your words, a tone that surprised even you. But still, Steve doesn’t say anything and you simply watch as his jaw tightens, as his knuckles gripping onto the steering wheel turn white.

“Because I’m driving, Mayfield.”

You feel cold at the use of your surname. In all the time you had known Steve, he had never called you by your last name. It felt cold and distant and it made something in your gut turn uncomfortably.

“Pull over,” you say suddenly.

“What?”

“I said pull over.”

“Are you insane? I’m not—”

“Pull over, Harrington or I swear to god that I’ll open the door and—”

“Alright!” Steve snaps back, his clipped tone matching your own as he signals before he pulls over into the side of the road. “I’m pulling over, happy?”

You wait until Steve’s car is stationary before you decide to answer him. “Ecstatic.”

And then—without another word, you rip open the passenger side door and climb out of his car without another word.

You make it perhaps ten feet up the road before you hear Steve calling after you.

“Where are you going? Mayfield! Have you lost your damn mind?—”

“—Mayfield?” You repeat, anger flaring as you turn around to face Steve, only to find him barely two feet away from you. You try not to think about the way your stomach turns at that. “Since when do you call me Mayfield, Steve?”

Steve blinks, seeming to realise his misstep as he rubs a hand over his face in frustration.

“I—I don’t know, I just—”

“—can you just tell me what I’ve done wrong? If I’ve pissed you off or annoyed you or—”

“—you haven’t,” Steve says too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—you’re just calling me Mayfield and avoiding me like the plague?”

“I’m not avoiding you, I just—”

“—you’re just, what, Steve?”

“I’m just upset, okay?” Steve exclaims angrily, and the exhaustion in his voice silences you.

You blink, your eyes flickering over his face as you try and understand his anger.

“Upset?” You repeat, confused, hurt and everything in between. “Why are you—”

“Because I can’t be around you anymore!” He snaps, your name cracking at the end of his sentence like a whip.

Your blood starts to run cold. The skin on your left wrist itches. 

“Why?” You ask, your shoulders slumping slightly as you look at him, feeling something inside of you break a little.

Steve looks as though he was bracing himself, scrubbing another hand over his face before he takes a deep breath and looks at you properly this time.

“I can’t—I can’t be around you because—I know. I know you’re my soulmate.”

The air in your lungs disappears. The words seem to echo around you as you try to digest exactly what Steve had just said. And your eyes, your traitorous eyes, move down to the exposed skin of his wrist where the anchor identical to yours was etched into his skin.

“How did you—”

“—I saw it. At Billy’s funeral.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you had been holding, glancing down to the wrist you had kept covered for years. The mark you had tried to ignore since you were thirteen years old.

“Steve, I—”

“You knew, right?” Steve asks, taking a single step towards you as his eyes hold you captive. “You knew—you knew I was your soulmate, didn’t you?”

You had the urge to lie, to tell Steve that no, you had no idea. But one look in those big, brown eyes and you knew you couldn’t.

You give a small, barely there nod.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “I knew the day I first met you at Scoops.”

Something in Steve’s expression cracks—a mix of hurt and betrayal that words couldn’t quite explain.

“Then why—why didn’t you say anything?” He asks you, your name falling from his lips at the end of his question like it had always belonged there. “I mean—we’re soulmates and you didn’t say anything.”

You look away for a brief moment, a sense of shame mixing with that fluttering, warm feeling in your gut you had always felt around Steve. The feeling you had tried so hard to ignore. 

“Is it me?” He asks you, taking another hesitant step closer to you. You can see the hurt, the desperation in his eyes as he watches you. “Were you—were you that disappointed that it was me who was your—”

“—no!” You say quickly, your throat thick with emotion. “God, no. Of course I wasn’t disappointed. I mean, you—you’re—you’re great. Amazing, actually.”

Steve’s expression softens slightly, eyes slightly glassy as he looks at you. “Then why didn’t you say anything? Is it because you don’t believe in soulmates?”

You flex your fingers before you dig your nails into the skin of your palms, your breathing starts to feel uneven. 

“It’s not that I don’t believe in them,” you say finally, swallowing a lump in your throat as you force yourself to look at Steve. “I ju—just—I’m scared.”

“Scared?” Steve asks, perplexed as his eyes flit down to watch the way your nails bite into your skin. His own hands twitch as though he was desperate to reach for you. “Why would you be scared?”

You want to look away, you almost do but something in Steve’s eyes keeps you there.

“Becuase my mom met her soulmate when she was young too,” you tell him in an uneven voice. “And he—something really bad happened to him.”

You don’t elaborate and Steve doesn’t press you further, but you don’t miss the way he looks at you with softer eyes.

“Then she met my dad who hadn’t ever met his soulmate and they fell in love and things were great for a long time. She had me, then she had Max. And we were happy. But then he met his soulmate—some random woman in a grocery store while me and Max were standing right there. And things just—things fell apart pretty quickly after that. My mom met Neil and she—she was never the same. All because she was trying to fill a hole that couldn’t be filled—her soulmate dying. The person she was meant to have forever with only being in her life for two years. Even in the years with my dad that were good, I could tell she—she was looking at my dad and seeing something else, seeing somebody else. An—and when you know what someone goes through when they lose their soulmate—I just—I don’t want to go through that.”

You hadn’t realised that tears had started falling before it was too late, your voice breaking and traitorous tears beginning to slip down your cheeks.

“Baby,” the word falls so naturally from Steve’s lips that it makes your heart feel lighter. A small sob escapes you before you could stop it and Steve doesn’t hesitate this time in taking another step closer, lifting his own hand to wipe away your tears so gently it very nearly took your breath away. “You don’t—you’re not gonna lose me—”

“—you can’t promise that, Steve,” you say, fighting the urge to push him away from you—because the place where his skin was touching yours felt hot enough to burn. “You—I've seen you. You throw yourself into danger without a care in the world! You act as though you’re disposable and I ca—can’t watch it happen, Steve, I can’t—”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve hushes you softly, two large hands cupping your cheeks gently and rendering you powerless to his touch. “I know, okay? I can’t promise that—that something bad might not happen to me. Or to you. Or to both of us. Okay? I know that. But—but you’re my other half and no matter how much time we have together, whether it’s seventy years or seventy days, I promise you that I’m in, one hundred per cent.”

“If you need time or space. I’ll give it to you. I swear. But I’m not going to let you throw this away because you’re scared. Baby, I’m scared too. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to give this everything I got because—what if we do get seventy years? What if we get seventy great years? You really gonna throw all that away because you’re scared?”

You swallow and you try to look away from him, his words too intense but Steve doesn’t let you—his hands keeping your head gently between palms.

“But what if—”

“—if we don’t get them then what we do get will be beautiful anyway,” Steve tells you in a voice so fierce yet so certain, you found yourself unable to look away from him even if you wanted to. “I can’t promise you a lot, but I can promise you that.”

The fear still lingered in your gut—the place it had lived since you had first walked into Scoops Ahoy! to see your soulmate in a sailor uniform. The fear that kept you up at night, that imagined over and over again what those Russians had done to Steve to leave his face and body black and blue. The fear that kept those bracelets covering your soulmark for years.

But alongside that fear was that feeling that you had never been able to shake—that warm, fluttering feeling whenever Steve was near. The one that made you realise that home wasn’t a place, that it wasn’t Hawkins nor was it California—that home was Steve Harrington.

And in the end, it was that feeling that won.

Your hands move without you thinking too much about it, fisting the front of his vest as you tug him closer. And when your lips met his, it was like two pieces of a puzzle slotting together, like the sea kissing the shore, like everything had finally fallen into place.

Steve’s hands find their way into your hair as he kisses you back with lips so smooth that you couldn’t think straight. Everything else had ceased to exist and all that remained Steve and his lips on yours, You barely even register that you were kissing Steve Harrington on the side of the road—that cars were driving by and honking at the two of you as his other hand rested on your waist to pull you even closer.

It was only when you felt droplets of rain beginning to fall that you finally pulled away from each other.

“Is it really starting to rain?” You ask, laughing as you look up to feel the rain falling onto your skin like a million tiny kisses. “Right now?”

Steve smiles, watching the smile break out onto your face as the rain starts to fall even harder. His fingers gently wrap around your left wrist, tugging down your bracelets to expose your soulmark before lifting it up to press a gentle kiss to the anchor that lived on your skin, the mark glowing golden beneath his lips.

“There’s no such thing as coincidence when it comes to soulmates,” Steve mutters against your skin.

“Maybe you’re right,” you whisper back softly with a faint smile. “Now should we get out of the rain?”

Steve hums, considering your question as he looks back at you. “Maybe just after—”And then before you could even breathe, his lips were back on yours. You let out a gasp of surprise and the rain fell even harder around you, but you didn’t pull away. Because this was right where you and Steve were always meant to be.

dividers by @suupersonic

support dividers by @saradika-graphics

line dividers by @omi-resources

.✦ ݁˖ rec account: @moonstone-recommends .✦ ݁˖

Hawkins High gymnasium. Saturday, April 15, 1989. Approximately 9:30 PM.

Some pop hit plays over the freshly-installed, state-of-the-art speakers, echoing across the emptied expanse of Hawkins High School’s usual gymnasium. All the bleachers retracted and basketball hoops removed just for tonight, for the shimmering disco ball someone somehow attached to the ceiling, for the sparkling tinsel and hand-painted backdrops adorning every visible wall. But most of all, for the Class of ‘89, their senior prom. 

After everything those kids went through, whether believed to be earthquake or Vecna-related, the staff had decided it was finally time to go all out. To send them out into the real world with a bang, with a plethora of balloons and bombs made of glitter that would definitely be hell for the janitor to clean up Sunday afternoon. After all, what was high school without prom, without a little fun, especially after the end of the world had been avoided?

The gym is dark, lit by only the tiny broken reflections of the mirrorball above. The kids – God, could you even call them that anymore? They were turning into adults now – are scattered across the makeshift dancefloor, socializing and dancing and acting like they hadn’t all put their lives at risk months ago to try and fix everything. Still together, just into smaller sub-groups, they all had matching smiles, a mirrored ease that almost made you feel better about agreeing to chaperone them in the first place. 

Almost.

It feels stupid, really, from where you’re sitting in the corner of the gym, darkness shrouding you like maybe you can hide, like maybe you don’t really exist tonight if you’re not out on the floor, under the sparkles and strobe lights, putting your perfectly-chosen dress and done-up hair to good use. 

No. Instead, you’re sulking, the dark blue rhinestones of your dress invisible just like you want them to be, but not how you’d pictured them. It was foolish to try to take a moment not meant for you and twist and mold it until it could be yours, but you did. You had hoped – that disappointing thing you kept telling yourself you would stop doing – tonight would be fun. 

That was before you’d settled into the corner, far enough away to watch but not participate. Close enough to the clock on the wall to keep glancing up at it like it could change things. Like it could manifest someone who you knew wouldn’t show up anyway.

Thirty-five minutes late. Not late, exactly, because late still implies caring enough to come, which he hadn’t. Thirty-five minutes of trying to distract yourself by watching everyone else; Lucas and Max stealing kisses when they thought no one was around, Dustin and Mike bursting into laughter after trying to teach El and Will some kind of line dance that they poorly imitate, and Steve… Well, Steve fit in like he always did at parties, all charming smiles with shiny teeth and suave words. 

But it was different than before, than the Steve from before. You tried not to notice, in that same way that you tried not to notice lots of things about him, but those efforts always proved futile, and so did these. 

The way he was always scanning the room, internally counting heads. Checking. Keeping track. Lucas, Max, El, Will, Mike, Dustin. Dustin, Lucas, Will, El, Mike, Max. You only recognized it because you felt it too, never quite sure when the curtain would fall and everything would go to shit again. Two young adults transformed into a different kind of chaperone for the night, one far less dangerous than the usual. Still, old habits die hard.

When his brown eyes find yours after moments of scanning the crowd every time, you pretend not to notice. You pretend he’s not including you in the count, in the group of people filed away under ‘Safe?’ in his head. With a question mark because he’s ever-present, always checking, always questioning. Not quite anxious, but not exactly at ease either. In that weird in-between space that you often felt trapped in after your group had stormed into the Upside Down and overtaken Vecna. 

An emotional purgatory, sort of, because something seemed unsaid. A door left open just an inch, cracked enough to let something in – or out – but you could never grasp what exactly that something was.

Like everything else, you shove it down and pretend it’s not there. 

When you hear the distant thud of footsteps against laminated hardwood, you swirl around the bright blue punch in your red solo cup and go back to picking at the silver nail polish on your fingers. Casual, like you couldn’t tell exactly who it was by footfall, by the slightly obnoxious clicking of his loafers – the ones his parents bought him for some social event he ditched last summer to be with you and the kids instead. 

Steve Harrington, in all his painstakingly styled hair and glory, takes one look at you – easy smirk fading for something softer, worry creases lining themselves between his brows – and you hate how quickly he reads you to a T.

“Still no Ben?” 

You shake your head, having to stiffen your shoulders to try to ease the dramatic slouch of them. No sulking.

“Nope.” Attempting nonchalance, popping the P with a little too much enthusiasm. Like you hadn’t invited a cute guy from work, who you’d been on a couple dates with, to chaperone your favorite teenagers’ senior prom together. Another date: a little more real, letting him in to show you these kids that meant so much to you, and a lot more pathetic, apparently, because your excitement had been enough of a sign for him to bail on you out of nowhere. 

Quiet follows. Too much quiet, so you finally redirect your gaze to him. A dangerous mistake, though, because Steve Harrington cleans up almost too well. Nothing like when you both attended your own prom, when he was full of hairspray and attitude. He’s softer now, more relaxed, knowing who he is and what he stands for. You can still smell a little Farrah Fawcett in the air, but it’s faded beneath some cologne he wears that’s spicy and woodsy all at once. Something you smelled once and said you liked, and suddenly it was all he wore, and like always, you pretended not to notice.

His hair’s longer, not untamed but styled in a messy kind of way that makes him look both older and younger. Youthful, but mature. Out from underneath that nasty wing of his parents, escaping their pretty and polished worldview for something imperfect and genuine. His suit jacket is undone, his tie taken off and left on some table nearby. He’s loose, the days of caring about appearances long gone – stupidly handsome, something you could admit because it was an objective fact, right? – and he’s looking down at you like he has been lately, something you can’t quite make out. Like he’s searching for something he’s already found but isn’t sure whether he should dig up yet.

He slides a foot beneath the leg of a folding chair to your right, pulling it closer to your side with a screech that’s loud but masked by the music, by the socialization of teenagers having one last glorious memory being kids. He sits down, legs spread out like he owns the place. Against your will, it makes you smile.

Steve seems too busy thinking, debating, staring at his hands on his knees, to catch it. To savor it like that little part of your brain you shut out knows he does.

“He sucks, you know.” A beat of silence, just enough for him to get anxious and overthink it. To feel like he needs to add more words to smooth it over. “Like – if he doesn’t wanna be here. With the kids, with you.”

You take a long sip from the cup in your hand, acting like it has anything stronger than Hawaiian Punch in it. Acting like you’re thirsty and not just finding filler, something to keep you from having to say something more complicated. 

“I know,” is what you settle for, because it’s true. You know he sucks, saw the way he looked at you like just any other girl, like you were replaceable as long as you gave him the time of day and stroked his ego far more than he deserved. But you allowed it, because he was just another for you, too. Another to add to the long list of bad decisions, of boys whose cruel behaviors should have broken your heart but never quite held it close enough to be able to shatter it. 

Because there was something easier in pretending, in going on dates and entertaining guys you knew were bad news. At least then, you knew what to expect. Then, the betrayal wouldn’t burn. The disappointment wouldn’t sting because you’d see it coming. It was a backwards way of protecting yourself, of setting yourself up for the worst but finding relief in knowing you were right about it. 

Still, even for you, it was getting old. Pretending to be really into these guys to begin with. Pretending it hurt when they did exactly what was expected of them, when they fit the roles you cast them into. 

But the alternative? It was terrifying. Opening yourself up again, making yourself vulnerable by choice. It felt wrong. It felt like it had something to do with that door that was always left open just a crack, that unspoken something that was eternally lingering, a smoke that would suffocate you if you let it.

You don’t. You won’t. At least, that’s what repeats in your mind like a mantra until everything shifts. 

The strobe lights soften, the music fades down into something softer, fonder. Delicate. The beginnings of one of the many slow songs you would have to endure tonight. One of the many that you hoped you’d at least have someone to dance to, even if it was pretend. But pretend was safe, and safe was a let-down, and now you were going to have to tune out that dull ache of loneliness in your heart for the rest of the night. 

The starting synth of Time After Time plays, Cyndi Lauper seconds away from her cue. You roll your eyes to yourself. Of course. How endlessly cheesy. How endlessly high school of whoever made the song list. How stupidly did it make your chest feel tight, wrong, like you were back in school yourself, on the sidelines, watching. Waiting for someone to make a move that was never going to come, waiting for someone to choose you. 

Waiting for something that never happened, so you stopped asking for it. Stopped yearning. Shut it all down and started pretending in the first place.

But then, before you can continue your internal bout of self-pity, Steve is standing in front of you, hand outstretched, palm up. An offering you recognize but try to shove away, too close to everything you’ve ever wanted.

“You can’t be serious.” You laugh, the sound coming out too tight, too forced to be natural. Too fake to steer off the knowing way he’s staring at you. A small betrayal, your eyes catch on the lines of his palm, the hill of it, your mind joining in on the torture and letting you imagine how soft his skin probably is. How his hands would feel in yours, on your face, tracing reverently along the breadth of your side, from ribs to hip.

You’re left no time to recover from whatever that thought was, because Steve’s as stubborn and handsome as ever, and you know you’re losing whatever mental battle you started with yourself.

“Yeah, I’m serious,” he says, unbelievably soft despite the blaring atmosphere. It was devastatingly magical, really, how he could manage to make something so large seem so small. So personal. Maybe that’s why you say yes, or maybe it’s the way he speaks your name like a prayer into existence. “Come on.”

His hand is warmer than you thought it would be, somehow, as he leads you out onto the dancefloor. He does a quick scan, counting heads until he finds six. And then back to you, like clockwork. Like this is a routine he’s practiced in places other than Hawkins High’s gymnasium. Like he’s added you to the box of keepsakes in his head, the precious, tiny things he has to look after.

For the first time tonight, you step onto the floor and the lights reflect every sequin, every rhinestone, of your dress across the large room. Little specks of white on clumsily slow-dancing bodies, on the dark corner of the gym Steve coaxed you from, in the adoringly dilated pupils of his eyes. He’s alive from the inside out, lit up like he’s never seen a spectacle more joyful.

“Look at you.” He sounds breathless, awestruck. For once, you don’t deny it. Don’t pretend you don’t see it, even if it makes you feel like you can’t inhale all the way. “You look like the night sky.”

He steadies you into position, one hand on your waist, the other still holding yours. At some point, he intertwined your fingers together without you noticing. You feel dizzy, noticing now. Realizing you had let your guard down that much. Still, he pulls you closer, fingers soft on the silk of your dress, on the small of your back. It’s not a traditional slow-dancing stance; it’s more gentle. Careful but thorough, like he’s making this something. Making a move.

Oh god, he’s making a move.

You’d expected the pretending to catch up somehow, to make another appearance and leave you alone again, forced to confront what you’d been trying to deny for too long. The longing, the wanting. The need that crawled beneath your ribs and found home there until it had something to manifest into, someone you actually genuinely wanted with every fiber of your being. Someone who looked at you like you were a star in the sky, even when you weren’t just wearing a dress and pretending someone else made you feel special enough to be one.

“That was the point,” you answer, all honestly for once. It’s like you can’t fight it anymore, like this is the final act. The conclusion on whatever has been brewing between you for far too long, left to simmer under the surface until the time was right. 

The time is right.

The thought, the realization, is both soothing and horrifying. A chance at comfort at the risk of destruction, at the risk of being broken in a way you promised yourself you never would again, of being broken in a way you didn’t think you could recover from. Not if it was from him.

Steve was good. Really, truly, wholeheartedly good. The kind of thing that was rare for a town like Hawkins, full of small-minded busybodies. People who despised anything different, who would rather live the same exact day over and over again, who even deluded themselves into buying whatever half-baked lie the government sold them about Vecna and the almost end of the world. As long as they could wake up and read the morning paper, get their local gossip that they acted like they were too good to indulge in, and be back in bed by nine at night, they would graciously believe any bullshit. 

No, Steve was real, and maybe that’s why he terrified you. Why looking at him for too long always felt like orbiting the sun, but from far too close. Why you were painfully aware of the obvious affection he held for you, and why you – like all the bad, two-faced people of Hawkins – promptly ignored it. Because he was perfect, he would do everything in his power to be perfect for you, and you had no idea what to do with that.

Love was something complicated for you. Arguably the one thing you craved more than anything, but also the first thing you would deprive yourself of. There was this argument some football player had in junior year biology: that oxygen was what humans needed to breathe, but was technically killing them in the process due to aging. 

Love, to you, was that. Essential, but irreversibly damaging. Like being deep underwater and only being able to take in small amounts of oxygen so you won’t empty your air tank. But your tank always felt empty, and the minuscule amounts of misplaced attention you were filling it with were starting to wane.

It was becoming harder to fight it. To find the reasons you’d given for so long as soundproof as they once seemed. 

He doesn’t see you like that. A lie, evident from the softness in his brown, honeyed eyes, how he touched you like he was trying to keep himself in check. Never too far, too fast for you.

It’s the end of the world. Not anymore. No more constant fighting of interdimensional, hellish monsters. No more constant fear of irreversible death or injury.

He’s always going on dates with other girls. Was he? Could you honestly remember the last time he even asked a girl out? 

This line of thinking was dangerous. It gave you hope, reasons to proceed rather than run the other direction without looking back, and you were always running. One foot perpetually out the door, emotionally stunted, distanced from all the awful boys you let take you on dates. Because being loved meant being seen, and your parents’ messy divorce when you were ten taught you that being seen equated to the other person knowing every horrible, intimate way to break you into pieces.

As you follow Steve’s eyes around the room, counting six heads that had lately felt much taller than they should be, you can’t picture him willingly breaking anything into pieces. Not since Jonathan’s camera, which was so long ago that even they had moved past it. 

No, you need to take a step back – maybe literally – from all of this. From convincing yourself you could make this work, from the crushing hope that was beginning to form between your ribs, from the mesmerizing way little flecks of colored light were dancing across Steve’s face, in his dark brown hair. You’re about to make that awful choice, that horribly selfish action of self-preservation, an excuse for air on the tip of your tongue, but of course he opens his mouth and beats you to it.

“Do you remember our senior prom?” 

The question’s innocent enough. You were in the same year in school, entirely different social circles, naturally. Your group was small, close, while his was larger and louder. Still, you never crossed paths, never managed to drift into the same orbit. It was almost impressive, really, how unaware of one another two people in such a small town could be. So many places to overlap, especially in high school, yet you didn’t. It made sense that he was reminiscing, thinking back to his night in the limelight, wondering about how yours had been.

It wasn’t his fault that you hated to think about it. 

“Oh, yikes,” he replies as soon as he clocks the discomforted grimace on your face, which is immediately. “That bad?”

His voice is lighter than before, but that hint of concern is still there, hidden in the slight twitch of his brows, like they want to knit together but he’s trying to fight it, trying to pretend like he’s not trying to read you. You wish you paid less attention to him, that you weren’t as in-tune to his face and his hands and his body as he was to you. Instead, you take that tiny bit of humor and run with it.

“Try being friends with a bunch of people who want to spend the whole night hiding in corners and talking about nothing instead of dancing like everyone else.” 

You really tried hard not to sound too pissed about it, especially so many years later, but bitterness is a knife waiting to cut, lingering beneath the skin and waiting to be set free. 

Steve pauses, considering that, his hand flexing against your waist. 

“They sound like they suck too.” You wonder if he’s piecing it together yet, if he’s solving the puzzle of why you’ve been surrounded by selfish, no-good people for so long. 

“They did.” You don’t bother to disagree, to defend ‘friends’ who were never really your friends at all, the people you knew were never good for you, who never bothered to see past themselves. 

Just like Ben, like all the guys you’d date, all nobodies, just people known for cruelty and being hopelessly self-centered. People who would hurt you eventually, but at least you were used to it. At least you knew what to expect from boys who were known heartbreakers. They’d never get the upper hand on you, never really capable of hurting you if you could see it coming from a mile away.

Swaying in slow circles with one hand still entangled with yours, Steve shakes his head gently. Always gentle, always careful. Always watching, waiting. 

“You deserve better,” he says, whispered like a secret, barely audible over Cyndi Lauper. Not because he thinks you don’t know that, but because he may be able to change how you operate, how you view kindness and genuine affection as guns that are waiting to be loaded. “Not some losers who don’t care about you. Not as friends, not as boyfriends.”

Your chest feels tight again, that nasty little pit of fear growing in your stomach. You feel like you’re going to puke and ruin the kids’ most important night since saving the world, selfish in every possible way. Because denial was easier to cope with than something real, because roping him along and pretending he didn’t look at you like that was easier than being the new reason he was broken, or vice versa for you. 

The sudden urge to admit it, to explain, is too strong to ignore. It makes no sense, but maybe you’re desperate to be understood for once. 

“I know Ben was terrible,” you start, barely able to get the words out around the lump in your throat. “I knew he was going to bail on me tonight.”

They land heavy somewhere deep inside him, you can tell from how his mouth moves, chewing on your confession so he can digest it and know what to say, how to make you feel better. A muscle in his jaw twitches, and he swallows down something he doesn’t say.

“And all the others,” you cut in before he can find words that are too kind for you, too understanding. Words that land between your ribs, so sweet they make you feel even more sick.

Worse than any other reaction, he’s not surprised. He’s debating, not shocked. No wide eyes, no jaws dropped. Maybe you were more obvious than you thought, and that causes shame to burn on your tongue.

“I just wanted to have a good night,” you admit, apparently feeling like now is an amazing time to spill your guts. Nobody had even spiked the punch yet. “Something to make up for the shitty one I had, but I think I sabotaged it myself.”

Steve nods then, somehow sympathetic towards your fucked-up decision-making skills, as if you deserve that for the disappointment you’ve continuously set yourself up for.

“Well,” he begins after a few more moments of silent contemplation, the words shaking on their way out. “It’s a good thing I’m here to fix it for you.” And then he smiles, all patience and affection and all the things you’re not sure you deserve but still crave anyway, and your heart opens just a little, cracked just enough to let something in. Hope, maybe him.

You can’t push away how badly you want it, can’t drown it in the lies, in the doubts like you’re used to. He’s breaking you down piece by piece, tearing down the walls to your heart like he’s got a master set of keys that open doors that you’ve hidden even from yourself, all during the Class of ‘89’s senior prom. 

It’s then that you realize this – dancing with him, being more honest than you can with anyone else – is better than the night you had planned with Ben. Steve looks at you like your dress has transformed you into a galaxy itself, like you’re some kind of celestial being that he personally was the first to discover, to name. Dangerously, you want him to name you as his. So badly that the thought stings, salt in the wounds you’ve let others burrow under your skin for years.

You want the touches that don’t feel stolen or rushed, but reverent. You want his jacket over your shoulders when the wind runs chilly. You want dates, real ones where you aren’t bored out of your mind or pretending to be into some guy you couldn’t care less about. You want his hand on your skin when you have a bad day. You want late nights spent awake laughing about stupid things, not sleeping a wink but never being happier about it. 

You want to be his permanent sidekick chaperone, counting six heads every thirty minutes like clockwork, just as you know he does. You want to stay the seventh, the only one he lets read into the nervousness, the way he’ll never quite be the same after almost losing people so many times, after fighting for moments like these for so long. 

You want him, even now. Especially now, a little broken and anxious like you. If there’s anyone who can tolerate you, it’s someone the same. Someone who’s just as afraid of people leaving, just in a different way.

The music fades away entirely, a quiet intermission following. Stifling, unexpected. It feels like you don’t breathe, don’t think. You just hold his gaze, something raw and tender in your eyes, in your tone.

“I’m just scared.”

Steve doesn’t question it. Doesn’t ask what it is, why you’re afraid. He just knows, somehow, in that way that he always does. Emotionally intelligent beyond belief, knowing what to say and how to say it, no matter what the situation is. 

“I’ll be here for you,” he starts, dropping your hand to bring it to your face, to cup your cheek. His hands are softer, warmer than any that you’ve ever been touched with. And then he says something you never expected from anyone, something so meaningful you always assumed it was out of reach for someone like you: 

“I’ll wait for you.”

Like him, you don’t have to question it. You know, then, what he’s saying. What he’ll spend forever waiting for, if he has to. Even if it isn’t fair, even if it takes months or years. He’s not even upset about it, just genuine in that Steve way that he’s been for as long as you can remember.

For once, you don’t feel sick. You don’t feel scared. Certainty creeps in, hopeful like sunshine breaking through an eternal winter. You don’t push it away, you let it settle.

With a smile more easy than any other, you reply in a whisper. “Okay.”

When he leans in, breath tickling your skin, making it tingle and burn all at once, and presses soft lips to your temple, you don’t pull back. 

Right now, things still suck. That part hasn’t changed but you are all so close to the finish line. Closer than you’ve ever been. Vecna, the source of all of it, the thing that’s been lurking behind every wrong turn and every broken piece of Hawkins, is finally within reach.

And these crawls? It’s the answer to how you will figure out the rest. Step by step. Dark tunnel by dark tunnel. You’ll do whatever it takes to end him for good. 

By now, everyone in Hawkins knows the military owns the town.

Curfews. Checkpoints. Armed patrols rolling through neighborhoods at all hours. Helicopters overhead so often nobody even looks up anymore. Entire streets blocked off behind fences and floodlights while government officials lie through their teeth on the news about “environmental contamination.”

Which means every Crawl has to happen in secret. They have to be quick. Quiet. Precise. That’s what Hopper calls it, like if he keeps repeating the words, the fear will stop leaking in around the edges. 

“Controlled,” is how he phrases it. 

Like anything about this has ever been controlled. You almost want to laugh when he says it because your hands don’t feel controlled. Your thoughts don’t feel controlled. And that quiet, irrational fear sitting under your ribs—the one that whispers you could die down there—definitely isn’t controlled. 

But then you think about why you’re still doing it. Your little brother, who got dragged into this mess long before he understood what it meant, to think he was just a little boy when it all started… and Steve, who somehow ended up in the middle of all of it like he was always meant to be there. The others too, all tangled up in something none of you ever asked for, none of you ever deserved. Sometimes you didn’t understand why the responsibility of saving the world had fallen on you and your friends. You weren’t a hero by any means. So was it selfish to wish this burden belonged to someone else instead?

When your mind dwells on it too much something in you hardens. It doesn’t matter what you feel. It doesn’t matter how fear sits in your chest like a weight. It doesn’t matter if you want to play hero or not, you have to. Because god forbid if something happens—It has to be you. Not them. Never them. You. 

You can’t let anything happen to them. You won’t. That part of you isn’t negotiable anymore. It is an instinct, sharper than fear, louder than reason. If something goes wrong down there, it should be you taking the hit, not them. That’s just how it is, you’ve made that up in your mind a long time ago. 

So you nod when Hopper talks about “controlled.” You follow the plan. You step into the Crawls anyway, even when everything in you is screaming not to. Hawkins is already too close to breaking, and they’re already too important to lose.

- -

Rain pours hard enough to blur the windshield as the van idles beside the abandoned access road outside Hawkins. The woods beyond the barricades are black and endless, lit only by the occasional sweep of military floodlights in the distance.

Inside the van, nobody talks before the Crawl. Maybe they did at the beginning—back when everything still felt uncertain in a different way, when the first few missions were more fear than experience and silence wasn’t something anyone had learned to rely on yet. But after too many close calls, too many mistakes that almost cost everything, staying quiet started to feel like the safest option, like saying less might somehow mean risking less. 

Still, it doesn’t make anything easier. Not when things are getting more serious, more real, and every time you get closer to Vecna it only gets more dangerous, like the Upside Down is learning you just as much as you’re trying to survive it.

The fear stopped being loud weeks ago. Now it sits there, quiet and heavy. It’s left exhaustion that settles deep into everyone’s bones.

“You remember the route?” Hopper asks from the driver’s seat for what feels like the third time, his grip tight on the wheel even though he’s trying to sound steady. He’s the adult, the one supposed to have this under control—but even he can feel it now, the weight of what they’re about to do settling in the van like a second body.

“Jesus, Hopper,” Steve mutters beside you, checking the shells in the shotgun across his lap. “We’ve done this one before.” Steve sounds rather angry in his tone, because that was his nerves talking, too. He’s not actually angry—he’s scared. For whatever reason, emotions tend to get the better of us in situations that put us on edge. Some people lash out in anger, while others fall into sadness. It’s just human nature.

“And Vecna adapts,” Hopper snaps immediately. “So yeah, I’m asking again.”

Suddenly, everyone goes quiet again, no one arguing after that. The weight of Hopper’s words cloud your mind like toxic gas you can’t escape. Rain taps steadily against the roof of the van, soft and endless, like it doesn’t care what’s waiting for you out there. 

In the dim dashboard light you catch a glimpse of your younger brother. Dustin somehow looks younger and older at the same time. You can’t help but think about how he’s too young for all of this, for the shaking hands and the radio packs he’s forcing himself to focus on. And all you can think about is how you still see him as that little kid with the missing teeth and the big, pearly, gummy smile that used to show up like nothing in the world could touch him, like everything was still simple enough to figure out, and all those innocent times when his only worry was about D&D and nerdy comics. 

You nudge his shoulder gently, careful, like you’re trying not to break whatever’s holding him together, and ask, “You okay?”

Dustin Henderson snorts. “Fantastic. Love risking my life in nightmare hell dimensions.”

“That's enough Dustin,” Steve says automatically as if Dustin’s sarcasm triggers him. 

You’d noticed that Steve and Dustin had been on edge with each other lately. The two people you cared about most in the world were too busy fighting to see how much it was tearing you apart. Under any other circumstances, you would’ve fought harder to make them stop, but with the possible end of the world hanging over all of you, nothing felt that simple anymore and it felt hopeless, exhausting even to waste your energy on something so stupid. 

Dustin stares at him.

Steve pauses.

“…Never mind.”

The truth is, nobody’s doing okay anymore. You know you’re not. Not after three months of Crawls. Three months of sneaking beneath military blockades and slipping into the Upside Down looking for Vecna while Hawkins rots from the inside out.

And Steve—

Steve’s gotten worse too. 

Not in an obvious way. He still joked around sometimes, still tried to keep everyone moving like he could talk the fear out of the room. You knew he thought that was his job too—keeping everyone else together, keeping them happy. God, how you wished you could make him understand that he was allowed to fall apart sometimes too.

But even now, he still threw himself between danger and the rest of you without a second thought, like protecting everyone was just another burden he’d silently decided to carry alone.

But it’s also in the way he watches you now. Every Crawl, every hallway, every breathless pause where something could go wrong. He’s always looking at you.

And the worst part is… you know why. Steve knows you. Knows you’d do anything to save your little brother. Knows you’d do the same for him, too, even if you don’t always say it out loud. He’s the same way, has been for a long time now—throwing himself into danger like it’s just part of the job.

But that doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t make it less terrifying. Because understanding it doesn’t stop the fear from sitting heavy in his chest every time you step into the dark. He’s not just worried anymore.

He’s scared shitless of losing you.

And you could see it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was already grieving you before anything had even happened. Like some part of him was trying to memorize every expression, every laugh, every little thing about you in case it was the last time he ever got to see it.

He couldn’t survive losing you. Not now. Not when the two of you were finally so close to having something beyond all of this horror, a future, a life, something normal. He wouldn’t admit it but Steve had never really been afraid of dying for himself. He was afraid of living in a world that no longer had you in it.

Robin even pulled you aside once after a mission and said, “I’m serious, he looks like he’s five seconds from a nervous breakdown every time you get hurt.”

At the time, it had only been a twisted ankle.

But tonight feels different. You can tell the second Hopper kills the engine.

The air changes.

You know how people in murder mysteries always say they felt it coming? Like it was some sort of gut feeling that chose not to trust anyways. Yeah, well, you felt something too. You just didn’t know what it was yet.

“Alright,” Hopper says quietly. “We move fast. Military patrol passes in eleven minutes. We miss that window, we’re screwed.”

Screwed was putting it lightly. If any of you missed this mark, you’d be dead but no one admits that to themselves. 

Everyone grabs their gear.

Steve catches your wrist before you can climb out. “Stay close to me tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I always do.”

“No.” His voice drops lower. More serious. “I mean it.”

There’s something in his face that makes your stomach twist. It's fear. Real fear.

Before you can respond, Hopper opens the van doors. “Move.”

The woods are freezing, cold crawling straight into your bones. Rain soaks through your jacket almost instantly as the group cuts through the trees toward the restricted zone. Somewhere in the distance, a generator hums beneath the crackle of military radios.

Floodlights sweep across the forest every few seconds, cutting through the trees in sharp, blinding arcs. Everyone ducks automatically. By now, the routine is muscle memory. And when you think about that too much, it hits in a way you don’t really let yourself sit with since it shouldn’t be like this. None of you should be here at all. Maybe in another life you’re just normal kids, worried about normal things, not carrying the weight of saving a world that keeps almost ending.

Hopper leads.

Nancy checks the rear.

Robin keeps track of timing.

Steve stays near you. Always near you.

“Same plan,” Nancy whispers. “In and out. We check the western sector for movement and regroup in forty minutes.”

Everyone nods. Then they descend—and you’re just left watching for a second longer than you should, hoping it won’t be the last time you see any of them come back up. Maybe it was wrong to think so negatively all the time, but who could really blame you? You’d all seen things no one was ever supposed to see, lived through horrors that went far beyond normal. After everything that had happened, “okay” didn’t even feel like a real thing anymore.

Crossing into the Upside Down never gets easier, no matter how many times you do it. The cold hits first, sharp and immediate, like the air itself is rejecting you. Then the smell follows. Rot. Blood. Wet decay that clings to everything the moment you breathe it in. If the “walls” could talk, you didn’t think you’d want to hear what they had to say.

And underneath it all, something worse—you can feel it before you even name it. The air doesn’t feel alive here. It feels wrong. Dead in a way that doesn’t stop moving.

You land hard beside Steve at the bottom of the tunnel and immediately hear the distant echoing groans somewhere deep underground. The Upside Down version of Hawkins stretches endlessly ahead in darkness and ash. 

Steve instinctively reaches for your hand for half a second before catching himself. Still, his fingers brush yours. “You good?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

He studies your face like he’s checking whether you’re lying. Obviously he can see that a part of you isn’t fine but… who is right now? So he reluctantly nods. 

The group moves carefully through the ruined underground corridors beneath Hawkins High, flashlights dimmed low while spores drift through the air like snow.

No monsters.

No attacks.

No sign of Vecna.

Just silence.

That should’ve been fine. But nothing ever really was. Not when that evil son of a bitch Vecna always seemed to have another trick up his sleeve.

Robin notices first. “Do you guys hear that?”

Everyone stops.

Nothing happens. 

“That’s the problem,” she whispers.

Steve immediately lifts the shotgun.

The walls twitch, a sick ripple runs through the vines coating the ceiling. Then Nancy sees it first. Her whole expression changes. “Move. Now.”

But it’s too late.

The tunnel behind you seals with a wet, snapping snap of flesh and root and something alive deciding you don’t get to leave. Vines burst across the walls like they’ve been waiting for permission.

Dustin stumbles back. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!”

The lights overhead pop one after another, glass bursting into sparks before the tunnel is swallowed in darkness. Then the screaming starts. It’s a demogorgon. And it’s close. It’s coming straight for you all. 

It doesn’t just echo through the tunnel—it fills it. That wet, guttural screech tearing straight through the air as something massive drops from the ceiling in a sudden, violent impact.

“RUN!” Hopper roars.

Everything snaps into motion at once. Gunfire flashes through the dark in sharp bursts. Nancy fires blindly, hitting nothing fast enough. Robin swings her crowbar hard, metal striking something solid—but it barely slows it. The demogorgon moves wrong-fast, snapping forward and missing you by inches, claws raking sparks off the wall beside you.

Steve grabs your arm and yanks you forward. “GO!”

You run.

And it follows. Not rushing. Hunting. Deliberate. It drives all of you deeper into the tunnels instead of toward the exit. 

And that’s when it clicks to you. Vecna knows. He’s not just waiting. He set this.

“This is a trap!” Dustin shouts, voice cracking as he runs, barely keeping up as the darkness closes in behind you. The realization hits too late. A demogorgon drops from the ceiling.

“DUSTIN!” you scream. 

It lands directly in front of him with a yell so loud the tunnel shakes. Dustin barely gets his hands up before it slams into him, throwing him sideways into the wall hard enough to make the sound echo.

His flashlight skids across the ground, spinning uselessly through the dark. The demogorgon turns immediately. Straight toward him. Focused and ready to kill.

You don’t think for even a second you just act. You move quickly in front of him. “HEY!” while shouting you throw yourself between them just as it lunges.

Pain explodes through your side. Its claws rip across you so violently it feels like being torn open with burning metal. Your breath vanishes instantly. A scream rips out of you before you can stop it. You hit the ground hard.

Somewhere behind you, Steve goes completely silent as he is currently processing what the fuck just happened. 

Then—

“No. NO!”

The terror in his voice is instant. Raw. Unrecognizable. The shotgun blast detonates through the tunnel. The demogorgon jerks back with a screech, but it doesn’t go down. It barely even slows. It twists toward Steve for half a second before its attention snaps right back to you.

Like it chose you. Like that was always the plan.

“Get her up!” Nancy shouts.

You try. You really do but the second you push against the ground, agony tears through your ribs so sharply your arms collapse underneath you. The demogorgon lunges again.

Steve gets there first.

He throws himself between you and the creature with the nail bat raised, slamming it across the monster’s face with a roar that sounds more desperate than angry. “GET AWAY FROM HER!”

The creature shrieks.

Steve hits it again. And again.

He’s furious now. Reckless. Swinging hard enough to stagger himself.

“Steve!” Robin screams.

The demogorgon catches the bat mid-swing. Everyone freezes. For one horrible second, neither of them move. Then the creature hurls Steve across the tunnel. He crashes into the wall and drops hard.

“STEVE!” Your voice breaks on his name.

The demogorgon turns back toward you slowly. Its flowered face opens wider, revealing rows of teeth slick with blood. You try to move but the pain immediately tears through your side so violently you nearly black out.

The creature steps closer.

Steve gets between you and it instantly, torn nail bat raised with shaking hands. “Come on,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Come on, you want somebody? Take me.”

The demogorgon pauses. The vines twitch violently beneath its feet, and then, suddenly, the creature backs away. Not defeated. Not afraid. Called off.

At first, the retreat barely makes sense. Demogorgons don’t stop. They don’t hesitate. And then the realization crashes over the group all at once. Vecna never intended to kill anyone here. He wanted panic. Distraction. Chaos. A reminder, carved deep into your all your mind, of exactly how much power he still had and how easily he could unleash it whenever he wanted.

It was a warning not to mess with him anymore—or whatever it is that he’s planning. 

And judging by the blood soaking through your clothes, he got exactly what he wanted.

“Shit—shit, she’s bleeding bad,” Dustin says, voice thin with panic.

Steve drops to his knees beside you so fast he nearly slips. His hands hover over your body helplessly, terrified to touch you and terrified not to.

Your breathing comes out uneven and sharp. Everything hurts.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” Steve’s voice is trembling now. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You try.

His face is pale underneath the grime and blood splattered across his cheek. His eyes look wrecked already.

Nancy kneels beside him immediately, ripping open the medical bag.

“We need pressure on it now.”

Steve presses his hand over your side carefully. The second he does, you cry out. His entire face crumples. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.” He sounds close to panicking himself. “I’m sorry.”

The vines around the tunnel pulse faintly again. Like Vecna’s still watching. Still listening. Steve notices too. And something angry flashes across his face. “Get us out of here,” he says sharply without looking away from you. “Right now,”

“We need to move.”

“She can’t walk,” Dustin says instantly.

“Then I’ll carry her!” Without hesitation, Steve slides one arm beneath your back carefully. The second he lifts you, you cry out. He looks devastated.

“I know,” he whispers frantically. “I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

Sweetheart. In another circumstance it would make your heart melt but you were currently on the verge of what felt like, and probably was, death. 

The retreat is a nightmare. Everything hurts. Steve carries you through the tunnels while Hopper and Nancy clear the path ahead. Robin keeps checking behind them for movement while Dustin stays glued to Steve’s side, panic written all over his face.

“You can’t fall asleep,” Steve says for maybe the hundredth time.

“I’m tired,” you mumble against his shoulder.

“Hey, no— no, look at me. You can’t fall asleep yet.” His voice shakes. He’s pleading with you more than commanding, desperation bleeding through every word. “You stay awake. Okay? Stay awake for me, please.”

Blood keeps soaking through his jacket. You can feel it.

So can he.

And the more blood there is, the more frightened he becomes. By the time they reach the outside world again, Steve is breathing hard and it’s not from exhaustion but from panic. Real panic.

He nearly stumbles climbing back through the tunnel into Hawkins.

The rain hits all of you instantly. Cold and sharp.

Robin yanks open the van doors while Hopper starts the engine.

“Go go GO!”

Steve climbs into the backseat with you still in his arms. Dustin scrambles in beside him.

The second the van starts moving, Steve pulls you against his chest and presses both hands harder against your wound.

You gasp in pain.

“I know,” he says immediately, voice cracking again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The drive to Hawkins Memorial feels endless. Rain pounds against the windshield while military sirens echo somewhere nearby.

Nancy keeps looking back from the passenger seat. 

“Steve,” you mumble, desperate for relief from something you can’t quite name—the pain, the fear, the awful feeling that everything is slipping away from you all at once.

He doesn’t answer. 

“Steve.” you plead again, you’re not sure how much longer you can stay awake.

His eyes are locked on you. Terrified. “You stay with me,” he whispers again. “Please.”

Dustin suddenly starts crying quietly beside him. Which somehow makes it worse.

“I should’ve seen it,” he chokes out. “I should’ve known it was a trap.”

“This isn’t your fault,” you whisper weakly. The last thing you wanted was to ever make your baby brother feel at fault. This was nobody's fault besides that evil son of bitch. 

“Yes it is!”

“No,” Steve says sharply.

Dustin looks up.

Steve’s face is streaked with blood and rain and tears. “This is not on you. You hear me?” His voice breaks harder. “None of this is on you.”

Then he looks back at you and completely falls apart again, because your eyes are slipping closed.

“No no no—hey.” He cups your face carefully. “Stay awake, you have to. We’re almost there.”

You try.

You really try.

But everything’s fading.

“I’m begging you. Just stay awake for a little longer, baby.” Steve whispers.

That word nearly destroys you, but somehow you force yourself to stay awake a little longer. One look at everyone’s faces tells you everything you need to know—this isn’t good. The fear in their eyes is impossible to miss and now you’re not sure you’re ready to die yet.

The hospital is in chaos. The military presence in Hawkins means every emergency room is overloaded already. Soldiers crowd the entrance. Backup lights flicker overhead. Nurses rush through the halls carrying supplies while distant shouting echoes from somewhere deeper inside the building.

The second Steve carries you through the doors, people start moving.

“Severe abdominal laceration—”

“She’s losing too much blood—”

“We need a room NOW.”

Hands pull you away from him.

Steve physically resists. “Wait—”

“Sir, let them work.”

“I’m coming with her.”

“You can’t.”

“She hates hospitals—”

“Steve.” Robin grabs his arm before he can actually fight somebody.

He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked. Your blood covers half his clothes, smeared across his hands and soaked into his jacket, and now that the doctors pulled you away from him, he looks utterly lost. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself if he can’t follow.

Dustin stands frozen nearby, looking completely numb. His sister had just thrown herself in front of a demogorgon to save him. That could’ve been him being rushed away by the doctors right now, bloodied and barely conscious, but instead it was you. That realization seems to hit him harder now that his brain is preoccupied. He can’t even bring himself to move, just stares after you with wide, terrified eyes like if he looks away for even a moment, something even worse will happen.

And for the first time since any of this started, Steve looks genuinely helpless. There’s nothing left for him to fight, nothing he can fix, nothing he can throw himself in front of anymore.

He can’t lose you. Not like this. Not after everything. And yet all he can do is stand there and watch as they take you farther away, like that possibility is happening anyway.

- -

Hours pass.

Nobody leaves—how could they? Not when their friend, girlfriend, sister is currently fighting for her life right here. Everyone stays rooted in place, because moving would somehow make it worse, stepping away would mean accepting something none of them are ready to accept.

Hopper eventually forces everyone into chairs while doctors move in and out of surgery doors down the hall.

Steve doesn’t sit. Not once. He paces endlessly through the waiting room, hands tangled in his hair. Every few minutes he asks for updates. Every few minutes he gets nothing.

Dustin eventually breaks around three in the morning. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Steve immediately crouches in front of him. “Hey.”

Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “What if she dies?”

Steve stops breathing for a second.

Just a second.

But it’s enough.

Enough for it to hit him all at once—because he hasn’t let himself say it out loud, hasn’t even let himself think it properly. Not you. Not after everything. Not after you just got dragged away from him with blood on his hands and your name still stuck in his throat.

Dustin notices first. His expression shifts like he already regrets saying it.

So does Robin. Her eyes flick to Steve immediately, like she’s bracing for whatever comes next.

“She’s not gonna die,” Steve says finally. 

Too fast.

Too desperate.

Dustin starts crying again anyway.

Steve pulls him into a hug immediately because it’s all he knows how to do right now. 

It hits Robin suddenly then, watching the two of them sitting there together in the middle of the hospital at four in the morning.

This is Steve’s family.

Not just friends.

Family.

And losing you would destroy him.

The doctor finally appears just before sunrise.

Everyone stands instantly.

Steve’s face has gone completely pale.

“How is she?”

The doctor pulls off his mask with a tired sigh but he reveals probably the best news of Steve’s life. 

“She made it.”

Silence follows. Nobody moves at first, like the words don’t fully register, like if they stay still enough they can keep reality from changing again.

Then Dustin breaks first, the relief hitting him so hard he starts crying. His worst fear— losing his sister—is pushed back a little farther into the distance. Not today. Fate doesn’t get to take you today. Vecna doesn’t win this time.

Robin lets out a sharp, disbelieving swear, half laugh, half shock, like she can’t decide whether to collapse or yell at someone for letting it get that far.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just closes his eyes. And for a second, it looks like his whole body finally gives out on holding itself together.

“You can see her soon,” the doctor continues. “She’s stable, but recovery’s going to take time.”

Stable. Alive.

That’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. Steve has to lean against the wall suddenly.

Robin grabs his shoulder before he falls.

“You okay?”

“No,” he laughs shakily.

Then quieter:

“But she is.”

—

When Steve finally enters your hospital room, the sun is barely beginning to rise outside. Pale orange light spills through the blinds in thin stripes across the floor. It’s only been a few hours since the demogorgon attack, but to him it feels like days. Days since he last saw your face without blood on it. Days since he knew for sure you were still alive.

For a moment, he just stands there in the doorway staring at you.

You look exhausted. Pale. There are bandages wrapped tightly around your abdomen, machines humming quietly beside you, bruises scattered across your skin. But your chest is rising and falling steadily.

You’re alive.

Steve lets out a breath that sounds almost painful.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly.

That nearly destroys him again. 

He crosses the room immediately, grabbing your hand so fast it’s almost desperate. His fingers are cold, trembling slightly against yours.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits, voice cracking completely on the words.

And suddenly you understand.

Not just fear.

Not just panic.

Weeks of it. Months.

Every Crawl. Every fight. Every time the two of you stepped into the Upside Down together, Steve had been waiting for the moment something finally went wrong. Waiting for the second he wouldn’t be fast enough to protect you.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur softly.

He laughs once under his breath, completely wrecked. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Your thumb brushes weakly against his hand. “Steve…”

“No, because I need you to understand something,” he says quickly, eyes glassy. “When they took you away from me, I genuinely thought that was it. I thought the last thing I was ever gonna hear from you was you apologizing to me while you were bleeding out.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “I’m still here.”

Steve bows his head for a second like he physically can’t handle hearing that. He presses your hand against his forehead, breathing shakily.

“You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He looks at you immediately. “Seriously, don’t ever apologize for that.”

The room falls quiet for a moment except for the steady beeping of the monitor beside you. Steve keeps staring at you like if he looks away too long, you’ll disappear again.

Then the door opens quietly behind him.

Dustin steps in looking exhausted beyond belief, hair a mess, eyes red and swollen from crying. Robin follows right behind him carrying terrible vending machine coffee.

The second Dustin sees you awake, his whole face crumples.

“You idiot,” he says tearfully. “Do you have any idea how traumatic you are?”

You laugh softly despite the pain. “Hi, Dusty.”

He points at you angrily while already crying harder. “No, absolutely not. You do not get to ‘Hi, Dusty’ me after that.”

Robin snorts loudly from the doorway. “Thank God. One more hour with sad Steve and I was gonna lose my mind.”

Steve rolls his eyes without looking away from you. “Robin.”

“No, seriously,” she continues, setting the coffees down. “This man stared at a wall for like forty minutes. At one point I thought he died too.”

“I was thinking, Robin.” 

“You were having a breakdown.”

Dustin carefully hugs you a second later anyway, trying not to hurt you. The second he does, you feel him shaking.

“That could’ve been me,” he says quietly against your shoulder.

Your expression softens immediately. “But it wasn’t.”

“You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat."

“Don’t say that.” His voice cracks instantly. “Please don’t say that.”

Steve looks away for a second, jaw tightening hard enough you can see it. Because he knows you mean it. That’s the problem. You would do it again if it meant protecting the people you loved.

Robin gently nudges Dustin after a minute. “C’mon, Henderson. She needs rest before you emotionally flood the entire hospital.”

Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “I hate everyone here.”

“You love us.”

“Unfortunately.”

Eventually, the room settles. Robin and Dustin fall asleep in uncomfortable chairs after hours of refusing to leave. Steve stays beside your bed the entire time. Even when exhaustion is visibly dragging at him, he refuses to let go of your hand.

At some point after dawn, you wake again to find the room quieter. The sky outside has turned soft gold with early morning light. Dustin is snoring against Robin’s shoulder across the room.

Steve is still beside you.

His head rests near your hand on the mattress, eyes closed for the first time in hours, fingers still loosely wrapped around yours even in sleep. Like some part of him is afraid you’ll vanish the second he lets go.

You gently brush your fingers through his hair.

Steve stirs immediately, blinking awake in confusion before his eyes find yours. The panic there disappears almost instantly.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

For the first time since all of this started, you see something different settle across his face. Not fear. Not panic. Relief. Real relief. And when he smiles at you this time, small and exhausted and unbelievably emotional, it feels like maybe—despite everything—you all survived this one.

Steve leans his forehead to rest against yours for a moment longer than he probably realizes. Like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, reality will snap back and take you away again.

“You’re really here,” he says quietly, like he still needs confirmation.

“I’m really here,” you answer, just as soft.

His breath shakes a little. “Okay. Good. Because I swear, if I had to go through that again—”

He stops himself, jaw tightening, like he can’t even finish the thought.

Your thumb brushes his hand again. “Hey. It’s over. I’m okay.”

Steve huffs a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re literally stitched back together and calling that ‘okay.’”

“You can’t classify anything as just ‘okay’ right now, but I'm alive and that counts.”

That earns a real laugh out of him this time, small, but real, and it breaks something tight in his expression. Just a little.

Across the room, Dustin stirs in his chair and groans. “If you two are gonna do emotional trauma bonding, can you do it quieter? Some of us are trying to recover from almost losing a sibling.”

Robin, still half-asleep, immediately throws a pillow in his direction without looking. “Go back to sleep, Henderson.”

“It hit my face.”

“Good.”

Steve doesn’t even look over. He’s still watching you like he’s afraid blinking will cost him something. Then his voice drops again, softer. “When they took you away… I couldn’t think. I just—” He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “I kept replaying it. Like if I had moved faster, if I had grabbed you sooner, if I—”

“Steve.” You interrupt gently.

He stops.

You tighten your grip on his hand. “You didn’t fail me.”

His eyes flicker, like he wants to argue, like that thought has been sitting in him too long to just disappear.

But you don’t let him spiral.

“I did what I had to do,” you continue. “And I’m here because it worked. Because you all were there. Because we didn’t give up.”

Steve looks down for a second, breathing unsteady. “Still felt like I lost you.”

“I know.”

That quiet answer lands heavier than anything else. The room stays still for a moment after that, the kind of silence that isn’t empty—just full.

Eventually, you shift a little in bed, wincing at the ache in your side. Steve notices immediately, sitting up straighter.

“Do you need anything? Water? I can get a doctor. Or—wait—should I get a doctor?”

“I’m okay,” you reassure him quickly. “Just sore.”

“You’re allowed to be not okay,” he says immediately. “Like, medically speaking, I think you’re supposed to be not okay right now.”

“That’s not very comforting.”

“It’s honest.”

That makes you smile a little, tired but real. Steve notices it like it’s something he’s been waiting to see.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“That.” He squeezes your hand. “Your face doing that thing where you’re actually you again.”

You roll your eyes faintly. “My face has always been me.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean… before. Before I thought I lost you.”

The weight of that hangs for a second.

Then you shift your hand slightly, turning it so you can hold his properly, fingers interlacing more firmly.

“Steve,” you say carefully.

He looks up instantly.

You hesitate, because you can feel how much this matters to him. How much everything hinges on the next few words.

So you choose them slowly.

“I need you to listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“No more blaming yourself,” you say. “For any of it. For what I did. For what happened. For any of this.”

His jaw tightens again. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is when I’m telling you it is.” That gets a small, almost stunned pause out of him. You continue anyway, quieter but firmer. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not blaming you. And I’m not going anywhere because of what you didn’t do fast enough.”

Steve swallows hard. “You don’t get it. I— I keep thinking if I lost you—”

“But you didn’t.”

Silence again.

Then Dustin, still half-asleep, mutters from his chair, “Can you two stop saying ‘lost you’ every five seconds? We get it, you almost died.”

Robin, without opening her eyes: “He’s right.”

Steve exhales something between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay, yeah. Sorry.”

But his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen. Not even a little.

The morning light shifts slightly in the room, brighter now, softer. The hospital sounds outside begin to pick up—distant footsteps, quiet voices, the normal rhythm of a world that feels way too ordinary after everything you’ve been through.

Steve glances toward the window, then back at you.

“You scared me,” he says again, but this time it’s not as broken. More honest. Grounded.

“I know.”

“And I meant it,” he adds. “You don’t do that again.”

You raise an eyebrow slightly. “That sounds like an order.”

“It is.”

A beat. Then you sigh lightly. “Fine.”

Steve blinks. “Wait. Really?”

“I said fine,” you repeat. “No more reckless hero moments. I would risk my life again like that.”

He looks suspicious immediately. “You’re saying that way too easily.”

“Because I mean it.”

He studies you like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.

Then you squeeze his hand again, softer this time. “I don’t want to scare you like that again either.”

That finally gets him. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing just slightly out of him for the first time since you woke up. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t think I can handle it twice.”

“I’m not planning on it, trust me.” you whisper.

Across the room, Dustin has fully given up and is now asleep again, slumped awkwardly in his chair. Robin is half-leaning against him, also out cold.

Steve notices and huffs a quiet laugh.

“They’re unbelievable.”

“You love them.”

“I do,” he admits. Then looks back at you. “But I was really focused on you for a while there.”

Your smile softens again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice drops. “Kind of still am.”

And for a moment, neither of you say anything else.

Because it’s not needed.

He just stays there, holding your hand like he’s decided that as long as he can feel you there, he can start believing in tomorrow again.

The city lights of New York City glitter like scattered diamonds against the night sky as you step out of a sleek black car. The premiere of Echoes in the Static still hums under your skin, an indie psychological thriller that left the festival crowd buzzing long after the credits rolled. You can still feel it in your bones: the flicker of the projector, the collective silence during the final hallway sequence, the way people sat frozen for half a second before applauding like they’d just woken up from a nightmare.

Your nightmare. Your film. Well, not technically yours. But your fingerprints are all over it. Every shadow, every ugly little pocket of darkness swallowing the corners of the frame. Every trembling light source. Every suffocating close-up. You spent months bleeding yourself dry over that cinematography, sleeping on editing room couches and living off cold brew and cigarettes while arguing with colorists at three in the morning.

And now your name sits there in the credits forever.

Tonight’s afterparty feels dangerous in the way success always does. Like if you let yourself enjoy it too much, something will come along and snatch it away.

The rooftop pulses with low conversation and expensive perfume. Jazz spills from a trio tucked near the far railing, all slow saxophone and lazy piano keys. String lights sway overhead in the warm spring wind, washing everyone gold and amber and beautiful enough to belong in movies themselves. Actors cluster near the bar pretending not to check whether photographers are catching their good angles. Producers laugh too loudly. Somebody from Variety is flirting with a costume designer beside a heater lamp.

You’re halfway through a glass of champagne when you spot him.

Jonathan Byers.

He’s standing near the elevator doors with his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, like he already regrets coming but is trying not to show it. Taller than you remember. Leaner, somehow. His hair’s longer now, curling slightly at the ends like he’s been too busy to cut it properly. Black button-down sleeves rolled to his elbows. Rings on his fingers you don’t remember him wearing before.

And Christ, he’s beautiful. Not in the polished Hollywood way everyone else here is beautiful. Jonathan looks real. Sharp edges and tired eyes and quiet intensity. The kind of man who notices things nobody else does. His eyes find yours across the terrace and immediately soften.

There it is. That shy little smile. You feel it low in your stomach before he’s even crossed the room.

“Hey,” he says once he reaches you, voice warm beneath the noise of the party. His gaze flickers over you like he’s trying not to stare and failing a little anyway. “Congratulations.”

You smile automatically, fingers tightening slightly around your champagne flute. “Thanks.”

“No, seriously.” He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head once. “The cinematography was insane. The hallway shots? Jesus. It felt like the walls were alive.”

You grin despite yourself. “That’s exactly what I wanted.”

“Yeah, well.” His gaze drifts over your face for half a second too long before he drags it away. “You nailed it.”

The compliment lands harder than it should. Maybe because Jonathan doesn’t bullshit people. Every word out of his mouth always sounds carefully chosen, like he means it or he wouldn’t say it at all.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say, leaning one shoulder against the railing.

“Friend of a friend on lighting crew.” He rubs the back of his neck, visibly nervous now that the attention’s shifted onto him. “I wanted to see the final cut.”

“You liked it?”

“I think I’m gonna be thinking about it for weeks.”

Your laugh comes easier after that.

Conversation slips into place almost immediately, smooth and familiar. You talk lenses and lighting ratios and impossible shooting schedules. Jonathan tells you about a recent freelance photography gig shooting album covers for some post-punk band whose lead singer nearly set a couch on fire mid-shoot.

You tell him about the disaster of filming a subway sequence at four in the morning while the director had a nervous breakdown over continuity. Jonathan laughs quietly at that, eyes crinkling. God, his eyes. You notice the way they linger on your mouth when you talk. The way his fingers brush yours when he hands you a napkin. The way his voice lowers every time the conversation drifts away from work and toward something more personal.

“You look…” He pauses briefly, jaw tightening like he’s annoyed at himself for saying it out loud. “Really good tonight.”

Heat blooms through you instantly. “You clean up alright too, Jonathan.”

His ears go pink immediately. Cute. Dangerously cute.

“I’m gonna grab us another round,” he says eventually, lifting your empty champagne flute from your hand. His fingers linger for a second longer than necessary before he steps back. “Don’t disappear on me.”

“No promises.”

Jonathan gives you one last look before weaving toward the bar through the crowd.

And that’s when you notice him.

Steve Harrington.

He’s leaning against the polished bar like he owns the damn rooftop. Whiskey glass loose in one hand. Charcoal suit jacket pushed open. Tie abandoned entirely. Broad shoulders. Expensive watch. Stupidly perfect hair somehow surviving the wind. The kind of handsome that should honestly piss you off.

And the worst part? You know immediately that this is Steve. Not because you’ve met him before. You haven’t. But because Jonathan talks about him constantly.

Not in an obvious way. Jonathan would probably rather die than admit how often Steve’s name comes up in conversation. But over months of late-night phone calls and half-distracted conversations in editing suites and smoking outside bars after gigs, Steve Harrington has slowly become this weird recurring character in your life.

Steve said this. Steve did that. Steve burnt pasta again. Steve drove five hours to help him move apartments. Steve once started making dinner without asking, then left Jonathan a plate on the counter and didn’t mention it again.

Sometimes Jonathan talks about Steve like he’s infuriating. Sometimes like he’s family. Sometimes with this strange softness in his voice that always made you curious. And now here he is. Real.

Apparently it pisses Jonathan off that Steve exists tonight too, because the second Jonathan reaches the bar, Steve says something that makes Jonathan scowl immediately.

You can’t hear them from here, but their body language says enough. Steve’s grinning like an asshole. Jonathan’s glaring like he wants to throw him off the roof.

Interesting.

Steve notices you watching before Jonathan does. His eyes lock onto yours. And fuck. There’s something openly hungry in the way he looks at you. Not subtle. Not polite. Just immediate interest. Like he already knows exactly who you are.

Jonathan follows Steve’s gaze and catches you staring. He mutters something under his breath that makes Steve bark out a laugh.

Then both of them start heading back toward you.

Oh, this should be fun.

Steve reaches you first, naturally.

“Steve Harrington,” he says, extending a hand with an easy confidence that feels almost unfair. “Friend of this guy.” He jerks a thumb toward Jonathan without looking away from you.

You take his hand. Warm palm. Strong grip. “I gathered.”

“You say that like he talks about me too much.” Steve’s mouth curls into a grin immediately.

Jonathan nearly chokes on his drink. “Oh my God.”

Your eyebrows lift innocently. “Maybe a little.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jonathan mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we not do this?”

Steve looks delighted. “No, no, keep going. I’m invested now.”

You laugh into your glass while Jonathan glares at both of you like he regrets inviting himself into existence tonight.

The dynamic between them becomes obvious within minutes. They bicker constantly, but with the kind of rhythm only people deeply familiar with each other have. Steve interrupts Jonathan just to annoy him. Jonathan rolls his eyes so often it becomes almost affectionate.

And underneath it all, there’s something else. Something charged.

Steve touches Jonathan casually when he talks. Shoulder. Wrist. Lower back squeezing past him near the bar. Jonathan pretends to hate it every single time but never actually moves away.

You notice because of course you do. And judging by the way Steve catches you noticing, he knows you notice too.

The conversation loosens with every drink. Steve leans closer when he talks to you, knee brushing yours beneath the cocktail table. Jonathan gets quieter the drunker he gets, but somehow more intense too. His compliments stop sounding accidental.

“You shoot people in a way that feels intimate,” he tells you softly at one point, fingers tapping absently against the side of his glass. “Like the camera’s in love with them.”

Steve groans dramatically beside him, throwing his head back. “Jesus Christ, Byers. See? This is what I mean. You flirt like a nineteenth-century poet.”

Jonathan flips him off without missing a beat. “Eat shit Harrington.”

You laugh so hard champagne nearly comes out your nose.

And God, they’re both gorgeous. Steve all confidence and easy charm and restless hands. Jonathan all restraint and tension and eyes dark enough to drown in. The chemistry between the three of you thickens until it feels almost visible. Every glance lasts too long. Every touch lingers.

At some point Steve’s hand settles casually against the small of your back while Jonathan stands close enough that his shoulder brushes yours every few seconds. Neither of them moves away. Neither do you.

“You know,” you say eventually, tilting your head as you study them over the rim of your drink, “this is getting genuinely unfair.”

Steve smirks immediately, thumb still warm against your spine. “How so?”

“You’re both ridiculously attractive.”

Jonathan nearly chokes on his whiskey. Steve beams like he’s won something.

“I’m serious,” you continue, glancing between them. “I can’t decide which one of you I’d rather take with me.”

Silence.

Jonathan goes very still beside you. Steve’s expression changes instantly, not joking now. Something darker settling into his face.

Then slowly, casually, he says, “who says you have to choose?”

Jonathan stares at him. “Harrington.”

“What?” Steve shrugs, entirely too innocent. “I’m just saying. We’re all having a good time.”

“You are out of your fucking mind.”

“You telling me you haven’t thought about it?” Steve asks, one eyebrow lifting.

Jonathan opens his mouth. Closes it again.

Steve’s grin widens in real time. “Oh my God,” he says. “You have.”

“Shut up.”

You’re trying not to laugh now. Jonathan looks mortified. Steve looks thrilled.

Then Steve turns to you again, gaze dragging slowly over your face. “We could get outta here,” he says lightly, though his voice has gone rough around the edges. “Keep the night going somewhere less crowded.”

Your pulse skips. Jonathan watches you carefully from beside him. Not pushing. Just waiting.

“Only if you want to,” he says quietly. His voice is softer than Steve’s, steadier somehow, but it hits infinitely harder.

That does it. That careful softness in his voice. That look in Steve’s eyes. The electric tension stretching between all three of you like a wire seconds from snapping.

“Yeah,” you say.

Steve immediately pulls out his phone. “Holy shit. She said yes.”

“Don’t make it weird,” Jonathan mutters, already rubbing at his forehead.

“Dude you’re the one making it weird with this shy-nonchalant-mysteious thing going on, man.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hopefully later.”

“Harrington.”

You burst out laughing while Jonathan groans into his drink.

The ride down starts innocently enough. The rooftop elevator is almost empty this late into the night, all mirrored walls and dim golden lighting. The doors slide shut behind the three of you with a soft chime, sealing the noise of the party away instantly.

Silence settles. Heavy silence. The kind where everybody suddenly becomes hyperaware of breathing. Of hands. Of mouths.

Steve stands beside the control panel, phone still in hand after ordering the car. Jonathan’s near the back wall, whiskey-flushed and tense in a way that makes him look dangerously pretty.

And you’re standing between them. The elevator hums downward. Nobody speaks.

Steve breaks first, of course.

“Okay,” he says quietly, glancing between you and Jonathan. “I can’t do this.”

You barely have time to blink before he’s moving. One second there’s space between you. The next his hand is around your waist and his mouth crashes into yours hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. It’s not gentle. It’s heat and impatience.

You gasp against him and Steve takes advantage immediately, kissing you deeper with a rough little sound in his throat like he’s been thinking about this since the second he saw you across the rooftop. His body presses you lightly against the elevator wall. Big hands. Warm whiskey breath. The scrape of expensive suit fabric beneath your fingers.

“Fuck,” Steve murmurs against your mouth, almost laughing from disbelief. “Jesus Christ.”

You kiss him back harder. Somewhere beside you, Jonathan exhales shakily. You pull away from Steve just enough to look at him. Jonathan’s watching like he can’t decide whether to step in or lose his mind.

You make the decision for him. Your hand curls into the front of his shirt, tugging him forward.

Jonathan kisses completely differently. Slower at first. Tentative for all of half a second before restraint snaps clean in two. Then suddenly he’s kissing you like he’s starving. One hand cups your jaw carefully while the other grips your waist hard enough to wrinkle the fabric of your dress. He tastes like whiskey and nerves and something devastatingly soft underneath it all.

Steve stays pressed against your side the entire time. Watching. Breathing hard. His hand slides over your hip possessively while Jonathan kisses you deeper, and the feeling of both of them touching you at once nearly melts your fucking brain.

“Holy shit,” Steve mutters, voice low and wrecked.

Jonathan laughs quietly against your mouth, breathless. “You’re one to talk.”

Then Steve kisses you again. And somehow the three of you end up tangled together in the middle of the elevator, mouths colliding messily between laughter and heat and too much tension finally breaking loose. Steve’s hand cradles the back of your neck while Jonathan’s fingers curl around his wrist.

You feel the exact second the energy shifts. Subtle. Dangerous.

Your mouth parts from Steve’s just long enough to notice the way he’s looking at Jonathan now. Not joking. Not teasing. Something older lives there. Something buried deep. Jonathan sees it too.

The elevator keeps descending. Slowly, carefully, Steve reaches for him. Jonathan doesn’t pull away.

Their kiss starts softer than yours did. Almost hesitant. Then Steve grips Jonathan’s jaw and suddenly it turns hungry fast. Years of unresolved tension flare alive right in front of you. Jonathan makes this quiet wrecked sound into Steve’s mouth that feels almost too intimate to hear. Steve kisses him like he’s furious about how badly he wants him. Like he’s spent years pretending this didn’t exist.

Your back hits the elevator wall softly as you watch them lose themselves in each other for a few perfect seconds. Jonathan’s hand fists in Steve’s suit jacket. Steve’s thumb strokes across Jonathan’s cheekbone almost unconsciously. Beautiful. Achingly, terrifyingly beautiful.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open with a soft mechanical whisper, spilling the three of you out into the cool marble lobby. Your lips are still tingling from the kiss, legs a little unsteady as Steve keeps one hand firm on your lower back and Jonathan stays close on your other side, his fingers brushing yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

The night air hits you the second you push through the glass doors onto the street.

The car Steve had already called is waiting at the curb. He doesn’t hesitate, just walks ahead like it’s the most natural thing in the world, opening the back door first and holding it there. “C’mon,” he says, glancing back at you both.

Jonathan goes in after a beat, still a little dazed, sliding into the far side of the backseat. You follow right after him, slipping into the middle, thighs pressed on either side as the space closes in around you.

Steve ducks in last, shutting the door behind him with a solid click, his hand briefly brushing your shoulder as he settles in on your other side.

The driver glances at you three through the rearview mirror. “Evening. Where to?”

Steve rattles off the address to their shared apartment in a casual tone, already leaning forward a little like he’s settling in for a chat. The car pulls smoothly into traffic.

You shift slightly in your seat, trying not to think too much about how little space there is between the three of you. That’s when your eyes catch the driver’s GPS screen. The route is already calculated. Ten minutes. It hits you almost annoyingly clearly.

Your dress has ridden up just enough that the cool leather seat kisses the backs of your thighs. Steve’s hand finds your knee immediately, innocent enough from the outside. Jonathan shoots him a warning look across you—sharp, dark brows drawn—but Steve just grins that easy, charming grin and starts talking.

“So, uh, how long you been driving nights in the city?” Steve asks the driver, voice light and conversational like he’s not currently sliding his palm higher up your thigh under the hem of your dress. “Must see some wild shit, right?”

The driver chuckles, launching into a story about a fare last week who tried to tip him in cryptocurrency. You barely hear it. Your heart is hammering against your ribs as Steve’s fingers trace slow, teasing circles on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He’s subtle, barely moving, keeping his arm relaxed across the seat like he’s just resting it there. But every brush sends sparks straight to your core.

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your breathing even. Jonathan’s hand settles on your other thigh, possessive but still. He’s glaring at Steve again, a silent stop it in his eyes. But then his gaze drops to your face. Your parted lips, the flush creeping up your neck, and something shifts. His fingers tighten, then start moving too, mirroring Steve’s slow exploration but pressing a little firmer, higher.

Heat floods you. You’re already wet from the elevator, aching, and their hands are so close to where you need them. You shift in the seat, pressing your thighs together instinctively, but that only traps their fingers tighter against you.

Steve keeps talking, voice perfectly steady. “Yeah? Man, that’s crazy. I once got in an Uber where the driver was playing some loud ass classical music at like two in the morning. Didn’t even ask, just… went for it. Honestly kind of respected it.”

The driver laughs again, oblivious. Your hand grips the edge of the seat. Jonathan’s fingers slip under the edge of your panties first, brushing lightly over your slick folds. You stifle a gasp, turning it into a cough. Steve notices and smirks without looking at you, his own fingers joining, parting you gently and circling your clit with maddening softness.

“Everything okay back there?” the driver asks casually.

“Yeah, she’s fine,” Steve says smoothly, teasing a finger just inside you while he keeps eye contact in the mirror. “Long night, right babe?”

You swallow hard, throat dry. “Mhm. Just… tired.”

Jonathan leans in slightly, his fingers don’t stop. Two now, pressing deeper, curling just right while Steve focuses on your clit. The dual sensation is overwhelming. Steve’s thicker fingers, rougher calluses, Jonathan’s more precise, sensual strokes. You’re soaked, the wet sounds barely masked by the low hum of the engine and Steve’s endless chatter.

Steve turns his head toward you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Hey, what was that shot you took at the bar earlier? The one with the orange twist? You liked that, right?” His voice is teasing, deliberately pushing you while his fingers move quicker. “Tell this kind driver how much you liked it.”

Your mouth opens, but only a shaky breath comes out. Pleasure coils tight in your belly, thighs trembling. Jonathan saves you, squeezing your thigh gently. “She liked the whiskey sour better,” he says calmly, voice low and steady.

Steve chuckles softly, but he doesn’t stop. Neither does Jonathan. Their hands work in tandem now. Steve rubbing firm circles on your swollen clit while Jonathan thrusts two fingers slowly in and out, curling against that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes. You’re fighting every moan, nails digging into the leather seat, hips rocking minutely into their touch. The city lights streak past the windows in blurs of gold and red, but all you can focus on is the building pressure, the slick heat between your legs, the way both of them are rock hard against your sides. You can feel the outline of Steve’s erection pressing into your right thigh, Jonathan’s long length on your left.

By the time the car slows to a stop outside their building, you’re right on the edge, panting quietly through your nose. Steve pays and thanks the driver with a grin, then bolts out first, nearly tripping over the curb in his haste. Jonathan helps you out more gracefully, but his hand lingers on your waist, steadying you on shaky legs.

Steve is already at the building door, fumbling with his keys. They jingle loudly as he drops them once, twice, cursing under his breath. His cheeks are flushed, pants obviously tented. “Fuck—come on—”

Jonathan laughs, a low, warm sound that cuts through the night air. “Smooth, Harrington.” He steps forward, plucks the keys from Steve’s hands, and unlocks the door in one fluid motion. “Let’s get inside before you break something.”

The apartment is dimly lit by a single lamp when you all stumble in. Cozy, with a big sectional couch dominating the living room. Steve kicks the door shut behind you and immediately crowds you against the wall, mouth crashing into yours again. Jonathan presses in from the side, lips finding your neck, hands roaming.

But then Steve pulls back, breathing hard. “Bedroom. Mine.”

Jonathan’s hands pause on your hips. “No. My bed’s bigger.”

Steve groans. “Yours has those creepy horror posters everywhere. The one with the guy’s face melting? Not exactly mood-setting, man.”

Jonathan rolls his eyes, but there’s heat in them. “Your room smells like that cologne you drown yourself in and there’s that ugly picture of a car hanging on the wall. Who the fuck would have a framed photo of a car in first place?”

You laugh breathlessly between them, hands sliding up both their chests. “Living room,” you say breathlessly, grabbing Steve’s shirt and Jonathan’s wrist. “Couch. Right fucking now.”

Neither of them argues.

Steve let out a low chuckle, already shrugging off his jacket. “Bossy. I like it.”

Clothes come off in a messy, desperate rush. Steve’s jacket hits the floor. Your dress pools at your ankles. Jonathan yanks his shirt over his head, revealing that lean, beautifully toned torso. Steve’s fingers work his buttons open, exposing the dark hair on his chest and the tempting happy trail that disappears into his pants, inviting. When their erections spring free, your mouth waters—Steve’s is thick and heavy, flushed dark, while Jonathan’s is long, slightly curved, already leaking at the tip.

You don’t wait. You wrap a hand around each of them, stroking slowly, feeling the contrast in weight and texture.

“God,” you murmur, voice low and hungry. “So fucking hard…”

Steve groans, hips twitching into your fist. “You were so wet and beautiful in the car, baby. Couldn’t help myself.”

Jonathan leans in, kissing you slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours. “You looked so perfect.” he breathes against your lips.

Steve claims your mouth next, rougher, while Jonathan drops his head to suck on your nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make you moan. Their hands are everywhere. Steve’s thick fingers push back inside your soaked pussy, curling perfectly, while Jonathan’s thumb circles your swollen clit with devastating precision.

“Fuck—yes,” you gasp, head falling back. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

You stroke them faster, twisting your wrists, swiping your thumbs over their leaking heads. The sounds they make turn you on even more.

“Keep touching us like that,” Steve mutters against your neck, voice rough. “Your hands feel so fucking good.”

You glanced down, watching their free hands find each other. Steve wrapped his big hand around Jonathan’s erection, stroking him with slow, confident pumps focusing on the base while you worked on their heads. Jonathan did the same to Steve, twisting his wrist just right. The sight made you clench hard around Steve’s fingers.

“Shit, that’s so hot,” you breathed.

Steve kissed you hungrily, then turned his head to capture Jonathan’s mouth over your shoulder in a messy, heated kiss. You kept stroking them, thumbing over their leaking tips, while their fingers worked you open.

You dropped to your knees before they could stop you. You grin, breathless. “I want you both so bad… I can’t decide who to taste first.”

You sink to your knees between them, looking up with dark, eager eyes. You take Steve into your mouth first, stretching your lips wide around his thickness, then turn to Jonathan, taking him deeper, savoring the way his length curves against your tongue. You alternate between them, then press them close together, licking and sucking both erections at once in messy, filthy strokes.

Steve’s hand slides gently into your hair. “Fuck, baby… look at you. Such a greedy, perfect girl for us.”

Jonathan’s voice is rougher than usual. “You look so beautiful like this. Jesus.”

You hum around them, the vibration making both men groan. You keep going until they’re throbbing against your tongue, until their hips start twitching.

They pull you up before either of them finishes.

Jonathan lays you down on the couch first, spreading your thighs wide. He kisses his way down your body with aching reverence—stomach, hips, inner thighs—before his mouth finally finds your pussy. His tongue is broad and slow, licking long stripes through your folds before focusing on your clit. Two fingers slide inside you, curling just right.

You moan loudly, fingers threading through his hair. “Oh my god, Jonathan—”

Steve kneels beside you, kissing you deep and filthy. “Taste so sweet, don’t you, sweetheart? Let him make you come. I want to watch you fall apart.”

The orgasm crashes into you hard. Your back arches, thighs clamping around Jonathan’s head as you cry out, pulsing around his fingers. He doesn’t stop until you’re shaking and oversensitive, whimpering.

Then he positioned himself between your legs again, lining up. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you perfectly.

“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You okay?”

“More,” you gasped, pulling him down to kiss you. “Fuck me, Jonathan. I need it.”

He started moving, deep rolling thrusts that hit every perfect spot. You moaned into his mouth, nails digging into his back.

After a while they switched. Steve flipped you onto your hands and knees, gripping your hips as he pushed inside. The stretch was bigger, deeper.

“Shit, baby,” he grunted. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

You pushed back against him. “Harder, Steve. I can take it. Please.”

He did. One hand reaching around to rub your clit. Jonathan knelt in front of you, feeding you his cock. You sucked him eagerly, moaning around his length every time Steve thrust deep.

They leaned over you, kissing each other sloppily above your back, the wet sounds mixing with skin slapping and your muffled moans.

You came again hard, clenching around Steve’s erection while Jonathan’s length twitched on your tongue.

They moved you again, laying you on your side. Jonathan spooned you from behind, sliding back in with a low groan, kissing your neck and shoulder as he thrust deep and slow.

“You feel incredible,” he whispered against your skin. “So warm and wet. Taking me so well, baby.”

Steve faced you, kissing you deeply, his thick erection sliding against your clit with every movement until he couldn’t wait anymore. He pushed back inside you when Jonathan pulled out, rougher, gripping your ass.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Steve growled. “Give us another one. Let me feel you come on my cock.”

You were shaking, overstimulated and desperate. “I’m close—fuck, I’m so close—”

Jonathan reached between you, rubbing your already hypersensitive clit. “That’s it. Come for us, beautiful.”

You shattered again, crying out their names.

Finally, they put you on your back once more. Steve slid back inside you, groaning at how wet and open you were.

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” he panted, thrusting deep. “You want that? Want my cum deep in this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you moaned, nails digging into his shoulders. “Fill me up, Steve. Please.”

Jonathan stroked himself faster, leaning down to kiss you messily.

Steve came first, burying himself deep with a broken moan, flooding you with hot spurts. At the same time, Jonathan groaned, painting your breasts and stomach with thick ropes of cum.

The three of you collapsed together, breathing hard.

Steve kissed your forehead, then your lips, soft and sweet. “You were fucking incredible.”

Jonathan nuzzled into your neck from the other side. “You okay? We didn’t go too hard?”

“I’m perfect,” you whispered, smiling lazily. “I’ve never felt so good in my life.”

After a moment, gentle hands take care of you. Steve grabs a warm cloth and cleans you up carefully. Jonathan brings cold water from the fridge and makes you drink. Then they pull a soft blanket over all three of you on the big couch.

A couple of minutes later, Steve sat up slightly. “I’ll get her my shirt, wait” he said quietly.

Jonathan lifted his head. “Mine's softer. She should wear mine.”

Steve raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “Yours is all wrinkled on the floor. Mine’s a nice dress shirt. It’ll be more comfortable for her right now.”

“It’s also stiffer,” Jonathan argued softly. “She needs something actually soft on her skin right now man.”

You let out a tired, amused laugh and tugged gently on both their arms. “You two are already fighting again… I kind of love it. But seriously, either shirt is fine. I just want to feel both of you close.”

Steve grinned. “See? She wants the nice shirt.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes but smiled. “She didn’t say that, but, man, whatever, Jesus… next time I’m picking first.”

“Next time?” you teased weakly, voice sleepy.

“Yeah,” they both answered at the same time, then looked at each other and chuckled.

Steve grabbed his button-down from the floor and helped you slip it on. It was big, warm, and still carried his scent. Jonathan tucked the blanket tighter around all three of you.

“Stay right here with us tonight,” Steve murmured, thumb stroking your cheek.

Jonathan pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. “We’ve got you, baby. Get some sleep, yeah?”

Safe between their warm bodies, you drifted off with the taste of them still on your tongue.

“Some more than others,” Monica mutters quietly. Keys pretends that he hadn’t heard her as he walks towards Room 12.

Ever since you had started figure skating professionally almost four years ago, you had visited the ER around twenty five to thirty times, give or take. Between sprains, swollen muscles, gashes, cuts and one or two concussions, you knew the ER department like the back of your hand. You knew the doctors, the nurses, the trainees, the cleaners, the receptionists and of course you knew Doctor Keys.

When you first met him he had still been a student doctor, having just finished medical school. You had sustained a small laceration on your leg and Keys had been the one to stitch you up. You had talked his ear off about how you had gotten into ice skating after watching Ice Princess when you were a kid, how you had bought your first pair of skates at fourteen and had never looked back. Keys didn’t quite understand why you would choose such a dangerous hobby and had told you to bear more careful next time. You had come back barely a week later with another, slightly bigger laceration.

For some unknown reason, maybe fate, maybe it was simply Monica’s strange sense of humour but whenever you came into the ER, he was always your doctor. And so, you had built quite the rapport with Doctor McKey. You teased him, he scolded you for being reckless and the cycle continued—another injury, another lecture, another promise you’d be back soon. The whole department was aware of it too. Keys had even once overheard Nurse Martinez and Doctor Bennett discussing a bet on how many injuries you were going to sustain that year and how long it was going to take before Keys finally lost it.

But he hadn’t. Not yet.

“There’s my favourite doctor,” you greet Keys as he walks into your room with a smile that doesn’t entirely cover up the pain you were in.

Keys hums in acknowledgement, though his ears turn a little red at your words. That was another thing about you—you teased him relentlessly. Monica called it flirting, Keys called it annoying.

“You know, I did tell you this might happen if you didn’t rest your ankle,” Keys comments, unable to stop himself from doing so as he approaches your hospital bed to have a closer look at your ankle. He could see that the flesh was swollen, tender.

“I know but I wanted an excuse to see you,” you say with a bright smile before you tilt your head to the side. “Did you get new glasses by the way?”

Keys pauses, hazel eyes flickering over to you as a faint flush begins to creep up his neck. You were wearing a grey zip up hoodie but your skating costume beneath was peaking out—Keys could see the obnoxious glittering orange material that you had worn a couple times before.

“I did,” he answers, his ears remaining that signature red as pushes up his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

“They’re cute,” you tell him. “Suit you.”

Keys decides to ignore you. Though of course you notice the way the flush had spread up to his cheeks

After a gentle assessment, Keys confirms that you had a stress fracture. If he was honest, he was pissed off about it. You hadn’t listened three weeks ago when you had come into the ER with inflammation. You had continued to be your usual, reckless self and now you were at risk of chronic pain or permanent damage to your ankle if you didn’t rest for at least eight weeks.

“Eight weeks?” You echo, your playful facade faltering for the first time as Keys notices the genuine panic in your eyes. “But this is my job! I have a competition soon, I can’t take eight weeks out—”

“—either you take eight weeks out or you risk never being able to skate again,” Keys tells you bluntly. “Your choice.”

For perhaps the first time in four years, you look genuinely worried. Terrified even and Keys starts to feel bad for being so direct with you as he watches the way your fingers curl into the sheets of the hospital bed and how you look away from him with a tight jaw.

Keys hated to admit that he cared about you way more than he wanted to. That he felt a tightening in his chest whenever he saw the words ‘figure skater’ on the triage board. That the reason he got so short with you sometimes was because he wanted you to listen to him, wanted you to take what he said seriously so he didn’t have to worry about you anymore.

And there was a part of him that felt as though he failed you every time you showed up to the ER, every time you had to wait in the waiting room for hours on end. That was the part of himself he didn’t want to think too much about, didn’t want to think about why he cared so much about a patient. Why he cared that your eyes were now slightly glassy as your gaze fixed determinedly on the call bell.

“Look—I know it sucks and I know you love your job but if you put any more stress on this ankle by doing anymore Axels or Solcows—”

“—it’s Salchow—”

“—whatever it’s called. You do more of that? You’re going to cause some irreversible damage and I wouldn’t want that for you.”

You swallow, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before you turn to look back at Keys.

“So eight weeks?” You repeat in a quiet voice.

“Eight weeks,” Keys confirms with a small nod and sympathetic smile. “Rest as much as you can and make sure to keep it elevated. Ice it when possible. If you need to take anti-inflammatory medication I can prescribe you some to save you a trip to the pharmacy and an ACE wrap would be preferable.”

“That’s a long list, Doc,” you say with a small smile. “But I’ll try to remember. I promise.”

Keys nod, trying not to think about the way that small smile had made his entire day.

“I’ll get some medication for you and a nurse will be over soon to wrap your ankle,” he tells you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

You snort with laughter and it’s a struggle for Keys to not smile at that sound.

“Can’t anyway,” you say. “Doctor’s orders.”

You stay in the ER for the next three hours, waiting for a nurse to become available to wrap your ankle, waiting for your prescription to be ready and finally waiting to be discharged. In that time, Doctor Keys had checked up on you six times. Not that you were counting.

“Don’t you have other patients you should be checking up on?” You ask him with a smile the seventh time he walks into your room to check your vitals for no apparent reason. “I don’t want there to be a HIPAA violation because you’re worried I’m going to burst into flames or something.”

Keys goes red—now that you had called him out for it, he was beginning to realise just how much he had been checking up on you.

“As far as I’m aware, bursting into flames isn’t a symptom of stress fracture,” he murmurs. “But what do I know? I only went to medical school for like five or six years.”

It took a moment for you to realise that for once, Keys was being indulging in your playful teasing and it was so endearing to you that you couldn’t help but smile. You open your mouth to continue the tennis match of playfulness when a nurse walks in.

“Oh sorry, Doctor McKey,” the nurse says with a nod. “I have her discharge papers here.”

“Oh,” Keys says, smiling at the nurse who hands him the papers. “Cool. Thank you, Nurse Richards.”

“I’m free to go?” You ask as the door closes shut behind the nurse. 

“You’re free to go,” Keys confirms with a nod, ignoring the pit in his stomach at the thought of you leaving.

You manage to manoeuvre yourself off the hospital bed, hobbling a little to keep weight off your ankle as you grab your skating bag from the nearby armchair.

“Is someone picking you up?” Keys asks, watching your ankle carefully as you swing your bag over your shoulder. He knew your skates were in there from how heavy the bag looked. “Like your parents? A friend? A partner?”

Keys knew that the last suggestion had been loaded and that you could see right through him but you didn’t comment on it.

“No, I was just going to get an Uber,” you tell him.

Keys should have left it there. Should have told you to rest your ankle and sent you on your way. But instead, Keys opened his mouth and said something he almost instantly regretted.

“I could take you back home,” he says so suddenly that he surprises even himself. “Um, I have my lunch coming up so—I don’t mind taking you back home on my break.”

Why did he open his mouth? Why did he just offer to drive you home? Why did you have to look so damn pretty in that—

“Okay,” you say, forcing Keys out of the spiral he had been out to descend into. “Yeah. If that wasn’t a problem then—that would be great. Thank you, Doctor McKey.”

“It’s Keys,” he says gently. “Please, call me Keys.”

It was no surprise to you whatsoever that Doctor McKey—Keys—drove a Toyota Prius. It also didn’t surprise you that his most listened to artist was Noah Kahan or that the last playlist he had listened to had been called ‘Calming Mix’.

“Can you stop going through my Spotify?” Keys asks you, face red as his eyes remain on the road while you flick through the app on the screen in his car.

“You said I could be in charge of the music—”

“—you’ve also been trying to find a song for the past five minutes—”

“—in my defence, I am high on pain medication—”

“—you had one Advil like an hour ago—”

The back and forth between you and Keys carries on for the entire car journey to your apartment. In the end, you selected Staying Still just as Keys pulled into your street. 

“Thank you Doc—Keys,” you say when his car finally stops. “You really didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Keys says with a curt nod. “But I wanted to. An Uber from the hospital would have been extortionate.”

“Sure,” you say with a small laugh as you reach for the door handle. “Well—I’ll see you in eight weeks for the all clear.”

Keys watches as you open up the car door, watches as you go to step out and—

“Do you mind if I stop by to um—to check you’re doing okay?” He asks you in a slight panic because all of a sudden, eight weeks was too long to not see you. “Bring you groceries or…whatever you need.”

You had half climbed out of his car at this point but you pause at the question, turning to look back at him with a smile tugging on the corners of your mouth.

“Is this in a professional context? Like are you gonna bring a stethoscope or—”

“—no,” Keys shakes his head, feeling his face burn as he wonders what the fuck he was doing. “No stethoscope."

“Shame,” you tell him with a wry smile. “I like the whole McDreamy thing you got going on.”

“Mc—what—”

But instead of answering, you finally climb out of his car before limping towards your apartment door. And Keys begins to wonder what the fuck had he just done.

Keys waits a respectable amount of time—four days—before he first shows up at your apartment door with his arms full of groceries. He had spent way too much time and way too much money on the grocery shop for you but he told himself it was all in aid for your recovery. That he was being a good doctor.

But then he kept showing up. With groceries, with pizza from that Italian palace he knew you liked and one time, with some cupcakes he had “accidentally” bought too many of. And after the first few visits, you began to invite him in—for dinner, for a few episodes of whatever TV it was that you were watching. And Keys was happy to note that you were actually listening to his advice—that you were resting, keeping your leg elevated as much as you could and that you hadn’t been skating since the trip to the ER.

It had been six weeks since then and Keys was over every couple of days now. You found that you had memorised the sound of his car pulling up outside your apartment. You found that those days Keys came over had quietly become your favourite. And Keys found himself thinking of excuses to visit you. He sometimes left his jacket on your couch just to come over the next day or because he had found a TV that he knew you’d like and needed to tell you about it immediately.

It was a Friday night and Keys had a difficult day in the ER. You didn’t ask what had happened but you had heard about the fatal car crash that had occurred in the city earlier that day. The one that had killed an entire family. And so, you had suggested trying to make pizzas from scratch. It had gone horribly but Keys had managed to crack a smile for the first time that day.

You beam when you see it and you can’t help yourself. Because Keys had been so good to you over the past few weeks that you wanted—needed—to say thank you. And so, you set down the dough you had been kneading with your hands for the past few minutes before you lean towards him, your lips aiming for his cheek.

But at that exact moment, Keys turned his head—likely to ask you to pass the sauce or the olives or whatever, you don’t find out—because instead of your lips landing on his cheek—they plant themselves directly onto his lips.

The millisecond or so that your lips were pressed together, you find that his were soft. Pillowy. Ones you wanted to melt into.

But the accidental kiss lasts barely a second before the both of you pull away as though scolded.

“Oh god,” you gasp, your face hot as you stare at Keys with wide eyes. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry! I was trying to kiss you on the cheek but you turned and I—”

“—no, no, no,” Keys says hurriedly, his face so red that he was almost the same colour as the tomatoey sauce as he raises his hands in surrender. “Don’t be sorry! I mean—it was an honest mistake. A big, big massive mistake—”

You laugh but it doesn’t meet your eyes as the words big, massive mistake settle somewhere in your gut. Oh god, you felt awful for making him so uncomfortable but you didn’t know what to say as he backed away from you a little. And so, you tell yourself that the best thing to do was laugh it off.

“Wow,” you say with a forced laugh. “Didn’t think you’d hate the idea of kissing me that much.”

You say it as a joke—you mean it as a joke but your tone makes it sound like anything but. Keys also stops kneading the pizza dough while you look away, not wanting him to see the look of disappointment on your face. 

But before you could even think about returning your attention back to your half-made pizza, both of Keys’ large hands are suddenly resting gently on either side of your neck.

“Keys? What are you—”

Whatever you had been about to say is lost as Keys pulls you in. You barely have time to register what exactly was happening before his lips meet yours purposefully this time and suddenly? Nothing else matters.

His lips were still soft, still pillowy and they were gliding against yours as though they belonged there. You melted into him, your hands finding their way into his hair as his glasses pressed uncomfortably into your face. But you didn’t care—not as you felt his warm tongue dive into your mouth in a move that left you feeling hot all over, that left the blood running through your veins humming.

Keys kissed you like he never wanted to stop, not caring about the flour that was now in his hair from your hands. And likewise, you didn’t care about the flour that was now all over your neck. Not when kissing Keys felt this good. Not when his thumb gently traced over the skin of your neck as he deepened the kiss further, tilting your head back ever so slightly as you clung to him.

It was the sort of kiss that could have lasted for hours. But the sound of the pizza cutter that had been perched precariously on the edge of the kitchen countertop clattering to the ground was the thing that finally pulled you both apart.

You were both breathless, flustered and both unable to stop yourselves from smiling.

“I don’t remember that being on my treatment plan, Doc,” you tease him.

Keys rolls his eyes but he’s smiling. He leans in to gently press his forehead against yours, licking his bottom lip as his eyes shift between yours. “You make me sick sometimes, sweetheart,” he tells you before leaning in to press a gentle, sweet kiss to your lips. “But good thing you’re the cure for it too.”

Your stomach warms at his words and it’s impossible not to beam at his words.

“Maybe I should get stress fractures more often if this is the sort of treatment you deliver.”

Keys shakes his head before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Absolutely not. I’m wrapping you up in bubblewrap to keep you out of harm's way.”

You laugh but you have a feeling that he wasn’t joking. Because there was no way Keys was letting his favourite patient ever get hurt again.

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He had just gone on a tangent about high school and how the academic side of things had always felt impossible for him. 

“I don’t know if hate is the right word? I just knew it was never for me,” Steve responded, and you nodded at that.

“That was kinda the same case for me too. I really didn’t like school, but my parents were super intense and wouldn’t let me not be good at it, so yeah,” You shrugged halfheartedly. “And I actually almost didn’t go to college, but I got a full ride to the school here, so I couldn’t turn that down. And my parents definitely wouldn’t let me do that, either.”

“And now you’re in grad school,” He said. “Is that because of them too?”

“No, no, not at all,” You shook your head. “Freshman year, fall semester, I had this psych class, and I immediately fell in love with it. The professor was amazing, and everything I learned and had to read about was just so interesting to me. And the rest is history, pretty much.”

“That’s really cool that you just immediately knew,” Steve said, leaning back a little. “I think I’m still trying to figure out what I really wanna do.”

You playfully bumped your knee with his. “The corporate insurance life still isn’t for you?”

He let out a soft laugh. “Not at all.”

You almost made another joke about his boring insurance job because he never minded you teasing him about it, but then you thought of something. 

“I now wanna make it my mission to help you find what you actually wanna do,” You told him. “I think I owe you one since you’ve been helping me study all day.”

Steve gave you an amused look. “I don’t know if me helping you study today is equal to you helping me figure out my life. You’re getting the terrible end of the deal.”

You shook your head. “No, I actually think I’m getting the more fun end of the deal.”

Steve looked at you then, like really looked at you. Maybe he was trying to see how serious you were being because a lot of your conversations easily and effortlessly fell into playful, teasing banter. However, you weren’t joking about this, and even though you two hadn’t been friends for long, Steve could tell that you were actually being serious. 

And even with how new this friendship was, you could tell that the entire gesture meant a lot to him. 

He stood up. “Now I feel more obligated to make sure you ace your test tomorrow, so let’s get back to studying.”

You were smiling as you took his hand that he outstretched for you to grab, and he pulled you up, and then the two of you were going through the window back into your apartment. 

Once you and Steve were in your bedroom, you two went back to the same spots that you’d been in practically all day; Steve a few feet away at the foot of your bed, and you in your desk chair. You weren’t sure if it was because you were superstitious or if it truly was a better spot to be more productive, but being at your desk felt like the most important part of your study routine. 

You handed Steve a small stack of blue flashcards. He took a look at the first one on top and then back at you. “Okay, back to chapter twelve.”

You weren’t sure how much time had passed, but eventually you became too tired to stay in your desk chair, so you joined Steve in your bed. That was probably when you two should’ve ended studying for the night, but you insisted that you could get through one final review of everything before passing out from exhaustion, and Steve said okay to your words, even though he was yawning and probably seconds away from falling asleep too. 

You had no idea if you two actually managed to finish one last review of everything you’d been studying all day because the last thing you remembered was lying down, head at the foot of the bed instead of at your pillows, and reciting the five main points of a child development theory. 

Maybe it was Steve who fell asleep first, or maybe it was you, but either way, you and he spent the next couple of hours accidentally napping in your bed. The position started innocently; you were asleep on one side of your bed, and he was on the other, and you two were lying opposite ways. But, as time passed, your bodies became a tangle of limbs that was much more comfortable than it probably looked.

It shouldn’t have been so easy to fall asleep with Steve right next to you— you were usually very particular about your bed and always found it kind of hard falling asleep around people. However, somehow Steve was different, and you probably would’ve stayed asleep with him until the morning if he hadn’t woken up in the middle of the night.

He softly tapped your side to wake you up too. “Hey, we fell asleep.” 

You mumbled something incoherently in response to Steve’s words as you tiredly opened your eyes and realized that you’d been using his leg like a pillow for however long you two had been asleep. You knew that it couldn’t have been too long because it was still dark outside. 

“Sorry,” You said as you pulled away from him so that he could get up. Your brain was way too tired to ponder if what you had just been doing was completely weird or not.   

“It’s okay,” Steve responded, and you noticed that his voice was groggy with sleep too. You shifted slightly in bed and watched as he started heading to your bedroom door. “I’ll see you later. Good luck on your test.”

If you were a good host, you would’ve walked him to your front door, but your eyes were already falling shut again, so you instead gave him a sleepy thumbs up. “Thanks.” 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

let me know ur thoughts<333

to everyone else, you were just friends. best friends.

steve harrington and you were a package deal.

the problem was that Steve never seemed to look at you the way you looked at him. at least, that’s what you told yourself because what else were you supposed to think?

years passed. steve dated. you dated. life moved forward, and somehow, neither of you ever said the one thing that mattered.

you became very good at pretending: at smiling when steve talked about dates, at helping robin make fun of him afterward, and at ignoring the way jealousy crawled under your skin every time another girl touched his arm.

because steve never said anything. he never gave you a reason to hope.

so eventually, you stopped waiting. or at least, you tried to.

that was how you ended up dating aaron.

at first, everyone liked him, especially steve.

“see?” steve said after aaron left your apartment one night. “normal guy. nice guy. finally.”

you laughed. “finally?”

“Ii’m just saying your last date thought star wars was a documentary.”

“that’s not what happened.”

“he thought sharks were mammals.”

“okay, fair.”

steve grinned, and your chest ached. a small, ugly part of you wanted him to hate aaron. you wanted him to look jealous. you wanted proof that losing you would matter.

instead, he looked relieved, happy, even, like he had personally approved the relationship.

what you didn’t know was that robin cornered him the next day.

“you okay?”

Ssteve looked up from stacking tapes. “huh?”

“you look like somebody ran over your dog.”

“i’m fine.”

robin snorted. “right.”

steve shoved another tape onto the shelf, and robin waited. eventually, he sighed. “he’s nice.”

“and?”

“and she’s happy.”

robin's expression softened all while steve stared at the floor.

“if she’s happy, that’s what matters.”

the words sounded convincing enough. almost.

months passed.

three, four, five. and then the cracks started showing.

the comments came first, small enough to dismiss.

the first time it happened was because you wore one of your favorite sweaters on a date.

aaron laughed and said, “you dress like somebody’s grandma.”

you laughed too, well because he laughed, but afterward, you found yourself staring at the sweater differently.

eventually, you stopped wearing it around him.

then came the jokes, the little comments, the constant corrections:

“you’re such a nerd.”

“you’re kind of a lot.”

“do you ever stop talking?”

always smiling.

always joking.

always making you feel ridiculous for being hurt.

slowly, you became quieter. you apologized more. you shrank yourself down without realizing it.

the first person who noticed wasn’t you, it was robin.

the second was steve.

one night, you were all sitting around family video after closing, and you got excited talking about a book you’d read. halfway through your sentence, you stopped.

“sorry. i’m talking too much.”

the silence that followed felt strange. robin frowned, and steve looked up so quickly he nearly knocked over his chair.

you laughed awkwardly.

“what?”

robin exchanged a glance with steve, and neither of them answered. they had never heard you apologize for being yourself before.

after that, steve started noticing everything.

the way you hesitated before speaking. the way you checked aaron’s reaction after every joke. the way your shoulders curled inward now.

and every time he noticed, something angry settled deeper in his chest.

the breakup happened two months later. you ended things with aaron, who called you dramatic, too emotional, and too sensitive.

those words followed you anyway.

a week later, you found yourself sitting on the hood of steve's bmw in the empty parking lot behind family video.

the summer air was warm, but the silence wasn’t.

steve sat beside you, waiting.

you appreciated that.

“i kept thinking that something felt wrong,” you said.

steve listened.

“i just couldn't figure out what.”

your throat tightened.

then, quietly, you added,

“he made me feel difficult to love.”

steve's head snapped toward you immediately, like you’d slapped him.

“hey,” he said, the softness in his voice nearly breaking you.

“don't.”

your eyes burned.

“he did.”

“no.”

“he—”

“no.”

the certainty in his voice startled you.

it was as if this wasn’t even up for discussion.

“he made me feel like everything about me needed fixing.”

steve looked away, his jaw clenched.

“like i talked too much,” you whispered.

“like i cared too much. like i was too emotional.”

something flickered across his face.

pain. real pain.

you laughed softly through your tears. a sad sound.

“i kept trying to figure out which version of me would finally be enough.”

steve closed his eyes for a second.

when he opened them again, there was something fierce in his expression.

protective. angry. heartbroken.

“that’s bullshit.”

you blinked, surprised.

steve shook his head.

“you know how many people spend their whole lives looking for someone who cares the way you do?”

your breath caught.

“steve—”

“no, seriously.”

he looked frustrated, as if he couldn’t believe this conversation was happening.

“you remember everything. you show up for everyone. you make people feel important.”

your eyes stung.

steve let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.

“you cry at commercials.”

a watery laugh escaped you.

but he didn’t smile.

“aaron looked at all that and thought it was something to fix.”

silence fell between you.

steve looked away.

then said quietly,

“i would’ve killed to have someone like you.”

the words landed heavily between you.

steve froze.

you froze too.

because neither of you missed it.

someone like you.

not someone like that.

you.

his hand dragged across his face.

“damn it.”

your heart started pounding.

“steve.”

he laughed softly. a nervous sound. the kind he made when he was cornered by the truth.

“you know what the worst part was?”

you couldn’t speak.

steve stared at the pavement.

“watching you date him.”

everything stopped. “what?”

he smiled sadly. “i hated him.”

you stared in disbelief.

“you said you liked him.”

“i lied.”

your mouth fell open. steve laughed.

“what do you mean you lied?”

“he was nice enough,” he shrugged. “but i wanted to punch him every time he touched you.”

the world tilted.

“steve...”

“i thought you were happy,” his voice cracked slightly, the honesty in it making your chest ache. “and if you were happy, then that was supposed to be enough.” he looked up, meeting your eyes.

“i kept telling myself i’d get over it.”

the air disappeared from your lungs.

steve smiled sadly. “turns out, i couldn’t.”

silence hung heavy between you.

then he said, “i’ve been in love with you for years.”

your heart stopped. actually stopped. steve swallowed.

“you don’t have to say it back.”

you laughed through your tears because, somehow, he still didn’t know.

after all this time.

after all these years.

“you idiot.”

steve blinked.

“what?”

you moved closer. then closer still. until there was almost no space left between you.

“i’ve been in love with you forever.”

for one second, steve just stared. as if his brain had completely shut down.

then he laughed. bright and disbelieving. overwhelmed even.

“forever?”

you groaned.

“don’t make me regret this.”

“forever?” his disbelief was evident.

“oh my.” you gently shoved his shoulder.

steve caught your wrist before you could pull away. his grin was impossibly soft. as if he’d just been handed everything he’d ever wanted.

his thumb brushed gently across your skin. “you know,” he said quietly, “for somebody who’s supposedly difficult to love...”

you rolled your eyes.

“steve.”

“you’ve had me wrapped around your finger for years.”

your chest squeezed painfully.

but happily.

the smile that followed was small and entirely yours.

and when steve kissed you, it felt a little bit like coming home after being lost for a very long time. like finally being loved in a way that never asked you to become smaller first.