Simp

The shop smelled like it always did.

Turpentine and old wood and something underneath both of those things - something that had no name but that Cassian had come to associate with bad news.

Luthen Rael had a talent for delivering bad news in rooms that smelled like art. Like beauty. Like the careful, considered arrangement of precious things.

Cassian had never decided if that was ironic or entirely intentional.

He stood with his hands loose at his sides and watched Luthen move between the display cases with the unhurried ease of a man who had nowhere to be and all the time in the galaxy to get there. It was a performance. Everything Luthen did was a performance. Cassian had learned to wait it out.

“You look tired,” Luthen said without looking at him.

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask if you were fine. I said you look tired.” Luthen lifted a small artifact from one of the shelves - something ancient and amber-colored, a Togrutan ceremonial piece if Cassian had to guess - and turned it slowly in the light. “There’s a difference.”

Cassian said nothing. He had a bruised rib from the last job and a cut along his jaw that hadn’t fully closed and he hadn’t slept more than four hours together in the better part of two weeks.

Luthen knew all of this. Luthen knew everything. The observation wasn’t concern.

“Sit down, Cassian.”

He sat. The chair was old and expensive and deeply uncomfortable, which also felt intentional.

Luthen set the artifact down and finally turned to face him. In the low amber light of the shop, he looked like something out of a painting himself - angular and deliberate, eyes always calculating three moves ahead of wherever the conversation currently lived.

He reached beneath the counter and produced a slim datapad, which he set on the surface between them without ceremony.

“Senator Eddian Beruss,” Luthen said.

Cassian picked up the datapad. The face on the screen was unremarkable in the way dangerous men sometimes were - broad, well-fed, hair going silver at the temples, the practiced smile of someone who had spent decades learning exactly how much warmth to perform and when. Mid-sixties, maybe. Eyes that were lighter than they should have been, almost colorless in the image.

The kind of man you’d walk past at a function and forget inside of an hour, which was, Cassian suspected, precisely how he preferred it.

“What about him?”

“He’s been making a name for himself.” Luthen moved around the counter and settled into the chair across from Cassian.

“Quietly. Carefully. In the way that men who understand the Empire make names for themselves - not with noise, but with access. Senator Beruss has spent the last four years cultivating relationships with some of the most significant military figures in the Imperial structure. People whose decisions shape the movement of fleets, the allocation of resources, the designation of occupied territories.”

“He’s a collaborator.”

“He’s more than that. He’s a facilitator. There’s a distinction.” Luthen folded his hands. “A collaborator bends his knee and does what he’s told. A facilitator creates the conditions in which things get done. Senator Beruss doesn’t simply support the Empire - he hosts it. His estate on Lexrul has become something of an unofficial gathering point for the Imperial upper class. Parties. Dinners. Extended stays. The kind of social infrastructure that exists entirely off the record but within which a very great deal of Imperial business gets conducted.”

Cassian scrolled through the datapad. The estate was substantial - he could see that even from the external surveillance images. Stone and manicured grounds that stretched farther than they had any right to, set back from the capital city of Lexrul’s northern coast.

It looked old, the kind of old that had been carefully maintained to look old, which was its own kind of wealth.

The interior shots were sparser. High ceilings. Wide corridors. The kind of space that was built to hold a crowd.

“What’s the ask?”

“There is a position open on the estate’s security staff,” Luthen said. “A guard vacancy. Mid-level - not personal protection, not outer perimeter. Interior rotation. Close access to the main house.” He paused. “We need someone inside, Cassian. The conversations happening in that estate represent months, possibly years, of Imperial planning that we currently have no visibility into. Fleet movements. Resource allocations. The names of officers whose cooperation the Empire is quietly securing in the Outer Rim.” He paused again, and this time the silence carried weight. “The location of facilities we have not yet identified.”

Cassian looked up from the datapad.

“How long?”

“As long as it takes.” Luthen held his gaze, "Weeks. Possibly months.”

“Months.”

“Is that a problem?”

Cassian looked back down at the datapad. Senator Beruss’s pale eyes stared back at him from the screen, that practiced smile going nowhere near them.

He scrolled further.

More images of the estate. Staff records, partial - the full package would be embedded in the cover identity, he assumed. Property schematics. A guest list from an event three months prior that read like a directory of everything wrong with the galaxy.

General Verath.

Admiral Suun.

Moff Deleran.

Names he knew. Names that appeared in Rebel intelligence reports with varying degrees of dread attached to them.

He scrolled again.

The next image made him stop.

It was candid, clearly taken from a distance - surveillance grade, slightly grainy, the subject caught mid-movement on what looked like an outdoor terrace.

A young woman.

Hair oose around her shoulders, caught mid-turn so that her face was only partly visible to the lens, her expression unreadable in the particular way motion-caught faces sometimes became. She wore something pale and formal and held a glass she didn’t appear remotely interested in drinking.

She looked like she was staring at something just beyond the edge of the frame. Something not entirely there.

Even through the grainy quality of the image, she was beautiful enough that Cassian looked twice before he could stop himself.

He made himself look once more and moved on.

“Who else is in the household?” he asked evenly.

“Staff. Approximately thirty personnel between security, domestic, and administrative.” Luthen’s tone remained calm. “The senator has no wife - she died several years ago. He has one daughter. Y/N Beruss. She lives on the estate full-time.”

“Is she a concern?”

Luthen considered the question for a moment longer than felt strictly necessary.

“She is a fixture,” he said at last. “The senator uses her presence at social functions. She is, by most accounts, decorative.” Something unreadable flickered briefly across his expression. “I would not anticipate her being a problem. But I would encourage you to be mindful.”

“Mindful,” Cassian repeated.

“She’s observant,” Luthen said. “In the way people who spend their lives in rooms full of conversations they aren’t supposed to hear often become observant.” He paused. “Don’t underestimate her.”

Cassian nodded once, filed the warning away, and looked back at the estate details.

“Cover identity?”

“Joren Vasek. Born on Fest, which accounts for the accent variation if pressed. Former security contractor, two prior corporate postings - both fabricated, both verifiable to a standard background check. Clean record. No political affiliations. References have already been seeded.”

Luthen reached into a drawer beneath the counter and produced a small sealed case, setting it carefully between them.

“New documents. Comm device - civilian grade on the surface, buried Rebel frequency underneath. The full briefing packet is embedded.” He paused. “There is also an interview. Tomorrow morning.”

Cassian looked up sharply.

“You scheduled an interview without me agreeing to this.”

“I scheduled an interview because I knew you would say yes,” Luthen replied with the serenity of a man who had never once doubted his own instincts. “Was I incorrect?”

Cassian picked up the sealed case. It felt lighter than it should have for something carrying the weight of an entirely fabricated life inside it.

“No,” he said quietly. “You weren’t incorrect.”

Luthen nodded slowly, as though this simply confirmed something he had known long before Cassian walked into the shop.

“There is one more thing.”

Cassian waited.

“Senator Beruss is hosting an event within the first week of your posting. Significant attendees. It will be an early opportunity to begin gathering intelligence.” Luthen’s gaze stayed fixed on him. “But it will also be a test. New staff are watched more closely during those first weeks than at any other point.”

Cassian leaned back slightly in the chair.

“You will need to be unremarkable, Cassian. Patient. You will need to be, for all intents and purposes, nobody.”

“I know how undercover work functions.”

“You know how undercover work functions for three days,” Luthen corrected evenly. “You know how to become someone else during a crisis because you are exceptional in a crisis. This will not be a crisis.”

His voice sharpened only slightly. “This will be weeks of being no one in particular inside a house full of people who are very good at reading everyone around them.”

Cassian held his gaze.

“The temptation will be to move quickly,” Luthen continued. “To push for access. To take risks that feel calculated but are simply impatient.”

“I understand.”

“I need you to actually understand, not simply say it.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment.

Then Cassian nodded once.

“I understand.”

Luthen studied him carefully - that long assessing look that always made Cassian feel like an artifact being turned over beneath a light, checked carefully for fractures.

Finally, Luthen rose from the chair.

The meeting was over.

Cassian stood too, tucking the sealed case beneath his arm as he moved toward the door, the familiar smell of turpentine and old wood settling around him once more.

“Cassian.”

He stopped.

“Be careful,” Luthen said quietly behind him.

Cassian almost replied I’m always careful, which would have been a lie.

You look up from the couch, one leg hooked over the armrest, book slack in your lap. Steve’s standing there like he’s trying - and failing - not to grin, jacket slung over his shoulder, eyes bright in that way that only ever means one thing.

“…You got it,” you say.

He lets out a breathy laugh, like he’s been holding it in all day. “Yeah,” he says. “I got it.”

You’re off the couch in seconds, arms looping around his neck. He catches you without thinking, hands settling low on your back as he laughs into your hair.

“I knew it,” you murmur. “Coach Harrington.”

“Alright, alright, don’t start,” he says, smiling despite himself.

He leans in like he’s going to kiss you - then stops.

You clock it immediately.

“What,” you say, pulling back just enough to look at him. “You paused.”

Steve exhales through his nose. “There’s… a catch.”

You slide your hands down his chest slowly, deliberately. “Steve.”

“They needed someone to cover a class,” he continues, eyes tracking your hands like they’ve betrayed him.

“What class?”

“Health,” he says - too fast.

“…Health?”

“Yes. Health.” He steps back, rubbing a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you learned years ago.

You blink. Then grin. “You mean sex ed.”

“No - I - well - ” He gestures vaguely. “It’s not like -”

“Oh my god.” You laugh. “You’re teaching sex ed.”

“Okay, shut up,” he mutters, turning like he’s going to walk it off.

“You, Steve Harrington?” you follow him. “King Steve? Former menace to Hawkins High?”

He spins back around. “Yeah, and so what?” he snaps, then immediately deflates. “Why is that funny to you?”

“I’m not laughing at the job,” you say, still smiling. “I’m laughing at the mental image of you trying to professionally explain sex to a room full of teenagers.”

“I can be professional,” he argues.

You step closer, backing him up until there’s nowhere else to go. “You’re telling me you’re totally fine standing in front of a class and talking about -”

“Don’t,” he groans.

“ - safe practices?” you finish sweetly, dragging a finger along his collarbone.

Steve squeezes his eyes shut. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

“I really am.” You tilt your head. “Do you have to use diagrams?”

“Yes.”

“And abstinence?” you add innocently. “Do you have to preach that too?”

He goes quiet.

Slowly, he opens his eyes and looks at you.

The silence answers everything.

You grin. “If only they knew their teacher ignores half the curriculum.”

“Y/N,” he warns…but there’s no real bite to it.

“Steve,” you mock, softer now. “Be honest. Can you even remember the last time we actually used a condom?”

He opens his mouth. Pauses. Thinks.

Then sighs, defeated. “Okay, so?”

“I just think it’s ironic,” you say. “You standing up there telling them all about precautions you clearly don’t care much about.”

He shakes his head, cornered but smirking now. “That’s different.”

“Oh really?” you prompt, flashing him a teasing smile.

“Yes, really.” His mouth curves, slow and dangerous now. “Because unlike all those horny teenagers, I actually know what I’m doing.”

You scoff softly. “Steve - ”

“And,” he adds, stepping back into your space, voice dropping low, steady, certain, “unlike them, I wouldn’t mind the consequences.”

Your breath stutters.

You look up at him. “The consequences?”

His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing in just enough to make your knees weak. 

His eyes search your face - not teasing now. Honest. Heated. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. “The consequences of not stopping, of not pulling out, of… putting a baby inside you”

Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale.

Steve doesn’t move at first. He watches you instead - really watches you - like he’s checking to see if he went too far. 

Like he’s ready to apologize.

You don’t give him the chance.

Your hands fist in the front of his jacket and you pull him down, your mouths crashing together with a quiet sound that’s all heat and pent-up want. 

He makes a low noise in his throat, surprised, before his hands find you - firm, sure - one sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist like he needs to anchor himself.

The kiss deepens fast. 

Slower. 

Hotter.

You walk him backward without breaking it, step by step, until the backs of his knees hit the couch. He stumbles slightly, laughing breathlessly against your mouth as he falls back, pulling you with him.

You land half on his lap, half sprawled across him, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his thighs. His hands immediately slide under your shirt, warm palms pressing against your skin like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, lips trailing along your jaw, your neck. 

You rock into him without thinking, and his breath stutters. One hand tightens at your hip, the other slipping up your back, fingers flexing like he’s trying to ground himself.

His hands stop their gentle exploration and grip you, pulling you down harder against the thick ridge straining the denim of his jeans. The friction is electric, a jolt that goes straight to your core, and you gasp into his mouth.

“Off,” he grits out, his voice a low rasp against your lips. His hands are already tugging at the hem of your shirt, - and you help him -  fumbling to get it over your head before your hands are back on him, clawing at his own jacket. 

He shrugs it off, then his shirt, and the moment his bare chest is pressed against yours - skin to skin - you both sigh.

His mouth is back on yours, hungry and deep, as he expertly unsnaps your bra and tosses it aside. His palms are hot as they cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they pebble under his touch. 

He breaks the kiss, ducking his head to take one into his mouth, and the wet, sucking heat makes you arch your back, a cry catching in your throat. 

Oh god.

He lavishes you with attention, his tongue and teeth working in tandem, while his other hand slides down your stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants.

He doesn’t waste time. In one fluid motion, he has your pants and underwear down over your hips, his knuckles brushing against the slick heat already gathering between your thighs. 

You lift up just enough for him to pull them free, and then you’re back on him, naked and wanting, the rough denim of his jeans contrast against your bare skin.

“Steve,” you breathe, your hands fumbling with his belt buckle. “Please.”

“Shh, I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion that goes far beyond lust. He helps you with his jeans, shoving them down just enough to free himself. 

When his cock springs up, hot and heavy against your inner thigh, you groan with want. 

He’s so hard, the tip already leaking with precum, and you reach down to wrap your hand around him, stroking him slowly from base to tip.

He hisses, his head falling back against the couch cushions, his jaw tight. “Fuck… keep doing that, and this’ll be over before it starts.”

You smile - slow and confident - and guide him to your entrance. 

You don’t wait. 

You sink down on him in one slow, deep movement, taking every inch until he’s buried to the hilt. 

The stretch is intense, a full, aching pressure that steals the air from your lungs. You pause, your foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing heavily in the sudden, profound silence.

“God, you feel…” he trails off, his voice cracking. He’s shaking, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow. 

You don’t care. 

You start to move, a slow, deliberate rocking of your hips that has him cursing under his breath. Each roll drags him against your inner walls, hitting that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. 

It’s not fast, not frantic. 

It’s deep. Intense. 

Every thrust is a statement - a promise. 

His eyes are locked on yours, dark and possessive, and the raw sweetness of it all makes your chest ache.

“Look at you,” he pants, his thrusts growing a little harder, a little deeper. “Taking me so well. So perfect.” 

His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly. 

“Right here,” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Gonna fill you up right here”

The words are your undoing. The coil in your stomach tightens impossibly, and you move faster, chasing the release he’s offering. 

The couch creaks in time with your movements, the room filling with the sound of skin slapping against skin and your broken moans.

“Steve, I…” you can’t finish the sentence. 

The pleasure is too much, a white-hot wave coming closer and closer.

“I know,” he says, his voice strained. He sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close as he takes over, slamming his hips up into you. 

The new angle is devastating. “I know, baby. Come on. Give it to me. Let me feel you.”

His other hand moves between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just the right amount of pressure. 

That’s all it takes… and the world shatters. 

Your orgasm rips through you, a powerful, convulsing wave that leaves you crying out his name, your body clamping down around him like a vice. 

He groans, a long, guttural sound, and buries his face in your neck as he follows you over the edge.

You feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep into your body. He doesn’t stop, rocking into you slowly as he empties himself, his lips pressing soft kisses against your skin. 

It feels endless, a final, possessive act that seals everything he said.

When the tremors finally subside, you collapse against him.

He’s still inside you, still hard, a warm, grounding presence. You stay like that for a long time, just breathing, his hands stroking your back in slow, soothing circles.

He tilts your chin up, his eyes soft and searching. “You okay?” he asks, his voice gentle.

You nod, a genuine smile spreading across your face. 

You lean in and kiss him, a soft, lingering press of lips that’s full of everything you can’t put into words. “More than okay,” you whisper against his mouth - teasing - “Mr. Harrington”

You got the job.

Steve told you you would - like it wasn’t even a question. Like it had been decided the second you walked into Hawkins High with your portfolio tucked under your arm, your blouse pressed too carefully, the shaky smile you’d rehearsed in the mirror clinging to your face like a shield.

“They’d be stupid not to take you,” he’d said after, leaning against the hood of his car, squinting into the sun like he was sizing up the entire world. “You’re perfect for it. Like… annoyingly perfect.”

You’d rolled your eyes because it was easier than acknowledging the way your stomach had fluttered at the words you and perfect coming out of his mouth…and because he looked stupidly good when he said it, all relaxed confidence and quiet certainty, like he could make things true just by believing them hard enough.

“Don’t say that,” you’d warned.

He’d blinked, pretending innocence. “Don’t say what?”

“Perfect. Annoyingly. Anything.”

Steve’s grin widened. “So… you want me to say you’re moderately adequate?”

“Steve.”

He shrugged, unbothered. “Fine. You’re moderately adequate at being the best person in the room.”

You’d tried not to smile, but failed miserably.

The whole “date” afterward - if that’s what you could call it - he barely let you breathe. It wasn’t fancy. Just burgers and milkshakes, a booth that creaked when you slid in, and Steve’s knee bumping yours under the table.

He kept talking about how fun it would be. How it would be “like Family Video again,” except better, because you wouldn’t be stuck shelving dusty tapes while Keith pretended he wasn’t eavesdropping.

“We’d be like coworkers again,” he’d said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

You’d laughed. “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”

He’d sipped his milkshake and stared at you over the rim like you were the one being unreasonable. “I’m being realistic.”

You leaned back against the booth, watching him as he talked - the way his hands moved when he got animated, the way his knee still stayed pressed lightly against yours like it hadn’t even occurred to him to move it. Every so often he’d glance at you, like he was checking to make sure you were still following, still there.

And the whole time, under the teasing and the jokes, there was this quiet truth humming between you:

He wanted you here.

He wanted this to be real.

You still remember the day the phone call came.

You’d gone back to school - driven those ten brutal hours, unpacked your car, slipped right back into routine like you hadn’t just sat on Hawkins High bleachers a few days earlier and confessed something you’d buried for years. 

You and Steve had promised each other you weren’t going to drift again - whether you got the teaching gig or not. But the second you were back on campus, it felt like that promise was hard to achieve.

Your schedule swallowed you whole: classes, exams, campus noise that never stopped. People moving fast with coffee cups and headphones and futures they acted excited about. You tried to keep up, tried to pretend the knot in your chest wasn’t tightening every time your dial phone stayed silent.

Maybe that was why you didn’t call Steve.

Because if you called him and talked about classroom layouts and apartment hunting and all the things you’d do when you moved back - and then the offer never came - it would hurt ten times worse.

So you kept busy instead. Told yourself it was fine. Told yourself you were being smart.

It lasted four days.

Maybe five.

You were sitting at your desk, notes spread out in front of you, highlighter uncapped and drying because you’d been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes without reading it. Your roommate had music playing softly in the other room. Normal life. Ordinary noise.

Then the phone rang.

Something in your chest tightened like it already knew.

You answered, polite and careful.

And then they said it;

We would love for you to join their teaching program at Hawkins next school year.

English department. Full position.

For a second, you couldn’t breathe. Like your lungs forgot what they were supposed to do. Like your whole body short-circuited around the fact that this was real - not a maybe, not a possibility, not something you were trying not to hope for.

You managed to thank him. Managed to sound coherent. Managed to hang up.

And the first person you thought of was Steve Harrington.

Not your mom. Not Dustin. Not your advisor.

Steve.

It was almost funny - how instinctive it was. 

Before you could stop yourself, your hand was reaching for the phone, dialing his number from memory - fingers moving like they’d done it a hundred times, like they hadn’t spent almost two years in hibernation.

It rang twice.

He picked up on the third.

“Hello?” His voice came through warm and familiar, the low murmur of a TV behind him - an action movie, maybe, something with too much yelling.

Your throat tightened.

“…Steve.”

There was a pause.

Not long.

Just enough.

Like he wasnt expecting to hear your voice.

And then you heard it - the way his breath caught, the way his tone shifted into something careful - and the tv noise coming to a halt.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey. Everything okay?”

You didn’t even answer him properly. You just burst.

“I got it,” you blurted. “I got the job. They - they offered it. Like, officially. I’m going to teach at Hawkins next year.”

Silence.

Not because he didn’t hear you.

Because he was processing.

And then Steve laughed - sharp and disbelieving, like his body didn’t know what else to do with the happiness.

“I told you,” he said immediately. “I told you. I literally told you.”

You could hear him moving, like he’d stood up so fast he nearly tripped. Like he couldn’t stay still. Like the information physically wouldn’t let him.

“Say it again,” he demanded. “Say it again, because I swear, if I’m hallucinating right now-”

“I got the job,” you repeated, laughing now too, breathless and dizzy. “I got it.”

“Holy shit,” he murmured, and his voice dropped softer. “Holy shit, Henderson…”

Something about the way he said your name - not teasing, not cocky, just… full of pride, made your eyes sting.

You started rambling because you couldn’t stop. 

You told him you were going to finish up the semester before moving back home. That you were already thinking about what kind of classroom you wanted - what posters, what books, what stupid little desk decorations you’d never cared about until now. You told him you’d start looking for an apartment. That you were scared, but excited. That everything suddenly felt… possible.

Steve listened through it all, quiet in a way that made your heart squeeze.

“Hey,” he cut in gently at one point. “Slow down.”

You paused, swallowing hard. “Sorry.”

“No,” he said. “Don’t be sorry.” A beat. “I just… I wanna hear all of it, slowly. Like - I wanna picture it.”

Your throat tightened again.

And then you said it - too quickly to back out.

“I’m excited to see you.”

Another pause.

Then Steve exhaled, slow and shaky, like he’d been holding something in his chest and finally let it go.

“Yeah?” he said, quietly.

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice suddenly small.

You could hear the smile in his voice when he answered.

“Good,” he said. “… I’m excited to see you too.”

After that, the calls became a daily thing.

Not as some big dramatic decision - it just happened. Like the universe nudged you into place and you two couldn't get enough of each other.

Almost every night, your hand drifted toward the receiver without you even thinking about it. Sometimes you were the one who called first, dialing his number from memory while you brushed your teeth or kicked your shoes off after class. Other nights, it rang while you were sprawled across your dorm bed, notes half-highlighted, textbooks abandoned.

“Hey,” he always said, like he had been waiting.

And you’d roll your eyes and pretend you hadn’t been, too.

You talked about school - exams, professors who hated joy, the way this semester felt heavier and slower than you expected. You’d complain about your roommate leaving dishes in the sink like it was a personal attack, and Steve would laugh and say, “Welcome to adulthood,” like he hadn’t once eaten cereal out of a mixing bowl because all his dishes were dirty.

He told you about Hawkins. About the team. About kids who mouthed off and acted tough until Steve looked at them a certain way and they folded with muttered apologies. And slowly, without either of you naming it, you started sliding into the spaces of each other’s days.

He’d call before your morning exam - not long, just enough to say, “You’re gonna do great,” and then, quieter, “Call me when it’s over.” 

You’d call after his games, listening to him recap plays like you knew anything about baseball strategy.

“That kid I told you about? The one who can’t catch?”

“The one who ‘has hands made of butter’?”

“Yeah, him,” Steve said. “He caught it today.”

“No way!”

“I swear,” Steve said, proud. “I almost cried.”

Sometimes the calls were stupid. Five minutes at the payphone while you stood outside your classroom in the cold because you missed him. A quick check-in while he cooked something that sounded suspiciously like microwaved spaghetti.

Other times, they got quiet… real.

Late-night conversations where Steve’s voice dropped low and careful, where he’d ask, “You okay?” and you’d know he meant more than the surface. Nights when a nightmare dragged you awake and you didn’t want to admit you were scared, and Steve would just stay on the line anyway, talking about nothing until your breathing slowed.

It wasn’t long until you began thinking about him the moment you woke up. On walks across campus. When something funny happened and your first instinct was to call him before anyone else. You’d catch yourself smiling at nothing in the middle of a lecture because you remembered the way he’d said your name the night before.

Whatever was building between the two of you… it wasn’t nothing.

It was a slow, steady weave - thread by thread - until it started to feel like he’d already moved into your life without ever stepping foot in your dorm room. Like you were already making room for him too.

So when Steve asked - casually, like it didn’t matter, even though it did - “So when do you get back again?” -  you could hear him shuffling papers on his end like he was making a note, like he was circling the date on a calendar.

“I finish my last final Tuesday,” you said. “Then I need to pack everything up, say my goodbyes… so I’ll probably leave Wednesday morning. Get in maybe around seven?”

“Cool,” he muttered - too casual, too fast, like he didn’t want you to hear how much he cared.

There was a beat.

Then, quieter: “Maybe I could swing by yours around eight?”

You went silent, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt. You bit at the tip of your thumb, staring at the ceiling like it might calm your heartbeat.

Because eight meant he was coming over.

Eight meant he couldn’t stand the idea of waiting until the next day.

Eight meant… something.

“I mean,” he rushed immediately, voice tripping over itself, “I get it if it’s too much. Long drive, you’ll be tired, and you’ll want to hang with your mom and Dustin and -”

“Steve,” you cut in gently, smiling into the phone. “Eight sounds good.”

He exhaled like you’d just given him permission to breathe.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he was making sure.

“Yeah,” you repeated, soft.

“Okay,” he murmured. And then, like he couldn’t help himself: “Okay, cool. Great. Awesome.”

You laughed quietly.

He did too.

And the sound of it stayed with you for the rest of the week.

So now it was Wednesday night.

You just spent ten hours cramped in your car. Back stiff. Eyes burning - and the last hour spent in your living room catching up with your mom and Dustin. 

Dustin already vibrating with graduation nerves, pretending he wasn’t. Pacing like a lunatic, reciting his speech for the fifth time, getting annoyed when you corrected his pacing or grammar.

By the time you escaped to your room, it felt like your body was running on pure adrenaline and nostalgia. You rummaged through drawers like you hadn’t touched them in years. Brushed your hair until it stopped looking like a ten-hour drive and started looking like I don’t care, this is casual. You swapped your sweats for your favorite pair of Guess jeans.

You dabbed blush onto your cheeks with your fingertips, then stared at yourself in the mirror, suddenly struck by how strange it was to be back in this room, in this body. Though you were older, and life was now calm - it felt like you were back in high school.

Your eyes flicked to the clock again.

7:58.

You took a breath.

And you felt it - nervous, warm anticipation curling low in your stomach. You shouldn’t be nervous. This was Steve. The same Steve you’d survived hell with. The same Steve you used to call your best friend like it was the simplest fact in the world.

But now… it wasn’t simple.

Now you were both adults with normal lives and real stakes.

Now you were standing right on the edge of friendship and something more - and you could feel that “something more” approaching like thunder.

At exactly 8:01, a soft knock tapped against your bedroom window.

You smiled before you even moved, warmth blooming at the familiarity - at all those late nights when you, Steve, and Robin couldn’t sleep and the insomnia always seemed to sync up like a cruel joke - knocking on each other's windows to sneak away together. 

You crossed the room quickly, careful with the floorboards, and slid the window up just enough to peek out.

Steve was there.

Leaning against the siding beneath your window, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, head tipped back as he looked up at you. The porch light caught the line of his jaw, the familiar curl of his hair, the soft hopeful grin that spread across his face the second he saw you.

“Hey,” he whispered, like it was a secret - like you were kids again.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from smiling too wide. “You’re late.”

“It’s one minute,” he said defensively, glancing at his watch. “I rounded up.”

You rolled your eyes at his stupidity, pushing the window up farther. Cool air spilled into your room, carrying the smell of cut grass and summer and something faintly familiar - Hawkins at night.

Steve’s gaze followed the movement, then flicked back to you. 

“Well?” he murmured. “You coming or are we just… staring at each other through a window like creeps?”

“You’re the one standing outside my bedroom,” you whispered.

“Fair,” he said, lifting both hands in surrender. “But for the record, you invited me.”

“I did not invite you,” you hissed, laughing under your breath as you swung one leg over the sill.

The floorboard inside creaked faintly. You lowered your other leg out, careful, but the window frame snagged on your jeans for half a second and you wobbled.

Steve’s hands shot up immediately - not grabbing you, just hovering beneath your waist like a safety net.

“Okay - it’s okay,” he murmured, voice gentle. “I got you.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, but your heart was already pounding, adrenaline and nerves mixing into something warm.

“Mmhm,” he said, not believing you even a little.

You eased yourself down, toes searching for the ground. It was lower than you remembered…or maybe you were just more aware of gravity now that you were older and trying not to eat dirt in front of Steve Harrington.

You dropped the last few inches with a soft thud onto the grass.

Steve let out a quiet breath like he’d been holding it the entire time.

“See?” you whispered, straightening. “Nailed it.”

He leaned closer, eyes bright in the porch light. “You almost fell.”

“I did not almost fall.”

“You absolutely almost fell.”

Your grin softened as you looked at him. Up close like this, he didn’t look like Coach Harrington or Adult Steve or anything else you’d been trying to call him in your head.

He just looked like Steve.

And for a second, neither of you moved.

The air between you felt… different. Not awkward exactly. Just charged in a way you weren’t used to yet.

Steve shifted first, clearing his throat. His eyes flicked to the window behind you, then back to your face, like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands anymore.

“So,” he said softly, “hi.”

You smiled. “Hi.”

He huffed a small laugh under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck - the same nervous habit from the bleachers those few months ago.

And then, like he couldn’t help himself, he stepped forward and pulled you into a hug.

It wasn’t smooth.

It wasn’t the easy, familiar high school hug where you’d thrown your arms around him after a close call and neither of you had thought about it.

This one hesitated… his arms wrapping around you like he was checking for permission mid-motion, like he was afraid you’d pull away.

For half a second, you stayed stiff too - surprised by how much you wanted it. Then you melted into him, exhaling against his shoulder. Steve’s hold tightened just a little, like he’d been waiting months for this.

You pulled back first, mostly because if you didn’t, you were going to stay like that for hours.

Steve’s hands lingered for a beat at your sides before he let them drop, like he had to physically remind himself to behave.

“Ten-hour drive?” he asked, voice shifting back toward teasing.

“Ten and a half,” you whispered. “Traffic was horrible.”

He winced. “Oof. You okay?”

“Tired,” you admitted. “But… good.”

His gaze flicked over your face like he was checking for signs you might be lying. When he seemed satisfied, he nodded toward the street.

“I know you just spent the entire day in a car,” he said, already smiling like he knew your answer, “but… you wanna go for a quick drive?”

Your heart skipped.

“Yeah,” you said immediately. “I do.”

His Chevy was parked a little down the block, engine already warm. He opened the passenger door for you like it was instinct, like it was something he’d always done. The seat creaked softly beneath you. The smell hit you instantly - leather, motor oil, Steve. Different from his old shiny BMW. More lived-in. More him.

He slid in beside you, shut the door quietly, and just sat there for a second, hands on the wheel, breathing.

Then he glanced at you.

“You eat?” he asked, dead serious.

You laughed. “I swear to God.”

“I’m serious,” he repeated. “You eat?”

“Yes, Steve,” you admitted. “My mom basically made me a feast.”

“Okay,” he nodded like he’d completed a mission. “Good.”

He pulled away from the curb, headlights sweeping across familiar houses. Hawkins slipped past the windows quiet and peaceful, unchanged in a way that made your chest ache.

Steve didn’t turn on the radio. He filled the air with his voice instead, talking about his day - about Dustin making him listen to the speech for the fifth time, about how he nearly lost his mind when Dustin insisted on practicing “eye contact.” He then asked about your drive. Where you stopped. If you listened to music or just dissociated the whole time.

And when the conversation lulled, he glanced over at you again.

“So,” he said, casual but careful. “How’s it feel?”

“How’s what feel?”

“Being back,” he clarified. “Like… for real.”

You thought about your room, the smell of your house, Dustin’s shoes kicked by the door, the knot that had been loosening in your chest since you crossed the “Welcome to Hawkins” sign.

“Honestly?” you said. “It feels like I can breathe again.”

Steve nodded, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth like he’d been expecting you to say that.

The engine hummed as he turned into the overlook, headlights sweeping briefly across the trees before he killed them. The sudden quiet settled thick and familiar - crickets, wind, the soft rush of leaves.

Steve leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms overhead with a quiet groan. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “I still can’t believe your twerp of a brother graduates next week.”

You laughed softly, turning toward him. “Yeah. Me either. In my head he’s still ten years old, refusing to shower, running around with dice in his pockets.”

Steve snorted. “Oh, he’s still doing that.”

You smiled. “Good.”

“It’s weird,” he added, fingers drumming lazily on the steering wheel. “Seeing him this grown up. Like -” he searched for the word, “ - he’s tall now. And mouthy. And he has opinions about politics.”

You gasped dramatically. “Not opinions.”

“He told me Bush is going to ruin the economy,’” Steve said, offended. “I don’t even know what that means.”

You laughed. “It means he’s smarter than you.”

“Rude,” Steve said immediately, but his mouth twitched. “Also… he’s not smarter than me.”

“He is absolutely smarter than you.”

Steve turned toward you, eyes bright. “You are so mean to me.”

“You love it.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I kinda do.”

Your stomach flipped again. You cleared your throat, because you were weak and he was playing a dangerous game right now.

“You gonna cry at graduation?” you asked, trying to tease.

Steve scoffed. “No.”

You tilted your head. “You’re totally gonna cry.”

“I am not”

“He told me you cried when you picked him up from his last day of school,” you said sweetly.

Steve froze, scandalized. “That little asshole-” He turned fully toward you. “He told you that?”

“You cried?” you pushed, delighted.

“I did not cry,” Steve said, defensive, then sighed. “Okay, fine. Maybe I got - emotional. For, like, one second.”

“One second,” you echoed, unconvinced.

“Yes, one second”

You smiled at him - not teasing now. Just fondly.

And something in Steve shifted.

His grin faded into something quieter as he turned back toward the windshield, gaze drifting out toward the trees…like the laughter had finally peeled back something real.

You watched him for a moment before speaking. The way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers rested against the steering wheel like he needed something solid to hold onto.

“So,” you asked gently, careful not to startle the moment, “how’re you actually holding up with all of it?”

“With…?” he said, glancing toward you, though there was no real confusion there… just hesitation. Like he wanted you to say it first.

“All of them leaving,” you said. “College. Growing up.”

Steve exhaled slowly, the sound low and tired, like he’d been carrying the answer around for a while. “Yeah.”

His thumb began tapping against the wheell. A habit you’d seen before when he didn’t quite know how to say something but knew he needed to try.

“I try not to dwell on it,” he admitted. “I mean… I keep busy. Practices, work, fixing random shit around the apartment that doesn’t really need fixing.” A huff of a laugh. “But I won’t lie - it’s gonna suck.”

Your fingers curled slowly in your lap. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

There was another pause. Longer this time. 

“I mean,” he said, voice softer now, stripped of teasing, “Mini Henderson kinda became one of my best friends.” He swallowed. “Gonna be hard not to feel it when he’s gone.”

Something in your chest squeezed at that - not surprised, but still affected. You’d seen it happen in real time: the way Steve showed up, over and over again. How naturally he slipped into the role of protector. How Dustin trusted him in a way that went deeper than hero worship.

“You were really good for him,” you said quietly.

Steve shrugged, embarrassed, eyes still fixed ahead. “He was good for me too.”

The words settled between you like something you both already knew, but rarely said out loud. Like a truth that didn’t need defending.

Steve cleared his throat, then shook it off with a small grin, like he’d realized he was getting a little too earnest.

“But,” he added, lighter now, “we planned this massive road trip for his spring break.”

Your mouth curved into a smile immediately. “Of course you did.”

“He’s got a whole itinerary,” Steve continued, equal parts fond and horrified.

“Color-coded?” you asked.

“Oh, it’s color-coded,” he groaned. “And there are backup plans.”

“Plural?” you pressed.

“Plural,” he confirmed solemnly. “I think there’s a contingency for weather, traffic, and -” He waved a hand vaguely. “- literally any thing that can go wrong”

You laughed, the sound cutting through the quiet. “He gets that from me.”

Steve hummed, amused. “Oh, I’m aware.”

The laughter faded, but the warmth lingered.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward… It was comfortable. Familiar. Like the kind that only happens when two people don’t feel the need to fill every gap with noise.

Steve glanced at you then, and his tone shifted again - teasing, but warm. Soft around the edges.

“But you know,” he said, “even when he’s off at school… at least I’ll still have one of my Hendersons around.”

Your eyebrow lifted. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said easily, like it hadn’t even occurred to him that it might be strange to say. “It’s like a little trade.”

You grinned. “You swapped siblings.”

“Pretty much.”

“You lose the loud one.”

“But I gain the dorkier one.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “I - I am, I am not Dorky, Steve.”

Steve turned toward you fully now, body angling in your direction, eyes bright and challenging. “Yeah, you sure about that?”

You opened your mouth to argue, and then a sharp crack split the night.

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up.

You flinched hard, breath catching, shoulders tensing as a jolt of adrenaline shot straight through your chest. Your heart slammed against your ribs, fast and unsteady. Images of the Abyss, Starcourt, Vecna, El, Billy, Eddie - everything - ran through your mind. 

Steve’s head snapped toward you instantly. “Hey -”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, even though your hands were shaking. “I know. Just -”

“Hunting rifle,” he said calmly. “Or fireworks.”

You nodded, forcing a breath, but your fingers were clenched tight in your lap, knuckles pale.

Steve didn’t hesitate.

He reached over and laid his hand over yours - warm, solid, grounding. Not squeezing. Just there.

“Still gets me sometimes,” he admitted quietly. “Sounds like that.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

Your fingers slowly relaxed beneath his, your breathing evening out as the tension eased. The quiet that followed was heavier now.

Steve stared at your hands for a moment, like he was watching the way your fingers softened, the way your grip loosened under his.

Then he exhaled, long and slow.

“You know what’s stupid?” he murmured.

“What?”

“I thought after everything…” Steve said, voice low. He gestured vaguely toward the trees, toward the dark, toward the sound that had made you flinch. “I thought I’d be better at this.”

“At what?” you asked softly.

He huffed a quiet breath, almost a laugh - but there was no humor in it. “At feeling normal,” he said. “At not jumping at every quiet sound. At not waiting for something bad to happen just because things are calm.”

He shifted in his seat, one shoulder rolling like he was trying to loosen something that had been sitting there too long.

“I keep myself busy,” he went on, like he hadn’t meant to say it but needed to anyway. “Practices run late. I volunteer for stuff I don’t need to volunteer for. I leave the TV on when I’m home, even if I’m not watching it.” A pause. “Sometimes I’ll just… sit there and let it run, because the silence feels worse.”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

Steve nodded once, like that was all the confirmation he needed - that you understood without him having to spell it out.

“Everyone’s grown now,” he said quietly. “They’ve got new plans. New lives.” His jaw tightened, just a fraction. “And I’m proud of them. I really am. But Hawkins used to be loud, you know? Not just the monsters - but the people. The kids. Everyone was always barging in, yelling, needing something.” His mouth twitched. “Now it’s just… me.”

Your chest ached at that.

Steve’s thumb brushed your knuckles once - not absentminded. Intentional. Like he wanted you to know he was here with you, not drifting somewhere else.

He let out a small, self-conscious laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was saying this out loud. His shoulders lifted and fell, tension bleeding out of him in pieces.

“Which is dumb,” he said quietly, “because it’s not like I’ve been completely alone.”

The words sat between you, tentative. Not defensive. Just… honest.

You turned slightly toward him, studying his profile - the way the dashboard light caught the curve of his cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows when he thought too hard. “Oh?”

Steve rubbed his jaw, thumb catching against faint stubble like he needed the grounding. He hesitated, then nodded once, like he’d made a decision.

“Yeah,” he said. “For the past couple months, there’s been… this girl.”

Your heart fluttered - not sharp, not painful - just a soft, involuntary reaction you didn’t bother hiding. You kept your voice light anyway, easy, teasing in the way that felt safe. “A girl?”

“A girl,” he confirmed, and a small smile tugged at his mouth despite himself. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t practiced. It was fond in a way that made your chest warm.

He stared out through the windshield again, like the trees might help him find the right words. “She’s smart,” he said slowly. “Funny. Stubborn. Dorky in a way that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.” His smile deepened, almost embarrassed. “Knows way too much about Star Wars.”

You smiled, unable to help it. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

“It’s an important detail,” he insisted, glancing at you briefly, eyes bright. “Trust me.”

“She sounds great,” you said

Steve chuckled, but the sound faded into something quieter, heavier. He leaned back against the seat, fingers lacing together in his lap. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s kind of the problem.”

“The problem?” you teased gently, even though your heart had started to thud a little louder.

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. She’s different.”

“Different how?”

He took his time answering. You watched the way his chest rose and fell, the way his jaw set like he was bracing himself.

“Like,” he said carefully, “with her, I actually think before I talk.” He glanced at you then, a little sheepish. “Which is new. And honestly kind of terrifying.”

You laughed softly, warmth blooming low in your chest. “Steve Harrington. Scared of a girl.”

“Hey,” he warned, but there was no bite to it - just that familiar mix of mock offense and affection. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m serious.”

“I know,” you said, gentler now. “Why’s it scary?”

His gaze flicked to you - then away again, like holding eye contact would make it too real, too close to saying something he couldn’t take back.

“Because it’s real,” he admitted. “Back then everything felt temporary. Like we were just… passing through.” His voice dropped. “We were kids. The future felt unachievable - like something that happened to other people.”

He swallowed, adam’s apple bobbing.

“And now,” he continued, quieter, “I know what I want.”

Your heart stuttered, breath catching just slightly.

“And I don’t wanna mess it up,” he added. “I don’t want to rush her, or make her uncomfortable, or-”

“-or let it slip away,” you finished softly.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full - of everything unsaid, everything hovering just beneath the surface.

You smiled then. Not teasing. Not shy. Just steady. “Sounds like you should probably make a move.”

Steve’s thumb brushed slowly over your knuckles, deliberate, grounding. The contact sent a quiet spark up your arm.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice lower now.

“Yeah,” you said. “Before she gets confused. Starts wondering where she stands.”

His smile came slowly, unfolding like he’d been waiting for permission he didn’t realize he needed. “That would be bad.”

“Very.”

He leaned closer - not rushing, not crowding - just enough that the space between you thinned, the air warming. You could feel his presence now, solid and certain, the faint scent of him wrapping around you.

“The thing is,” he murmured, eyes searching yours, “I don’t think she’s confused at all.”

Your breath caught.

“I think,” he continued, voice steady, sure, “she’s just… patient with me.”

Your pulse thudded loud in your ears.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

And then Steve leaned in.

Slow. Certain. Like he’d finally stopped overthinking and let instinct take over.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was warm and unhurried, full of intention - not desperate, not rushed. Just right. Like something he’d been holding onto for years and finally allowed himself to claim.

You melted into it instantly, a soft sound leaving you without permission. His hand came up to your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek with adoring care as if he was memorizing the feeling.

The kiss deepened - not frantic, just fuller. You leaned into him, fingers curling lightly into his jacket, grounding yourself in the reality of him being here. With you. Choosing this.

When you finally pulled back, it was slow - reluctant - your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling in the quiet.

“Took you long enough,” you murmured, voice soft, amused.

Steve smiled - not cocky, not teasing. Just sure. Content. Like something had finally settled into place.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I’ve wanted to do that since 1985.”And the way he said it - like it wasn’t a joke, not really - made your chest ache in the best possible way.

Let me know what you think!! I’m thinking about doing one or two more chapters - maybe following Dustin’s graduation, or leaning into some softer domestic moments: moving in together, working at the school, more baseball games… just letting them exist in that space for a bit

Hawkins doesn’t look the way you remember it.

It’s quieter now. Cleaner. The air feels lighter, like the town finally exhaled after holding its breath for years. The buildings are repainted, the cracks patched over, the scars hidden under fresh coats of optimism. There are banners downtown about rebuilding. Community. Hope.

Your car rolls slowly past familiar streets… past the arcade that used to be your safe-haven, past the empty lot where Starcourt once stood, past the high school that still makes your chest ache in a way you can’t explain. Every turn feels like stepping into a memory you didn’t realize had been waiting for you.

You hadn’t told anyone you were coming back.

Not your mom.

Not Dustin. Not Steve.

That part feels deliberate…even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself.

When you left for college, nothing between you and Steve broke. There was no falling-out, no last conversation heavy with meaning. You were just best friends who assumed distance wouldn’t touch you. People who’d survived too much together to think something as ordinary as time could change anything.

You stayed close at first. Phone calls that stretched too long. Updates on life - difficult exams, bad dates, failed job applications. Jokes that still landed, even through the static of long distance.

And then, slowly, the calls spaced out.

Not because either of you stopped caring. Just because life kept happening. Classes. Work. New routines. Different time zones. Conversations that turned into quick check-ins, that turned into “tell him I said hi” passed through Dustin during your weekly calls home.

You heard about Steve in pieces after that.

About how he stayed in Hawkins. About the baseball coaching. About how he was “doing good,” in a vague, unhelpful way. You pictured him through secondhand details, like a character you used to know well but hadn’t seen in a while.

Sometimes, you told yourself you should call him. Sometimes, you didn’t… because you weren’t sure what you’d say. Because part of you had always liked him in a way that didn’t quite fit into the word friend, and it felt easier to let the distance blur that than think about it.

Now, sitting in the high school parking lot, you rest your fingers on the steering wheel and stay there longer than necessary. Your heart does that annoying thing where it speeds up without your permission, like it remembers something you’ve tried very hard not to.

The baseball field is just beyond the fence, bright under the late afternoon sun. You can hear it before you see it… the crack of a bat, scattered cheers, the low murmur of conversation drifting across the grass. 

You didn’t even know Hawkins High had baseball games like this now. 

You walk toward the bleachers slowly, like you’re afraid if you move too fast, you’ll spook the moment.

And then you see him.

Steve Harrington stands near the dugout, hands on his hips, wearing a faded Hawkins Tigers cap pulled low over his hair. He’s in a blue windbreaker that looks like it’s seen better days, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a clipboard tucked under one arm. He looks… older. Not in a bad way. Just steadier. Broader. Like someone who learned how to carry weight without letting it break him.

He shouts something to one of the players -  encouragement, not criticism - and claps when the kid makes contact with the ball, even though it’s not a home run.

Your chest tightens.

Of course he’s a coach.

Of course he’s good at it.

You don’t call out to him. You don’t wave. You just take a seat high up on the bleachers and let yourself watch.

Steve moves through the game with an ease that surprises you. He jokes with the kids between innings. Offers quiet advice. Knows when to push and when to let things go. There’s a softness to him now, a patience that didn’t exist back when monsters were ripping the world to shreds and he was just trying to survive the next five minutes.

At one point, he glances up.

Not directly at you - just a habit, maybe. Scanning the stands. And then his gaze stalls.

You see it happen in real time: the way his posture stills, the way his head tilts like his brain is struggling to catch up to his eyes.

You lift a hand in a small, hesitant wave.

Steve blinks.

Once. Twice.

And then his mouth actually falls open.

He says your name - you don’t hear it from this distance, but you know the shape of it. The way his lips form it like it’s something fragile.

He points at you like you might disappear if he doesn’t keep track of you.

You laugh, pressing your hand to your mouth as warmth spreads through your chest.

He doesn’t come over - the game’s still going - but every few minutes after that, you catch him glancing up at you again, like he’s making sure you’re still there. 

When the final inning ends and the team loses by one run, Steve still gathers them together, crouching slightly so he’s eye-level with the kids. You can’t hear what he says, but you see the way they listen - nodding, smiling, bumping shoulders with each other as they break apart.

Steve doesn’t come up to the bleachers right away.

He tries to - you see it in the way he takes two steps toward you, then stops because one of the kids calls his name. He crouches to talk to them, claps someone on the shoulder, hands out a few water bottles. But every time he looks up, his eyes find you again.

It’s not subtle.

And you’re painfully aware of it.

You sit with your hands folded in your lap, legs crossed at the ankle, pretending you’re not cataloging every detail about him like your brain is filing a report titled Steve Harrington, 1989 edition.

He looks good, your brain supplies helpfully. Annoyingly good.

When he finally jogs over, he slows as he reaches you, like he’s worried about startling you. His breath is a little uneven - from running, you tell yourself. Definitely just from running.

“Hey,” he says, quieter than you expect.

“Hey,” you answer.

And suddenly you’re aware of how close he is. Close enough that you can smell sunscreen and laundry detergent and something unmistakably Steve underneath it all.

For a second, neither of you moves.

It hits you then…how long it’s actually been. Not just in years, but in versions. You left Hawkins one person and came back another. And he changed too.

“You - ” he starts, then stops, laughing under his breath. “Sorry. I had, like, five different things I wanted to say.”

“Take your time,” you tease gently.

He grins, rubbing the back of his neck, and the gesture is achingly familiar.

“You look… uh. You look good,” he says finally.

There it is.

Your chest does a small, littld flip - the kind you pretend not to notice, the kind you’ve spent years convincing yourself meant nothing. You fight the urge to look down at yourself, suddenly hyperaware of your clothes, your hair, the way you’re sitting in front of him like this isn’t the first time he’s really seen you in years.

“So do you,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel. “Coach Harrington.”

He groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Don’t.”

You grin, unable to help yourself. “You’re wearing the hat. It’s unavoidable.”

He tugs at the brim instinctively, like he’s only just remembered it’s there. “I hate this thing.”

“You absolutely do not,” you say. “You love it”

He snorts. “Okay, maybe a little.”

There’s a pause after that - not awkward, just… soft. The kind that settles instead of stretches. You let it sit, listening to the distant hum of the lights, the faint cricket of insects starting up in the grass.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him glancing at you. It’s quick, almost reflexive, like he hadn’t meant to - like he’s trying not to make it obvious. He looks away just as fast, jaw tightening slightly.

It makes something warm settle low in your stomach.

You clear your throat gently, breaking the moment before it can turn into something else. “So,” you say, casual but curious, “is baseball your full-time gig now?”

He shakes his head. “No.” Then, after a beat - quieter, less certain,  “I, uh… I teach health.”

You turn slowly to look at him, eyebrows lifting. “Health.”

He exhales like the word itself weighs a hundred pounds. “Don’t,” he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face.

You bite back a smile, watching the faint flush creep up his cheeks, the way he suddenly looks more like the boy you used to know… nervous, earnest, trying to play it cool and failing just a little.

Your eyebrows lift. “Steve Harrington.”

“Nope.”

“You’re telling me -”

“I swear to God - ”

“You,” you say carefully, savoring it, “are a sex ed teacher.”

He winces. “That’s… not how I’d phrase it.”

Your lips twitch. “I’m begging you to tell me how you would phrase it.”

He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face before dropping them to his knees. “Okay. First of all,  it’s not just about sex, alright? I’m teaching them about drugs, physical health, the basics. You know.”

“Debatable.”

“Rude,” he says immediately, shooting you a look. “Second of all, I am qualified. I can proudly say I avoided all the shit I teach about.”

You don’t even try to stop yourself. The laugh breaks free, bright and unrestrained. “Steve.”

“What?” he protests, defensive but smiling now. “It’s true. No STIs, no STDs, no -” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Teen pregnancy.”

You laugh harder, shoulders shaking, stomach already starting to ache. It’s real laughter… the kind that sneaks up on you, the kind that reminds you how easy it used to be with him. How easy it still is.

Steve watches you for a second, then leans back on his hands, shaking his head with a soft, relieved exhale. The tension he’d been carrying loosens visibly.

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “That’s enough laughing at my life.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You walked straight into it.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, lips twitching. He glances at you, then away again, like he’s suddenly aware of how open the moment feels. Before it can tip into anything heavier, he straightens slightly and clears his throat.

“So,” he says quickly - too quickly - “tell me about you.”

You blink, caught off guard by the pivot. “What about me?”

“All of it,” he shrugs. “School. Life. The big scary world outside Hawkins. How you’ve been.”

You huff quietly. “That’s… a lot.”

“I’ve got time,” he says, nodding toward the emptying field.

You glance out over the grass, the lines freshly chalked, the bases still in place even though the game’s long over. It looks untouched. Peaceful. Like nothing bad ever happened here.

You huff a quiet laugh. “It’s loud,” you admit. “Busy. Everyone’s always going somewhere. Everyone’s chasing something.”

“And you?” Steve asks, quietly.

You hesitate.

That’s the thing… no one ever asks that part.

You shrug, forcing a small laugh. “I hate it.”

Steve doesn’t react the way you half-expect him to. He doesn’t jump in with reassurance or questions. Doesn’t try to fix it. He just nods, waiting.

“I thought leaving would make everything better,” you continue, voice softer now. “I thought if I got far enough away, things would finally feel… normal. But it just made miss it”

“Hawkins?” he asks gently.

You nod slowly, eyes drifting toward the treeline where the sun is catching the tops of the leaves, painting them gold.

“Never thought I’d say that,” you admit. “I always thought I wanted out. Somewhere far. Busy. Somewhere warm.” You pause, swallowing. “But I just keep on comparing everything to Hawkins.”

You turn back to him then, searching his face like you need to know if he understands.

He does.

Steve smiles - not big, not flashy - just something quiet and knowing. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I get that.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Before everything happened, I couldn’t wait to leave. Thought this place was just… small. Temporary. But now?” He shrugs. “Maybe I’m just getting older. Or maybe it’s just… having something worth staying for. But I love it here.”

“Mmhm,” you hum in agreement. “Yeah. It’s… peaceful.”

That word settles between you.

Peaceful.

Steve shifts, bumping his knee lightly against yours, not pulling away. It feels natural. Comfortable. Dangerous in the smallest way.

“So,” he says after a moment, tone lighter, teasing. “What, you back because Dustin finally guilted you into one of his campaigns?”

You laugh, shaking your head. For the past year, your brother has been relentless… every excuse imaginable.

You should come to one of Steve’s games.Will’s making this insane campaign, you have to be here.I might fail my midterms without you.

“Actually,” you start, fingers curling together in your lap, suddenly nervous. “I - I have an interview.”

Steve’s brows knit together. “Interview?”

“Yeah.”

“For what? Did you get some fancy internship out in Indianapolis or something?” he asks, genuinely baffled.

“No, no,” you say quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… um, Hawkins High started this teaching program.”

He stares at you.

Mouth slightly open. Brows drawn together like his brain is lagging behind the words.

“Hawkins High?” he repeats. “You? Teaching?” He squints at you. “Don’t be shitting me right now, Henderson.”

You laugh, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I’m serious. I mean - I don’t know if I’ll get it. But I applied.”

Silence.

Steve’s mouth opens slightly, then closes again. He looks out at the field, then back at you.

“You’re… serious,” he says slowly.

“Yeah.” You take a breath. “I always thought I’d graduate, get a job in LA or Chicago or New York. Somewhere big.”

“But the further I got into my program,” you admit, voice quieter now, “the more miserable I was. Like I was dreading the future instead of being excited for it.”

Steve watches you closely, expression unreadable.

“I know it sounds silly,” you continue, rushing a bit. “But I kept thinking about us. Babysitting those little twerps. How natural it felt.” You smile faintly. “And not to inflate our own egos, but… we were good at it.”

Steve lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “Yeah. We were.”

“And I liked it,” you continue. 

He lets out a slow breath, nodding.

“I started picturing myself doing that again,” you say. “Being there for kids. Teaching them. Supporting them. And for the first time in a long time, I felt excited again.”

Steve exhales, rubbing his jaw. “Wow.” Then, with a crooked smile: “Ms. Henderson. Let me guess… English?”

You grin, nodding. “Yeah. I think so.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s letting the idea settle in his chest. “Huh.”

You study his face, trying to read him - the way his jaw tightens, the way his thumb rubs absently against his knee.

“You think it’s a bad idea?” you ask.

“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Then he softens. “It’s just… unexpected.”

Something shifts after that.

Not dramatic. Just subtle. Like a door opening somewhere neither of you had checked in a long time.

You’re suddenly hyperaware of the space between you, or the lack of it. The way his knee is still angled toward yours. The way he hasn’t shifted away.

“So,” he says, voice deliberately casual. “If you do get the position… what happens then?”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he gestures vaguely, “do you just… move back home? Or get your own place? Or -”

“Wow,” you tease lightly. “Already planning my whole future, Harrington?”

He laughs, but it’s not effortless. There’s something sheepish in it, like he didn’t realize how much he’d revealed. “Just curious,” he says, shrugging one shoulder.

You tilt your head. “I don’t know yet. I guess I’d figure it out as I go.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That makes sense.”

He nods, eyes drifting back out to the field - but he doesn’t really look at it. His gaze goes unfocused, like he’s somewhere else entirely. Thinking.

“It was weird,” he says, almost to himself.

You glance at him. “What was?”

“When you left,” he answers. He lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he hadn’t planned on saying that part out loud. “I mean - not bad. Just… quieter.”

Your chest tightens.

“I figured it was normal,” he continues. “You were off doing your thing. College. New people. New life.” He shrugs, trying for casual and missing it by a mile. “And I didn’t want to be the guy who couldn’t let go.”

You watch his jaw tighten, the way his thumb rubs absently against his knee.

“And then stuff would happen,” he says. “Little things. A game. A dumb joke. Something Dustin said.” He huffs a quiet laugh. “And I’d think, oh, she’d love this. And then I’d remember you weren’t here anymore.”

He finally looks at you then.

“I missed you,” he says.

The words aren’t dramatic or heavy. They’re simple. Honest. Like something he’s carried around for a while.

Still, it hits you harder than anything else he’s said.

Your breath catches just a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once, like he needs to confirm it for himself too.

The words settle deep.

Your throat tightens, emotion rising fast and unwelcome. You look away, focusing on the glow of the field lights, the way they blur slightly when your eyes sting.

“I missed you too,” you say, voice low. Steady, even if it doesn’t feel that way inside.

When you look back at him, he’s smiling - not wide, not cocky. Just small and real. Like he’s relieved you didn’t deflect. Like he hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that until now.

“I’m glad you came back,” he says.

Something about the way he says it - careful, intentional - makes your heart stumble. It doesn’t feel like it’s about today. Or Dustin. Or even the interview.

It feels like it’s about you being here at all.

Steve inhales, then exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself.

“There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to say,” he starts - then stops.

Your breath catches. “Okay.”

He shakes his head, laughing under his breath. “God. This is dumb.”

“It’s probably not,” you say gently.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. Something unguarded. Nervous.

And you realize, suddenly, with a jolt that makes your pulse spike:

Oh.

This is where it’s going.

Your heart starts to race, anticipation curling low in your stomach. You brace yourself… not away, but in.

Steve swallows.

“I was kind of an idiot,” he says.

You wait.

Your heart is thudding hard enough that you’re sure he can hear it, but you don’t interrupt. You’ve learned, through years of monsters and near-misses and almost-losts - Steve hates being interrupted. Hates not being taken seriously.

He keeps his eyes on the field, jaw tight, fingers laced together between his knees like he needs the grounding.

“I don’t really know why I’m saying this now,” he admits. “I mean, I do - kind of. But also I don’t.” He lets out a breathy laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I guess hearing you talk about coming back just… shook something loose.”

Your stomach flips.

“I always thought I was being smart,” he continues. “Back then. Like I was doing the right thing by not saying anything.” He shrugs. “You had your life planned out. You were going places. And I was… me.”

You glance at him, but he still won’t look at you.

“And it wasn’t like I expected anything,” he adds quickly, as if he needs you to understand that part most. “I didn’t think you felt the same. Honestly, I didn’t even really let myself wonder if you did.”

The words settle slowly, deliberately - not rushed, not dramatic.

He swallows.

“I just… liked you. A lot.” He pauses, then corrects himself with a faint shake of his head. “No. I had a crush on you. A stupid, high-school, keep-it-to-yourself kind of crush.”

Your chest aches in the strangest way - not painful, just full.

“It wasn’t something I planned on doing anything about,” he says. “I figured it was one of those things you grow out of. Like bad hair or terrible taste in music.”

That finally earns a soft huff of laughter from you, though it catches in your throat.

“But then you left,” he says quietly. “And I realized I should have just grown a pair and told you.”

He finally looks at you then.

Not hopeful. Not searching your face for an answer.

Just open.

“I’m not telling you this now because I expect anything,” he says carefully. “Or because I think it changes something.” He shifts, clearly uncomfortable with the vulnerability but pushing through anyway. “I just… wanted you to know.”

The air feels too still.

You can hear your own breathing now. Feel your pulse in your ears.

Steve lets out a slow breath, like he’s been holding it for years.

“Anyway,” he says, attempting a casual tone that doesn’t quite land, “you don’t have to say anything. I just - yeah. I wanted to get it off my chest.”

He looks away again, like he’s already bracing for things to go back to normal. Like saying it out loud was the whole point, not what comes next.

Your heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts.

For a second, you don’t trust your voice. You don’t trust your legs, either - they feel oddly unsteady, like the ground beneath the bleachers has tilted without warning.

“Steve,” you say quietly.

He stiffens, just a fraction. Not pulling away,  just… preparing.

“I liked you too. Stupidly so.”

The words don’t come out dramatic or rehearsed. They’re soft. Honest. Almost surprised, like you’re admitting something to yourself as much as to him.

Steve turns back toward you slowly.

“…Yeah?” he asks, genuinely uncertain. Not hopeful. Just careful.

“Yeah,” you repeat. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “I just didn’t think you felt the same. And I didn’t want to mess things up.” A small, regretful smile tugs at your mouth. “Especially with Dustin.”

That breaks something in him.

He laughs - not loud, not cocky - just breathless and disbelieving, like the universe has played a very specific joke on him.

“You’re kidding,” he says.

You shake your head. “I always thought you were out of my league,” you admit, a little embarrassed. “And then everything got… more complicated. Monsters. Upside Down. Wormholes. Trauma.” You give a small, crooked smile. “It never felt like the right time.”

Steve lets out a breathy laugh. “God.”

He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looks back at you, his expression is different - softer, more open, like the version of him that only ever existed in quiet moments.

“So we just,” he says, gesturing vaguely between the two of you, “both were idiots?”

“Pretty much,” you say.

“Cool,” he mutters. “Very cool of us.”

That makes you laugh - not the loud kind from earlier, but something gentler, steadier. The kind that settles instead of bursting.

The laughter fades, but the warmth doesn’t.

Steve shifts his weight, hands sliding into his jacket pockets. He taps his foot, clearly unsure what comes next now that the truth is out in the open.

“I didn’t say it because I wanted to make things weird,” he says carefully. “Especially if you’re still figuring stuff out. With the interview. With… everything.”

“I know,” you say. And you do. “And I’m glad you told me.”

He nods, eyes flicking away briefly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say again. 

That earns you a small smile.

The field lights hum overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams. Hawkins breathes quietly around you, like it always has.

Eventually, you glance at your watch, reluctantly. “I should probably go. I wanna make sure I catch Dustin before he starts getting ready for bed.”

Steve smiles. “Yeah, of course”

You both stand, slow and unhurried, like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this is. The air between you feels different now. Like something is waiting patiently.

You walk toward your car together, steps falling naturally into sync.

“So,” Steve says after a moment, casual but not quite relaxed, “when’s the interview?”

“Tomorrow morning,” you say. “Seven o’clock.”

He winces. “Oof. Brutal.”

“Tell me about it.”

You both stop beside your car. You unlock it but don’t open the door yet. You don’t really want to. Steve rocks back on his heels, then forward, like he’s working up the courage for something.

He opens his mouth, but is quick to shut it. 

You glance up at him. “What?”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. Scratches the back of his neck - the same nervous habit from earlier, only now it feels heavier. More deliberate.

“I’m trying not to overthink this,” he says. “Which, historically, I’m very bad at.”

You smile and teasely whisper, “You’re doing great.”

He laughs softly, then sobers. Looks at you - really looks at you - like he’s taking in the fact that you’re here, that you might stay, that this isn’t just a memory anymore.

“Henderson,” he says, voice a little rough around the edges.

“Yeah?”

He hesitates. Then, finally: “Are you free tomorrow? After the interview, I mean”

Your heart skips - not panicked, not startled. Just… warm.

You smile, slow and real. “Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

His answering grin is immediate - relieved, hopeful, unmistakably Steve.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s grounding himself in the word. “Okay. Cool.”

For a moment, it feels like he might say something else - step closer, maybe - but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives you a small, almost shy smile.

“Can I swing by around four,” he says. “If that’s not too early.”

“That sounds perfect.”

You open the car door then, finally, sliding into the driver’s seat. The door stays open, though - like neither of you is quite ready to let the night close yet.

“Hey, Steve?” you say.

He leans down slightly, resting one hand on the top of the door. “Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you told me.”

His smile softens - unguarded, a little amazed. “Me too.”

You close the door gently this time. As you start the engine, you glance up and catch him still standing there, watching - not waving, not moving. Just there.

You pull out slowly, heart full in a way that feels unfamiliar and steady all at once.

This time, leaving doesn’t feel like running away.

It feels like circling back.

And for the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something you’re dreading.

Ugh, guys!!!!! I am craving post-S5 Steve!!!! I literally stayed up mega late last night to write this. Lmk me if y'all want me to continue this for another chapter or two!!

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