SomeQueerBitch

You shake your head affectionately and let her haul your things into the trunk. You love Aunt Linda, her astounding lack of boundaries notwithstanding. Mostly because it means you can always count on her for the latest gossip, which she happily regales you with on the long drive back to Hawkins (Karen Wheeler got remarried last year, apparently. Good for her.).

What you don't love—aside from the sensory overload of your twenty extended family members swarming you all at once when you finally arrive at the lake house they've rented for the summer—is Linda's meddling. Because right as everyone's gathering for dinner, she drops a card next to your plate with an address and a time slot.

"Thursday, three o'clock," she tells you. "I made you an appointment at the little gym on Main Street. They've got a physical therapist now. He does sports rehab. Debbie Callahan went to him for her rotator cuff and says he's a miracle worker."

You tense immediately. "I really don't need—"

"Yeah you do, hon. I'm not watching you suffer all summer. It's already booked, just go."

So on day three of what should be your summer vacation, instead you're unceremoniously dropped off outside a tiny fitness center two blocks down from Melvald's. You push through the entrance, a wall of cool air fanning your face as you enter the cramped reception area.

You approach the front desk, not expecting much. You've done this song and dance so many times you've lost count. Whenever you've tried rehab for your knee in the past, every session goes the same. A half hour of supervised stretching, maybe some massages, then you're shooed out the door before the next appointment arrives.

You're prepared for more of the same as you scribble your name onto the check-in sheet. It isn't until you look up from the clipboard that you notice the guy bent behind the counter with his back to you, fiddling with a file cabinet drawer that doesn't want to cooperate. He's wearing a fitted navy polo with the gym's logo on it, khakis that actually fit well, and his hair—

The pen slips from your grasp, plummeting until it bounces at the end of the string connected to the clipboard.

You know that hair. Thick, brown. Unfairly perfect. Sitting on top of a head that never graced your table in the Hawkins High cafeteria, or hovered long enough in your social circle to make the two of you anything more than acquaintances. But even with his bangs half poking out from beneath a fuzzy gray sweatband, you recognize Steve Harrington's signature swoop anywhere.

Last you heard, he was working at Family Video. But that was also a while ago. Before the town cracked open and your family did the smart thing and got the hell out of dodge before the military locked everything down.

You're midway through remembering all this when he turns and faces you.

Your mouth snaps shut before he notices your jaw hanging slack. When your gazes finally meet, his whole face brightens, eyes squinting around an easy smile. You find yourself doing the same without trying, some dormant butterflies stirring to life in your stomach you didn't even know were there.

He still looks the same, you notice. A little older, but time's been kind to him. He's less boyish now, the bloom of stubble across his jaw thicker than you remember. There's a pen tucked behind his ear, reading glasses pushed on top of his head. The lenses catch the overhead light as he greets you with a quick nod.

"You my three o'clock?"

You blink, then buy yourself some time by reaching down to retrieve the pen dangling by your knees.

"Yeah, that's me," you answer, setting it back onto the counter.

He pulls his glasses down onto his nose and leans over to scan some paperwork. His eyes flick to the name on the timeslot, then back up to your face, narrowing slightly.

"For Linda?" he asks.

You exhale a laugh. "Yeah, no. That's… my aunt. She kinda booked this for me without really asking."

His brows shoot up. "Helicopter aunt. That's a new one."

You sigh and hand him the intake form. "You have no idea."

He gives you that wide, breezy smile again while reaching for the clipboard, your fingers brushing together for a split second. Your cheeks flush a little, but he doesn't notice, his lips pursing to the side while reviewing your medical history.

"So, knee trouble?" he asks.

"Mhm." You nod.

"Recent?"

"No. Old injury, actually."

"How old?"

"High school."

Steve glances up, head tilting to one side. "Wait." He points at you, snapping his fingers together after a beat. "I know you. Varsity soccer, right?"

Your stomach flutters again. "Yeah, I… can't believe you remember that."

"Are you kidding?" He shakes his head, nostalgia washing over his face. "Me and the guys in track caught those practices sometimes while running laps. The way you were all up and down that field, who could forget? Striker, right?"

"Midfield," you manage. Barely hiding your shock that you were anywhere near Steve Harrington's radar back then.

He slides off his glasses, still grinning as he folds them into his shirt pocket and nods toward the hallway.

"Alright then, Midfield," he says. "Come on back."

You follow him through the open workout area to a narrow hallway with cheesy motivational posters plastered along the walls. He holds the door open for you, and you step inside to a small treatment room outfitted with a padded table, a rack of rainbow-colored resistance bands, and a model skeleton wearing a feather boa and sunglasses.

"Don't mind Gerald," Steve says with a wave. "He's just here for morale."

You snort as you ease yourself onto the table. Steve pulls a rolling stool over and sits in front of you, all business now despite the skeleton in drag three feet away.

"Okay," he says. "Let's see what we've got. Straighten that left leg out for me."

You extend it, your knee settling in his wide palm while he presses along the joint line. His touch is careful but firm, steady in a way that tells you he must do this day in and day out. He jots down some notes one-handed between tests, and even though he's nothing but clinical and professional the entire time, your pulse skips whenever he turns back to you.

"Flex your foot," he instructs, cupping beneath your knee again.

You flex it.

"Good. Now point."

You point. When he squeezes gently along your calf muscle, you wince.

"Yeah, there it is." He taps the spot with two fingers. "Your gastroc's wound tight. That's pulling on everything else."

Steve wraps a hand around your ankle next and braces the other against the top of your foot.

"Push into my hand. Top of your foot, like you're lifting it toward the ceiling."

He waits. Looks at your foot. Then up at you.

"Go ahead and push."

"I am," you tell him.

His brow lifts. He glances down, then pulls out his pen from his shirt pocket and scribbles into his notes again.

"Some ankle weakness," he mumbles to himself.

You shift forward to peek at what he's writing. "Is that bad?" you ask, a little worry creeping into your tone.

"Nah." He pushes the clipboard aside and rolls his stool back, meeting your eyes with a reassuring look. "Pretty common with injuries like yours. Happens a lot with repetitive strain or when your body's used to compensating."

He stands and crosses the room, plucking a green resistance band off the hook.

"Think of it like a group project." He loops the band around his hand twice to test the tension. "One knee started hurting, stopped showing up, so the other one did all the work and got all the credit."

Your eyebrows furrow. "But… wouldn't both get credit no matter what? If it's a group project?"

Steve opens his mouth, his features scrunching together for a second. "Well, yeah. I guess. But—" He shakes his head and makes his way back to you. "Nevermind. Clearly my metaphors need some work."

You laugh, charmed by how cute he looks when confused. "Analogies, you mean?"

"Yeah, yeah. Alright, smartypants." Steve kneels in front of you and wraps the band around the ball of your foot. He grips both ends, holding them taut. "Push down for me. Slow, like you're pressing on a gas pedal."

You push. He isn't applying much resistance, but your ankle still trembles on the way back up, which is embarrassing.

"Don't make that face," he says without looking up. "Everyone starts somewhere."

"I used to run six miles a day."

"And now you're slumming it with me and Gerald." He glances at the skeleton, then back at you. "Humbling, I know."

Your mouth twitches up on one side. You press down again, a bit steadier this time. Steve watches intently, brows twisting with focus.

"Better. Three more."

You push through the set. On the last rep, your calf cramps and you pull back with a sharp inhale, your foot curling involuntarily. Steve's hand is already there, straightening your leg and pressing gently against the back of your foot.

"Breathe through it," he says, voice dropping low. "Try not to fight it. Just let it release."

You grip the edge of the table and exhale hard through your nose. His thumb applies firm pressure at the base of your hamstring until the spasm melts away.

"There we go," he murmurs, easing off. "Give it a sec."

You sit there and catch your breath. Steve lets go of your foot and rolls back on his stool, giving you space.

"Alright, take a breather. We'll switch directions in a minute."

You nod, flexing your toes experimentally. He busies himself with more notes, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the room as Gerald judges you silently from the corner.

"So," you start, unable to stomach the quiet. "Family Video didn't do it for you?"

His pen stops mid-stroke. Steve looks up at you with a lopsided smile.

"You remember that?"

You shrug, hoping he doesn't see the warmth blooming across your cheeks. "Small town."

He caps the pen and leans back. "Nah, the place closed after the… earthquakes. Whole strip got wrecked."

"Right," you say softly. "Sorry, I forgot about that."

Steve shakes his head. "Don't be. It meant Keith wasn't my boss anymore, at least."

"Oh my God," you huff, covering your mouth. "I totally forgot about that guy."

"Lucky you," he says with a laugh. "Anyway, I was at the Squawk for a while until the lockdown lifted. But it kinda started before that, when I volunteered at some of the recovery centers. People kept coming in with all kinds of injuries, stuff that was gonna take months to heal. And I'm standing there handing out water bottles, feeling completely useless."

He scratches the back of his neck.

"So I signed up at HCC. Took anatomy, kines, that whole track." He gives you a half shrug. "Turns out there's actual science involved. Who knew."

You laugh. "Crazy, right?"

He grins. "Yeah. But I liked it. Helping people get back to doing the stuff they love. And I was decent at it, which was—" Steve pauses, planting both hands on his knees with a sigh. "New. For me."

Your head tilts. Surprised to see this crisis of confidence from the happy-go-lucky guy you remember playing pretty much every competitive sport possible in high school. But he snaps out of it fast, gesturing around the room.

"So I went and got certified, made friends with Gerald here who put in a good word for me with the owner here. And the rest is history."

You give him a small, genuine smile. Not letting him gloss over it.

"That's actually really cool, Steve."

His eyes flick to yours, wide and dark and a little surprised. Then he clears his throat, giving the clipboard a few taps with his pen.

"Yeah, well." He stands, and you catch the color creeping up his neck as he reaches for a blue resistance band this time. "Enough of me talking your ear off. Ready for round two?"

You straighten your back and nod, offering him your leg. Steve loops the band around your foot again, repositioning his grip.

"Same thing as before, but pull against me this time. Toes to the ceiling."

You pull. The first few reps feel manageable. Your shin burns a little, but you're still in control, the rhythm slow and steady. Steve watches your form and nods.

"Good." He shortens the slack on the band, doubling the resistance. "Keep going."

You pull again, your lips going tight when your ankle wobbles at the top of the rep. The blue rubber stretches thin between your foot and his fists. You feel it slipping against your sock, the angle not quite right.

"Steve, wait—"

The band snaps off.

It whips back before you can even blink, catching him across the bridge of his nose with a loud thwack. His head jerks back, one hand flying to his face.

"Oh my God." You leap off the table. "Shit, shit. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. My fault." He waves you off, laughing despite the way his nose is already turning pink.

You frown, your hands hovering over his face without quite touching. "God, that was loud. Are you okay? Let me see."

"I'm fine. Trust me, this forehead's seen way worse than a snapped band."

That doesn't make you feel better. You reach for his chin without thinking, hoping to tilt his face toward the light, but he catches your wrist in mid-air.

"Hey, I'm good," he says. "Now up. Back on the table."

Your brows lift, his tone stirring some heat loose in your chest that you don't want to examine right now.

"Steve," you say, barely covering. "Your nose is literally red."

"And it's still in better shape than that ankle." He releases your wrist and points behind you. "Up. Now."

You blink. "You just got whipped in the face."

"Yeah, and Gerald over there lost his skin and muscles and he's not complaining." Steve rises and spins you by the shoulders, steering you back to the table. "We've still got twenty minutes. You're not weaseling out early just because I took a band to the schnoz."

"Did you just say schnoz?"

"Sit."

You hoist up onto the table with a huff, legs dangling over the edge. Steve grabs a fresh band from the rack and drops back onto the stool. He holds his hand out.

"Foot. Give it."

"What if I gave you a concussion?"

"I have one every morning for breakfast. Now pull."

You feel terrible—and something else entirely—but you pull, fighting the urge to smile. Your ankle wobbles again on the lift, but Steve adjusts his grip, keeping the tension even this time.

"There you go. Slow on the way down."

You lower your foot with more control this time. The burn spreads through your shin, uncomfortable but not quite painful yet. You push through four more reps before your muscles start to shake.

"Last one," he says. "Make it count."

You grit your teeth and pull. Your whole lower leg is shaking, but there's no way you're quitting on him now. Not after nearly maiming the poor guy. The band stretches taut between you, but Steve holds it steady.

"Hold it. Little more... Good. Release."

Your foot drops. You breathe out hard, a bead of sweat rolling down your temple. Whether from the exertion or embarrassment, you're not sure. Steve unloops the band and tosses it onto the counter. He scratches something into his notes, then looks up at you with that red-nosed grin.

"Not bad, Midfield." He pats your shin and sits back on his stool. "So how long are you in town?"

"Rest of the summer, probably. My family rented a place by Lover's Lake."

He hums to himself, rising up as you both head back to the reception area. "Good. Gives us plenty of time to build back that strength."

You gape at him. "Sorry, you want me back?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you basically just took a human-sized slingshot to the face."

"Occupational hazard." He shrugs, spinning his pen between his fingers. "Besides, your aunt already paid for the full package."

"She what?"

He flips through the paperwork on his clipboard and holds it up for you to see. "Six sessions. Twice a week."

You drag both hands down your face. "I'm gonna kill her."

"Please don't. She's responsible for like, half my referrals." His face scrunches. "I should really be paying her a commission at this point."

A laugh trickles out of you before you can stop it. Steve grins, clearly pleased with himself, and slides behind the counter to file away your intake forms.

"Same time next Tuesday work for you, then?"

Your lips roll between your teeth. Your knee does feel looser than it has in months. And the ankle thing… you hadn't even known that was an issue until he found it. You watch him wrestle with the stuck drawer again, his bicep flexing under the polo sleeve.

"Yeah," you say. "Tuesday works."

"Great." He spins back to face you, beaming despite the swelling already starting around his nose. Just looking at it makes your gut clench with guilt.

"You need ice on that," you tell him.

He waves a hand. "You're my last appointment of the day. I'll throw some peas on it when I get home."

You glance through the front window at the strip of shops across the street. A little ice cream parlor on the corner catches your eye.

"Or," you suggest, nodding toward it. "I could buy you an apology scoop. You can hold it against your face if nothing else."

His gaze flicks between you and the window, a slow crooked smile stretching over his face. "Yeah?"

"Unless," you add, tilting your head. "Ice cream places bring back bad memories?"

His smile drops, head tipping back while he groans at the ceiling.

"You remember that, too?"

"The ocean of flavor, you mean?" you laugh. "Yeah. Hard to forget."

Steve rounds the counter, snagging his keys off a hook by the door. "For the record, I was Employee of the Month like three times."

"Oh? Out of how many employees?"

He holds the door open for you. "Don't see how that's relevant."

You laugh again, the summer wind hitting you both like a hairdryer when you step outside. His shoulder brushes yours as he matches your pace on the sidewalk.

"So," he says, glancing at you sidelong. "You still play?"

"What, soccer?" You shake your head. "No. Not since high school, really."

His gaze softens. "We'll fix that."